Steven Santos - The Culling

Holding the tag up to his face with one hand, Gideon rubs the surface. “Nothing I can make out. Looks corroded. But there is part of a serial number.”

Everyone else’s attention is fixed on the chain, and I don’t think they notice the pained look on Cypress’s face as she massages her forehead.

Digory shoots me a look. “A Recruit ID tag way out here? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking Fallen Five, yeah, me too.”

Cypress’s eyes are riveted on the tarnished silver swaying from Gideon’s fingers. “They must have come right through here.”

Ophelia wipes sweat off her brow. “So is this whole mission a Sim, or not? I’m confused.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Gideon mutters.

I shrug. “No way to be sure. Slade and the others are definitely worried about something , though.”

Digory clears his throat. “If something’s got Slade of all people worked up, then we should be, too.”

The sun hovers noticeably lower on the horizon. In a matter of minutes, the temperature’s dropped enough to dry the perspiration on my forehead.

A tortured moan stretches across the canyon like a soul being pulled apart.

My eyes ricochet around the crater’s remains. “What was that?”

Ophelia’s face is as pale as the skulls. “We need to get going.”

Gideon shakes his head. “We can’t abort the mission until we find proof, one way or another, of what happened to that patrol. I don’t know. An identifiable corpse. A message. Anything.” He looks around. “I suggest we split into teams and search the area before reporting in. Juniper and I will take the south quadrant, and Tycho, Spark, and Goslin-”

But Cypress is already tromping through the site, her eyes desperately searching as she disappears behind one of the mounds.

Gideon shrugs. “Keep in touch through your walkies.” Then he and Ophelia head off in the opposite direction, leaving Digory and me to explore on our own.

After almost an hour of sifting through the site and finding no evidence of the missing patrol’s whereabouts, I run my fingertips along the surface of the nearest gruesome mound. Interspersed between the skulls are thigh bones, femurs, sternums, clavicles-all jammed against rib cages and all manner of vertebrae. If there’s one thing we learn quickly in the Parish when dealing with Imps, it’s the names and locations of each bone in the human body.

The whole macabre assemblage is held together by a slimy, thick resin. I bring my fingertips to my nose and sniff, then wince. Whatever it is, it reeks of ammonia. I wipe the gunk on my fingers against my pants.

Thwack!

A skeletal hand springs from behind the mound and latches onto my wrist-

I try to wrench free but the grip is strong, frenzied.

“Let … go … of … me …!” I pull with all my might and a figure comes crashing through the mound. Bones scatter everywhere. A heavy weight drives me into the ground, knocking the wind from me.

“You’re dead!” I pummel the figure on top of me as its stone-cold hands grip my throat, squeezing. The light dims. My head swims. I start to float away …

“Get off of him!” Digory’s voice. Far away.

The pressure around my neck is gone. The canyon comes into focus once again. Air cascades through me like a waterfall.

I bolt into a sitting position. A hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch.

“Are you okay?” Digory is crouched beside me.

My fingers knead my sore neck. “I’ll … live. What happened?”

Digory nudges his chin toward a figure lying in a skeletal pile. “ He did.”

I spring to my feet. “They’re nothing but bones-they can’t be-”

Digory stands beside me. “This one’s very much alive. Trust me, Lucian.”

I creep closer to get a look at my assailant.

It’s just a guy. Mid-twenties, maybe … hard to tell. He’s covered in filth and coated in the same goo that holds the bones in place. Scraggly black hair juts from his scalp in long strips, tangling with his patchy beard. Thin red slashes crisscross his prominent cheekbones, and his murky-green eyes are stretched into wide ovals. There’s madness there.

Despite the creepiness of the way his gaze seeps into my pores, there’s something else about him that sends a shudder through my own bones.

“Digory. Look what he’s wearing.”

Even though this stranger’s clothes are ripped and flapping in shredded tatters, there’s no mistaking the familiar jumpsuit design and the ID tag that hangs from his scrawny neck.

“A Recruit uniform,” Digory whispers.

I snatch the ID tag loose. The man yelps as if I’ve struck him and curls into a fetal position.

I dangle the silver chain in front of Digory’s face. “He’s one of us. ”

The Recruit just lies there, still as a corpse. The only sign of life is the tide of soft whimpers that rises from him.

My brain spirals. “He has to be one of the Fallen Five.” I squat close to him. “It all fits. His age … clothes … where we’ve found him.” My eyes pierce Digory’s.

“He’s definitely about the right age.” Digory plucks the ID tag from my hand. He twists it in his fingers, examining the front and back. “Name’s covered in gunk. Can’t make it out.”

“What’s your name?” I ask the stranger.

He just shakes his head as if he doesn’t know the answer.

Realization dawns on me. “It must have been him that I saw … behind the tree-” I glance at Digory, not bothering to conceal my I told you so expression.

Digory counters with a sorry I doubted you look and stoops beside the stranger. “It’s gonna be okay. How have you survived out here all on your own? What do you do for food?” He cushions each word as if it’s made of delicate porcelain.

The Recruit’s breathing shifts to a slower tempo. His whimpers become a sigh, then a purr. He looks away. “I get by.”

I edge in closer to him. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna get you out of here. Take you home.”

The unknown Recruit springs up. His eyes boomerang between Digory and me.

“It’s too late,” he rasps. He’s trembling all over. He leans into my ear. “The Fleshers will get you too,” he whispers.

Fleshers. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but something about the word and the way it quavers in his throat causes my skin to break out into thousands of tiny bumps, swelling to burst free like hungry larvae feeding off fear.

The man’s eyes flood. “They … they ambushed us … there were too many of ’em … they just kept coming … and coming … but I got away … ” He buries his face in his hands. “Never saw the others again.” He looks up. “I looked for so long, but I never found ’em.” His eyes cloud over in a swirling haze of memory. “There was a little girl … I forget her name now. So pretty … such nice hair … ” Tears stream down his cheeks. “Why can’t I remember her name?” His head snaps to the left and he looks up, as if he’s heard something we can’t. He clamps his hands over his ears.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“That sound … that terrible sound. It’s them! The Fleshers. They’re all around us! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Digory stoops and pries the Recruit’s hands from his ears. “What are … the Fleshers?”

The man smiles for the first time, revealing a full set of grimy teeth, all intact except for the jagged center tooth. “The Establishment wasn’t the only thing that survived the Ash Wars. There are others … things that prefer the dark … ” His snorts become cackles until his entire body is convulsing with laughter, despite the stark terror in his eyes.