Monsters
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.
“P-please, Chris,” Lena said. “H-help me.”
“I can’t help you.” His voice was older, rougher. He liked that, too. “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.