Snow lay deep on the small town nestled between two low mountains, hugging a winding river that meandered through it like a snake. It was a mean, coarse town, gated by an ancient steel bridge, long collapsed, the gap now strung with a rope bridge. At some point, it had been a silver mining town, but that was ancient history. Since then, the collapse of the known world, the arrival of the Abhumans, the Madman pandemic, hard winters, it was little more than a barracks town, situated not far from an anomalous tree. Incursions of Abhumans here were dense, the products of a Marrowtree, a twisted, anomalous growth in the middle of a stand of poplars, looking as if it were made from bleached white bones and stained with red rust as if it were steel, sharp, harsh, twisted in barely Euclidean ways; the rest of the trees in the copse were all leaned away, some at crazed angles, as if trying to get away from it. A large perimeter was kept around it, and that required a contingent of soldiers.
Killian, Captain of the current Watchline, lay on a frigid slab of concrete three hundred yards away from the Marrowtree, standing twisted and ugly, peeking through the poplars like a ghost hiding between bars. The men with him on their own slabs were skittish, barely keeping a lid on their fear. There were a lot of green, untried privates in the ranks today, and the feeling of unrest was palpable. His breath misted in the chill, unmoving air as he sighted down the massive, mounted rail-gun barrel, watching the trees carefully. The Abhumans, or Flakers as the men referred to them, had been coming through more frequently recently, as he’d lost several men in the last few nights. If it wasn’t man-shaped, it was deer-shaped, bear-shaped, mountain lion, even a few rabbits and birds. The Marrowtree did not care what flesh came near it, only that flesh did come. It sang a siren-song of death and horror. He could feel it calling even this far, scratching gently at his brain, susurrations of oblivion. A nuke would have to be allocated to this Marrowtree eventually, when the Outer Government could manage it. For now, it was contain, contain, contain. Blinking, he shook his head, then opened his eyes to find himself staring right at an abomination.
Among the trees came a lumbering form, its single fuliginous eye turned towards the men. The men’s fear was a sour scent in the air, as the hum of rail-guns powering up sounded in the winter dusk. It stood just inside the treeline, swaying, its skin flaking and ashing away, the long tendrils dragging behind it like chains. It raised a hand, as if beckoning as the first sabot slammed into its shoulder, obliterating the mass of gnarled flesh. It began to regenerate, but three more sabots took out its legs, its lower torso, and Killian fired a clean shot through the black eye. The rest of it fell apart and disintegrated, a tree directly behind it toppling, their trunks torn apart by the massive speed of the hypersonic projectiles. Many a poplar had fallen to their guns, leaving their shattered stumps jutting from the forest floor like jagged teeth.
Releasing a breath, Killian tipped his head against the railgun, letting adrenaline flood him. His hands began to shake and his breathing came ragged. Same old fear, different day. Four shots total; sloppy. He blinked, wiping hard at his eyes discreetly before becoming aware of movement to his right. Another Flaker? He swung the gun over, but saw a soldier trying to hold a tall, lanky, boy who’d probably just started shaving yesterday. The boy was struggling furiously against the other’s hold, eyes fixed on the Marrowtree. He was wearing fatigues, so he must have been a soldier, but why was the tree having an effect so far out? If he could be dragged back, it was likely he’d be fine if he’d gone through the vetting process. Motioning for some other men, he whistled, gesturing.
Several soldiers grabbed their fellow and began hauling him back but he continued to strain furiously, eyes wide, blank, mouth agape, drooling, clawed fingers scrabbling and scratching, fighting like one possessed. Kào! The man’s skin was already beginning to flake. That shouldn’t be the case. Each man had to have been vetted, gone through rigorous testing, psychic preparedness. But this kid had been turned by a simple Abhuman wandering too close. What was this fool doing on the Line? Full dark was slowly creeping down the mountain, and visibility would suffer. “Let him go! Follow protocol. He’s turning. Zǔzhòu nǐmen de yǎnjīng. Let him go!”
All the men snapped to obey, except the one who’d first tried to hold him back, but the boy shook him free in a violent wrenching motion. Long, wide swings of the legs, lanky and ungainly, took the man towards the Marrowtree in an odd loping shuffle, like a drunk trying to catch a train. The pupils of his eyes were blown out, blood trickling down his ears and from his nose. He made shuddering, sucking sounds as he drew ragged breath. Flakes of his skin drifted behind him like dead embers. The sound of slick snow being crushed by wild footfall, the ragged breathing, were solitary sounds for long seconds. Then the railgun bucked in its mount, and the boy’s upper chest and neck vanished in a fine mist of blood, separating head from the body. The corpse tumbled to the ground, splattering stark, steaming scarlet in the muddy snow, as Killian leaned away from the gun, turning away from the Line in fury. He couldn’t be here right now. He had to get away and deal with the men later.
His back to the Line, he didn’t see the fist as it slammed into the back of his skull, and the ground rushed to meet him as he fell, vision speckled with drifting stars, barely catching himself on his hands. He could hear shouting and scuffling behind him as men held his attacker back, a dull ringing loud in his ears. Killian rose slowly, fists clenched, teeth gnashed. The tinnitus slowly quieted as he rounded on his attacker. A young man who looked a great deal like the dead man stood shouting blistering obscenities at the Captain as several men had him by the arms and chest. He was weeping.
Killian slapped him hard, once, snapping the man’s head to the side, and quieting the tirade. “Steel yer spine, son!” He couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than the enraged soldier, but it felt appropriate in the moment. “Let ‘im loose. Loose him. Speak!”
The soldier shrugged himself free of the grasping arms and got right into Killian’s face, cheek an angry red, his eyes wide and wild. “That was my brother! You killed him! Shot him in the back like a gāisǐ coward! He died like a dog, you gǒu niáng yǎng de! I’ll have you court-martialed. My father is the governor of--”
The Captain of the Line closed the distance between them, noses nearly touching. “D’ya understand he was already dead, boy?” He was screaming, shouting the words at the aggrieved soldier. “D’ya understand that this was a mercy kill, you ignorant lǘzi yǎng de? How’d he get on the Line, soldier? How’d he get through vetting? He folded from a psychic love-tap.” Grabbing the lapel of his uniform, Killian shook the man, shouting into his face. “You get him through? Didja get yer brother killed? For what? The jollies? Gettin’ a kick on the Line together? This here Line’s crouching death, soldier, and tonight ya proved it’s got fangs, that’s all.” He shoved the soldier back, turning away again, stomping towards the barracks.
“What do you know about family?!” shrieked the bereft man, half-maddened in tone and stance. “Heard you murdered your whole family, put them down like dogs, just like now! Nǐ shì gǒu niáng yǎng de zázhǒng!”
Killian broke two of the soldier’s front teeth as he spun around and snapped his fist into his face, a savage movement born of clear, sharp rage. He didn’t stop, though, immediately delivering two more blows into the man’s jaw and then his temple, feeling the bone give a little bit. The soldier swayed, his eyes unfocused, before a final blow caught him in the throat. Cartilage crumbled at the strike, giving beneath Killian’s fist, and the soldier began to gasp and choke. He collapsed bonelessly to the ground, breathing raggedly, his arms curling towards his body as his eyes rolled back into his head. Killian stomped away, knuckles dribbling blood, as his shocked men began to call for a medic. Court-martial it was then.
---
She left the twisted Marrowtree, passing by it, feeling its sinister presence even in this dreamscape. It had left a psychic imprint too profound to put into words. And she dared not touch even this figment.
Passing into the woods beyond, the snow gave way to dust and dirt, a great plain full of dry grasses swaying in the dark night, as full night blanketed the landscape. Gone were the tall trees, the warm library, the babbling brook. All around her spread flat, dry grassland. In the distance, she saw the mass of the spacecraft under which the town of Hull was built. Before her, a wide, shallow looking river cut across the road to Hull. She began to ford it, ankle high water pressing against her feet.
Around half-way through the river, the level began to rise, and she hardly had any time to glance upstream before a massive tidal wave swept her off her feet, motes of light swirling around her in the black waters.
---
The town of Hull came into view as Killian rode the horse hard, lather speckling the tired brown mare’s coat. In Hull, the lights of the time were just coming on, illuminating the bottom of the massive spacecraft as people moved about, getting ready for the night. His breathing was ragged, sharp, and strained as he stared forward, before the thundering hoof-beats began to echo against the simple homes and businesses. People looked up, then quickly looked away as he stopped in front of the jailhouse and jumped from the horse.
Sean had been sitting on a chair just outside the door, shotgun by his side, whittling a piece of wood, but sprang from his chair as Killian’s horse rumbled out of the gathering dark. “Well, boy?” asked Sean, as Killian nearly stumbled onto the small porch of the jailhouse, covered in trail dust, legs and hands shaking from holding the reins and saddle so hard. He’d been at a dead gallop for too long, and his mare collapsed to her knees behind him, laying in the dust of the street, huffing hard. To Sean’s question, Killian simply shook his head, jaw hard and teeth tight.
“Pointless,” rasped the young man, falling into the older man’s vacated seat, dropping his head and gripping his hands together until they were white-knuckled. “Apothecary said maybe in the big cities, maybe if we’d gotten ‘em there fast ‘nough, maybe if we’d gotten the right immune-chips, maybe, maybe, maybe!” He slammed his palm down on his knee, before clenching it. “Too many ‘maybe’s’ to count. Ain’t nothin’ for it, Sean. Ain’t nothin’ for them.” His voice was starting to crack, fresh tears glimmering in his eyes. He covered his eyes with the crook of his arm, forcing his voice steady. “Nothin’.”
Sean knelt, putting a comforting hand on Killian’s shoulder, but the older man was no stranger to loss. It was a useless maneuver, but one as rote and as needed as going to the apothecary twenty miles away to be told exactly what was already known. “I’ll do it, boy. Ain’t no reason for you to shoulder this.”
“Was my infected game, Sean. My fault. Shoulda seen signs. Shoulda been able to smell it. Naw, this is my duty.” His fingers groped out blindly towards the shotgun and he stood, his young face stony, hard as flint and just as jagged. His eyes were hollow, shadowed, glinting in the paltry light of the oil lantern hanging next to the door. “I’ll be sayin’ my goodbyes, Sean. Stay out.”
He threw the jailhouse door open and passed into the dim interior, before nudging the door closed with his boot heel. Killian just stood there, his eyes adjusting as he stared at the rough hewn board of the floor, aware of a scrabbling of claws on wood in the darkness of the wrought-iron cells in the back. Reaching over, he turned the wick higher on an oil lantern, and light bloomed. Two women stared back at him from behind thick iron bars, their eyes the same hazel as his, tracking his movements as he strode forward. When he was almost within reach, the younger girl, no more than 16 years old, slammed against the bars, her forehead bashing into the cold metal as she flailed her arm wildly at him, her fingernails unnaturally long, thick, sharp, trying to grasp him. Blood welled from her head where her skin had split with the impact and she sat back onto her haunches, Killian safely out of reach. She cackled, showing sharp upper and lower incisors.
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“Hi Kitty,” he said softly.
The Madman that had been his sister tilted her head, manic grin on her lips. “Killian, hey. Been out riding? You look beat.” She ignored the trickling of blood down her face, over her grinning teeth. “Had to try, you know how it is.” Her eyes were sunken, deep, her cheekbones in sharp contrast, making her look emaciated. Her red-brown hair, so like her father’s, was tangled and matted; she’d torn clumps out at some point. She gestured at the gun. “Nice piece, nice piece. Mmmmm, can I see it? Lemme borrow it. Be nice to your sis.” Her fingers grasped at it, and she lunged again, cutting her forehead afresh against the bars. It didn’t phase her. The stink of overripe fruit and acetone was on her breath. “Hmmm, just for a sec. Just a sec, sec, sec, sec, sec…” Her voice began to devolve into a repetitive tic, and she slunk away into the far corner of the cell, glowering at her brother.
“She’s full gone, Killian,” came the other woman’s voice, and his mother stepped into the light, right up to the bars. He took a cautious step back. “Been full gone since this morning, right after you left. Ain’t nothin’ lucid of her left.”
“Hi, Mama,” whispered Killian, voice cracking again. He cleared his throat.
“Hi, baby,” whispered the woman, her own voice wavering, her words oddly twisted by the massive incisors that had grown like fangs. The rest of her teeth had become jagged, a carnivore’s mouth. Still, she tried to smile despite the deformity.
The apothecary had told Killian the prion disease that afflicted Madmen caused ‘feralization’, leading to excessive dentin deposition to the teeth and hyperkeratosis of the fingernails. Skin grew hard and thick due to the same process. The prion disease likewise turned the frontal cortex into swiss cheese, causing personality changes, poor judgment, aggression. It stripped leptin from the system, ramping up ghrelin production, leaving a driving, unreasonable hunger. As the disease progressed, the intellect waned, until the victim was barely able to string a thought together. Everyone believed it to be an engineered bioweapon, and a very successful one at that. Madmen often formed small bands, consuming any animals within their reach using persistence hunting, then consuming one another when local wildlife failed to support them any further. Infection spread when wildlife ate infected flesh, and in the world outside the Outer Government and the Family Towers, flesh invariably consumed flesh. It was one hundred percent fatal unless treated immediately after initial symptom presentation.
His mother, warped by the disease, was barely recognizable as she stared out from behind the bars. Killian could see her hunger, a faint drooling, furtive lip licking. But she didn’t strain towards him, didn’t try to grab him. Helena had always been a person of immense strength, so it didn’t surprise him that she continued to resist the disease. Fronting a smile, his mother looked away, as if ashamed of some inner thought processes. “You know, glad I’m seein’ you again, baby, before the big black come t’ take me. Glad t’ see your still here, the solid state of ya.”
He kept his distance though, shotgun barrel set against the ground. “Mama, I…”
“Apothecary ain’t got good news for me an’ Kitty, hm?” Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “I knew it. Knew it. Ain’t keep me from hopin’, but I knew it.” She sighed, a whistling sound through those jagged teeth. Turning a sharp eye to her son, she took on a look of strength and determination. “You come t’ set me from misery, I see.” A gesture at the gun. “Good call. Can’t have us runnin’ wild, eatin’ folk and the like.”
Killian hung his head, tousled hair shadowing his face, grip hard on the stock of the gun. “I’m so sorry, Mama. So sorry. If I hadn’t brought that fox meat, recognized th’ signs, you and Kitty…”
“Ain’t no use blaming yourself, Killian. Not a dot or tittle. Coulda happened to anyone. Fact, happens t’ a lot of ‘anyones’.” She sat down finally, her legs giving way, her body weakened from fighting the disease, the changes. “It’s all a roulette game out here. Has always been. Your Da knew it, played the game, lost. Me and Kitty played it. Lost. An’ if it ain’t the world gets ya, it’ll be good ol’ Time herself. Y’might get lucky for a while, but house always wins.” She shrugged, resting her forehead on the bars as she watched Kitty chitter in the corner of the adjacent cell, glowering at them both, mumbling nonsense.
He began to cry then, silently, trying to will strength into his weak bones, feeling the pain down his marrow, a groaning, aching, cracking sensation deep in his chest. “Ma, I can’t…I…ain’t got nothin’ left. What’ll I do?” Adrift in pain, he just stood there, tears pattering against the rough hewn timber of the floor, drawing ragged, deep breaths. “What’s th’ point of goin’ on? I ain’t owe life nothing, I ain’t gotta live it.” He looked up, face wet, mouth a hard line, an edge of fury to him. “Can’t I come with ya? Can’t I just save Time some trouble?”
“No!” The retort was hard, sharp, fast, harsh as a slap in the face. Helena glared at him, black and gray hair coming loose and wild. Her claw jabbed in his direction as she pointed savagely. “No, y’ don’t get to make that decision. Ain’t yours t’ make. You wanna apologize to me, to Kitty? Live then. It ain’t about ‘owing’ life anything. Life owes you, Killian, an’ ya gotta make sure it pays its debt. It’s kicked ya enough. Now you kick it back, take some ‘good’ from its greedy paws.” There was a sharp ferocity in her voice, a flicker of the woman he’d known all his life, that stalwart, strong mother who’d protected them through the elements, suffered deprivation and starvation so they could eat. But beneath it, there was the mania of the disease, eating her alive. She clenched her hand into a fist and her claws dug into her skin, drawing blood. “Be strong, boy. Take what’s owed. Take it for all us damned souls. Now gimme the gun while I’m still…me.”
He caught his breath, looking at his mother wide-eyed. “What?”
“You’re only nineteen, baby.” Her face softened, and she smiled again, sad, forlorn, resigned. “Can’t have this kinda stain on yer soul. I’ll do it.” She reached her clawed hands through the bars, palm up, entreating.
Killian stepped back hesitantly. “I’m…You…”
“Ain’t a sure thing, am I? Think I’d turn the gun on ya. Can’t put yer trust in ol’ Mama one last time? I ain’t steered you wrong yet, Killian. Ain’t let you down. Ain’t gonna do it now.” Fear skittered across her face, but she shoved it aside, hand still outstretched. “This here’s my last act a’ love, baby.” Finally, slowly, tears began to roll down her cheeks. “Give it here.”
He crumpled to his knees, the weapon in his lap, then he began to weep in earnest. He realized then he didn’t much care if she would use the gun on him or not. Didn’t much care if she tore him apart with her bare hands. He crawled forward, well within arm’s reach of his mother, leaning against the bars and she drew him into a strange hug, familiar, yet bestial, claws resting on his back. She stroked his hair back from his face as he cried in her arms, something he’d not done since he was a little boy. She shushed him as his sister gibbered in back of the next cell, fearful, angry, hungry. For long moments, she held him, before shoving him away, grabbing the gun. “Big black’s callin’ us, baby.”
His body shuddering with gulping, sobbing breaths, he drew back. “Love you, Mama.”
She brushed her monstrous claws over his cheek once, cracking one last smile. “Love you, Killian.” She cocked the shotgun, then nodded. “Turn ‘way.”
He took a long look at her, then at Kitty, before turning and pressing his forehead against the far wall, covering his ears. The sound of the buckshot in an enclosed space was deafening even so. He waited a moment and then the second shot rang out. And for a long time, Killian continued to stare at the wall, ears covered, his heart fragmenting into shards.
---
The flood released her and she found herself gasping on her hands and knees, in the woods again, those enormous sequoias towering so far above her. She had the sensation that they were holding up the sky.
Waves of lingering sorrow and grief crashed into her like a violent surf against the shore. Lucina struggled against them, against the desire to curl up into a ball, let the world turn, let her body become one with the loam, to dissolve into nothing.
Slowly, slowly, she came to herself--
---
--and drew her hands out of Killian’s. She averted her gaze immediately, unwilling to meet his eyes now. What a reversal.
“Well, now ya know all th’ important bits.” His voice was steady, though she knew he would have experienced the emotions of each memory, just as she had. She’d essentially forced him to relive each of them.
“That bad, huh?”
“I was naive of the world, and naive to think I would be ready for--” said Lucina, finally turning her gaze back to him, but as she focused on him, she drew in a sharp breath.
The Security Captain she’d known as stalwart, assured, and guarded looked…ashamed. His face bore deep sorrow and self-loathing, although he was trying to hide it. A foolish attempt when facing an Empath, and he radiated them like a physical aura, at least to her eyes. “Rattled ya bad, eh? I know I ain’t got a lot to be proud of. Been a coward and a fool most a’ my adult life. You saw. Hid from th’ Abhuman, lost control on my men, ran from my exile to the Tower, even gave ‘way the duty t’was wholly my own to my mother.” He shrugged, calloused hands clasped together in his lap. “I get it…I get you. I’m disgusted with me as well.” He chuckled sadly, trying to inject a bit of levity. “Look, sorry I put ya through all ‘at. I shouldn’t’ve insisted. Maybe we best get mov--oof!”
His voice cut off as she threw herself into lap, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. For a long moment, he didn’t move, barely breathing as she squeezed him in a desperate hug. Then, he wrapped his arms around her small frame, resting his forehead against her hair.
Neither spoke for a few minutes, but he could feel her shuddering in his grip. His chest felt damp. She’d been trying to keep her crying silent, but such things were always obvious. He let her, and she was thankful. But she eventually took control of herself and her breathing stilled. Yet, she did not raise her head. Her voice came muffled, a little raspy. “I never want to hear you talk about yourself like that again,” she said in a measured tone.
“Lucina, I--”
“No.”
“Can’t change th’ past, right?”
She finally looked up at him, eyelashes wet, eyes rimmed slightly red. “I saw no cowardice, no foolishness. I saw a man who by all accounts should have sunk into despair. Someone who’d been subjected to horrors, tragedies, and deprivation that man should never have to endure. I saw a man of iron will, of honor, decisive.” Her heart seemed to facture and fragment within her as he saw his look of astonishment, surprise. She jabbed him in the chest, a little forcefully. “And it makes me furious that you believe yourself weak and undeserving.”
He took the jabbing finger and wrapped his hand around hers. Killian smiled again, though it was a bit more warm, less sorrowful, less shame. “"I…reckon my soul's done gone to th’ dogs, Lucina. Been trudgin' this Earth with a heavy load. Hard to picture anyone truly gettin' that weight.”
“How about a deal?” She pressed her face against his chest again, this time her cheeks burning shamefully, her fingers lacing with his. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ll take a bit of your burden, if you’ll take a bit of mine.”
For a long moment, he was silent. She realized she was afraid of his response. Whether he would shun her, fearful of what such entanglements would entail. Whether he would refuse her because of what she was. Whether he would be unable to loosen his grip on himself, afraid that all that he’d been holding in would spill out. But for once in her life, she knew and was known. This flickering little ember could be an all consuming fire. She knew it. But it took both to fan such flames. Lucina gripped Killian tighter, willing him without words to give in, to nurture this moment of vulnerability, this chance at something truly precious. And still, he was silent until he tipped her face up, fingers cupping her chin.
“Gambled a bit in my day, y’know. An’ I know a good deal when I see one.” He smiled that odd little lop-sided smile. “I’ll take that deal.” He pressed his forehead against hers, then gave it a gentle kiss. “Guess we’ll take it a mite slow, though, what with yer ex runnin’ amuck, eh?”
Lucina, her face wet, feeling as if she looked like a mess, smirked at him and sighed, pressing herself into his embrace once more. “You have such a way with words, don’t you?” She said sardonically, but giggled. “How romantic.”
“Y’prolly read too many of those romance novels. Y’know they ain’t real, right? Gonna have to explain th’ difference ‘tween fiction an’ reality.” His hand played idly with a lock of her hair as they just rested against each other.
She smacked his chest with her palm, chuckling again, and was about to retort when the PA system overhead crackled to life
“Attention Families Moloch, Dagon, Ashtoreth, Baal, Shapash, Eshmun, Mot. Your power is now in its dusk. The Towers shall fall! The Families will burn to ash! The Children are arising and they shall inherit the Earth.” The voice was wild, nearly hysterical, apparently screaming into the microphone. A short pause. Then, in a calm voice: “A portent. Family Moloch’s shielding will fall at dawn.”
“Guess that’s our cue, huh?”
“That idiot,” she hissed. “He’s going to get everyone killed! As soon as those shields drop, the other Families are going to target the Tower with orbital strikes.”
He stood, gripping his gun. “Alright, let’s go do a thing, ma’am.” They both sprinted for the door.