Chris Holm - The Big Reap

We sprinted across the street after Kate, following the jagged line of Drustanus’ blood. Me lumbering out front in my sturdy new trucker meat-suit, Gio and Ter trailing behind. It was awkward the way they were forced to run. She was damn near twice his height and athletic to boot, while the body he was stuck in was as squat as it was short, but her blindness forced her to rein in her natural grace and shuffle alongside him, her hand gripping his upper arm. But like everything about those two, as odd and clumsy as it seemed, it worked — albeit slowly, in this case.

Sirens wailed in the distance, fast approaching. They’d be too late to save those kids, though, and so would we, if we didn’t hurry.

I scaled the front steps to the building two at a time, this big guy’s knees protesting against the strain. Gio and Ter fell behind — horns honking, tires squealing, the two of them cursing as they navigated as best they could across the street. The double-doors at the front entrance had been kicked in. Their small, square panes of glass had shattered, but were held in place by diamond-patterned wire. A foot-sized dent was in the middle of each, the doors buckled all around. The left one still rocked slightly where it lay just inside the entryway. Meant they weren’t far ahead.

“ Sam !”

Kate’s voice, hoarse with panic, from the direction the blood drips veered. Away from the sign declaring open auditions for Guys and Dolls, thank God. I woulda thought that too sumptuous a meal for the likes of the Brethren to pass up.

I followed down the darkened, locker-lined hall, my only accompaniment the echoes of my footfalls. As I rounded the corner, slipping on the buffed-shiny vinyl tiles, I spotted Kate crouched and tense, her back to me. She was a good twenty yards away. Twenty more past her hunkered down a muscled beast, pocked with a crosshatch of thick, pink scars and random, bone-threaded piercings — across his face, his shoulders, his naked haunches, his dangling, mutilated member… and his sole remaining arm. Drustanus. By the angle and the regularity of the scars, they mostly looked self-inflicted. The piercings, of which there were dozens, were amateur and thick-scarred all around as well, through cheeks, through muscle, a couple even looking as though they’d been forced or drilled through bone. Each one looked to’ve been more excruciating than the last.

In his hand, he clenched with bleeding fingers a long, jagged shard of window glass. He must’ve run the whole way over from the restaurant with it in his grasp. But why?

He answered as if I’d asked the question aloud. “My brother tells me metal implements put you at an advantage,” he rasped, his words baring a crowded jumble of jagged yellow-brown teeth, and a tongue forked, black, and glistening. “Which is why I’ve chosen to gut you and your pretty little human here with something less conductive.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Of course, you should have enlisted your missus to help you out. I don’t plan on going easily, after all, and it looks like you could use the hand.”

Drustanus looked down at his bleeding stump — which had begun to knit itself back together, but still pattered globs of red-black clotted blood onto the floor — and then back at me. I was hoping to prod him into anger, maybe prompt a careless, ill-considered attack, but instead Drustanus laughed.

“I suppose I should be honored to hear the dulcet tones of your sultry, sultry voice,” I said. “I hear tell you ain’t been much for talking these past few hundred years. But then maybe that crazy bint of yours just ain’t worth talking to .”

“Your jibes,” he said, “sting not, for Yseult knows full well the depth of my love for her. Every bit of suffering I inflict, and every bit that I endure, serve to demonstrate my devotion to my own dear, sweet Yseult. She is the sole goddess to whom I sacrifice, and I am the sole god to whom she does the same.”

“Cool. I’ll tell you what, when I kill your ass — and believe you me, I’m gonna — I’ll be sure to dedicate your dying breath to her. It’s just a shame she won’t be here to see you off. I’d hate to rob you of such a touching moment.”

“Fear not,” he croaked, “you haven’t.”

A door shut just behind me. I hadn’t even heard it open. I wheeled to find behind us the mottled flesh of the no-longer human-looking Yseult, slinking toward us from a once-more shuttered classroom.

Her frame was still small and feminine — almost childlike. Her arched back, small breasts, and duck feet suggested dancer. Her ratty accidental-dreadlock hair and oozing open sores suggested meth-head. The fact those sores crawled with maggots, and that her mottled purple livor mortis skin was sloughing off in chunks — exposing muscle here, yellow adipose there, a gleaming white glimpse of bone at knee, and of tooth through gaping cheek — suggested that this dancer meth-head had taken a long walk off a short pier into cold water and didn’t wash up for a week or two, once the crabs and lobsters had their fill.

It took me a sec to realize the sores that polka-dotted her dead flesh weren’t sores at all. They were too round, too regular, a Venn diagram of overlapping circles, some knotted old scars, others seeping lymph and pus, still others raised with fresh blisters.

They were burns: from cigarettes, from cigars, from orange-glowing coils of old-fashioned automobile lighters. Self-inflicted, no doubt, to demonstrate how much she burned for him .

It’d be sweet if it weren’t so goddamned disgusting.

When I saw a shard of glass in her blue-tinged, black-nailed hand as well, I realized too late what had happened. The words fell from my lips as soon as they occurred to me.

“This is a trap,” I said. “Grigori told you to lay a trap for me, didn’t he?”

The question was, by default, directed at Yseult, since she was the closer of the two, and therefore the one that I was facing. But it was Drustanus who answered. “She won’t tell you anything,” he said. “She can’t.”

“Aw, c’mon,” I chided, trying to buy some time, “cat got her tongue?”

“Actually,” he said, a note of affection evident in his tone, “it was a hyena she fed it to, once she bit it off to prove her love to me.” She opened her mouth and stuck out as best she could a ruined stump of blackened meat that was once a tongue. “She always has been better at expressing her devotion than I.”

“He set you up, you know,” I said. “Grigori, I mean.”

“He didn’t.” Drustanus’ rusty voice was full of defiance and false bluster, doubt shading both.

“He did,” I insisted. “Just like he did to Ricou. What was it he told me? That Ricou was a sacrifice to the greater good. How’s it feel to be tied down atop the altar right behind him?”

Kate leaned in close and muttered, “Uh, Sam? You think when we find ourselves stuck between Zombie Bonnie and Clyde is the right time to practice your taunting skills?”

I ignored her. And the voices in my head saying pretty much the same damn thing — one mine, the other the trucker’s.

“You’re mistaken,” said Drustanus.

“Yeah? Then answer this, whose idea was it you should lead me away from him while he went and found someone to eat?”

Drustanus’ hideous features darkened. “It was only logical,” he said. “My injury left a trail, after all, and Grigori knew we two would not assent to being separated. If we wished to confront you in numbers, it had to be Yseult and I.”

“You sound just like him. He wound you up with all his pretty talk and let you go, didn’t he? That must be why he waited until the bitter end to make a punk bitch out of you, no one likes to have to put down their favorite lapdog.”