Pariah

ROCKWOOD, MI: 2074 ADE

By: Christopher Mitchell

Chapter One

Trevor Morrigan chalked his pool cue as he eyed the patrons of the Rockwood Billiards, trying to match a face with the picture in his back pocket. He kept his ears open for the telltale signs of weapons being drawn through the sounds of colliding acrylic and hiccupping laughter, and kept his eyes open for exit strategies. The place stank of cigarette smoke and spilled beer, his oxfords making little popping sounds as they came unglued from the carpet’s pockmarked no man’s land of discarded bubblegum and God knows what else.  

His sharp blue eyes scanned the usual ghosts haunting a place like this on a Tuesday night—the ones that gave up wives and kids to wallow in their own self-misery. Those ones that always failed to see that all it takes in this world to be happy… is to just be goddamn happy. Sure, he had bad days like everyone else, though his bad days tended to be self-inflicted more often than not, but he knew that right around the corner was—

“Hey, dipshit!” The greasy trucker flicked the ash from his cigarette in Trevor’s direction. “It’s your break! I don’t have all night to wait on some vacuum salesman to figure out which end of the stick to shoot with.”

Trevor smiled, feeling his twelve-grain dig into his ribs, longing to rip it free and pistol whip this yokel…right in his buck-fucking teeth, Jesus! “Whoa! What’s up doc!” If the oily clown could hurl insults, Trevor would do likewise. “Put those teeth on safe! No need to come at somebody for daydreaming armed with those Chiclets.”

The Rat King was not amused. “You—”

Trevor stifled his tirade with one raised hand. “Ease up, friend, I’m teasing. I’ll buy you a beer with the money I’m about to steal from you.”

Stuart Little grumbled into his nearly finished pint and sat down, flicking the ash from his cigarette on the pool hall floor.

Trevor sidled up beside the table, analyzing the freshly racked pool balls, humming to “New Coat of Paint” by Tom Waits, and silently thanking whoever put this classic on the overhead speakers.

A hundred years later, and it still sounded as beautiful as the day it was written. He thought back to those beatniks as he broke, watching pool balls tumble like wayward vagabonds—little adventurers of primary colors, cascading and jostling off one another as the first solid found its home. Pure freedom…corner pocket.

Trevor spent the next few minutes humming the tune, dropping his assigned balls in six pockets, one by one, quoting Bukowski to himself and watching the trucker turn darker shades of red.

“And that, my eager little beaver…” he smiled as the eight ball rolled into the side pocket. “… is game.”

Trevor’s opponent hadn’t even had a chance to finish his cigarette, and every one of his pool balls was still on the table.  “You hustled me!”

“No, my friend, I warned you.” Trevor set the pool stick back in the rack, swiping the wad of cash at the end of the pool table. “I said I was rusty; I should have finished two turns ago.”

And that’s not even my personal best.

The trucker drew a pocketknife from somewhere in all that flannel. “I ain’t payin’ no two-bit hustler.”

“Easy up, Ponyboy, no need to get all antsy.” Trevor tossed a few of the bills back in the man’s direction. “I’ll give you half back… fair?” He had half a mind to deck this guy in his face for making a scene, but decided that some reimbursement was better than that gorilla of a bouncer coming over and fist-fucking his face.

The clown brandished his letter opener again. “All of it!”

Fuck.

The ape man got up from his stool at the shout and waddled in their direction. Seriously, how did this guy wipe his ass? Arnold’s shirt was so tight his muscles looked close to committing a jailbreak, his nipples holding the shivs to their freedom. “Problem here?”

It speaks

“No problem at all, just a little collateral damage.” Trevor figured he’d start small.

“Collateral damage?” The bouncer craned his neck to the side, confused.

Trevor grinned. He might be able to pull this off. “Well, you know, I had to go Commando on this Predator.”

“Commando?” The bouncer scratched his head.

Oh Jesus, yes.

Trevor knew he could go all the way now.  “Yeah, man! It wasn’t a completely Total Recall of how to play, but I managed to Terminate this hillbilly before he could tell any True Lies.”

“You forgot to mention he was your Twin.” A new voice—deep and resonant.

Trevor turned in the direction of the Barry White impersonator, and came face to face with a man the size of a literal brick shithouse. He tried his best not to be taken aback by it… but fuck. Standing a head taller than the bouncer, the newcomer wore nondescript clothing and sported a clean-shaven head and face. Against the backdrop of his enormous frame, he sported the intricate scars and oppressive air of a Faction Elder.

Trevor had found his mark; the picture in his pocket was a mirror image of this man. He thumbed over his shoulder toward the buck-toothed trucker. “If he’s my twin, he must be all the shit that’s left over.”

The behemoth roared, slapping at the side of his thigh in approval. He nodded over his shoulder. “Fuck off, Kirk, before this kid beats you with that piece he has in his shoulder holster.” Buck-tooth Kirk put the shiv away, wide-eyed at his attention. Hamish then looked at the bouncer. “I got him from here, Gibson, go get a beer on me. ” The bouncer nodded, beads of perspiration standing out on his bald head, then turned away and walked quickly to the bar. Trevor tried not to let his surprise show at the fear the bouncer and buck-toothed Kirk had shown in the Easter Island statue’s presence.

The man held out his hand. “Name’s Hamish.”

Trevor clasped the big man’s hand and shook it. “Trevor.” The name was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. His eyes went wide, and he did his best not to shit himself. Had he just used his real name with this guy? Primacy agents used code names to maintain secrecy and protect their friends and family. With one word, Trevor had just put everyone he knew in danger.

This whole fiasco’s off the books anyway, so hopefully this doesn’t get anyone killed.

“Wasn’t expecting you to be honest, friend.” Hamish smiled, sporting a few blank spaces where teeth should be.

Trevor’s grin was more of a grimace. “Honestly? Neither was I.” He rubbed the back of his head, a nervous habit he’d picked up from Rake. “Can I buy you a beer?”

“I haven’t turned down a drink yet—not even from a Primacy enforcer.” Hamish held up a calming hand at Trevor’s bulging eyes. “…and before you go reaching for your piece, I’m retired.”

Trevor chuckled, patting his twelve-grain as it rested in his shoulder holster. “Thank god. Because I don’t think it’s got enough kick to drop your big ass.”

A few minutes later, the pair were in a booth, two pints in front of each of them, and Trevor thought of how to best broach the subject.

Hamish took the lead… again. “I’m assuming, based on the fact that you didn’t pull your grain-shot from its holster when you saw me, that you’re here for one of two reasons.” He picked up his mug, and with the other hand held his thumb up. “One: you’re looking for Moira Millers’s famous chicken pot pie recipe.” Trevor chuckled at the joke, and Hamish went on, holding up his pointer finger. “Or two: The Primacy heard about my retirement and came scouting.”

Trevor took a sip of his beer, trying to pace himself. It was still early in the night with much to do before the sun rose. “Wrong on both accounts, I’m afraid. Though my orator would kill for that recipe.” It was Hamish’s turn to chuckle. He let the big man finish, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Though what I want to talk about has to do with said retirement.” Hamish shifted uncomfortably, and Trevor’s grew apprehensive; he’d lost some of his confidence from earlier.

Sighing, he pressed on. “I was put on a particular case, one my partner and I haven’t been able to crack, and I wanted to see if you’d be interested in assisting.”

Hamish roared with laughter. He certainly was a pleasant man, despite what had happened to him. “You mean to tell me, a Primacy enforcer, a once sworn enemy of mine, is asking for help on a case?”

Trevor tried not to feel offended by Hamish’s guffaws, but heads were turning at the sound—it seemed this man wasn’t known for humor. “This case is… close to you, Hamish.”

The laughter stopped, and Hamish’s eyes went cold. The other eyes in the room went back to their beers, letting Trevor know this was how the denizens of the pool hall knew Hamish Miller.

“I’ll let you finish what you came here for…” Hamish leaned in close. “But whatever you planned on happening here tonight; it ain’t.”

This next part would be the hardest. Trevor pulled some stills from his jacket pocket, putting them face-down on the table. “What do you know about Smiling Pig farms?”

Hamish face twisted, confused. “The old farmhouse outside of town?”

Trevor nodded, taking a pull from his beer. “The same.”

Hamish shrugged. “Only what I just told you.”

“What if I were to tell you, that we—well, I—found out that a certain… something, is hiding out in there?”

It clicked: Hamish’s eyes, once hard, now looked like they could obliterate galaxies. “I’m listening.”

Trevor spread the pictures out, placing them one by one in front of Hamish. Face down—it was too soon to do otherwise. This had to be done with precision. “Hamish, before I begin, I want to let you know how sorry I am. For what you’ve been through…” He flipped the first photograph. It was a closeup of a home in a quiet suburban neighborhood—a window-screen ripped from its hinges.

“For what I’m about to show you.” Trevor flipped the next photograph. It was the picture of an adolescent’s bedroom, posters of comic book heroes on the wall, two empty beds, blood on the carpet in a streak, like someone had swiped at the ground with a handful of crimson paint.

Hamish shook, turning red, causing the surrounding members of the pool hall to abandon their beers and head home—where loved ones waited with open arms, celebrating the return of their defender and savior.

“And most importantly, for what I’m about to ask of you.” The last photo, grainy and partially obstructed, was of the lanky arms and hunched posture of a near-humanoid abomination. It was the basis of the Wendigo myth, used by The Faction to butcher and maim, to dismember and torture, to devour…

To send a message.

A knife slammed down on the image, the point going perfectly through the torso of the shroud’s visage. The pool hall was completely empty now, devoid of life. Even the bartender had decided it was best to close early, leaving it to Trevor and Hamish to lock up when they were done.

Trevor kept going, sensing danger but ignoring it. “I’ve been tracking it down for a little over two months now; long enough to figure out its patterns. I just need some help—”

“Where’s your partner in all this?” Hamish’s eyes were probing.

Trevor did his best not to bristle at the subject. “He’s… unavailable at the moment.” He didn’t have the heart to tell Hamish about Scott. Not yet.

“And you can’t wait for him to be available?” The large man raised an eyebrow.

Trevor sighed, then downed the rest of his pint before continuing. “It seems like you’re trying to shoot it straight with me; would you agree?” Hamish stayed silent, so he went on. “Then I’ll shoot straight with you; my partner has… retreated into himself… in the aftermath of his divorce… she was his whole world, Hamish.” Hamish’s eyes softened, misting at the corners, and he bit back a choking hiccup. “Just as yours was…”

The knife was ripped from the table and resting against Trevor’s throat before he could react. Hamish’s eyes screamed death. “Choose your next words carefully, muckraker.”

Trevor disliked the derogatory word Faction elements used for Primacy enforcers, but the knife in his throat kept his protests stifled. He let Hamish’s fury subside for a while longer, not daring to move. Finally, slowly, he pressed his fingers into the knife’s blade, slicing into the end of his fingertips as he gently pushed it back and away from his carotid artery.

“I saw the rest of the photos, Hamish; the ones I know The Faction wouldn’t show you… if anyone deserves an opportunity to strike at this thing, it’s you. And, if we’re staying honest, I couldn’t give a fuck who you worked—or even work—for. What you’ve experienced… the grief you endure…” Trevor’s voice trembled. His empathy for those around him left him consistently drained. He could feel, underneath the waves of heat that emanated from the large man’s aura, the pain of a father who lost his children to nightmares…

And a wife who succumbed to her grief, unable to shake the nightmares of her own.

Trevor narrowed his eyes. “I’d kill for that man; no questions asked.”

The knife clattered to the table, hitching breaths, the twisted grimace of a man trying to hold it in, to hold it back, to not let this stranger see him break…. Then, against his will, Hamish broke, no longer able to hold back the tide as it swept away his fortitude.

Trevor let the hulking monstrosity grieve, doing his best not to show how the tears of such a dangerous man moved him. It was beautiful, watching God’s wrath endure the delicate balance of human fragility, howling at the moon, baying against the wife and children who wouldn’t be home, waiting with dinner on the table at the end of his self-deprecation.

So beautiful… and so frightening.

Trevor recanted his earlier statement. Happiness wasn’t a choice; not always. Sometimes, no matter how hard you reached for it, joy died with the people who had given it to you.

After a while, Hamish wiped his eyes and apologized. Trevor held up a hand and shook his head, keeping eyes on the elder. “Don’t be sorry, Hamish… be furious.” He pulled out his twelve-grain—sleek and metallic, a filigreed work of art—and slid it toward Hamish, barrel pointing at his own chest.  “I can’t replace what you’ve lost…but I can help you get back at the thing that caused it.”

Hamish’s hand hovered over the pistol, thinking back to times when he and his cronies stared down the barrel of one of these…of digging white hot tungsten from flesh, of the carnage that these weapons had dealt him over the course of decades. “Fifteen years…”

“I’m sorry?” Trevor felt cold sweat; he didn’t like that look.

The Faction elder picked up the twelve-grain, the weapon dwarfed in his enormous hand, feeling its weight, then that smile…

Jesus, what a smile…

It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t happiness. It was the look of a man committing brutal, wet torture in his mind. Trevor went through the same motions; ripping away clothing to expose the bruised flesh, rolling out his instrument bag, the steel gleaming in the harsh white light of surgeons, then that sweet shot of elation—and a chaser of revulsion—as he slowly flayed his art project alive.

Hamish stared at the weapon in his hand. “Fifteen years… of brutality at the beckoning of my masters. Fifteen years of ‘as you will it’ and ‘so shall it be,’ never questioning, always obedient—” Hamish’s eyes met Trevor’s. –for the cause.”

Trevor knew those words, because he lived them, every damn day…

So different, yet so similar.

Hamish pointed the twelve-grain at Trevor’s face, and time stopped. For a few tense moments, neither man moved. Then Hamish unlatched the barrel and dumped the breach, letting the tungsten rod fall to the table with a clang and roll to a stop at Trevor’s mug of beer. He spun the weapon so the barrel now faced his own chest and handed it back to Trevor. “And the cause let that… thing… murder my boys.”

Trevor smiled, then reloaded the twelve-grain and slid it silently back in its holster. “When can you be ready to leave?”

Hamish downed the last of his first beer then, maintaining eye contact with Trevor, polished off his second in one, long, sweet gulp. He belched and stowed the knife.

“Now I’m ready.”

Trevor looked around the pool hall, still bereft of people, then raised an eyebrow at Hamish. He’d uncorked the lamp; now it was time to see what kind of nightmare he’d set loose.

“Care to take a few roadies?”

Chapter Two

“Oh, I love this song!” Hamish cranked up the volume in the old Ford, blasting “Going Out West” and pushing the speakers beyond factory thresholds. Tom Waits would be their theme music for the time being. Trevor often wished he could have met the Zen troubadour seventy years ago, when he was still cranking out hit after hit in his own way. So unique, generating wild melodies from the cacophonic fiddle-faddle he found lying around, expressing the freedom of the road and the wild, untamed spirit of the human condition with whatever medium tickled his fancy.

“Did you know he was self-taught?” Hamish had been doing this for the past fifteen minutes; banging out tidbit after tidbit of knowledge, sprinkling edification over the car’s red velvet interior with another light dusting of scholarship. Trevor hadn’t known any of it, and he craved more. He was amazed at how similar he and Hamish were.

Separated by ideals—and only barely.

Trevor smiled. “Is that right?”

The big man smiled back, a silver capped tooth glinting in the moonlight. Trevor hadn’t noticed it before—right over the left canine.

“Yep, learned to play guitar and piano at his folks’ house in San Diego.” Hamish looked in his direction. “You ever been there?”

Trevor shook his head. “Nah, furthest west we’ve gone is St. Louis.”

They’d helped the St. Louis enforcers with a nest of Harbingers a few years back, the vampire-like entities taking over seven gates and really turning it into hell.

Trevor turned down the radio. “Hammer, however, has gone a lot further.”

Hamish dug dirt from under his fingernails. “Where? Like Los Angeles?”

“Try Ophidian.”

Hamish turned, shocked, to the Primacy enforcer. “Get the fuck out!”

Trevor chuckled. “I shit you not, my friend. Traversed the Aether to put down your basset hounds.”

Hammer had been a part of the expedition to rid the Ophidian home world of Ophidons—wormlike monstrosities bred to kill and leave no evidence. If shrouds were used to send a message, Ophidons were used to keep the world of men quiet.

Hamish’s jaw dropped, gazing out the window. “Fuuuuck.”

“Indeed.”

“I heard a kid got them out of that hellhole. Did your partner know him?” Hamish dug around the floorboard for a fresh beer.

Trevor was hit with a flash of memory; Scott, sobbing into Rake’s shoulder. Trevor, unable to console him.

Detained.

“My partner saw potential in Easton McKenna and stoked the flame.” Trevor turned to look Hamish in the eyes. “Scott forged that kid from fucking fire and turned him into a driving force of change. He’s the Prime Cleric now.”

Hamish paused, the truth dawning on him. “Hold on. Is your partner Scott Ferriman…Hammer? Of the Detroit origin source?”

Trevor tensed. “Is that a problem?”

Another brief pause, then Hamish let out a long whistle. “Wow.”

It was an unabashed awe, and Trevor relaxed, feeling the same way at times. His partner was larger than life and exuded a confidence that made people want to follow him; through anything…

He “was” larger than life… Hopefully soon, I can get him back to “is.”

“Anvil, then, I assume?” Hamish’s inquiry cut into his silent reverie, and Trevor paused, Hamish going silent. Trevor’s glance showed the burly fucker lost in his own thoughts, expression dark.

“Something wrong?”

Hamish rubbed his hands together nervously, testing the waters before the plunge. “…I’ve… beheld your artwork, Anvil.”

Artwork was the code word operatives used for torture, and Trevor loathed the term. What he did wasn’t art…it was barely even human. But when your enemy used pain as a part of initiation, as well as in whatever sacramental rites they conducted, the tendency for hands to get dirty was all but guaranteed.

Trevor kept his eyes on the road. “Don’t use my code name.”

Hamish’s face took on a somber look, like he’d said something that hurt Trevor’s feelings and felt guilty for it. Trevor cut through the tension before it could grow roots.

“And who talks like that? Beheld? Who are you, Vincent-fucking-Price?”

Hamish laughed, realizing he hadn’t offended. The laugh was growing on Trevor—raucous spasms of pure joy—and Trevor smiled.

Small glimmers of delight in the mists of woe… Pure poetry.

Keeping the momentum, Hamish quizzed Trevor once again through a wide grin. “Did you know Vincent Price wrote a cookbook?”

Trevor’s delight died. Hamish didn’t know…

Oh my god…

Primacy agents had found the remnants of the Miller twins in an old farmhouse outside of Lansing. Trevor had been there, witness to the torn flesh… to the hooks and cleavers and saucepans. Garlic in the fridge with rosemary as garnish… all written in the hand of an adolescent boy. The shroud couldn’t hold the pen.

Trevor laughed outwardly, keeping his shrieks of sympathetic grief to himself. “I didn’t!”

It’s gonna earn it all back, Hamish… Trevor’s gripped tightened on the steering wheel. I swear on my filthy goddamn life.

Chapter Three

“Hey, Shitbird, I need your help.” Trevor smiled as the call connected to Rake’s voice.

“Trevor! How’s Rockwood?” Rake’s smile came through the other end of the line like sunlight in black storms. Goddammit, it was infectious. The corners of Trevor’s mouth curled upward against their will.

Rake was six years younger than Trevor and had been his competition all through the Primacy Academy. Rake and Scott had joined the program as orphans, and the kid was a whizz-bang at everything he touched. From munitions to mythos, Rake had been ahead of Trevor every step of the way, with Trevor trailing closely behind as the second smartest in the Academy and never feeling overshadowed. Rake would help him with homework, and Trevor—with the help of Scott, of course—taught him how to dress and how to talk to girls, and introduced him to the world of Twinrye, an alcohol that intermingled grains from earth and grains from elsewhere in The Aether.

It was the single greatest friendship he’d ever had and made up for the misery Trevor had endured since his parents had brought him up as Primacy Elite. He’d hated the pomp that came with it all, remembering times as a little boy when he’d lived a normal life. When skinned knees were kissed and taped before he’d been sent back outside to play…

Before he learned about the things that stalked him—stalked them all—in the hedgerows just beyond their field of sight

“That’s why I need your help, kid.” Trevor watched Hamish exit the convenience store they currently sat outside of, an apocalypse level of snacks overflowing from the black plastic bag he carried.

Rake didn’t pause for a heartbeat. “Sure! What’s up?”

“I need you to meet me out here… in Rockwood.”

“Is Scott with you?”

Trevor winced, he’d hoped Rake wouldn’t ask. “I’m afraid not, kid.”

Rake knew; Scott was still lost in the mire of his own depression, and Trevor’s smile died a little.

A slight pause, then Rake sighed, resolute. “Okay, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Wait, kid. I’m not alone.”

“Okay? What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re not even gonna ask?”

“If I needed to know more, you would have told me, Anvil.” Rake’s smile was back—he could hear it—and so was his own.

“See ya soon, kid.” Trevor hung up the receiver and sent Rake his coordinates. He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face.

“Good conversation?” Hamish leaned against the frame of the LTD, his large bulk straining the suspension to the point that the wheel well touched the tread of the passenger side tire.

Trevor yelped, seeing the pinions and struts of Scott’s most cherished possession buckling in his mind. “Christ, you’re gonna have Hammer shoving his ten-grain up my ass and painting my brains with last night’s chili! Get up you goddamn heathen!” The car was his partner’s only remaining heirloom from the foster father that created two of the best men Trevor had ever met.

Hamish obliged quickly, reacting to Trevor’s flailing arms like he’d accidentally stepped on the homeowner’s pet cat instead of trying to be comfortable. Then he remembered he could crush Trevor’s skull with his ass cheeks, so he sauntered over to his side of the car, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. Sorry, Dad.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. “Whatever. That was Rake: my and Hammer’s orator.”

“Did you tell him what he needed to bring?”

“Trust me. This kid’s gonna bring way more than he needs to.”

Hamish laughed, tossing the bag of convenience store stakeout bait in the passenger seat.

From the front end of the LTD, footsteps approached.

“Well well well...” An unfamiliar voice, rife with malicious intent.

Trevor immediately went into alert mode. Three goons, meandering their way toward the LTD with the poise of wolves, had the pretentious air he associated with Faction Lackeys.

Trevor’s trigger finger itched.

The lead goon cast an eye at Trevor, then focused it on Hamish. “If it isn’t the Grand Inquisitor himself!” He bowed in mockery. “I heard the Vox Caedis had retired; what are you doing out here in Rockwood?”

The goon was using Hamish’s faction code name with familiarity, and The Voice of Slaughter certainly had an ethereal ring to it, especially in Latin.

Hamish looked unperturbed and stirred his drink. “Just enjoying a milkshake with a friend. How have you been, Sultis?” A faction moniker: Bleeding Star in the old tongue. The goons laughed and Hamish took a sip from the overly thick straw.

Sultis was turning red; embarrassment, perhaps? “A milkshake? Seriously? Did the Grand Elders cut your balls off before they put you out to pasture?”

The goons cackled, and Trevor felt heat in the chill autumn air; it radiated from Hamish, who moved to greet his past compatriots. “That isn’t nice, Sultis.” He stopped, inches from an old friend, hovering like a new enemy.

Sultis laughed; his smile was pure, hateful. Evil. “A lot’s changed out here, my grubby little pariah. The ranks have swelled, new leadership is… lax, with directives…” He looked Hamish up and down, his face a mixture of revulsion and admiration. “…unlike working under your tutelage.”

A new level of horror. Was this one of Hamish’s old disciples? Trevor knew that elders had seconds in command, pit bulls bred to carry out the orders of their elders with zealous ferocity.

All to make their mentor proud.  

“I believe you owe me an apology.” Hamish’s expression was still cool, collected.

Sultis scoffed, not wanting to look like a coward in front of his buddies. He was slightly shorter than Hamish, but not by much. In fact, regarding size and stature, the pair could have been distant cousins.

“Last chance, Sultis.”

Trevor realized, too late, that this wasn’t a coincidence. These goons had been doing some hunting of their own, their prey now within inches of their jaws. The lackeys to Sultis’ left and right sported purple at the edges of the iris, indicating they were hopped up on Vanmir powder. It was nasty stuff, highly addictive, and lent speed and agility to the consumer.

It also sent most into a blind rage when inhaled.

The pack dogs attacked, each wielding the twisting curves of faction daggers, blades rippling like water, frozen forever in steel. They swiped, and Hamish moved back, dodging each with grace.

Trevor drew his twelve-grain, and Hamish held a hand up, hearing the metal slide against the leather. He would take care of this himself. And, apparently, he would do so still holding his milkshake.

The first lackey, gaunt and spidery, swiped again, while the second, fatter one, moved to flank Hamish. Trevor trained his twelve-grain on Sultis, ensuring he didn’t try and cheat his way into a victory. Hamish saw the fat one going for his blind spot and threw his milkshake in his rotund fucking face. His opponent now blinded with cold chocolate-vanilla swirl, Hamish struck out like lightning, grabbing spiderboy’s wrist and snapping it like kindling. The spindly ghoul had enough time to choke a hoarse scream before Hamish crushed his windpipe with a rapid hand to the throat, trachea grinding to powder along with the cervical spine. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, and Hamish focused his wrath on Grimace.

The lackey had just enough time to wipe cold cream from his eyes to before Hamish grabbed at the sides of his fat head, jamming both enormous thumbs into the man’s eye sockets, listening to the harmonized squeal of pain and fear erupting from the maw of the doomed Faction lackey. Hamish flicked his wrists, and the goon’s neck snapped, leaving another heap of memory on the ground.

Hamish leaned down, plucking the metal straw from the milkshake lid, thumbs still saturated in blood and dura-matter. He tapped the straw against the palm of his hand, and Sultis drew his hand axe.

Trevor stowed his twelve-grain, understanding the situation; this was a vendetta, not a hit, and Hamish would have to do this himself.

Student and Master circled each other, two alphas alone in the wilderness, vying for dominance: one for power, one for preservation.

“You can walk away right now Sultis. My friend and I will go our way, and you go yours—” Hamish looked down at the mess he’d made. “—two lackeys poorer, but alive nonetheless.”

Sultis pulled a small vial from his pocket similar in shape to a bottle of allergy spray. He put it in his first nostril, and breathed deep, then did the same in the second. His second breath—lungs full of oxygen, concentrated vanmir powder and loathing—ended as a roar, the vile nectar consuming him. In a flash, Sultis attacked.

Trevor walked backward to the LTD, unable to draw his eyes away from the melee. Elders were taught that the weapon was only an extension of oneself, and carnage was best dealt in the flow and grace of a dance. It was elegant and deadly, and Trevor thought back to Balanchine dancers, flowing like water on stage, graceful elegance packed into predatory muscles, whisking this way and that…beautiful.

Sultis shot out in a river rapid pirouette, the hand axe arcing over his head, his aim true, going for the meat of Hamish’s clavicle. Hamish flowed to the right, around the arc, then behind Sultis in a blink—had he really moved that fast?

Hamish drove the straw into the exposed axillary of the offending arm, penetrating the soft underside of Sultis’ armpit then ripping it up and free quickly, sending a red rivulet of blood spraying from the wound in a vermillion geyser. Sultis screamed and the hand axe fell from his grasp. Still moving with lighting precision, Hamish spun back into the front of Sultis and grabbed the back of his neck, bringing his student in close.

“I’m sorry, Sultis.”

He drove the straw into Sultis’ nose, driving it up past the thin plate that separated the nasal passage from the brain. His prodigy convulsed in his hands, eyes rolling into the back of his skull, and Hamish held him in an embrace; a loving father saying goodbye to his favored son. Then Hamish let him fall to the ground, sprayed in a mist of blood and brain, and breathed heavy for a few moments. His back was to Trevor, and the enforcer watched Hamish’s shoulders shudder and convulse. Heaving gasps of agony… another exposed wound filled to the brim with salt.

Instinctively, Trevor rushed to Hamish and grabbed his shoulder. The beast turned, rage and hate and pain awash in his eyes, ready to kill again, if need be.

The straw was raised.

“Whoa, Hamish, friendly! Friendly!” Trevor held his hands up disarmingly.

Hamish’s eyes refocused, and he saw Trevor finally. “Anvil?”

“No, Hamish, just Trevor. Anvil has the night off.”

Hamish tried to laugh at the terrible joke, and his hiccupping laughter turned to sobs.

Trevor could hear sirens in the distance; the store clerk wasn’t happy with a dead elder in his parking lot. “C’mon, big guy. We gotta go. The locals aren’t going to be keen on us leaving presents with no gift receipt.”

Hamish looked around, realizing they…he… had killed in the open. He nodded to himself, coming to a decision. “I know a place we can hide out for a bit.”

Trevor nodded. “I’ll call Rake.”

As they left, the LTD’s brake lights growing smaller, the watermark of red light glinted from the end of the blood-soaked straw, closing another chapter in the Faction elder’s past, and exposing Trevor to the pure, unadulterated fury of Hamish Miller.

Chapter Four

Trevor killed the engine in front of a dilapidated gas station, overgrown with kudzu and years of wanton abandon. Old wrappers blew in the wind like tumbleweeds, the ground littered in broken glass and empty tall-boys. The pumps had been ripped out years ago, the earth consuming the voids and sprouting an assortment of plant life. Trevor spotted a flash of pink in one of the stalls; a singular rose had claimed the pump for itself, a lonely king in a moat of antiquated convenience.

Trevor grimaced. “It’s a fucking dump.”

Hamish chuckled dryly, wiping the last remnants of Sultis’ dura matter from his bald head. “What can I say? It’s the maid’s day off.”

Trevor laughed and exited the vehicle, he and Hamish moving to the side of the convenience store. Hamish withdrew a key from his pocket as they neared a side door marked restroom and unlocked it, unseen mechanisms whirring as something deactivated in the walls beyond. Hamish pushed the door inward and flipped a switch to the left of the entryway, spilling rotten yellow light into the room.

Trevor had to blink and let his eyes adjust to the dim incandescence before he was able to take in the sheer detestable nature of this restroom. “Dear god…”

Hamish laughed at Trevor’s revulsion. The walls were a hodgepodge of graffiti, covered over with century’s worth of memory. A single sink and toilet occupied the cramped space. The toilet’s lid lay hanging from the side of the bowl, ripped from one hinge and resting on the side of a sink completely overtaken by rust… or something worse. As icing on the proverbial cake, the floor was stained in a dark brown mire that traced back to the front of the toilet bowl.

Trevor didn’t need to guess what it was. His face twisted as aged waste hit his nostrils. “Is the convenience store worse than this somehow? Why did you bring me to the shitter, Hamish?”

“Thought you’d need to pee.” Hamish shrugged.

Trevor huffed. “Fuck Hamish, I’d rather piss in my own mouth than piss in here.”

Another roar of laughter… another glimmer against the darkness. Hamish wiped at his eyes. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

The elder entered first, filling all four corners of the cramped enclosure.

Trevor chortled. “Afraid I’ll have to wait out here, big man. It looks like there’s only room for your big ass at the moment.”

Hamish chuckled again, pressing in one of the black tiles on the far wall, the whirring and hisses of mechanics behind it indicating he’d released a trap door. Sure enough, a narrow opening appeared in the wall, and it looked too small for Hamish to fit in it.

“Uh…” Before Trevor could make a joke about leaving his lube at home, Hamish forced himself into the cramped space, shoulders grinding against the walls, lichen and grime cleared away as he passed. Trevor followed, moving slowly as Hamish cursed under his breath, giving the large man room to maneuver as they descended. The staircase was steep, almost like a ladder, so Trevor was unperturbed by the slow descent. He stayed alert, however; if something came from below, he’d have a hell of a time making it back up… and he certainly didn’t want to be trapped down there, either.

Hamish finished his descent and flipped another switch, inviting harsh white fluorescent lighting. Trevor instantly hated the light; it felt like he was heading into—his breath stopped at the landing.

Surgical instruments, neatly aligned in an open storage cabinet made of beautifully crafted wood.

Leather straps… to secure in place.

Little pinpricks of crimson on the floor, like sanguine constellations.

The hair on his neck stood up, and he instinctively drew his twelve-grain. “Where the fuck did you bring me, Hamish?” He didn’t have to ask. Against the growing anxiety, a part of him felt at home.

“It’s a Faction interrogation room.” Hamish hadn’t turned around yet, but Trevor could tell that Hamish knew about the flashing weapon in Primacy hands. He held his own hands up, showing he was unarmed, and slowly turned to face Trevor.

And when Trevor met those eyes— the eyes of a kindred spirit… the eyes of a man who knows great artwork— he ran.

Back up the steps in a flash, not taking a second to listen to Hamish’s pleas, cursing as he tried to jam himself back up through the exit. Trevor was back out in the wild where he belonged, with the rest of the animals. He heaved and panted, focusing his sights on that rose… that beautiful rose in complete, carnal defiance of the barbarity fifty feet below its roots. He gripped at his chest, heaving, panicking.

“Anvil?” That voice, like a lighthouse in the worst storm of his life, pure and resonant.

An angel.

Rake manifested, clutching Trevor in a warm embrace, his diminutive frame dispelling the disquiet from Trevor’s heart, stroking his hair, saying, “I got you” over and over and over as Trevor sobbed. It had been too much, too fast. How had he not seen it? How could he have—

“Hey, it’s okay.” 

Rake…Sweet Rake. Once again, the strongest of the three of them…

“Wanna talk about it?”

Trevor shook his head. He felt Hamish’s shadow loom over the pair and thought him uncaring until Hamish rested his large hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Trevor, I didn’t think—”

Rake pushed Trevor away, getting in the larger man’s bubble, scolding the giant like he’d taken more cookies than allowed. Hamish stood almost three heads taller than Rake. The scene would have been comical, if not for Rake’s seething rage.

Rake continued moving forward until his chest collided with Hamish’s navel. “What happened?”

Hamish stepped back, eyes wide and questioning.

Rake refused to give Hamish ground, his intensity more than the mutant had ever seen before.

Scott’s fault: he gave the kid a nutsack the size of a dying star.

Trevor sighed. “It’s okay, Rake. He didn’t know.”

Rake’s eyes remained daggers, ready to kill on command.

Trevor took a deep breath, then put himself between orator and elder, something he’d never thought he’d have to do in a million years. “It’s his studio, Rake.”

Rake’s ire hit its threshold. “You—what!?”

Rake shoved past Trevor and pushed Hamish. The big man balked, backing up yet again.

“Rake, stand down!” Trevor put himself between them again. He was worried Hamish would eventually lose his patience and crush his little brother. He put his arms on Rake’s shoulders. “It’s okay. He meant well, Rake. He doesn’t know.”

“Know what, goddammit!” Hamish was losing his patience.

It was time, finally… Trevor closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t like interrogation.”

Hamish’s confused expression lingered for only a moment, before he laughed, defiantly, in Trevor’s face.

That was when Rake slapped him.

Oh shit.

Hamish shoved past Trevor, intending to kill.

Rake was faster. An eight-grain—capable of firing tungsten projectiles the size of grape shot— was fused to the faction elder’s testicles in nanoseconds. “Say the word, Anvil, and I’ll ensure his legacy dies right here.”

This was getting out of hand.

“Alright goddammit! Stand down! Now, the both of you!” Trevor shoved Rake back and scolded him, turning to Hamish and doing likewise, until the pair were sufficiently separated. “Christ’s sake! It’s like the lion and the fucking mouse out here!” He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion settling in his bones for an old fireside confession. “Quick rundown, Hamish; I interrogate because I have to, not because I enjoy it.”

Hamish scoffed, “Bullshit. I know you enjoy it.”

Trevor shook his head in defiance.

And yet…

Rake cut in. “And you thought, what, showing Trevor your studio would trauma bond the pair of you? Do you know how fucked up that is?”

They all paused, understanding now melding between the three of them… yes, it was deranged, but this whole damn war was.

Hamish grinned conspiratorially. “I mean…”

Trevor joined in. “I’ve trauma bonded over a turkey sandwich, Rake. What’s a Faction interrogation room?”

Rake’s gaze could have pierced marble, then it softened. He sighed. “I was there, Trevor, I remember.”

Hamish laughed, the tension dissolving with a well-placed joke.

Good old gallows humor for the win, yet again.

Hamish looked back uncomfortably to the wolf-in-sheep’s-building. “Should we stay out here?”

Trevor shook his head. “No, we need to get these cars off the road and hole up for a bit, just in case the locals wanna ask why three men are dead.”

Rake spun. “Wait, what?”

Trevor laughed. Harder than he should have, but he needed it to dispel the last remnants of the aftershock. “I’ll explain inside. Let’s go.”

Chapter Five

Hamish had to squeeze his enormous ass down the narrow stairwell once again, grunting and cursing the whole way down.

Rake chuckled at the giant’s tirade. “Too bad I left my lube at home.”

Trevor loved this kid.

You know… maybe.

Seizing the opportunity for a little light mischief, Trevor gave in to impulse. Rake was a certified genius, scoring off the charts on every Primacy evaluation he had taken. He knew more about nothing than Trevor could possibly dream of. It was also one of the few marks of ego Rake possessed. And Trevor loved it.“You know, Rake, Hamish here is full of little tidbits of knowledge.”

Rake perked up. “Really?”

Cast the bait…

“Yep, sure is. Hey, Hamish, what was that shit about the penguins?”

Let it dangle a bit…

Hamish stopped at the doorway, cocking his head to the side in thought. Trevor hadn’t noticed, but Rake had been leading him down by the arm, giving him the strength to push forward.

“The one about the saltwater?” Hamish tried to turn, but his shoulders ground to a halt against the concrete.

Rake tried to answer first… in Rake fashion. “Oh! I know this one!”

Oop! We got a live one!

Hamish was faster. “Me, too. They convert seawater to freshwater in a gland above their eyes.”

Rake squeezed the shit out of Trevor’s arm.

And it’s a big one folks! Trevor tried not to squeal in excitement.

It was Rake’s turn for info-dumping. If Hamish had known him better, he’d hear the edge in his voice. “Did you know they mate for life?”

Hamish snorted. “Anybody who’s seen 50 First Dates knows that… Did you know they can call their mate with a tone only she knows?”

Oh, he’s a FIGHTER!

Rake let go of Trevor’s arm and Hamish walked the remainder of the way down the stairwell, turned, and came back up, grunting and heaving until he was eye level with Rake.

Rake was unphased. “Did you know a group of penguins is called a raft?”

Trevor felt ready to pop.

Hamish had turned beet red again. Not in rage, but in thought… He narrowed his eyes. “Do you know how many species there are?”

Rake narrowed his. “Nobody does, stupid.”

Trevor exploded with laughter. It felt good to dispel some of that tension he was feeling inside, even at the expense of people he knew.

Rake turned his head, indignant, until it dawned on him. Hamish was a second behind, then all three were laughing against the moment.

Just a faint glimmer… “Sorry guys, I couldn’t help myself.”

Rake shoved him. “You’re a dickhead, you know that right?”

Trevor shoved him back, and Rake tripped, landing in the arms of Hamish.

Hamish sniffed his hair, playfully. “Ooh you smell nice.”

Rake jumped back. “Jesus, hands off, you fucking goon…” He wiped himself off, trying to remove the ick. “Christ, it’s like he’s channeling Hammer or something.”

And the clouds return…

Trevor kept smiling. “They’d get along great.”

Rake scoffed, “Scott would draw his ten-grain on him based on sheer size alone.”

Hamish laughed. “Sounds like my kinda guy.”

“He’s everyone’s kinda guy.” Rake’s voice said he meant it.

Trevor clapped his hands. “Alright, kids, we’ve got emotional trauma to unload. I think we’ve had enough levity for the moment.”

Rake was facing Hamish again. Trevor saw the slightest peek of Rake’s narrowing eyes and upturned corner of his lip.

The wind-up…

“No, no, Trevor… Big man has to walk the whole way down staring at my dick.”

Hamish roared.

And the crowd goes wild…

A few more sprinkles of laughter later, the trio made it to the bottom step.

Hamish stopped. “Are you good?” His eyes were boring into Trevor’s, but it was in support, not intimidation.

Trevor nodded, and Hamish entered, once again spilling harsh white light on Trevor, its purifying light burning his retinas, along with the tainted parts of his soul.

It’s just another studio…

Rake released Trevor’s arm and stormed the room, poring his eyes over everything. In wonder, in stupefaction… and the pure joy in Rake’s face dispelled any further notions of taboo.

If he can do it… Trevor tried to channel Rake’s inner wonder and stepped into Hamish’s studio, his skin crawling. He told himself it wasn’t thrill he felt as he ran his hands over the interrogation instruments of an enemy. Little jolts of excitement at the touch of something that bruised, lilts of manic electricity for things constrictive.

It was revulsion and horror Trevor felt, nothing more.

“Trevor, this place looks a hell of a lot like yours!” Rake’s eyes were pure wonderment.

Hamish caught it—a flicker of guilt in Trevor’s eyes—and he tried to salvage the situation. “I doubt it, Rake.”

Rake understood Hamish’s inference. “Yeah, you’re probably right, you Faction thugs actually enjoy the work.”

Hamish winced, and Trevor laughed.

Rake kept on perusing, getting on with business while rummaging through a small cabinet of crystals and jewelry. “So, what are we tracking?”

Trevor picked up a pitch-black tiara and spun it in his hands. “It’s a shroud hunt.”

 Rake let out a wolf whistle as Trevor donned the headgear, then continued. “Do you want the usual?”

Trevor nodded, taking the tiara off his head and placing it back on the shelf where he’d found it, not liking the wave of nausea he’d felt when he’d put it on. “Figured we’d go over the basics, then get into the advanced stuff after.” Basics would include strip maps, floor plans, and a central overview of whatever person—or in this case, thing—they were after. Advanced mission intelligence governed how to best approach, occupy, and—in a perfect world—capture, not kill, their target.

Rake put the petrified hand of something with six purple digits back in the case and wiped his hands on his pants. “Humanoid, alternating between bipedal and quadrupedal when hunting, capable of mimicking our vocal patterns, and an insatiable—”

“Yeah, yeah, we know all this.” Trevor moved his arm in a cranking motion, pressing him forward in the story…

And preventing him from saying an insatiable appetite for human flesh.

Rake chuckled. “Right, I’m sure you both know all this. You’ve worked with shrouds, right, Hamish?”

Shit… he hadn’t read the entire case file.

Hamish’s expression was grim, and he’d paled a few shades. “Trevor?”

Trevor understood; he’d have to explain it. “Hey kid, have a seat for a second.”

Rake visibly tensed. He was an orphan; he understood the sound of bad news before he heard it. “What is it?”

Trevor waited until Rake was seated, then sat across from him, leaning forward with elbows on knees. “Kid, do you remember that new case Scott and I got tasked with?”

Rake’s puzzled expression would have been comical in other circumstances. “Why exactly did you think I was here?”

Trevor smirked. “Are you aware of what the shroud had done?”

Rake thought about it for a second. “I heard he killed a couple of kids and a mother. Somewhere here in Rockwood, if memory serves.”

“About that, kid—”

“It was just the boys,” Hamish spoke, his voice hollow. He was leaning against the instrument case, arms folded, looking down. “Their mother—” His face twisted, and Trevor heard Rake’s breath hitch.

Such a smart kid… Trevor truly loved him.

Rake moved to stand, but Trevor held him back, keeping him grounded.

Hamish took a deep breath before continuing, his face still tight with grief. “Maggie tried… she really tried.”

No light now, just black clouds over a new moon…

Rake ripped away from Trevor gently and slowly stood. “What was she like?”

Hamish’s chuckle sent a tear in freefall to the floor, mingling with the blood of dead Primacy agents. His face said he could smell her perfume in the air, like lilacs, and Rake sidled up near the behemoth, the moon next to its enormous sun.

“She was starlight, man. I could chart my course to hers, and we could weather any storm.” Hamish shuddered, and Rake leaned down, pulling a bottle from his bag.

That sneaky sonofabitch…

Rake let Hamish breathe, not rushing it, biding his time. He pulled three small cups from the pack next and set them beside the bottle of vintage Twinrye.

Finally, Hamish continued. “I knew…knew… she’d be safe if I kept her away from it all. The scars were easy enough to explain, claimed to be a reformed criminal working his blue-collar job, promised her a quiet life in the suburbs, with a dog and a picket fence to match.”

The last was said in a racking sob, and Rake uncorked the bottle, letting it breathe.

Letting Hamish breathe.

“Did you give it to her?” Rake sniffed the bottle and nodded approvingly.

Hamish refused to look anywhere but down, but he nodded his head. “Yeah…” he breathed deeply. “And then the boys came.” He chuckled, shaking more tears free to form scarlet Rorschach’s to form at his feet. “They were so beautiful, and I loved them with all my heart… I told myself that what I… did… for a living, was for them. It was to keep them safe from the horrors of the world.”

Rake nodded. “The devil you know…”

Hamish finally looked up, meeting Rake’s eyes… those understanding eyes.

Rake turned the bottle over in his hands, inspecting the label. “If you could see them again, how would you imagine it going?”

Hamish thought about it. “I guess… I’d tell them—”

Rake stopped him with a quick hand gesture. “Not what you’d say… what would you see? Close your eyes and tell me.”

Hamish did so and smiled. “Maggie is chasing the boys in the house, getting them ready for school. Her hair is hazelnut against the morning sunlight. The boys got my hair, black and thinning already; it’s no coincidence I’m bald.” He chuckled at the thought. “She’s made eggs and pancakes, their favorite. Now if only she could get them to the table…”

It was pure peace on his face.

The first hints of dawn…

“Stay there.” Rake, so softly, letting him be in the moment with his family again. “Stay there as long as you want, Hamish. Because they’ll always be there, waiting for you at that table. And one day, you’ll see them again and you’ll all get to laugh and be whole again. Until then, they’re still here…” Rake put his finger right over Hamish’s heart. “Right here.”

A glorious sunrise… Hamish broke beautifully, sobbing against what had been lost, now once again found.

They let him be in the moment, bowing their heads in respect to people who moved this boulder of a man to weep at their memory. As Hamish returned to the present, Rake poured three glasses and gave one to each of them. He held his glass high in salute to new beginnings. “To fight well…”

Trevor finished the mantra. “…a thankless necessity.”

They consumed their glasses, Hamish slow to start at the unknown toast, but quick to compliment the taste of the whiskey.

Rake chuckled. “Best Twinrye this side of the Aether. It’s made off-world.Got it from Parchment. She says they’re slow-aged in zero-gravity out there, so it changes the flavor profile.”

Hamish stared at the empty glass. “Best shit I ever had.” He held it out for more.

“One’s enough, big guy.” Rake popped the cork back on the bottle. “You’re on the clock.” Rake stared at the bottle for a few more seconds, then held it out as an offering to Hamish. Hamish stared, dumbfounded, and Rake laughed.

“Not to keep, asshole, but to hold onto until we’re done. This cost Parchment a promotion, and I don’t want Trevor breaking it while we do what’s next.”

Chapter Six

            Trevor parked the LTD just around the bend from the old slaughterhouse, coasting in the last tenth of a mile or so with the lights off so they could approach the rest of the way silently on foot. Trevor had laid out the plan back at Hamish’s studio, going over floor plans, exit points, and contingencies in the event the shroud tried to run. Rake familiarized the pair with basic shroud anatomy, going over their rich iron composition in excruciating detail—to the point that he had to wake Trevor on several occasions to cease his snoring.

Trevor leaned to the glove box and pulled out the extra tungsten rods he’d stored there, then popped the trunk. “Stay out here until we signal you. We’ll need your help carrying it to the car.”

Rake huffed from the backseat. “To hell with that, I’m going!”

Trevor rubbed his eyes. Dawn was only an hour or two away. “We’ve been over this, Rake; If something happens to you, Scott will literally kill me.”

Or himself…

No more brightness. Ever.

Hamish cut in before Rake could interject. “He’s coming. We’re going to need the hands.” His face was dark, ravenous, staring at the bend in the road, seeing the farmhouse on the other side of it, the slaughterhouse directly behind that.

Trevor could see by Hamish’s expression he was dismantling the shroud with his bare hands. He tapped Hamish on the elbow, jarring his mental slicing and breaking, bringing him back to reality. “Alright Hamish, but you’re on orator watch now. If something happens to him—”

Hamish held up a hand to stifle the threat. He locked eyes with Trevor. “I’ve lost enough already. I’m asking, as a friend… don’t add him to my burdens.”

Trevor understood and nodded. “He’ll be my responsibility.”

Rake huffed again. “I’m thirty goddamn years old!”

They exited the vehicle and made for the trunk, Trevor speaking in whispers. “I brought some of Scott’s toys along for the ride, in case you didn’t feel like using your mitts.”

Rake snickered. “Mitts? Who are you, Mickey-fucking-Rourke?”

Hamish groaned, holding in a roar of laughter that would give them away too early.

Trevor smiled and looked at Hamish. “See where he gets it now?”

Hamish held a hand over his mouth and nodded.

“Alright, geezers.” Rake cranked his arm to hurry them along “Let’s wrap this up. I’ve got a coffee date to get to.”

They finished their peals of silent laughter, then rummaged through Scott’s mobile armory. Every gadget and gizmo imaginable was present, ranging from Primacy tech to obsidian daggers. Hamish produced two black hatchets about the length of his enormous forearms, and a flak vest to cover his vitals.

Evidently, he planned on getting in close.

Rake found a few extra tungsten rods for his eight-grain and stashed them in his outer coat pocket, deciding to pack light, then gave the thumbs-up. Trevor gently closed the trunk, and they commenced moving stealthily up the road.

Moving quietly was hard work, and Trevor initially worried Hamish’s lumbering strides would threaten their approach, but the man moved with that lethal grace Trevor had come to expect from Faction elders. Rocks whispered under his mountainous feet, and their steps quickened as the farmhouse came into view. Trevor tried to reach out a warding hand, to slow Hamish and keep his feet silent, but the big man pushed forward, heedless to stealth. Blood was in the water, and the megalodon would sink his teeth into vendetta without fear or recourse. Trevor moved closer to Rake, ensuring he could be close at hand if something were to—

Hamish’s big fist rose to shoulder level, indicating an all-stop. They paused and crouched, Trevor now seeing what Hamish saw. Faction lackeys patrolled the perimeter. Trevor counted two at the perimeter and a sentry at the entrance, which meant an unknown number indoors. They sported shoulder mounts and tac-gear, with the sentry at the door sporting a full Faction eckso-suit.

Rake was the first to hiss his concern. “An eckso-suit?! What the fuck are they doing with war armor?”

It certainly wasn’t standard issue, and Trevor thought back to the last time he’d seen an eckso-suit in use. His mind revolted again, remembering the crimson and blue of human blood and ophidon ichor melding into rich violet against light grey armor. He remembered Scott sobbing, and Rake holding him against the horrors of war.

He shook the memory away. This wasn’t a time for guilt.

We must make torches against the darkness.

Trevor heard a low growl in Hamish’s throat, a mix of frustration and fury. “This changes nothing.” Hamish kept his eyes on the sentry.

Trevor nodded. “Agreed. Rake, you got any ideas rolling around in that computer you call a mind?”

Rake thought a moment, his face showing uncertainty. “Distraction?”

Hamish shook his head. “They’ll move the shroud the second something happens. Then we’ll have to chase.”

Rake regrouped. “Stealth?”

Trevor chortled, pointing at Hamish “Unlikely.”

Hamish nodded his agreement.

Rake closed his eyes in thought, and Trevor let him work. Hamish’s face said he was dismantling the guard in his mind, piece by piece, so Trevor watched the fireworks show in his own imagination, until Rake snapped them both from their mental reveries.

“I got it!” Rake quietly retreated to the LTD before Trevor could even stand.

Hamish put his hand on Trevor’s arm, keeping him in place. “Too much motion at once could tip them off.” Hamish let his arm go and snickered. “Kid’s small enough, they probably thought he was a rabbit.”

Trevor smiled, doing his best to keep the knot in the pit of his stomach from taking roots. His insides roiled, ready to kill, but the need to protect circumvented those priorities; Rake’s involvement was eating him alive. “I don’t want him here, Hamish.”

Hamish understood and nodded. “Life rarely goes how we planned it, huh?” His eyes were flaying again, taking the memory of his wife and children back piece by wet, flapping piece.

Trevor understood, and his protests ceased. A few moments later, Rake slid back beside the pair, a milk jug in his hands. It was filled to the brim with a thick grey substance.

Trevor craned his head. “What the fuck is that?”

Rake beamed. “Just a little something Parchment and I have been working on.”

“How do the two of you have time to work on things?”

Rake scoffed. “It’s not like you and Hammer have exactly been utilizing my capabilities lately, so I’ve had plenty of time to roam.”

A tinge of guilt hit Trevor at abandoning a brother, but Rake’s smile showed happiness, not desertion.

“Anyway.” Rake slid the jug forward. “This stuff is completely inert until it isn’t…Hamish, how’s your throwing arm?”

Hamish broke from his slicing and chopping thoughts and returned to the now. He frowned at the liquid. “What’s that?”

Rake smiled. “You’ll see…How close do you need to be to hit the eckso-suit?” He tapped the jug, and Hamish cocked an eyebrow.

“I don’t have a lighter.”

Rake sighed, giving Hamish a look that said he was an idiot. “How close do you need to be to hit the eckso-suit?”

“I could hit it from here, if needed.”

Rake’s smile was evil, and Trevor loved it. “That won’t be necessary.”

Five minutes later, the trio had low-crawled their way another hundred and fifty meters forward; they would need to get a little closer before they could put the plan in motion. Rake inched forward next to Trevor, eight-grain drawn, dragging the jug as best he could in his other hand. Trevor could hear the voices of the lackeys carried on the wind, informing those on the inside that all was clear on the perimeter. Trevor saw the lazy movement of flashlights, beams of brilliant white disappearing into the stars above. Complacency killed, and these guards stank of it.

Just a little further…

From Rake’s direction, a metallic clang broke the quiet of early morning; one of his tungsten rods had fallen from his coat pocket, ringing out high and shrill like alarm bells. Flashlights pointed in their direction, no longer lazy…

Their plan was officially, irredeemably fucked.

Chapter Seven

Trevor’s heart dropped. Rake’s eyes bulged at the clanging tungsten rod, and he paled. Shouts resounded from outside the farmhouse and within. The element of surprise had been lost; it was over before it began.

Hamish’s laugh cut through the quiet tension. “Fuck it. Looks like we’re doing it live.” He rolled away from Trevor and Rake into a crouch-run and bolted to their left. Shoulder mounts discharged against the movement, and flashlights retreated in chase, leaving Trevor and Rake alone in the darkness.

Rake shoved the jug into Trevor’s hands. “Throw it at the guard when you see an opening!” He darted away before Trevor could stop him, the armored sentry catching the movement and firing. Rake fell.

NO!

Trevor was on his feet, hurling the jug at the guard, watching it sail and collide with the polished black armor… then erupting in a spurt of yellow white flame. The suit melted, consuming the wearer in shriek of pain as he was devoured by bright light and heat. It was horrifying to witness… horrifying, and beautiful.

“Trevor!”

It was a squeal of pain, and Trevor rushed to his brother-in-arms. Rake was squeaking hoarsely against the white-hot tungsten that had torn through his shoulder, leaving a black, charred hole that smelled of burnt bacon. It was a through-and-through, thank God, but Trevor had little time to react as the windows to the farmhouse opened and gunfire erupted in the still autumn air.

“Just a scratch, kid! You’ll be all right!” Chaos enveloped the farm. Trevor returned fire from where he sat, expending his first tungsten rod in seconds, then fishing for a reload as small fires formed around them. The dry overgrowth was sweet nourishment for the pellets of plasma littering the ground, and soon the heat from the flaming grasses singed Trevor’s eyebrows.

Flames licked at their faces, threatening to consume them like the liquid had the armored guard. Trevor pushed Rake away from the fire, retreating to the ditch in front of the overgrown lawn, expending round after round in his wake, not looking back to see if his shots connected. Rake hit the slope and rolled, pulling a roll of gauze from his jacket pocket after stopping. A trickle of dark red blood appeared from the entry wound, more than likely from flesh tearing against their movement.

“Where the hell did you get that?!” Trevor had to shout it over the exchange of volleys.

Rake laughed, adrenaline now coursing through his veins. “I figured you’d be the one to get shot, so I came prepared!”

He stuffed the speedball of tightly wound fabric into the cavity, groaning against the pain of it. Trevor continued to fire, then felt a tapping against his oxford. Rake proffered a tungsten rod in his direction, though this had a bluish hue to it, unlike the standard charcoal grey of Primacy issue rods. Trevor raised an eyebrow.

“Just take the damn thing, dummy!” Rake shoved it into Trevor’s hand.

Trevor dumped the cartridge on his half-used rod, the end of it sizzling in the dirt at their feet. Rake dropped wet soil over it, quenching the heat before it could start another small fire. Their concealment was being slowly consumed by the flames, and Trevor tried to plan. Nothing came.

“Shoot the fucking thing, Anvil!” Trevor’s code name hit like a slap; Rake was pissed.

Trevor obliged and watched as a blue bolt of plasma shot from the end of his twelve-grain, a blast of heat washing backwards as the round discharged, then erupted in a shower of light and percussion that stopped the remaining shots from their attackers. Trevor stared at his weapon.

Rake smiled in disbelief. “Holy shit, it worked!”

Trevor spun, dumbfounded. “What do you mean, it worked?”

Rake shrugged. “Parchment hadn’t had a chance to field test them yet!”

They waited another second or two before they heard screaming from inside the farmhouse, coupled with the shrill cry of something inhuman. Rake and Trevor shared a split-second glance, then simultaneously rushed toward the entrance. The husk of melted eckso-suit armor and lackey obstructed the front, so they made a break for the back of the house. The Primacy agents reached the side of the old home, the exterior smoking and singing as discharged plasma lapped hungrily at the wood siding. They hugged the wall, stepping over the pieces of two dead lackeys as they passed. Hamish could be heard inside, grunting and thudding as something hissed in the room with him. Then Hamish screamed.

They bolted inward, heedless of a trap or ambush. They halted at the sight of the walls of what used to be a quaint rustic kitchen. They were now painted in a spray of red gore and offal, bodies and their missing pieces littered the floor, and a severed arm joined the décor on the table, a macabre addition to the cornucopia at its center. A blur tore past the door in the hall, and Trevor fired on instinct, the bright flash blinding and stunning him temporarily.

“What the hell is in that rod?!” Trevor yelled, shaking the stars free from his mind. Rake, however, had thought to cover his eyes when Trevor had drawn and fired, so his vision had been salvaged.

“Parchment’s calling them shock binders! It’s a blend of phosphorus in the rod that detonates on impact with any surface it touches—big boom, big light!”

Hamish’s axe appeared in the doorway, and he announced himself so they wouldn’t fire. “All clear. Help me with this thing.” Hamish wiped blood and gore from his face, panting heavily against adrenaline-fueled exertion, hate and death still alight in his eyes.

He was covered head to foot in crimson life, and some orange liquid Trevor couldn’t make out at first. Then it clicked.

Shroud blood.

Trevor’s shot had clipped the shroud, the blast evidently knocking it unconscious. Rake stowed his weapon, as did Trevor. Firing another of those rounds this close would be stupid, and the shroud’s sensory system, heightened in battle, would be incapacitated from the light and percussive blast of the shock binder. Hamish stood poised to strike, still as a statue, in case it was playing possum.

Trevor leant to inspect for vitals, unsure of where to check, until Rake cued him. “You should catch a pulse at the wrist, to the other side of where ours is.”

Trevor delicately assessed for a pulse. The nightmare’s skin felt like touching a greasy iron skillet, and he felt a faint thumping. The shroud was alive.

“We got pulses.” Trevor looked to Rake, who nodded in satisfaction. He looked back down at the shroud’s face, its wide eyes closed, the rags it wore partially obstructing its face, mouth, curled into—

Was that a sneer?

The shroud struck out, claws grazing Trevor’s chest, and Trevor moved back instinctively, Hamish brought both axes down, looking for purchase at the creature’s neck, but the shroud was too fast. The axe’s thick metal head made contact with flooring, and the shroud was up—

And sank its teeth into Rake’s wounded shoulder; it evidently preferred the taste of cooked flesh over raw meat. Rake howled in pain and fear and surprise. Hamish was on it in a flash, tearing it away from Rake, taking Rake’s muscles and tendons with it, and Rake collapsed backward. Trevor started for Rake, then noted Hamish’s grunts and demands for help, his large stature towering over the shroud, and still it fought back, teeth sinking into Hamish’s arm, his stifled groans a refusal to cease the fight, filling the small space with pandemonium.

Trevor ripped the axe free of the floorboards and used the blunt end to strike at the temple of the shroud, the clang of metal on metal piercing his already perforated ear drums, and the creature slumped, finally subdued.

They waited; if it moved again—

“Trevor!” Rake was up, fumbling with a second roll of gauze. It fell from his hands, and he whimpered against the pain. In that moment, Rake was twelve again, seeing these horrors for the first time in the academy, understanding that nightmares walked among them, and Trevor’s heart broke. He fought back hot tears, which threatened to make the situation worse, “I’ve got you” spilling out over and over as he doctored Rake’s mangled arm as best he could, trying with all his might to give Rake the strength he’d given him only hours before.

Rake was sobbing. The adrenaline of the moment was dissipating, with reality settling in like an unwelcome guest. This was no longer something he read about in books. Trevor knew the carnage around Rake had finally entered his soul, consumed his vision, and wouldn’t leave him again for years after.

“Hey, look at me, Rake.” Trevor didn’t like his voice, it was too choked, too tight. He could stomach his own death… but not Rake’s.

The sun is consumed… only the void exists.

Rake grabbed Trevor’s hand, and it grounded them both back to reality. Rake smiled… what an infectious smile. “I’m not dying, stupid, it just hurts.” He tried to laugh and winced, then looked up, the need for comfort in his eyes. “Can you call Parchment for me?”

The sun returns, bright and purifying…

Trevor smiled and laughed, dispelling some of the panic he’d felt seconds before. “Sure, kid. But let’s wait till we get to the car… doesn’t make sense to call your girlfriend in the middle of a damn warzone.” Rake laughed and Trevor helped him to his feet.

Trevor and Hamish did a quick doctoring of their wounds while Rake scoured the Faction supply crates in the farmhouse living room for something to bind the shroud. Hamish had already found a roll of duct tape and wrapped the shroud’s hands and feet with layer after layer before the tape ran out. Rake returned with a length of chain and titanium cuffs; even the lackeys distrusted these abominations. They wrapped the chain tightly around the shroud, using the ends to drag the thing back to the LTD. They navigated using paths the fire had created in its passing. Rake pulled security with his one good arm, kicking up ash and red dots of still hot embers. They mounted the still-unconscious shroud to the hood of the vehicle, wrapping it in a tarp and putting a set of fake antlers from the trunk over it to look like a prize trophy to be brought back and mounted. The antlers had come in handy on several occasions, when putting their quarry in the armory of a trunk was not an option.

 Hamish drove while Trevor finished tending to Rake’s wounds in the backseat. In all the centuries since the inception of the Aetherwar, as tech in weaponry advanced, the innovations in combat first-aid were still rudimentary. The idea had always gnawed at Trevor, but there was no denying the benefit of a well-placed tourniquet under fire, or a speedball of tightly wound gauze in an open wound. He’d remember to ask Rake another time.

Trevor video-dialed Parchment once they put the dying inferno a few miles behind them, honoring Rake’s request back at the farmhouse. She answered after the third ring. “Anvil! Is Rake okay?” Her worried face on the small screen was awful to witness.

“He’s okay, Parchment, he took a bite from the shroud, but—”

Parchment lost it. “HE WHAT! TREVOR, YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WATCH HIM!”

It hit, like a punch to the gut, her eyes like daggers boring into his guilt and twisting. She saw something on his face, and she realized her mistake; he was scared, too.

She calmed, though her red face still showed fury under those beautiful green eyes, and he was afraid—for the first time ever—of what Parchment was capable of. “Let me talk to him, now.”

Trevor complied, holding the phone so Rake could keep pressure on the wound.

“Hey, honey,” Rake’s eyes were so full of love and adoration, Trevor’s guilt soared. “I might miss our coffee date.”

Parchment, no longer Parchment, shook her head. “Like hell you are… Anvil, reach into that idiot’s coat pocket and find a metal box.”

Rake nodded his head at the coat pocket in question; Trevor pulled out the tin and opened it to find six glass ampules and a syringe. “It’s a tetanus shot, in case you were an idiot and got bit.” Rake chuckled, the irony of the situation awash in his face. “Good thing I brought extra, huh?” He laughed and grimaced against the pain.

“I’m coming to get him.” Parchment was already moving about, the background of her screen a blur as she threw items from drawers into a bug-out bag. “Where do I need to meet you?”

Trevor started to protest, but her glare stopped him. He nodded. “I’m sending you coordinates now; he’ll be ready to move when you get here.”

Chapter Eight

They were back in front of the decaying gas station. The shroud had already been moved to the basement, where it had lethargically started to wake as they secured the last of its bonds. It now struggled and growled below them, its screams muffled by the closed door to the restroom and trap door beyond.

Hamish and Trevor watched Parchment doctor Rake’s wound. She was laughing at something he was saying. They stayed out of sight, watching from a distance as requested; Parchment had threatened to shoot the pair of them for putting Rake in danger, and her look said she’d meant it. So, they respected her wishes, giving them space until Rake lovingly touched her cheek and said something, the pair then facing Trevor and Hamish’s direction. Rake let go of her hand and walked toward them.

“How mad is she?” Trevor scratched the back of his head and winced.

Rake laughed. “I have a chunk missing from my shoulder, Trevor. What do you think?”

“She’s pissed, then.”

“Yeah, but she’ll get over it. I know a guy up near Lansing that will make it good as new.”

Trevor chuckled. “You’ve sure been getting around lately.”

Rake smiled. “Just taking advantage of my free time, I suppose. Are you coming with us?”

There it is…

It was the question he’d been dreading all night. Did he leave, his mission accomplished, allowing Hamish to take his family back a piece at a time? Or did he stay and become the thing he so loathed—and loved?

Rake’s dark eyes searched Trevor’s, looking for the answer to his question. He saw it before Trevor was willing to say it aloud.

Finally, Trevor shook his head. “I’m staying for a bit.”

Rake nodded, then turned to Hamish, who held out a hand in goodbye. Rake bypassed the hand and placed a finger in the middle of his chest. “Remember what awaits you in here.” He removed the finger and pointed towards the shroud, its noises emanating from the studio below. “Before you start in on what you have to do down there.”

Hamish nodded solemnly.

Rake leaned in to hug the huge man. “Thank you, Hamish. Keep him safe, big guy.”

Hamish laughed, inclining his head at Trevor. “He’s the one keeping me in trouble.” He backed away from the hug and once again held out his hand. “But I’ll try my best; I can accept that burden.”

Rake’s smile transferred to Hamish’s face as they shook hands. It was a smile of goodbyes, salutations…

Brotherhood. They’d survived together, relied on each other’s strengths to endure, and come out on the other side victorious, though a little worse for wear. It was something that few understood in this world: how little it took for an enemy to become a compatriot, and how much more it took to see from another’s perspective without hate acting as blinders. That was the poetry of war; politicians vying for dominance at ornamental desks while the men in the trenches bled and died. Only those witnesses to the wounds of war could recognize honor across the battlefield, blooming in micro pockets to flower in a flourish of actions and deeds.

And yet…

The shroud released a mournful howl.

Sometimes humanity stays in the trenches where it’s buried, covered over in shrapnel and dead men.

Hamish started. “Wait! You left your whiskey!”

Rake laughed, holding up a hand to stifle his concern. “I changed my mind, Hamish. I want you to keep it… or at least keep it safe until we see each other again.”

Hamish turned bright red, eyes misting at the corners, at the gift of high honor. “You got it, Rake. Until next time.”

Hamish squeezed Rake’s hand at an oath rendered, and Rake squeezed back, an oath accepted. They would see each other again, through hell or high water. They released their grip, and Rake turned to Trevor, his smile hiding a pain that had nothing to do with his disfigured shoulder.

He embraced Trevor, squeezing tightly. “Don’t lose yourself down there, Trevor. I’m already short one full brother; I couldn’t bear the thought of losing two.”

Trevor’s heart broke, thinking of Scott, who lived in a prison of his own design, his mind frayed in grief and loss. He squeezed Rake tighter. “I promise; no full dark side.”

It was the first lie he’d ever told Rake, and it would be the last.

We close the blinds, snuffing the candles, to wallow in the darkness of our own making.

They released one another, but hung on to elbows, taking the other in. “To fight well, Trevor.”

Trevor nodded, smiling. “A thankless necessity, little brother.”

Rake’s smile was mournful, and he embraced Trevor one more time.

Hamish cut in, curiosity in his voice. “You said that line before: what’s it mean?”

Trevor let go of Rake and searched Rake’s eyes… Rake, to Trevor’s knowledge, had never told them why the mantra existed. He would always smile and say it was something he picked up when he and Scott were young.

Rake looked back to Parchment, who paced nervously in the dark by herself, his eight-grain held at her side, just in case. He sighed, nodding to himself, then started in. “Back when Scott and I were little boys, he took a beating that put him in the hospital… He almost died twice, because one of the other boys at Sister Margaret’s had been bullying me, and he stepped in to defend me.”

Rake’s eyes leaked tears involuntarily, no sadness in the words, but the pure joy of a memory, albeit a bad one. “I tried to get to him, but it’s kind of hard for a six-year-old to hail a cab, you know?” He chuckled and wiped his eyes. “But when he came back, I told him thank you and promised to be by his side forever… and his first thought wasn’t of himself, but of me.”

Rake put his fists at his hips, standing like a superhero, doing his best to mimic the posture and voice of his own personal Superman. “‘You’re my little brother,’ he had said. ‘We might not share the same Mom, but you’re my little brother regardless. I’ll always look out for you, and if I don’t get the credit for standing up to bullies who hurt you, then I don’t care; I’ll keep on doing it regardless. And if I end up back in the hospital, so be it; I’ll do it again without the need for a please or a thank you. You fight for your family, regardless.’”

Trevor’s heart swelled at those words, knowing the man they emanated from, and the young man who now spoke to them. Trevor knew in his heart every word was accurate, was true,  was pure.

Rake finished the phrase. “To fight well… a thankless necessity.” He eyed the pair of them, so much older than his thirty years, and he smiled. “Till next time, shitheads.”

He left with a salute and jogged back to Parchment’s side, held her door open, then clambered into the passenger seat. Trevor watched their taillights fade into the horizon, begging for their speed and safety, imploring that whatever mad entity had created them would keep such a divine light safe from harm.

Hamish nudged his arm, and he begged that same mad god to absolve him from what he was about to do.

Chapter Nine

Trevor felt the shift beginning before he cleared the last step. The wall was going up, brick by brick, blocking his subconscious from what he was about to do, compartmentalizing who he was, to become who he needed to be. He was breathy, electric, already planning which instrument to use first when he saw the shroud.

He cleared the landing and saw that the shroud had started to gnaw at its own arm, like a coyote in a trap, trying to free itself from what it knew was coming. Red blood oxidized orange in seconds, its iron-rich life dripping from its arm and jaw, upper and lower fangs working like a file to rip through its hardened skeleton.

Trevor froze.

Hamish rushed forward, grabbed an asp from the nearby table, extended the collapsible baton, and brought it crashing down on the creature’s temple. It howled in pain, raspy vocal cords harmonizing a high and low octave in the key of C. Its shriek hit like a sledgehammer, dismantling the wall Trevor had started building. Trevor cringed, and the shroud caught the slip of sympathy.

“Plaaaze.” A voice of sandpaper on necrotic flesh begged for mercy, clinging to the hope in Trevor’s humanity. Trevor buckled.

Hamish heard the muttered cry and turned, furious eyes hardening further as he witnessed Trevor fall to his knees. He threw the baton to the side, filling Trevor’s ears with the clang of metal on concrete, and retrieved a leather strap, securing the shroud’s head to the chair’s headrest. Once the shroud was bound in place, Hamish moved to Trevor’s position and shoved him backward. He pointed to the steps leading upward, eyes hard and unmoving. “If you don’t have the courage to do this, then stay upstairs.”

Trevor looked down. “I can’t.” He couldn’t meet those eyes. Not yet.

Hamish huffed. “You can’t what?”

Trevor turned, and Hamish’s eyes softened from steel to stone; he understood.

“You can be both.” Hamish turned back to the shroud and placed his hands on its shoulders. The shroud shuddered.

What kind of monster can scare a monster?

Hamish put his weight on the shroud’s shoulders. “We are what we allow ourselves to become. The morals we’ve built our society on are there to ensure the worst of us are kept in check. It’s a society built on the concept that we are above the pecking order, outside the food chain, and superior to the other inhabitants of this planet.”

Hamish dug his fingers into the shroud’s neck, accessing a pressure point Trevor was unaware of. The shroud howled in pain, once again sounding pitiful. Hamish closed his eyes in ecstasy at the sound, like a symphony played just for him… and Trevor supposed it was…

A concerto of vengeance, an opus of retribution.

Hamish continued. “We are nothing more than animals on this rock, Trevor; you know it, and I know it. Yes, we play pretend so well…” He caressed the side of the shroud’s head. The shroud’s jaws opened and closed as Hamish’s hand came close to its maw, hoping an error would let it take a finger before its grisly end.

Then Hamish dug his thumb into the shroud’s left eye. Trevor trembled at the awful noises it made as the large man probed inside the shroud’s eye socket, red and black frothing into orange and white, oxidizing and turning to wet chalk in the creature’s lap. It howled and shook, crying in agony, then suddenly roared defiant, surging against its bonds until the leather strap snapped and Hamish pulled away quickly, the thing’s jaws missing his hand by inches. 

“Then pain exposes us for what we really are.” Hamish wiped his hands off on a towel near his instrument cabinet. He let the towel fall to the floor, withdrew a scalpel from the cabinet, inspected it for cleanliness, then strode up to Trevor’s panting form, proffering the blade like an invitation to a masquerade ball. “We are monsters, Trevor. Just like that thing behind us. Monsters when we need to be, wearing nothing more than a mask for those around us, playing at civility like a game of hush-hush. I chose the Faction because they recognized what I had learned early in life.”

He opened his shirt, exposing the lattice work of scarified symbols across his chest. One section of it was unlike the rest, shaded purple against the pink, triangular and stretched out at the edges, with white dots of unaffected flesh at the center of it, almost like—

“Moira Miller had a temper that matched her love for me.” He said it with a smile, but his eyes showed he believed otherwise. “I got this for running into the ironing board while she starched her uniform; she burned a hole in her clothes, so she burned a hole in my chest.” Hamish covered the burn mark and continued, “She cried about it afterward, swore up and down she hadn’t meant it. That something had come over her, like a shadow… It was my first education in the true nature of humanity, a lesson I never forgot.”

Hamish returned to the side of the shroud, which buckled against the restraints, the pain reverting it back to the creature it was… no longer baying against its mistreatment, but a feral animal fighting to survive…

Like we all are…

It clicked. It was the piece Trevor had been missing this whole time. His continual fight against the thing he became each time, ignoring the thrill and bliss he felt as he inflicted pain on those who had inflicted it on them first. Never an innocent, never someone underserving, always someone who deserved the punishment—no, wait—

“But who are we to decide this?” Trevor could hear the pleading, the weakness, in his voice, but his teacher just smiled.

Hamish drove the scalpel into the side of the shroud, slicing up and in between its gaunt ribcage, tracing a line just below third intercostal space and into the spine. He left the blade in place, watching the blood go red to orange again, like an eighth-grade science project. The shroud howled again, making a noise that Trevor thought to be sobs… until Hamish’s face twisted red with fury.

Hamish got in close to the shroud. “What the fuck is so funny, rust-blood?”

A new level of horror—it was laughing? It threw its head up and continued to make that same gagging noise, like it was choking up a ball of undigested meat. “Sssmm…Ssmall dem….”

“What?” Hamish ripped the scalpel from its back and drove it into its leg. It howled again, then started the gagging noise. Trevor was nauseous, and not just from the sound. He thought he knew what it was saying.

“Ssmall dem… on ewe…”

It was out of Trevor’s mouth before he could stop himself. “It’s saying he smells them.”

Hamish jerked his head to Trevor, disbelief awash on his face.

Trevor continued. “He smells them on you…”

Hamish understood, and Trevor heard it now; the sounds of a creature relishing the thrill, recognizing the scent of two thirteen-year-old boys, too young, too pure, to experience the terror and fear they’d experienced in the last few days of their lives, one outliving the other for a while longer…

“Sssaaaooo… Teestee.” It licked its lips, remembering a flavor long forgotten.

A blood red moon, washing the land in crimson, neither dark nor light

Trevor was sick, emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor of the studio, half-digested food covering the stars of blood that dotted the concrete slab. The shroud’s laughter reached a crescendo, then cut off into a long, stifled howl. Trevor looked up, recognizing a pair of forceps in Hamish’s hand, holding the shroud’s tongue, fully extended. Then, with rage and fury and hate for the thing that took his boys, he put all the force he could muster into severing the tongue. The long, grey appendage came loose with a wet, popping sound, and Hamish tossed it at the feet of his captive.

“We’re gonna have quite the pile before we’re done, friend.” Hamish left the shroud to choke on its own blood for a while. With the earth’s twenty-two percent oxygen saturation, it would have enough to maintain perfusion even without the need to breathe. Breathing heavily, Hamish threw the forceps to the side, letting the orange blood streak the floor in Pollock-style beauty, then once again stood in front of Trevor.

Trevor pleaded with himself, hoping for reprieve, for an island in an endless sea… and only finding a greater flood to greet the breaking swells; one of blood and barbarity.

It deserves it…

“I c—”

“You can.” Hamish held the scalpel at eye level, his visage blurring behind the knife, once chrome, now amber in the white of fluorescent lighting. “Become the animal you were meant to be, Trevor… the one you were born to be.”

Trevor’s hand twitched. He felt the elbow rise against his protestations, then felt his fingers touch the metal with shuddering satisfaction.

I deserve it…

Trevor plucked the knife from Hamish’s hand. “Don’t use my real name.”

Hamish smiled, the ecstatic approval of a master to a pupil. “Alright then, Anvil… and myself? What will be my name?”

He pushed past Hamish and thought back to the elder’s earlier fight with Sultis. That point of no return, when one must do the unthinkable, not only because it’s right…but because it’s necessary.

I have become an animal… I howl at my blood red moon.

He turned his head back to Hamish, tightening his grip around the scalpel. The instrument was a gift, bestowed upon a member of a warring agency.

This would be his gift to Hamish. “…Pariah.”

Chapter Ten

Anvil and Pariah worked incessantly.

For three weeks, they kept the shroud alive, slowly unmaking the thing that had ripped Pariah’s entire life away from him. Anvil flourished under Pariah’s tutelage, finding new and inventive ways to inflict pain. Ingenious methods that loosened the tongue. Sinister movements of a hammer that guaranteed confession. It all moved with exactness, and ensured brutality was executed swiftly to dole out punishment no longer than necessary.

Anvil was taught patience, never rushing through a procedure, working methodically to deconstruct a work of art made by whatever mad god moved them along their paths of life. Rake had always called it gravity, a force that gently tugged at the strings of fate, moving the universe’s inhabitants this way and that, fulfilling a preordained destiny, but Anvil now understood the frailty in that concept.

It had no vision.

The clockmaker made me, then gave me the freedom to do as I wish… now I do what I wish.

Then the student stepped in front of the teacher, demonstrating all Anvil had learned, and introduced the master to new, ever more interesting ways to marshal a squeal from their masterpiece. Every hour they worked, it became something new… something poetic and meaningful.

And Anvil became something more.

Then the day finally came when there weren’t enough pieces and parts and lactated ringers to keep the beast’s heart pumping. The shroud convulsed violently against the forceps in its belly, and the vitals monitor screamed a warning: the shroud was dying.

Anvil and Pariah moved quickly, grabbing a defibrillator from Pariah’s instrument cabinet, attaching the pads, ready to shock the thing’s heart back to normal rhythm. But the reading was chaotic, the machine going haywire as it tried to determine if this was even a shockable rhythm. The scream of a system error was lost in the shouts of the pair, trying to think of a way to keep it alive.

They weren’t done yet. It needed to suffer. It—

The shroud slumped in its chair. The vitals machine no longer found a shockable rhythm, just the monotonous whine of detected dead things. The shroud was gone.

Flayed… deconstructed…

Unwhole.

No coins for the boatman, because it no longer has hands to hold them.

Pariah tried resuscitating the thing, not yet ready to be finished. He pushed hard on the shroud’s chest, willing blood to flow through its heart. Then he charged the makeshift defibrillator and pushed the button, bypassing its safety protocols, the current coursing through the shroud’s body in an arc, then a monotone buzzing from the vitals monitor, attached to what was left of the shroud, filling the small space with thunderous finality.

It was over.

Anvil blinked tired, disbelieving eyes. “That’s it, then…”

He turned away from the flat lines of the squalling monitor. Pariah was kneeling in the offal of today’s art project, staring into the remnants of the shroud, searching for something…Anvil found himself staring into that husk as well, looking for meaning in the work they’d done for nearly a month now. He found none. He felt no different. Nothing had changed.

There was no catharsis in vengeance, because the dead couldn’t celebrate their retribution. They could not savor a job well done.

The sun now shines upon the massacre, and the clockmaker weeps.

Anvil— now Trevor once again—wept, and Hamish continued staring into the remains, still searching for peace at the end of it all.

They stayed that way, out of time, attempting to cope with what they’d become for a brief time: feral animals now tame and cowed by their creation. They couldn’t look at each other as they unchained the shroud from the chair, laying it out reverently, now fundamentally aware of its present state and wishing to offer some semblance of decency at the end of their depravity. It had been too much, even for Hamish, who looked about with sudden clarity, understanding now what his mother must have felt as she held the hot iron to his sizzling flesh. A shadow looming, then whisked away, leaving eyes to witness barbarism in high definition.

“Nothing…” Hamish was the first to speak, continuing a tradition. He turned, finally facing Trevor. “…it changed nothing.”

Trevor shook his head, agreeing but unable to articulate the words. What had he become? Where had he gone? Who was he? “I need some air.” He raced up the steps, desperate to put distance between himself and… whatever had possessed him in that basement. He kicked open the door to the outside world, flooding white, purifying light into the cesspit below, absolving a small portion of their sins in warmth and peace. He inhaled deep, ragged breaths of crisp autumn air, relishing in his baptism of amber leaves that danced playfully in the wind around his knees. The cooling respite of silence, no monotone, no gargling whimpers of agony that beat against his mind in reminder of the animal he’d let himself become. It was absolution… but it wasn’t good enough.

His vision was filled with that solitary rose, still lingering. Still holding on despite the bite in the air, enduring in the face of—

A flash of Rake holding him, a lifetime ago, in this very spot. I got you whispered repeatedly as he drew in ragged lungsful of air. Holding back the tide, being strong when no strength was left within Trevor. Then he heard it, like a whisper in his mind.

They’re still there…

Trevor bolted to his feet and stormed the basement, hoping he wasn’t too late…

He froze on the bottom step, afraid to move.

Hamish held the scalpel to his own neck, eyes closed, ready to plunge it into his throat. He’d been crying.

“Hamish!” Trevor’s scream broke the resolution—the finality—that permeated the air. “They’re still there!”

Hamish opened his eyes, maintaining pressure to the tissue just beyond his carotid artery, a small trickle of blood rolling lazily down his neck.

Trevor held one hand up, moving forward slowly, so as not to startle him. “They’re still there, Hamish. But you won’t find them that way.”

“I have nothing left, Trevor… I don’t even…” he waved his free hand at the shroud’s body, his face twisted in grief. “I have nothing.”

“Close your eyes, Hamish.” He moved closer, slower, hoping…

Finally, Hamish did as requested, closing his eyes, and Trevor caught the almost imperceptible smile.

Delicately… peel back the curtain to let the sunshine in…

“Did Maggie finally get the boys to the table?”

Hamish broke, and the scalpel fell to the floor…

Then a twitch from behind, a flash, and the shroud attacked, sinking its teeth into the meat between Hamish’s shoulder and neck. It had somehow deceived the machine; this would be its final gambit. With its one remaining arm, severed below the elbow, it wrapped itself around Hamish’s neck, sinking what remaining teeth it had into Hamish’s flesh. It shook its head savagely, like the animal they’d reduced it to, trying to maximize the damage in its feral death throes.

Trevor lunged and pushed the shroud’s head back, away from Hamish’s throat— and took teeth to the forearm. He relished the pain of it, like a punishment from beyond the grave, before the shroud could reposition itself. He shoved his forearm further into the maw of the shroud, screaming in its eyeless face, becoming an animal once again for a moment. Then Hamish sent a bolt of white-hot tungsten into the shroud’s head, finally snuffing the life from the thing that had taken his family away, laying a rose over their grave, coated in speckled droplets of orange ichor.

The shroud’s jaw unclenched, and Trevor tore himself free from its teeth. He rose on hobbling knees, adrenaline surging through his bloodstream, heart thrumming in his ears. He looked at Hamish, who looked down at the shroud. He held a hand over the wound on his shoulder to staunch the bleeding.

“You okay?” Trevor witnessed the shift, from abject failure to cathartic absolution, in Hamish’s expression.

“Yeah…” Hamish nodded. “… yeah, I think I am.”

Trevor looked about the room and the carnage they’d exacted within it. He spotted the Twinrye sitting in Hamish’s instrument cabinet, prominently displayed like a badge of honor. He plucked the bottle from its perch and poured each of them a fingerful. They sat to either side of what remained of the shroud, clinking their glass in salute… to the monsters they had become, and to the men they had returned to, proving they could, indeed, simultaneously be both.

Sun and moon, light and dark, both as one…

“To fight well, Hamish…”

Hamish grinned and nodded his head in assent, finishing the mantra. “A thankless necessity.”

They kept the head and buried the body in the plot beside the rose bush, far enough down that nothing would ever have the energy to dig it up. They cleaned up the basement, washing away the muck and grime of the past three weeks, pausing now and again to combat the flood of memories that haunted their waking vision. When electrodes were activated on exposed nerve endings, sending jolts through the shroud’s nervous system, or when they bit into the back of its neck with scissors, to excise the dermis from epidermis. They would shudder and return to work, splashing pine-scented holy water over floors, wiping up the remnants of an old life, and welcoming the opportunity to rebuild it anew. All the while recognizing the wolf within, the one that lurked just beyond the clearing, ready to howl once again at the moon on command.

Hamish finished his ascent from the stairwell and engaged the locking mechanism, closing this chapter of his life for the second time. He turned to Trevor, who waited in dusk just beyond the threshold, that odd time between light and darkness, where the failing light casts shadows that shouldn’t be there, and he smiled.

Trevor remembered that smile from weeks before, when Hamish had first told him random facts from the passenger seat of the LTD. When it flashed to a roaring laugh at Rake’s banter. He’d become a human again, and Trevor was glad.

“I guess that’s it then…” Trevor rubbed the back of his head nervously.

Hamish put his hands in his pockets along with his keys. “I guess so…”

Trevor felt that tension growing, of the things they were afraid to say, now that the dust had settled, and they were left with the afterimages of their descent into darkness.

“Hamish—”

Hamish held up a hand to stop him. “Whatever you need to say, we said it down there already.” He put his finger over Trevor’s heart. “Stay there…” Then he moved the finger to Trevor’s head. “…whenever you need to wash away what you see in there.”

Trevor smiled. “Likewise, big guy.” He held his hand out to the mad titan, to the gentle giant who harbored a wrath unlike any this world was capable of understanding; the djinn, once again bottled.

Hamish grasped Trevor’s outstretched hand. “To fight well, brother.”

Trevor repeated it. “To fight well… brother.”

He took Hamish to the bus station and watched the old Greyhound disappear around the corner a few hours later, goodbyes said already back at the former art studio, now locked away from thought and memory.

Standing like a pariah in the shifting sands of time.

End

Hope you enjoyed! Find this story and MORE in Echoes From The Aether: an anthology of stories that encapsulate the aether universe. For more spine-chilling stories that cover grief, pain and cosmic horror!