Twig

by wildbow

  The woman was silent, staring.

  “It’s okay,” Helen said. She pushed her way through the group, slowly approaching. “I’m not armed, see?”

  Hands out to the side, fingers splayed.

  I held out my hand, two fingers together, pointing at the ceiling.

  Helen pushed my hand aside.

  “You can search me, can’t you? You know I don’t have any weapons,” Helen said. “I just want to say hi, before you all jump on us all at once and cut us into itty bitty pieces. You’re pretty. I’m glad I get to die looking at something pretty.”

  She was rambling, not really stopping one sentence before leaping into the next. Patter, customized for her target. She was drawing nearer, halfway between us and the woman—

  Helen set her foot down on floorboards, and her foot went through, the floorboards shifting. It was only a foot or so of distance from floorboard to the surface beneath, but it left Helen off balance, unable to pull back or pull away while she reeled, trying not to fall forward and wrench the ankle.

  The red-haired woman was already moving, lunging forward from the instant the foot came down. She also put a foot through floorboards that had been nailed in place, but for her it was a deliberate motion.

  She raised the same foot, kicking straight up to bring a shorter piece of board straight up into the air to slap against her waiting palm.

  She thrust her blunt spear toward Helen’s throat.

  It was a series of movements that made me think of Mary.

  Helen let herself collapse backward, like a rag doll, one ankle still embedded. Her back flat against the ground, she brought her feet up.

  The spear wielding red-haired woman was already pressing the attack, stepping forward again, this time onto secure ground, stabbing for Helen’s face.

  Catcher’s mancatcher encircled the end of the board. He wrestled it to one side, forcing the woman to drop it, then lunged forward, moving not in a straight line, but curving off to the right, to place his feet on the floorboards at the base of the wall. They rattled, but they didn’t collapse or slide off to one side to let his foot fall through.

  He was fast. Almost the opposite of Helen in many respects, he was built to survive, to endure. He didn’t tire from running, and he was built to be good at it, just as he was built to be strong.

  She was quicker, all of our pursuers were, but the red-haired woman lost time by having to turn around and navigate the shaky floorboards. While she was picking her way, skipping more than running, covering surprising ground while doing so, he extended the mancatcher for the back of her throat. As if she had eyes in the back of her head, the woman ducked beneath it, and it snapped closed above the top of her head.

  A moment later, floorboards gave way under Catcher’s foot, and he twisted as he fell, using the rotation of his body to get more velocity as he threw. A bola. Mary threw too, almost in unison.

  The red-haired woman dodged that too, moving to the other side of the hallway. Mary’s knife-throw had followed Catcher’s throw by no more than a second, and the red-haired woman stepped out of the way of that too.

  It wasn’t all a wash; the two sudden changes of direction left her off balance, and Catcher took advantage. His feet under him, he lunged forward, weapon in one hand, the other outstretched. Between the reach of his already long arms and his pole-weapon, he wasn’t leaving her any room to dodge to either side.

  Helen raised a hand to her ear, then made a high sound, “Eeh!”

  Whatever she was trying to communicate, Catcher reacted too. He moved, striking out, but he was blind to the exact nature of the attack. A petite brunette woman tore out of one doorway, straight behind Catcher, knocking his legs out from under him.

  A moment later, the red-haired woman was gone through a doorway, the brunette had carried on forward into another apartment, and Catcher was lying on the floor of the hallway, staring up at the ceiling. No danger in sight.

  “Hmm,” Catcher made a noise.

  Noises rustled throughout the building for a moment as the ghosts found new positions.

  Then we had silence.

  We picked our way over the section of floor, approaching Catcher, as he helped himself to his feet, using his pole.

  He touched the back of his legs, and the tips of his gloved fingers were crimson with blood.

  “They hear the walls well enough to know what parts of the building are sound,” Jamie said.

  “So it seems,” Catcher said.

  “I really thought that might work,” Helen said. She gestured. That enemy. Silent. Quiet/rest.

  No hostile action, no sound, no indicator of violence. Just letting Helen walk into the de-facto trap.

  Catcher was watching us, his eyes on Helen.

  “Um, here,” Jamie said. He pulled out a paper from his pocket, and wrote down the gist of it for Catcher.

  “Hm,” Catcher observed. He gestured, emulating Helen, and Jamie pointed to words in turn. The man went on to say, “I’m not going to remember all of this.”

  “Helen,” Mary said. She switched to gestures once she had Helen’s attention. Noise. You. The third sign was the one for morning, past, before.

  Jamie was scribbling down a rough translation for Catcher.

  Enemy scream. I warn.

  She’d heard the scream, at a pitch and volume none of the rest of us, Catcher excluded, had been able to hear, and with no time to spare, had tried to communicate that the enemy was communicating. It was a very instinctual, Helen way of dealing with it.

  “Next time, signal us?” I said.

  Helen nodded.

  “Any chance we can learn what they’re saying?” I asked. “Predict their moves? It would force them to either stop coordinating so damn well, or let us counterattack.”

  “If you could, I would be amazed,” Catcher said. “It’s a mess of noise, faint enough I’m not sure if I’m imagining the sounds or hearing them. It gets louder as they close in.”

  Helen nodded. Same for her, apparently.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “I don’t think they’re that capable of fighting,” Mary said. “Seeing how they moved, they’ve practiced, but they aren’t practiced, if that makes any sense.”

  Catcher nodded.

  “I hope Gordon’s okay,” Lillian said.

  “I trust Gordon to handle himself,” I said. “But we need to keep up with him. Do you have the scent, or whatever?”

  “No,” Catcher said. He took the pen from Jamie, scribbling down a message. “Dog will let us know which direction to go in, as soon as we’re out and able to communicate.”

  The message read only: Yes.

  He paused, then added, they’re communicating.

  He did have the scent. A small mistruth was changing how the ghosts organized. More weight on Gordon and Dog, but it perhaps alleviated pressure on us.

  Catcher led the way, the butt end of his polearm sweeping across the floor, checking for loose floorboards. He wasn’t much slower, despite the damage to his legs. I was expecting trouble to come from around the corner or any of the doorways we passed, but there was nothing.

  As we reached the double doors at the end of the hallway, he kicked it open, picking up speed. Mary was right beside him, passing through the door in the same moment.

  He slammed his hand out, clumsy given the need for haste, and shoved Mary into the doorframe. He brought his foot out, kicking, and stopped mid-stride, hovering over the top of a set of stairs.

  Razor wire.

  “Look out!” Mary shrieked, throwing herself back toward the rest of us. I caught her in my arms.

  With my face full of Mary hair and shoulder, I didn’t see all of what happened next. A piece of furniture, a stack of bricks and a ladder slammed down onto the top of the stairs, between us and Catcher. Brick fragments and bits of wood went flying in every direction, and the dust that came with all of it occluded our view further.

  Jamie whistled, a short, sharp sound.


  I turned to look, and saw figures moving across the hall, further down.

  The net was closing.

  “Traps,” Mary observed. She looked angry. “Deadfall, razor wire. Staples.”

  “Backed by a natural ability to assess environment and locate the enemy,” I said.

  Catcher was isolated. If he was hampered or injured in any way, they’d be closing in. We needed to reach him.

  There were windows to either side, absent of glass, with boards in place. A sufficiently impact would probably get us through. We could ram past or try using our bodies. We couldn’t do either and devote the required attention to the ghosts behind us.

  And if they’d trapped the front door, I wasn’t sure they hadn’t trapped the window.

  I stared at the doorway, saw the rubble and the heap of detritus, the cloud of dust, the ladder sitting askew.

  I touched my fist to Mary’s shoulder. I was gratified that she didn’t flinch or pull away like she had when I’d tried to hold her hand. I gestured, quick, a series of instructions. Together. Push. You. Right. Push. Up.”

  Then I grabbed her arm, pulling her alongside me, whistling to get the others’ attention.

  We charged for the stairwell that they’d just dropped everything on. The razor wire was still potentially there, the footing was uncertain, and there was no guarantee there was even a path through, with the dust obscuring vision. If I was wrong, then we’d lose precious time, we’d open ourselves up to being attacked.

  Except, much as we’d been cornered from the start, we were already in danger of being attacked. We had little to lose.

  I threw my shoulder against the base of the ladder, to the left side of the door. Mary stepped up onto loose bricks and pushed the top.

  There was a spring to the ladder as it pushed back, pressing against the razor wire, but the wire was only at knee height or below. By pushing my end, I kept it in place. Mary tipped it forward, so it leaned forward, landing on top of more razor wire and rubble further down the little staircase. The wire bit into wood and locked the ladder in place.

  Before I was even standing, Helen was up, stepping onto the struts of the ladder, crossing the makeshift bridge.

  They’d communicated to signal that the deadfalls and traps should be released, but their communication was simpler, limited in some of the same ways our hand signals were. When the order had gone out to release the trap, everyone had released it. Nothing was kept in reserve for when the rest of us poked our heads out and made a run for it. The trap had been sprung, and our exit into known difficulties here was safer and faster than any alternative.

  Lillian and Jamie crossed too, losing a little speed as they made sure they didn’t slip or fall. Mary offered me a hand, and I gratefully accepted it. We crossed together, me a step behind her.

  Catcher stood about twenty feet ahead of us, hunched over, bleeding from a wound to the face that had cut a deep notch into his high collar. Slices. His attackers weren’t anywhere to be seen.

  “You’re okay?” he asked.

  “Physically?” Mary said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Catcher said. “Our enemy doesn’t seem intent on playing fair.”

  His hand moved. A signal. Danger. Left. Left. Left. Right.

  Now that I looked, I could see them. The women stood so that only half of their faces were exposed, or the shadows embraced them.

  Looking around, I identified the area as one that had burned in the fires around the time the war had started. Effort was being made to piece it together, but it was slow going, and resources had been diverted elsewhere. The result was that we were in an empty husk of a residential area. No residents, no ‘home’. Seeds and components for construction were everywhere, stacked in front of buildings and on either side of the streets, so that it was impossible to go more than three or four paces before reaching another pile of stone or wood or a crate of something. Cloths and treated canvases had been tied over many of the piles, light rain running off them.

  Too many hiding places for the enemy, here.

  Very naturally we fell into a position so that we stood in a circle, our backs to each other.

  In answer, more of the women around us emerged.

  It was a given that we’d be surrounded. They were fast. They knew the terrain. They would harass us, they’d punish recklessness by closing in on us and picking us off or making us bleed, and they’d punish us for biding our time by setting up traps in the periphery.

  In execution and raw effectiveness, it was a big step up from Mary’s generation. Percy had a hand in this, but his wasn’t the only one. There was another, probably two or three more minds collaborating to make this work as it did.

  I was starting to feel like we might not be okay, this time around.

  “It’s not often that I’m stuck like this,” Catcher said, echoing my thoughts.

  I did like the man. If the Lambs were my siblings, in a roundabout way, Catcher was an extended family member.

  “What are you thinking, Mary?” I asked.

  “He replaced me. With these,” she said. There was a note of emotion to her voice, more anger and frustration than anything. “We can’t catch them, we can’t pin them down. They’re better than me, and they outnumber us.”

  “You’re more experienced,” Jamie said.

  “They have that damn echolocation trick,” Mary said. “They can dodge thrown knives. I’d be willing to trade my field practice for that trick. Probably. Maybe.”

  I watched the women, knew they were listening, and I didn’t care. They were staying still, watching from various vantage points and perches. Seven in total, in our immediate vicinity. Possibly one or two more in the upper floor of the building we’d just vacated, and one on the ground floor.

  I’d already sussed out their attack pattern. They were pack hunters. They ran their prey down, always playing it safe, skirting the edges, remaining out of reach. It was an attack pattern devoid of one critical component.

  “They might know how to dodge a thrown knife,” I said. “But they don’t seem to know how to throw them. If they did, they would have already.”

  “And we’d be dead,” Jamie said.

  Lillian made a small sound.

  “Sorry,” Jamie said.

  I watched as Mary’s posture changed.

  She needed support in this. She needed reassurance, in an odd, hard-to-define way.

  But Mary wasn’t supposed to be my focus. I cursed the way my brain was stumbling lately, and focused on the danger.

  The arrangement of the women was lopsided. Seven I could see, a number more I couldn’t. Of the seven, four were lined up on top of or in the windows of buildings down the length of the street, almost in a row, and two were at the far end of the street. The other was standing in the middle of the street, opposite the other two, just in case.

  “Dog signaled yet?” I asked.

  “He’s not telepathic,” Catcher said. He tightened his grip on his weapon, and his hand signal pointed the way to Dog. The line of four women was apparently intent on blocking our way to accessing Gordon and Dog. We’d have to pass between or under them.

  “And you still don’t have a scent on our target?”

  “No,” he said gruff. His other hand indicated the end of the street. The two individuals were in our way.

  Now we knew where Percy was.

  “Yeah, you’re utterly useless,” I said. “Don’t know why we brought you along.”

  “Watch it, brat,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any clever ideas?”

  “Thinking,” I said.

  Beside me, Mary was holding a throwing knife. I imagined it wasn’t solely for throwing, but also a reminder that she wasn’t inferior to our attackers. The knife wouldn’t be useful, when the ghosts were this very slippery.

  Or was there another use?

  “Mary,” I said, holding out a hand. “Knife?”

  She started to reach out.

  I caught her hand
before she could reverse the direction of the knife to give me the handle. My heart was pounding. Shot in the dark, and I was tense, certain that, the moment I gave them any opening, they’d lash out.

  “Other hand,” I said, without letting go of her fingers.

  She gave me a sidelong glance. She brought her left hand my way.

  Enemy. Speak. Around. Question. I signaled. I suspected I knew the answer.

  Beside me, Jamie confirmed. Not that he could hear the enemy’s communication, but he’d relayed to Helen, who could.

  They were busy communicating. Chattering, planning.

  I was holding Mary’s hand, which was holding the blade. Moving it, I touched the sharper edges of the blades together, and moved them against each other.

  Nothing.

  I let go of Mary’s hand.

  She repeated the motion. This time she knew what she was trying to accomplish.

  Blade against blade, sharpening, scraping. It was a sound that could put hair on end.

  Every single one of the ghosts in the area turned their heads, fixating on Mary.

  I didn’t even need to wait to see Jamie’s relay from Helen. I could sense the change in the air. I could almost breathe deeper, without feeling the tension or hearing that inaudible chatter.

  “What did you just do?” Catcher asked.

  “Communicated on their level,” I said. “I don’t think they liked it.”

  Mary was smiling, now.

  “Okay,” I said. “We make a break for Dog and Gordon. Group with them, then see if we can’t find our target.”

  My hand signals instructed differently.

  “Let’s make this as difficult for them as possible,” I said. I glanced casually down the length of the street. I saw a wrought-metal railing, indicated it to Mary, who passed it along to the others.

  Another signal, counting down, and then we made a break for it. Toward Dog, the four women lurking on rooftops.

  Collectively, our assailants vanished.

  “Now,” I said.

  We changed direction, heading for a point further up the street. Mary drew blade against blade, eliciting sounds we couldn’t necessarily hear.

  I felt a sinking feeling as the women reappeared. It wasn’t disrupting them, and it wasn’t having an effect. Was it merely another sound to them?