The 13 th tribe if-1

by Robert Liparulo

  Bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, he pushed a button through the suit, stopping the music, and prepared to spring. He’d shove the monk face-first into the wall and find out where they were keeping Creed. Didn’t matter that the man would surely resist divulging the location; Phin knew techniques involving eye sockets, genitals, and the brittle joints of fingers that coud pry information from the tightest lips.

  Someone yelled, snapping his attention away from the monk. A woman was standing on the third-floor terrace of the guest quarters, leaning over the railing.

  Phin let the monk hurry past him.

  “Tyler!” the woman yelled again. She was closer than Phin to the Southwest Range Building. If she came down to ground level, he’d have to pass her.

  Someone responded in a loud whisper: “No… Beth, shhh!”

  Phin followed the woman’s gaze and saw a man on the roof of a building across from her. He was patting the air with one hand, signaling her to be quiet. Other voices sprang up around the compound, queries and commands, but they didn’t seem to bother the guy. He said, “Tyler’s safe. Don’t call him. Go back inside until I come.”

  “But-” the woman started.

  “Beth! Please!”

  Listen to him, Beth, Phin thought. You don’t want to be out here.

  She looked around and slowly moved into the building behind her. The light from her room disappeared with the click of a door. The man waited a few seconds, then turned and vanished.

  Phin ran to catch up to the monk.

  [40]

  Tyler paused on a landing halfway up to the rooftops. Continuing up would take him the way he and Dad had come, which meant passing the apartment and doubling back through the center of the compound. Instead, he took a different flight of steps down into an alley. It was dark, but he knew the route home: straight to the back corner of the compound, where the Southwest Range Building met the building that housed the guest quarters. Their apartment and the stairs leading to it were at the opposite end of this building. A tunnel ran its length; the left side was lined with the doors to the first-floor rooms. It opened up into a small courtyard, where he’d also find the stairs leading to their third-level apartment.

  As he moved through the black alley, running his hand along one wall, he forced himself to think not of the sharp yells and pounding feet or the explosion and whatever had come into the monastery, but only of the way home: Straight to the three-way intersection… turn right into the tunnel… courtyard… stairs… home.. Mom.

  Directly ahead, the intersection glowed dimly. He pictured the source of the light: after about ten feet or so, the tunnel to the left ended in a door to a monk’s cell. Beside the door was a narrow, curtained window-curtained, he knew, because he had tried to peer in many times. The light must be coming from the window.

  Footsteps echoed out of the tunnel, growing louder. Tyler stopped and pushed himself against the wall. A figure flashed past, heading for the room. Bushy beard, wild hair, black habit-one of the monks. He continued forward and was about to call out when something stopped him: a flickering shadow that was not quite a shadow; it sparkled, just a few pinpricks of bright light, there and gone. He squinted but saw nothing other than the heavily mortared wall of the tunnel.

  A rap sounded-a code upon the door: a single knock, three fast ones, two more.

  Bolts rattled and the door creaked open, spilling bright light into the intersection. Still, no more shadows, no more sparkles. Then, as the closing door pinched off the light, something glistened. Tyler gasped as a sword appeared, growing long and floating in midair at the center of the intersection. Above it, two eyes were glaring at him, and he slapped both hands over his mouth just in time to catch his scream.

  [41]

  Phin stared at the kid, mostly obscured by shadow, but obviously terrified. He chuckled quietly, and the boy’s eyes grew even larger. He waved his sword, shooing the kid away. The boy backed up, taking two steps before tripping and sitting down hard, causing something to rattle, as though his butt were made out of Legos.

  Phin almost laughed again, but dancing shadows drew his attention to the window, where a face was pressed against the glass. Phin closed his eyes and slowly twisted the sword so its thin edge faced the viewer. When he looked again, only swaying curtains moved behind the window.

  And the boy was still sitting in the alley. “Go away,” Phin whispered. “The monsters are out tonight.” The kid began pushing himself back, crabbing farther into darkness.

  Phin turned toward the door. He had made a quick calculation that the odds favored finding Creed by following the monk instead of torturing him for information. The guy had a gun: where else would he be heading other than to the location of the man he was attempting to protect?

  Phin walked to the window but couldn’t see beyond the curtains. Faint shadows moved within. Monks’ cells were tiny, barely enough room for a bed and small dresser. He guessed that if Creed was inside, there would be no more than two, three others.

  It didn’t concern him that no one stood guard outside; that would be like hanging out a neon He’s in here! sign. If they were to keep an external watch, he suspected it would be from afar: the alley where the boy was or the tunnel entrances. But Phin was invisible and he’d been fast, faster than the monks would have been getting to their posts.

  He stepped in front of the door and kicked it hard. It rattled against its bolts, but didn’t open. He ducked away, crouching under the window. One of the monks inside opened fire: a blast blew a head-sized hole through the center of the door, spraying splinters into the tunnel. A second later the window blew out. Glass and bits of curtain sailed over Phin’s head. The glass played a chaotic, chimelike rhythm against the tunnel’s walls and stone floor.

  Phin hopped up and kicked the door again. It crashed open, and he was in. Through a haze of smoke he quickly assessed the situation. The monk directly in front of him was busy breaking the shotgun open and fumbling to extract the spent shells. On his right, another monk was pressed into the corner, near the window. He was waving a revolver at the destroyed door like a frocked Harry Callahan, looking for something to shoot. His mouth was open and his eyelids beat like butterfly wings, probably stunned by his brother blasting out the window he was so near.

  Creed sat on the bed, his back up against the wall, his own handgun leveled at the door.

  Phin tossed his sword into the far corner beside the shotgun-toting monk and dropped to the floor. Dirty Harry fired two quick rounds at the sword, causing his brother to flinch away and lose a handful of shotgun shells. Creed did as Phin had expected: he began firing, panning the gun from one side of the room to the other, returning it to chest level after each recoil. He would know his attackers could be invisible.

  Phin slammed his foot into Dirty Harry’s knee, snapping it backward. As the man came down, Phin grabbed the gun, twisted it out of his hand, and cracked it hard into his temple. He rolled to the monk who was stooping to pick up shotgun shells and introduced the top of the guy’s head to the butt of the handgun. He spun and hooked his arm over the bed, leveling the pistol at Creed’s eye. But he had already heard the click-click-click of Creed’s empty revolver.

  Phin stood, plucking a gorget from Creed’s lap. Apparently he’d been about to clamp it around his neck when the action started. Phin tossed it away and Creed slumped, his gun hand lowering to the covers, his shoulders drooping, his chest deflating. It made Phin think of a melting ice sculpture captured with time-lapsed photography.

  “Who?” Creed said. “At least tell me that.”

  Phin found the switch in his cuff and turned off the suit. He peeled back his hood and facemask. He shuffled his feet in a kind of dance and threw open his arms: ta-da!

  Creed nodded and glanced toward the door. “The others?”

  “Nevaeh and Ben. They’re either on their way or preventing monks from reaching us.” He took in Creed’s head bandages, his pallor, the posture of a defeated man. So unlik
e the Creed Phin knew. Where were his strength, his militaristic demeanor? Getting away had drained him, as years spent on the front lines of many wars hadn’t done. “You look ready.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Phin grinned, bobbing up and down, excited. He examined the handgun he’d taken from the monk, a Taurus Protector. “Nice gun,” he said. “I expected something about a hundred years older.” He slipped it into a pocket, then stepped over a monk to retrieve his sword. When he turned around, Creed was holding something up in his fingers, a small container with a hinged top, open now. Inside, Phin could see the microchip.

  “This is what you came for,” Creed said. “Take it and go.”

  Phin’s head canted to one side, as if he were examining a curiosity. “You know I can’t do that. Dude, you should have just skedaddled.” He wiggled his fingers through the air, imitating a bird. “Others have.” He nodded at the chip. “You betrayed us, man. We can’t trust you.” He stripped off one glove and reached out to take the chip in its container, but Creed closed his fist around it. He leaned forward.

  “Listen,” he said, pleading, shaking his fist, “this isn’t the way. Not anymore. Times change.”

  Phin laughed. “You’re not really trying to convince-”

  In a flash, Creed’s legs tucked under him and he propelled himself at Phin.

  Phin jumped back, simultaneously raising the blade and swinging it at Creed, severing first his hand and then his head.

  [42]

  At the junction of the alley and the tunnel-where he had returned on hands and knees when the gunshots had made his curiosity stronger than his fear-Tyler dropped his face into his hands. He tried to scream, but all he could do was gasp for breath. His stomach retched, and he waited for the vomit to come. But like his scream, it stayed inside. He hitched in breath after breath. He blinked, blinked, opened his eyes, and saw the detailed texture of the stones through his fingers.

  His heart clenched tighter. He had crept out from the alley-not realizing it at the time, but pulled by the fascination of an invisible being suddenly taking the form of a gray-scaled Shadow Man-and when the sword had… had… he had dropped his face right then and there. So here he was, exposed in the light of the open door.

  He raised his head, turtle slow, sure he’d find Shadow Man standing over him, the sword poised high like a guillotine’s blade. But Shadow Man was still in the room, his back to the door. He was working to get something into a backpack; while his shoulders seesawed up and down, his hips swayed back and forth.

  The man touched his ear the way Secret Service agents do in movies and said, “I got it… Yes, Ben, I saw it, all right?” He laughed. “Oh, and I guess they’re having a two-for-one special today, because I got Creed too.” Pause. “Right. Meet you there.” He moved his finger from his ear, hefted the pack, and spoke again: “You’re welcome, buddy.”

  The words confused Tyler, but then another assault on his mind pushed everything else away. The thing in the backpack was the shape of a bowling ball, and a dark stain was spreading over the bottom of the pack.

  Tyler’s vision focused for a brief moment on the headless body hanging off the edge of the bed, spilling blood into a pool on the floor. He dropped his gaze and saw the severed hand midway between the bed and the door. Its fingers were splayed open, as if it were waiting for someone to hold it.

  And rolling toward Tyler like a marble on the flat stones of the walkway was the black thing the now-dead man had offered his killer. It stopped barely an arm’s length away. Instinctively, Tyler reached out and snatched it up. It wasn’t a marble or any type of ball: more like a partial roll of Life Savers. As he pulled back with his prize, Shadow Man’s sharp voice stopped him.

  “Hey!”

  Tyler raised his head. Shadow Man was bouncing toward him, slinging the backpack over his shoulder, raising the sword.

  “Drop it, kid! Now!”

  Tyler scrambled to his feet and shot down the alley the way he had come. His reasoning for choosing that path instead of the tunnel home didn’t catch up with him until a few seconds later: The tunnel didn’t bend until it was close to the courtyard at the far end; if Shadow Man threw the sword or used the gun he’d taken, Tyler would have had no chance at all. He was fast on his feet, especially turning, zigzagging, and generally acting rabbit-ish. And he knew the monastery’s crazy layout.

  Yeah, good job, he told himself. Keep thinking, don’t be stupid.

  Stupid? Like what? Like taking that little black thing? The thing the murderer with the big sword wants?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Drop it, just drop it.

  But his hand wouldn’t obey. His fingers tightened around it. Somebody killed for it. Somebody died for it. He didn’t understand why that mattered, why that meant he shouldn’t let it go, but that’s the way he felt.

  He and Dad used to watch a TV show, What Would You Do? or something like that. In one, a woman was hit by a car that just kept going. Some people on the show panicked and froze, others ran to see how the woman was. Dad had said, “Call 911, people! Get the license plate!”

  Tyler had understood calling 911, but “Get the license plate”?

  “Justice,” Dad had said. “Make the person responsible pay for his actions.” Dad was big on justice.

  If you’re not going to drop it, Tyler thought, run faster!

  Nothing reached his ears but his own panting and the loud kich-kich-kich of the utility case. If he was going to lose the man chasing him, he had to get rid of the case. He tugged at the buckle, but it didn’t budge. He glanced into blackness behind him and saw Shadow Man flash through a ray of light twenty feet back. Clenching the Life Savers thing in one hand, he used the other to reach into his pocket and fish out his knife, his whittling, prying-cool-things-outof the-dirt, fingernail-cleaning knife. His father had taught him how to open it with one hand, using his thumb to flip the blade out. Without slowing, he opened it and tried to slip it between his pants and belt so he could cut the belt’s canvas. But he missed and jabbed his hip.. twice.

  A hand gripped his shoulder, squeezing, tugging him back.

  Tyler yelled. How’ d he get so close? Shadow Man’s panting-grumbling was right there, right in his ear; his boots were loud on the stones.

  Stupid! Pay attention!

  He swung his arm above his head, crossed it over his face, and plunged the knife down into Shadow Man’s wrist.

  The man yelled, and his hand slipped away. A string of sharp words reached Tyler’s ears, along with the unmistakable sounds of the man tumbling to the ground.

  That’s it! That’s it! Yeah!

  He turned to head up the stairs to the rooftops and looked back.

  Shadow Man was already rising-gripping at the wall to help himself up. He roared, and Tyler heard all the rage he could not see on the man’s shadow-hidden face. He burned up the steps, crossed a bridge, and started toward a waist-high wall that separated terraces. He stopped. Behind him, Shadow Man raged on as he pounded up the stairs.

  Tyler knew what he had to do. He took off in a different direction. He darted to a gap between two living quarters that had been built centuries apart. The alley-if you could call it that-was wedge-shaped, with the far end barely wide enough for him to squeeze through. A square of glass bricks set into the right-hand wall showed that a light had been left on inside the building and illuminated the far end, making it appear wider than he knew it was. Perfect.

  He waited at the entrance until the man appeared on the bridge and spotted him. Then he shot into the gap.

  [43]

  When the shooting started, Jagger was on a rooftop terrace. He had pursued footsteps, but every time he thought he was right on top of whoever was making them, he’d found no one. Coming to believe the phantom sounds were tricks of the compound’s jumbled buildings, he’d started back toward the front gate. He’d seen boot prints in the blast’s sediment and had been following them when the footfalls led him a different direction.


  The first gunshot-the deep boom of a shotgun-got him spinning and reaching for a firearm he didn’t have. Another blast. He ran toward the sounds, the back corner of the compound. Then a barrage of small-arms fire. Two guns, at least. He pictured a monk facing off with a hit man, blasting away at each other. He wasn’t sure what he could do without a firearm of his own, but he’d figure that out when he got there.

  More than anything, Tyler dominated his thoughts. He remembered a gut-wrenching news clip of a schoolboy killed in the crossfire of rival gangs and pushed himself to move faster. He vaulted over a short wall and leaped from one roof to another. Please, Tyler, be where I left you. Please Hands shoved him off the roof. Turning as he fell, he saw that the walkway was vacant, no one there to push him off. But he’d felt the shove, two distinct points of impact, on his left bicep and left side. At the same time, a leg had swept his feet out from under him. He came down on his back, the wind burst from his lungs, his head cracked against the stone ground. As he heaved for air, shadows rushed over him from the alleys and eaves and corners. His vision went dark.

  [44]

  Tyler’s head and rear end scraped the alley’s side walls, then he popped out behind the buildings, where a ledge hung over another rooftop six feet below. He turned and slipped his lower half over the edge. Bracing his forearms on the ledge, he balanced over the drop-off and peered into the alley.