Chapter 17 Cry of the Wendigo
Holding his cramped hand in the air, hundreds of bones circled above Mercy.
From where the monsters parted, a humanoid figure emerged, but from a closer inspection, it was far from human. It was lanky, ash-skinned, with bony legs that walked as if they were drunk. It had no gender and its tight torso held no organs. Inhumanely long arms draped by its side, leading up to a neck that held up no face, only a crooked mouth encompassing half its head.
Mercy stopped in his tracks, sucking out more bones from corpses around him, not caring if they were human, Unwanted, or monster, and fed the swarm above him.
The Wendigo walked forward, its body unbalanced, and opened its mouth wide, revealing a thousand teeth that spiralled down, leading to two dull, red orbs at the back of its throat. It noticed Mercy—it could feel the challenge. It let off a harrowing screech of a thousand tormented souls.
“Príď si pre svoju škaredú kundu,” Mercy spat under his breath.
Mercy ran, his fingers extending out as he charged towards the Wendigo. The monster wailed and flailed its arms to combat the hundreds of bones flying at itself. Moving through the bone debris, Mercy swung a fist towards the creature's side, the impact sending a shockwave through his arm. The Wendigo appeared unyielding, not budging an inch.
More punches rained down on the Wendigo from Mercy's relentless assault - it was too fast; right hook, left hook, uppercut. He used the bone debris to his advantage, ducking in and out of it to confuse the monster. The Wendigo’s cries echoed through the night sky, its desperate attempts to strike back proving futile. Despite its speed, the Wendigo's attacks missed their mark, unable to land a hit on him.
With each hit that connected, Mercy’s knuckles broke, shattering them in shards. Of course, he didn’t relent, but this punch would be his doom. His left fist connected with the torso of the wendigo, and out echoed the snapping of a bone.
“Kurva!” Mercy exclaimed, escaping from the tornado of bone debris.
With a heavy breath, he grabbed his left wrist with his right hand and shuffled his bone back into place. It slotted in like a puzzle, and his bonemancy sealed them back together. His knuckles were entirely destroyed, and the thick cartilage had ruptured, leaving his hands in a mutated state.
He held his arms close up to his misted face, screaming in pain as he watched his knuckles reform with more cartilage.
Ozark watched from the wall, her body shivering from anxiety.
“He’s retreating!” a Servant of the Seven Spheres yelled from a few parapets down the wall. “Prepare!”
Ozark squinted her large eyes to see Mercy doubling back. She knew her superior wouldn’t run from anything. “Not yet!” she screamed in her high-pitched tone.
“And who the fuck are you?!”
Ozark picked up her mighty spear and swung it in his direction. It missed its mark entirely, banging against a parapet and shattering the blunted blade. “Don’t mess with me, pretty boy!” she yelled, rearing up the broken spear.
“Fucking crazy bitch,” he cursed, taking a step back and heading to a new position.
Ozark’s head snapped to her superior facing off with the Wendigo. “Kick his butt, Mr Bossman!!!” she bellowed with her head shaking violently, her voice rife with passion and excitement.
“Come on!” Mercy yelled, dropping his professional demeanour with his arms stretched open. He tore the vest off himself, revealing dozens of more scars and a lean physique.
Cramping his fingers, a rune appeared in his palm, and he ran forward as bones and debris flew around him, tunnelling into a variety of spears. With a mouth stretched open under his mist, Mercy flung a spear of bones at the Wendigo. The monster held an arm up and only leaned back from the force. Suddenly, another spear of bones hit it, knocking its shoulder back. Then another, then another, and then finally a clenched, thick fist slammed into the Wendigo’s chest.
The punch echoed for miles around and the Wendigo skidded backwards, falling over itself and tumbling onto its front. Mercy stood back up with a mangled hand in the air, bruised and bloody. With a grimaced face, he reformed it with his magic. The wendigo stayed still for a moment, face down on the boggy ground. However, it was not finished; Long fingers dug into the ground, hoisting itself up to its drunken stance.
“There you are,” Mercy whispered to himself.
Mercy was about to engage when his earpiece crackled on. “This is Iceman, Pike is gone.”
Mercy paused for a split-second, feeling pity for his fellow elder. It was short-lived. The dread of the incoming Wendigo released him from his grief. Now fueled with hatred and burning rage, Mercy marched forward.
No bone debris was conjured; only an angry Slavic man with bruised fists approached the Wendigo. The lanky monster swung its long, right arm at Mercy but he quickly dipped underneath it and landed a powerful blow to its side. The monster hunched over but was quick to retaliate. A lightning-fast backhand came at him which he barely dodged. Another jab to its side came, followed by an uppercut, slamming its wide mouth shut.
A barrage of attacks came, quick and swiftly with deadly precision. Although Mercy was small, he punched with enough force to stop a charging bull.
Suddenly, the Wendigo’s head twisted around its neck and Mercy gazed into the bottomless mouth, spotting the two red eyes again in the back of its throat. He hesitated, an emotion he told others never to do. He swung a wild haymaker but the Wendigo’s stretched fingers clamped onto his wrist, crushing it.
Mercy conceded, taking a knee from the sheer power emanating from the Wendigo. As his height diminished, the Wendigo’s increased, dwarfing the already small man in the light of the Black Moon. Mercy then realised he was sorely outmatched.
A mere kick from the Wendigo sent Mercy flying back towards the wall. His body rolled, bounced and skidded to a stop in a puddle of black blood.
“Sir!” Ozark’s voice cried out on the wall. Panic overwhelmed her. “Fire!” she commanded to the mages.
Elora bent her head over a parapet after hearing the comment, spotting the little insect woman. “You heard the girl. Fire!”
As every element known to the people of Lum Terra was launched into the night sky, Ozark began to hurriedly remove the full pouch from her waist. It was time. It was the moment she hoped would never happen, but secretly did. It was her spotlight to show New London and Mercy what she was capable of. Or more specifically, what they were capable of.
Once the clip was removed, she placed it on the wall with its end facing the Horde and began to push on it. “Shoot,” she cursed in a huff. “I really should have thought this through.”
Flames, ice, water, rock - it all collided with the Wendigo as it stumbled toward Mercy and the wall. The magic seemed only to annoy it - it didn’t even budge. Even Kara, who could tear through space with her magic, was belittled as the Wendigo brushed off her spells. “It’s so magically dense!” she complained to Elora.
“GET OUT!” Ozark screamed at the top of her lungs, placing a foot at the bottom of the pouch and pushing with everything her little legs had. “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GEEEETTTTTTT OUUUTTTTTTT!!!”
Then she felt it, the sweat release of pressure. She toppled over, completely stunned. “Is it out?” she asked the gloomy night sky above her.
“What the fuck was that?” a mage asked in disbelief after something large crashed beneath the wall.
“Is that a monster?”
A devilish grin spread across Ozark’s face as she jumped to her feet and looked down below the wall. All she could see was a mess of limbs and metal, lit up partially by flood lights. Perfect. Her devilish smile turned gleeful, and she hurriedly fiddled inside her suit of armour, bringing out a remote control. It was filled with dozens of buttons of varying sizes, four joysticks and an antennae at the top.
She squealed like a schoolgirl and jumped up onto a parapet. In a twisted voice, she yelled, “I give you, Ozark’s Monster!”
The mass of decaying flesh and mechanical appendages sprang to life with a haunting symphony of creaks and groans. Thick metal studs pierced the ground as its joints contorted, extending its monstrous frame to a staggering height of twenty feet, reminiscent of a grotesque spider. A fusion of various races and creatures, its sinewy muscles strained and propelled the amalgamation further upward. As its waist began to rotate, sturdy arms crafted from a combination of metal and flesh intertwined around its form, completing the monstrosity.
Once the cranking had stopped, Ozark exclaimed, “Wait for it!”
Pop. A human head was revealed at the top. It belonged to Roach. Though it was preserved with some dignity, except for the fact that it was caked in makeup, and looked as if a girl had been practising on her mother. He had bright red lips, a pale white reflection, thick brown eyebrows and a golden wig that hung on half his head.
Ozark maniacally laughed. “Oi!” she shouted to the Wendigo. “Pick on someone your own size!”
Yanking a lever down, Ozark’s Monster spurred to life once more and black smoke shot out the bottom.
“How is that operating?” a mage asked another. “And who is operating it?” At a loss of words, the Servants of the Seven Spheres had their attention drawn to the insect girl standing on the parapet.
“It’s hers?!”
“It’s an abomination!”
Ozark couldn’t hear them over her own maniacal laughs. Ozark’s Monster had passed Mercy now, shaking the ground beneath him. The man coughed and spluttered blood onto the muddy ground. “Sorry, sir!” her high-pitched voice called out.
The Wendigo's throat reverberated a bone-chilling cry, a primal instinct awakening within its twisted form as it sensed the machinery. With a surge of otherworldly energy, it propelled itself forward, defying the limitations of the natural world. Its mouth stretched grotesquely wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth, while its limp limbs trailed behind.
From a distance of twenty meters, the Wendigo sprang into the air with a menacing leap, its arms raised high, preparing for a deadly strike. Ozark, filled with panic, urgently pressed buttons and pulled levers, desperately trying to activate her creation. Suddenly, the monstrous creation groaned loudly, its waist twisting. A massive arm emerged, wielding a giant, rusted sword, and with one swift motion, it swatted the Wendigo aside, tossing it away like a pesky wasp.
“HOW’D YOU LIKE THAT, ASH MAN!” Ozark bellowed from the wall, still fiddling with the remote.
Ozark's Monster sprang into action, already anticipating the Wendigo's descent. Its body contorted, revealing a lethal arsenal held in each of its many hands. With perfect timing, the Wendigo crashed to the earth only to be met with the force of a chained mace, driving it into the ground. Before it could rise, Ozark’s Monster delivered a thunderous shield bash to its skull, ensuring it remained incapacitated.
The Wendigo cried a thousand souls as black fog seeped through thin wounds.
“You damaged it!” Elora cried. “Keep at it!”
“Well, I’m not going to stop, you blonde bimbo!” Ozark responded harshly and without care of who she was talking to,
Ozark’s Monster brandished a long spear that was passed from one hand to the other. With a thrust, it caught the Wendigo as it rose, sending it barrelling further away from the way.
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The Ill-Favoured Five without their bard arrived at a chaotic scene outside the stronghold. Misted faces fought hundreds of the Children of Discordia; in the streets, the air, the buildings and everywhere between.
“There’s Boseman!” Roach pointed out, slamming the brakes on a skidding to a halt. He opened the door and leapt out. “Where is he?!” he shouted over to the brazen man with a darker mist than his.
Boseman stopped and turned his head. It then clicked who they were. “He’s heading to the Southern Gate. Down H23. Go after him! He’s taken something!” his voice boomed above the gunshots.
Roach nodded furiously. “On it! Stay in!”
“Are we finally getting this bastard?!” Goliath shouted through. “Roach floor it.” Roach didn’t need to be told as everyone was thrust back into their seat.
“Find him Pointy, find him,” Roach instructed, his eyes darting around the empty streets.
Finally, they reached a highway ramp and were quickly speeding past abandoned cars.
“He’s up ahead!” Pointy exclaimed, clutching at the tops of his ears.
Roach sped up and unhooked a pistol with two magazines remaining on his waist. Suddenly, their earpieces crackled awake.
“This is Administrator Hound speaking,” a distinct, deep voice said over the earpiece. Despite the difference in authority, the voice did not correlate. It was rough, almost rude. Silence fell on all of them and even the groan of the engine seemed to vanish.
Swallowing a stone in his throat, Goliath put a shaky hand to his ear. “Yes, Administrator Hound. This is Goliath, team leader of the Ill-Favoured Five.”
“Good. The twat you’re chasin’ has taken something that does not belong to him. It’s a weapon that’ll fuck this city up for good, do you understand, boy?”
“Yes, Administrator Hound.”
“You’re gonna lose me in a minute. Whatever you do, do not touch it. Do not let it ‘it the ground either. This ain’t a fucking walk in the park now, kids, got it?”
“Yes, Administrator House.”
“Take it and kill that bastard and you will be bumped up to—”
“Administrator?” Goliath asked. “Fuck.”
“It’s emitting a transient electromagnetic disturbance—short bursts of electromagnetic energy that disables all electronic equipment.”
“English, Pointy!”
“Like a stronger E-Jammer.”
“What is it?” Roach asked.
The touchscreen dashboard suddenly switched off.
“It’s powerful that’s all I can say. I can feel it even now,” Pointy told them, a hint of fear in his voice. “To put it into contact with solid matter would—I don’t know. Maybe it's a virus or a corruption. We’re getting closer.” Pointy felt the tops of his ears again.
“I see him!” Roach yelled, spotting a saloon speeding through abandoned cars.
“I’m going to ram him,” Roach said under his breath, loud enough for only Pointy to hear.
“It cannot touch the ground,” Pointy told him. “I’ll shoot the tyres.” He smashed the window out with his bow and pulled himself up to sit on the door. “I need a steady shot!”
Roach put his foot down and swerved over onto the hard shoulder, getting closer to becoming parallel with the saloon. Pointy brought the string to the side of his head and closed his left eye. “STEADY!” Pointy yelled. After Roach straightened out on a stretch of the hard shoulder, Pointy released the string.
It sailed through two windows and an open door before finding purchase in the front right tyre. Rubber exploded and the rusty rim smashed into the asphalt. Sparks flew and the saloon swerved towards them, wiping out cars as it did.
“Brake! Brake!” Pointy exclaimed.
Roach put his foot down and t-boned the saloon. He kept his foot on the accelerator and began to push the saloon down the highway. The half-masked man stared into the mist of the driver who pulled out his pistol and fired all ten rounds into the man’s skull. Each one of the bullets bounced off, and only one cracked the mask at the top, revealing his forehead which had no skin at all.
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“Roach stop!” Pointy yelled. “Don’t shoot him!”
“FUCK HIM!” Roach screamed at the top of his lungs, slamming the brakes on. They stopped dead while the saloon’s wheels locked and the car toppled away from them. Before the saloon had come to a stop, Roach was already out and sprinting toward it, pistols loaded, his expression of fury hidden under his mist.
The saloon door flew off its hinges and the masked man stepped out holding a glass cylinder. What was inside they couldn’t tell, only that it was glowing.
Roach began firing immediately. The half-masked man shielded it with his body. With a flick of his wrist, he sent a grey circle in Roach’s direction. Its foggy form wrapped him, invading his body. He could only open his mouth as he took a knee, gasping for air.
“ROACH!” Pointy screamed, running up.
With his body shaking, Roach stood back up.
“Impossible!” Akira Weslen screamed, firing two more Soul Shatters at him. Roach walked forward, taking the two spells head-on. They took his breath away but he still staggered towards the man who was taking to his heels down the highway. It was a short moment after that Roach chased after him.
After Roach ran past the saloon, the Children of Discordia exited. They were not alive, with one even missing a head, while another had a shard of glass through their chest.
“Undead!” Pointy exclaimed as he drew his bow.
“Mute, follow Roach!” Goliath shouted at her, “we’ll deal with these.”
“GET BACK HERE YOU FUCKER!” Roach screamed at the top of his lungs as he sprinted after him.
The half-masked man leapt off the edge of the highway, landing on top of a flat roof and bolted. Roach was not far behind screaming obscenities, fueled with raging hate. With every step the man took, Roach gained on him. He had run out of bullets and clutched a dagger with every leap and fall. The two were running at such a fast pace Mute struggled to keep up.
Roach's breath grew ragged as he closed in on the half-masked man, his cloak inches from his fingers. Suddenly, Roach's keen eyes caught sight of a drop just ahead. With lightning reflexes, he leapt off an air conditioning unit, crashing into the man in mid-air, preventing his escape. The two figures plummeted through a glass window, their bodies colliding with concrete as shards of glass rained down around them
Roach groaned and coughed up blood while the other man got to his feet.
“I admire your chase,” Akira Weslen told him, throwing his hood off and standing up, still clutching the cylinder.
Roach slowly brought his dagger to his own neck and proceeded to slit his own throat. Akira Weslen paused, dumbfounded. However, he quickly turned his back to leave.
“Do you not remember me?” Roach questioned.
Akira Weslen turned around to see Roach standing up with blood dripping down him. The wound on his neck had vanished, not even leaving a scar behind.
“Powerful magic,” he tutted, opening his palm. “I wondered what the Unwanted had been doing in hiding for so long.” A slow circle of grey fog emanated from it. Upon making contact with Roach, it wrapped itself around him. With a quick breath in, he recovered.
“Do you not remember me?” Roach asked again, his tone more aggressive.
Akira Weslen’s fingers curled inwards and with Roach’s next step, the muscle on his calve rotted away, causing him to fall on one knee. Then the skin rotted too which invaded his thighs and his waist and then finally his head. Only a skeleton with clothes fell to the ground.
The man huffed and paced away but heard a horrifying sound; squelchy flesh and snapping bones, a deathly groan and a harrowing cough.
“DO YOU NOT REMEMBER ME! TEN YEARS AGO!” Roach screamed upon regenerating. He ripped his t-shirt apart, exposing the hundreds if not thousands of tallies covering him. “AKIRA WESLEN! Leader of the Unholy Brothers! Necrowarrior of the First War of New Kings! Torturer of Children! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER ME! YOUR PRIZE! YOUR TICKET!”
The man turned around and noticed them—for a split second, his eyes widened in fear. “It’s you,” the man muttered in disbelief. “Thief!”
“Thief?” Roach questioned, a crooked, crazy smile faintly showing through his mist. “You tortured me for a year!”
“You stole my blessing!” Akira Weslen bellowed.
“Stole it?! I earned it!”
His fingers curled again and all of Roach’s skin, muscles and ligaments rotted a hundred years in an instant. His skeleton was raised in the air and forcefully thrown down on the concrete ground, shattering every bone inside and scattering the pieces across the warehouse.
By the time Roach regenerated, Akira Weslen had vanished. His breath was short but not from exercise. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, “I made a deal with Yelia and it ends with you! You’re the last one for death herself. She’s waiting for you!”
He remained in a sorrowful state, staring blankly into the ground, his mind clouded. He knew he couldn’t kill him alone; Akira Weslen was on the same level as an Elder, with more experience than an Administrator. How was he going to do it?
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12 Years Ago, Somewhere in New London
Sister Furrow sat alone on a mahogany chair in her large office. Behind her, through an oval window was a courtyard with children playing. She was peering over thin glasses at a list of names on a piece of paper. It included a range of statistics next to each.
A knock drew her attention away, and a voice came from the crack in the door. “Sister Furrow, there’s a gentleman here to see you.”
“Send him in,” she instructed, slipping the papers into a drawer on her desk.
“Good afternoon, Sister Furrow, I hope my visit wasn’t a bad time,” the gentleman spoke.
“Ah, Mr Weslen, and no, not at all, please take a seat.”
Akira Weslen took off his brown bowler hat and placed it against his chest, taking in the room as he did so. “Wonderful office you have here,” he commented. “Christian Church from Earth, is it?”
“Yes, gifted to us by the King’s Reclamation Act. It has a very rustic feel.”
“Quite,” Mr Weslen agreed, stepping towards the chair. He pushed away his morning coat as he placed his behind down. “Were the tests successful, Sister Furrow?”
“Yes, I believe they’re all correct.” Sister Furrow remarked, straightening her posture. “Oh, we did receive two anomalies. One is explainable, however. I must say that we don’t often test for the ones you’ve requested.”
“I suppose your customers are looking for the next big hit in the Hunter world. Whereas I am not,” Akira Weslen responded.
“I see,” she said, reaching into the drawer and handing over the piece of paper she was studying previously.
“Efficient work,” Akira Weslen noted, taking it and looking. There were tables of numbers, names and percentages. He ran his finger through the list. “Quite average,” he stated in disappointment.
“The early bird gets the worm, Mr Weslen,” she stated, half-smirking. “I operate on a first come first serve basis. No holds, deposits or half-assed people.”
“I can assure you, Sister Furrow, I am not half-assed—” Mr Weslen paused as he noticed an unusual statistic at the bottom of the page. “Zero? Is this the anomaly?”
“That was one of the anomalies but another Sister explained to me that he suffers from something called Broken Heart Syndrome; an extremely rare, incurable birth defect that affects his soul and mana link. It makes him vulnerable to every illness—a cut could kill him.”
“And his willpower, that’s correct?” Akira Weslen noticed, hiding his excitement from his tone.
“I do believe it was since the number is so high. We ran it three times just to be sure and that score is the median. Why do you care about willpower so much?”
“Willpower is quite an undervalued statistic among children. It can be learnt and practised, but some people are born with determination quite like any other, Sister Furrorw.”
“Why exactly do you want Willpower if he has no magic?”
“I source my clients' desires, not to ask questions,” Akira Weslen dismissed, scanning over the rest of the results. “It’s incredible he’s still alive. Where did you find him?”
Sister Furrow clicked her teeth and stared at the ceiling. “I believe he was brought in from the Eurella Scouts Division. They had found a refugee camp that had been ravaged by monsters just outside the border—mixed bag I believe. All were dead except the boy. He does look English, however.”
“And his name? It’s a very unusual name given to a boy.”
“Solomon, yes, it is when I think about it. He was holding a weapon with it inscribed. Scouts like to do that.”
“Hm.”
“Something the matter? Is Solomon an unfortunate name?”
“Not really. It’s an old Jewish name—a forgotten religion. It means peace, and often those referred to by the name are old and wise. Seems strange for a boy— for him to be considered wise that is. And you said he was odd?”
“Well, yes, come take a look,” Sister Furrow instructed, waving him over to the stained glass window overlooking a courtyard. “I’ll let you spot him.”
Akira Weslen peered outside, seeing hundreds of children playing. A game of football was going on, with stones for goalposts and a ripped-up sponge ball was being kicked about. Most of the children were in groups; standing, chatting, and playing. Mr Welsen spotted a boy in the far corner against the sharp-pointed railing. He was like a statue, with only his eyes darting about. He had a shaved head like all the boys too.
“Has he spoken yet?”
“Yes. Not well spoken, but not rough either. He’s like a blank canvas. We haven’t tested him for autism but I should think he’s just quiet. Most children loosen up after a few days. For him though it's been two weeks and he only speaks to one Sister.”
Akira Weslen held a sheet of paper up in front of him. His eyes flashed with gold. Was this the child he was looking for?
“How much for the boy?” Akira Weslen asked, placing his hands behind his back.
“Three gold—his medical expenses would be far too great for us anyhow. How does that sound?” she proposed, meeting his eyes.
Akira Weslen smiled warmly. “Three gold it is.”
Akira Welsen stormed into the abandoned warehouse, his anticipation was palpable, evident in the way his fingers tapped eagerly against the clipboard he clutched tightly. However, his excitement came to an abrupt halt when he encountered a series of grates on the floor. These grates stretched the entire length of the vast warehouse, spanning twenty meters. They were also labelled A, B and C. Akira Weslen chose A. He lifted the grate and shouted, “Hands up!”
From the darkness below, thirty left hands were raised solemnly in the air Tattooed across each of their veins was the letter A followed by a number.
“A39! Hand up!” Akira Weslen barked. He began scanning them. He huffed and opened up another grate in the same section. “A39! Hand up!” There he spotted it, his lottery ticket. He grabbed it tightly and yanked up Solomon. The poor boy was wearing a ripped pair of shorts covered in faeces and dirt. Ribs poked through grey skin and his stomach had begun to eat itself.
Akira Weslen marched into a doorway and down an alleyway, not caring about dragging the small boy on the dirty ground. He banged on a metal door twice and it opened from the inside.
“Get him strapped up,” Akira Weslen told two people in the room, throwing Solomon forward.
Despite there being a hospital bed in the room, it wasn’t at all sterile. The walls were covered in grime and the supporting beams were rusting. Above the hospital bed, there was a contraption with eight needles pointing inwards. It looked akin to a spider.
“Alright alright,” Akira Weslen said, calming himself. “We’ve done all the tests now. He should not react to NC-10. This is it. Come on, get him strapped in.”
Solomon didn’t resist. He had only been in the hole for a week thus far, and the only food he managed to eat was scraps of chicken fat and bone. Through his time, he had seen children like him be picked up and then dropped back in the hole. More often than not, they never returned.
“Johnson, is the NC-10 ready?”
“Yes, Weslen. All prepped and waiting.”
Akira Weslen rubbed his hands together and then ran them both through his brown hair.
“Ow,” Solomon cried when a woman stuck a needle into his right forearm.
“It’s going to hurt a lot more than that,” she said back to him with a teasing smile, tapping an IV bag.
“What are you going to do to me?” Solomon meekly asked, staring at the half-dozen people in the room. His head was pushed backwards and a leather strap was tightened across his forehead.
“Ready.”
“Ready.”
“Ready.”
Akira Weslen placed a fist against his mouth. “Begin.”
Solomon looked above him. There, the spider-like contraption started to lower. Dripping from the long needles was a viscous, purple liquid. He tried to squirm but it was no use.
Each of the needles arrived at its designated location, starting with his head and going down to his foot. His breath became erratic and his heart rate soared. His red eyes grew wide and his pupils contracted.
“Give him benzo,” Akira Weslen instructed.
The woman with a syringe in hand quickly administered it into the IV.
Akira Weslen watched with anticipation as the needles went in. Solomon screamed Bloody Mary, much like the screams he had heard from the hole. Now it was his turn, and the children in the hole would hear him too.
“NC-10 entering his bloodstream. Now in his bone marrow.”
Then Solomon took a quick last breath before his eyes slipped down.
“STOP! STOP! STOP!”
The needles were quickly removed.
“A39 is comatosed.”
“What of his soul?” someone else asked.
“It’s perfect. So untouched,” Akira Weslen muttered in awe, staring with grey eyes. It was a spell he possessed, to see someone's soul. He was watching Solomon’s leave its body, gliding past him, passing through all physical barriers.
Solomon awoke, finding himself standing in a forest cloaked with a towering canopy. However, instead of sunlight filtering through, an ominous darkness enveloped the surroundings. Shades of grey dominated the scene, with lifeless leaves strewn beneath his bare feet.
As his eyes wandered around the strange place, they landed on a figure watching him from behind a tree. She too was barefoot, but unlike his naked body, she wore a white gown that matched her pale skin. Contrasting her beauty, black hair covered her face.
“What’s your name?” the figure asked. The tone wasn’t unearthly, nor was it godly or demonic. It was almost kind, like an old friend.
“Solomon,” he softly replied, staring at her.
The figure looked around the bleak forest, offering a pitiful shrug of her shoulders. A life like this is not one well lived, but her duty came first.
“I’m sorry to tell you, Solomon, but you’ve come to a different place now.”
“Where am I?”
“This place is the Land Between, where all souls arrive. Blessed be the Three Moons offer an afterlife.”
“These people—” he began to sob. “They took me. They-they—”
“It’s all over now,” she comforted, taking a step forward. “You don’t need to be scared anymore.”
She began walking over to him and stopped a few feet away. “All you need to do is take my hand,” she softly said, offering it. There were no scars on the hand, no rips in the nail. Her body had perfect proportions and an elegant stance, exuding an unobtainable beauty others could only dream of.
Solomon wiped his eyes and looked at the hand. “Really?” he asked, looking up at her covered face.
“Yes, Solomon, it is.”
Soaking up the tears, he grabbed it. It was warm, alive, and the soft skin of her hand felt kind against his own. However, the feeling wasn’t reciprocated, and the unknown being retracted her hand in an instant.
“What?” Solomon questioned.
The figure didn’t say anything, she spun on the spot, pacing away.
“Where are you going? Don’t leave me!”
“A39 is awake,” the woman announced, feeling a pulse in his arm. “Vitals are fine. Heart rate is steadily rising.”
Akira Welsen rushed over. “What did you see?”
Solomon didn’t answer, only stared at the man with a blank expression.
“What did you see?!” Akira Weslen screamed, grabbing a scalpel and jamming it into Solomon’s bony thigh.
Thick blood oozed out and dropped onto the murky ground. To Solomon, it felt like a scratch.
“Soul is still disassociated with the body. Nerve centres are rejoining,” the woman explained.
Then the excruciating pain came and he screamed in agony. A rough hand gripped Solomon’s throat quickly after. “Tell me!” Akira Welsen bellowed, tightening his grip.
Solomon tried to but his airways were cut off. He was about to turn blue but Akira Weslen released his grip and he gasped. “There was a woman,” he sputtered, coughing and crying.
Everyone in the room looked at each other in amazement.
“What did she look like?” Akira Weslen pestered with a face of bewilderment. He placed a heavy hand on Solomon’s chest. “Tell me.”
“She was in a wedding dress. And she had no face.”
“The book! The book!” Akira Weslen screamed at the other, snapping his fingers.
A man wearing a blood-stained lab coat ran over to Akira Weslen clutching an old book. The face was made of black leather with intricate gold lines painted on it. Its spine was made from vellum with animal hairs still poking out of it. Solomon could barely read as his eyes turned blurry, but on the front, he noticed the author’s name: ‘By the Clockwork Caretaker’
“Is this the woman you saw?” Akira Weslen hastily asked, shoving the book into his face.
Solomon nodded fearfully.
“By the Three Moons,” Akira Weslen whispered to himself. “We’ve found her!” he said aloud. “We’re getting closer.”
As the wound in his thigh oozed blood and covered him, the team of ‘scientists’ celebrated; hugging and cheering with each other. Solomon’s body began to go into shock from the blood loss and he quickly lost consciousness once more.
“Where am I?” Solomon said, opening his eyes to only see black. All he could feel was a deep pain in his leg, immobilising him.
“You’re back in the hole,” a girl answered in a whisper.
“You speak?”
There was a hesitation before the girl spoke again. “We don’t like to talk to the others who haven’t been tested yet. Some don’t come back. But you did. I’m A14.”
“And I’m A19,” another girl added. “A lot of us don’t speak. Did you see the spider?”
“It hurt,” Solomon replied, feeling the puncture wounds over his body.
“We know.”
----------------------------------------
Roach’s eyes stared through the concrete floor in reminiscence. Behind him, he heard pitter-patter footsteps making their way over. A tiny, light hand placed itself on his shoulder.
Roach breathed, composing himself. “Thanks, Mute,” he muttered. He placed a hand on his knee and slowly got up, straightening his back afterwards. Mute turned to face him, her hand offering a white handkerchief. Roach exhaled through his nose, throwing it over his face soon after.
“Roach!” Goliath shouted through the hole in the roof. Pointy was peering down too. “Please tell me the prick’s dead!”
Roach shook his head. “There’s no point, Goliath. We’re dead if we follow him.”
Goliath smashed his fist into the metal window frame in anger. “Fuck!” He quickly pressed a finger to his ear. “This is Goliath, we have lost the target.”
“We’re still in its range,” Pointy explained, defeated.