by Mark Tufo
The leading edge of K’s weapon was less than five feet from BT. Most of the tendrils had pulled back enough that they were no longer visible, but if they had gone deep, I had no way of knowing. Whatever was still holding BT was doing so tightly, maybe even more so, knowing that some sort of end was near. Predators expend a lot of energy finding and ensnaring prey; once they do, they are very reluctant to let it go.
Three feet now. Smoke rose from the ground as organic and inorganic material fried, releasing an earthy-mealy type of stink I will not relish remembering. The ground closest to Kalandar was beginning to liquefy, the temperatures so extreme. He was still chanting, though he spared an eye to look our way. I think he was surprised we were still where we were, or maybe just where I was.
“Tell me when to stop, Michael.” I was surprised to hear him speak.
With a foot to go before BT became barbecue, I got the first indication that whatever was holding him was debating its current position on staying or going. I was squatting, and using every muscle that I could in this epic battle of tug of war, when my opponent finally yielded an inch, then no more. It was the smell of burning rayon or whatever that Hawaiian shirt was made of that sent more jets of adrenaline coursing through my system. There was a real fear within me that my knees were going to explode with shards of patella shooting out at odd angles, or perhaps I would crush a disc in my back, the burst of spinal fluid creating a warm spot to go along with the searing pain. Or maybe my teeth would just shatter from the pressure I exerted as they clamped down on each other. Another inch, but now BT’s shirt was ablaze, and whatever it was made of, safe to say it wasn’t asbestos. I mean it wasn’t flame retardant—if anything, it was an accelerant, like if an arsonist wanted to torch up a place of business quickly, he would just need to line the walls with a few of those shirts.
“Come on!” I yelled. I’d got enough of him moved that he could finally leverage his left hand on the ground to help free himself. To go with the overwhelmingly chemical smell of his shirt burning, now there was the bitter, acrid tinge of melting hair and the strangely sweet smell of skin cooking. Hunger presents itself in strange ways—I’m not proud of the fact that BT smelled savory, but there it was.
There was more of the popping and hissing. I think it was the tendrils, though it was impossible to tell. I had freed the upper half of BT’s body and he was now sitting up, his shirt smoldering. His yoga pants were now aflame, though not so much burning as melting. He must have been in a great deal of pain, though he didn’t yell about it. The fusion of the tiger print with his skin was going to make a hell of a story if nothing else, something for archaeologists to remark upon when they dug up our bodies.
“Michael, run!” Kalandar warned. BT’s ass was up off the ground, the only unyielding, unrelenting portion still planted in the dirt was his right calf. There was an audible tear as I pulled and he pushed, not sure if it was his pants, muscles, or the beast holding him. He stood just as the flame bit into his sneakers. He was stiff—half his body was covered in blood and mud, and a fair portion of him had suffered some degree of burns, but he was of sound enough body and mind to start running, or a reasonable facsimile anyway.
Instead of immediately stopping when Kalandar saw that we were free, he seemed to step up the destructive force. We were barely moving fast enough to stay ahead of the leading edge. It was like running from a tsunami, only this one was made of fire.
“Hurting,” BT said, trying to slow down.
“I bet.” I kept dragging him. We were finally outpacing the fire ring, but we were far from safe. Trees burst into flame, the sap within them boiling so hot and so fast that they literally exploded, chunks of wood the size of telephone poles blew out from them, destroying everything in their path. The noise was an all-out assault on my senses; trees and uprooted brush cascaded all around us. My chest was heaving from exertion, I couldn’t even imagine what BT was going through.
Once we’d made enough distance and Kalandar had finally stopped, I figured it was safe to ease up, catch a breather, and maybe take a look at the damage done to BT. I had a small field dressing kit, but anything extensive and we were going to have to take our chances back in Valhalla. Sounded about as much fun as getting your eyelids peeled off, slowly.
“Have to move.” Kalandar had started walking briskly, skirting the damage he’d done and going past.
“Yeah, we’ll be fine, don’t worry about it,” I told him as I urged the hurting BT on.
The area Kalandar had burnt was scorched earth, a perfect circle of blackened destruction. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get the smell of char out of my clothes. Funny the things you think are problems before something massive comes along and wipes away the irritating minutiae. In this case, it was much more literal than figurative.
“You didn’t kill it?” I asked as we struggled to keep up.
“It would appear I have only made it angry.”
I spared a glance back at the destruction and could not understand how a weapon so devastating had not completely obliterated anything it might target.
“Made what angry?” I asked.
“A bludgeon.”
He could have strung together any letters of the alphabet at that point because I had no clue what he was referring to.
“Need to rest.” BT had leaned his good side up against a tree and was breathing heavily. I was already having a difficult time supporting his weight—once he decided to stop, there wasn’t much I could do about it. It wasn’t a long respite.
I was checking my magazine when I heard BT gasp, and so I followed his line of sight back the way we had come. The ground we had spent the night on was beginning to rise. It was like watching the birth of a volcano. At first, there was just a point in the center, but as whatever was coming moved closer to the surface, the forming frost heave grew in size. The tree stumps that remained became canted as the ground they were rooted to moved upward. Dirt was rolling down from the uppermost part and still the mound grew in height and width.
I might have said “what the fuck,” or thought it.
“Michael.” Kalandar was still moving—if he wanted nothing to do with what was coming, that was all the impetus I needed.
“Ready?” I asked. BT had already pushed himself away from his resting station.
“No.” But we were moving anyway. The sound was close to deafening—a runaway train crashing through the forest would have been less traumatic. Trees were splitting, forest animals were screeching, rocks were being ground to dust; it was too much to even think, which was fine because we were all in survival mode and that was instinctual. We left the localized earthquake far behind; after an hour or so, BT was tapped.
“Done.” He sat without even trying to slow his thump to the ground. His clothes were shredded and covered in blood.
“Kalandar!” I called out to the demon. “He needs to rest, and I need to get him field dressed as best I can.”
Kalandar turned and came back. “Will he live?” He bent down to take a closer look.
“Is the Dungeness poisonous?”
“That was not a crab,” he replied.
“Close enough.”
“And no, the Bludgeon is not poisonous; it does not need to rely on a neurotoxin to subdue its prey. I do not understand what it is doing here. It should not have been able to move through worlds as it did. This world is close to ruin.” He stood and looked around. “He will need garments.”
“I agree; don’t see a Big and Tall store anywhere around here, though.”
“You realize I’m not passed out or anything, right? I can hear everything you two are saying,” BT said.
“Gonna take off what remains of your shirt.” I grabbed my knife to cut it away. “Holy shit,” I said as I stared at the dozens of cuts along his rib cage. It looked like closed staples had been ripped from him. Not your typical office staple, but rather those heavy industrial ones they use to close furniture boxes. The tendrils had sunk deep through the skin and i
nto muscle. There was more damage here than I was going to be able to handle with antiseptic ointment and gauze. He could probably use a few stitches on each wound, and a heavy dose of antibiotics. Maybe the Dungeon or whatever the fuck it was wasn’t poisonous, but that didn’t mean it was sanitary.
His leg was likely in the same condition, but I wasn’t going to be able to cut away the pants, mostly because they were partially fused with his skin, and if I did cut them away, he would be completely naked. I’d give him what clothes I could, but nothing I had would fit over his thighs—and exposure could be as deadly as infection.
“We have to go to town.” Had no idea how that was going to go. For sure I was a wanted man, add to that the town had undergone a horrific night runner attack. It was possible the place had fallen; if not, there was more than a good chance I was going to have to answer for a laundry list of trumped-up crimes.
“Where is this place?” Kalandar asked.
“Down the mountain, next to the coast. Half day from here.”
“Half day for you. I can be there and back in that time.”
“Not to state the obvious, but how do you think you are going to be able to get in and get out undetected?” I figured he was going to bull rush his way through the town, taking out anything and anyone that stood in his way. Fundamentally, I didn’t have as big a problem with that as I should have, but what if Bill or Lynn or their kids got in the way? I couldn’t agree to that. Then Kalandar began to shrink.
“Holy shit.” He looked more like an old man in a cloak than the terrifying being he was. The problem was he looked like an old man in a cloak from the 1600s. It would have been perfect in the depths of a medieval forest—not sure how well he was going to blend in down at the “Mayberry meets the Twilight Zone” town of Valhalla.
BT wasn’t more than five feet away, doing his best to suffer through his wounds, when Kalandar spoke.
“Are you sure about this, Michael? Every minute we delay getting your Trip back is one we cannot replace. Overseers aren’t known for their constraint—they will get what they need quickly and be done with the matter. I am not the greatest judge of human character, but it would seem easy enough to say that this one whom you wish to save cares not for you at all. Now is the time you must decide who is more important.”
I turned to look over at BT, who had stopped what he was doing and was watching us intently. I always hated those “what would you do” scenarios, like where you are told there are two people you love dangling off the side of a cliff and you can only save one. I mean, how do you even choose—how could you? I felt somewhat like that. The BT back in my world was hands-down my best friend; I would save him with my dying breath. Trip was Trip, I loved him in a way, oh but the trouble that he brought with him everywhere, like an extra set of luggage. And then there was this BT, who I’m pretty sure fundamentally hated my guts. Every action had a consequence, some more than others.
“We leave no man behind,” I said, echoing the Marine credo. “We do all we can for him, then we get Trip.”
“I do not agree. You are risking your very existence,” Kalandar responded.
“I know that, and the longer we debate, the worse the odds get.”
“I will get what is needed.”
“Thank you, Kalandar—and, umm, if you have a better disguise, you might want to give it a go before you get into town.”
“I will be fine.”
I watched as Kalandar moved swiftly away. Within a few minutes, he was out of sight.
BT was laboring to get into a position that did not hurt. I went to help him as best I could; he resisted at first.
“Don’t make me regret my decision,” I told him as he batted my hands away.
When he was finally settled, he looked over to me. “Thank you.”
“The other BT would have done the same for me,” I replied. When this BT didn’t respond, I had to figure he wouldn’t have. Not gonna lie: that stung a bit.
I busied myself gathering supplies for a small fire—it wasn’t something I wanted to do because smoke could be seen for miles, but BT was barely a quarter covered and was wounded; he would need the heat once the sun went down.
“This isn’t easy for me,” he stated as I dropped an armload of kindling near him. I said nothing, just arranged rocks in a circle for a fire pit. “This other Mike and I aren’t friends.”
“I know, you have repeatedly told me.” I was off to gather some bigger pieces of wood if any were available.
“Listen, man, the other you, he’s nothing like this you.” He shook his head. “I know that sounds weird, but he’s not a good person. It’s not even that he shoves his foot in his mouth at every opportunity, but he’s … I don’t … I mean, I don’t even know if you want to hear this, but he’s mean-spirited.”
That gave me pause. It’s hard to hear something like that even if in reality it does not affect you in the least. It was sort of like hearing that your great-great-grandfather was a murdering horse thief. Sure he was a dick, but what does that have to do with you? I’d love to think that every version of me was a noble person who would and could do his best for all those around me, but if we’re talking near infinite dimensions and probabilities, then it stands to reason that some of those versions of me are going to be assholes. Seriously, I mean, how many people where I came from thought I was one? I still said nothing.
“What I’m trying to say in not the most eloquent way is thank you.”
“Was that so hard?” I asked.
“You have no idea.”
I got a small fire going, fearful of letting it get too big. As it was, I was only going to let there be embers come nightfall.
“You think there’s any more of those things?” BT asked, and rightfully so, as he inched closer to the fire.
“Don’t know; what really sucks is that it’s not even the biggest problem we have.”
“What are the worst? Of the four, I mean.” His teeth were alternating between chattering and clenching tight. He had so many injuries it was difficult to figure what hurt the most, but burns were strange—they could instantly go from mind-numbing searing pain to ice-cold needles.
“I … I’m not even sure where to start. In my world, we have zombies, which are fast and getting smarter. But the main problem with them is the sheer numbers: little can stand up to a sustained attack from them. Jack’s world has those night runners: unbelievably fast, better eyesight, better hearing, and they’re tactical. Then you have the whistlers, or melerforns: apparently a parasite with the ability to adapt to any world’s technology. And then to round it out, for the fun of it, the overseers, who are damn near impossible to kill and have motives we can’t even understand. All are extremely deadly. I never thought I’d be in a position where I wished it was just zombies.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I guess the overseers. The other three create fear because of what they are and what they are trying to do—it’s a natural response to a threat. It’s the overseers that create a feeling of dread and doom. It’s … the feeling is so irrational as to make almost all thought or action impossible. I’ve been in some of the worst scrapes, in the shittiest armpits of the world, against all manner of bloodthirsty enemies, and never, not once, have I had the duel feelings of wanting to run away crying to someone’s momma while also shitting my pants.”
BT let out a snort.
“Yeah, laugh now, you’ll know what I mean when we get to them. I’m not questioning your mettle, man, I’m not—but once we get you fixed up, I won’t think any less of you if you go back and wait this whole thing out in the cabin.” I think that was now not an option. The likelihood he’d find the place unscathed was not good.
“I get the feeling you don’t think much of me now.”
I didn’t say anything. I’ve never been great at disguising my feelings.
“I didn’t ask to be here—I certainly don’t want to be here—but I get the feeling there’s a reason
I am,” he said.
I still didn’t know what to say. I mean, was there a reason? So far, all I saw was a random confluence of events. Jack was skilled at what he did, and I’d had some moderate success in the things I do, but seriously, I couldn’t have been the best option—right?
“You don’t think so?” He moved to adjust himself, not sure if he caused himself some discomfort or if he was getting angry with me.
“BT, I don’t know why any of us are here.”
“That’s a cop out. You don’t think I should be here—just say it.”
“Fine, man: I don’t think you should be here. You’re overweight, which honestly doesn’t bother me, but when we have to move fast and you get winded in a hundred yards, yeah, then it becomes a problem. You can’t shoot, and as far as I know you’re not a demolitions expert. You can’t stand the sight of me, which is beginning to get a little old. Oh, don’t look at me like you’re all surprised, I see the eye rolls you give when you think I’m not looking. Fuck, man, you’ve flipped me off eight times just today. And right now, your being injured is costing me precious time I cannot recoup.”
“Fuck you, then. You should have just left me behind. The other Mike would have.”
I spun on him—it was my turn to get angry. “That’s the thing, BT: I am not that other man! I would no sooner leave you than I would one of my kids. Please don’t lead me to believe your head is as thick as the rest of you! Now shut the fuck up for a while, maybe get some sleep.”
“You talk to the other BT that way?”
“Hell no, he’d kick my ass. But seeing as you move slower than a legless turtle, I’m not too worried about it.”