by Paula Guran
I ran after him, yelling into my microphone, “Marks has been working with the target. I repeat, Marks has been working with the target. In pursuit.”
Well, that might just sow more chaos. I wasn’t certain. I pulled my earbud out as I gave pursuit. The mobile phone from the old lady was ringing. I put it to my head as I ran.
“Icer is down,” Longshot said. “It was her third.”
Damn. I was out of breath.
“I think he got Rabies too,” she told me. “He was only on his second body, but I can’t reach him. He must not have a phone yet. It’s you, Dreamer.”
“TheGannon?”
“Gone,” Longshot said softly.
“What the hell do you mean, gone?” I demanded, puffing.
“You don’t want to know.”
Damn, damn, damn! TheGannon was our door guard. “Phi is still armed,” I told Longshot. “If he gets to you, try your best.”
“Okay.”
I pocketed the phone, holstered my gun, and gave the run everything I had. The street had gone to chaos quickly. With the wounded lying about, the people dropping papers and possessions as they ran and screamed, the cars stropping and people hiding inside, you’d have thought it was a war zone. I guess it kind of was.
I slid across the hood of a car, keeping pace with Phi—even gaining on him a tad—as he reached the target building. He didn’t go inside, however. Instead, he pushed into the building next to it, a low office building with reflective glass windows.
He doesn’t know that TheGannon is gone, I realized, charging after. He’s trying to keep himself from being pinned. The office building and the target were similar in height. He could easily jump from one roof to the next.
He still had a lead on me, and it was a good minute or so before I hit the door, shoving my way in. This time I watched for an ambush. I didn’t find one; instead, I saw a door on the other side of the entryway swinging shut.
“What’s going on here!” a security guard demanded, standing beside his desk near the door.
“Police business,” I yelled. “That doorway? It’s a stairwell to the roof?”
“Yeah. I gave your buddy the key.”
Damn. He could reach the roof, lock me out, and then jump over and take out Longshot. Phi was a clever one, I had to give him that much credit.
I entered the stairwell. I couldn’t worry about gunfire. I had to charge up those steps as fast as I could. If he shot me, he shot me. There was a chance that would happen, but if he got to the roof, I lost. And I would not let him get away again!
I heard puffing and footfalls above me as I took the steps. My body was in better shape than his, but I’d been running longer than he had.
Still, talking to the guard must have slowed him down, and I seemed to be gaining on him.
I rounded another corner in the white-painted stairwell, passing graffiti and concrete corners that hadn’t seen a mop in ages. I was gaining on him. In fact, when I neared the top floor, I heard rattling as he worked on the door.
No! I forced my way up the last flight of stairs, reaching the top right as Phi pushed it closed on the other side. I slammed into it, exploding out onto the rooftop before Phi could lock it.
He stumbled away, red hair plastered to his head with sweat, shoulders slumping from fatigue. He tried to get out his gun, fiddling with an extra clip, but I tackled him.
“You’re mine, this time,” I growled, holding him to the rooftop. “No slipping away. Not again.”
He spat in my eye.
Admittedly, I wasn’t expecting that. I pulled back in revulsion, and he kicked me in the leg, shoving me off and throwing me to the side.
I cursed, wiping my eye, scrambling after him as he ran across the roof. The target building was next door, maybe five feet below this one, no gap between. My body’s muscles were straining after that climb. I could still hear shouts from the chaos below, sirens wailing in the distance.
Phi jumped onto the rooftop. I followed. Longshot was there, wearing a young woman’s body, backed up against the far corner of the building. Phi ran for her.
I screamed and threw myself forward, plowing into him just before he reached her.
And that tossed both of us off the building.
It was the only thing I could have done. If I’d gone slower, he’d have reached her. At this speed, I couldn’t control my momentum. We fell in a heartbeat and crashed to the ground.
Disorientation.
Primal forces, driving me toward heat and warmth.
No. That was my last.
The thought bubbled up from deep within. Some say it’s possible to control the primal self, the freed self.
I lashed out this direction, then that, but somehow held control. I could see Phi’s spirit moving turgidly toward a body, and I somehow forced myself to follow. Two glowing fields, like translucent mold, seeping along the ground unseen to mortal eyes. Still a chase. A chase I would win.
I reached him just before he got to the warmth, and I latched on. I held tightly, clinging to him, and like an unwieldy weight, stopped him from getting into the body. He battered at me, clawed at me, but I just held on. I’d lost knowledge of did what I did, but I held on. For a time, at least. An eternity I could not count.
Finally, he slipped away, as he always does.
I found another warmth, then opened my eyes to a smiling face.
“Longshot?” I said, disoriented. I was lying on the ground in a new body, a construction worker, it appeared. The contest was over; I’d be allowed this body now.
“You did it,” she said, glowing. “You held him down long enough for Rabies to get here! Once Phi got control of his last body, Rabies already had it in custody! You won, Dreamer.”
“He cheated.”
I sat up. Phi sat there in the body of another construction worker; the two men had been taking cover here, it appeared, near the base of the building. I could tell it was him. My brother always has this self-satisfied leer on his face, and I could recognize him in any body.
“What? That’s nonsense.” The businesswoman would be Icer, from that tone in her voice. She sat on the edge of a planter nearby. “We got you, Phi.”
“He shot into the crowd!” Phi said.
“So did you!” I said, climbing to my feet with Longshot’s help. After spending so long . . . too long . . . outside a body, the warmth felt good.
It had probably been only a few minutes, but that was an eternity without a body.
“You were playing detective, Dave,” Phi said, pointing at me. “I was criminal. I can shoot innocents. You can’t.”
“By whose rules?” Icer demanded.
“Everyone’s rules!” Phi said, throwing up his hands. “You’ve got five, I’m only one. The criminal has to have a few advantages. That’s why I can kill, and you can’t.”
“It’s five on one,” I said, “because you bragged you could take us all on your own, Phi.”
“You cheated,” he said, leaning back. “Flat-out.”
“Man,” Rabies said, wearing the body of a thick-armed black man. He stood a little off from us, looking at the chaos of Broadway, with police, ambulances. “We kind of caused a mess, didn’t we?”
“We need to ban guns,” Longshot said.
“You always say that,” Phi replied.
“Look,” Longshot said. We won’t be able to use Manhattan for months.”
“Eh,” Phi said. “I’m doing a race with TheGannon across the country next. What do I care?”
“What happened to TheGannon, anyway?” Icer asked.
Longshot grimaced. “We had an argument. He left.”
“He bugged out in the middle of a game?” Icer said. “Damn that kid. We should never have invited him.”
“They’re coming over here,” Rabies said. “To check on the bodies of the two cops. We should split.”
“Meet up in Jersey?” Longshot asked.
We all nodded, and the glowing individuals went their separ
ate ways. They’d probably dump these bodies soon, working their way out of the city by hopping from person to person in whatever way suited them.
I ended up going with Phi. Side by side, walking away from the dead cops, hoping nobody would stop us. I was tired, and Bolting to another body didn’t sound pleasant.
“I did get you,” I told him.
“You tried hard, I’ll give you that.”
“I won, Phi. Can’t you just admit that?”
He just grinned. “I’ll tell you what. Footrace to Jersey. No limit on bodies. And just for you, no guns. Loser admits defeat.” With that, he took off.
I sighed, shaking my head, watching my older brother go. A footrace? That meant no cars, no subways. We’d have to run the entire way, jumping into new bodies every few minutes as the ones we were using grew exhausted—like a poltergeist version of a relay race.
Phi never knew when to stop. I didn’t remember a lot about when we’d been alive, back when our capture the flag games had been limited to controllers and a flatscreen—but I did know he’d been like this then, too.
Well, I could beat him in a footrace. He wasn’t nearly as good at those as he was at capture the flag.
I’d win this time, and then he’d see.
Bestselling author Brandon Sanderson has published eight solo novels for adults including Warbreaker, Elantris, two books of The Stormlight Archive series—The Way of Kings and Words of Radiance—and the Mistborn books—The Well of Ascension, The Hero of Ages, The Alloy of Law, and Shadows of Self. For young adults he has authored The Rithmatist and two Reckoners science fiction novels—Steelheart and Firefight—as well as four books in the middle-grade Alcatraz Smedry series. He was chosen to complete the final three novels of Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series. He lives in Utah with his wife and children. Sanderson teaches creative writing at Brigham Young University.
The cut in my finger doesn’t close for weeks. The hole in my soul remains the equivalent of a sucking chest wound . . .
(Little Miss) Queen of Darkness
Laird Barron
I: Initiation
I write this: The cops don’t know what really happened in Eagle Talon. Lies, all lies. Ask Jessica, if I ever see her again. This isn’t about Eagle Talon, however. I’ve never even been. No sir, Bob, if it’s about anything, it’s about that debutante ball Zane throws in his basement at the tail end of high school, 1998. The unfinished basement with the raw earth and a tunnel that smells of mildew and dankness. The tunnel is maybe three by three and is actually a cleft in the rock of the hill upon which this house rests.
I can’t forget that hole in the ground. It drills through my mind.
Yeah, Shit Creek describes an imperfect circle right back to the bad old days. Oh, the party is rad, though: heavy metal, booze, drugs, psychedelic lights. The kids slam-dancing. Me with my hand on Stu Whitlock’s hip the whole time and nobody the wiser. Then that damned hick brat Dave Teague racing overhead, naked and covered in blood (so the legend goes), screaming his head off. Ruins everything . . .
I also write: People call it this or that, but our club doesn’t have a name. It didn’t originate in Alaska. It was around before Alaska. We don’t suckle at the breast of a god, it suckles at ours. Unfortunately, devoid of context, that stuff reads like the Unabomber’s doodles.
Next, I make a list. Were I to title it, the title would be “People Who Died,” like the song. Such an everyman tune because everybody can relate, right? The partial list is scribbled in a black moleskin notebook. I’ve left bloody fingerprints on the pages. Many of the names are illegible from the smears, or redaction with a magic marker. Names changed to protect the guilty. Four remain intact in truth and form. Hell if I know whether that’s significant or not.
Zane Tooms & Julie Vellum: They could’ve been the power couple from the lowest circle of Hell. Alas, Zane already had a loyalist and Julie’s not the kind to need any. These are your villains. Nuff said.
Steely J: Just about tall enough to play pro basketball. He’s Zane’s major domo. The Renfield to Zane’s Dracula. Loyal through thick and thin—and I’m not kidding, I literally mean that. We called Zane Fat Boy Tooms until his folks croaked and he started in with the horse de-wormer and got slenderized. Steely J stuck with him down the line. Steely is what you might call inscrutable. Looks nice, dresses nice, and plays nice, if a teensy bit of a cold fish. His features lag behind whatever message his brain is sending. Somebody behind the curtain throws a switch and he smiles. Or, he smiles and picks up a claw hammer and comes for you. The Sandburg poem about fog creeping on little cat feet? That’s Steely J. Except six-six with a hammer.
Vadim: My buddy Vadim often brags that he’s an expert in Savate. He paid two hundred dollars for a six week course at a strip mall. I let him drag me in once to meet the instructor (mainly I wanted to ogle some studly hotties kicking and stretching, but whatev) and the dude had a bunch of diplomas, certificates, and autographed photos of macho celebrities I didn’t care to recognize. The French version of hi-ya for an hour. Bo-oring.
The strip mall closed shop when the economy cratered in ’09. Not before Vadim got what he needed, however. He asserts that Savate is the elite of the elite fighting arts, natch. I don’t know my foot from my elbow when it comes to violence. I’m a lover, always have been. That’s why I keep the numbers of a few bigger, tougher friends in my Rolodex.
Vadim talks lots of shit every time we go clubbing and the fraternity bros start hitting on me, which they totally do. I clutch his sleeve and say, “Whoa, there stud. They’re just being friendly. Get mama another margarita, ’kay?” Vadim shoots the bros a venomous parting glare and then toddles off to fetch my drink. His thighs bulge his cargo pants so that he really does toddle. I think of it as having my own Siberian tiger on a leash, except with pouty, pouty lips, and six-pack abs! Nice while it lasted. He’s dead too.
End of list.
Go back, not the whole way, not to high school. Three and a half years is far enough. We have gathered, dearly beloved. Gathered to sign on the dotted line and change the course of our stars forever. What a load of crap. I’m motivated by fascination, boredom, skepticism. Some of the others are buggy-eyed true believers. Have at it, morons.
The sun is bleeding out all over the Chugach Mountains. An inlet, ice-toothed and serpentine, lies below us somewhere, wrapped by mist that’s freezing into black pearl. I’m not captivated by the austere beauty of the far north as seen through frosty picture windows. My feet are cold and I’m bored. I’m an L.A. girl trapped inside an L.A. boy. This arctic weather is for the birds.
Julie Five says to me, “Oh, Ed, quit sulking. You detest it so much, why’d you come? Nut up or shut up.” She finishes me off with a sweet as pie smile. I beam one right back. Anybody more than arms-length away might get the impression we’re peaches and cream. Big sister, little brother at worst. Then again, it’s an intimate gathering of former classmates. Most of the others know how it is with us because it’s been this way with us since junior high. Her nickname is JV, but I call her Julie Five. Our mutual acquaintance, the lamentably absent Jessica M, coined that bit of mockery. Sure, we’re supposed to pity Julie Five for cowering in a closet while her lover got noisily disemboweled by the Eagle Talon Ripper in the winter of 2012, but her sob story doesn’t move me—“victim-of-unspeakable-tragedy” is scraping the bottom of the barrel on a white trash reality show. Her sneaky path to fifteen minutes of fame and she didn’t even try to stop the murdering bastard. Oh, dear heavens, no—she left that chore to her archrival, Jessica M, the girl who got the cover of Black Belt Magazine and interviews with every cable news show in existence. Good for Jess. Screw Julie Five. She’s cowardly, treacherous, and mean. She like totally vacillates between vocal fry and ending every sentence on a rising note. Basically the darkest valley girl in the history of valley girls. I’d feed her a cup of lye if I had some.
Our host, Zane Tooms, stares at the sunset the way a man with an appointment comp
ulsively checks his watch. He’s dressed in a white shirt and black pants. No shoes. He never wears shoes at home. His shirt is unbuttoned two notches. A metallic chain gleams from the opening. I’ve seen the pendant when Zane had his shirt off—a smallish lump of vaguely horrid metal, or bone. Its color shifts, the film of a lizard’s eye rolling aside. He folds his napkin, rises from his seat (throne) at the head of the table, and walks further into the decrepit mansion.
The house juts from a knoll with an impressive view of tidal flats and occasionally the water. The knoll was a bear den until hunters exterminated the bears and poured concrete back in when-the-hell-ever. Exactly the kind of place natives would say, “Don’t build here! Bad medicine!” White Man doesn’t give a shit about any of that and here we are. Even so, the Tooms residence lacks the sinister gravitas of a classic, gothic haunted castle. Made over once too often, the latest reconstructive surgery has rendered it a weird amalgam of art deco and 60s kitsch. His home might have been cozy in its heyday. He let it go to seed after the senior Toomses shuffled into the next life. He travels and can’t be bothered with upkeep. I’ve told him he needs a decorator because the ambiance sucks. Frontier chic it is not. Swear to god he doesn’t even live here, it’s so borderline derelict. If Zane confessed he only showed up to unlock the joint and turn on the lights half an hour before his guests arrived, I wouldn’t be shocked.
The basement is carved into the den itself and mostly unfinished. Lots of exposed beams, pipes, and dirt. I shudder to think. Tunnels bore past the glow of any lamp. Can’t say I’m impressed with the remote location or the bear catacombs. Way too rustic for this girl. What does impress me is Zane himself. These days, after slimming his chubby cheeks and beer gut, he’s drop dead gorgeous. A walking, talking Ken Doll; brunet model. He oozes primal charisma. Night and day from the acne-riddled, blimpo Zane that we knew and abhorred as kids. I’d kill to learn his secret and that’s part of why I RSVP’d yes on the invitation last month; why I ditched everything I had cooking in Cali and came like a dog to her master’s whistle.