by Tufo, Mark
We were moving agonizingly slow in comparison to our pursuers; the only thing that was going to slow them down was some serious persuasion.
“Keep going!” I urged Trip and Otter as I spun to confront the enemy. We were about three hundred yards from sanctuary, and the main group of silvers were about two hundred yards from us. It would probably be a close enough finish that we’d get to splash our blood all along the front porch. Some of the night runners figured out our final destination and were running parallel with us to get ahead and close the gap, cutting us off. Pretty good tactic, although they hadn’t quite figured in our ranged weapons. I sawed through the legs of the first one. Snapped his knee to the side so that when he came down on the damaged joint he fell over in a heap, shrieking in a combination of anger and agony. There’s a new portmanteau in there somewhere, I’ll think on it once I get inside. Angonery? Maybe.
“Focus, Talbot.” I breathed as I took out another, piercing its sides, its shrieks cut short as I let the wind out of its sails. The problem with stopping to kill a couple was it gave the rest ample opportunity to catch up. I gave the briefest of glances to Trip and Otter, they hardly looked like they had moved. Runners had already got past them and would soon be converging on their spot. It made no sense to defend this area if we were going to be overrun elsewhere. I wish I could say I struggled to catch up—that wasn’t the case.
Hundred yards to the cabin, the length of a football field, but their team looked highly capable of cheating and I didn’t see a referee anywhere in sight. I had a piece of me that was holding on to the hope that this would be close, like Tennessee in the Super Bowl one yard short close. It wasn’t. We were going to come up woefully short. Then, as if this whole fucking thing weren’t weird enough, we ratcheted up the bizarre an extra couple of notches, because, well, you know, time and place holes, duplicate people, a stoner who was obviously more than he appeared, night runners, zombies, whistlers, asshole angels, and your typical demons just weren’t enough. Like that person who orders extra whip, venti, half-caf, with stevia, almond milk, no ice, thirty-four degrees, raw sugar, extra caramel drizzle, and a banana shoved up someone’s ass for being so difficult, weird. Yeah, this was like that. Jack—not Otter—stepped onto the small porch and began firing into the runners, aiding our escape. Or had he just boxed up dinner for the silvers in a convenient to-go travel case? The cabin looked well enough built, but could it sustain a prolonged attack?
With Jack firing, the best thing I could do was help Trip and Otter.
“Hey man, that pie is mine! I mean ours, when we win. Me and this guy,” Trip said.
“Don’t want any pie,” I told him.
“Then by all means.” We were moving at a good clip; Jack was a killing machine, taking out those to our front, but those to our immediate rear were going to be a problem. None of us had a shot and I had to think they would be in biting range soon enough.
“Hurry up!” Jack shouted.
You all know what we want to say at times like this. Obviously, he’s trying to be helpful, but did he think we were going to stop for a sip of tea? Maybe a scone and a buttered crumpet or two? Although crumpets are actually fucking delicious, I don’t think they’re worth getting eaten over. I had placed one foot on the step up when I was tossed to the side; a night runner had tackled Otter, and Trip was forced into the open door and fell, sprawling out on the floor. Jack had placed his rifle right up on the snarling, twisting beast and pulled the trigger. I’d recovered my footing and we both pulled Otter in. Jack slammed the door shut and threw a door latch that looked like it had been built by someone who had designed castles to withstand sieges from trolls. So, what did this guy know, I wonder?
“Good to see you, man,” I told Jack, grabbing his hand and pulling him in close.
“Likewise.” He returned the hug. “You though, you asshole! We have to have a very sincere discussion.” He spun on Trip, the fingers on his gloved hand curled—I thought he was going to punch him.
“Whoa, whoa, what’s going on?” I got in the middle, interceding.
There were loud thuds as night runners began to slam into the cabin; I was more than a little happy when it didn’t shake on its foundation from the assault.
“Fine, I’ll deal with you later,” Jack was nearly shaking. “But know that this talk is going to happen.”
Trip looked defeated; whatever had happened, he was abundantly aware of it.
“Who’s your friend?” Jack asked, checking the shutters without looking down at Otter, who was struggling to get some air and also waiting for the pain in his leg to alleviate. They looked stout, but we had a long night ahead of us.
“This place going to hold?”
“For now.”
“You all right?” I asked Otter, giving him a hand up so he could sit in a chair.
Jack didn’t seem overly interested. Whatever he was mad about still had him fuming. That changed in a heartbeat when he got a look at the man now sitting. His facial expressions changed, but he bit back on what he was going to say; I could see his jaw muscles clearly tightening and loosening. The moment was broken just like a few of the panes of glass as the runners tried to force their way in. More thuds along the way as they looked for an access point, and then the pitter-patter of hungry feet as they got onto the roof. Sounded like there were enough of them to force this place to collapse in on itself.
“How have you been, Jack?” I came over and talked to him while the runners rethought their entry strategy. He looked drawn, tired, wary. He’d been out in the wild, alone, for a long time now. And this was the type of lost where one cannot be found easily. He wasn’t even from here; he had no resources in place to tap into, no family or old friends to help him. “I didn’t know, man,” I offered by way of solace, but really, what good was it.
“Little weird seeing your other self.” He shook his head, but moved past it quickly. “Did you get home?” he asked, without looking at me.
“I did.”
“How is everyone?” he asked, genuinely concerned. We’d talked enough that he knew the people around me, but also maybe he wanted to live vicariously through me, like maybe if everything in my world was good then that could mean the same thing for his family. I thought about lying, protecting him somehow, but I was never really good at it and I figured he’d be better than most at sniffing out bullshit.
“Lost a lot of good people,” I told him. “Finally found sanctuary, though. We’re rebuilding…or, I was.”
“This place will hold,” Otter said after a particularly noisy assault. Windows were being broken in but the heavy shutters did not move. I was not quite as confident. “Grizzly bears used to be a problem up here; this place was designed to keep them out.” It seemed he was saying the words to calm himself. I’m no animal expert, but it seems to me that a bear, which is generally a solitary creature, will only try for so long. We had a couple dozen very determined runners—I think that trumps a bear, in a bad way.
Trip came over and sat next to Jack. I wasn’t so sure this was a great idea and stayed close, expecting to have to pull them apart.
“You know.” Trip said. I’d expected him to say more. Like, “you know that vanilla is made from beaver anal glands” or “you know, red food coloring is made from ground-up insects,” that type of thing, but nope, he left it at “you know.”
The even more surprising thing was that Jack nodded tersely—in fact, he did know. I just wasn’t privy to whatever that knowledge was. Whatever it was would have to wait. The runners had found a shutter that had not weathered the years quite as well as the others. The night runners were tearing it apart—with difficulty, mind you, but the snapping and gnawing of wood was unmistakable. They were chewing and clawing their way in.
“How is everyone on rounds?” I asked.
There was a quick check of magazines and nods from everyone all around, even Trip, which made no sense given that he didn’t have a weapon. Then I realized what he figured I was talki
ng about as he pulled an airplane-sized bottle of Fireball—cinnamon whiskey—from his pocket. He spun the top off and downed it quickly.
“I hate this stuff.” He smacked his lips as he looked at the small bottle and put the empty back in his pocket. He quickly pulled out another and downed it in similar fashion. Otter and Jack gave near identical eye rolls at Trip’s antics. Yeah, Trip was nuttier than a Payday bar, but it was still good to see him. I hadn’t thought he’d survived the encounter in New Hampshire, and maybe he hadn’t. If there were two Jacks, why couldn’t there be two Trips? Then I started to go down the rabbit hole of there being two Tracys—hey, a man can dream, right? Could a woman get jealous of herself? I’m gonna go with yes. I erased all the illicit thoughts from my head. Well, some of them—once you make those imprints, it’s not always easy to scratch them out. Only a guy could think about sex while rabid savages were trying to eat him.
“We should open the shutter,” Jack said.
I realized he was down, but this was not a type of assisted suicide I could get behind. My look must have conveyed the feeling.
“Before they destroy it completely. If we open it, it will stop the others from trying to find another way in. We control the flow.”
“Create a killing field,” Otter added.
“You guys think too much; let’s do it.” I popped my magazine out, checked it again, clicked my selector switch from safe to fire, and widened my stance to absorb the recoil.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to be accused of thinking too much,” Jack said. I saw a ghost of a smile on his face. We were standing shoulder to shoulder as Otter went to the window to pull the drawbar back.
“Don’t shoot me,” he felt the need to say.
“I was in the Marines so I know how to shoot; this one here was a flyboy, so, I mean, who knows?”
Otter pulled the lock and then jumped back; the night runners wasted absolutely no time. The first one must have already been in the air, he sailed through that window like he’d been launched by a clown cannon. Jack put two in the dome of his head, blasting the infected thing wide open.
“Who can’t shoot?” he managed to say.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t shoot,” I said in between my own shots. “I just alluded to the possibility.” We’d killed three nearly instantly. They had been grouped around the window, hopeful that this was going to be their avenue in. The fourth was a little leerier but could not resist the urge to dine in. It was Jack and I who peppered that one with enough lead he would sink in a deep enough pool of water. For a moment there was a reprieve on the whole assault as the runners flocked to the open spot, but when they realized it was a trap, most retreated to look for another way in.
“Tricky bastards,” Otter said.
“You have no idea,” Jack replied.
I didn’t know how I felt about the exchange. It was like Jack was talking to his evil twin in a low-budget soap. Not that I was a soap watcher, but come on. There was always an evil twin, obviously played by the same actor, the only differentiating feature besides an ill-fitting wig was some facial scar, which somehow made him sinister. And somehow the dude’s love interest never seemed to realize that this was indeed the evil twin when they hooked up. I call bullshit, women are smarter than men, that’s a proven fact—they’re at least savvier. We are talking about the same creature that can spot last year’s show line or recall specific details from an argument waged more than three years ago. But for some fucking reason on these shows, they don’t notice the giant facial scar or the completely different cut of hair. Yeah, that’s believable. No idea, I have absolutely no idea why I went there. Couldn’t have less to do with what was going on.
The runners mercilessly beat on the cabin for the next two hours, but never did gain entry; after an hour, we’d decided to shut the open window. We’d only killed one more when he’d come back around; the rest were avoiding the death trap. Then, long before the sun was due to come up, it all went silent, like crickets in a field silent, like soft snow falling on a windless night quiet, like a mouse that had just eaten beano quiet. So basically, too quiet. I wasn’t the only one who picked up on it.
“Where’d they go?” Otter asked.
“Any idea what would chase runners off?” I asked Jack, the resident expert. So far they hadn’t really given two shits about zombies, whistlers, or bullets, so what could have possibly spooked them?
“I’ve got an idea, but no one’s going to like it,” Jack started.
He couldn’t have been more right if he’d told my ten-year-old self how much I was going to like female breasts one day.
“Demons? Like from hell?” Otter was having a difficult time with this, Trip talking about it was one thing, Jack another. I, surprisingly, was not having a difficult time, I mean. First off, I’d been half-stepping through horrors for a good long while now and I had seen overseers up close and personal. If they existed, it was not a stretch to think their counterparts would as well. “Or more like the silvers?”
“Silvers? Oh,” Jack said when he understood. “No, nothing like the night runners, this is entirely different. And whatever the opening is, it’s not a very far hike from here. If they got the gate open…”
He let that trail off. What possible hope could any of us have against that type of being? Sure, everything we knew about them was another person’s slant, whether from movies or books. But we had to figure there was a modicum of truth in the legends, right? A lot of folklore, while exaggerated, had some kernel of truth buried in it somewhere. If during our history we have had encounters with these beings, it stands to reason that they are mortal, that they can be killed, because if they can’t, well, first off we’re fucked, and, secondly, they’d be ruling the roost. Right? Tough to overthrow something that can’t die.
“You hear that?” Trip asked. I couldn’t hear anything except for the rumbling of his belly, and for a second, I figured that’s what he was talking about. Figured he was going to go into this whole thing about how he was starving to death and needed forty-eight cartons of Phritos.
Then, there it was. An engine, a deep throaty one at that.
“Car?” I asked.
“Can’t be, there’s no route up here that even a beast of a four-wheeler could make,” Otter said.
“Helicopter?” I asked.
“That’s not any flying machine that I know of,” Jack said.
It was a car—we all knew it was a car. If any four-wheeled auto was going to make it up here, there was only one kind. It wasn’t that great of a leap to guess who it was either, especially since the night runners had left in a hurry. It sure as shit didn’t help that Trip was on the floor, his arms wrapped around his pulled-in legs, rocking.
“Trip?” I asked.
He looked up, his eyes were glassy—this wasn’t from drugs. “They know I’m here.”
I asked who. But I knew.
“How do we kill them?”
“There’s still time; you three should go.” He unfolded himself and stood. “Take this, Mike, take it and go.” He handed me a folded knife, the blade couldn’t have been more than two inches long.
“What the hell am I going to do with this?”
“It’s the most powerful weapon you have. GO!” He was pushing me to the door.
Trip, what are you doing?” Jack asked.
“They’re coming for me; the rest of you are collateral damage. There’s no time, don’t question me on this.”
Otter, Jack, and I were looking around, unsure what to do.
“RUN!” Trip screamed.
“Mike?” Otter asked, opening the door. We bolted out the opening and away from the sound of the approaching engine, could see twin beams cutting through the darkness as it came closer. It wasn’t moving fast, but it was following our earlier ascent exactly. It just wasn’t possible, not with an earthly vehicle. We found a rock outcropping some fifty feet away, just big enough that we could stay hidden if we laid in the prone position. Seemed too far at f
irst—if Trip needed assistance, it would take us agonizing seconds to get there. As the car came into view I wished the fifty feet were five hundred…miles.
I couldn’t have been the only one who felt the malevolence wash over me as the car stopped in front of the cabin. The driver door opened up and one of those incredibly tall beings stepped out—he was looking right at us. My rifle shook as I struggled to keep it center mass.
“No,” Jack said. “I have an idea that I think we’re all going to absolutely hate, and we need to live for you to hear it.”
Another overseer got out of the rear of the car and went inside the cabin. The driver stayed where he was, but his gaze had finally shifted away from us.
“Tactical withdrawal. I’ll cover the both of you; go straight back until you’re out of sight.”
“That’s not how it works,” I told him. He gave me a look that pretty much just said “shut up and go.”
I tapped Otter; we both slowly got up, turned, and went slowly for a few steps, then just flat-out ran for it. No screams, no lightning bolts from heaven, nothing. We were in the clear, joined by Jack less than a minute later. My head was hanging low, I could not help but feel that we’d abandoned Trip in his time of need. Jack smacked my chest.
“We’d be dead by now,” he said.
“You know what? Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. We could have died trying.”
“I’d rather live trying. I told you that I have an idea. Otter, can you keep an eye on the cabin? Mike and I are going for help.”
“What do you know that you’re not saying?” I asked.
“Mike, you don’t want to know. You got this?” he asked Otter.
Otter must have nodded in acknowledgment. “Let’s go.” I looked back the way we had come and reluctantly followed. “We’re going for help, Mike.” Jack tried to prop me up.
“Military?”
“Nope.”