CHAPTER TWO
REFLEX
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“Are you listening, Private Rosenthal? PFC Hackett? Just because you’ve been stationed here for three weeks and you have yet to cross paths with a demon doesn’t mean you should be chatting during my briefings. The Redcoats might be laying bombs for you two as we speak, and there’s been at least five bloodhound sightings in the vicinity of Broad Street overnight. I expected better from you especially, Private. How would Colonel Estrada react if she was here right now? How would your brother?”
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Daylight isn’t an accurate description. Not anymore. As suffocatingly dark as night is, daytime is when humanity now avoids. Dense clouds of ash blanket the heavens, diffusing the malevolent red gaze of our engorged star into a smear of blood and flame. Almost two years ago, the sun had inexplicably lost billions of years of its life in a matter of minutes, core collapsing and surface expanding to consume Mercury with enough gravitational force to shatter Venus into molten shards. Our moon had suffered a similar fate as the latter, yet Earth had only been mostly destroyed by the abrupt shifting of its tectonic plates and subsequent volcanic eruptions. No one really believes we can last forever in these conditions—let alone for long—but that’s never stopped our kind from trying before. Bad odds be damned.
Hell, my own life is a testament to that. I’d just been shot in the stomach and it barely fazed me!
Well. Physically, at least…
Right. Daynight. My squad had been conducting a standard curfew enforcement patrol to ensure the locals are in their assigned shelters. That’s when—when the Redcoats—when I—I—I—d-d-d-di—
Daynight.
Demons thrive in the daynight. Among the ruins of Philadelphia, bloodhounds are the most prominent threat. Humanoid canines with stretched limbs and swollen red flesh, as if all their blood had pooled underneath their skin and hardened into tempered steel, glowing bright enough to highlight their rippling muscles and distended skeletons. I’ve never seen one until tonight and it’s a hundred times more repulsive than I pictured from our briefings.
Why here? Why now? Why me?
The bloodhound sniffs as it barrels down the otherwise empty street, bearing long serrated fangs from its semi-human snout. Ten feet away, two bulging crimson eyes stare at me like I’m fine dining, but that’s as far as the demon gets before it hits my Red Zone. Simply calling it a ‘bubble’ doesn’t feel like doing it justice. Rose Zone? Slow Zone? While I contemplate the appropriate term, I approach the suspended bloodhound to get a closer look. Up close, I can see two pairs of eyelids attempting to blink—vertical and horizontal—but at the rate they’re moving, it’ll take an entire minute just to close them. I’m not certain if my Rose Zone can even last that long.
Unfortunately, before I can even consider testing my limits, another problem presents itself. And another. And another.
No, five problems. Three more bloodhounds—one quietly stalking down the road where the first had come, one lurking in a dim alley across the street, and one perched on the elbow of a streetlight bent halfway down; each with their elongated noses in the air, sniffing as if drawn here by my scent—and a pair of Martians running around the intersection, just a little ways ahead. Already, their R18s are trained on my head.
It takes a second for me to recognize that one of them is Darling.
By then, I’m a second too late to shout a single word of warning.
The bloodhound with the high ground sees them before they see it and pounces, leaping off of the bent streetlight with enough strength to uproot it from the sidewalk entirely, sending it flying into a crumbled building with a thundering crash.
That gets the Martians’ attention, but neither look back to see the bloodhound quietly bounding down the road behind them. Its mouth froths bloody foam at the sight of its two oblivious prey.
Darling’s reflexes are honed enough to dodge left and spray her leaping attacker with a burst of tempered steel. An impressive feat, in all honesty, but other than arresting its momentum enough to crash into the pavement at their feet, she only delayed the inevitable. None of those had been kill shots and the effort just drove her closer to her silent ambusher.
Finally, I find the mind to scream. “At your six!”
For his sake, Corporal Wallace ignores me, loading a grenade into his rifle attachment while the downed bloodhound struggles onto its feet. Not that he gives it a chance. As soon as his R303 is primed, he steps forward and kicks the bloodhound in its bleeding chest, then fires as it stumbles back. The demon doesn’t even hit the ground before the incendiary makes contact, enshrouding its writhing silhouette in flames.
For her sake, PFC Hackett trusts me enough to spin around with her R18 raised, finger already on the trigger and eyes gazing over its sights. Three gunshots ring out. Each of them misses, but not because of her aim. The second bloodhound makes for an elusive target. It's more slender than the others and effortlessly faster, even when striding with its body close to the ground. It lunges like a tigress, sweeping at her feet.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
For my sake, something sharp pricks my cheek right before my Rose Zone collapses. I duck just in time to avoid being decapitated. The air whistles as razor-sharp claws pass over my back, followed by a vicious snarl and a thundering crash. The demon wails as it claws out from a pile of charred wreckage, but instead of me learning a lesson from my near-death experience, I glance back at the girl who used to be my best friend and start running.
“Corporal! Help Darlene!”
Rather than listen, Wallace swings his R303 toward me; turning his back on a subordinate. Something inside me wants to kill him for that. Something greater than mere rage or a yearning for revenge, but more importantly, he wants to kill me. Apparently, burning a poor naked girl alive is his top priority. The Corporal was smart enough to notice that Darling is my weakness, and apparently so ruthless he would sacrifice her life—and probably even his own—just to catch me defenseless.
The worst part is he is right. I run straight into the incendiary and my chest blossoms with flame.
Only the shock of blistering pain triggers a new Rose Zone, and the most that does is slow down the burning process. I do fall on my back, however, and immediately start rolling around on the fragmented pavement. For a moment, I don’t know what hurts more: the agonizing burns, the jagged gravel and glass shards digging into them, or Darling’s crescendoing shriek.
I rise on shaky feet. A brief glance at my chest tells me I’m not yet ready to die. Light as red as blood pours from my skin like water, then fades into a tranquil blue. The skin underneath is covered in hideous scars, but I seem as healed as I could ever be—given the maximum amount of time and copious amounts of medicine.
There was just one problem. Or two, depending on if you want to split it.
My regeneration had come at a cost. The warmth inside me is cooling.
At that instant, my Rose Zone collapses, and I’m nearly tired enough to collapse with it. Still, Wallace refuses to help Darling wrestle off her attacker. He advances toward me like a demon himself. No grenade primed, but he can see that I’ve been weakened. We both know that right now, bullets will suffice.
I strain to create another. A flicker of power stirs inside me, but I can sense before I let it out that it will only cover a few inches around my skin. Even if I’m quick that barely gave me any room to maneuver.
Is this how I die? Murdered in cold blood by Corporal fucking Wallace, of all people, just because of some ridiculous misunderstanding?
“No!” I howl. The spark in my chest ignites and I charge forward. Straight into a burst of gunfire.
The Rose Zone isn’t anywhere near big enough to catch the bullets, but I don't need it to be. All I want is a fleeting burst of speed.
The best part is Wallace doesn’t see it coming. Either because he thinks himself much too clever, or because of the momentarily blinding muzzle flash.
Either way, I dart under the whistling bullets, sprint into his reach, and dive straight at his legs. His weight settles on my back for no longer than a second before I wiggle out on top of him, tear the rifle out of his grip, and jam its barrel into the thin seam around his neck.
Perhaps winded, the Corporal barely struggles to break free. Or perhaps knowing he’s already dead.
Honestly, he fucking should be.
“Monster,” I spit.
Wallace flinches when I pull the trigger. Again, and again, and again. The whole time gasping and sobbing.
Darling’s killer falls limp on her corpse, its elongated head peppered and smoking. I can barely recognize her face through her shattered helmet, carved out and half devoured like it is. I stand, and for the first time tonight, I feel cold.
My best friend is dead. I couldn’t save her, and that kills me.
“This is your fault!” I say, kicking Wallace far across the pavement, back toward Darling. By the time he rolls onto his back, I’m on him again, shoving the barrel into his throat. “I told you to help her!”
“I’m sorry!” he chokes out, desperately grasping for his weapon. “Please!” Even when tired, I’m stronger. He can neither stand up nor dislodge it from his larynx. “No! Don’t kill me! Please!”
I want to. For a supposed leader, his conduct has been disgraceful. What’s the point of a Martian that willfully refuses to protect one of their own?
We are meant to be heroes. Not the monsters, but the monster slayers.
“I’m not a demon,” I hiss, smashing the R18 buttstock into his tempered glass helmet, shattering it like fragile ice. The ease of that doesn’t even surprise me. I’m too eager to see the guilt and fear in his eyes.
No doubt just as exhausted, Wallace deflates under my feet. His expression is blank. The look of defeat.
“Did you hear me?” I bark.
The breath wooshes out of him as I step off his crumpled cuirass, leaving him to pant like a beaten dog.
“What?” he asks as soon as he catches his breath.
“I said ‘I’m not a demon!’ Now say it!”
Blurry eyes wide, he nods as I press the barrel to his forehead. “You’re not a demon! You’re not!”
He flinches when my trigger finger flips the setting switch from single fire to safety, and flinches again when I throw the weapon into his lap. The coward must have really thought I would kill him.
I’m glad. He needs to know that I could have.
“Tell everyone. Our squad. The others. Especially Colonel Estrada herself. Who, in case you forgot, is my mother.”
Instead, Wallace tucks the buttstock of his R18 into his shoulder, flips the settings switch, and pulls the trigger.
I should have known better.