----------------------------------------
CHAPTER EIGHT
RECON
----------------------------------------
“Then there’s the so-called ‘Musket.’ We have reason to believe it was a local gunpowder factory worker named Mark Yuen, although it’s hard to tell with its entire body covered in third-degree burns. Unlike our honorable Colonel, it hides its face behind the unusually tall collar of its coat—reaching all the way up to its eyes—which is a… bold choice. Especially when you consider it’s best classified as a sniper, it’s hard not to spot. Musket can generate, manipulate, and ignite a fine-grained, black-red dust similar in function to gunpowder, which it usually condenses and delivers in the form of explosive bullets. As the process requires time and its attacks can be delivered from a distance, it always sets up on the highest ground available with bombs laid out to defend its position. If Musket engages you while on patrol, you really have two options. Run and radio to HQ that you’re a bunch of cowards, or call for backup and do whatever it takes to finish it off for good. Of all the Redcoats, it’s got the highest kill count by far. It’s also the most physically vulnerable. In our last ten engagements, we’ve nearly killed it six times. A lot of us are hoping for the lucky seventh.”
----------------------------------------
‘Whatever it is, I’ll handle it. Just… wait and watch the door, yeah?’
As Dr. Jameson counts the passing minutes out loud, his posture visibly deflates with every pronunciation. “One… Two… Three… Four…” By the time he says, “Five,” he even begins drumming his fingers against his thighs. Whether or not it helps him cope with his nerves, it only stresses me out more. He doesn’t get the chance to count 'Six' before I can’t handle waiting any longer.
“Excuse me. Doc? Do you have any idea what’s happening?”
Moonshine suddenly looms taller as his body goes rigid. Even through his face mask, I can tell his expression is grim. Maybe it’s the deep wrinkles around his sunken gray eyes. “I’m… not entirely sure,” he mutters. “My daughter can’t see beyond this realm without an open doorway and something is preventing her from reopening that one in particular, which means whoever’s attacking the Redcoats knows about us.” He sighs, looks at the cherry red vial grasped in his fist, then keeps mumbling. “Our Benefactor is not going to be happy. No matter the outcome, he’ll see the attempt as a declaration of war…”
“But who could it be?” I ask. “The MSA?” As far as I know, they’ve never located the Redcoats’ headquarters during their infrequent incursions north of the Scar, and other than the bloodhounds, there’s not supposed to be any more ‘demons’ in the vicinity of Philly.
“Unlikely. Unless something has changed in the last few hours, they don’t know about my daughter and me.” He glances at me and sighs. “We’ve known you weren’t bugged since you walked in, but do you think someone could have seen Treatise call the portal from the outside?”
I wish I could shake my head with confidence. “Our first meeting was… tense. I think one of us would’ve noticed, but if that’s what happened… I’m really freaking sorry.”
Dr. Jameson sulks lower as he exhales another heavy breath. “I don’t believe it’s them anyway… though I’d probably prefer Martians to any of the alternatives…”
I gulp down the lump that’s been growing in my throat. “What alternatives?”
“The Redcoats have plenty of enemies among our kind. Wandering gangs… Distant warlords… Best case scenario, the Scavengers returned from wherever they’ve been pillaging the last five months… Worst case scenario… well, there are a few worst case scenarios… but the most likely would be the Penn State Spartans. I can’t picture any of them failing to handle many problems... let alone Treatise… but I’m starting to get worried. It shouldn’t take them this long to reestablish contact…”
“I hadn’t realized you cared that much about the Redcoats,” I say, perhaps a bit tone-deaf. “I kinda just figured they were your usual patrons. Or, at the most, allies. Not…”
Despite the situation, Dr. Jameson lets out a curt laugh. “Not friends? That’s probably the case for Treatise, whom I certainly don’t wish any harm, but Stef and Mark… Yes, I would call them friends. They’re troubled, sure, but good kids at heart. Whatever the MSA has told you about them… they’re nothing like the real demons out there giving the rest of us our bad reputations. Believe me…”
Coming from him, I actually think I might. “Stef.” I eventually repeat. “Scarlet’s full name is Estefanía Suarez, right?” That must be what Treatise meant about Stephanie’s name being funny.
Dr. Jameson nods. “My daughter is… quite fond of her. Sees her as a big sister or the ‘cool aunt,’ depending on the moment. I asked her to give us some privacy, but I know she’s been desperately listening for the password since the door was forced shut… I’m beginning to wonder if I should try to help them… if there’s even anything I can do to help… I… I… I…”
“What about Patriot?” I cut in. “Can’t you wake him?”
He shrinks even further inward, as if crushed in a giant fist. “I’m afraid not. Once my concoctions are imbibed, there’s nothing that can diminish the effects but time. I never should have served him— or at least diluted the dosage— or insisted he take it slow— or provided him with a convincing enough placebo— I should’ve known better— I— I— I—”
“What about me?” I ask, interrupting the doctor’s staccato breaths. “Maybe I can help them.” The way he’s reacting, I can’t help but think of Benjy’s panic attacks whenever he thinks he’s done something wrong. I’d probably say or do anything to calm the two of them down. How could anyone confuse this man for a monster?
Besides, Treatise had brought me here, after all, to safety. I feel somewhat indebted to him, which I very much don’t like, so this could mean repaying the favor. Plus, he did promise to help me get answers. Dislike him or not, I know I need allies. Maybe allies like the Redcoats, as crazy as that sounds. If not for the doctor and his daughter caring about them, I doubt I’d even be considering it.
Moonshine’s gaze flickers between my eyes and the doorway. “Treatise told me a bit about what you can do, as well as what you’ve just been through. As a mental health practitioner, I should insist that you spend the next few days resting and recuperating. As a person that cares possibly too much about the preservation of lives… Reborn or otherwise… I’d appreciate the backup. Combat is not a particular talent of mine, and I’d very much like to return home to my daughter.”
“You should stay then. Just drop me off wherever you can and I’ll figure out the r—”
“Sorry, but no. On my conscience I cannot allow you to go on on your own. I bear the responsibility, not you. We go together or I go alone.”
“Well then,” I say, pulling Eagle’s knife out from by my waistline. “If you’re sure—”
Moonshine reveals a bandolier of colorful vials under his stark white lab coat. “I am.”
“I don’t suppose you have any guns? Stolen from the MSA, preferably?”
He shakes his head. “The Redcoats should, though I don’t know where.”
I sigh. It would be nice to still have Darling’s rifle but I just had to lose it.
Dr. Jameson looks at a blank space on a wall and asks, “Steph? Can you show us the map, please? Thank you.”
Before our eyes, a pre-apocalypse roadmap of Philadelphia appears, covered in bright crayon scribblings to represent the changes over the last two years, most notably a big violet castle with ‘Eastern State Penitentiary’ written at its heart—Camp Mullen—and a long crisscrossed border of blood red where the meteor that fell a year and a half ago split the city in two—the very event that brought the MSA here in the first place. They have been studying the area ever since, but for what reason, I don’t know. I had never earned the clearance to enter Penitentiary Hall and the only thing I’ve been told about Mom’s research is that it’s of ‘critical importance.’
Another question to add to my list. Something tells me I won’t like that answer either.
I put that aside for now as I finally take note of the many pink doors drawn across the city. Most of them are north of the Scar, but once I make the connection, I search for a university on Broad Street and… yup! There’s a door drawn on a rectangular building that apparently served as a library. “Those are the entrances?” I ask, pointing it out.
“Entrances and exits. My daughter can only use doors that were opened from outside first. We have a few options inside the Coatrack, but—”
“I’m sorry. Coatrack? That’s not what they call it, right?” For that alone, I’m tempted to let the Redcoats live or die by their own hands.
Moonshine groans. “Did I mention they’re good kids at heart? Regardless of their bad taste in names, I think walking straight into their headquarters would be a mistake. We can enter the high school across the street instead, find a good view from a window to figure out who exactly we’re dealing with, then come back here and form a real plan. If we’re lucky, Patriot might even be awake by then…”
Now I understand why Moonshine said combat isn’t a talent of his. His instincts make him dependent on information, like he needs to diagnose the problem first before considering any solutions. “A solid reconnaissance plan, in theory, but as soon as we leave, we need to be ready for the worst. It’s possible we’ll need to act fast or we’ll lose the chance to retreat. Heck, we could already be too late, and if we’re not, I doubt we’ll have much time to deliberate. ‘No plan survives contact with the enemy’ and all that. Especially when we don’t know the enemy’s capabilities.”
I didn’t think Dr. Jameson could shrink any smaller, but he manages to even while he nods. “You’re probably right… I just… hope that won’t be the case…”
I can’t stop myself from reassuring him with a gentle back slap. “No matter what’s out there, I promise you’ll make it back to your daughter. I’ve got your six.”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
That awakens a gleam of fire in his eyes and once again he straightens, looming above me by at least six inches. “You know, when Treatise first told me you were a Martian, I could hardly believe it. You’d looked so lost, frail, and afraid that even covered in all that blood, you seemed harmless. Now, however, I can see it. I’m grateful to have you with me, Ms. Rosie, and I vow to do everything within my power to protect you, too.”
Before I can respond, he faces the map on the wall and places his finger on a doorway labeled ‘3rd Floor Boiler Room,’ then announces: “Alright. We’re ready, Steph! Send us here. Please and thank you.”
For a moment, the entire room trembles, causing the brass chandeliers to start ringing a pretty melody. When it stops, the intricately carved ebony wood door slowly creeps open, unveiling a pitch-black room of indeterminable depth. Steph's rose-colored light can’t travel beyond the portal, apparently. “Do you happen to have any flashlights?”
“Not exactly,” Moonshine replies, trading the cherry red vial in his hands for a burnt orange vial on his bandolier, and removes his mask. Other than a pair of thin bloodless lips—as pale a shade of gray-white as his rheumy eyes—his face is the definition of an average middle-aged American. Slightly pudgy, speckled with stubble, and weathered like leather. Without explaining anything, he removes the vial’s cap and takes a swig. When he’s finished exactly half remains. “Before you drink this, you’ll need to add some of your blood,” he says, gazing at the knife in my hands. “It’ll help with the dark and… other things.” While I hesitate, a cacophony of explosions sounds off in the distance, ringing and rattling the boiler room’s pipes. “It’s completely safe,” he adds with a shallow grin. “You can trust me.”
I do.
The first slit on my arm heals way too quickly to shed one drop of blood. The second, third, and fourth attempts don’t go much better. It takes the doctor telling me to firmly grasp the metaphorical fire in my chest before I figure it out, but the fifth is the trick—
Ow.
As soon as the vial is full, I release my power and watch Moonshine plug it back up, then begin shaking it like a cocktail. “One second…” he says, though it actually takes four before he slips it in my empty hand. “Now it’s properly mixed.” The entire time, he doesn’t blink his fully dilated eyes once. Eerie. “Bottoms up.”
If not for the constant rhythm of muffled explosions in the background, I’d probably have drank it slower. Instead, I nearly choke as I chug it all down. The only reason I don’t is that the vile liquid disappears before it reaches my lungs, seeping in and circulating through my veins until it all collects in my eyes. They begin stinging and tingling and burning, yet I don’t have the slightest urge to blink and relieve the pain. Eventually it’s so normal that I can’t even notice it without concentrating.
Gazing past the portal, I discover the boiler room is no longer pitch black. I wouldn’t exactly call it well illuminated, but I can see everything in a gradient of gray with the closest objects lighter and sharper and the farthest darker and blurrier. It’s an unusual form of night vision, but useful nonetheless.
“I call this beverage ‘Four Eyes.’ You probably don’t want to know what’s in it, but it comes with that many perks. Rather than explain them all now I’ll teach you as we go. Just in case… can you maybe lead the way? I’d like a moment to speak privately with my daughter, if you think we can spare it…”
“Considering the explosions haven’t stopped yet, the battle isn’t over. I’ll see if I can find a good vantage. Just hurry if you don’t want me running off without you. I might not be able to help myself.” And I mean that literally. Every second that passes seems to stoke the fire in my chest into an inferno as if my power is yearning to be spent. It feels like temptation.
I let it drive me into reality. Into a dark and hot room that reeks of dust and rot. Two furnaces the size of water buffalos flank me on both sides, creating an obvious path to a flimsy steel door far across the room. The lock is, of course, jammed, but its handle snaps in my fist like it’s made of pencil graphite. I force it open slowly, cautious of its old hinges shrieking rather than creaking, and step into an unlit hallway.
Even with fairly limited night vision, I can tell it’s been ransacked. Hell, it looks like a hurricane blew through this place. Around seventy-five percent of the floor is covered in tipped-over school lockers—the rest in snack wrappers, books, writing utensils, and loose papers. I can’t help but picture the kids that went here before the apocalypse had come back to exact revenge on the place for wasting so much of their lives. Maybe it’s how thoroughly it’s all been trashed. It feels personal.
It’s funny. I hated my high school as much as anyone—well, anyone but Darling, who thrived in every setting—but after Ray Day, I never looked back and felt resentment. I only ever missed it. Even the long stretches of boredom and the peak moments of pure embarrassment that, at the time, felt life ending. Suffering used to be so much simpler back then…
BANG!
BOOM—BANG!
BOOM!
The explosions are much louder out here, especially three doors down on my left and across the hall. As I wander toward it, I kick around the debris—creating a trail for Dr. Jameson to follow—and stand up a couple of lockers. It doesn’t take me long—a minute at most—but I thought I’d see him when I finished. With my hand on the door, I gaze back and consider if I should go check on him…
BANG-BANG-BANG!
BOOOOM!
Perhaps against better judgment, I swing open the classroom door and bask in a wave of crimson sunlight. It’s so much brighter than it should be. Blinding. Despite that, my eyes remain open, even as they sizzle. When my vision adjusts, everything looks more crisp and vibrant. Especially anything that’s catching aflame.
A large chunk of the far wall lies scattered across the classroom. Most of the chairs and desks look unrelatedly broken, but now a bunch are touching the smoldering rubble and they're on the verge of turning into a pyre. Even the ashlike residue left by Musket’s attacks is known for starting fires before it gradually cools and fades.
Reborn or not, his power is monstrous. What kind of enemy can possibly beat him? The Martians have only gotten close by throwing as many bodies at him as possible, and even then, Musket always gets away.
My question is soon answered when a powerful gust of glittering wind rushes by the opening in the wall and—
BANG!
Musket’s accursed bullets sound a lot like an R40 firing 50-caliber rounds. Though he can shoot them much farther with his powers than any modern rifle, he’s no more than a hundred feet away, standing on top of the huge brick factory’s rooftop and gazing in my direction with one arm outstretched—presenting a closed fist—and the other hand bracing the first’s wrist. It’s obvious he can’t see me, considering there’s a fiery bullet of death currently flying directly toward me. It seems his opponent had soared by in a blur, unwittingly placing me in the crossfire.
Thankfully, my survival instincts call a Rose Zone into existence before I realize my life’s in danger. It covers the entire room and forms a barrier where the shattered wall used to be, slowing down the growing flames and the glowing explosive. With speed, I stomp out the former, then I take my time approaching the latter. I’ve heard Musket can ignite his bullets whenever he wants, rather than simply on impact, so it might go off any second. For all I know it could rip my power into pieces, so I pick up a meter stick I find on the floor and softly poke it from afar, just to be careful…
When it doesn’t explode or budge against the pressure, I take a few steps forward to inspect it closer. Rather than have a traditional bullet shape, it’s more akin to a tennis ball of packed black and red sand. I prod it gently, then try to nudge it, but it’s heavy. Even with my unnatural strength, it takes all of it to reorient its momentum down and push it out of the opening in the wall. The moment it’s completely separate from my Rose Zone, it shoots into the street far below and erupts in a plume of smokeless fire, just as my power collapses from the exertion.
Despite that, neither Musket nor his opponent seem to notice me. The former is too busy staring up at the sky, tracking the latter with his outstretched fist. Whoever he’s fighting, they never stop moving long enough for me to get a decent look. All I know is they're wearing a whole lot of gold and they’re bleeding, judging from the vibrant red droplets trailing behind the distant gleam of rushing wind like rain.
“Coward!” Musket bellows, as loud as a thunderclap. “I'm tired of your games, Aloof! Accept defeat and leave this place for good, or come down here and face me to death like a man! There’s no other option! You will never convince me!”
The wind finally halts, becoming a swirling vortex of blood around a man dressed in a gilded sleeveless cuirass with excessively prominent abs, a short, free-flowing skirt of red silk, and an ugly gold helmet with an open slit on the front and a long red mohawk on top. He’s also barefoot and missing a large chunk of his right hand. “You think I’ll kill you?” Aloof shouts back, tapering off into a haughty laugh. “We Spartans aren’t foolish enough to destroy a weapon as powerful as yourself. We are conquerors before we are killers! If you continue resisting, I’ll have no choice but to let Dour enslave you. Is that what you want? To become a thoughtless drone? You can still be welcomed as a brother if you just submit!” As he monologues, all his shed blood recollects around the mangled nub hanging from his wrist, slowly reforming into a fist covered in burns. When he’s done, he splays and curls his charred fingers and flinches underneath his helmet. In spite of the pain, he unsheathes a short crooked-edged sword from his belt and sweeps it around him, the blade singing as it cuts through his aura of wind.
Musket answers by launching a barrage into the sky. Rather than evade, Aloof swings the flat end of his weapon like a bat, casting rippling gusts of wind to either deflect or detonate them, then dives straight down and weaves between the subsequent fireworks with his blade pointed down, accelerating as he falls until his figure blurs into a gilded arrow. If not for his speech, I’d probably think the Spartan intended to murder Musket with this strike. Even from hundreds of feet away, my clothes begin to ripple from the force of the wind lashing out around him. He’s practically a living storm.
Musket stands his ground and stretches out his arms, seemingly welcoming his death, while the black-red spheres floating beside his left arm dissolves and regathers around his entire body, coating every inch of his elaborate crimson revolutionary clothes in a dense shell of smoldering gunpowder. I had no idea he was capable of it, but I can feel him pouring an incredible amount of power into this pyrrhic defense strategy. It wafts off him like heat from an invisible inferno before the two Reborn even clash. The very second they do, it blossoms into a real one, bursting into the sky like a blinding geyser of lava.
BOOOOOOM!
No wonder there are so many Martians who dream of killing Musket. He’s practically a living incarnation of destruction. Although I’m beginning to suspect most of what I’ve heard about the Redcoats’ had been embellished to make them as horrifying as possible, I’m undoubtedly horrified. How can I possibly stand up, either with or against, powers this powerful? How can anyone? An explosion this size could easily obliterate all of Echo Company instantly, yet when the ephemeral tower of wildfire fades, I’m stunned to find the entire roof is still intact, albeit stamped with a layer of molten ash.
The same can’t be said for either of the fighters. Both are suspended in the air by wind and gravely wounded, though Aloof clearly holds the advantage. Even with his cuirass half-melted into his bleeding torso and his crooked blade reduced to burning nub of slag, he’s the only one in one piece. Musket, for his part, hangs above his severed left arm like a rag doll. The blood shed by his opened tricep flows toward Aloof on scarlet ribbons of wind to pour into the Spartan’s wounds and fuel his regeneration.
Eventually Musket’s right arm straightens and black-red gunpowder gathers above his clenched fist, but Aloof doesn't give him a chance, lashing the remaining sliver of his blade out with a violent gale.
Musket screams as his right arm is dismembered at the shoulder. As soon as it crashes onto the roof, he closes his eyes and sulks his head behind his coat’s tall collar. “You’ll never win,” he whispers. “Even if you take me, my allies will not forsake me. All you’ve achieved is your own destruction.”
“Allies?” Aloof asks, dramatically gazing around them. “What allies? Patriot’s M.I.A., Scarlet’s an icicle, and Treatise has likely been enslaved already. Or do you think you’ll be saved by your precious Benefactor and his overglorified bodyguards? As if!”
While the Spartan chuckles like a madman, I look over my shoulder at the open door and into the hallway. Where the hell is Moonshine? I wonder, feeling my body stiffen with tension, then relax when I reach the only natural decision.
After all, I’ve come this far already, and Aloof’s lofty arrogance combined with his comical lack of awareness makes for too perfect of an opportunity to blindside him.
With nothing but a chest full of fire, Eagle’s tempered knife, and a prayer for the help of Heaven, I briefly stagger backward, crouch down, then abruptly sprint forwards in a power-assisted burst of speed, effectively launching myself over the street like a silent rocket.
My time for violence has returned at last, and for some ungodly reason, a part of me is actually hungry for it.