by Myke Cole
“Come on,” he said. “Do it. I command you, swallow the car.”
He motioned again. Nothing. He sighed, looking around at the trees swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere in their branches, a squirrel chattered.
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, God! I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.” He laughed again, the sound strange in his ears. But he felt a little better as he moved into the woods.
Once he was out of sight of the trail, he treated his wounds with what he found in the first-aid kit, using up its entire contents. Nearly every inch of him was covered in gauze, Band-Aids, and antibiotic ointment. He had no water to wash his wounds and used the bottle of peroxide instead, wiping with gauze and a miraculously clean corner of his ragged T-shirt.
His ears rang, but the drums felt intact. He looked at his reflection in the plastic case and saw no blood leaking from them. His calf throbbed. The sock had sealed the wound though blood still oozed through the black crust that had formed on the fabric. His shoulders ached from the impact with the car.
Treating his injuries restored a measure of humanity but reminded him of his surroundings and lack of supplies. He shivered in the chill air, hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. The blanket of fallen needles was soft enough, but he couldn’t eat them and doubted they’d keep him very warm.
The relative peace calmed him, and the tide of magic receded. He shut his eyes and found it hard to open them again. Exhaustion beat hunger, and he burrowed deeply into the soft pine needles. The trees blocked most of the wind, keeping them from blowing off.
Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.
He awoke in the deep of night, filthy, starving, and freezing.
The night air stung him, and his teeth chattered. Got to get moving, only way to keep warm. He broke one of the chem-lights and shook it, wreathing the woods in its neon green glow. He lurched to his feet, wincing, and trudged off into the dark.
He stumbled along in the darkness for hours. When the chem-light eventually failed, he didn’t bother to light another one, moving by touch along tree trunks and kicking over rocks he could no longer feel through frozen feet. The moon was a sliver. What little starlight penetrated the tree cover was inadequate to navigate by. He groped along, conscious that he might be going in circles and long past caring. All that mattered was staying warm.
A sharp burning pulled taut across his chest, bringing him to his senses.
A half-crumbled line of fence posts stretched before him. Strung across the top of two of them was a rusty length of barbed wire, hopelessly tangled in the rags of his T-shirt. Beyond it, the trees gave way to an overgrown, star-dappled field.
A low, wooden tobacco barn dominated the field. The peaked roof was supported by hinged slats, gray-brown with creo-sote, louvered open to admit the air. A small house with dark windows and a beat-up blue pickup parked outside stood farther off.
He blinked, seeing shelter and possibly food and water. He disentangled himself from the barbed wire and trotted toward the barn.
The barn’s massive doors were unlocked. He winced as they groaned on their hinges, but there was nothing for it. It was there or the woods, and he wasn’t sure he would last another night without at least something to drink. A dog began to bark from the vicinity of the house. He ignored it, praying the owner would think it alerted by some animal.
The barn interior wasn’t much warmer, but it kept the wind off better than the trees. The strong smell of tobacco nearly overwhelmed him. He took out another chem-light, cracked and shook it, sending horror-movie shadows dancing. The weird light couldn’t penetrate the shadows in the rafters, but he could barely make out a loft above him. The ground was neatly brushed with straw. Long clutches of drying tobacco hung in orderly rows, marching away from him down the barn’s length. To his right was a tractor, smelling of oil.
He turned to his left and nearly cried out. A wooden barrel bound by rusty hoops and brimming with water stood under a rotted portion of the roof.
He seized the barrel’s sides and thrust his head in, drinking deeply. The water was rank, but he couldn’t stop. He finally tore himself away, feeling the chilly fluid pour down his torso, stinging his wounds. His vision grayed momentarily, and he sank to his knees, resting his cheek on the barrel’s rim.
A fat black Labrador retriever sat before him, head cocked to one side, tongue lolling happily. A frayed collar suspended a bunch of silver tags. The thirst surged again, followed by powerful nausea.
“Nice doggie,” he mumbled. He batted at the dog, trying to scratch its head and missing. Then he was doubled over, vomiting before collapsing facedown in the contents of his stomach.
He lay, dimly aware of the dog licking the back of his head.
“Thank…you. Thanks,” he mumbled.
“On Jake’s behalf, you’re welcome,” a man said in a thick New England accent. “When you’ve recovered, I’ll need you to stand up and keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
Britton slowly got to his feet, then checked himself as he heard the familiar clack-clack racking of a shotgun’s pump action.
CHAPTER VIII: TRESPASSER
There is absolutely no substance to the rumors of a secret government base. I want to put paid to this crazy notion once and for all. Unauthorized magic users, in particular those practicing prohibited schools of magic, are dealt with according to the provisions clearly laid out in the McGauer-Linden Act, the Geneva Convention, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. We do not cart them off, we do not train them, and there is not, nor has there ever been, a “Shadow Coven.”
— Lieutenant General Alexander Gatanas
Commandant, Supernatural Operations Corps
Press conference responding to an article allegedly exposing
a hidden SOC program trafficking in prohibited magic
Jake nuzzled Britton’s elbow as he leaned against the big animal’s neck, balancing between barrel and dog.
A sixtyish man stood in the entrance, wearing bedroom slippers, dirty denim overalls, and a faded cap. He was paunchy, with a wide, jowly face, small eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. He kept the shotgun leveled at Britton’s chest.
“Come on over here, Jake,” the man called. “You get away from him.”
Jake turned toward his owner, panting. He nosed Britton’s hand, his bulk upsetting the barrel, dark water slopping out. The man rolled his eyes. “Useless goddamn dog,” he muttered.
Jake backed away from Britton, bristling as the magic rose in reaction to the gun, opening a gate between them, the back of it to Britton. He couldn’t see the landscape facing the man, but he could hear the keening of the demon-horses clustered beyond.
The man took a lateral step and raised the shotgun, sighting down the barrel at Britton’s face. “You just put it away, now,” he said. “Whatever it is you’re planning to do, I promise you I can pull this trigger before you can do it.”
Britton struggled against the magic but he still felt its tendrils push into the gate, reaching for the pack beyond. Their keening became frenzied as they resisted, terrified of the flickering portal.
“Come on, you damned fool,” the man said. “Don’t do this. You don’t want to do this.” His finger tensed on the trigger.
“I can’t control it,” Britton rasped. “It’s worse when I’m stressed. I’m hurt and I’m hungry and you’re pointing that damned gun at my face.”
The man looked down at his dog, then up at Britton. Slowly, he lowered the gun. “Okay, son. Gun’s down,” he said. “You get a lid on this, and I’ll get you fed and put some Band-Aids on you. Scout’s honor.”
Britton desperately tired to reel in the magic, but how could he pull on something he couldn’t see or touch? The keening grew louder. The gate wavered as one of the demon-horses began to come through.
The man’s eyes widened. He pointed the gun at the gate. “Come on, son. I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve gotta trust me. I know it’s hard, but you can do it.”
Jake lowered his hackles and woofed softly as the gate shimmered and closed, sending them back into semidarkness.
The man sighed and wiped the back of his neck with a pudgy, callused hand. “Well, that’s a goddamned relief,” he said.
“I’m Oscar,” Britton said. “My name’s Oscar.”
The man tugged the brim of his cap. “You can call me Nelson.”
They stood for an awkward moment, the silence broken only by the sound of Jake’s panting as he nudged under Britton’s hand again.
“Well, let it never be said I’m not a man of my word,” Nelson said. “You sit tight, and I’ll be back with some food and my first-aid kit.” He looked uncomfortably at his feet and turned to go. Britton’s mind screamed at him to run, but he ignored it. There was nowhere for him to run and nothing else to do. He had to eat, to rest. He had to trust Nelson. The man could have easily shot him and hadn’t. That would have to be enough.
The old farmer made it a few steps, then turned, not meeting Britton’s eyes, and whistled for Jake. The big dog thumped his tail happily and didn’t budge. Nelson called him again, then sighed. “Most goddamn useless guard dog in history.”
Britton sagged to the floor, exhaustion mingling with relief to swamp what little strength remained. Jake licked him enthusiastically, and he batted ineffectually at the dog, scratching its ears and trying to duck its darting tongue.
He was so engrossed in the dog’s affections that he barely noticed Nelson swing the barn doors shut.
Britton started as a light thud from the opposite side indicated that a crossbar had been put in place.
“Nelson?” Britton called, getting slowly to his feet and pushing Jake behind him.
Silence. Sudden panic bullied exhaustion aside. He raced to the doors and pushed.
They gave a few inches, then held fast.
Britton banged on the doors, the grayed wood rattled under his fists. “Damn it, Nelson! You said you’d help me!”
Even through the barn’s walls, the farmer’s voice sounded sheepish. “You just sit tight now, Oscar. I’ve called the SOC, and they’re on their way.”
Britton looked frantically over his shoulder, scanning the barn’s interior in the pale glare of his chem-light. Jake sat, panting patiently, where Britton had left him. Shadows swam across clapboard walls that showed no other exit.
“You fucking lied to me!” Britton shouted. “Let me out of here!”
“Well, I’m no fan of lyin’,” Nelson’s voice came back, “but I reckon I got a wife and a home and a life here. And if a bit of lyin’ is what’s gonna keep it all from burnin’ up, well, the Lord’ll forgive me my trespasses. Now I got a bead on this door here, Oscar. Don’t do nothin’ stupid, or I’ll punch you full of holes.”
Britton turned and raced around the barn’s interior, running his fingertips over the boards, desperately looking for an exit. In his mind, he could already hear the squealing of the white van’s tires, Harlequin crouching inside. Jake padded along behind him, barking enthusiastically.
“I’ve got your fucking dog!” Britton cried. Nelson didn’t respond. Britton looked back down at Jake, who sat and emitted a long stream of barks that almost ran together into a howl. What was he going to do, hurt the animal? He shook his head. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered to the dog, trying to master his panic.
He looked up in the loft and saw no exit that way either, and the panic surged, bringing his magic with it. Jake backed away from him, growling low in his throat, hair bristling and ears flat against the ridge of his skull. A gate flashed open just before the dog, sending him whining and running for the wall. It rolled shut and reopened in the middle of the tractor, slicing the machine neatly in half, collapsing it in a cascade of grinding metal.
“Damn it, Oscar!” Nelson bellowed from outside. “I told you to just sit tight! Don’t do nothin’ stupid!”
The gate flashed away from the tractor and appeared lodged diagonally in the barn wall.
When it vanished, it left a clean, angled slash in the wood, the splintered edges clipped as neatly as if they’d been burned by a laser. Through it, Britton could see the light of the stars and feel the cold blast of the air. Without thinking, he launched himself at the rent.
The impact knocked the breath out of him, his shoulder singing out in pain. His head whipped backward, and, for a moment, he thought he had just made the dumbest move of his life. But then the weakened wall exploded, the jagged edges of wood ripping into his skin and sending him spinning into the darkness, feeling as if he had been set alight as the chill air trilled in the rents in his skin.
He staggered, fell to one knee, skidding across the frost-kissed grass of the field, arms pinwheeling for balance. He could hear Jake barking in the background and Nelson panting as he ran from the front of the barn to the side. The lights were on in the house by then, and a small figure, probably a woman, stood on the front porch, a cell phone clutched in her hand.
“Now you just get down, Oscar!” the farmer shouted. “Get right down and keep your hands where I can see them!”
Britton staggered, got to his feet, met the farmer’s eyes levelly.
Nelson leveled the shotgun at Britton’s chest. “You just stop right there. Don’t be a damned fool.”
But the magic had other ideas. It flowed through Britton, borne on his sense of betrayal and desperation.
A gate snapped open in front of Nelson. The farmer stepped around it and thrust the gun’s muzzle forward. “Damn it, son, I warned you.”
The shotgun boomed, and Britton’s chest erupted in agony, followed quickly by merciful darkness.
CONTRACTOR
Manifestation, done right, isn’t a curse. You give up your place in the old social order and take up your position in the mechanism that stands ready to defend it. Life in the Corps isn’t easy, nobody is claiming it is. But a gift so powerful makes you suddenly part of something so much bigger than yourself. Army Sorcerers recognize it and accept it fully. It is their greatest pride and their greatest burden. That’s what makes the Selfer so despicable. You’re giving the middle finger to the whole world. You’re saying that your interests trump the interests of every community you come in contact with. Do I feel bad when I take a Selfer down? Only for the wear and tear on my equipment.
— Major “Rockslide” (call sign), SOC Fire Team Whiskey
Law Enforcement Support Element
New York City, New York
CHAPTER IX: YOU’RE HIRED
Willingness to use magic in the private sector is perhaps the single biggest economic advantage the Chinese have over us. It’s ironic that this Communist giant trusts its populace to make use of a power forbidden to the general public in our so-called “free” country. Yes, it’s tightly controlled, but look at the advantage Terramantic engineering has bestowed on their heavy-equipment sector alone. We have to put in a request that the Army Corps of Engineers never gets around to handling, while they have major public works completed in a week. It’s commercial suicide.
— Lee Thomson, host of WQXR Radio’s Friday Night Fights
Britton jarred awake, his back thudding on metal runners. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear the darkness from them, but blackness clung to him. He tensed his muscles until he was sure by feel that his lids were open, then he felt his breath, sour and close, reflected by cloth against his face. He was hooded. He tried to raise a hand to lift the hood and felt the sharp bite of plastic zip cuffs against his wrists. His chest still throbbed as if a hammer had struck it, and his breathing felt wet and shallow. But a curious warmth was spreading through him, moving across his chest. It dampened the pain, radiating outward, soothing his strained muscles. He felt the surface of his skin tingling, the delicious heat erasing the irritating burn of the field o
f abrasions there. The feeling spread to his calf, calming the pain there as well.
Even through the hood, Britton could make out familiar smells — lubricating oil, old boots, dried mud. He heard people clambering around him, doors slamming. The runners pitched beneath him as a motor revved somewhere under him.
“Whatha…” Britton tried his voice. His lips felt thick. He turned his head, trying to shake the hood loose, but it was useless.
“I’m sure you know this next part, Oscar,” came Harlequin’s voice. “Just like in the movies.”
A hand wrenched his sleeve roughly up, followed by the stab of a needle. Inside the hood, Britton’s vision began to shift from black to white. Then all went black again, his thoughts dissolving into spinning stars.
When he opened his eyes, the hood was off and he was sitting upright. He blinked, his vision blurry and his head aching. Apart from the headache, he felt no pain at all. He was breathing normally, and the sore muscles and scratched skin no longer troubled him.
A larger motor hummed, the throaty growl of a bus or big rig. He sat on a bench that ran the length of the vehicle, up to metal bars through which he could see a driver in army camouflage. Just before the gate stood a bank of computers with a young SOC sergeant first class seated before it, her hair in a neat blond bun. Another bench stood across from him, lined with lockers — each faced with a wire-mesh door that screened an armory that would make a gun collector drool. He recognized the vehicle as a mobile command center.
He shook his head, groggy, working his tongue against the roof of a mouth that felt stuffed with dirt. Harlequin sat on the bench across from him, beside an Asian man in a charcoal gray suit, his buzz-cut hair graying at the temples, his face stern and lined. A small black woman sat beside him, her head shaved as bald as Britton’s. Her eyes were large and sympathetic. Captain’s bars were stitched in black thread across the center of her digital camouflage blouse. Her lapel bore the stylized cross-within-a-heart that marked SOC Physiomancers. The remainder of the bench was taken up by enlisted men, all wary. Submachine guns rested in their laps, barrels pointing at Britton.