The Risen Series | Book 5 | Defiance

by Crow, Marie F.

  Marigold has stopped her banshee screams. She’s inching her way towards Leigh while her eyes watch those around her, but her destruction isn’t over yet. I should have stopped her. I should have reached out and ended the woman who has lived for the deaths of those who thought she was keeping them safe, curing them. I was too busy keeping Rhett from stirring the watching demons who were waiting for their own signal to attack. I was too focused on talking down the man who held me when I thought my world was over. I forgot the depths grief can drag you to and the actions that can be made rational when pain is the only feeling left to someone. Marigold is about to remind me.

  Somewhere along Marigold’s timeline of dementia, she had the thought process of a fail-safe. There was a time when Marigold saw her little pets as something dangerous, when she viewed her experiments as just that, experiments and not the precious adopted children her mind has made them.

  “I’ll start, again,” I hear her say, torment and regret coloring her words. “I can build, again.”

  Aimes has already scooped up April, clinging to her when she hears Marigold. Aimes is standing next to an air vent, staring at it in confusion while the rest of us watch Leigh and Marigold calmly leave the room. They, too, don’t want to start the frenzy which will happen should the children be prompted to attack.

  “We’re just letting them leave?” Rhett asks, between his clenched teeth. “After what she’s done, we are just going to watch her walk out?”

  Dozens of sets of eyes swing towards him. Some of the children retreat to the darker corners of their prisons. Some inch towards the light, ready to defend themselves, or just ready for whatever comes next.

  “For now,” I tell him in a sing-song style, trying to edge back the beasts watching us.

  “Hey guys,” Aimes calls to us. “I think we should get out, like now.”

  Rhett storms towards Aimes and the group waiting by the door. He holds open what is left of it watching the two women retreat down the hallway with eyes so hate-filled it scares me. No one says a thing, as we sneak past the open cages, grateful they haven’t tried to test the metal doors swaying as we pass them.

  I’m the last one in the room when I catch the smell in the air Aimes had noticed. It’s faint, barely there until I moved towards it, but it’s there, hovering around me like a thick cloud. There’s a moment when I place the smell. My mind travels to the old stove my grandmother had in her home. The little blue flame dances in my memory with a warning, but it’s too late. The last sight I see of Leigh before she finishes ascending the ladder is a matchbook, roaring with life, she throws into the vent beside her.

  The heat is instant, knocking me onto my back and scattered those around me like abandoned toys with the explosion. Flames climb the walls, fed by the gas being pumped around them. Pieces of paper dance in the air like fireflies at a summer cookout. My dazed mind finds it all fascinating as it buzzes in tune with the summertime bugs.

  Those around me begin to move, shuffling and testing their bodies. Moaning softly, I echo the sounds around me when I try to stand. My legs are weak, fighting against my commands to move and check on those still laying around me.

  Paula has pulled herself to her knees, but that’s as far as her body will move. I can see the blood in her hairline, flowing down her ashen face. She blinks through it, asking me something, but I can’t hear her. Peyton crawls to her, using his strength to lift not only himself, but also her to their feet. Collin has already stood, carrying the weight of the limp body of Genny in his arms towards the hallway. Peyton is motioning to me. Something behind me has him frantic.

  My body is moving too slow. The stiches on my shoulder have ripped, torn the flesh they were meant to hold together. The whole arm hangs limply, slapping against my side as I try to move towards them. It should hurt. It doesn’t. Nothing hurts.

  I almost giggle watching it swing loosely in my dark blue sweatshirt, but as I’m watching my fingers, little feet come into my vision. Someone is standing directly beside me, shadowed by my body. My altered mind thinks it’s April for a moment, but I know she has shoes, little boots so like my own which Aimes found for her. This isn’t April’s foot standing so close to me.

  Petyon is shouting again, a slow slur of excitement as my brain tries to catch up to my surroundings. I want to calm him, assure him it’s not April. April is safe. As he hands the wounded Paula off to Dolph, he rushes towards me and I make the mistake I knew was coming when I said ‘goodbye’ to Lawless.

  I promised my soul for his. I prayed, if someone was listening, to save him. Turns out, you never really know who is listening, but someone was, and the deal was accepted.

  Chapter 37

  I stumble backwards, tripping, startled by Peyton rushing towards me. His hands are outstretched, screaming my name, but I fall into the waiting arms of Marigold’s trinkets before my fingers can reach his.

  The explosion had rocked the room, casting the cages from their secure perches. With their cells broken, the ones who survive crawl free, not feeling the damage it has caused their small frames. Some of the children have caught fire. The flames dance along their numb bodies, following the trail of their clothing and hair. Some were thrown free, shattering their skulls so their bones are uneven, taking the soft flesh of their faces with the impact. Eyes swing free from their once tight sockets, hanging on with the cord of muscles fighting to keep them attached. I’m staring up at a collection of nightmares who stare at me with eyes of a starved hostage.

  They descend upon me without a sound. There was no reason for their sudden flurry of attacks. As if of one mind, they move at once latching their teeth through my thick sweatshirt, trying to find the soft meat they crave. Raising my only arm which works, I try to fend them off, pushing their faces from my neck. There’s so many of them, as I fight off one, others fall into the space.

  My lungs fill with the scent of their deaths and the deaths they wear. I gasp against it, fighting for the air to scream from their assaults. They are sitting on me, pulling along the clothing I wear to expose my flesh. Their small hands flutter along my stomach and I know soon the still healing flesh will be their easy access, their gateway into my core of sticky sweet treats.

  Peyton is still screaming my name over their howls of frustration. Strong hands clamp around my ankles. I kick at them in my panic, but they don’t relent. Instead, they pull me towards them, sliding me along the floor and out from under the enraged descendants of Marigold’s madness.

  “Stop!” Peyton barks at me, yanking me to my feet.

  He’s pulling me, shoving me, anything to get me moving before the children form a second plan. There’s no door to seal them behind. There’s nothing to trap them, nowhere to hide from them, or escape them.

  Peyton and I are walking backwards, watching them mimic our slow steps amid the burning room. Their broken bodies are starting to betray them. Their frail bones may be broken, but their distorted minds don’t feel the legs they are dragging. They don’t register the broken backs which have them dragging their torsos to keep up with their class. Having been locked in those cages for so long, the only thing their minds care about is the scent of blood twirling around us.

  I try to turn my head to see who is in the hallway where we are leading this macabre parade. My neck is stiff, screaming from the pain shooting along my spine. Marxx’s arm is extend from above, hauling the people Rhett helps to climb the ladder. Rhett is blistered, almost raw from where he was caught in the crossfire of the rooms when the flames burst through. He winces, crying out with every movement, but he presses through the pain.

  “Hurry,” I call to him, leading this dance of death with a slow pace to buy them more time.

  I’m almost to them when I hear a small voice call to me.

  “Please don’t leave me!” Wren calls from the corner of the room beside me.

  She’s trapped behind a metal cabinet. Mimicking a deep wound, it has fallen, pouring the many papers it once held along the floor.
The papers smoke with their edges flickering to life from where the fire has consumed them. Any moment, those scattered stacks will catch, sending everything in that room into flames.

  “You have to be fucking kidding me,” are the words I hear myself mutter. “Get out here.” I’m whispering my urgency with a smile, trying to lull the monsters plotting against me.

  “I can’t.” Wren is crying in her fear. Tears are suspended on her pointed chin before being released to her clothes. “My ankle hurts.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Peyton mimics my earlier statement.

  Despite the circumstances, I laugh quietly upon hearing him say such a word. Peyton has always kept a tight grasp on his anger, letting petty be our ride. The children flash faces of confusion hearing my sound. It resets their minds, and their bodies hesitate with the new information they have sent it.

  “Get her,” I hiss at Peyton with the small army no longer creeping towards us. “Be quick!”

  Peyton doesn’t argue with me. Even he has learned it’s pointless, or maybe he’s just happy to no longer be in the direct line of a potential massacre. Either way, I’m left alone now to keep the gaze of fifteen cannibals.

  Their eyes, with their unsettling colors, watch Peyton’s disappearance. A few even try to tilt their bodies to watch him, keeping track of their meal. Most just swing those deadly eyes back to me, waiting to see what I am going to do, bracing what they can of their body in either defense or attack for what is happening.

  Peyton isn’t discreet with his rescue. Metal clangs, rolling their eyes to the sounds and back again. Their concerns over losing their first live meal is causing them to grow anxious. Soft sounds of protest bubble from their throats, growing louder as each of them join the chorus. We are running out of time.

  “Peyton,” I whisper to him, urgency rocking each syllable of his name.

  “I’m here.” Peyton stands beside me, looking lost at what to do next.

  Wren is hiccupping with her sobs. She clings to Peyton’s neck like it’s the last thing to keep her from drowning. She’s right because the sight of her has triggered their programmed minds. Wren means it’s time to eat.

  Their focus is completely on Peyton and he knows it. Time slows again when he looks to me. His face is settled, peaceful with the decisions he is about to make, and I can feel my heart start to break.

  There is barely enough time for me to run to where Marxx and Rhett have lifted the last to safety. Sliding along the stone floor, I turn my body to take Wren from Peyton, to add her to the strong arms of Rhett to lift to the waiting Marxx. Peyton never made it.

  With Wren secure in my one working arm, they overtook him, pulling him under their waves of manslaughter. Long nails are used as talons, securing into the meat of his back. I can hear the ripping of his shirt blending with the tearing of thicker things. Faces dive into the red widths of his body they have created, chewing and slurping with pure abandonment, pure joy. Their eyes close with their meal, rejoicing in what his screams mean, having been starved and forsaken for so long.

  “Helena!” Rhett is holding his hand out to me, trying to guide me away from the same ledge he was standing on moments ago.

  I should run from this damned place. I should look away and just be thankful it’s not me, like so many others would right now. I’m not others. I’m Helena Hawthorn, and I know exactly what that means now.

  Rhett’s gun is hanging from the waistband where he keeps it tucked. The black metal winks at me, ready to follow me down into the self-destruction I’ve branded as my own. Rhett figures out what I am about to do, and he doesn’t bother to talk me out of it. He climbs the ladder halfway, tossing me his gun and waiting for me to chase away my demons, to purge myself of the ghosts who dance around me.

  I turned my back on a little girl in hallway once before. I left her to their feast with my fears and shaking mind, lost in what was happening at that time. I tossed a little boy into a closet, deluding myself he would be safe. I left a man who only wanted to save me, time and time again, to their sharp teeth and bone crushing hunger. I’m not doing it, again.

  I’ve gotten better since that day in the rest center. The recoil doesn’t shock me anymore, bouncing my shots wide. The weight doesn’t feel heavy, pulling my aim off to one side or the other. The trigger is smooth, easy as death.

  I don’t aim for the carnage-covered children. They aren’t the ones suffering. Being children, their buffet will take hours to kill Peyton. He won’t even bleed out, escaping into shock before they reach their desired prizes. I tell myself, the last part of my sane self, I’m doing him a favor. My breath catches with the shot, ending his screaming and hopefully freeing him from the hell we’ve been plunged into. His blue eyes fade, and I pray for his forgiveness.

  The children are unmoved by his death. They are so absorbed in the red-black warmth on their fingers and faces, they never look up. They never see the first one of them fall. The little boy slumps into the small cavity he and another have dug from Peyton’s shoulder. His partner in excavation simply pushes him to the side, exposing the still seeping red meat they have worked to find. He doesn’t enjoy it long. He, too, falls sideways as the bullet pierces a forehead a mother must have laid a thousand kisses on once upon a time.

  It takes four deaths before the other eleven notice something is happening. Pieces of Peyton dangle from their mouths and hands when their bodies freeze, mocking the beautiful angels they were meant to be with the image. Their eyes slowly swing towards me, so slowly it’s almost maddening, making me the target of their attention, once more.

  They stand to their full height, keeping their arms locked in their feeding positions. Turning like robots, programed for one mission, they start their march towards me. There will be no stopping them this time.

  “I’d shoot faster,” Rhett chimes in his useful advice.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, and do as he suggests.

  There was a time when watching these small victims fall would have shredded my worn-thin heart. As I finally lay these tortured toys to rest, I only see Peyton. I stare into his cold blue eyes which held such a warmth for life. I see what they have done to him, and whereas a part of me knows they aren’t fully to blame, I have no shame in hating them.

  The clip clicks empty as the last two children smile. The girl’s brown hair is tinted where the ends have become black with blood, painting her pink shirt as if they were brushes of an abstract artist. The little boy was once the very picture of a father’s joy. He even still wears his baseball jersey with the number proudly flaunted in the corner. They should be chasing each other on a playground, not rushing towards me, breaking the frail bones of those they have lived beside for who knows how long in metal cages of a decaying zoo.

  With only one arm of use, I slide up the ladder, pressing my back to it for gravity. Spinning the gun to use it as a blunt weapon, I wait for these two. I wait for them to reach me, calming my racing mind from the panic which swells inside me.

  When the girl trips, lodging her ruined tennis shoe into the ribcage of girl her own age, she is slowed. She screams with her rage and impatience when the boy arrives to the ladder first.

  He reaches for me. His mouth is as open as his hands, both eager to feel my blood upon them. His ruby-stained lips pull back to expose his tiny teeth, and still I wait. I wait until his hands secure themselves in the tight denim fabric of my jeans. His fists squeeze tight, making the skin scream with the bruises I am sure he is leaving upon my calves, and I still wait.

  Leaning his head down to my legs, he exposes the back of his auburn hair covered scalp. I finally bring the weight of the black gun down upon him. The first swing stuns him, fracturing the bones protecting him. My rage provides enough strength for the second to break them, but it’s my third swing which sends the broken pieces into the soft matter underneath them. Drowning in rage and desperation, I don’t count the rest of the swings, melting his skull to something soft and spoiled like rotte
n fruit.

  Marigold was correct in some regards. Her little projects have achieved her goals of humanity and this one must have been one of the three Wren warned us about. The little girl isn’t screaming, anymore. She’s almost transformed into a face of something innocent when she realizes she’s the only one left. Her slowed mind has her looking around, trying to form an answer for what has happened. She’s lost, like a child waking up from a nightmare. She turns to me with sad eyes. A tear falls, cleaning away a path of murder along her jawline. I watch as that tear cleans her sins away.

  “Mommy?” her torn voice asks, and then I watch as her body bounces from Marxx’s gun.

  Her pink shirt blooms in shades of dark flowers, a deeper pastel covers her torso when her body goes limp. She floats to the floor, bouncing one last time when she lands amid the rest of her ruined friends and the still bleeding body of Peyton, and I scream.

  I scream with my grief. I scream with my rage. I scream with the sounds of a little girl crying for her mother in my mind. I think back to Margaret and the pile of bodies I had left there; all those little children, just like this girl, who in their final moments, just wanted their parents.

  “You done?” Rhett asks. He’s gentle with his words, but harsh with his question.

  We are all screaming in some way. Our bodies beg us for rest. Our souls are overloaded with grief, and I get to tell Genny, she’s lost another. It never gets easier, I had told her. I wish I had lied.

  Chapter 38

  Lawless is pale. His skin ashen with a grey cast to his color, but he is alive. Marigold had forgotten about him in her escape with Leigh. It was Lawless who crawled over to unlock the hatch, letting Marxx out when he began to bang on the rough wood.

  While I cleaned the mess Marigold left for us, Paula had recovered enough to tend to his shoulder. She’s tied a sling around his arm, forcing him to keep the shoulder immobile with the many layers of packed cloth she’s stuck in the hole. She joked it would be refreshing to be stitching someone else for a change. Until she saw me. Now, she’s mentally counting how many supplies she has left available at the fort.