by David Estes
Something catches a ray from the rising sun, sparkling. Metal.
The Glock!
The gun is under a big ol’ pile of logs, but there’s a decent crawlspace. After taking a quick glance at the battle—the steroidal witch punches a Boner and it flies fifty feet in the air before colliding with a tree trunk, its skull separating from its spine—I dive beneath the timber, reaching for my weapon. My shoulders jam against the wood as I stretch my arm as far as it can go, my fingernails scraping on the floorboards, my fingers at their limits…
An inch short.
More like half an inch.
A child like Trish could easily grab the gun and pull it out, but not me. Unless I get a rush of that crazy adrenaline that allows people to pick up cars, there’s no way I’ll get to it. I pull my hand back, breathing heavily, hearing another blast and the resulting clatter of broken bones falling to the ground.
Try again.
Although not more than a whisper, the voice is loud in my ear, as if spoken by someone just next to me. I whirl around but no one’s there.
Try again, my earthly sister.
I recognize the voice, although it’s not one I’ve heard much recently. Trish. Where is she? Doesn’t matter, only that she’s here and she’s telling me what to do. And if I’ve learned nothing else over the last six months, I’ve learned to trust my sister.
So I push into the gap once more, stretching out, reaching, ignoring the burn of the wood scraping my skin, bruising my body, fighting for that last half inch.
Something moves and suddenly I’m free, able to gain not only the last half inch, but a full foot, grabbing the Glock and pulling it out. I’m on my feet in an instant, analyzing the situation—a cannonball erupts from the witch’s fists and tears through what appear to be the last five or six Boners—taking aim, watching as the Slammer realizes the skeletons are no longer her biggest threat as she turns…
I. Pull. The. Freaking. Trigger.
She tries to slam her fists together, but she’s too late: my magical bullets have already entered her body. The witch claws at her skin, as if trying to extract the bullets with nothing more than her fingers, but they’re gone, absorbed into her.
I smile and duck behind a log. I’ve watched enough death for one day.
The sickening sound of her body exploding from the inside pushes bile up my throat, but I choke it down because I survived.
Trish whispers in my ear. Be safe, Laney.
And before I can even begin to comprehend how my sister is talking to me from somewhere else, as if she’s a human cellphone tower, another thought hits me, one I didn’t have time to consider in the midst of the battle:
Where there are Boners, surely there must be…
Necros.
The Reaper steps out from behind the half-destroyed cabin wall.
Chapter Ten
Rhett
“Drop your freaking weapons,” I say, “or Hex will…uh…do something really bad to you.”
I glance at my dog, who looks at me like I’m crazy. “Just play along,” I whisper, praying he gets the message. My sword is nearby, but if Hex decides not to help, Bil will have a distinct advantage with his long range weapons.
Hex just lies down, resting his chin on his front paws, apparently bored by the whole situation.
“Whoa, whoa,” Bil says, his hands—and weapons—thankfully still above his head. “There’s no need for all of that. I was just having a bit of fun with you.” He takes a step closer.
“You almost impaled my brain on one of your skewers,” I say, reaching down slowly to pick up my magged-up sword. “And from what I’ve been told, you’re on a mission to kill me.”
“Who told you that?” Bil says, an eyebrow raised.
“If it’s the truth, does it matter who told me?”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Bil says.
“That doesn’t mean you haven’t been sent to kill me,” I say.
Bil tosses his crossbow and rifle on the ground in front of him. “I could’ve killed you a dozen times already,” he says. “Remember?”
Well, maybe half a dozen times, I think. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because you’re not one of the bad guys,” he says.
“But you really are working for New America?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And they told you to kill me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I think you already know.”
I chew my lip. “I was told it’s because they knew of my connection to the Necros. Because my best friend is a Necro. Therefore I’m a threat. They don’t want someone like me—a Resistor—fighting against them.”
“That’s right,” Bil says.
“You’re a Resistor, too,” I say. Bil seems to realize it’s not a question, so he just stares at me. “That’s how you were able to fight off the Call of that Siren.” I’m just thinking out loud.
Bil takes another step forward, leaving his weapons behind. His hands drop to his sides. “New America is trying to do the right thing, you know,” he says. “President Washington is the only one holding the surviving humans together. She’s a true leader. She’s smart, and strong, and is doing everything she can to fight back. She was wrong about you, but she could’ve been right. She could use you, you know. If you went to her, showed her you’re not allied with the magic-born, she’d understand. She’d want your help. Our kind is in high demand these days.”
Don’t I know it. I blink away the memories of the Reaper and Xave trying to convince me to join their “great cause.”
“How do I know she won’t just kill me the moment I let my guard down?” I say.
Bil moves forward more swiftly, until he reaches the porch steps. He sits on the second one, leaning his back against the railing. Pulls a rubber band from his dark ponytail and lets his hair fall to his shoulders. Bends one knee and leaves the other leg straight, as if settling in for a long conversation.
He turns to look at me. “Because the president isn’t like that. And because with you on her side she’ll have two of the three known Resistors.”
“Who has the other one?” I ask, having already heard the answer but wanting to confirm it.
“We think it’s the Changelings,” Bil says.
I think about that for a moment, remembering everything Mr. Jackson taught me about that particular witch gang. They’re a powerful group because they’re so hard to identify, carrying the ability to change their appearance significantly. Not like Shifters, who are limited to taking on the forms of animals, Changelings can take on the forms of other humans, as well as magic-born. They can hide in plain sight, without anyone ever knowing what they really look like. On the recording my father had said the Head of the Witch Council has been hiding in plain sight. Could she be a Changeling?
“Do we know what side the Changelings are on?” I ask.
Bil pulls an arrow from a sheath strapped to his back, twirling it in his fingers a few times before answering. “Technically they’re on the same side as the Necros,” he says. “The side that wants to exterminate all humans.”
I jerk my head hard to the side. “Don’t get me wrong, the Necros are as screwed up as they come, but I’m not sure they’re looking to kill all humans.” Am I really defending the witches that raised Beth from the dead? The witches that kept Laney and me locked in a cell? The witches that almost got us killed?
Bil looks at me the way I usually look at him: like I’m crazy. “Um…” he says.
“I spent time with them,” I say, trying to explain. “There’s more to them than I originally thought.”
“I wouldn’t go saying things like that when we get to New Washington,” Bil says. “Or maybe they will kill you.”
“Look, I’m not trying to defend the Necros,” I say.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I take a deep breath, trying to line up my thoughts in some kind of a logical order. “I think the Necros want pea
ce as much as anyone, they just don’t know how. And because of the powers they have—”
“You mean raising the dead?” Bil says, still looking at me like I’m the crazy one.
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s hard for humans to understand something so…crass…but to them it’s who they are.” I should stop talking now. Is this really what I believe?
Even as Bil stands up and walks toward his weapons, I realize that I do believe what I’m saying. I’m not sure what that means.
“I guess I was wrong about you, Rhett,” Bil says, collecting his crossbow and rifle. “I thought we at least had the same understanding of the enemy.”
I tense up, ready to dive for cover if Bil starts shooting again, changing his mind about whether I’m one of “the bad guys.”
Instead he heads off down the road, shouting back once over his shoulder. “Good luck, my old friend,” he says.
~~~
Bil Nez is no more than a smudge on the road when I make the decision. He’s the only connection to New America I’ve got, and if I really and truly want to join their war against the magic-born, he may be my only way to do it. New America and their leader, President Washington, have proven to be resourceful and capable. If nothing else, they might be willing to let me fight alongside them.
Assuming they don’t kill me first, of course.
“Go get him, boy,” I command Hex.
My dog looks up, his eyelids drooping. When he sets his chin back on his paws the message is clear: Go get him yourself.
I sigh, my tired legs aching before I even stand.
I start to run. The long dirt track is riddled with mud puddles that I don’t have the energy to jump over, so I just splash through them, wishing it didn’t take me so long to realize that I need Bil Nez’s help.
When I reach the main road, I look left and then right. To the right, south, Bil’s standing in the middle of the road, his hands on his hips, his tanned face grinning at me. “Changed your mind?” he says.
“Take me to New Washington,” I say.
Chapter Eleven
Laney
I aim my Glock at the Reaper’s face, which has a dark, raised burn mark on his cheek. Other than that, he doesn’t look worse for having survived New America’s missile attack. “What do you want?” I say, squeezing the trigger halfway, ready to end him if he tries anything.
“We saved your life. A thank you might be a good start,” he says, his dark brown eyes sparkling with amusement. I frown. Technically, they did save my life; well, at least the distraction the Boners provided allowed me to save my own life.
I lower my gun, letting the trigger retract to a resting position. “Thank you,” I say. “Now what the hell do you want?”
“Two things,” he says, the lines in his dark-skinned face deepening. “Rhett and your sister.”
“I ditched Rhett a while back and my sister ditched me,” I say. “I’d like to find them as much as you.”
“Maybe we can help each other,” he says.
“Like you helped us when you locked us up and brought Rhett’s girlfriend back from the dead?” I say sharply. It’s all I can do to leave the gun pointed at the ground.
Mr. Jackson sighs, but before he can respond, another figure steps out from behind a nearby tree. “I brought her back,” Xavier says. “Not him. I brought Beth back from the dead. You should be angry at me.”
For a moment I’m speechless, shocked to see Rhett’s best friend alive. His already dark eyes look even darker, but other than that, he looks flawless, as if he hasn’t recently been through hell. Smooth brown skin. Neatly trimmed hair and eyebrows. The beginnings of a goatee, a slight change from his clean-shaven look. The last time I saw him he was practically holding up his warlock boyfriend as missiles rained down upon them. “You’re alive,” I say. Duh.
“Not many of us are,” he says, looking away. How did he survive? What happened after we escaped?
“Son,” the Reaper says, looking back at Xavier. “Bring the others. We’ll camp here for the night.”
As Xave turns and walks away, I marvel at how far the all-powerful Necro gang has fallen. From controlling an army of the dead in a massive ward-protected stadium to camping in the woods.
The thought almost makes me smile. “Guess your plans to kill both sides until they’re forced to make peace have changed,” I say.
To my surprise, Mr. Jackson smiles back. “Sometimes it takes having your back shoved against the wall before you can truly fight,” he says.
~~~
I should leave when I have the chance, when it’s just me and Mr. Jackson and my Glock. But he insists I camp with them, for the night at least. “These woods are too dangerous,” he says, which I can’t really argue with considering my run-in with the Slammers.
I’m not scared of the Reaper—not anymore—especially after Xave returns with what’s left of the Necros. I count fourteen witches and warlocks, not including their leader and his son. They’re all wearing their usual dark, hooded cloaks.
From thousands to sixteen. New America’s missiles did their job efficiently. The thought of all those corpses bloody and singed makes me feel somewhat ill, even if I won’t shed any tears for them.
And I notice at least one missing face. Felix. Xave’s boyfriend. He’s a member of the Wardens, not the Necros, but it still seems strange that he wouldn’t be with them. Unless the alliance between the two witch gangs ended when Heinz Field was blown up. In which case they might’ve broken up. Another, darker thought enters my mind. Or what if Felix…
I let the thought drop into a growing pile of Things I Don’t Want To Think About, and return my focus to the activities of the Necros, who all seem to be ignoring me.
First, they build a fire. Well, build is probably the wrong word. More like create. One of the Necros snaps his fingers and a corner of the collapsed cabin flares up. The only benefit of my temporary shelter’s destruction is that we won’t have to traipse through the woods collecting kindling; we’ve got enough firewood to burn for days.
I sit on a log and watch the Necros organize their meager supplies into neat piles, wondering what the hell I’m doing. It’s only when I realize that I’m staying with them because I’m scared to be alone that I get really angry.
“Do you always camp during the day?” I ask, condescension heavy in my tone.
The Reaper glances at me and raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond, continuing to issue orders to his witches and warlocks.
Xave sits beside me on the log. “Necros don’t mind the dark the way humans and other magic-born do,” he says. “Our night vision is very good.”
“Freak,” I mutter, feeling somewhat bad when he winces. My tone softens. “Didn’t you ever notice you could see in the dark when you were growing up?” I ask, actually interested. Did Trish know she was different than the other kids? I wonder silently.
Xavier’s glum expression transforms into a smile. For a second, I understand why Rhett was drawn to him. His smile seems to carry the light of the world along its curves. “I couldn’t,” he says. “Magic doesn’t work like that. Even if you have it in your blood, you can’t do anything without practice and knowing how to use it.”
Except that Trish killed my parents using magic. Was it a fluke or is she even more special than anyone thinks?
Silence spreads between us as we both watch the others set up camp. A short, fat warlock builds what appears to be a spit over the fire. A few others construct makeshift teepees with sturdy branches and foliage. Everything they’re doing seems so normal that if they weren’t wearing their cultish cloaks and hoods they might almost appear human.
But I know better.
“You look pretty good for surviving a missile attack,” I say to Xave after a few minutes.
He doesn’t respond, just stares at his clasped hands. “Xave?” I say. I place a hand on his arm. “What the hell happened after we left? How are you still alive?”
“Why’d you leave Rh
ett?” he asks. A question for a question. A good avoidance strategy.
“If I tell you, will you tell me what happened?”
His eyes finally meet mine and I’m surprised to see that they’re already glistening with unshed tears. He nods once.
I take a deep breath. “Rhett is angry,” I say. “Not at me—at your kind. Necros, witches in general, anyone who’s made a mess of the world. Anyone who might have contributed to Beth’s death.” He asked for the truth so he’ll get it. “He hates that you brought her back to life. That he now has to remember how she looked at the end, instead of the girl he remembers loving. All he wants is revenge.”
A tear dribbles down Xave’s cheek, but he makes no move to wipe it away. “But you’re not angry? You don’t want revenge?” Xave’s questions feel like a cry for help, a hopeless plea for mercy and forgiveness.
I can’t give him any. “I’m every bit as pissed off as Rhett,” I say. “At you. At your father. At this damn broken world. But I’m tired of being scared and unhappy. Tired of being a mouse when I used to be a cat. Tired of being alone. I tried to convince Rhett to run away with us, to build a better life somewhere else, but his vendetta runs too deep. Not that I blame him, not at all. I understand what he has to do and why. I won’t stop him, but I won’t let my sister be a part of it.”
“Your sister?” It’s not Xave, but the Reaper who speaks. “Where is your sister?”
I look at the Reaper, whose eyebrows are raised sharply, and shake my head. “Nuh-uh. Xave and I had a deal. First I spill, then he does.” I glance back at Xave. “Your turn.”
Another tear has joined the first, on the opposite cheek, the two glistening tracks symmetrical, as if his face is a painting. I can see him framed and hung up in an art museum. It could be called The Sad Necromancer.
“He saved my life,” he says, his voice breaking. His eyes squeeze shut and more tears leak from the sides.