Night Legions

by Jeremy Flagg

  Conthan stepped through the stone archway into the next room. It took a moment for his brain to digest the scene. He’d seen corpses before. He had even been the one to make them dead, but nothing prepared him for this brutality. His eyes had difficulty discerning bodies or even parts of them. The room looked like meat had been flayed, stripped away, and soaked in its own fluids.

  Conthan hurled. The taste of vomit was a temporary reprieve from the stench soaking into his nose. Despite not having food in his stomach, his body forced him to lurch forward, with nothing more than bile splashing to the ground.

  They’re not people, he tried to convince himself.

  When he clenched his eyes, the scene grew more grotesque. Faces of strangers were replaced by friends. With him at the helm, leading the team, he believed, this could be his reality. Death, the gruesome phantom, lurked over his shoulder, ready for any opportunity to descend and destroy Conthan’s life.

  He’d never be able to close his eyes again without this haunting him. Horror movies showed mutilations, but the corpses always looked human, no matter how tortured. He couldn’t tell if this corpse was a man with his torso torn open or a thick woman with her hair pulled back in a bun. The room might hold a dozen bodies, it could be twenty, he’d never be able to tell.

  His chest ached as he heaved again. The sound of feet slapping against the pavement gave him something to focus on. He contemplated teleporting through the room, avoiding the pooling fluids, but stopped himself, concerned he’d need his abilities to stop the killers.

  His shoes sank into the puddles of blood with each step. He did his best to avoid the bits on the floor, taking every opportunity to look up from the mess, focusing on the door on the far side of the room. When he finally reached It, he braced himself against the arch, willing himself to look to the dead along the floor.

  In the next room, the massacre didn’t have the same level of anger. A dozen bodies, all of them scattered, seemed to have been moving away from the doorway. He tried to understand what happened. Along the far wall, another door led to yet another room. He started to have a sense of déjà vu.

  A cough sounded from the floor. Conthan’s fists clenched and he prepared to tear a portal open in whatever moved. Another wet cough. One of the people in the room must still be alive. He searched the bodies until he found a man in brown robes propped up against the wall, his hands clenching a wound in his stomach.

  “What happened?” Conthan whispered as he stepped closer, dropping to one knee. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he could make out the blood seeping through the fabric. It was obvious that without medical attention, the priest would die.

  “We watched,” he said.

  “Who?”

  The man didn’t reply. Horror spread across Conthan’s face as he understood his words. The dead in the room had watched the atrocities in the other room. Whoever tortured the people forced the living to watch their fate, one terrifying cut at a time. The executioners must have killed the occupants of this room hastily, not able to revel in their handiwork.

  “Where are they?” Conthan asked. He didn’t want to know. He wanted to assume they had gotten away. He didn’t want to chase after them. Conthan never wanted to meet the person capable of this atrocity.

  The priest’s eyes turned to the floor several feet away. Conthan feared what he might find if he followed that gaze. Slowly, the muscles in his neck straining, he turned his head. Conthan sighed in relief as he found a solitary man lying on the ground. A knife stood from his back, most likely wedged somewhere in the lower spine.

  “Shit,” Conthan whispered. The familiar bomber jacket told him everything he needed to know. The Warden’s hyper-focused henchmen were to blame.

  The priest let out a final grunt. Conthan wanted to protest, to tell him to hold on. At least Azacca had been with him in his final moments. Touching his eyelids, Conthan slowly closed them, wishing the man a better life the next time around.

  Behind him, the wet sound of feet. Conthan spun about, ready to lunge upward should he have to defend himself. Fear struck him as he saw one of the Warden’s men, switchblade in hand. The man was covered from head to toe in blood, his face blackened with it in the dim light. Conthan followed the trail of sticky crimson footsteps and realized he had walked past the executioner hidden beneath the gore.

  “They screamed,” the man said calmly. Conthan prepared to jump at him. The Barren’s teeth shone a bright white as his face stretched into a smile. With blood dripping from his lip, the killer looked every bit the living nightmare. Conthan half expected the man to break into a sinister laughter. Instead, he whispered two words, “Do you?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1996

  The nuclear power plant erupted in a flash of light so bright Ariel covered her eyes. A black cloud filled the air above the plant, a mix of ash and toxic material. The blast decimated the hills, obliterating trees, and as it touched the edge of the city, buildings vanished in the cloud’s wake.

  With each step toward the oncoming nuclear blast, her feet rose further off the ground until she moved without the need of her legs. Debris flew past. The air went from warm to hot. Despite the impending annihilation, she found herself calm, almost disenchanted with the onslaught.

  With both palms raised toward the oncoming wave, she reached into the vast well of power at her disposal. As she carved a wedge into the cloud, the lack of resistance surprised her. Reaching out with her abilities, she couldn’t sense the vehicles or pavement her eyes could clearly see.

  “Franklin,” she whispered.

  “Your choice of scenery for our encounters leaves something to be desired, I must say.” The inability to tell whether she was hearing his voice with her ears or her mind rubbed her the wrong way.

  “This is the day before the world went mad,” she said aloud.

  “The day before our species became endangered,” he added.

  Like each time before, the telepath appeared out of nothing, his white clothes more out of place than usual. While the world burned to the ground, his vest escaped a single smudge of ash.

  “There is something frighteningly beautiful about it,” he said. “The sheer ferocity of the explosion. A wave of destruction that treats each victim as an equal.”

  “Did your people have something to do with the attacks?” She kept her eyes forward. Out of her peripheral vision, she noted his expression of disgust at the implication.

  “My people may be many things, but none would have taken steps to endanger our species.”

  “Stop trying to distance yourself, Franklin. No matter your distaste, you are as human as the next person.”

  “Why did you reach out to me?” he asked, annoyed.

  A moment ago, they had been appreciating the destructive beauty of a nuclear blast. After her accidental insult, Franklin turned to business in an attempt to regain his composure. His inability to equate himself with the rest of mankind gave away plenty of telling clues.

  “I know you’re not really asleep, Ariel. Did you drug yourself?”

  She had to wonder if he could see the vial and needle sitting nearby. It had taken bruising her own eye to see the medic on duty. Once on the observation table, it had been child’s play to get the drugs into her hand. She tried to maintain her composure, secretly hoping she hadn’t stopped her heart.

  “The darkness…”

  “It grows, Ariel. I wish you would reconsider my invitation.”

  “What is the darkness?”

  Franklin shrugged his shoulder. “If I were to seek it out, it would certainly taint me as well. He is far more powerful than I am.”

  “He?”

  Franklin pointed to the distance. She followed his finger to where the landscape should have burned to ash. Instead of fallout, a void consumed everything it touched. Around it, the cloud continued creeping forward, infecting all she could see.

  “That’s a person?”

  “Beware, Ariel. Trust nobody.”r />
  “Do you know who?” she asked.

  Franklin shook his head. “Whoever they are, they are more powerful than me. This is the last time I can visit you here.”

  “Why?”

  “At best, they learn you’re talking to another telepath.” She noted the worry in his eyes. “Worst, I am consumed.”

  In the years of working with Arturo, she never had the chance to learn about telepaths. Could they possess people like Franklin said? Was it only a matter of time before she found herself warding off this darkness?

  Some time later she woke, her muscles stiff. Unlike speech in a dream, Franklin’s words echoed in her head. The number of staff new to the Facility easily surpassed the hundreds; any of them could be this darkness the telepath warned her about. She found herself recalling every odd conversation or awkward interaction.

  “Who are you?”

  An hour passed before the door opened and Arturo stepped inside, expecting their regular training session. She pointed to the chair without speaking, eliciting a raised eyebrow from her friend.

  Arturo started to open his mouth, but Ariel held a finger to her lips. The room should had been deemed off-limits to prying eyes and surveillance equipment, but Ariel feared even Jonah’s requests fell on deaf ears. Reaching into her pocket, she produced Jonah’s security badge and scanned it into the computer.

  The machine hummed for a moment and finally made a chime. The word “Cleared” flashed along the screen. It was the only way she could be certain nobody listened to them.

  “What is the secrecy about? How did you get Jonah’s badge?”

  Against the blinding white of the walls, Arturo’s skin appeared darker than normal, emphasizing his South American heritage. She pulled a chair from the table and sat.

  “I don’t want anybody listening,” she said. “Anybody.”

  “Ariel, you’re starting to make me nervous.”

  Her hand covered his on the table, giving a slight squeeze. They were friends, as close to family as each other had, but it was rare they touched. Her grasp turned to a clutch. “Before you melt down, will you hear me out?”

  “I’m worried about you,” he said.

  “Franklin—” before she could continue, Arturo pulled his hand back and started to stand. Without moving a muscle, she forced him back into his seat, holding him still. The temperature of the room jumped several degrees, uncomfortable in the confined space.

  “We had a deal,” he said.

  “You can yell at me for using telekinesis on you later. I need you to sit and listen and not be a hothead.”

  “Funny,” he said. “How’d you’d get Jonah’s card?”

  “It’s not—”

  “You didn’t?”

  The growl didn’t hide the redness creeping into her cheeks. “That’s not what this is about.”

  “It’s about damned time,” he said. “I mean, you could do worse.”

  “Shut up. Franklin spoke to me about a month ago. He can’t talk to me while I’m awake, but when I’m sleeping, he talks to me in my dreams.”

  “Are you sure you’re not actually dreaming? I mean, making him up?”

  “No. He’s real. He’s smart, but he’s not as smart as he thinks. He thinks I’m an idiot and I’m reaching out to him because I’m scared.”

  Arturo raised an eyebrow. “What are you trying to say?”

  “He said a darkness is coming,” she confessed.

  “A darkness? A little vague, you think?”

  A small stack of blocks and packs of matches rested on the edge of the table, waiting to be manipulated by their gifts. The scorch marks from their last session had already been buffed out of the surface.

  “He’s not alone,” she blurted out.

  Arturo stopped resisting and relaxed in his chair. There had been dozens of conversations about finding people like them. Her friend hoped to find somebody who could teach him to better utilize his abilities. For herself, she wanted to find people who treated her less like a scientific curiosity and more like a human.

  “There are more mentalists. He’s not alone. He’s asked me to join them.”

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

  It got harder to meet his eyes. “Not if you’re staying.”

  “The military wouldn’t let us—”

  “Fuck the military, Arturo. We’re weapons to them.”

  “What about Jonah? You can’t leave him now.”

  If it hadn’t been for the copious amounts of television in which a female pines over the male, she’d have slapped him for expecting she’d stay because of a crush. “Nothing has changed.”

  “You’re doing that thing where you keep your emotions at bay. I think more has changed than you’re willing to admit. I think you’d be scared to lose him if you thought about it.”

  Her mouth opened as she prepared to launch a verbal assault, but she shut it. Things weren’t making sense. When it came to the Facility, secrets were a currency. “Would you say Jonah is by the book?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pressed on. “Do you think he’d break a rule?”

  “I can’t imagine…” The soft brown of his eyes was more prominent as they widened. “You can’t think he’d…”

  Ariel couldn’t hide the worry. “I’m starting to think the darkness might already be here.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  2033

  The sun cresting over the horizon brought enough light to reveal the red tint of blood covering almost every inch of the man. A spot near his right eye shone brightly, the white of his skin matching the white of his sclera. Conthan fought to push away the image of the Barren, lying prone amongst his victims. Something about that disturbed more than the torture.

  Conthan stepped backward, trying to put distance between himself and the killer. His foot slipped on the stone and he struggled to keep from falling. The thumping of his heart was loud enough he was certain it echoed in the room. Clenching his fist, he searched for the well where he drew his powers.

  Nothing.

  The man laughed. The dozens of brainwashed henchmen Conthan had encountered before never demonstrated sadism. Their singular motive: destroy anything their creator deemed a threat. The man in front of him had been thorough, reveling in every slice of the blade, inflicting fear in those remaining. Conthan didn’t need to ask—this reeked of the Warden.

  “Will you scream as much as them?”

  Conthan attempted to steady his breath, trying to center himself. Whatever allowed him to tap into his supernatural ability had vanished. He had never experienced performance anxiety, not since he started training. Exhaustion, yes, emotional barriers, yes, but each time he could still sense that part of him.

  “You’re different.” Conthan didn’t want to talk to the man. He clenched his fist, hoping to calm himself enough to tear a portal through the killer.

  “Different maker, different results,” he said.

  “The Warden.”

  The Barren dragged the razor along his own cheek, scraping off a thick layer of blood. Everything about the man screamed terror. One disturbed act after another. Even his step forward had him dragging his feet like a schoolyard child. Bending his knees, at any moment he’d splash forward through the pools of bodily fluids.

  “Why kill these people?”

  “For someone about to die—”

  “Why?”

  Conthan couldn’t wallow; the world he survived in wouldn’t allow it. A stubborn part of him resisted the urge to flee or scream in terror. More than that, rage, anger for the dead, the trail of bodies here, they required he murder this man.

  The man feigned a run, causing Conthan to jump backward. “Kill anybody sympathizing with those damned Children.”

  “They—”

  “Blessed are the Children who walk this land. Gods amongst men. We see you.”

  Conthan recognized one of the lines from his sermon yesterday morning. Had this man been at the service?
Had he been stalking parishioners for a while? Would this bloody tapestry be one of many to come?

  “He wants you to suffer, Child.”

  “If he had a pair he’d come for me.”

  “They begged for me to make it quick. They cried as they listened to their friends scream in agony. It’s only—”

  “Going to kill me with a speech?” What he lacked in powers, he made up in snark. The blood-soaked killer wouldn’t win against him in a game of wit.

  The man thrust his arm forward and Conthan blocked the punch with his forearm. Pain rushed through his limb as the Barren spun his hand, the razor cutting into flesh. Conthan leaned into the man, pushing, forcing him back.

  The killer attempted a swipe to the torso. Conthan leaned back, avoiding the cut. The man rushed him, using the awkward stance to his advantage. Conthan’s punch landed on the Barren’s gut, barely slowing him. Conthan managed to grab his knife hand by the forearm, keeping the blade at bay.

  He tried not to hurl as one fist jabbed his stomach. Conthan slammed his forehead into the man’s nose, causing as much pain for himself as the other guy. The Barren's blood-soaked arm pulled free, sliding through his fingers, the knife he still held cutting the fleshy part between his pointer and thumb.

  “Fuck,” Conthan yelled in pain.

  Eyeing the blade, he bent down and charged, grabbing the Barren about the waist. The psycho tried to slam his elbow into Conthan’s back, but he didn’t stop. Conthan was anything but a small man; but that meant he’d never be graceful in a fight. He stumbled as his foot snagged on a purse amidst the gore.

  The man slammed against the wall and Conthan found himself toppling forward. Wet. All he could feel was the muck, the life of other people. A foot came speeding downward. Conthan rolled to the barely missing the limb. He continued to roll, trying to put distance between him and the killer.