Bay tumbled down into the pit.
He thumped onto a carpet of scales.
Snake heads rose around him, hissing, revealing their fangs. Inside some of the jaws, Bay saw the remains of his fallen comrades.
The severed rope lay beside him.
"Bay!" Rowan shouted above.
He rose to his feet.
A surprising calm fell upon him.
He was likely to die any moment. But time seemed to slow. He felt numb, floating above his body.
The snakes were closing in, hissing. Hundreds of them. He began to sink into the wriggling mass—down past his ankles, then his knees.
He emptied his last magazine, killing a basilisk.
He raised his knife, prepared to take down at least one more before the end.
I'm sorry, Rowan. He shouted wordlessly and stabbed at a snake. I'm sorry I won't be there. To marry you. To grow old with you.
"Bay, goddamn it, grab a branch!" Rowan shouted from above.
Bay looked up.
Several soldiers, Rowan among them, were lowering an uprooted tree into the pit.
Bay reached out to grab it. And the tree grabbed him back. The shriveled fingers wrapped around his arm, then gripped his shoulders, pulling him from the pit. Basilisks snapped at him, but bullets from above knocked them down.
Finally Bay was out. He collapsed onto the ground, bleeding and wheezing.
"Snakes," he said. "Why did it have to be snakes?"
Rowan gasped. "Bay Ben-Ari! Was that a twentieth century reference? I'm so proud of you!" She knelt and embraced him. "And I'm glad you're alive."
Suddenly she leaped back, pulled a grenade off her belt, and hurled it into the pit.
"Fire in the hole!" she cried.
Bay had time to see several basilisks climbing from the pit. Then he leaped away and flattened himself on the ground.
The grenade exploded behind him, tugging down the climbing serpents.
A hundred soldiers had survived the plunge. For the next while, the troops hurled their grenades into the pits, slaying the beasts inside. Some of the basilisks managed to climb out, only to be mowed down by assault rifles.
Finally their work was complete. The pit of snakes had become a smoldering mass grave.
Their tanks—lost.
So many of their brothers and sisters—fallen.
The last hundred troops huddled together in the forest. Wounded. Pale. Bay saw the fear in all their eyes.
"We are winning this battle!" Bay told them. "Our losses are steep. But we are hitting the enemy hard. We've killed hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. We are scouring this city."
Rowan approached him, holding her map. "Bay, we're almost at Times Square. Let's go find those hostages." She shuddered. "Then let's get the hell out of this city."
They kept walking, crossing the last kilometer of this nightmarish forest. They emerged back into the decaying metropolis. The crumbling skyscrapers rose before them, casting long shadows. The sun was setting, sending spears of red light between the towers. In the distance, a shrill cry rose.
The soldiers redistributed their magazines, came together in defensive formations, and headed deeper into the shadowy underworld of a lost city.
CHAPTER THREE
Guns raised and loaded, the soldiers stepped into Times Square, a kingdom of rust and rot.
The fabled glittering lights were dark. Mold and vines covered the cracked roads and sidewalks. A few taxicabs rose from the decay, rusting, barely more than jagged shards like the broken teeth of a giant. Skulls and bones lay strewn everywhere, bustling with rats.
The original buildings still rose, bedecked with centuries of grime. But new posters covered walls and billboards, emulating the ancient adverts.
One placard featured a painting of humans on a stage, a massive serpent wrapped around them. The humans were crying out in silent agony, hands reaching up to heaven, as an audience cheered. A caption appeared below the drawing, written in the language of basilisks, which Rowan had learned to read.
The Misery of Apes: Now Playing!
Another building featured a mural of severed human heads stuffed into a box, tongues hanging out. Two basilisks were drawn above the gruesome box, coiling together in an embrace, drooling. A caption appeared above them.
Buy her a box of ape heads! She'll love you forever.
Another building featured human corpses—real ones—hanging in a window like roasted ducks. A sign hung above them.
Xerka's Kitchen! Fresh Human Served Daily!
"If nothing else, the bastards have got a sense of humor," Bay muttered as the soldiers walked deeper into the square.
Rowan stared at the lurid adverts. "This is not basilisk humor. Basilisks don't have any concept of humor, morbid or otherwise. But they know we do. They set these up to taunt us. They knew we were coming."
"Yeah, well, we busted them up pretty good in Central Park," Bay said. "So joke's on them."
They stepped over discarded snake skins, human skeletons, and chipped fire hydrants. The mold was ankle-deep. The soldiers kept looking around, searching for any sign of the basilisks or their hostages. They saw nothing. The sun was almost gone now, an orange glimmer fading behind the towers. Cold wind shrieked between the buildings, scattering scraps of skin.
"Are you sure the hostages are here?" Bay said, gun raised before him.
"That's what our orbital scans showed," Rowan said. "Heat scans. Human. We couldn't pinpoint them to an exact building. But they're here. Somewhere in Times Square—or within a couple hundred meters, at least."
She looked up at the skyscrapers. The windows had shattered long ago, revealing dark innards. Those black windows seemed to Rowan like thousands of eyes, staring, boring into her.
She passed by hallowed halls. An abandoned theater, its doors opened to chambers of dust, its marquee covered with discarded skins—both snake and human. An old burger joint, its clown mascot still standing, the head replaced with a human skull painted red and white. A crumbling clock tower, its metal arms replaced with human bones. Old memories. Whispers of a glorious past. Profaned and mocked. A foul iconoclasm. And Rowan realized more than ever why she had come to New York. Not only to defeat the last basilisk holdout. Not only to save hostages. But to save the soul of this place. To save a beautiful memory of Earth. To wake up from a dream that had become a nightmare.
The sun vanished. The soldiers lit their flashlights, walking deeper into Times Square. Mist fluttered like ghosts, and Rowan could almost imagine the millions of humans who had once lived here, died here. As she walked through the fog, she could almost hear them, feel them brush against her. Millions of ghosts, not even knowing that they were dead, welcoming her into their realm.
A distant note sounded. Then another. Barely audible over the wind.
Rowan frowned.
She stepped closer to the sounds.
Over the wind, she heard it more clearly. Soft calliope music as from old circuses. Her frown deepened. She could almost smell it. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy. She had never eaten such treats, but she had smelled them many times in the vents of Paradise Lost.
She kept walking and saw lights ahead. Electric lights! The first she had seen in this city.
Bay and the others walked behind her. The mist enveloped them, hiding the towers, the adverts, the grimy streets. Only the lights shone ahead, welcoming, casting back the shadows. The calliope music beckoned like a siren's song, and the smells of candy and buttered popcorn tickled their nostrils.
The soldiers walked closer together, flashlights and guns pointed ahead. The cold wind died, and warmth bathed them.
Rowan crossed the last few meters, and it revealed itself. A red and gold building, three stories tall, rising like an island in a sea of fog. The doors were elaborately carved, and the sweet and salty scents wafted from within. Above the doors hung a sign. A hundred yellow light bulbs surrounded bold letters.
Theater of the Absurd
> Rowan stared at the marquee, eyes narrowed.
"What the hell?" she muttered.
The doors banged open.
The soldiers jumped and aimed their guns.
The doorway revealed a lush interior. A red carpet stretched between velvet ropes, leading to distant curtains. A robot rolled outside on creaky brass wheels. Its body was barrel-shaped, painted with flaking red and white stripes. Its eyes were old binoculars, its mouth a bear trap. The robot was rusting and leaked oil, but it still greeted the soldiers with a deep bow, its jaws scraping the floor.
The robot rolled back up like an inflatable punching doll. It raised a paper cone to its metal jaws, and a voice emerged from speakers.
"Welcome, welcome, guests! Welcome to the Theater of the Absurd!"
The soldiers all glanced at one another.
"The hell is that?" Bay said. "Did the basilisks put this show together?"
"Come one, come all!" the robot continued. "I am Ripley, proprietor of the greatest theater on Earth! Roll up, roll up! Come and see the freaks! Stand by the tallest man in the world! Compare yourself to the fattest woman on Earth! Come see the Lobster Lady from the sea, the Wolf Boy of the Amazons, and the Spider Sisters of the Orient! Marvel at the wonderful Ape Girl, a creature half human, half monkey! Feed the ravenous Bird Lady and hear her squawk!"
"Seriously, what the hell?" Bay raised his rifle. "I'm putting a bullet through this thing."
"Wait." Rowan pulled his rifle down.
The robot continued, brandishing his arms. "Roll up, roll up! But women and children beware—for the sights inside may shock and disturb you. The poor souls within this theater will astound, tantalize, and entertain—but also strike fear into meek hearts. For their curse is their blessing. Their wretchedness is their livelihood. They did not ask to come into this world, yet into this world they came. Do you dare come see them?"
The robot rolled aside, bowed, and extended its arms, beckoning the troops to enter.
"No way," Bay said. "We're bombing this place from orbit."
"Bay!" She grabbed his arm. "The hostages. They must be in there."
Bay shuddered. "Rowan, this place is creepy as hell. Remember the bridge, the naked boy, the park? All booby-trapped. They probably wired up this whole building."
"No." Rowan shook her head. "They wouldn't have gone to such trouble, building this place, putting together this dog and pony show, only to demolish it. They want to show us something. I say we take a look."
"Rowan!" He held her fast. "I don't want to see whatever messed up shit is in there. Freaks? Really? I've seen enough in this city. Going in there is what the basilisks want us to do."
"Well, do we have a choice?" Rowan said. "What, we just walk away, abandon humans in there who might our help?"
Pain filled Bay's eyes. "Rowan, the hostages might be dead by now."
Rowan lowered her head. "I know. Bay, I know. But so long as there's a chance—I have to try."
Bay patted her hand, eyes soft, then turned to the robot. "Hey, buster! Yeah, you bucket of bolts. Before we enter—give us some sign the hostages are alive."
But the robot was frozen, still bowing, arms still gesturing indoors. Bay kicked the machine. It was completely lifeless.
"Ra damn it!" Bay spat, took a step back, and coned his hands around his mouth. "Hey, basilisks! Assholes! Enough games. You wanna talk? Come out and talk. You wanna fight? Come out and fight!"
His voice echoed.
The soldiers all faced the open doors, guns pointed ahead, as if waiting for basilisks to emerge.
Nothing but that damn calliope music.
Rowan sighed. "This is why we came down here ourselves. Boots on the ground. So we can raid their hidey holes. Well, we've got a prime hidey hole here, gentlemen. I say we get to raiding. Come on, Bay. Let's go kill some snakes."
"All right, all right!" Bay raised his hands in resignation. "What do I know? I've only warned about every trap until now. Fine! Let's go to the show."
Rowan and Bay led the charge. They burst into the building, rifles aiming ahead, and placed their backs to the walls. More soldiers entered, two by two, until the entire force filled the hall.
The doors slammed shut behind them.
The lights died.
Somewhere deep in the museum, a cackle rose.
The soldiers muttered curses and raised their flashlights. Shadows stirred and fled the beams of light. Suddenly the smell of popcorn and cotton candy seemed rancid. Rowan gulped, struggling not to gag.
Rustling sounded at her feet. She pointed her flashlight downward and saw baby snakes. Thousands of them, no longer than her fingers. The other soldiers cursed and began to stomp the creatures.
The laughter sounded again. Rumbling. Inhuman. It came from deeper in the museum. Rowan walked toward the sound, stepping on the small snakes.
The corridor led them into a huge chamber, easily the size of a cathedral's nave. It seemed far too large for the building, as if the laws of geometry no longer applied. Dim lamps shone above, encased in what looked like skin. Velvet ropes cordoned dozens of wax statues. Plaques stood before each statue, polished to a shine.
Rowan approached one display.
World's Fattest Man! proclaimed the plaque.
The statue portrayed an obese man, easily ten times Rowan's size. He was naked, his genitals buried within rolls of fat, his eyes mere slits. He stood on a fake scale that luridly announced: 1 metric ton!
Rowan shuddered and stepped toward another statue. This one portrayed conjoined twins. They had two heads but only one face; the smaller twin was gazing into his brother's chest. They stood on four legs like a quadruped, arms rising like a ridge of spines.
The Amazing Beast! read the plaque. Nature's cruelest mistake!
Rowan kept exploring.
Each statue was more bizarre than the last.
The Amazing Duck-Girl had huge, protuberant lips, so large they dwarfed her head. Turtle Boy had an enormous birth mark on his back, so huge it ballooned outward, forming a shell. The Incredible Peeling Man was losing his skin in long, curling strands. The Living Torso had no limbs. According to his plaque, he was a prince of the Orient, and could roll up cigarettes using only his mouth. The Human Warthog was covered with boils, so many they completely hid his face. The Dripping Dowager was all loose folds of flesh like a pile of laundry.
"What the hell is going on here?" Bay said, walking up to Rowan.
"I don't know," she said.
She kept walking deeper into the chamber. And the exhibits became even stranger.
Until now, the freaks had been fully human. Deformed, yes, but still simply humans. Now, though, Rowan saw other beings. Beings created not naturally, not accidents of nature—but of genetic engineering.
Bat Girl was missing her legs and hips. Rowan could still see the stitches where they had been removed. Her arms were spread out, and skin stretched between her hands to her tail bone, forming wings. The deformed girl hung from the ceiling on chains. The Astounding Stretchy Boy had elongated limbs, arms sewn onto arms like chains of sausages. These limbs were propped onto thin poles; one was theatrically reaching across the room for a ball. Snakeman had the body of a human but the head of a snake, and his arms were formed from two smaller serpents.
"We need to nuke this whole damn place," Bay said, voice shaking.
Rowan nodded. "You know what? I think you're right. I think that—"
She frowned and stared.
"Rowan?" Bay said. "Rowan, what?"
She stepped deeper into the museum. A statue stood on a pedestal ahead. A creature half human, half snake, split vertically down the middle. One arm. One leg. Half the face serpentine and covered with scales. The other half …
"My face," Rowan whispered.
The Amazing Snakegirl! a plaque read. Half Human, Half Serpent! She can lay eggs and provide milk!
"What the muck?" Rowan whispered, trembling, staring at the wax statue.
Another displ
ay caught her eye. She ran toward it. This statue was hideously deformed, a tangle of arms and legs and scaly tails. The spine twisted. The head dangled upside down like a wilted flower. The face stared at Rowan.
Her face.
Again—her face.
The Twister Girl! read the plaque. Where does she end and begin?
Other statues were strange alien-human hybrids. Creatures with human faces but also tentacles, scales, claws, insect bodies. Some were impossible to describe or understand, just tangled blobs of organic mass sprouting random parts. Not every freak had Rowan's face. But many did. And even one was too many.
"We're burning this place," Rowan said, voice shaking. She approached a sergeant. "Give me your flamethrower. I'm burning these … things myself."
"Not a patron of the arts?" Bay asked.
Rowan ignored him. She didn't need his gallows humor now. She slung the fuel tank across her back, then aimed the flamethrower's nozzle at the Twister Girl.
She spurted out a jet of fire.
The fire washed over the twisted statue.
And the statue screamed.
And the statue moved.
Rowan removed her finger from the trigger. The flames died.
She stared at the burning Twister Girl. A real girl. Not a statue. A living being. Burnt and screaming.
A head rose from the mangled flesh, identical to Rowan, crying out in pain. The many limbs twitched and moved. The burnt creature stepped off the pedestal. Several spines creaked on the deformed body. The beast wobbled toward Rowan on several hands and legs. The face stared at her, tears in its eyes.
"Help me …" the creature said.
Soldiers across the room cried out in horror. One began to fire his assault rifle, riddling Twister Girl with bullets.
"No!" Rowan cried, snapping out of her paralysis. Her heart thudded. Cold sweat washed her. "Don't!"
But the soldier kept firing. Twister Girl twitched on the ground, screaming, begging, then finally fell still.
Across the museum, the other statues were stepping off their pedestals.
No, not statues, Rowan thought. They've been alive all along. Her tears flowed. Here are the hostages.
Dozens, maybe hundreds of the creatures came limping, crawling, slithering forward. Their faces twisted with fury.
The Legacy of Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 6) Page 4