James Axler - Ritual Chill

Fumbling with the cold, she redressed the wound and Krysty dextrously reclothed Doc while Mildred looked up at the men standing over them.

“You can get covered again, guys. There’s enough slack to just roll up his sleeve.”

While J.B., Ryan and Jak gratefully replaced their heavy coats and hugged themselves into the materials to try to suck warmth from them, Mildred jacked up the layers of sleeve on Doc’s arm, thanking whatever deity she thought may still exist that the old man’s wounds had been on the forearm. It saved a whole lot of hassle. Having to strip him to examine the upper arm would have taken precious time and probably finish him off by itself.

Removing the dressings and checking the wounds, she could see that these, too, were clean.

Replacing the dressing, her mind raced. No infection visible, so it had to be something that acted quickly in the bloodstream. Why hadn’t that antibiotic shot worked? No one else who had needed a shot was feverish…but then, their wounds had been the lesser. It had to be that just one of the hypos was a dud. She’d have to try another and hope that it worked.

“I’m going to give him another shot and hope it works. Meantime, we’re going to have to help him until we can find some shelter, because he won’t be strong enough to stand alone until we can get some rest.”

“No problem. We’ll take it in turns. I’ll take first—”

“No.” Mildred cut him off. “You don’t look so hot yourself. Let me or John do it.”

Ryan looked her in the eye. He could see that she had been studying him as they had marched and knew that he had his own battle with fatigue. He nodded briefly. “Okay.”

Pulling Doc to his feet, Mildred and J.B. supported him between them. Jak took the rear defensive position in line and Krysty dropped in behind Ryan.

“Fifteen minutes, then we swap,” Ryan said, checking his wrist chron. “That way we try to stay fresh.”

“Yeah, sounds good to me,” Mildred muttered, feeling Doc’s weight sag in time with each step.

They would be slower now, but as Ryan fixed his gaze on the shapes littering the horizon, he felt that they could still make the settlement within a couple of hours. Assuming that those shapes were buildings. Assuming they could withstand the bone-chilling cold. Assuming that no storms blew up from nowhere.

Best not to think. Best to just concentrate on putting one foot in front of another, on ignoring the stench of sulfur searing their lungs with every breath, the jarring of foot on rock that made the ankles turn to jelly with every step.

There was little they could do until they reached shelter. And if the distant shapes didn’t represent that shelter, then they would just have to hope….

THE PHANTOMS now lift me up like angels, e’en though they may be devils of the foulest kind. They support me so that I am as light as air.

They take me toward the horizon, as though in search of something. But does not the horizon retreat in proportion to the distance you travel? Better to travel hopefully than to arrive… Why does that come to mind, where have I heard it before?

I can see them all now, as though I am on a procession. A parade, like those on Independence Day, when the children played in the fields and bobbed for apples while we drank beer and brandy, and talked of the wonders of the age. Then to return to our frame houses where, by the light of the oil lamp, Emily would lay our children down to rest before coming to me, disrobing and joining me in the conjugal bed. I miss the smell of her hair, the touch of her skin. Perhaps, when I have shed this madness and I once more can take my place in the world, I will feel, smell and taste her once again.

But there is another… She comes toward me now. Golden hair flowing like the corn in summer over her shoulders. Long, lean limbs that stretch to infinity and beyond. Eyes wide open and innocent, trusting of me and asking only that I trust her in return. Of course I do, my love. You and Emily are equal in my heart. You always will be. You showed me that there could be a path to goodness in this bedlam of the soul.

She holds out her hand. There is a reason why I have returned to this place of other dreams, other times. I have purpose.

Tell me, Lori, tell me…

She holds out her hand. I want to take it, but I am constrained by those who would wish to be my protectors.

“It’s okay, Doc. You can do it. You can do anything here.”

She is right. I am the I who controls my own dreams. I disentangle my arms from those who support me and step out of myself to walk toward her. I reach out and take her hand, pulling her to me. We embrace and once more I feel the warmth of another being close to me.

“You have to listen, Doc. I can’t be here long, but I have something to tell you.”

“No, you must stay. You cannot leave me again, not after so long.”

She steps back, smiles. Those eyes light with joy, pull me into her very being.

“I wish I could stay, or take you with me. I can’t. Got to tell you this. You must know. You have been chosen. You have followed the others for too long. They lead you in circles that take you nowhere. If you are ever to escape this place, then you must assert your right to lead. The chance will come to you soon. You must take it. Seize the day and you will be free once more. Stay silent and you will be trapped forever.”

I consider her words. But while I do she begins to slip away from me. I want to call out to her, but I know she must go, and there is nothing I can do to prevent her taking her leave. Sadly I watch her recede into the distance, just as I feel myself drawn back to the arms of those angels who support me, stop me falling to the ground once more.

Sweet, sweet Lori. So wise. So true.

I must wait, bide my time, take my chance…

“DON’T STOP NOW, Ryan. We’re so close that I can manage a little longer,” Krysty said as the one-eyed man dropped back to take his turn at assisting Doc. He smiled gratefully. Truth to tell, he was about ready to drop just carrying himself. If Krysty and Jak could take the burden just a little longer, he was in no condition to complain.

Turning back, he could see what had once been indistinct shapes had now resolved themselves into identifiable blocks of huts and shacks, log cabins and metal-sheeted shelters from the weather.

Yet it was too quiet. The hairs at the base of his neck prickled.

“Something’s not right. Triple red, people,” he said softly, bringing a blaster to hand for the first time since leaving the cave.

“There should be more signs of life when weather’s this stable. Where the hell are all the people?”

Carnage. That was the only way to describe what they had stumbled into: the result of a bitter battle.

The buildings were empty. The windows in most had been shattered, allowing the elements to rend what had been within. Snow and ice covered clothing, tables, bed and chairs that had had been ripped, smashed and scattered by the winds and by some other agency. Doors hung open, some almost ripped from their hinges, others broken as though rammed. Wood had been splintered by the violence of battle, and those walls that were of corrugated metal, or reinforced by sheeting, showed signs of being bent out of shape. The few that were of cinder block remained intact apart from shattered windows, their lack of damage delineating the limits of the violence. The snow had fallen and settled on the paths between the huts, a light covering that obscured some of what lay beneath. But there were patches of ice, clear enough to show the blood and the churned mud beneath the glassy surface.

And there were the remains. Nothing more than carrion now. Shreds of clothing identifying them as people, but little else that could act as an indicator. There were detached limbs, torsos and crushed bone that may have once been skull. Whatever had whipped through the settlement like a hurricane of violence had made good work of the people living here. Stripped of most of the flesh, no skin remaining with only a few red lumps of flesh and gristle hanging on what had once been rib cages, and mauled out of shape, these were the few remnants of what had once been a community.