Tim Akers - Dead of Veridon

"To hell with the Badge," her husband answered. "If I hadn't cleaned and loaded the hunting rifle that morning, we'd still be in there. Bleeding to death."

"You won't talk like that in front of the children, Howard, you won't!" The woman was nearly in tears. She had blood on her face and hands. I didn't see any children. "If the Badge hadn't come in when they did…"

We moved on. Similar conversations were happening everywhere. Lots of folks were armed. The whispering quickly became an angry murmur. For all that people were willing to bless or curse the Badge, there didn't seem to be any officers around to hear it. No one here but citizens.

"This could get nasty," Wilson said. "If even one of our drowned friends stumbles into this crowd."

"Yeah. Nothing like panic to make everything infinitely worse. Come on."

We left the crowd behind. There were others like it, mobs of nervous fathers and mothers standing in their morning clothes, clutching brooms and shotguns and peering nervously at their own houses like they were seeing a nightmare. Which they probably were.

"You there!" someone hailed us. "You! What have you seen of the river?"

Hard to deny we hadn't been near the river that morning, not in our state. I turned to see who was talking. A very proper man, improperly dressed. He was unarmed, but the crowd behind him was bristling with antique hunting rifles and polo mallets. We had moved into a more expensive neighborhood, then.

"Hard to say, in the fog. Something's happened, though. What about here?"

"Bloody Fehn, trying to take over the city. We've killed a dozen here." He nodded over his shoulder and the crowd murmured. "The dead stay dead on Barling Street."

"Heard much from the rest of the city?" I asked.

"No. Folks are staying to their own. Badge is a damn mess, running around. Never around when you need them, but always there when you don't." He didn't seem like the kind of man to get into the kind of trouble where he wouldn't want the Badge around. I smiled, and he took it for agreement. "What district are you from? Where are you headed?"

"Just trying to get away from the river. Think I might head up, maybe to the Torch."

Before he could answer there was a shout from the crowd, and then a shot. I ducked and looked behind me.

One of the Fehn, the legitimate Fehn, his skin gray and soft, was creeping out of an alleyway. He turned toward us, startled, then disappeared.

"After him, boys!" the proper gentleman yelled, like a master at the hunt. The crowd whooped and gave chase, pushing past us.

"Jacob," Wilson said, his voice nervous.

"Yeah. That guy wasn't changed yet." I turned to the proper gentleman, who was beaming after his little war party. "You have to stop them."

"Yes, we do. We'll stop them all, one at a time. The dead stay dead."

"No!" I shouted, grabbing the silk lapels of his morning coat. "Not that. Your little friends, they're going to kill that guy. He's not one of them!"

"My boy, if you don't know what the Fehn look like, then…"

I turned and ran after the party. There was shooting up ahead, and yells. The alley was short, and opened onto a warren of back roads and tiny passages. It was the kind of roadway servants used, to get packages between buildings without spoiling the master's view with their presence.

The crowd was surging through this tiny space like a flood, running down alleyways and kicking over trash cans in their excitement. More than one shot was fired, all from different directions. The narrow passageways didn't allow for much traffic.

"Screw this," Wilson spat, then cast aside his jacket and flipped his array of arms open. Just like a spider, he scrambled up one of the walls and made his way over the heads of the crowd, dagger-like talons finding purchase on both sides of the passageway. I struggled to keep him in sight.

"Bug!" someone screamed, and now the shooting turned toward Wilson. He flinched and disappeared around a corner. I yelled at the shooters, but they weren't listening. Things were getting out of hand.

I pushed through the press of bodies, shoving the crowd aside to get to Wilson. A scattered popping marked his passage, gun shot rattling off the tight alleys, voices raised above the din. Why were they even chasing him? How easily startled were these posh gentlemen, with their antique rifles? There was a crowd up ahead, surrounding a boarded-up shack, beating on the shutters and door with their priceless weapons. The men around me surged, and I fell against the wall and slid down to the muddy cobbles. They swept past.

The world trembled around me. A muster siren from some Badge station droned under the clouds, and the mob roared with it. Wood was breaking, and other screams joined the cacophony. Terrible screams. I pulled myself up and looked around for something to fight with. A club, a bar… anything. Anything to use against the madness of the crowd.

Wilson flashed past above, jumping from one building to the next, giving me a nervous look as he passed. I looked back down at the mob, tearing the shack to pieces with their bare hands, then followed Wilson's path. My heart was hammering. I tried to not hear the screams of terror behind me. I hadn't gone far before they stopped.

Wilson waited for me in a dark alley, perched above a tiny barricade of trash cans. His eyes were dark.

"I thought they had you," I said.

"Keep your voice down," he spat. Rows of tiny teeth glittered wetly in the dark. "Those are old men. Fox hunters, and gamesmen. Do I look like a fox to you? Do I look like game?"

"No, I just…"

"Quiet." He unfolded from the wall and walked with exaggerated care around the cans, motioning for me to follow.

The Fehn was there, curled into a ball, making soft, horrible sounds. I shook him by the shoulder. His skin was nearly dry. It took several seconds for him to realize I was there, and several more to stop shaking in fear. His eyes, when he finally looked at me, were a thousand miles away.

"Are you okay?" I asked, or tried to ask. He wasn't hearing me. And when he answered, it was in a voice that was a dry trickle in the back of his throat. He was out of water. The Fehn drink water like I breathe, their lungs are full of it, their voices are wet and sloppy. He coughed at me, a sound like mud settling in a creek bed. I pulled him to his feet. He could barely stand.

"He's been out of the river for a while. He might not even have been there during the attack," Wilson said.

"Look at him. Look at his eyes. He was there. We need to get him some water, and then some shelter." I pulled his arm over my shoulder. "Let's get going."

"Let's not," said a voice at the end of the alley. The proper man.

"Leave him alone," Wilson said. His voice was silken and dangerous. I understood why people feared the anansi, even the tame ones. Especially the tame ones. "He's not one of them."

"He's not? Fascinating." The man strolled into the alley, some of his compatriots sneering behind him. "Tell me, Mr. Not-Fehn. What brings you to our lovely city this morning? Was it a long trip?" He poked at the Fehn with the tip of a ruined spear, the barbs poking at his naked chest. "You look wretchedly thirsty. Don't you think, boys?"

"Of course he's Fehn, idiot." I stood as tall as I could, tried to summon a little of the old Burn family charm. "He's not one of them, though. Look at him. He couldn't harm anyone. Now, if you'll let us through we'll be on our way."

"Oh, of course. Immediately." He turned to his nervous friends. "Boys. Let these gentlemen through, will you?"

They raised their rifles and smiled. Wilson drew steel, and I drew iron. The Fehn tore away from my shoulder and ran.

The mob hesitated. They weren't really a mob, after all. Just some proper gentlemen riled into a frenzy by a great deal of fear and a little encouragement from their leader. I stepped forward and popped the old boy on the chin. He went down, but that seemed to do it for the crowd. They steeled their nerves, sighted their rifles, and fired. I bowled into Wilson and we went down.