by Dyrk Ashton
* * *
“Zeke!” Peter cries, hacking at attacking locusts. He trudges from world to world, slip after slip, calling out for Zeke, leaving infernal insects cut to pieces in his wake.
“Dammit! Zeke!” Then he pauses at the sight of the crystal city crashing into the sea under a barrage of locusts.
Kleron’s words hiss in his ears, The worlds of promise have fallen.
A stumbling slip and he sees a city burning in the distance, the smoke above it teeming with the aberrant creatures. An inverted cone of light flashes into existence on the horizon, from the ground to the highest reaches of the sky. It flickers and disappears, leaving behind another abominable swarm.
You will see with your own eyes, and despair.
Peter swears in disbelief. “Great Élan...”
* * *
Zeke dodges a zipping locust. “Mol!” Another bark and he glimpses the dog, beyond the clearing, running for his life in the smoke, crashing through burning brush, beneath low branches, winding around trees, barely evading the locusts in hot pursuit.
“Come on Mol! I’m here!” Zeke cries, then charges toward him. Mol breaks through to the clearing, bearing fresh wounds, his fur singed and smoking, bandages lost in the undergrowth--and a cloud of locusts swoops in between them, cutting them off entirely.
Peter hurdles roaring over Zeke’s head, body and spear crackling with electricity. He whirls--locusts dice and sizzle, flaming wing-parts flutter--then vaults over Mol, flipping and spinning to clear the pursuing horde. As soon as his feet hit the ground he thrusts a hand toward Zeke. “Go!”
The swarm rises and hovers, momentarily baffled by Peter’s arrival. Then the pitch of the hive whine rises and they attack Peter with greater fury than Zeke has yet seen, he and Mol apparently forgotten. Peter fights them off with fist and spear, but they continue to pour out of the sky like a diabolical waterfall.
Zeke calls to Mol but the dog remains where he is, barking desperately at Peter. Zeke steps toward him but is struck still by the sight of Peter, barely visible through the swarm. He’s trying to make his way to Mol and Zeke, but the insectile horde is too thick. They pull him into the air. He frees himself and drops a short distance, but more swarm in and carry him higher.
Then he ceases to struggle against them. His gleaming red eyes find Zeke through the cyclonic horde, and over the deafening racket, his voice comes like thunder.
“GO!!!”
But Zeke only gapes as Peter is swept swiftly upward, far above the smoking treetops into the night sky. The dark mass grows larger and darker as more locusts gather around him, having abandoned all other pursuits. Mol barks wildly.
A great searing blast rips the swarm asunder. Zeke covers his eyes at the flash. When he looks again, a vivid coruscation of falling stars fills the sky, flaming locusts in a bright willow brocade, winking out as they fall. From the center a dark speck plummets--holding a blue rippling spear.
The ground shakes as Peter hits with both feet at the far edge of the clearing, his legs driving into the dirt to his knees. He wades out of it like it’s water--and he doesn’t look happy.
“You two still here? What did I say?!”
Mol barks, takes a few steps toward him.
Up above, the surviving locusts have regrouped, more have arrived, and they’re diving like a hive of angry hornets, faster than terminal velocity should allow.
Zeke points. “Peter--”
“I said LEAVE!!!”
The locusts hit like a pile-driving column of black water, obliterating Peter from sight. They wash over the ground on impact, threatening to engulf the entire clearing.
Zeke shouts to Mol, who whirls and races toward him, just ahead of the oncoming flood wave of locusts. Zeke sprints to the flaming cabin. He reaches the door and spins as Mol jumps.
* * *
Fi cries out in surprise as Zeke comes flying backward into the room. He goes down like a sack of bricks under Mol’s furry bulk.
The air rushes out of Zeke’s lungs. “Oooof!” Mol slathers him with drool, which doesn’t help him catch his breath.
Fi grabs the dog in a hug. “Mol, you made it!” She pulls him off Zeke. “Zeke! You did it!”
A wheezing moan is all he can manage in reply.
Edgar stands over them, shaking his head in gratitude and relief. “Thank the Lord,” he mutters, then says, “Get him up, Fiona. We must away.”
Fi steadies Zeke on his feet. “That was incredibly brave. And stupid.”
Zeke tests his tender ribs with his fingers. “I’m going with ‘stupid.’” Mol barks as if he agrees.
“Where’s Peter?” Fi asks.
“Fighting locusts,” Zeke replies.
Edgar hands Fi her blood-stained pink backpack. “He’ll be along, don’t you worry.”
Zeke sees Kabir keeping the Mahishas at bay nearby, and Cù Sìth battling them in the center of the room. “They’re still fighting?”
Edgar helps him slide his arms through the straps of the blue pack. “Their kind do not soon grow weary. This could go on for days.”
While Edgar stows his shield in its case, Fi and Zeke watch Cù Sìth ravage the Buffalo Demons. The wounds he received from his brother Cerberi are already healing pink scars and he appears to have sustained no further injury. Kabir has taken more superficial wounds, but his zeal hasn’t diminished in the slightest.
Edgar retrieves a sword belt from the shield case and straps it to his waist, then dons the case like a rucksack. “Hurry, now.”
“Wait...” Zeke rolls a wampyr body out of the corner by the desk and retrieves the guitar case.
“Really?” Fi asks.
“Peter gave it to me,” Zeke replies. “I can’t just leave it.”
Kabir meets them as Edgar slings on his long bag at the hall to the kitchen. He places a hand on Edgar’s shoulder. “Fair thee well, good sir.”
Edgar returns the gesture and replies, “Until the chance of our next meeting.”
Kabir nods and readies to cover their retreat--just in time, because a Buffalo Demon is charging straight for them.
* * *
Edgar leads the way through the kitchen. A Mahisha’s head crashes through the wall, smashing cupboards to splinters. It spies them and bellows its rage, then disintegrates and bursts into flame, the result of a deathblow from the other side of the wall.
Through a small door hidden behind a refrigerator at the far end of the kitchen and down curving steps to a cellar of mortared stone. Fully stocked wine racks cover all four walls, floor to low ceiling.
In spite of what he’s been through, Zeke is oddly elated by their escape. “That’s a lot of wine,” he observes.
“Take some, if you like,” says Edgar, moving to the far corner and pulling a bottle from the rack. He tosses it to Zeke, who catches it and inspects the label. Fi reads it as well. Dom. Romane Conti, 1997. The name means nothing to either of them.
“Not bad, but hardly worth the price, if you ask me,” Edgar adds, reaching through the space where the bottle had been. He presses a stone, which recedes at his touch. There’s a clunking sound and a segment of the wall, rack attached, separates from the rest. Edgar ushers Fi and Zeke through. “Après vous.”
They find themselves in a tubular tunnel made of brick, angling downward. Dim electric lights strung from wires along the ceiling recede into the distance. Zeke unzips Fi’s pack.
“Hey!” she objects, her voice echoing.
“I can’t reach mine,” says Zeke, shoving the bottle in.
Edgar leads them deeper into the earth, Mol a few steps ahead of him. “These tunnels once went on for many miles, up and down the river,” he explains as they walk. “Some went beneath it as well, all the way to the heart of the city. The oldest were part of a natural cave system used by primitive humans for tens of thousands of years. Later peoples dug more. The Native Americans used them for travel, trade, shelter and war. During Prohibition they were a smuggler’s route.”
They pass entrances to other tunnels on either side. There are also ladders leading up into shafts in the ceiling and down through the floor. Some are made of wood, others rusty metal, while still more are grooved into the bedrock.
“I’ve never heard of any of this,” says Zeke.
“The few existing records report that they were all destroyed or caved in of their own accord before World War II.”
“Cool,” Zeke declares.
“You think so? It feels warmer to me...” He sees Fi and Zeke exchange glances. “Ah, I see. You mean ‘cool’ as in ‘nifty,’ ‘neato,’ perhaps ‘rad,’ ‘badass,’ ‘phat,’ or ‘sweet?’ In England we might say ‘ace,’ ‘brill’ or ‘smashing.’
Zeke grins. “Something like that.”
“Whatever you do, do not attempt to slip from here. Understood?”
“No problem. I don’t plan on doing that ever again if I don’t have to.”
“Well, just don’t, even if you think you must, unless you relish an instant demise buried in stone. The tunnels are collapsed on all other worlds, or don’t exist.”
Zeke glances at Fi. “Okay, good to know.”
* * *
A Mahisha hauls off to hit Kabir with its mace. In mid backswing it bursts like a water balloon. The mace flies free, knocking another Mahisha off its feet before it dissolves into the aether.
Having slipped right into the heart of the beast, Peter stands where the splattered Buffalo Demon had been, his tattered clothes covered in gore. Kabir spits Buffalo goo and tries to wipe it from his eyes, but it suddenly blazes green. He smacks out the flames while Peter lets the flash fire that covers his own body pass. More Mahishas close in. They turn back-to-back to defend against them.
Peter shouts over his shoulder. “Did the boy and Molossus return?!”
“Yes, Pater. They’ve all escaped, as you wished.”
Peter is relieved. “I must follow, but first we need to finish this. Keep close.” He cuts down several Mahishas. “Cù Sìth! To me!”
Peter slashes through Buffalo Demons as he makes his way to the fireplace hearth, Kabir at his back. Cù Sìth leaps from the path of two charging Mahishas, leaving them to knock heads and lock horns. He catches hold of the broken balcony, swings clear of swiping maces and grasping hands and runs in a crouch. Peter kicks a charging Mahisha, sending it crashing back against the others, and scythes a clearing near the hearth with his spear. Cù Sìth jumps down next to him.
Electricity is already arcing along Peter’s arm when he commands, “Get back! And get down!”
The lights in the ceiling burst in showers of sparks. The nearest Buffalo Demons realize what’s coming and frantically push back against their clambering fellows.
Multiple firebolts erupt from Gungnir and fork through the throng, followed by a flash of atomic proportions.
* * *
A supernova of blue light blazes from inside the house, setting it ashudder. Glass from the remaining windows is blown out. It tinkles, glittering on the grounds.
Luc exclaims, “Putain!” as he and the wampyr policeman shield their eyes. Kleron remains passive, unaffected by the blinding brilliance.
“Ohhhh!” Max cheers, thrilled by the goggle flare that would blind a human being and seriously impair the vision of a younger Firstborn. “Pretty!”
* * *
The great room is dark except for the electric glow of Gungnir, the atmosphere as thick as dockside fog at midnight. A backup generator kicks in. Emergency lights blink to life at the exits and in all four corners of the room.
Peter glances over his shoulder at Kabir and Cù Sìth, who both had the good sense to cover their eyes as they crouched. They lower their hands and peer up at him. He raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth crooks up. They exchange glances and see what Peter is smirking about.
Even behind the blast, the power of Peter’s spear would have killed any human. As it is, their fur stands on end, fluffy and steaming. They look like big scary teddy bears.
They clear their throats and smooth down their fur as they stand to assess the effect of Gungnir’s fury. The greasy air is clearing through the broken windows. Charred streaks score ceiling, walls and floor. Bodies of dead wampyr and werewolves lie cooked, burst and fuming. Nothing remains of the Buffalo Demons but lingering wisps of their demise--except for two who lie moaning in the far corners.
Peter grunts in dissatisfaction. Kabir catches his arm. “Go to the others, Pater. We’ll take care of this.”
Peter’s features harden, questioning.
Cù Sìth nods. “Go.”
Peter studies him. “Are you truly with us, Moddey Dhoo?”
Cù places a hand on his heart and bows his head. “You have my allegiance, Pater, forevermore.”
Kabir doesn’t look convinced.
Peter deliberates, then gestures toward the broken windows. “There is an islet in the river below, meet us there, but do not delay.”
“Yes, Pater,” Kabir replies.
Peter spots his haversack in the debris. He shoulders it, saying, “Be nice, you two. I’ll need you both before this is over.” They eye each other warily. “I mean it,” he adds, and runs out of the room.
* * *
“The person of interest has followed the others,” reports the wampyr policeman, having retrieved the goggles from Max.
“Person of interest?” Kleron queries.
Luc explains, “Zat eez cop talk.”
“I see,” Kleron responds. “So, what are we waiting for?”
Luc is confused. “For your order, Master.”
“Well, you have it.” He and Max turn to watch the house through the trees. The wampyr moves closer for a better view.
* * *
A wounded Mahisha rises groggily. Cù Sìth swipes out its throat with his claws. It gurgles and dissipates in flame. Kabir snatches a mace from the reaching hand of the other. The haft is big in his hands and longer than he is tall, but he swings it with proficiency. Both mace and Buffalo Demon disappear as the flanges split its thick skull.
Kabir peers through wafting dust. Cù Sìth is nowhere to be seen. He growls at the assumed betrayal, then hears a mighty crash and roar.
Yet another Buffalo Demon, apparently the last, clomps through the gaping hole in the wall where he had remained hidden. He tears Cù Sìth from his back and flings him away.
The Mahisha regains his footing, grips the haft of his mace in both hands and raises it vertically before him. “Samavari Maya!”
Kabir throws himself into a feet-first base slide and catches the descending toe of the shaft on his shin instead of letting it hit the floor. The Mahisha roars in frustration and shifts the mace to crush him. Before Mahisha can strike, Cù Sìth’s jaws are clamped to the back of his neck. Kabir attempts to drag himself out of the way but The Buffalo Demon’s hoof stomps his injured leg. The grappling duo fall right on top of him.
* * *
Kleron watches expectantly. Nothing happens. He looks over his shoulder to see Luc, his finger poised over the detonator, watching Kleron eagerly. “For pity’s sake, Luc,” he says, “push the damn button.”
“Oh!” exclaims Luc. “I woz not sure--”
“Luc!”
KABOOM!!!
Luc pushed it alright. A gigantic fireball erupts from the foundation of the house, then another, and another. Flaming hunks of stone smash into trees. Edgar’s Bentley is crushed and buried. Explosion after explosion sets the ground trembling beneath their feet.
“Primitive, this human technology, but effective under the right circumstances.” Kleron grips the handle of one of the kevlar cases and beckons, “Maskim Xul.”
Max gazes at the explosions for a moment longer, bursts of color reflecting in his multiple pairs of sunglasses, then hops to Kleron’s chest and clings there.
Kleron says, “Let’s see if we’ve had any luck with Plan C. Or is it D, now?” then launches into the air, flapping his great bat wings.
* * *
/>
Zeke doesn’t think they’ve gone all that far, but they’ve taken more twists and turns in the tunnels than he could keep track of. If he were to lose Edgar, he’s sure he’d never find his way out.
“Zeke!” Fi shouts. “You all right?”
He peeks around the corner of the earthen tunnel where he is taking a much needed pee. “Be right there!” He zips up and enters the passageway where Edgar, Fi and Mol wait next to a rusty iron ladder that leads down into a shaft in the floor.
“Sorry,” Zeke apologizes. “I really had to go.”
“When nature calls.” Edgar replies, digging inside his long bag. He pulls out two flashlights. “We’ll be needing these,” he says, handing one to Zeke. “You’ve each got one in your pack as well, but I’m afraid I stowed them toward the bottom. If it begins to dim, twist the handle back and forth.” He demonstrates, a whirring noise accompanying each turn. “In daylight, you can recharge them in the sun. The casing is photoelectric.” He gives the second one to Fi. She and Zeke try the twisting recharge.
“Smashing,” says Zeke.
Edgar “harrumphs” and returns his attention to the long bag.
Fi wonders how Zeke can joke at a time like this. She thinks she might understand, though. She’s glad to be alive, too. Maybe it’s some kind of post-battle, post-war high. If so, she’s not looking forward to the crash. She watches him play with the flashlight like it’s a Christmas toy. After all he’s been through, he still has that insatiable curiosity of his. And she can’t forget, he went back for her uncle’s dog. What kind of guy does that? She’s beginning to think--maybe the best kind.
Edgar lifts an electric lantern from his bag, closes the bag with straps and ties.
That ratty old thing must have been made before zippers were even invented. “Uncle?” Fi says delicately.
Edgar stands and shoulders the bag. The tone of her voice has caught his attention. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m sorry, but seriously, what are we doing?”
“Why, evading mortal danger.”
“What about work? School?” she asks. “Zeke’s supposed to be going to a conference tomorrow.” She takes a step closer. “When do we get to go home?”
Edgar ponders before speaking. “I had hoped and prayed with all my heart it would never come to this for you, but now that it is upon us, I believe you’ll find there are many things we consider important, crucial to our very existence even, which become meaningless when confronted with the immediate and basic necessity of staying alive.”