Kerry Schafer - Wakeworld

“Ellie,” Weston moaned. “I’m so sorry.”

At last Vivian recovered the ability to move and speak. “Weston!” She made her voice sharp to get his attention. “It’s not Ellie. You know this. Only the dream things.”

Zee’s second stroke took off the legs of the boy with the missing jaw. Vivian shuddered. They were so young. And if these were what walked in Weston’s memory, it was no wonder he had tried to kill himself.

She took a step toward him, but a movement from the decapitated head at her feet held her back. The eyes blinked. The mouth moved, soundlessly repeating the mantra. “You owe us our lives.” And then the neck began to elongate, formed a chest. Arms sprouted, and grasping fingers reached out toward the old Dreamshifter, grazing his knees. Meanwhile, a new head had grown on the body and now there were two Ellies, both crying, “You owe us our lives.”

“Zee!” Vivian shouted. “Stop! It makes it worse!”

But he had seen, was even now evading the second jawless boy that had grown from the body of the other.

“What do we do?” he asked, retreating, using the flat of the sword to swat away the outstretched hands, careful not to sever any limbs.

“I don’t know. Stay back. Let me think.”

But there was no time. Another figure emerged from the cave—a creature mostly dragon, but with Vivian’s hair and eyes. A familiar sword hilt stuck out between the front leg and the belly. Blood poured out of the wound, turning the earth black where it fell.

She stared at the thing, transfixed. But it had eyes only for Zee. It opened its mouth, not a dragon’s jaws, but a woman’s, hers , and Vivian knew it was going to flame.

“Zee, look out!”

He dove to the ground and rolled, coming up barely out of reach of the grasping fingers of the dead girl. But the Vivian Thing didn’t flame. It stopped in its tracks, shuddered, and fell to the earth. Once, twice, the dragon ribs drew breath, and then it sighed and went small and still, shifting into the body of a woman who lay dead with a sword in her heart.

Zee made a broken sound, as though somebody had thrust a blade between his own ribs. Vivian reached for his hand, grazed and blistered now, the nails broken. She wanted to kiss it, but he pulled away from her.

“Only a dream thing,” she said, but they both knew it wasn’t quite true. The healing wound in her own breast was evidence enough.

And any minute now the other monster would come out of the cave. Already red eyes glared from the entrance, so big it was clear the thing could never fit through the existing space.

“We have to do something,” Vivian shouted at the others, her voice shaking and desperate.

“What’s coming through?” Zee asked her. Calmer now, the worst over for him and a worthy foe emerging.

“Like yours. Only bigger and meaner and full of rage. Also, not dead.” She could sense it now, feel the tie with her own body. All of the pent-up rage of her childhood; the little girl who played mother to the woman and the anger that bloomed dark and quiet inside her soul. The fury about the hospitals and the blood and the insatiable, unfilled need to be loved and cared for.

That was it, probably. The way to stop it was probably to love it.

Which was, she knew, beyond her power.

The three of them retreated, dodged, evaded, did whatever they could to avoid the touch of the dream creatures already pursuing them. Weston clobbered one of his brothers over the head with his shotgun, and the thing slowed but did not stop.

The man with the hole in his breast and a face that was like Weston’s, only so much harder and colder, grew bigger and stronger. His hands had been empty, but now he held a gun. He aimed it at Weston.

Meanwhile, back at the cave, rocks began to fall as an enormous head forced itself out through a too-small space. It opened a mouth full of teeth and roared, a sound that shook the earth beneath their feet.

Only minutes to act if they were going to survive.

No time to discuss plan B, as it had come to her. No idea of whether it would work. Because Weston’s father was about to start shooting, and when that other Thing emerged from the cave, there would be no mercy.

“Give me the bloodstones,” she said to Weston.

“Vivian, no—”

“Give them to me.” She used the Voice. There was no time to argue.

He pulled a sock from his pocket, tied off to make a carrying pouch. The stones felt strange in her hands. Heavier than she had expected. Not quite inert, not quite sentient. Between states. Waiting.

For what? What would wake them?

Always retreating, faster now, she fumbled to untie the knot.

A shot rang out, spraying up dirt and rock to the left of them. Weston’s family was gaining. A sound of grinding rock and another bellow echoed from behind them.

“Quick—behind that rock,” Zee shouted.

They followed his lead, bent over, racing for their lives toward a large stone formation about fifty feet away. Another shot rang out, this time striking closer. But so was the shelter of the rock. Vivian reached it and dove behind it, knowing it would grant only a moment’s reprieve, and hoping that would be enough.

Weston slid into place beside her.

She put her hand into the sock and drew out the largest stone. At its touch, memory came to her. A dream.

The bloodstone gleamed in a dim light, full of portent and power. A power waiting to be unleashed.

Zee’s voice. “This is dark magic, are you certain?”

And then . . .

Zee. He was not crouched beside her. She peered out, to see that he stood directly in front of the approaching nightmare. Weston’s father in the lead, giant-sized now, with the gun in his hands. The rest of his murdered family trailed behind him. The Vivian Dragon Thing still lay dead.

And the other monstrosity had gotten itself free of the cave. It was the size of a small mountain and stank of brimstone and sulfur. Steam and flame erupted out of its nostrils with every breath. Vivian tried to encompass one small loving thought toward this creature born of her own soul, but fear and loathing was all she could manage.

And the creature grew larger.

They were doomed.

Weston’s father pulled the trigger. A crack like thunder from the gigantic gun. Vivian’s heart suspended beating, waiting for Zee to stagger or fall, but he stood unwavering. Beside him now, a small black-and-white form. Oh God, Poe.

Another shot. Rock fragments flew through the air with a sound of an explosion. A line of blood opened on Weston’s cheek.

Following an instinct she didn’t understand, Vivian lifted the bloodstone close to his face so that a drop of blood fell on it. The color of the stone darkened to almost black and it pulsed, once, as though it were alive.

Memory stirred again. “Zee!” she shouted. “To me.”

She feared he would not come, would have used the Voice on him at last, but there was only an instant’s hesitation before he raced toward them.

“Poe!” she screamed, but the penguin held his ground, right in the path of the dragon.

Zee slid behind the rock beside her and saw what she held.

“Dark magic,” he muttered.

“You know what must be done?”

“I remember.” He held out the blade of the sword toward her, as needed. Without her asking, he ran the back of his wrist against the edge. As his blood struck the stone, it pulsed once more, glowing now with an ominous, lurid light.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Weston said. “This can lead to no good.”

“Hush, we have no choice.”

“What of Poe and the raven?” Zee asked.

“Poe!” she called again. He didn’t move so much as a feather, but stood undaunted, staring down a creature that could roast him in the beat of a heart.