A sudden low moaning sound emanates from behind us. I freeze.
“What the hell?” Cassandra whispers. The fear in her voice is so strong, I can almost taste it.
And that’s not good, because fear feeds them.
The next moment, there’s a flurry of movement, and something drops seemingly out of the sky and down onto us, causing me to lose my balance and fall back against the wall. Lily’s sent sprawling into the street on her hands and knees with a sharp yelp. She leaps up and swivels around, fists raised in front of her face in the defensive posture we’ve been taught to take if we’re ever caught without a pole or any sort of weapon … the kind of situation we’re now in.
I backflip away from whatever has jumped onto us, landing beside Lily. Looking up, I see that the scene unfolding in front of us is bad.
At first glance, it looks like a demon is feeding on Cassandra. Its head is bowed over the fleshy part at the top of her arm. But, unlike our familiar demon friends, this creature is gnawing on her flesh, ripping at it, and Cassandra is screaming, her voice filled with such pain and fear, it’s almost unbearable.
Lily sprints forward and fly-kicks the creature in the back. “Get off my sister!” she screams.
I move to help her. Whatever this thing is, it’s not your typical demon. And that’s because it’s still chewing away on Cassandra’s arm like she’s a juicy Thanksgiving turkey.
The thing stumbles off Cassandra and looks up at Lily, head cocked sideways, with a deep moan. There’s blood running down its lower face and little bits of flesh are stuck to the corners of its lips. The creature’s face is as pale as a full moon and sickly grey. The eyes are sunken and ringed with skin so dark, it looks almost bruised. A milky, translucent film covers one of its eyes like a curtain. The creature takes a few moments to find its balance, its feet landing on the sidewalk unsteadily.
Lily kicks at the thing again, her foot connecting with its abdomen. A demon would’ve grabbed her leg with lightning speed, but instead, this creature stumbles backward for a brief moment, another long, low moan escaping its lips. There’s a gaping hole where Lily’s foot entered its midsection.
Cassandra falls to the ground, clutching at her arm. She’s still screaming. That’s when I notice Vashti is beside me. I didn’t even notice her approach. That scares me. It means I’m not being as careful as I need to be.
“The prophecy is upon us,” Vashti says as she places what looks like a cotton scarf into Cassandra’s mouth to bite down on. The trepidation in Vashti’s voice is strong. “It’s a zombie, Jasmine. The lost souls are walking amongst us now and taking the bodies of the dead in order to do so. Go and help Lily. I will tend to Cassandra.”
“How do I kill it?” I ask, panic scrabbling at my throat. The creature lunges at Lily as I speak, and though it’s moving faster than it was, it continues to be unstable on its feet.
“The skull. Crush the skull. The temples are best. You have no weapons, but as Seers, you are extremely strong,” she says. “Now go.”
I run at the creature and bring my fist down onto the side of its head like a hammer, just as Lily kicks at it again. Her leg connects with the side of its hip at the same time that my fist hits the zombie’s head on the opposite side of its body. I’m thrown off balance momentarily by both the movement of the zombie’s body toward me and the stench of rotting flesh mixed with garbage that’s coming off of it in waves.
The zombie moans loudly as I remove my fist from the side of its head. A distinctive, fist-sized area of the creature’s skull is now caved in like a month-old jack-o’-lantern. It stumbles for what feels like a lifetime in a half-circle like an intoxicated sailor, grey bits of brain spilling from the hole in its temple, before collapsing onto the sidewalk.
Lily stares at the corpse for a moment, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell is that thing?” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
“Vashti called it a zombie,” I reply.
“Seriously?” Lily says. “Like, walking dead, Halloween costume zombie?” She gives it a little kick with the toe of her shoe.
The stench of the rotting corpse hits us at the same time. My already compromised stomach can’t take any more of the smell, and I double over, vomiting up half-digested biscuits and tea onto the sidewalk.
Lily covers her mouth, and runs over to where Cassandra is lying. Vashti is crouched over her, applying pressure to Cassandra’s badly mangled arm as I approach.
Vashti looks up at both of us, her eyes dark with concern. I try not to stare at her hands; they’re so slick with blood, it looks like she’s wearing crimson gloves.
“The car is here. Just around the corner. You’ll see it: a white Tesla. Both of you must leave this place immediately.”
“I’m not going without my sister,” Lily protests, kneeling down beside Vashti.
“She’s dying, and you will as well, if you don’t make it out of here and to a safer space as soon as possible. What is happening now is bigger than the two of you, and there will be sacrifices, so get used to swallowing your emotions,” Vashti says. “I will get Cassandra to a doctor we can trust. She has no hope unless I do that. Perhaps she won’t be recognized. Perhaps she will be. However, the three of you staying together guarantees detection.”
“But she’s not microchipped. We don’t have the proper identification for here,” I say.
Vashti looks at me. “I’ve got ways of dealing with challenges such as that. Now, both of you must go,” she says. Her voice is as hard as rock. “If you don’t, I will snap your necks in half myself.”
JADE
We’ve been walking for about half an hour, staying as hidden as possible as Amara leads us north, parallel to Yonge Street.
“It’s the place where my dad always told us to go to if we ever got into any sort of trouble,” Amara says breathlessly. “Being a part of the CCT, I guess he was always thinking one step ahead. It’s the secret place he created to keep our entire family safe, if there were ever an emergency. This seems like the right time to use it.” She stops talking and scans the ravine. “I hope he’s okay.”
Mr. Khan nods as rivulets of sweat run from his drenched hair down the nape of his neck. “Your father strikes me as a very astute man. I’m not surprised he’d be so forward-thinking.”
I notice he doesn’t answer Amara’s question about her father’s safety. Maybe Mr. Khan doesn’t know, or he doesn’t want to give her false assurances — either would be so much better than the third option: that he does know something but doesn’t want to upset Amara with terrible news.
“Have you talked to my mom?” I ask. “Like in the last twenty-four hours or so? Since we left for the Place-in-Between?”
Mr. Khan purses his lips together, squinting as sweat drips into his eyes. “The police have been at the apartment to question your mother. That’s to be expected. You’re wanted on suspicion of terrorism. I don’t believe she’s been taken into custody.”
My heart plummets. Of course they’ve questioned my mom. The police will be questioning anyone, everyone, who has anything to do with us. I think about Mom being interrogated by the police after all she’s been through with my disappearance. She’s resilient but fiery, and rarely holds back from speaking her mind, which worries me. The police don’t always take well to people of colour trying to defend their civil rights and freedoms.
We’re climbing down into the ravine now, and though I should feel better down here under the cover of dense foliage, below the hustle of the city above, the thought of drone patrols still makes me anxious. Cicadas sing loudly from the trees. I don’t want to be out in the dark, but I wish the sun would set faster as the heat, combined with our lack of food or water, is making me increasingly faint.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Just up here,” Amara says, pointing to a rectangular grey-stone building up the hillside on the opposite side of the ravine.
“Interesting building,” Mr. Khan says, leaning against a
tree in an attempt to regain his breath. “It looks quite old. It’s residential?”
Amara nods. “Dad says it’s a carriage house. It used to house horses centuries ago, but was changed into a home about sixty years ago.”
It takes us another ten minutes or so to reach the building. It’s situated behind what can only be called a mansion, and it’s far enough back from the street to feel quite secure. Tendrils of overgrown, tear-shaped ivy crawl along the exterior brick, stretching toward the sky like fingers.
“The main house belongs to Noni. That makes it safe for us to stay a while, if we need to,” Amara says as she rummages around underneath a series of potted plants. “I know we need to transition,” she says, glancing at Mr. Khan. “I’m just saying, if we need to.”
“Just having a place to compose our thoughts, what with all that’s going on, is a blessing,” Mr. Khan says. “Even if it is for just a few hours. I’m exhausted, and I’m sure the two of you are, as well.” He places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You need to rest after the trauma you’ve been through.”
Amara fishes a fob out from under one of the pots. She holds it up triumphantly. “We’re in!”
I frown. I get what Mr. Khan is saying. Amara needs to process what’s happened to Vivienne. But selfishly, a part of me doesn’t want her thinking about it too much, as her anger toward me will probably flood back with a vengeance if she does.
Amara opens the door. “It might be a bit musty,” she says apologetically.
Mr. Khan and I follow her in. The carriage house is surprisingly roomy inside, with a full kitchen and living area. There’s a narrow, steep staircase toward the back that leads to a loft area where, I imagine, there is a bedroom or two.
Amara walks over to a desk, opens it, and pulls out a video watch. “Holographic,” she says with a grin. “Direct line to my dad’s emergency phone. I need to let him know I’m okay.”
Mr. Khan watches her, his eyes darkening with concern. She’s doing the humming thing again. “If you are able to connect with your father, it would be prudent for him and for us to get rid of the devices directly afterward. Perhaps it would be best to contact him when we’re ready to leave. Then we could throw the device down into the ravine.” He pauses. “And … Amara?”
“Yeah?” she says with a wide smile. She pours three glasses of water, puts them on the counter, then reaches up to take several silver packets out of a cupboard. Her T-shirt rides up, exposing the muscles of her brown abdomen. “There’s a dew harvesting system,” she says, handing us each a glass of water. “Collects the water in the morning and stores it indefinitely, for both houses.”
“You should tell your father about Vivienne, if we do connect with him. Gently, though,” Mr. Khan interjects.
A shadow flits over Amara’s face like a cloud blowing across the sun. It’s brief, though. “Oh, yes. Definitely. First, let me make us some food. Dad’s got a pretty amazing selection here. Butter chicken and jasmine rice sound good?” She’s acting more like the host of a dinner party than a wanted fugitive.
My stomach growls uneasily, despite my nausea. I’m starving. It’s been at least twenty-four hours since I’ve eaten anything. Even the cold water, which feels amazing as it flows over my parched lips, hits my belly like a ton of bricks.
Mr. Khan continues watching Amara closely as she puts on a kettle. His face is a mask of concern.
“The food is freeze-dried. Like what the astronauts and passengers to space eat,” she says, tearing open one of the shiny packets with her front teeth. As soon as she stops talking, she begins the flat, bee-like humming again.
“Why don’t you two lie down and rest for a moment while I prepare this?” Mr. Khan says, walking over to Amara. He reaches out and gently takes the packet of dried butter chicken from her hands.
Amara crumples as though she’s about to break down and cry, but she regains her composure. Plastering a bright smile across her face, she nods. “That sounds good. I’d like to just kick back for a minute and chill,” she says, walking toward the sofa. “News. Toronto and international,” she says, and one of the flat monitors attached to the wall opposite flickers on. It’s a 3-D holographic display model, so everything jumps out at us as though it’s in the room.
Amara flops onto the deep-purple faux-suede sofa, drawing her feet up and under her. She pats the cushion beside her. “Come on, Jade. You heard what the man said. Take a load off. I wasn’t sure if voice recognition would work for me here. My dad was really thinking when he set this place up. He programmed my voice into everything and probably …” She stops speaking as the news headlines come on.
Mr. Khan catches my eye. I know he no longer trusts me. That’s pretty clear. However, the look on his face tells me that he’s concerned Amara is losing her mind.
I fully share his concern.
I sit down beside Amara to watch the news. I’m a bit afraid how she’ll react if I don’t. She’s still humming with that strange smile on her face.
“A lot of very bad things are happening today,” she says as our pictures, along with those of Vivienne, Lily, Cassandra, and Jasmine flash up.
“That’s an understatement,” I murmur back.
Each holographic image slowly spins a full 360 degrees. It’s really jarring to watch my own profile. I turn away until the segment is done.
Amara seems to show no recognition of the fact that that’s us on the screen and that we’re being shown to help the public identify and report us as soon as we’re spotted. The journalist is warning people not to approach us, especially if we are in pairs or a group, and that we’re extremely dangerous members of the CCT responsible for the murders of millions of people in the water poisoning.
Images flash up of bodies covered by sheets and of families crying, some of them holding dead or dying children. The children convulse in their parents’ arms, white and pink foam spilling from their lips. A weeping first responder clings to his colleague.
We’re dead women walking, I think. With this kind of reporting, Smith won’t have a chance to get her claws into us. Members of the public will do the job for her. And I suspect their ferocity when doing so will be off the charts.
Then we see Mayor Smith on camera, her jaw muscles clenched tightly, a deadly serious look on her face. Her cropped hair is now a deep blue-black colour. The contrast with her porcelain-white skin makes her look even more severe than ever. I suspect she wants it that way.
“We are facing an unprecedented threat to our city and beyond. The CCT has, in the past, been ruthless, but the training and manipulation of girls to become cold-blooded mass murderers is a new and dangerous low. These girls are barely into their teens and may appear innocent; however, they are trained killers and must not be approached under any circumstances. This is particularly true of Jasmine Guzman, who we suspect is the ringleader of the group. This young woman deceived me and infiltrated my government in order to further her terrorist aims.” Smith raises a fist in the air, the muscles in her neck straining against her skin. “I will, on behalf of the Torontonians in my care, impose the death penalty without mercy.”
As if on cue, two heavily armed anti-terrorism officers enter the broadcast as Smith punches the air. They’re leading two hooded and handcuffed figures. One struggles defiantly. Even before the hood covering her head is torn off, I recognize that it is Eva. Her eyes are wild, and the scars along the side of her head won’t help the public’s perception of her — and of us. But if she’s scared, she’s not showing it. Taylor Moore’s face is revealed seconds later. He looks as terrified as a deer in headlights.
“Tomorrow night, these two CCT terrorists will pay the ultimate price for their murderous ways, and thus, will serve as an example of what happens when you commit treason in Toronto, or anywhere else in Canada, for that matter,” Smith says, her eyes narrowing into tiny slits while the camera pans in for a close-up. “Their executions will take place in Dundas Square tomorrow at seven p.m. sharp, and they will be live
-streamed internationally.”
JASMINE
The white car sits by the curb, quietly idling. It’s easy to spot, just as Vashti said it would be. Lily and I move into the back seat. Cool air bathes my face as we enter the car. It’s a great surprise. Even in electric cars, air conditioning is a rare occurrence these days.
“Welcome,” a very calm-sounding female voice says. “Please press your fingertips against the display in front of you, and then we will be on our way to your destination.”
Lily raises an eyebrow at me. “I hope we can trust Vashti,” she says nervously.
I understand her anxiety. If we follow the AI’s instructions, we’ll be totally leaving our details here to be easily traced. Thing is, we don’t really have a choice. And Clarence and Vashti have kept us safe this far. Not only that, Cassandra’s survival depends on that trust, as well as some really good medical help.
“We don’t have a choice,” I say, pressing the fleshy pads of my fingertips against the monitor.
“Fingerprint identification registered,” the voice says as the engine jumps to life. The car slides out, silent as a cat, into the darkness of the early evening.
“How do you think the car recognized your fingerprints?” Lily asks. “Wouldn’t that information have to have been programmed in?”
“Yeah, I’d think so,” I say. It’s not like I know a ton about the technology. My mind races back through the last few hours. “The only time we’d have left any fingerprints behind was on the mugs, when we were having tea. Our fingerprints could’ve been scanned from those, I suppose.”
“Then we’re already traceable, I guess,” she sighs. “It seems risky.”
We ride in silence for the next few minutes. I stare out the tinted windows at London. We pass roads riddled with people, pubs, and corner shops. It all looks about the same until we move toward a bridge, and suddenly the river, Big Ben, and the parliament buildings around it appear. The buildings are illuminated, making them sparkle like jewels.
Darkness Rising Page 7