Monsters: The Ashes Trilogy (30 page)

“Think you can
leave
me?” His father’s voice was a roar that carried
from the downstairs kitchen like a megaphone blast. There was a
very loud
bang
of metal on wood, the chatter of dishes, and then a
muffled shriek from Deidre, his father's girlfriend of the moment.
“Think I don’t got
eyes
?” his father raged.

I don’t hear this.
Shivering under the dark dome of his blanket,
Chris screwed his eyes tight, tight! He clapped his hands over his ears.
This is just a bad dream—

But then, somehow, he was huddled on the stairs. Below, his
father loomed. Bright red spatters of blood painted his father’s face
and wifebeater. The hammer was clotted with a gory jam of blond
hair and brain and blood.

“D-d-don’t,”
Dee quavered—except now Chris saw that it wasn’t
Deidre at all but Lena. Lena’s face was a pulpy, misshapen horror.
The left half of her head was staved. A glistening slug of pink brain
slicked her neck.
“P-please.”
Lena raised her hands but not to Chris’s
father.

To him. Because, now, Chris wasn’t eight. He wasn’t in bed either,
or crouched on a staircase, hugging his knees, wishing he were
anywhere else. Instead, he stood in a swirl of icy wind and stinging
snow, and his was the hand with the hammer now. He hefted it, felt
its weight, the handle slick with Lena’s blood. Gore dribbled over his
face, bathed his neck. He sucked wet, warm copper from his lips, and
it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and he wanted more.

“No one can.”
“B-but . . .” Lena’s eyes dripped blood instead of tears. “I d-don’t
want to
die
.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you Changed. Someone has
to die.”
“Yes, someone must.” It was another voice, a person Chris also
knew well. Jess was suddenly there, silver hair lashed by wind into
a Gorgon’s curls, the snow spinning itself into a long white gown.
“Someone will,” Jess said.
“But not me!” Lena cried. “Why does it have to be—”
“You’re already lost, girl.” Jess’s voice was wind. “But you are not,
Chris. Leave this place. This is a fight you will not win here. You don’t
belong in the Land of the Dead.”
“Hell you say,” said his father, who was now grinning down at
another body. This one was jittering and twitching in an enormous
lake of steaming gore. Chris looked and saw that it was Peter, splayed
on his back, his head as broken and misshapen as a Halloween pumpkin run over by a car. “That’s my boy you’re talking about,” his father
said to Jess, “and he belongs to me,
with
me,
my
blood.”
“There’s a time you must kill, Chris, but also a time to heal.” Jess’s
eyes were black mirrors in which he saw himself doubled: Chris on
the right, Chris on the left, like the twin angels of his nature—his
father and Jess—but he couldn’t tell which was good. Maybe neither
was, entirely. “Leave the thing with a father’s face,” Jess said. “Go
back. It’s not yet your time.”
“The hell it’s not,” he said, and then Chris was swinging—both
Chrises swung, their hammers whickering—but when they connected,
they collapsed into one Chris, one hammer, one desire. There was a dull
chock
, and a ripping sound as Lena’s scalp tore. The hammer juddered
in his hand, the metal cratering bone before passing to the softer pink
cheese of her brain. Lena crumpled. When the hammer pulled free, he
looked up to find that Jess had disappeared.
“That’s my boy.” Scraping a gob of brains from his cheek, his
father stuck his fingers in his mouth. “Yum—”
And then the scene shifted in a quick jolt, as if a hand jammed
itself in his back and gave him a huge push, catapulting Chris from
this horror to somewhere entirely different—and Chris had one
second to think,
A nightmare, it’s a nightmare, this isn’t real, it’s not—
Chris’s chest suddenly erupted in a spray of raw agony. An electric
blaze streaked through his body, all the connections sizzling to life.
Now he registered that the air was warm—
inside, somewhere, not on
the snow
—and was aware of the slosh and gurgle of water, the creak
of a spring, the rustle of cloth. The insect-like
tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
of a clock.
Bed, bedroom, where?
He lay on his back, quivering, every
nerve singing. There was a strange pressure on his chest—
hand, a
man
—and the side of a thumb on his forehead tracing something,
drawing down and across, sketching some symbol like a pen over
blank paper. What followed was a swirl of sounds, whispers and the
guttural murmurs of a dark language, like trees weighed down by
murders of crows all muttering in tongues:
Durch das Blut und das
Wasser seiner Seite . . .
Where was he? He remembered cold and snow, the trap tearing
through the trees—
Lena, run, run
—and then an oily blight moving
through his body, smothering his mind.
Water. Something in the water
. . .
There was that splashing sound again, close by, and now something wet dragging over his chest. An enormous gust of fear blasted
through him.
God, no, poison, killing me, no, no!
“No!” Chris heard himself suck in a sudden, ragged shriek.
“No!”
His eyes snapped open at the same instant that the hands on his side
jumped away like startled birds. Someone cried out as he bolted
upright, coming alive to a room full of shadows and too little light,
and still screaming, “No! Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, get away
from—”
“Christopher!” An old man’s face swam from the gloom.
“Christopher, stop! It’s all—”
Get out, got to get out!
Chris reacted on instinct and raw panic.
Lashing out, he felt his left hand hook cloth. There was a startled
squawk, and then Chris was yanking the old man close, reeling him in,
his arm slipping around the man’s neck, his eyes skipping to a wink of
metal at the man’s left hip. Chris’s hand darted; in a flash, the gun was
in his fist, and he was jamming the muzzle to the old man’s temple:
“Get away from me, get away from me,
get away
!”
“No, Chris, no, no!” A chorus of voices, boys and girls. Rasps
of metal against leather, the sounds of handguns being drawn,
the unmistakable clack of a rifle bolt. The voices were still jabbering, overlapping, everyone talking at the same time: “Chris, don’t!”
“Chris, it’s all right!” “You’re safe, Chris, you’re safe!” One boy, louder
than the rest, booming from behind the rifle: “Put the gun down, put
it down, drop it, drop it!”
“
No
, Jayden!” It was the old man, his voice surprisingly strong.
“Everyone, stay calm! Give him a moment to—”
“But I’ve got the shot,” Jayden sang, “I’ve got the shot!”
“Jayden, no!” The girl’s voice was familiar, and then Chris had it:
Hannah.
“Chris,” Hannah said. “Please, put the gun down!”
“All of you just stay back!” Chris cried, except the words now came
in a harsh, grinding choke. A lone candle gave off a thin, uncertain
light, but it was enough for him to see that he stood in a tangle of
linen and down comforter, half on, half off a bed—and that he was
completely naked.
“Where am I?”
It wasn’t a dream. Hurt, I was hurt, bad. I was bleeding, I felt . . .
He’d felt that black creep through his chest, squeeze his
heart.
I felt myself die, I was dying, I was . . .
No, he couldn’t think about
that. Get out, he had to get out! He still had the old man by the neck,
but his eyes jumped from face to face—Jayden, Hannah, two other
boys—and then the long rectangle of this room, with its slanted ceiling and trio of windows.
Attic or second-story. Bedroom.
A closed door,
the way out, was to his left, but the others were blocking his way.
There came a series of muffled barks, and then someone, at the
door: “Are you all right? Is he okay? What’s happening?”
“No, no, wait—” Hannah made a grab, but a little girl suddenly
squirted through.
“Chris?” The girl’s face was pinched with anxiety. Her blue eyes
widened, and he understood what he must look like: naked, in a
frenzy, a gun in one hand and an old man in a chokehold. By her side,
a dog, smaller than a shepherd and with sable markings, watched
him through a black mask. “Chris, it’s all right,” the little girl said.
“Remember me?”
“Y-yes.” Chris gulped against a sudden wave of vertigo.
No, can’t
black out again
. He fought to clear his head. “You’re . . . you’re Ellie.”
“Right, and this is Mina, my dog.” Relief flooded Ellie’s face. “We
kept you warm, remember? We rescued you. You’re safe now.”
“Safe?”
He heard the whip of his fear. His arm tightened around
the old man’s neck. “I’m not safe. Leave me alone, all of you. Just stay
away!”
“Christopher.” The old man wasn’t fighting but instead stroking
the arm Chris had locked around his neck the way you might soothe
a frightened animal. “Christopher, I know this is confusing. You’re
scared. Put down the gun before you hurt someone.”
“No.” But Chris felt the scrape of panic falter. He was starting
to lose it, his weird strength dribbling away. “Who are you people?
Where am I?”
“You’re safe,” Hannah said from a swirl of shadow—or that may
have been his vision beginning to dim. “Chris,” she said, “let us help
you.”
“Help?” His laugh was weak and strangled. “You tried to kill me.”
I have to get out of here.
He took a swaying half step. His legs were suddenly wooden. The gun was growing unbelievably heavy, as weighty
as a boulder, and he understood that in two or three seconds, he
would faint. “Please,” he groaned. “Let me go. I don’t want to hurt
anybody, I don’t—”
With no warning at all, his strength fled as if he’d been unplugged.
His knees buckled. From somewhere distant, Chris heard the thud as
the gun hit the floor. There was nothing in his hands now, not even
the old man.
“You tried to kill me, y-you t-tried . . . oh God . . .” His eyes rolled;
there was no more light and nothing to see, and he was hurtling fast
in a black swoon.
“Quick, catch him!” someone said. He thought it might be Ellie.
“Don’t let him fall—”

“Chris?” A voice from the dark. “Chris, answer me. Are you okay?”
“I . . . I don’t kn-know.” His tongue was bloated, his mouth numb.
His chest was heavy, a huge weight pressing him down, down, down
into the black.
I’m on the snow again. I’m under the trap.
“N-no.” When he tried to turn his head toward the voice, his
neck locked tight. “Don’t k-kill me again. P-please. I don’t w-want
to d-die.”
“Shh. Don’t be afraid. I’m here now, Chris. I won’t leave you.” A
hand, strong and sure, cupped his cheek. “Open your eyes. It’s time
to come back. It’s time to see.”
“I c-can’t.” He was shivering. “I d-d-don’t want to
see
.”
“You have to. No more hiding in the shadows.” The voice was
calm but remorseless. “You’re not eight anymore. Come on. Come
back now.”
“N-n-nuh . . .” But his lids were lifting, the darkness peeling away,
a film seeming to dissolve from his eyes. At first, there was nothing
but a glaring bright fog, like strong light bleeding through heavy mist.
Then he saw the fog curl and eddy as Peter’s face pulled together, the
pieces knitting from the neck up: chin and mouth, nose and forehead.
But no eyes. Only blanks, smooth skin over bone.
“Where are y-your eyes?” A fist of horror squeezed his heart.
“P-Peter, wh
where
. . .”
“Oh, silly me.” And then the skin over Peter’s sockets peeled apart.
“There. Better?”
Chris felt the scream boil up his throat and try to crash from his
mouth. Peter’s eyes were caves, not deep black mirrors like Jess’s,
but red and vast and filling fast. They brimmed in bloody rills that
oozed down his cheeks and leaked over his lips. When Peter smiled,
his lips skinned to reveal a bristle of too many teeth that were wet
and orange.
“Peekaboo,” Peter said. Thick scarlet teardrops trembled on his
upper lip to drip directly onto Chris’s face and splash into his own
staring eyes. There was a
sssss
sound, the hiss of a snake, the boil of
acid, and then the pain, and Chris was blind and he was screaming—

“Huh!”
Chris heard the cry bolt from his mouth.
“Christopher?” Not Peter or Lena or his father, but an old man. A
dry, cool palm found his forehead. “Christopher, are you back with
us?”
Is this another dream?
He lay absolutely still for a long moment.
A
new nightmare?
He was under a thick down comforter and still mostly
naked, although someone had slipped on a pair of underpants. There
was also something unfamiliar around his neck. Cord?
“Christopher?”
“Y-yes,” he croaked. He dragged his lids up, wincing against bright
spokes of yellow-white light jabbing through two windows directly
opposite the bed. He would’ve raised a hand to shield his eyes, but he
couldn’t move his arms. Sheets were noosed around his wrists, and
his ankles were tethered to the bedposts.
“There you are. Welcome back.” Reaching for a stoneware jug on
a nightstand, the old man splashed water into a clear glass. “Thirsty?”
He was about to ask why he was tied down but then considered
that if a kid had grabbed
his
gun, he’d have done the same thing. “Is
it drugged?” he rasped.
“No. Here.” Slipping an arm under Chris’s shoulders, the old man
propped him as he drank. The water was clean and odorless and
cool as a balm. He felt the chilly slide of its course from his tortured
throat down the middle of his chest and then the cold explosion in his
empty stomach. When he’d drained the glass, the old man lowered
him, then settled back into his own chair. “That should stay put. We
fed you a bit of broth yesterday, so . . .”
“Yesterday?” When he ran his tongue over his still-dry lips, he
tasted old blood from where the skin had cracked. “How long have I
been here?”
“In
this
room?” The old man laced his fingers over his stomach.
His hair, which floated around his shoulders, was as snowy white as
his beard, although his upper lip was bare. But the resemblance was
clear, especially the eyes, which were as bright and black and keen as
an old prophet’s. “Six days ago. I arrived last night just before sunset.
I was here when you surfaced the first time.”
He caught the emphasis. “What do you mean, in
this
room?
Where was I before?”
“What do you remember?”
“Snow,” he said, hoarsely. He didn’t want to think about the
dreams. “The trees. Spikes and green glass, and the sound of the
limbs breaking, like bombs.”
“That was the tiger-trap. What else?”
“Weight on my back, and I remember the cold, and it hurt . . .
my chest, whenever I tried to move. I couldn’t breathe, like kn-knives
. . .” He was starting to shiver. “I c-couldn’t . . .”
“Easy.” The old man laid a calming hand on Chris’s forearm.
“That’s in the past.”
“But how far in the past?”
“Two weeks.”
“I’ve been out for two
weeks
?” His heart skipped. “What month
is it?”
“It’s the end of the first week of March. Take it easy, Chris. You’re
safe now.”
“That’s what you keep saying. Was I in a coma? What happened
to me?”
“You got caught in the tiger-trap. Hannah said you couldn’t
breathe, were in intense pain, had lost a tremendous amount of
blood. Every time they tried to move you or the trap—”
“It hurt.” His heaving chest was suddenly prickly with sweat.
“I . . . I couldn’t . . .”
“Take it easy.” The old man patted his arm. “Slow down.”
“I thought I was dying,” he whispered. “When Hannah gave me
that water . . . I thought it was poison and she was trying to kill me.
I guess . . .”
It was all a bad dream, like the one about my dad and me and
Lena and then Peter.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or break into
tears. “I dreamt that I died. I thought I was dead.”
“That’s because, for all intents and purposes,” the old man said,
“you were.”