Shadow Train

by J. Gabriel Gates

  Apparently, the Flatliners hadn’t shown up yet, which was good. Zhai was hoping he could defeat Rick before they arrived—because he was sure that if Rick ended up fighting Josh, the Flatliner didn’t stand a chance.

  So far, none of the Toppers had seen Zhai. Closing his eyes, he took a slow step back, allowing himself to slip once more into the cool embrace of a meditative state. No thoughts of kung fu moves or battle tactics disturbed his serenity now. It was just him and the faint sound of insects newly born and freed from the bonds of winter’s frost, the rustle of trees in the wind, and the warm glimmer of firelight that painted shapes on the back of his closed eyelids.

  Something bad was about to happen, he now understood, because nothing good could come from the animosity that had built up over the preceding months. The gangs had abandoned the Wu-de, and there was nothing leading them forward now but fury, loathing, fear, and disgust. It was like a farmer planting a crop of thorn bushes—one could not expect to reap a harvest of corn from them, only a harvest of blood. That’s what Rick wanted, and it’s exactly what he would get tonight.

  But the thought did not exactly fill Zhai with terror, as it should have. What he felt was a sense of inevitability, like a person who’s slipped off the edge of a cliff might feel as he plummets toward the ground. All Zhai could do was accept what was happening and step into the firelight.

  Rick spotted him and shouted when he was still twenty yards away. “Here he comes, boys. Get ready to see a show,” he said, cracking his knuckles.

  Zhai climbed up onto the tracks and stood in the center of them, as still as the trees around them, silent wooden witnesses.

  “All right, Rick. You’ve wanted this for a long time,” Zhai said. “Come and get it.” He assumed a ready position.

  Rick grinned, his features distorted by the firelight. With a laugh of wicked pleasure, he walked forward. Zhai was watching his elbows for the first sign of an attack when a sound broke the stillness of the clearing. It was the beating of footsteps on railroad ties—not just one set, but several. Zhai tried to ignore it, to remain focused on the enemy, but Rick was already looking over his shoulder, peering down the tracks.

  “RICK!” a voice rang out in the darkness, and Zhai could no longer refrain from turning around to see who was coming.

  It was the Flatliners—or what was left of them. Nass, Beet, Benji, and Josh sprinted toward them up the tracks with Josh in the lead, and Zhai could see that his eyes held a wild look that seemed like the first spark of insanity.

  “Josh!” Nass yelled. “Josh, don’t!”

  Zhai moved off the tracks to let the newcomers pass, and as he did he was able to see more clearly. Josh was charging at Rick.

  Nass grabbed the back of Josh’s sweatshirt as if trying to pull him back, but Josh ripped free and continued toward Rick, who actually retreated a step or two.

  Now, Zhai understood. Nass and the other Flatliners, who he had thought were attacking with Josh, were actually trying to stop him. That’s when he caught sight of the gun in Josh’s hand.

  * * *

  All was eerily silent as Orias stalked Middleburg’s darkened streets, moving in and out of the shadows carved by massive, ancient Oak trees and the yellow-white gleam of the sporadic streetlights. Sometimes he moved along the pavement on long, jerky strides, sometimes he drifted above it for several yards before settling back to the earth. His thoughts were like a team of horses that had broken free from their tackle and now stampeded through his mind, with no order or reason to their motion.

  Half an hour before, he had packed his bags and loaded them into his car, but when he reached for the car’s ignition button, he had stopped, unable to press it. Everything he had, everything he’d built in Middleburg was slipping away from him and the choices that lay before him were impossible. Could he run away and abandon everything he’d come to love—especially Aimee? No. Could he free Oberon and face his wrath? Or refuse to free him and face Azaziel’s reprisal? No. None of the choices before him were acceptable.

  Agitated, he’d gotten out of the car, intent on taking a walk to clear his mind. Now, he glanced at his watch. Time was ticking down to the deadline Azaziel had given him—only a few more hours to go.

  The bizarre truth was that Aimee’s defection bothered him most of all. He should be happy to be rid of her. She should have been nothing more to him than an amusing little pet, and here he was deluding himself that he was in love with her. Only he knew it wasn’t a delusion. He would give his soul for her if he had one. But love made him weak, and she was his Achilles’ heel.

  Orias knew that his enemies—his father and Azaziel—would abduct, torture, and kill her if they thought it would bring him pain. All this time, he had told himself that Aimee might still be useful because of her abilities, and because she had some special role to play in Middleburg’s fate, and that was why he kept her around. But now that she was gone, now that he felt her loss like a gaping wound in his chest, there was no denying the truth. He’d kept her around because he loved her. An existence without her would be meaningless—and time was growing short. He glanced at his watch again.

  He couldn’t possibly stand against Azaziel, with all the power—and all the soldiers—of the Irin Council behind him. Orias’s only option was to run. Fallen angels were incredibly intelligent, but they were neither psychic nor omnipotent. He had business interests and money put away in a network of other countries, so hiding out for a while in luxurious but secluded accommodations would be no problem. He’d spent most of the afternoon and evening working intently to get the device ready and put it in place. Even Oberon, locked away in the tower, was quiet as if listening, as if trying to figure out what he was up to. Now all was done. The bomb was in place. The timer was set. But Orias could not leave without Aimee. He had to find her, and he had to find her soon.

  * * *

  Nass watched helplessly as, just a few steps in front of him, Josh charged at Rick with the gun clasped in his clenched fist. Josh gave an earsplitting battle cry and took aim. Rick didn’t even flinch, and Nass wondered if, in the dark, he could see the pistol that was coming ever closer to him. Instead of running the other way, Rick charged straight toward Josh, as if he would face down the bullet by sheer force of will.

  “This is for Emory!” Josh screamed, and he stopped and set his feet to better his aim. As he slowed, Nass caught him from behind and Rick sandwiched him from the front. Zhai, off to one side, yelled one word: “No!”

  Suddenly Nass was blasted sideways with the giddy-painful sizzle of a Shen energy discharge. He recognized the feeling from his sparring with Raphael, but the sound it made wasn’t the normal bang of a Shen explosion—it was the sharp crack of a gunshot. When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on his side in the ditch that ran parallel to the track bed with his feet higher up the embankment than his body. The rush of blood to his head left him momentarily dizzy. It took him a moment to realize that the thick, sticky liquid he felt was blood, and then another moment to find its source. There was a sickening feeling in his stomach as he thought he might have been shot. Wincing with pain, he rolled onto his back and sat up.

  I moved to this damn town to get away from gang violence, he thought. Look at me now!

  But after a moment he discovered he had banged his head on a jagged chunk of concrete during the fall. The blood was from a small gash on the side of his head. He hadn’t been shot at all.

  Above, up the hill, he heard the sounds of a fight: shouting, grunting, and cursing. Wincing again, he rose and stumbled up the embankment.

  Josh and Rick had clambered to their feet, too. Nass didn’t see the gun and hoped that it been lost in Zhai’s Shen attack, but Josh and Rick were trying their best to kill each other without it. They were fighting with everything they had. The rest of the guys, Nass included, looked on, paralyzed, too weary or scared to take any
action to stop what was unfolding.

  Josh put up a good fight, bloodying Rick’s nose and ripping his expensive T-shirt, until Rick got him in a clench like the MMA star Anderson Silva, and began cracking him in the head with a series of elbows, punctuated by the occasional knee to his face.

  “That’s enough, Rick,” Zhai was saying, but Rick ignored him. He seemed to be lost in a haze of bloodlust. The grin on his face was like the serene, satisfied smile of a Buddha under a Bodhi tree.

  “You asked for it, you got it, Flats rat,” Rick said, landing another vicious blow with a sickening thud.

  Beet charged forward. “Back off, Rick,” he snarled, ready to jump into the mix, but Michael stepped in front of him.

  “Let them go. It’s a fair fight,” he said, and Beet shoved him.

  Behind them, Rick landed another savage punch to Josh’s temple, and he crumpled to the ground. Rick towered over him, and as Nass and the others watched, he seemed to grow even larger. His face twisted into a beastly grimace, and his thick, powerful hands warped into claws. He was becoming a monster.

  Nass didn’t understand what this transformation meant exactly, but the knowing told him that it wasn’t something new. It was the completion of a process that had begun a long time ago, the completion of what Rick was, and not so much a transformation as a blossoming. Whatever it was, Rick was a monster, a savage beast who was about to kill another of Nass’s friends, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.

  With a deft capoeira move, Nass cartwheeled around Beet and Michael, who were grappling with one another, and shot in between Rick and Josh, surprising Rick and felling him with a quick leg sweep. Only a second passed before Rick was on his feet again, charging Nass like the bull that he now sort of resembled.

  Nass caught him in the face with a cartwheel that transitioned into a kick, and managed to spin out of the way of two of Rick’s haymaker punches. The third caught Nass square in the side. It was like getting slammed in the ribs with a sledgehammer, and Nass felt his legs go to jelly beneath him.

  Somehow he stayed on his feet and he parried Rick’s next two jabs with the Pak Sau move Raphael had taught him. He even managed to land a couple of glancing punches, one striking Rick’s rock-hard stomach and the other banging off his steely forehead.

  Benji jumped on Rick’s back, but Rick grabbed him with one hand and chucked him off easily.

  “Rick—my turn!” Zhai shouted, but Rick ignored him and continued advancing on Nass.

  Nass cartwheeled out of the way of two overhead rights and landed a kick to the knee that almost buckled Rick’s tree-trunk of a leg, but when Rick caught him with an overhead right, Nass’s world went dark.

  When he opened his eyes again his face was throbbing, as if someone had removed his nose and forehead and replaced them with a couple of aching, beating hearts. For a moment, he wanted to cry—not because of the pain he was feeling (although he did hurt all over) but because of the stupidity, the futility of the situation. They had come here to avenge Emory; now they would all probably end up mangled, beaten, or even dead. And for what? What good would come out of it? Emory was still dead. Raph was still gone. The ring was still shattered. What had they accomplished with all their fighting, all their hate, and all their impotent anger? Nothing. Nothing but pain.

  Zhai was now in the middle of the tracks between Nass and Rick, facing Rick down with an eerie calm. It reminded Nass of something, and it took a moment to figure out what it was: it was the image he’d seen in social studies class of a lone, unarmed Chinese activist in Tiananmen Square, facing off against a column of massive tanks. And it was like Raphael standing still as the ghost train struck him.

  All around, the wind was picking up until it howled, the trees were waving and trembling, the distant otherworldly drums and battle cries that Nass had heard during other battles between the Toppers and the Flatliners had come again, and now they were louder than ever.

  “What do you say, Rick?” Nass heard Zhai speak calmly. “Let’s find out who’s the best, once and for all.”

  The maniacal grin on Rick’s face was like the leer of a flaming jack-o’-lantern.

  “Yes,” he replied hungrily. “Once and for all.”

  * * *

  Between one heartbeat and the next, Rick was on him, a one-man melee of slashing claws, hammering fists, and gnashing teeth. Zhai worked systematically to defend himself, retreating from the first lunge, blocking the groping claw with a Tan Sau, stepping to the side and blocking his low hook with a Guan Sau, while simultaneously striking out with his opposite fist. It was no use. Rick’s normally long reach had grown by another foot, and if Zhai fought him close in, he’d open himself up for a bear hug that could crush the life out of him. So, he retreated a few steps and started circling. His only chance was to get outside of Rick’s arms and attack him from his blind side, Wing Chun style. But it wouldn’t be easy. Rick knew his game and was turning as fast as Zhai circled, lobbing a series of powerful overhead punches every few seconds.

  Zhai fought to bring up his Shen power, but the sight of Rick in his transformed state filled him with a fear that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. In that state of tension, he knew, Shen energy would not flow. Rick caught him with a leg kick that almost made Zhai’s knee give out. In that moment’s distraction, Rick lashed out, clapping him with two thunderous blows to the head and clawing his chest before Zhai was finally able to retreat out of range.

  His head ringing, his chest drizzling blood, Zhai hung on to his composure, trying to rationally analyze the situation. And he heard Master Chin’s voice, speaking to him as if he were really there: You’re in your head, Zhai. Now is the time to let go and fight with your spirit.

  But Zhai couldn’t do that. He’d always had trouble letting go enough to feel any kind of emotion. He had barely been able to kiss Kate. His inexplicable reserve had always held him back in friendships, in relationships, and in his training. Now, he would have to overcome it if he wanted to live. But how?

  He stepped forward and tried for a stomp kick, but Rick batted his leg aside and blasted him in the face with a punch that left him lying face down on the train tracks, spitting up blood.

  As he tried to get to his feet he felt a kick wrack his ribs, sending him facedown on the tracks again. When he looked up, he saw Nass cartwheeling toward Rick, but Rick slapped at him and sent him flying.

  Rick kicked him again, and Zhai felt his vision swimming. Another kick sent a lightning bolt of pain down his right arm and shoulder. Another flipped him over, leaving him staring up at the spinning, drifting stars. He was falling toward unconsciousness, and he fought it with all his might. Another kick sent him tumbling to the bottom of the ravine next to the tracks, and he spit some dirt from his mouth and groaned. This was it, he thought: the end of peace, the end of the Wu-de, maybe the end of his life.

  He had always feared death, he realized suddenly, feared it with a desperation that was so powerful, so all consuming, that sometimes he had to quit feeling altogether in order to block it out. But now that death was in front of him, it somehow seemed less scary—and he thought he knew why.

  He wasn’t afraid to die, because he had lived.

  His right hand, now aching and trembling, snaked down and reached into the pocket of his pants. His fingers fumbled for a moment, then found what they were looking for and brought it up to his face.

  It was the locket that contained the thick copper curl he’d snipped from Kate’s hair the night he met her. He’d told her that he carried it with him always.

  “Do you find that creepy?” he’d asked her.

  She’d smiled up at him, everything she felt for him shining in her eyes. “Oh, no, ’tis the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she’d said. “I hope you’ll carry it with you forever.”

  And, he had vowed to himself, he would. He touched it
to his face now, as he gazed out at the formless blackness of the nighttime forest. Strangely, it still held her scent, and he let it wash over him as he brushed it across his cheek. And for one extraordinary moment, for perhaps the first time in his life, Zhai felt. He felt so much that his body trembled, so much that tears poured down his cheeks. And he was no longer afraid to die.

  “Sorry, my friend, but this is the end,” said Rick.

  Zhai rolled over and saw him standing on the tracks—only he wasn’t Rick anymore. The other combatants noticed it too. They all stopped pounding each other and stared at the Toppers’ new leader in awe. As they watched, the beast that was Rick grew taller. The seams in his clothing gave way with a loud rip as he grew larger and more fearsome, until his hulking form eclipsed the moon. Beneath his shredded shirt, his human flesh turned leathery and sharp spikes started popping out of his crusty skin. He’d gotten a battered two-by-four from somewhere and it was stuck through with a half dozen nails that glinted wickedly in the moonlight. Rick was hideous, and he was no longer smiling as he descended toward Zhai.

  Zhai fought to get to his knees. His head throbbed as he tilted it back to look at the giant horror looming above him. But within the pain, within the heartache, within the fear, there was an all-powerful calm, an endlessly deep, vast store of peace and might that rose up through the earth and rained invisibly down from heaven, filling Zhai completely.

  Rick was raising his club, ready to bring it down and crush Zhai’s head.

  Zhai merely reached one hand out, palm up.