Night Legions

by Jeremy Flagg

  The toe of the boot didn’t hurt. Hurt wasn’t a big enough word. A wave of nausea traveled through his body. He didn’t have time to feel pain. He caught a woman’s cold, dead eyes staring at him. No, not pain—but disgust, that he had in spades.

  Conthan caught the boot when it next drove into his stomach. He clung to the toe and heel. He turned as hard and fast as he could. He hoped for snap, a scream, anything to show he caused the man agony. The killer fell, rolling with his turned leg.

  And laughed. Amused. The man was taking pleasure in the resistance. Conthan wondered if anybody else had resisted him and his dead companion. Conthan had a moment to wonder if it was the priest who killed the other psycho? Were there others living? Hiding?

  Thought ceased as the killer jumped onto of Conthan, pinning his back to the ground. Raising his legs and slamming them down didn’t move the man. His arms were pinned under the man’s legs and no matter how hard Conthan pulled, he found himself trapped. The seconds dragged on as he moved every way he could imagine to slide free, but his strength dwindled until he stopped struggling.

  “Not a god,” the man cried.

  Conthan searched for the witty statement, the sharp remark that would unnerve his opponent and give him the upper hand. Even his sarcasm fled his body. “Why kill them? WHY?”

  The Barren leaned down, his blood-soaked face inches from Conthan’s, close enough to feel the warmth of the man’s breath. All he could smell was decay. The psycho chuckled, as if the answer was obvious.

  “The Children are no gods.”

  Slaughtered for hate? Conthan didn’t buy the cop-out explanation. “Your boss is scared. What does he want?”

  “Not what.” He pulled back ever so slightly.

  “Me?”

  The man shook his head, dragging out the game. “Strike one,” he said. Conthan clenched his fist, trying to draw his powers from hiding. Even in exhaustion, he could normally feel them, building, preparing for their next chance to be unleashed. For the first time since the alley, they were gone.

  “He said you were dangerous,” the man said.

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Conthan didn’t think he’d ever have a preference, but he wish he was dealing with the usual psycho henchmen. The twisted smiles might be the same, but the ones before didn’t have a need to drag out a killing. The torture—he wanted to sink his hands into the man’s chest.

  “Why are you different?” Conthan had to know. Was this something the Warden created? Had he improved upon Jacob’s methods? Perhaps the man in front of him was the Warden, one of those possessed bodies?

  “I was made”—the man leaned in close, whispering into his ear—“to make you suffer, Conthan.”

  The flesh of the man’s ear squished between clenched teeth. Conthan spun his head, tearing skin, a piece dripping blood up his nose. He fought the urge to vomit again, the adrenaline returning to his limbs. Spitting, he prepared for the man to lean back and scream in pain.

  The man’s face hovered a foot away, the smile, that twisted God-forsaken grin, stretching from ear to ear. Blood poured down the side of his face, staining his lips before dripping onto Conthan’s neck. His eyes looked through Conthan, distant, as if he were deep in thought. The glint of silver in the man’s hand wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the telepath who created this sadist.

  “He will enjoy hearing you…”

  The man’s body jerked, his head snapping forward. Conthan tried to wiggle free, but the man’s weight held him to the ground. The next snapping motion came from above and Conthan could see the person standing behind the Barren. The business suit, covered in blood, the side of the man’s face soaking from a laceration, all of it made for an unlikely savior.

  The second strike cracked the skull. The Barren fell forward, and Conthan managed to pivot the would-be-killer’s weight so he spilled to the side. The man in the suit held a large rock, one of the stones used to build the fort, suspended above his head, prepared to strike again.

  Conthan studied the man’s face while he panted from the strain. It had been months since he’d seen him, except then, the people hadn’t been slaughtered. The Barren let out a choked laugh. Conthan felt nothing as he picked up a loose rock and obliterated the puppet’s face.

  The suit steadied his breathing, nodding his chin toward his outstretched hand. “I see you, Conthan.”

  * * * * *

  “I’m going to crush your skull,” Lillian announced with enough determination that Vanessa believed the woman capable of such a feat.

  “I think not, darling,” Jacob said, standing from behind his massive oak desk.

  “I’m not your darling. For years you’ve treated me as a lesser. Your telepathy is nothing more than a parlor trick. Your arrogance is beyond reproach. You’re weak, little man.”

  “Going to teach me the errors of my ways?” Ivan lured the woman in, baiting her with every word.

  Lillian’s abilities hurled a book from a shelf at the man, cracking him across the side of the face. The anger intensified in Lillian to the point where she growled. More objects in the office lifted into the air, ready to be hurled as weapons. Vanessa believed at any moment the woman herself may begin levitating. She had never witnessed a telekinetic in action. The ability to think and have objects react fascinated Vanessa.

  “You arrogant fuck.” Lillian threw her arms up, her fingers extended until she occupied as much space as a woman her size could. Fearful, Vanessa retreated back several feet from the outraged woman. The objects in the room pulled back in anticipation of being thrust at the man.

  The skin Ivan wore didn’t flinch. No arms went up to protect himself; hardly an eye twitched in response to Lillian’s abilities. Vanessa reached out. The man’s thoughts were a mystery, but the confidence, that was absolute. Her urge to tear Jacob limb from limb evaporated as she conformed to his emotional state. She found herself cocky, certain she could win a fight against the man.

  Vanessa pushed, rallying against the shift in emotions. The shields she built over two decades were gone, unable to be fortified without her telepathy. Vanessa pitied Dikeledi, a victim of her powers. She had to wonder if Ivan suffered when he possessed the bodies of his victims.

  “Dikeledi.” Ivan’s voice was calm, but held enough weight to carry accusation. The man looked past a frozen Lillian, ignoring her as if she wasn’t in the room. Ironic, Vanessa thought, his dismissive nature is the woman’s source of rage.

  “Yes?” Vanessa could sense Dikeledi, the reactions and emotions she would feel in this situation. But if she tried to call upon more of Dikeledi’s traits, she risked freeing her and losing her hold over the empath’s body.

  “I suspect you had something to do with this?”

  Vanessa stepped forward, grazing Lillian’s frozen cheek. Her fingertips touched the flawless skin and she tasted one with a smile. “So much rage”—Vanessa licked her lips—“it is delicious.”

  Ivan pressed a levitating book down to the corner of his desk. Vanessa could taste the shift in the room, a weight almost thick enough to drown her senses. The objects fell to the floor and Lillian lowered her arms as Vanessa’s projecting anger diminished.

  “Her anger is intoxicating,” Ivan said.

  “Mixed with the sweetness of suffering,” Vanessa added. The iron wall separating her and Dikeledi grew flimsy and she expected at any moment for the empath to wrestle for control of their body.

  Ivan stepped from behind his desk, each step small, calculated, giving Lillian time to anticipate his approach. Vanessa had no idea if he had consumed her like all the humans before or if she were merely locked in a body she couldn’t control. Both thoughts terrified her. Worse, it terrified her that she was following in his footsteps and using his tactics.

  The moment Ivan's hand wrapped around Lillian’s neck, Vanessa felt the tension in the air dissipate. He lifted Lillian from her feet, shoving her against the wall of his office. Holding her pinned there, he only needed to extend his arm to lift h
er above his head. Is he this strong normally? Vanessa asked herself. Or is he using her abilities against her?

  “S-t-o—” Lillian's words caught in her throat as she struggled to breathe. Her face turned red. Nails dug at his hand, trying to pry his fingers from her throat. He didn’t blink as she flailed, desperately attempting to free herself.

  Vanessa raised her hand to protest but froze. Wearing Dikeledi’s body like a shroud, she had crossed a line she never thought she’d cross. Trapping the women in a prison, robbing her of free will—Vanessa had said she’d never go there. For a moment she pondered if Dav5d would approve, or if he’d look away in horror at the monster she’d become from desperate decisions.

  Somewhere deep in her mind, she knew exactly the words he’d say. Clasping the sides of her head, his brown eyes mustering every bit of empathy possible, he’d utter a single word. “Survive.”

  “Don’t kill her,” Vanessa said. Ivan turned his head, his eyes filled with a lust for violence. “Her suffering—” She stepped up behind him, her body pressing against his. “It’s not done.”

  Vanessa wrapped her hands over his shoulders, aware of the defined curves of his arms. Her fingers pressed against his chest, testing the firm muscle beneath his stark white shirt. Dikeledi lusted after the man. No. Not the man, the man’s power. Vanessa wanted to spin his head, bite his lip as he pinned her to the wall and ravished her.

  Vanessa stepped back, pulling away from the Warden and breaking contact. As she obliterated each moral line, every step closer to finishing a task thrust upon her by Eleanor Valentine, she struggled to maintain a modicum of humanity. Jacob had bedded Dikeledi a hundred times before, but always by her own free will. Vanessa found a line she refused to cross.

  Ivan’s eyes returned to the superior calm he maintained despite the chaos erupting around him. The edges of his lips turned upward, giving him the image of a young man with a dirty secret about to confess. The look, the ease with which he stared through her, caused something in the pit of her stomach to tighten.

  “I’ve been waiting, Vanessa…”

  * * * * *

  Blood doesn’t dry quickly. The substance gets thicker and eventually turns crusty. Neck covered in the syrupy liquid, Conthan wished he didn't know any of this. His hands were still wet, but along his neck and inside the legs of his jeans, the ooze pulled at his hair.

  The man, Preacher as Azacca called him, didn’t seem bothered by the blood as he knelt next to the fallen priest. He mumbled a quiet prayer. Conthan found himself unsure of what to do while Preacher spoke the priest’s last rites. He awkwardly folded his hands, attempting some sort of respectful stance. The sensation reminded him why it had been years since he attended church. Yesterday he did and now he swam in blood-soaked clothes. God was not happy.

  “…was not in vain. I see you to the next life. May we reunite on the other side.”

  Preacher turned to Conthan, studying his awkward position. “I wondered how long it would be until we finally met, Conthan Ayer.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Conthan said. The man hadn't said his name with a smug sense of knowledge, instead the man voice held respect. Conthan almost blushed. The admiration Preacher showed made him acutely aware of how uncomfortable he was with the Church of Nostradamus. They worshipped him like a god, and here he stood unsure of how to hold his hands. Not godly worries at all.

  “Azacca refers to me as Preacher,” he said, holding his hand out. Conthan clasped the man’s hand, the grip firm enough for a job interview.

  “You warned me about the synthetics months ago. You were amongst the parishioners.”

  He nodded. “I thank you for saving my flock that day.”

  Unlike today, Conthan thought. The adrenaline had faded and numbness settled in his bones. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past few days. He wanted nothing more than to crawl onto a cot. But sleep wouldn’t be an option after seeing this; he was unsure if he’d ever be capable of sleeping again without seeing the blood on his hands.

  “We need to be on our way,” Preacher said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if more of them come to make sure Jacob’s work is done.”

  “You know about Jacob?”

  Preacher nodded. The sadness in his eyes was so thick, Conthan wondered they had ever known joy. It was the same distant look Jasmine had when she thought about her past. Conthan had to assume a man in Preacher's position knew similar hardships. He was afraid to ask; even more, he was afraid someday he’d have a similar blank stare.

  “A darkness descends upon us. I hope to bring people respite, some semblance of hope. Mentalists were forced to bear arms against mankind. I hoped with the rise of Nostradamus, we’d be able to overcome our sordid past.” Preacher studied the ground, absorbing the disaster.

  “Jacob?” Conthan pressed.

  “He’s not the first mentalist I’ve dealt with. He’s not even the second. I’ve known about the Society for decades now. They have managed to strangle the United States. We’re fighting back however we can.”

  “So, you and Needles?”

  “No,” he corrected quickly. “I do not condone his persistence in responding with violence. He is training fighters to wage a war I do not believe they can win.”

  “And the church?”

  “The world is broken. We want to heal it. It is too easy a task to tear it down to the ground and watch it burn. Somebody has to continue to build in the wake.”

  “Creators control the narrative.” Conthan remembered a professor who often reminded the class that if they were ever to stop creating, somebody else would tell their story. He urged his students to create, not for personal glory, not for personal gain, but because there were a million stories that needed telling, remembering.

  “You’re a skeptic,” Preacher said in a soft voice. “You were there, Azacca witnessed you among the humans.”

  “I’m one of the people fighting this war…” Conthan let his voice trail off. He had been the obvious choice to jump in, take inventory of the Church, and be gone before trouble erupted. He was the obvious choice, but he volunteered.

  “Do you mean with Jacob? Or yourself?”

  Conthan studied Preacher's face. A man surrounded by violence rested inside a man attempting to seek a greater good. The priest, had more depth than Conthan anticipated.

  He started to respond and paused. In the twenty minutes since Conthan bludgeoned a killer to death, Preacher found the one question plaguing him since that damned sheet of paper had been thrust into his hand. Conthan averted his eyes. Turning to the sunlight, he tried to focus the light warming his face.

  “I don’t know,” he finally admitted.

  “My life hasn’t been easy, Conthan. I am a loner. Orphaned. I have no family except the one I’ve created. I spent my youth angry.” Preacher stepped next to Conthan, who watched out of the corner of his eyes as the man also basked in the light. “It consumed me, a darkness of my own making. I lost myself.”

  Conthan’s voice cracked as he spoke. “How—” he cleared his throat. “How did you come back?”

  “I’m not there,” he admitted. “I may have stopped my descent, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever be done walking my path. I am not a god-fearing man. I’m not even sure I believe in a higher power. A God who would allow his creations to suffer? No, I don’t believe in a cosmic being.”

  “Church of Nostradamus? You might need to work on your branding.”

  “Cult of Nostradamus sounded a bit too ‘Come in and drink the Kool-Aid’ with our focus groups.”

  Conthan snorted. “Point taken.”

  “I don’t believe in a cosmic being, but I do believe in the immensity of what we’re capable of, what you’re capable of.”

  “You’re putting a lot of faith in me.” Even with the crusty bits sticking to his neck, Conthan reveled in the sun. Behind him were atrocities he'd see each time he closed his eyes. In front of him, a new day started. Symbolic, he thought.

 
“If you won’t have faith in yourself, in the decisions you make, or in your ability to stare the darkness in the face…” Preacher rested his hand on Conthan’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “I will have faith for both of us.”

  “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “I believe you can,” Preacher said confidently.

  Tears flowed from Conthan’s eyes. He fought to stay in the moment, to push away the image of crawling corpses coated in fluids. The emotions running through his body were out of control and he relied on last outlet.

  Conthan cried.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  1996

  “I can’t believe he starts kindergarten in a few weeks.”

  Elizabeth laughed. Ariel had difficulty remembering her mom, but she imagined her laugh was as infectious as Elizabeth’s. Even Raymond giggled at his mother’s hearty roar.

  “Ariel.” Raymond tugged on her skirt. “Pretty please.”

  She was about to ask his mother for permission, but the crystal blue eyes staring up couldn’t wait for adult approval. She bopped him on the nose with a finger. “Don’t tell your dad.”

  His arms flew out as he started running away. Ariel admired his bravery as he jumped into the air. The five-year-old’s faith in her remained unwavering. Other than Arturo, the munchkin was the closest thing she had to a brother. It might not be conventional, but she’d spoil him rotten however she might.

  Raymond hovered four feet from the floor, his arms out while he made airplane noises. Ariel barely gave it a thought, the young boy soaring about, circling herself and Elizabeth. It wasn’t long before he was asking to go higher and faster. Ariel waited for Elizabeth to interject.

  “Don’t look at me.” The woman laughed again. “If you wear him out, I might get a whole night’s sleep. I think I might have been too gung-ho in thinking I didn’t need Valerie to help watch him. That child has more energy than any adult I’ve met.” Elizabeth watched as her boy flew about the statue of Atlas. “Just don’t make him hurl, Mark wouldn’t be amused.”