Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

And the boy was still sitting in the alley. “Go away,” Phin whispered. “The monsters are out tonight.” The kid began pushing himself back, crabbing farther into darkness.

Phin turned toward the door. He had made a quick calculation that the odds favored finding Creed by following the monk instead of torturing him for information. The guy had a gun: where else would he be heading other than to the location of the man he was attempting to protect?

Phin walked to the window but couldn’t see beyond the curtains. Faint shadows moved within. Monks’ cells were tiny, barely enough room for a bed and small dresser. He guessed that if Creed was inside, there would be no more than two, three others.

It didn’t concern him that no one stood guard outside; that would be like hanging out a neon He’s in here! sign. If they were to keep an external watch, he suspected it would be from afar: the alley where the boy was or the tunnel entrances. But Phin was invisible and he’d been fast, faster than the monks would have been getting to their posts.

He stepped in front of the door and kicked it hard. It rattled against its bolts, but didn’t open. He ducked away, crouching under the window. One of the monks inside opened fire: a blast blew a head-sized hole through the center of the door, spraying splinters into the tunnel. A second later the window blew out. Glass and bits of curtain sailed over Phin’s head. The glass played a chaotic, chimelike rhythm against the tunnel’s walls and stone floor.

Phin hopped up and kicked the door again. It crashed open, and he was in. Through a haze of smoke he quickly assessed the situation. The monk directly in front of him was busy breaking the shotgun open and fumbling to extract the spent shells. On his right, another monk was pressed into the corner, near the window. He was waving a revolver at the destroyed door like a frocked Harry Callahan, looking for something to shoot. His mouth was open and his eyelids beat like butterfly wings, probably stunned by his brother blasting out the window he was so near.

Creed sat on the bed, his back up against the wall, his own handgun leveled at the door.

Phin tossed his sword into the far corner beside the shotgun-toting monk and dropped to the floor. Dirty Harry fired two quick rounds at the sword, causing his brother to flinch away and lose a handful of shotgun shells. Creed did as Phin had expected: he began firing, panning the gun from one side of the room to the other, returning it to chest level after each recoil. He would know his attackers could be invisible.

Phin slammed his foot into Dirty Harry’s knee, snapping it backward. As the man came down, Phin grabbed the gun, twisted it out of his hand, and cracked it hard into his temple. He rolled to the monk who was stooping to pick up shotgun shells and introduced the top of the guy’s head to the butt of the handgun. He spun and hooked his arm over the bed, leveling the pistol at Creed’s eye. But he had already heard the click-click-click of Creed’s empty revolver.

Phin stood, plucking a gorget from Creed’s lap. Apparently he’d been about to clamp it around his neck when the action started. Phin tossed it away and Creed slumped, his gun hand lowering to the covers, his shoulders drooping, his chest deflating. It made Phin think of a melting ice sculpture captured with time-lapsed photography.

“Who?” Creed said. “At least tell me that.”

Phin found the switch in his cuff and turned off the suit. He peeled back his hood and facemask. He shuffled his feet in a kind of dance and threw open his arms: ta-da!

Creed nodded and glanced toward the door. “The others?”

“Nevaeh and Ben. They’re either on their way or preventing monks from reaching us.” He took in Creed’s head bandages, his pallor, the posture of a defeated man. So unlike the Creed Phin knew. Where were his strength, his militaristic demeanor? Getting away had drained him, as years spent on the front lines of many wars hadn’t done. “You look ready.”

“Aren’t you?”

Phin grinned, bobbing up and down, excited. He examined the handgun he’d taken from the monk, a Taurus Protector. “Nice gun,” he said. “I expected something about a hundred years older.” He slipped it into a pocket, then stepped over a monk to retrieve his sword. When he turned around, Creed was holding something up in his fingers, a small container with a hinged top, open now. Inside, Phin could see the microchip.

“This is what you came for,” Creed said. “Take it and go.”

Phin’s head canted to one side, as if he were examining a curiosity. “You know I can’t do that. Dude, you should have just skedaddled.” He wiggled his fingers through the air, imitating a bird. “Others have.” He nodded at the chip. “You betrayed us, man. We can’t trust you.” He stripped off one glove and reached out to take the chip in its container, but Creed closed his fist around it. He leaned forward.

“Listen,” he said, pleading, shaking his fist, “this isn’t the way. Not anymore. Times change.”

Phin laughed. “You’re not really trying to convince-”

In a flash, Creed’s legs tucked under him and he propelled himself at Phin.

Phin jumped back, simultaneously raising the blade and swinging it at Creed, severing first his hand and then his head.

At the junction of the alley and the tunnel-where he had returned on hands and knees when the gunshots had made his curiosity stronger than his fear-Tyler dropped his face into his hands. He tried to scream, but all he could do was gasp for breath. His stomach retched, and he waited for the vomit to come. But like his scream, it stayed inside. He hitched in breath after breath. He blinked, blinked, opened his eyes, and saw the detailed texture of the stones through his fingers.

His heart clenched tighter. He had crept out from the alley-not realizing it at the time, but pulled by the fascination of an invisible being suddenly taking the form of a gray-scaled Shadow Man-and when the sword had… had… he had dropped his face right then and there. So here he was, exposed in the light of the open door.

He raised his head, turtle slow, sure he’d find Shadow Man standing over him, the sword poised high like a guillotine’s blade. But Shadow Man was still in the room, his back to the door. He was working to get something into a backpack; while his shoulders seesawed up and down, his hips swayed back and forth.

The man touched his ear the way Secret Service agents do in movies and said, “I got it… Yes, Ben, I saw it, all right?” He laughed. “Oh, and I guess they’re having a two-for-one special today, because I got Creed too.” Pause. “Right. Meet you there.” He moved his finger from his ear, hefted the pack, and spoke again: “You’re welcome, buddy.”

The words confused Tyler, but then another assault on his mind pushed everything else away. The thing in the backpack was the shape of a bowling ball, and a dark stain was spreading over the bottom of the pack.

Tyler’s vision focused for a brief moment on the headless body hanging off the edge of the bed, spilling blood into a pool on the floor. He dropped his gaze and saw the severed hand midway between the bed and the door. Its fingers were splayed open, as if it were waiting for someone to hold it.

And rolling toward Tyler like a marble on the flat stones of the walkway was the black thing the now-dead man had offered his killer. It stopped barely an arm’s length away. Instinctively, Tyler reached out and snatched it up. It wasn’t a marble or any type of ball: more like a partial roll of Life Savers. As he pulled back with his prize, Shadow Man’s sharp voice stopped him.

“Hey!”

Tyler raised his head. Shadow Man was bouncing toward him, slinging the backpack over his shoulder, raising the sword.