The Spears of Laconia (Purge of Babylon, Book 7) (25 page)

He moved further inland, always aware of the gradual rise in temperature against his skin, the promise of sunrise like a hand from the past reaching out to take hold of him. So he ran faster, aware that he was abandoning Keo and the woman, and leaving behind his need to see
her
again.

But he had to, because out there, somewhere, was an army. And if he could find it, take control of it, wield it against Mabry…

“You’re grasping at straws,”
Mabry had said.

Maybe, maybe…

He didn’t get tired easily these days, so he was able to slip and dodge and dart through buildings, alleyways, and wide-open fields. He bided his time when he needed to and called forth speed when it served him. He lost count of how many empty houses he had passed, the endless empty stretches of roads covered by never-ending clusters of vehicles. He would have avoided the cities entirely if he could, but that required too much time, and he had little to waste.

The sounds of the warplanes from the past echoed inside his head as he ran. Another time, another place. A lot of sand and blood and fire…

He pulled himself back to the present as a horde of black eyes stampeded across a flat and empty field. There, the red walls and angled roofs of a barn. The front alley doors were sealed tight, so he ignored them and jumped instead, grabbing the awning and swinging himself up and over and through an open loft door.

He landed in old bales of hay and watched the creatures racing by under the moonlight. A few hundred, which could only mean a search party. How many more were out there right now, scouring the land for him? Did Mabry know he was nearby? Had he allowed the walls in his mind to slip—

Click!

A small figure, partially shrouded in shadows, stood between two molding bales of hay. Fragile hands trembled as they held onto a silver-chromed revolver that was pointed at him, pale lips parting and closing involuntarily, a small heartbeat rapidly increasing every half second as she exposed herself.

He looked past the dirty pants and sweater and recognized a stick-thin form underneath. Malnourished, the stink of urine and fecal matter oozing from every inch of her, making her nearly impossible to distinguish from the natural decay of the barn.

A second figure, smaller than the first, peeked out from the back. A boy, shaggy hair covered in dirt and straws; like the older one, he had the stink of the building all over him. The two of them were a sorry sight, and he felt something that might have been pity even as the silver that made up the weapon tickled the back of his brain.

“Shoot it!” the boy whispered.

“Shhh!” the girl said. “Stay back like I told you!”

But the boy didn’t go back. Instead, he clutched a rusted steak knife almost as big as his entire arm in both hands. The sharp edge was dull but the metal gleamed in the darkness anyway, dangerous enough for a normal human being, but not to him at the moment. Not at this distance, anyway.

The girl cocked her head, staring at him from across the loft, trying to get a good look at him through the remains of the hoodie over his head. She had dark brown eyes, and they were drawn irresistibly to the pulsating blue of his own. He looked away, back out the doors as the last of the ghouls disappeared into the moonlight.

Crunch-crunch
as the girl took a step, then another one, toward him. Perhaps to get a better look at his face, or to make an easier shot. Sweat trailed down her temple despite the cold night air. She wasn’t wearing shoes, and he smelled fresh packed dirt around her toes. The small, barely noticeable squeeze as her finger tightened, tightened against the trigger.

Could she make the shot? Unlikely, given how badly she was shaking, but all it would take was one lucky round. Of course, he could avoid it easily. All he had to do was snap her neck—

No. Not that way.

He stared back at the girl. “Don’t,” he hissed.

Confusion swept across her dirty face. Long, stringy brown hair drooped over her eyes, and the gun continued to tremble slightly in her hands.

In the back, the boy leaned out of the shadows, dull knife ready.

“They’ll hear you,” he said to the girl, “and come back. Do you understand?”

Her eyes darted to the loft opening, then back to him. Did she believe him? Maybe. Was that why she and the boy were hiding? Had they seen the ghouls streaming across the fields earlier, even before he did? Or was this their home? Did they live here in the barn?

“Understand?” he asked.

Finally, she nodded, and he sensed hesitation as the gun lowered. Not much, just half an inch, but it was enough. Even better, her finger eased back on the trigger.

“Good,” he said.

“What
are
you, mister?” the girl asked, cocking her head, still trying to get a better look at him under the hoodie.

When he didn’t respond, the girl said, “Mister? Are you…?”

“Hide,” he said.

“Emmy?” the little boy whispered from the back of the loft. “What’s happening?”

“Shhh!” Emmy snapped back at him.

She was turned around facing the boy when he leaped outside, landed on the ground, and ran off. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t stop the girl’s voice from echoing over and over inside his head.

“What
are
you, mister?”
she had asked.

He slipped into a patch of woods and skirted around a pair of dead cities, racing against the night, trying to outdistance the coming morning. Never tiring, never sweating, never slowing down.

Out there, somewhere, someone was bringing the war to Mabry’s doorsteps. Someone who wasn’t afraid, who had a plan. Someone with planes and bombs, and maybe even an army at his disposal.

He pushed through the brush and emerged out onto the side of a highway next to a town still filled with the smell of death and destruction, of gunpowder and explosive residue. The streets were once filled with bodies, but they had been taken away; the ones buried under rubble had also been dug up.

He ran across the remains of homes and buildings, and all the while, the girl’s voice echoed in his head:

“What
are
you, mister?”

*

He smelled the
sweat under their clothes before he even heard or saw them: two soldiers perched in a pair of trees wearing black clothing and black paint over their faces. Almost invisible against the night. Almost. They cradled weapons attached with long suppressors in case they needed to fire them.

And something else. He had detected a trace of it earlier, but wasn’t sure. Now, closer, he was certain.

Silver bullets.

Their weapons’ magazines were loaded with silver bullets. He tasted the bitter metal against the tip of his tongue and swallowed it down, then made no sounds as he moved under them. They never saw him—never heard or smelled or felt him. The woods hid his presence, the heat and cold emanating from his pores indistinguishable against the chilly air.

He picked up the familiar scent of fresh gasoline that he had been tracking for the last hour. They had abandoned the roads and picked their way here, where he found the barely day-old tire tracks in the ground. The vehicles were hidden now, their engines cold and undetectable against the pulse of the night. They had picked wisely, hiding in a part of the world that humans had abandoned years ago and the black eyes had stopped searching months earlier.

Except it was nearly impossible for his heightened senses to ignore the combined heat radiating from their bodies. They were pressed against each other, finding strength and comfort in accidental contacts, the quickening heartbeats of so many people crammed into a couple of old abandoned buildings like jackhammers.

He sniffed the men on the rooftops. Multiple snipers, gripping recently oiled machine guns. A couple were dozing off, but more than enough were still awake, jacked up with the help of chemicals.

Again, the metallic taste of silver bullets bit against his tongue.

They had so much silver. Not just on them, but also inside the buildings, in the crates piled in the backs of their vehicles. They were well-organized, well-prepared. Was he really looking at an army?

“You’re grasping at straws,”
Mabry had said.

Maybe, maybe…

He looked back into the woods. He could still smell them, the two brave souls watching the perimeter behind him.

Maybe they would have some answers.

*

The older of
the two men almost managed to pull the trigger in time. Almost. There was a second of hesitation—which was all he needed to grab the younger man’s weapon—and he pulled, sending the soldier flailing to the ground below.

Before the older man could lift his rifle to fire, he leaped across the open space and smashed the man’s head into the tree trunk. The resulting
crunch!
caused him a second of remorse, but he pushed it aside as the body disappeared into a bush below.

He leaped down soundlessly and stalked toward the first man, who was scrambling for his holstered sidearm but finding it slippery. There was no suppressor on the gun, but the man either didn’t notice or was too frightened to think of the consequences.

He batted the gun away just as the man managed to lift it, and the weapon disappeared into the grass. He’d heard the
crack
as the soldier’s wrist broke, and before the man could open his mouth to scream, he placed a hand over it. Pale gray eyes flew wide, but pain or not, the man had enough remaining sense of self-preservation to reach down with his other hand for the handle of his sheathed knife.

The silver coating on the blade made his skin crawl, but he ignored it and grabbed the soldier’s hand as he lifted the knife and twisted—not too hard this time, just enough to force the man to let go of the weapon. The figure underneath him thrashed, terror washing over his painted face. Unlike the girl at the loft, the soldier could see him clearly for what he was—the icy blue of his eyes under the hoodie, the impossible cold and heat that oozed from every pore of his flesh.

“Shhh,” he hissed, putting one finger to his lips.

The soldier went still, the horror in his eyes giving way to confusion.

“Don’t scream,” he hissed.

The smell of urine leaked through the man’s thermal clothing, but the soldier might not even realized what he had done.

“Scream, and you’ll die,” he hissed. “Scream, and the others will die. You’ll bring death on them. The others, like me, in the woods around you. Do you understand?”

The soldier was no fool and he understood, going perfectly still as a result. But the gray eyes continued to stare, unable to pull away from the dark face hiding underneath the frayed fabric of the hoodie.

He removed his hand.

“What
are
you?” the soldier said, the three words coming out in a breathless whisper that formed clouds of mist between them.

“Shhh,” he said, staring back at the man under him. “This might hurt a little, but I have to know.”

“Know what?” the soldier said, fear flickering back across his face.

“Everything,” he said, placing one hand on the soldier’s forehead and leaning in closer.

*