by Tim Marquitz
And then there was Reader.
Reader stood back and watched.
I didn’t like the implications of that.
“The tires are flat, someone slashed the tires,” sobbed Virgin.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll drive out of here on the rims. Everyone get inside the Escalade,” said Coach.
The six counselors piled into the SUV. Coach climbed into the driver’s seat, inserted the key, and turned the ignition – to no avail.
“Fuck.” growled Coach.
That’s when I flipped the breaker, pitching the Camp into darkness and eliciting a chorus of screams.
“We need to arm ourselves,” said Archer.
“We need light,” said Coach.
“We’ll split up. Morgan, Adam, and I will go find weapons. Dick, you take Alice and Nicole to find flashlights or something,” said Reader.
“Alright everyone, keep your eyes open. We’ll meet back at the girl’s cabin. We can barricade ourselves in there and wait for daylight. Let’s go,” agreed Coach.
Coach threw open the driver’s side door and ran into the night, followed by Virgin and Slut #1. Reader, Archer, and Stoner #2 left the Escalade headed in a different direction. I weighed my options and went to head off Coach and the girls. I wanted to deal with my biggest physical challenge early in the night before all the exercise left me tired and sloppy. Coach and the girls were headed toward the administration office.
They were headed right towards me.
“Hold up, my phone has a flashlight app,” came the voice of Slut #1.
A flare of light caught me off guard and I met the pounding of footsteps with a swing of the maul. The wedge blade parted yielding flesh. The figure was too small to be Coach – one of the girls had gotten ahead of him. The girl fell back and I swung again, carving through her collarbone and releasing a geyser of blood. A gurgle followed the crunch and Virgin perished.
“Oh Jesus, oh Jesus no,” shouted Coach.
The dazzle of Slut #1’s cellphone illuminated a small circle. It was enough for her and Coach to see the ruined form of their friend – and me, coated in her blood. Slut #1 screeched. Coach gasped.
I wound up and swung at him, missing as he back pedaled and fell on his ass. He was quick to recover, launching to his feet and sprinting away, leaving his shocked companion in the dust.
“Boo,” I said.
Slut #1 turned to run but the maul caught her in the knee, sending her sprawling. The leg was bent at an unnatural angle. I spent a good minute hacking off her head – let it be known that mauls are meant for splitting wood, not decapitation.
My line of work often set me on a collision course with the young and dumb. Too often. Adolescents believe they are invincible. They take ridiculous risks – reading evil books, spending the night creepy abandoned mansions, and trampling over ancient burial grounds. Kids play chicken with fate.
I felt an intense compulsion to pray for them.
I carried on instead.
Hoisting the maul I stalked off to find the second group. Stoner #2 was hiding under the beer pong table. What concealment he had was ruined by breathing like an asthmatic that ran to catch the school bus. Oh, and he was crouched under a beer pong table – far from a world championship hiding spot. I kicked the table over, tumbling beer cups and revealing the pothead, curled up in the fetal position. I nudged him with the maul and caught a blow to the ribs from behind.
I staggered and another blow landed between my shoulder blades. I tripped over Stoner #2, falling to the ground and losing a hold of my weapon. I was fast enough to deflect another strike. Pain lanced through my forearm and I kicked out, connecting with something soft and dangling.
There was an agonized cough and I saw that Coach had found a baseball bat among the sports equipment and come back to fight me. He was doubled over; testicles cupped in one hand and held the club in the other, thrust out as though to ward off evil. I grasped for the maul but discovered it was out of reach. I unsheathed the buck knife from my ankle and lunged at Coach.
He predicted the attack and brought the bat down on my head as I stabbed him in the side. Wood met carbon fiber reinforced polycarbonate plastic and disintegrated. The blow left me dazed but my cranium was intact. I tried to get my bearings but Coach refused to relent, even with a cut in his abdomen. The bat was reduced to a shard that he was determined to stick me with.
Dizzy though I was I maintained my stance – weight on the balls of my feet, knees slightly bent, elbows out, and hands up. I shrugged off a series of swipes and stabs before seizing the shank in my free hand and slashing the tendons in his wrist with my knife hand, causing him to drop the weapon. Coach shrank away but I kept within grappling distance and plunged the blade into his heart a series of times. I pivoted to take on Stoner #2 as Coach collapsed.
The pothead held my maul in unsteady hands, having scrambled to retrieve it during the melee. I put one foot forward and he wound up for the swing.
“Are you Ghost Rider?” he asked.
I stopped in my tracks.
“Ghost Rider, Spirit of Vengeance? Is that you?”
I dove at him and he swung the maul with too much force and it left his grip, arcing off into the night. I cursed and stuck the knife in his gut – repeatedly. I wasn’t overly keen on the idea of replacing yet another maul. Six down and two to go.
I found Reader down by the shore, standing by the fire. The flames might offer a sort of primal comfort but they would also spoil his night vision. Despite this advantage I didn’t bother to conceal my approach. I had questions and I was willing to bet that Reader had answers. All I’d need to do was apply the appropriate amount of pressure.
He smiled at me over the blaze and I had a split second to wonder where Archer was before an arrow punched into my chest.
That hurt like a mother.
The layers of a Kevlar vest might have saved me from a handgun round but proved to be inadequate protection against a field tip arrowhead. I was contemplating the absurdity of being defeated by such outdated technology when the second projectile skewered me. I let go of my knife and pitched over before Archer could continue using me for target practice.
I lay inert, partly in hopes they would confuse me for dead and partly because any movement only succeeded in worsening the pain. I was convinced that a rib or two was cracked and I was hesitant to even guess what organs were ruptured.
Archer sidled out from the trees, bow raised and arrow nocked, and inched toward me. Archer’s face was nigh unreadable, at least from the ground, but I thought I detected a hint of defiance.
“You got him Mo,” said Reader as he walked the circumference of the fire pit.
Archer covered him as he drew near and plucked the knife from where I dropped it on the ground. I considered making a grab for him but erred on the side of not prompting another arrow in the guts. Reader joined Archer five or so feet away to examine me from a safe distance.
“Who is he? Why was he trying to hurt us?” Archer asked.
“He is the Apostate and he came here for this,” Reader said, brandishing the codex.
What the actual fuck?
My bafflement reflected in Archer’s face but the question forming on her lips died as Reader dragged my knife across her throat. She let go of the bow and clutched at the gash, eyes wide in alarm. In that instant she looked like a scared little girl. She looked like little Penny the night she woke me up about the monster under her bed – right before I made her kill it.
In that moment I knew I couldn’t harm Archer.
Not that I’d get the chance. The cut could have severed her jugular or her carotid which would lead to a quick exsanguination. Or maybe it had simply damaged her airway and she would suffocate. Either way she didn’t have long left to live.
“You can get up. I know you’re not dead,” said Reader.
So much for playing opossum.
I rose, gingerly I might add, cognizant of the aluminum shafts sticking ou
t of my chest. I popped my helmet visor and took shallow breaths, afraid of disturbing the pointy sticks lodged inside of me.
I yanked the first arrow out, issuing a spurt of fluid from the wound.
“Do I know you?” I croaked.
“You are not a subtle man Apostate. Every action causes ripples in the Aether but your actions make waves. You wear the mark of the Liberator and yet you obstruct his agenda. You curse the Oppressor and his ilk, yet you benefit his cause. What is your true alignment?”
I tugged the second arrow out and flirted with the notion of blacking out.
“I’m not big on alliances,” I said.
Reader chuckled.
“To be honest I should thank you for doing the majority of my dirty work. Blood sacrifices are crude and trite but sufficient for summoning,” he said.
“You knew of the Beyond Sciences before today.”
“I did indeed. I am a child of the Prophet Enoch, the Liberator’s mightiest general on Earth, schooled in the Praeter Scientia from an early age,” he said.
“The Authority is going to be pissed when they catch up with you” I said.
I needed to keep him talking. The longer Reader monologued the better I could dedicate my attention to mending my injuries. Call me a hypocrite but he wasn’t the only one to have studied the Beyond Sciences.
“When the Authority catches wind of my transgression I will be at the Prophet’s side and they dare not challenge us again. I waited years and today at the Twisted Spine I discovered the codex by divine providence. It was a sign Apostate, a sign that the time has come for man to rise and cast down the Oppressor on high.”
He was a true believer as I had been at his age. I played follow the leader with a snake clothed as a man and sought secret knowledge, forbidden knowledge, and I acquired it – at a cost.
“I will summon one of the Liberator’s lieutenants to show that I am ready. The death of my friends will serve as a worthy offering and we can renew the War in Heaven.”
His eyes were vibrant with fervor, his features cast in the glow of the campfire. I’ll give Reader one thing, he would have made a hell of a televangelist.
“Do you want to be found lacking when the lines are drawn, what will become of your precious Penny when the Oppressor loses and decides to raze the Earth? Will you be able to protect her? The Liberator can protect her.”
Using my daughter’s name – bad call.
I burst forth, an explosion of motion.
The sudden exertion reopened the puncture wounds. Even my body, tempered as it was by years of alchemical strengthening, needed time to heal. The muscle and fat was knitting itself together even as it tore. Blood leaked from the holes in my chest but not enough to be an immediate issue.
Reader stood maybe ten feet away, bearing the codex and my knife. You would be astonished how fast a man my size and weight can move. In another life I might have played pro-football. I would not allow Reader to join the Prophet, the Prophet Enoch and their senseless crusade. I would destroy the cultist with my hands. I would crush his windpipe and gouge his eyes and shatter his teeth and pulp his skull and snap his spine and open his ribcage and extract his heart and eat it.
I got within spitting distance before a giant invisible flyswatter smacked me down. Reader spoke, reciting phrases from the codex, using the Beyond Sciences to manipulate gravity. I rose, though not of my own accord, and was compelled at high speed into a cabin wall. The breath left me and before I could recover I was lifted and dashed against the same wall.
I was hoisted once more and dragged through the fire pit, igniting my clothes. Reader laughed as I howled and flung me into the lake. The cool water enveloped me, extinguishing the flames. I shed my shattered helmet and shredded jacket, my Kevlar and undershirt all too mindful of my deflated lung. My body kicked into overdrive trying to repair the immense trauma I sustained.
I waded through the shallows and up onto the shore. I coughed up water and blood on the beach. Reader snapped the codex shut, rested it on a folding chair, and swaggered down from the fire. He took a handful of my damp hair and pressed the tip of the knife against my throat.
“Do you see the error of your ways? I subdued the fearsome Apostate with but a footnote of the codex. Such is the glory of the Praeter Scientia. Join us and make this power your own. The Oppressor would ask that you kneel before Him and repent in order to obtain forgiveness. I but ask that you stand and fight injustice,” he proclaimed.
I tried to speak but my voice was but a rasp.
“What was that?”
“Sorry kid but I already drank the Kool-Aid, can’t say I liked the taste.”
“Apostate.” Reader spat.
“Truly you deserve the name.”
I managed a shrug.
“Killing you will earn me great favor among the Liberator’s legi—”
Reader’s victory speech was abruptly interrupted when an arrow erupted from his neck. He swayed, fumbling at the shaft protruding from his throat. I grabbed him, my body protesting any further strain, and thrust my knee into his stomach. He dropped but I caught the arrow shaft and began twisting, torqueing his head around, testing the elasticity of the neck until the vertebrae snapped and his face was pointed in the wrong direction. Reader flopped to the ground.
My attention turned to Archer up near the fire pit, slouched against a folding chair. Her shirt was stripped off and pressed against her neck, staunching the flow of blood. Her face was contorted in pain and tears left tracks down her cheeks. She wobbled to her feet using the bow as a crutch. She had spent her final arrow on Reader.
I trudged toward her, my chest a mess of tattoos and old scars. The bruises mottling my skin dissipated as I got closer and the puckered flesh where I had been shot began to knit back together. I took the codex from where Reader had left it and pitched it into the fire pit. The edges blackened and blazed.
I turned to regard Archer. Reader’s cut was sloppy, damaging her airway but not completely severing it. Archer saw that I was just a man, albeit a man with miraculous healing capabilities, and she was going to fight me until the bitter end. I clenched my fists so hard my knuckles cracked. I set my mind to the task ahead.
And I faltered.
Pieces of the Man
Daniel Weaver
Living in the vast expanse of farmlands east of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with his two sons and wife, Daniel Weaver is an internationally published author of short stories in the horror and dark fantasy genres. Influenced heavily by authors such as Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, his work been featured in noted publications such as Danse Macabre, Cemetery Moon, and Morpheus Tales. He is currently the associate editor for Hammer & Anvil Books, and is presently working on his debut horror novel. He can be found online at https://www.facebook.com/danielweaverauthor
The Death Storms were billowing across the plains once more, but inside the Ridgeback, a small group of townsfolk had retreated from the harsh winds and burning rain for the small bit of comfort that the local inn could provide. There were only six people inside the taproom of the inn, but in a town of roughly fifty, that was something of a crowd. Behind the counter, a pretty, young girl daydreamed about what life may lie beyond the village lines. In the back office, her boss sat at desk with wide eyes and itchy blood, smoking the brom he grew in secret in the cellar of the inn. By the front windows, three local roughnecks played billiards in the corner, all with a drink in their hand and a blade in their pocket. Despite their devil-may-care appearances, none of the men dared to go out while the Storms still raged across the plains. The final man sat alone, motionless, in the rear corner booth of the taproom. This booth had come to be known as ‘Dalton’s booth’ over the years the man had spent in this town, and despite his age, the three younger men knew better than to try to intimidate him. He was nearing sixty, and in a small town days away from the medicines found in cities such as Laevin or Greyhurst, the common thinking was by that age, a man would soon be dead.
U
pon his back hung a cracking leather jacket, and politely hidden beneath his shirt he wore a six shot revolver. He had purchased this gun, a rarity in this strange, dying world, for a hefty price half-a-lifetime before, but it had served its purpose well, having become an extension of the old man’s arm through so many younger years. Lately though, the thing was rarely touched.
He loosely wrapped his fingers around a tall glass of dark amber mead, which dripped perspiration on the table before him. Old callouses from an early life of hard labor still lingered on his fingers and on his hands, though he had not used them for much more than drinking in the last fifteen years. Kicked beneath his seat and guarded by his leather booted feet was a dark green rucksack, and inside that sack was everything the old man still owned.
He was not an overly sentimental man, but he did keep a few mementos from his past. In the rucksack, there were several photos of his children: two daughters he had not seen since the day he left them with their mother half a lifetime before and a son who had died at his side not even two years after that. There were pendants of the Gods that he had learned of in his youth, because he always knew who was watching over him through the chaos he had caused, and who would still be watching him when that chaos was over. Most importantly, in a small satchel buried deep beneath the things that no thief would bother to look beyond, was his life’s savings. He had amassed a respectable horde of gems and rare belongings, enough to last a lifetime if he cared to sell them, but these days he didn’t find he had much need for money. Most times, he could convince a passing traveler to cover the drinks they had shared, and when he couldn’t, he wasn’t opposed to taking the things he didn’t feel the need to pay for.
“Could have another lifetime left in these old bones,” he’d tell the stranger sitting next to him at the bar, who would always nod politely despite Dalton’s corpse like pallor. “I gotta keep a hold of what I have in case I need it someday.”