by Patrick Ness
—This is it, isn’t it?
—Unexpectedly, yes, it seems so.
—How strange.
—Quite.
—I’m so sorry for Kevin.
—He did what he could.
—I’m sorry that you’re here with me, Albert.
—You’d rather be here alone? You think I’d let you face this without me?
—The thought of your death is so much more horrible to me than my own.
—The same is true of me, my darling, so how much better that we face it together.
—Oh, Albert. We’ve had a miracle, you know? You and me.
—Yes. I don’t regret a moment. Don’t cry, my love.
They remained wrapped in their embrace, even when the smoke caused first Albert and then Cora to lose consciousness, even when they slumped together beneath the one open window. When the fire erupted through the floor below them and turned their flesh to ash, they were still entwined. Later, after the mêlée had ended – because all mêlées, regardless of size, eventually end – and their charred remains were found, identification was not a problem, because who else could it have been, who else would remain so inextricably bound even at the very passageway to death, who else would be brave enough to face it together?
Who else but Albert and Cora?
111. The Field of Battle.
Purpose, now. Purpose was all.
To the task at hand, to the attack of the thin creatures and their metal rods, to the assistance of those members of the herd who needed it, to the protection of the young even amid the explosions and cries of battle. The herd would not divide. The herd would defend itself to the end. As an individual, she was gone. There was only the herd, one muscle with many fingers, fending off its attackers with single-minded intent.
She hooked the rear leg of a thin creature as it tried to run from her, tossing it up into the air and treading over its upper flanks when it fell back to the ground. Another one pointed a long metal rod directly towards her face. She shoved it to the side as the explosion tore from it, and drove her horn through the neck of the thin creature who held it. Another thin creature tumbled out of the smoke and dust stirred up by the fracas. She tossed it to the side with her horn.
The chaos was so thick, how would the end be signified? How would victory or defeat make itself known?
She bellowed and charged through the small, dirty yard again. Three members of the herd had managed to work their way under the large box that the thin creatures had ridden into the yard. Grunting, the herdmembers flipped it first to its side, then over onto its top. A thin creature trapped on the inside fired one of its metal rods, and one of the herdmembers dropped to its knees. The other two dragged the thin creature out with their horns and trampled it before it could make another explosion.
Knocking a yelling thin creature to the side, she saw that another group had broken through the wall that circled the yard. A thin creature was gored and another broken to pieces against the rubble of the opening, but she also saw a vibrant, healthy young male from the herd lying on the ground, trying to raise himself on back legs that lay useless and immobile beneath him. She bellowed again and threw herself forward against the back of a thin creature that had raised a metal rod to a young female calf. She pinned the thin creature to the ground with the breadth of her left shoulder and pushed hard, squeezing the air out of it. She raised herself to her feet and ushered the small, bleating calf to a safe distance.
When she turned, it was over, as suddenly as that.
Dust still hung in the air in great, greasy patches. Blood covered the ground in puddles and rivulets. Herdmembers and thin creatures littered the area in crumpled heaps, some struggling, most unmoving. She could hear the last of the thin creatures running off and the last of the herd finally giving up the chase. After the thunderous noise of the fight, the quiet was so thick it seemed almost present as a witness. Her horn throbbed. A line of pain ran up in a stripe along her right side. She could feel an unseen wound low on her back left leg. Her ears rang from the explosion that had gone off right beside them.
But she was alive.
And it was over.
She raised her head again, giving two short calls into the air. Animals turned to her and stepped forward, others emerging from the dust, some limping, most bleeding from some place or other. She walked forward to meet them, the young calf trailing her to one side. In a matter of moments, what remained of the herd surrounded her. In addition to the blood scent that seemed to be everywhere, she could smell expended energy, residual fear, overwhelming exhaustion, and something else.
She swung her gaze slowly to take them all in. It wasn’t triumph she smelled. The losses to the herd were too numerous for that. They were now, she realized, down to less than a third of the herd’s size just a few days ago. It would be enough. They would live. They would thrive. Because what she smelled was not individual herdmembers. After the losses and the battles, after all they had been through, she smelled the herd, unbowed, undivided.
They looked at her, awaiting her next move. They looked to her to lead them, still and again. Their faces were tired, worn, expectant, and yet in them, too, was an indication of her place as leader. She lowered her horn, acknowledging the responsibility. Raising it again into the smoky sky, she knew, come what may, she would never fail them.
For they would never let her.
112. The Messenger.
Alone amongst the ruckus, Theophilus was quiet.
He had initiated both the fire at the City Hall building and the destruction of the fire escape that led down from where he had guessed, correctly it turned out, the Mayor and her husband were hiding. Things were moving along nicely. The whole crisis was coming to a head. If only he could be sure they would find Thomas Banyon before the day was out, then all would be well and perfect. The dark wind would be swept away. The light wind would take its place. A new day would dawn.
—I am but Your humble messenger, O Lord. Guide my actions to make them Your own.
He had stayed in his position at the front archway of City Hall throughout the whole series of events that began with that unfortunate business of Jon Noth through the current fire that raged through the east wing and would, before long, consume the rest of the building. City Hall faced south, blocking his view of the destruction that had begun in the Arboretum to the north, but he could see on either side that the fires and demolitions had continued apace. It wouldn’t be long before the cleansing powers had worked their way through the entire city, wiping it clean.
Why, then, was he feeling momentarily stuck?
—Show me what to do, O Lord. Give me a sign of action.
He trusted that when the purges were ended, he would intuitively know the epicenter of rubble from which to begin the long, glorious rebuilding process. Yet now, at this moment, he felt a faint pang of doubt that he was in the right place.
—Is it Your will that I wait, O Lord?
Rioters were deep into the process of looting City Hall, taking what they could before flames swept through the whole structure. They fled past Theophilus in both directions, sometimes buffeting him in their push to get in and out of the building through the very doors whose entrance he was blocking. He made no move to stop them. Such unpleasantness was to be expected in an operation of this scale. The fools would probably not have homes to return to by the end of the day anyway. Let them steal. Theophilus’ attentions were elsewhere. The heat from the burning wing poured down around him in waves. There was something that needed to be done here. He felt it. He knew that somehow this was the right place. But the right place for what?
—Lord—
A sharp push from behind knocked the wind out of him. He stumbled to one knee and looked behind him. A large man carrying a computer monitor had shoved him out of the way and was struggling past. The man glared down at him.
—What’re you standing there for, moron?
Theophilus raised himself up to his full height. The ot
her man was still a bit taller, but Theophilus didn’t seem to notice.
—I beg your pardon?
—Get out of the fucking way is what I said.
—I’m sorry, brother, you don’t seem to quite realize who I am.
—Up yours.
The man began to trudge down the steps.
—I think you’ve just made a grave mistake, brother.
The man looked back up at him.
—As far as I know, asshole, we’re not related.
—You should remember my face, brother, because I will certainly be remembering yours.
The man spat at Theophilus’ feet.
—Fuck you. And your face.
He turned and vanished, monitor still in hands, into the passing crowds. Theophilus smiled a bit, out of annoyance more than anything else. A pity that some of the flock would still have to be dealt with when the light wind was fully in place, but such loose ends were inevitable, weren’t they? He returned to his prayer.
—Guide my actions, O Lord. Steady my hand at Your wheel. Use me as Your vessel. Show me where I am to be.
He glanced at a quick movement to his left in time to see a large block of wood just before it struck him across the forehead. He stumbled backwards from the shock of it, not quite losing his balance as the pain surged through his skull and neck. He glanced up. How did I not see him? Theophilus thought, bringing up his hands to block the second blow.
—Fucking smartass. Fucking grandiosity itself.
The computer-monitor thief swung the block of wood – it looked like the leg of a thick chair – over and over again, punctuating his sentences with blows. Theophilus reeled. He moved vaguely back towards the doors of the City Hall foyer and, bleeding, went through them. The man followed.
—Stupid fucker. Thinks he can talk to me.
—Stop, please, I beg you.
The man brought the block of wood across Theophilus’ face, knocking out several teeth, breaking Theophilus’ jaw, and causing him to bite off the tip of his tongue. Help me, O Lord. Show me Your way out of this. The man raised his arm again. Theophilus turned. The block of wood struck him squarely on the back of his neck, breaking it, severing the thick cord of nerves that rested inside. He dropped to the floor in a heap. The man struck his limp body a few more times and threw the block of wood into a corner. The foyer was beginning to fill with smoke, the number of looters diminishing. The man, whose name is lost to history, kicked Theophilus a final time, then fled out the front doors.
Theophilus never rose, not even when the flames finally found their way into the mostly stone foyer, cooking the mortar until the whole reception hall collapsed into a heavy pile of blistering stone. Conjecture speculates that Theophilus was still alive for a short time through this, paralyzed from the injury, unable to feel pain but perhaps even awake and alert – though this was more from quarters who would look back on the event and still hope to make him suffer before his death.
113. Who Are You?
—Sit back, honey.
—Where are they all going?
—Sit back in your seat, Talon. Daddy’s having to do some fast driving, all right?
—Are we going to be okay?
—Absolutely.
—Daddy, look! City Hall’s on fire!
—What?!
Max looked into his rearview mirror. City Hall boiled under a column of flames in the distance.
—Do you think Mayor Cora and Mr Larsson and that other guy all got out?
—I’m sure they did, honey.
He debated whether to turn around and go back, but there was just too much chaos in the air, too many rioters, too many people running. He hoped Cora, Albert, and that Kevin had in fact all gotten out in time. For now, though, his main focus was getting Talon to a safe place. They had been trying for the better part of an hour to get to the house of Louise, a many-times removed cousin of Max’s, who he hadn’t set eyes on in several years. Her house was, however, the only place where Talon would be safely outside of Hennington’s rapidly immolating borders. If only every road he’d tried so far hadn’t been blocked. He pressed down on the accelerator and zoomed around a corner. A crowd of rioters barred the way yet again.
—Are they everywhere? Hang on, honey.
He stopped and turned in his seat to reverse the car. An explosion roared through the air and most of an office building came crashing into the street behind them.
—Shit.
—Daddy, they’re getting closer.
Max looked around. They were stuck in the middle of a block. There wasn’t even an alley to squeeze down. Rows and rows of office buildings and storefronts, some already burning from the explosion; no side exits of any kind.
—Uh-oh.
—Are we stuck?
—Looks like it, honey.
—What if you drive forward? Will they get out of the way?
—I don’t think so. We’re going to have to run for it.
—Run?
—Don’t worry, baby. You’ll be right with me.
He reached back and unhooked her seat belt. He put an arm around her and lifted her between the front seats to his lap.
—I’m going to open the door and carry you, all right? Hang on to me as tight as you can.
—Are they going to hurt us?
—I think they only want to hurt things, honey. They just want to burn the buildings and the cars. I think we’ll be okay.
—Are you sure?
—Trust me, Talon. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise you that. Are you ready?
—Ready.
—Here we go.
He kicked open the driver’s side door, hoisted Talon to his hip, and stepped out onto the smoky street. Ten steps away from the car, he heard shouts from the crowd that sounded like his name. It’s Max Latham! What? Is it? Get him! He’s part of the dark wind! Are you sure? Get him! The what? Get him! Who? No! Yes! Get him! The crowd charged forward. Max staggered to a stop and spun back around the way he came.
—Daddy?
—Close your eyes, honey.
—Why are they shouting your name?
—We have to get back in the car.
—Are we going to drive through them?
—We might have to.
—Oh, no.
—Close your eyes. Everything’s going to be all right.
—Daddy, behind you!
Something struck Max on the side of the head, a glancing blow that he mostly avoided. He turned Talon away from it and ran blindly forward. He could hear someone or many someones just steps behind him now. He realized he wasn’t going to have time to get in the car even if he reached the door before the crowd got to them. He turned towards the hood, jumped up a step, then up again to the roof of the car. He pressed Talon’s head to his neck and turned to face them. He was frightened, yes, but he was angry, too, furious that his daughter was being made to feel afraid as well, furious at the pain welling on the side of his head. It was this face of anger and parental defiance that the crowd caught as their first glimpse of just who they were chasing. Max shouted in his loudest voice.
—WHAT ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING?
There was something to his voice – witnesses later would independently describe it over and over again as ‘authority’ – that caused the front guard of rioters to pause where they stood near the hood of Max’s car, ready to climb after him.
—Are you blind? Can’t you see that I have my daughter with me? Have you all gone crazy?
Most of the crowd had stopped now, quickly, surprisingly quietly, all looking up at the man on the roof of the car, holding a girl to his side. It’s Max Latham, or so someone said. Who’s the girl? Must he his kid. Why have we stopped? What’s going on?
—Are you going to attack my daughter, too? Is that what this madness is all about? Is that what it means to you? Attacking a child? Have you all taken leave of your senses?
What’s he saying? Asking if we’re going to attack the little girl. W
ell, of course not. Are we? No, I’m pretty sure. Of course not. I know I’m not.
—Does whatever your goals are include burning down your own homes, your own businesses, your own city?
Goals? What’s he talking about? The dark wind. What the hell’s the dark wind? I just came out because … Who’s in charge here? Well, I don’t really know why, I just did.
The crowd looked up to Max on the roof of his car, delivering what he would come to realize was the first real political speech of his life. The people were silent except for a low murmuring of questions. A man who’d made it all the way up onto Max’s hood held a baseball bat, the same bat that had struck Max as he ran. The man looked down at the weapon in his hands. He looked back at the crowd behind him, the one that up until just seconds ago was ready to follow him up onto the car to commit who knew what atrocities to this man and his little girl. He suddenly dropped the bat as if it were white hot. He met Max’s eyes with a confused glance.
—I’m sorry. I don’t know …
He stopped. Max watched him jump off the hood and walk slowly away, cutting through the crowd, muttering something about getting home. They looked back up to Max and found themselves waiting for what he would say next.
—Daddy?
—Are you all right, pumpkin?
—Yeah. Are they waiting for you?
He cast a long sweeping glance over the upturned faces. He took a deep breath.
—For this to stop, the momentum has to be reversed.
Someone called up from the crowd.
—How?
Max turned again. He saw the crumpled burning pyre of the office building in the street behind him, the smoke that billowed through the air, the volcanic explosions erupting from the ground at every distance including, he knew, City Hall behind them. But he also saw the people as they began to shake themselves from whatever had come over them. More, he heard their silence. He heard their calm. He took another breath and began to speak.
114. Lair.
Jacki sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. She was in one of the apartments hidden in the back buildings of Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort, ‘apartment’ being a generous term for a bed and a small bathroom for use of those clients who liked discretion over everything and preferred not to leave the grounds to get the full benefits of club membership. Jacki herself had nursed her last clip here, the toothy Councilman Wiggins, what seemed like a lifetime plus an eternity ago. Last clip. Yes, one way or another, Councilman Wiggins was going to be the last, of that she was certain.