When the Villian Comes Home Page 9

  Then I was dragged inside through an archway. Screams of the living punctuated the darkness ahead, along with thunderous echoes. A smell like the inside of a crematorium, and then someone yelled, “To the choppers, now! It’s lost, it’s lost!”

  I was dropped, only to be picked up by new hands, and when those fell others stepped in. They had purpose but moved like a colony of ants, directed by nature and yet it seemed they were controlled. And then I heard it, a dull buzzing, a hum in my head that wasn’t there before. And if I focused I could hear…voices.

  We came inside a familiar grand chamber, approaching the staircase. The majestically winding, wall-hugging marble stairs that forever spiraled in my memories. They took me up and I struggled, calling out that I could walk well enough by myself. I was healing, good enough now to rise, but they had me in their iron grips.

  So we ascended. And on one pass I was able to glimpse out the window as we rose. And I wished I had kept my eyes shut, rather than glimpse straight into one of Dante’s macabre visions, a hell with bodies aflame and packs of undead dragging the living out and devouring them like savage wolves.

  I looked away, back down the stairs, and I saw a legion of reanimated corpses following up behind us. And behind them, coming through the arched doorway, another figure dressed all in black. Scorched hair, the left side of her face—turned toward me—completely burned away to expose the bone below. A single jade eye found me, and half a smile emerged.

  5

  At the top, surrounded by equipment both familiar and oddly baffling, I was brought to a windowed parapet and then released and allowed to move freely, to gaze out the balcony where I had once stood amidst a raging thunderstorm, waiting for the rebirth of my bride.

  I heard that awful rumbling of the flying beasts and saw them take flight from the roof above. Three of them, with sleek tails and fat bodies, rising into the sky and banking westward. But then I saw concentrated movement on the ground, past the ring of fire surging in the moat directly below. A huge wooden contraption wheeled into position, and a swarm of bodies heaved a boulder into place; they stepped back and without a pause, it flew skyward in a great arc.

  One of the birds attempted to dodge the incoming threat, but too late. The missile slammed into its side, rocked it around and shattered its hull. Two flailing bodies fell out before the whole contraption nose-dived, spilling fire and smoke. It slammed into the wheat field, morphing into a kaleidoscopic fireball that burned briefly, then gave way to tendrils of angry smoke.

  Below, my brethren reacted without any sign of enthusiasm. They merely watched as the other birds flew from view, then turned their rotting heads toward me.

  How does it feel?

  The voice vibrated in my head, fluently and with a grace that made me swoon and grab for the door frame. It was her—the one from the plane, the one who warned me…

  Don’t listen to me…

  I turned and she was there. Her skin blistered and blackened down the left side of her face, the barest hint of green showing through the pus around her eye. The other one blinked as she shuffled closer.

  “I can hear you,” I whispered. “In my head.”

  She nodded. And you can communicate this way too.

  I shuddered at the intimate intrusion into my thoughts, even as she shambled closer and I could see the white of her chest bones protruding through the burnt fabric of her suit. She turned slightly and offered me a view of the unblemished, undamaged side.

  Electrical impulses. Data transmitted without wires from brain to brain. We’ve adapted and improved it over the years. Quite convenient when so many of us have rotted windpipes or damaged larynxes. You can do this to, if you choose. Try it.

  “I…” My fingers found my own throat, felt the vibration as I spoke, “…do not choose to. Not yet.”

  The woman shrugged. Very well. But there is one choice left for you, one you cannot avoid.

  I heard a murmuring, a low sob of pain. She stepped aside as they brought in a man. Three revenants carried him, his feet dragging along the floor, leaving bloody trails. He was alive, but barely, and looked around with fright. His eye found me, and he gasped.

  “Prometheus! Then it’s true. It’s over.”

  The woman was at my side, her breath cold on my neck, yet still I shuddered with anticipation. Tell him, she spoke in my mind. That he’s right. All is lost.

  “Why have you spared him?”

  He is a pilot, and there is one craft left up on the roof. Release him so that he may go back to the others and give them our offer.

  “Which is?”

  If they come to us now, meek as lambs, and lay down their fire-weapons, we will make it quick.

  I swallowed hard, and felt dead eyes watching for my next move. I looked around the room and saw a backpack-like object on the floor beside an eviscerated human fighter; the device had a nozzle on the end of what looked like a musket, but with a hose.

  I turned away from the weapon and stared at the woman who had set all this in motion, she who had torn me from one home and thrust me back into another. The woman who now presented me with another impossible choice. But I needed to know, “Why me?”

  “Because you are the one they’ve sought, you are their one hope. They will keep fighting, always striving although the odds are truly impossible, always dreaming of an unattainable victory, as long as you are uncorrupted.” A ragged tongue licked the blistered portion of her lips. “You gave them hope. As long as—”

  As long as I still lived? It was my first thought, and I allowed it to escape from its personal cage, rushing free to be picked up by other receptors.

  Indeed, came her response. Her hands gently tightened, squeezing my shoulder. “But there is no need for that. Yes, we could have destroyed you, but this way is more elegant. And you can have what you always wanted.”

  I turned to her, found her gazing at me, and could not determine which of her eyes I loved more: live or dead, they were both so full of depth, emotion and beauty, each in their own way. But I remembered her question. “What have I always wanted?”

  “Revenge,” she whispered delicately, and I exhaled with relief. For if she had said the other thing, the one I had longed to hear slip from her lips—or be sent from her mind—I would have been lost.

  “On all of them,” she whispered. “The race that spurned you, hunted you, the ones who couldn’t suffer to look upon what they created. This…is your destiny. This is where you belong. End it, and end them.”

  Tell him you have chosen. Again she squeezed my arm, and her other hand found mine. Stay with us, lead us as only you can. And I will be by your side for eternity as we shape the new age.

  And there it was. What I had been waiting for, dreading and desiring all at once. I trembled, and felt tears welling in my eyes. But alongside the voice buzzing in my head, came the words, so alike and yet so impossibly different, uttered to me only short minutes ago: Don’t listen to me when I come back…

  I stared at that sad, trembling man, seeing only weakness and pain. And I swept my gaze across the others—the strong, the obedient, the never-dying, never-failing, never-doubting. The new race. My people.

  I returned the squeeze at my hand as I took a deep breath. And I gave in to the words bubbling in my heart: “I am indeed home.” Then, I thought and sent the words out: Set him free.

  The three revenants released their captive, who flopped to the ground, resting his forehead on the floor’s familiar stones. I stared at the scratching on one of the stones, and recalled my father—dragging an immense coffin-shaped machine across this very floor. The same birthing chamber where I had made my way into the world. Beyond the human captive and the three creatures was a long laboratory table, complete with more of those flat screens and some more familiar items like flasks and microscopes.

  Pulling away from my new Elizabeth, I stepped tow
ard the man. Stood over him for a moment as the others backed away, heads down as if in reverence. Perhaps it was reverence, or at least respect for their elder. Maybe I was indeed a legend, even to such as these. Either that or else just a curiosity piece.

  I took a few steps away and bent down to pick up the backpack item. I held it up, felt its heat, the liquid fire inside the canisters.

  Careful, Prometheus. It was Elizabeth’s voice. Best leave that be for now.

  Ignoring her, I slipped my arms through the straps.

  What are you doing?

  Rumbles now, from her and from the other three. I sensed confusion, a rising of alarm. But they were too slow, too interdependent on processing stimuli from multiple sources to react fast enough. And by then, it was too late.

  I stepped over the man and adjusted the weapon’s barrel in my hands as I took aim on the retreating revenants. They moaned something incomprehensible, raised their arms and may have been about to charge. I do not know, but in the next instant as I squeezed the trigger, the gout of liquid flame surged into the center one and tossed him back against the wooden door. The splashing fire caught the other two, but it didn’t matter. A slight back and forth motion, and I sprayed both of them with incinerating, cleansing fire.

  And I turned just in time to level the weapon at Elizabeth as she made to leap at me. She stopped, hands outstretched, a look of pure dismay on the clear side of her face.

  Why?

  I didn’t respond, and consciously kept my mind trapped shut. Glancing back to the door and the flaming, still twitching bodies, I knew I had bought us time. I took off the backpack and flung it out the window where it could do no further harm to either of us; then I made my way to the laboratory table. Scooping up a flask, I looked for something sharp. Rattled through the drawers and found a scalpel.

  A moment later, I was facing her as blood dripped from my slashed wrist into the flask.

  The man on the floor had risen to his knees and his bewildered face turned from her to me.

  Elizabeth blinked with her good eye, and a tear spilled out and slowly descended along her unblemished cheek. “You’re choosing them?”

  I shook my head. “I am merely giving them what they never gave me.” My wound sealed up as I corked the flask and offered my blood to the man. “Hope.”

  He took it in shaking hands, as if receiving an offering from a god. And maybe that’s what it was. At that point, I no longer cared. This wasn’t my fight, and it wasn’t my world. As he shuffled away to the upward staircase and the trap door to the roof, I turned to my new Elizabeth, took two swift steps and enclosed my arms around her.

  I sensed her confusion, her surprise, just as I sensed the multitude of voices clamoring below. The undead hordes, climbing even now, spurred on by their shared thoughts and instantaneous communication. They were coming, but they wouldn’t get in, not in time.

  “Hold,” I called to the pilot, who was nearly at the top door. And my questing fingers found the item I had hoped was still strapped to Elizabeth’s belt, the thing she had forgotten about. I snapped it free, pulled from her embrace, and aimed the pistol at her.

  What—?

  “Pilot,” I called, “you will be making an unscheduled first stop. Dropping off two passengers.” My eyes shifted and I locked him with my gaze. “And it is to never be spoken of to anyone again. Am I clear?”

  He may have nodded, but in that moment, as the thumps came at the burning door, as the mob groaned and thrust themselves against the burning wood, I stared into the eyes of my future bride, the eyes that returned my look—this time with understanding and perhaps, I hoped—even excitement.

  Let them have their hope, I thought to her. And if they succeed against what you called impossible odds, then all is as it should be. Hope in the impossible is what defined us once. It is the quality that separates our two species, and why this new creation will never ultimately prevail. It is their world, not ours. But there is somewhere, a place just the two of us may survive and even…love. For as long as we can last.

  She blinked at me, and the hint of a smile formed as she asked, Where?

  I pulled the trigger to deliver enough voltage to keep her out for the entire trip back to the arctic, to the lonely icy caverns, the howling winds and decadent auroras.

  But I know she still heard my response, clear as I could send it.

  Home.

  DAVID SAKMYSTER is an award-winning author and screenwriter who makes his home in upstate NY. His published stories and novels cross a range of genres and include: the horrifying Crescent Lake, the historical epic, Silver and Gold, and a series about psychic archaeologists, with the first two novels, The Pharos Objective and The Mongol Objective in publication and the third due out summer 2012. Next up is Blindspots, a supernatural thriller coming this fall. His screenplay, Nightwatchers, has been optioned, and he’s currently writing another screenplay to begin filming in early 2013. Visit him at www.sakmyster.com.

  HAPPILY EVER AFTER

  Marie Bilodeau

  I run into the forest, cool air burning my lungs, my feet slipping on the damp earth. The power I lost while protecting my tower cost me dearly. My mind splits in two, clarity lost with my waning strength. Part of me desperately wants to stay and fight, but visceral fear drives the now stronger, older part of me, and so I run. My muscles shrink as my tower collapses, my arms compress, filaments choking bones; bones which snap when my enemies crush my orb of power.

  I bellow in anger at the loss, my scream turning puny and frightened. I fight against him. Against Put. I am Raiser! I will not be defeated!

  I grasp my head and launch my smaller body into a tree, intent on stopping it or breaking it. The strike is weak and I am unharmed. Before I can stop myself I start to run again, away from Raiser’s tower, the fear pounding my legs into more speed.

  The trees loom around me, the evening shadows spying my every move. My legs are shorter, my body weak, my anger destroyed by fear.

  I run, shedding the last of Raiser. My breath pumps out of burning lungs and mists on my skin, the tree branches whip my face and exposed limbs, as though still seeing Raiser despite my now smaller stature.

  I stagger, fear pumping life through my aching muscles. I run until I no longer feel my legs, unable to scale even small roots and rocks. I run until my mind, emptied after shedding years of dark sorcery, shuts down.

  I collapse on the ground and I don’t even manage to twitch when birds pick at my wounds.

  5

  For days I lie there and wait for death. Living has become too difficult, too demanding. Without Raiser, I am nothing. I am…not even poetic enough to think of an interesting metaphor. Raiser could have. All that I can manage to do now is lie on the forest floor, waiting for death. The stars on the horizon flicker for a moment, washed out by smoke. It is not the dark, black smoke of Raiser’s armies, but the smoke of hearths, filled with the promise of warmth.

  Where my mind hesitates, my weary body does not and I stumble towards the hope of food and comfort.

  The forest thins around me and instincts kick in.

  I am being watched. My magic rekindles and the forest speaks to me. It tells me to fear. I stop, but the warning came too late.

  A mismatched gang of watchmen, all bearing rusty weapons, surround me. Their leader stands well over six-feet, veins bulging on his thick neck and arms. His eyes gleam with an evil as strong as his stench.

  I look up, reminded of how short I now am. The leader of the watchmen crosses his arms on his chest, over ripped clothing and ribs. There is nothing to me, save some bones and skin. My brow beads with sweat.

  “You one of ‘em?” The leader asks, bearing black teeth and gums. “You one of Raiser’s minions?”

  I shake my head, struggling for the appropriate words. What would a normal person say? What would I say, now that I am Put again?


  “You deaf?” The large man spits to the ground. “Dumb.” A large fist comes up, sending me flying against a tree. Laughter echoes through the rustling branches.

  “We don’t need your kind around here!” Large hands pull me from the tangle of branches, pinpricks of bark drawing blood. I stumble but regain my footing, break free and run back into the forest, too frightened to even draw on my magic.

  I run until their jeering is too far to hear and then I have to stop, my lungs burning and my hands shaking. I lean against a tree and try to huddle against the falling night.

  Memories flood my broken mind.

  The so-called protectors of my village surround me. They push and jeer.

  I taste blood.

  I do not dare spit it out, swallowing it instead, including a tooth. What if it angers them more? My sister comes, long hair spilling down her dress. She screams the protectors away, her face red, her lack of grace frightening.

  I run away from her, too, not wanting sympathy.

  The next morning, I awake as Raiser to a destiny so big only my now-large shoulders can bear it. I forget Put. Forget his sister. Forget his burning village.

  Until Raiser can no longer keep the enemies at bay.

  The strands of the dream vanish from my mind.

  Yet it clings to me, and my body suddenly feels foreign.

  My eyes open, confronted by darkness. My hand brushes away a stray strand of hair and I hold my breath, following the strand down, and down…my hair is long. Graceful fingers brush my face, the high, smooth-skinned cheekbones, full lips, long eyelashes. My hand travels further still, to find a body I have never known before.

  A sob of relief escapes my lips and I stand, cover my shredded clothes with my cloak, and head back towards the nearby village.