Jay Posey - Three

“Back,” he said, “back to that corner, small and tight as you can.”

There was a gaping hole in the floor, but it was to the opposite side of the remaining walls. Wren slid into the corner first, hunched into a little ball, knife in a downward grip and at the ready, just as Three had taught him. Cass curled herself around Wren, shielding him completely from view. Three put his back hard against them both, blade unsheathed.

They were all panting.

“Still now. Still as you can.”

He fought his own heartbeat, his lungs, the molten pain searing his ribs on one side. Deeply bruised or maybe cracked, if not broken. He raised his arm and slapped the injury. It made him suck in his breath, but he didn’t convulse or scream. Not broken then.

In the distance a dark shape moved across the rolling destruction of the Strand. The first Weir of what would be many, he knew. But it was headed away. He hoped that would be the case for them all.

The first two hours were filled with the silent tension of a black storm cloud. And then, just as the moon was coming high, it broke.

Three saw it first, noted how it crouched below the structure and scanned it, as if assessing it. The moon was light enough for him to see it clearly, and he noticed immediately how different it was from the Weir he’d encountered on the other side of the Strand. This one was almost indistinguishable from a human, except for its blue-glow electric eyes humming in the darkness. It was fully clothed, fully featured. Not the gaunt corpse-like creatures from before. But no less deadly, he guessed. Perhaps moreso.

It didn’t make any noise. No static-burst squawk. It just crouched there, in the darkness, watching. Soon enough, Three understood. A second Weir appeared, off the opposite corner, slipping silently like a shadow across the ground. Then another scuttled to join the second. The realization spread like a slow dawn, and Three was amazed. And terrified.

They were coordinating.

In the next moment, two Weir sprang over the edges of walls simultaneously, and Three reacted. The first one’s head was already falling down to the ground below as the second turned to face its companion. As Three plunged his blade through its chest, he thought he saw something that almost resembled surprise. The Weir burbled as Three withdrew his blade, and then he struck again, sending the creature toppling through the hole in the floor.

Three heard a clattering sound, and as he turned he saw Cass flash from the corner to intercept the third Weir. She shot out a stomping kick that connected at the Weir’s hip, crushing the socket, and folding the Weir towards her. As it fell, Cass caught its head between her hands, dropped to a knee and twisted. The Weir’s neck snapped as its body cartwheeled off the second floor and landed with a meaty thud in the dust below.

“Just the beginning,” Three said.

“I know,” she answered.

He handed her a long knife from his boot. “You still got that jitter?”

Cass nodded.

“Don’t be afraid to use it. Hate to die with ammo left.”

“You think about that yourself,” she said, pointing to his pistol. Wren stayed crouched in his corner, knife at the ready, shivering with fear. His eyes were wide.

“They’re coming.”

A second wave came almost immediately after. Four this time. And as if to confirm Three’s worst suspicions, these four fought together. Not as four wild animals, striving to be the first to the kill, but as four limbs of a single mind. One would feint, and the other would follow through, and in the first exchange Three felt the sting as claws rent the flesh of his shoulder. But Cass was there suddenly, suddenly everywhere it seemed, and as she forced them back, Three seized each opportunity to strike, and soon the four lay motionless.

Three checked the wound along his shoulder where the blood ran freely, and knew it wouldn’t be the last of the night. He looked to Cass, radiant and fierce in the moonlight, glistening under a thin sheen of sweat and speckled dark from the war at hand. Her once fragile beauty replaced by strength, and raw will, and a dark-eyed gaze full of unquenchable fire. And for the first time, he knew they were going to make it.

The next group attacked about three minutes later. The night became a blur for Three then, a smear of gray and blade, the cries of Weir mixed with Cass calling out, his own voice sounding distant. They fought like demons atop a mountain, like lions among wolves. With loud cries and savage strikes, they threw back their enemy. The attacks came in a broken rhythm, sometimes one right after another, sometimes as much as a half hour apart. Each clash brought a new rush of adrenaline, a clarity of focus that seemed impossible to maintain. And after each battle, the fatigue came crushing down, an iron fog that promised the next fight would be the last. They were wounded, slashed, clawed, even bitten. But somehow, some way, Three and Cass fought back to back, shoulder to shoulder, and still they fought, and still they fought.

As the bodies of the Weir fell and piled around them Three got sudden flashes, almost still images of his blade slashing through a Weir, or Cass’s knee crushing into the skull of another. Even little Wren stabbing, fighting like a cornered wolf cub, teeth bared and tears streaming. The sky almost seemed lighter.

But then another wave crashed, and there were too many. Too many. Three fought and slashed and felt more than one impact that he knew meant he’d been punctured, if only the adrenaline had let him feel the pain. He killed the two closest Weir. Moved to a third, stepped into its attack and severed its arm at the shoulder. Threw his body into it, flinging it out into the air and crashing to the ground below. And then Three spun, instinct firing a warning and reflexes answering, and he saw it, coming up through the hole in the floor, leaping up from below. Cass facing the other way. Three screamed her name, but heard nothing. A roar of blood in his ears. She reacted, turned, twisted to dodge the strike but too late. Three saw the claw enter her side, and tear out through her abdomen in a spray.

Wren saw it too.

“MAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

The scream tore through the melee and Three felt something pass through him like a shockwave, and suddenly all the remaining Weir spasmed in near unison and collapsed like they’d just been switched off. Wren just stood there, near the corner, eyes wide, face pale. Staring. Panting. And all else was still.

How Three got from where he was to Cass, he didn’t recall. The next thing he knew, he was dragging her into the corner, slipping in the trail she was leaving behind. His heart cold with fear, with a fear so familiar, so cruel; a fear he’d sworn he would never feel again.

He pulled her into the wall, propped her up. Wren moved in close.

“Mama?”

“It’s alright, baby. They got me a little, but it’s alright. Go over there and keep watch for us, OK? Let us know as soon as trouble comes.”

He nodded, tears in his eyes, but didn’t move.

“Wren, sweetheart. It’s important. We need you to keep watch, OK?”

“Go on, son,” Three said. And at that, Wren nodded again and moved away, crouching low near the edge and peering into the waning night.

Three reached down to examine the wound then, tried to move her hands away. Cass resisted.

“Three,” she said calmly. Much too calmly. He wouldn’t look at her.

“Move your hands, let me see it.”

“Three,” she said again. And the fear rose, and the strength left.

“Move your hands, Cass! Move them!”

“Three, it’s OK.”

And then she lifted her soaked hands and took his. He felt the hot gush, and she squeezed his hands with such strength, with such warmth, and his heart shattered in his chest.