Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

He worked the belt buckle, but it was a “friction style,” Dad called it, with a post that tightened the belt against the back of the buckle. He liked it because they’d found it in an army surplus store-a real army belt-but he could never get it undone. After a few seconds of frustrated tugging, Tyler decided walking quietly at least got him moving, and he padded up the steps, past the shoes and socks he and Dad had left behind.

Following their plan, Phin had scrambled through the smoldering hole where the monastery’s gates stood thirty seconds before and hooked right into the compound. He’d seen Nevaeh’s invisible body float through the plumes of dust and smoke, like a bubble in champagne, beelining into the heart of the monastery. Ben would be moving left, all three of them pushing back toward the rear of the mini-city in search of their prey.

Phin ran on light feet, his right hand at his hip, ready to whip his sword from the suit’s thigh pocket. He felt for the MP3 player in his pocket and cranked up the volume. A symphony of percussion instruments-chief among them kettle drums and an insistent, rhythmic gong-slammed his eardrums at a rate of 200 beats per minute. His heart raced to catch up, feeling as though it possibly could. As often as he’d done this-hunted, killed-it never lost its high. The smell of blood helped. True, what he’d told the others, that its odor instilled fear and panic in those whose nostrils it reached, but more so it excited him as it did any wild beast: an olfactory cue to become stealthy, agile, ruthless.

He took a big whiff, disappointed that the mask caused his breath to dilute the fragrance, and sprinted past the Well of Moses toward the northwest wall. That would take him past the guest quarters, into a tunnel, and right to the big structure along the rear wall that the monks called the Southwest Range Building. Toby had reported that Creed had entered the structure through an emergency door, and it was there that he expected to find his prey. The building was large, with numerous rooms, and housed many of the monks, who were now in protection mode.

Phin had turned between the wall and the corner of a building when a light washed over him from behind. A monk wielding a heavy walking stick was standing in the doorway of a small homey structure. He pulled the door shut and rushed toward Phin, who had his sword half out before remembering that the monk could not see him. He released the blade and pushed back against the wall.

As the monk approached, Phin saw that the “walking stick” was in fact a shotgun. Of course they would be armed; protecting the likes of Creed was their sworn duty, and that aside, the brotherhood here hadn’t survived sixteen centuries by merely throwing prayers at their attackers. Over the years, they’d been known to pour boiling oil over enemies at the gate, conduct sophisticated bow-and-arrow defenses, and even sneak outside to kidnap the kings of besieging armies. They adhered to a doctrine in which God expected ferocity of body as well as gentleness of spirit. The time for beating swords into ploughshares had not yet arrived; these monks-and Phin too-believed the era would be ushered in by the godly, and without the occasional use of the sword, the godly would be Abel to the rest of the world’s Cain.

Bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, he pushed a button through the suit, stopping the music, and prepared to spring. He’d shove the monk face-first into the wall and find out where they were keeping Creed. Didn’t matter that the man would surely resist divulging the location; Phin knew techniques involving eye sockets, genitals, and the brittle joints of fingers that coud pry information from the tightest lips.

Someone yelled, snapping his attention away from the monk. A woman was standing on the third-floor terrace of the guest quarters, leaning over the railing.

Phin let the monk hurry past him.

“Tyler!” the woman yelled again. She was closer than Phin to the Southwest Range Building. If she came down to ground level, he’d have to pass her.

Someone responded in a loud whisper: “No… Beth, shhh!”

Phin followed the woman’s gaze and saw a man on the roof of a building across from her. He was patting the air with one hand, signaling her to be quiet. Other voices sprang up around the compound, queries and commands, but they didn’t seem to bother the guy. He said, “Tyler’s safe. Don’t call him. Go back inside until I come.”

“But-” the woman started.

“Beth! Please!”

Listen to him, Beth, Phin thought. You don’t want to be out here.

She looked around and slowly moved into the building behind her. The light from her room disappeared with the click of a door. The man waited a few seconds, then turned and vanished.

Phin ran to catch up to the monk.

Tyler paused on a landing halfway up to the rooftops. Continuing up would take him the way he and Dad had come, which meant passing the apartment and doubling back through the center of the compound. Instead, he took a different flight of steps down into an alley. It was dark, but he knew the route home: straight to the back corner of the compound, where the Southwest Range Building met the building that housed the guest quarters. Their apartment and the stairs leading to it were at the opposite end of this building. A tunnel ran its length; the left side was lined with the doors to the first-floor rooms. It opened up into a small courtyard, where he’d also find the stairs leading to their third-level apartment.

As he moved through the black alley, running his hand along one wall, he forced himself to think not of the sharp yells and pounding feet or the explosion and whatever had come into the monastery, but only of the way home: Straight to the three-way intersection… turn right into the tunnel… courtyard… stairs… home.. Mom.

Directly ahead, the intersection glowed dimly. He pictured the source of the light: after about ten feet or so, the tunnel to the left ended in a door to a monk’s cell. Beside the door was a narrow, curtained window-curtained, he knew, because he had tried to peer in many times. The light must be coming from the window.

Footsteps echoed out of the tunnel, growing louder. Tyler stopped and pushed himself against the wall. A figure flashed past, heading for the room. Bushy beard, wild hair, black habit-one of the monks. He continued forward and was about to call out when something stopped him: a flickering shadow that was not quite a shadow; it sparkled, just a few pinpricks of bright light, there and gone. He squinted but saw nothing other than the heavily mortared wall of the tunnel.

A rap sounded-a code upon the door: a single knock, three fast ones, two more.

Bolts rattled and the door creaked open, spilling bright light into the intersection. Still, no more shadows, no more sparkles. Then, as the closing door pinched off the light, something glistened. Tyler gasped as a sword appeared, growing long and floating in midair at the center of the intersection. Above it, two eyes were glaring at him, and he slapped both hands over his mouth just in time to catch his scream.

Phin stared at the kid, mostly obscured by shadow, but obviously terrified. He chuckled quietly, and the boy’s eyes grew even larger. He waved his sword, shooing the kid away. The boy backed up, taking two steps before tripping and sitting down hard, causing something to rattle, as though his butt were made out of Legos.

Phin almost laughed again, but dancing shadows drew his attention to the window, where a face was pressed against the glass. Phin closed his eyes and slowly twisted the sword so its thin edge faced the viewer. When he looked again, only swaying curtains moved behind the window.