The Shivered Sky

by Matt Dinniman

  He hid behind a bear-sized knot in the tree. He peered cautiously around the corner, hoping the shadows hid him. He pressed himself tight against the wood, his nose drawing in the warm, musky scent of the bark. He was wracked with guilt. He had only looked away for a second! Shit, shit, shit. What am I going to do?

  Maybe, he hoped, they'll just leave the others alone. One of them poked at Rico with the flat end of its spear. Dave cringed as he stirred. Three more appeared from the trees. They began talking animatedly to each other in a language he didn't understand.

  He reached into the pouch on his back and pulled out the zapper he'd gotten from the storeroom.

  “Wha ... What the hell?” Rico sat up, looking at the six creatures with bewilderment. All six of them flashed in his direction, their spears leveled. “Get away from me!” he cried. They moved in. He slowly stood, his hands raised.

  The others woke up with cries of surprise. They were herded together and surrounded. Several more of the creatures emerged from the woods. The weasel men began to argue amongst themselves.

  Indigo was searching the trees with her eyes. She passed right over him. She looked at Gramm and mouthed “Where's Dave?” He didn't acknowledge the question. He seemed paralyzed with fear, like Dave had been when he woke from the dream.

  Indigo's hand moved slowly to her backpack. Rico's did too.

  What am I going to do? He was damn near hyperventilating. He couldn't just watch his new friends get skewered. He had to do something, anything. More of the things were arriving by the minute. But what could he do?

  Indigo made the first move. The tall girl hit the ground, her legs doing splits like a professional cheerleader. In her hand was one of the long, black flashlights. She drove the chunk of metal upward into the crotch of one of the demons.

  Rico jumped forward, also swinging a flashlight like a cudgel. Several spears jabbed forward at his chest, but the points broke off against the jumpsuit. The beasts ran into the woods. But more were coming, shrieking like feedback from a guitar.

  Shit. Dave shot from his hiding place, zapper in hand. He ran at a full gallop. A primal scream welled up in his throat, and he let it go.

  The demon Indigo had hit was unfazed by the blow to the crotch, but she spun quickly in a break-dance like move, her legs flying like tassels. She cut the legs from under the demon and stomped on his head all in a fluid motion. It was as if she had done this before. The sickening crunch echoed like a gunshot. She whirled to face four more.

  Hitomi hadn't moved at all, and Gramm was finally reacting. He had a flashlight in his hand also, a look of absolute terror blazoned in his eyes. He stood by Rico who was wildly swinging his flashlight, screaming obscenities.

  Dave finally reached the fray. He jumped forward with the zapper, hitting the back of the neck of one of the weasel men. It was like cutting paper with sharp scissors. He had locked his arm for the blow, but he cut right through, popping the head off like a beer cap. He had to struggle to keep his balance.

  The flying head sprayed blood as it tumbled, and a fat glob splashed against Indigo's face. She cried out, stepping back. She wiped at it with her sleeve.

  To his side, Gramm and Rico were barely holding off the creatures. One threw a spear right at Gramm's face, but he deflected it with his sleeve. He picked it up and hurled it back at the monsters, and they scattered away. It landed harmlessly in the grass.

  The point of a spear bounded off the side of Dave's suit. He felt a slight pressure, but no pain. He swiped with his weapon and severed off the arm of the charging demon. It howled with pain and dropped to its knees. Indigo jumped forward and firmly kicked its head. Its neck snapped back with a crunch. Then it flopped over, dead.

  “Shit that hurt,” she said, rubbing at her injury again. A quarter-sized burn was branded onto her face, shaped like the head of a trident.

  The creatures fled back slightly, but quickly moved to surround them from a distance. The five converged, unsure of what to do. Hitomi was now holding her own flashlight backwards. The bright light kept flashing on and off in her nervous hands, the extremely bright light bouncing off her own chest. Almost fifty of the weasel men were now in the clearing, and more were coming.

  “Everyone okay?” Dave asked.

  “What the hell do you think?” Gramm said. “Where were you?”

  Indigo spit into her hand and rubbed her face. “We need to find a way to escape.”

  “Our suits protect us,” Rico said quickly, breathing heavily.

  “Not our heads,” Indigo said.

  “What the hell are they?” Gramm said. He twirled the flashlight in his hands nervously. He was almost crying. Hopefully he would be able to fight.

  Hitomi was crying, but she still clutched her meager weapon.

  No one moved for an eternity. An eerie silence fell over the stalemate.

  Then, loud roars filled the clearing. The sound filled Dave with dread, and all five of them huddled closer with terror. Two saddled, blood-red jaguars pounced from the darkness. Each held a weasel man carrying a lance. They were much more impressive than the others with iridescent bug armor that covered their chests, arms, and legs. As helmets they wore the skulls of some unrecognizable animal. Like evil knights in full regalia. They lined up parallel with each other, lowering their lances.

  “If you're gonna do it, then do it,” Indigo said, her voice a growl.

  A demon behind Dave cried in pain. He swirled to look, and half its face and arm were gone! It screamed like a cat stuck in a lawn mower, clawing at itself frantically. Then it collapsed in a heap, its comrades quickly moving away in surprise.

  Then another exploded in a burst of red, its breastplate falling.

  “What's happening?” Rico muttered.

  A third weasel cried out in pain, its arm completely gone. Then Dave realized what was doing it. Hitomi's flashlight! She held it backwards, and it occasionally flashed on. Her body blocked most the beam, but what did shine through killed the weasel men! Not just killed, though. It erased them.

  Rico saw it too. “Hitomi,” he yelled. “Your flashlight is hurting them! Use it, like a gun!”

  She looked at him in confusion.

  The jaguars charged.

  “Shoot them,” Dave screamed.

  Hitomi swung the light toward the two knights, cutting an arc of carnage through the weasels. The beam hit the knights, removing their faces at the speed of light. The armored bodies jerked, then plunged from their saddles, the lances flying. She swung the light up and down at them like a hammer. The jaguars, uninjured by the ray, bounded past them; one came so close it knocked Rico down. Their oily, feral scent was overpowering. The animals bounded over the creek and into the forest out of sight.

  The weasel men cried, shaking with fear. A few had tears on their faces.

  Gramm stepped forward. “Leave us alone,” he said loudly, his voice surprisingly powerful and threatening. “We don't want to hurt you, but we will.”

  “Smoke the little bastards,” Rico said, standing up. He appeared shaken, but uninjured. His knuckles were utterly white from clutching his flashlight.

  “No,” Dave said. “If we leave, maybe they won't bother us.”

  “Okay,” Indigo said, the war-glaze gone from her eyes. The trident-shaped injury to her face was practically glowing. It looked like it hurt, a lot. “Let's back away slowly and see what they do. Hitomi, be ready with the light.”

  They moved through a hole Hitomi had cut with the beam, slowly stepping over the remains of a dozen of the weasel men. The blood oozing from the untouched body parts sizzled against the grass.

  “I say we kill them,” Rico grumbled. “What if they follow us? They can catch us by surprise.”

  “Shut up,” Indigo said.

  They stepped into the freezing creek.

  Apparently, the weasel men didn't like them touching their water. After they waded in a few feet, the weasel men shrieked in rage and charged. Several spears were hurled. They whined
like bullets toward them.

  “Turn your back and cover your face,” Indigo yelled.

  Dave plunged into the water, his arms over his head. He felt several of the spears bounce off him. One nicked his left ear, and he cried out in pain. An inch to the right, and it would have slipped past his arms and into his skull.

  Rico was screaming. Dave jumped up to see he was on his back in the shallow water, his hand pinned to the creek bed with a spear. The water rushed red with his blood. More spears flew, and Gramm splashed forward, folding himself over Rico's head.

  “Hitomi,” Indigo and Dave both cried at the same time.

  Hitomi shot a beam of light at the demons. She waved her arm back and forth, screaming something he couldn't understand. A solitary spear was thrown at her, but it missed its mark by several feet.

  The effect was immediate. Not a single one could hide from the unforgiving light.

  Dave and Gramm pulled the spear out of Rico's hand. He cried out, and more blood surged. “Why am I always the one to get hurt?” he said miserably.

  “Come on,” Indigo said quickly. “Let's get out of here.”

  Dave quickly located another trail. And thankfully, it was headed in a direction different from where the jaguars had gone. His ear throbbed, and blood seeped down his shoulder, but it quickly clogged. After a few minutes, the pain went away. The injury on Rico's hand, which was much worse, healed more slowly. But that, too, went away after a while. The injury on Indigo's face hadn't gone away at all, and she kept gingerly touching it.

  Hitomi led the way, crying quietly, quickly sweeping the light back and forth. A distant howl echoed back at them, obviously from a creature bigger than the weasel men.

  Indigo grabbed Hitomi's hand. “Please, just keep the light forward, angled down. We don't want to anger any more of the monsters.”

  Monsters.

  Dave had been calling them demons and monsters in his head, but to hear that word spoken aloud was terrifying. He had lived his entire life in the shadow of monsters. But they were evil things that only came out at night. They weren't real. There had been some comfort in the thought that while he was awake, he couldn't be touched. But now that was gone. Awake, asleep, it didn't make a difference. None at all.

  * * * *

  Several minutes earlier, Lesser-Commander Reeka drifted on a current high above the humans, angling around to see them again through the choking gap in the trees. If it hadn't been for the frantic activity of the shoals—filthy creatures—he would never have been looking down. But the pygmy sub-demons danced around crazily, sending out their high-pitched battle cry to the neighboring clan.

  Normally, he would just call in the coordinates and be done with it. Humans were barely worth the effort. Unfortunately, his communication mechanism wasn't working properly. The insurgents had jammed them again. Such things were becoming too common. A real nuisance to the orderly flow of the Dominion.

  Too many in the leadership were heathens. Therefore, fools who couldn't do their jobs properly. If it was up to him, they would all worship the one true deity. Then, all such resistance would be crushed.

  The humans were more a curiosity than anything. How did they get here? They were clothed, in angel armor no less, which meant they were more than escaped slaves.

  He flapped his mighty wings to hover above the gap in the trees. This should be amusing, he decided. He pulled his weapon from the holster. Maybe he would pick off some of the victors, just so they knew who their true God was. Moloch would surely reward such a display of piety. It could only be good for his Pri.

  Then he saw the light. The sight of it hit him like a missed perch, and the surprise almost knocked him out of the sky. The girl human holds a periscepter. And she had even managed to turn it on for a few short bursts. The fool wasn't even wielding it correctly. The others held them too! Perhaps they had all twelve. Perhaps. But how? Where did they get them? The Dominion had been searching for the fabled weapons since the start of the campaign.

  He aimed his weapon. The humans had to be disposed of immediately. The tree-cats charged, and the girl reacted by sweeping the light blade through the shoals. The weapon was exciting and terrifying all at once. There were several mid-commanders he would love to use that on. But his devotion to the Dominion would not allow such treasonous thoughts to continue. He was a loyal soldier. He would recover the periscepters and bring them to his superior officer. Along with the brains of the humans. The Flamen would definitely want to ascertain their knowledge.

  He centered the girl in his sights, adjusting for distance. But before he pulled off a shot, she hooked the weapon up, and he had to dive to avoid the beam. He wasn't quick enough, and his right wing was severed off at the first knuckle.

  The pain was of an intensity he'd never felt before. He screamed as he plunged. He would miss the clearing and land just beyond the edge of the trees. The upper branches caught him, breaking his fall just slightly, ripping at him like claws. He hit the ground hard, and the snap of his left arm echoed.

  He stood, agony wracking his body. Several shoals stared at him stupidly. He kicked one in the head in anger. He'd been shot! His wing was gone, probably forever. He was shamed, and he'd have to perform sacrificial suicide. But that little bitch would pay dearly for it first. He reached for his gun, but it was gone. Lost in the fall.

  He picked up his communication mechanism and slammed it hard against a tree. Miraculously, it crackled to life. “This is Lesser-Commander Reeka reporting a Level One emergency at my current coordinates.” He punched the locate button on his console.

  A lazy voice answered on the other side. “State again?”

  “Listen,” he screamed into the microphone. “I have a Level One emergency. I have located the periscepters, and I'm under attack.”

  Ahead in the clearing, the shoals screamed, and from what he could tell, they were charging the humans and throwing their spears.

  “No!” he cried. He knew what would happen next. He flung himself toward the cover of a nearby tree, but the end of his severed wing caught on a branch, and he fell. The True Light swept through the bewildered shoals. He closed his eyes and prayed to his God, the benevolent Moloch.

  The radio crackled. “State the nature of the emergency again, Commander.”

  But Lesser-Commander Reeka never heard the transmission. His final thoughts were of the Decretal, the great book of his faith. “He who walks in the path of Moloch,” the mighty book read, “will never be without a destination. Even after the final darkness comes.”

  The Unraveler

  Gramm was tormented by the events of the past hours. Or days. Time worked strangely here. He used to be able to tell when Mum would come home without ever looking at the clock. Unless it was Tuesday, and she had to work late. Then he'd count until Father came home, but he wasn't as predictable. He worked late most nights, but, Tuesdays especially, he seemed to come home later and later, even until the end.

  The worst part was being tired all the time. He could deal with his stomach always hurting and tender, and the nosebleeds that would erupt randomly, especially when he ate. Or the bruises that would show up on his arms and legs as mysterious as crop circles. But when he couldn't play his guitar after only ten minutes, or when he had to rest the book on a pillow just to be able to read it for a little longer, he would sometimes wish it would all end sooner than later.

  The enzyme replacement therapy did nothing. They said it worked well with those who suffered from his disease, but not for him. And then some doctors suggested he didn't have the rare Gaucher's disease at all, especially since he was so tall and the symptoms were progressing so rapidly. The Medicare system, run by the government, said he wasn't sick enough to have to stay at a hospital. And they wouldn't cover a private home nurse, even if he needed one.

  No one came to look after him during the day. No one was there to watch him retch violently into the toilet. No one to bring a blanket when the chills hit him bad. He didn't mind it much. Th
ere was no worrying about visitors being uncomfortable around him. His last real friend from school had stopped coming six months before. He had the television and his guitar to keep him company.

  And the books, of course. He sometimes read a whole one in a day. Fiction, history, a thesaurus, he didn't care. It kept him alive. As long as his body was being filled with information, it wouldn't break down on him.

  The librarian would come on Fridays. She was an old Jewish woman named Elaine Feinstein, and she brought a pile of old books in a shopping bag. She was the only visitor he ever had. Even the postie wouldn't ever knock on the door. She'd let herself in and dump the books on the counter. Then, with gloved hands she'd pick up the books he had read and go away, leaving the scent of her French perfume to linger. She made this show to make him think she was taking the tattered books back to the library, but he knew the truth.

  He was never the first to read a particular book. He was always the last.

  Two types of books interested him the most. Books on religion, and books about travel. Religion because he knew he was dying. He read everything he could about every dogma, from Zoroastrianism to Greek mythology to modern Christianity.

  The travel books were his secret passion. They were the only ones he never gave back to Ms. Feinstein. If she noticed them missing, she never said anything. He had lived in Australia his entire life, never traveling far from his too-ordinary town except to Brisbane on rare occasions. Father had promised to take him places, like America and China, but not after his sickness came.

  He had slowly come to realize he was never going to go anywhere. He spent long hours gazing at the fifty-year-old pictures in the books. They were of every place imaginable. Iceland, Maldives, Peru, Greece, Mongolia. He wanted to visit them all. To climb the trees, drink the water, shake hands with the shopkeepers. Just imagining himself there was an escape.

  And so were his dreams. He looked forward to sleep, though it was difficult at times, even though his body ached and pleaded for it. The dream was rare, only occurring about once a month.