Salem's Revenge Complete Boxed Set (20 page)

R
amen noodles never tasted so good.

I slurp down the last noodle, relishing the addictive taste of artificial chicken flavoring and a heart-attack-inducing level of sodium, considering whether I should go back for a fifth packet.

Tillman Huckle straps on a vest of dynamite and runs into a nest of scorpion-like aliens, instantly vaporizing them in the explosion. “Nice one,” I say.

“Isn’t the goal to survive the alien invasion?” Laney asks around a mouthful of curly noodles.

“Eh, surviving can be so boring sometimes,” Huckle says.

“You’re odd,” Laney says.

“Says the shotgun-toting sister of the mute air-drawing pipsqueak,” Huckle says evenly, selecting a new character from a menu screen, a curvy blonde with a machine gun and a sash of ammunition across her chest. Over the last hour I’ve filled him in on everything that’s happened in the last week or so, from the Siren to the beggar—Martin—to the air raid to The End to the Necros, and everything in between. Laney crossed her arms over her chest when I mentioned her sister’s air-drawing, but didn’t contradict me.

“Don’t talk about my sister,” Laney says, but there’s less fight in her tone. Filling her belly with food seems to have a calming effect on her. I take that down as a mental note.

“Why? Am I starting to irrigate you?” Tillman says.

“Don’t you mean—”

“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what he means.” One of my major goals has just become keeping Laney and Huckle from killing each other. Well, more likely, keeping Laney from killing Tillman.

Giving me a death glare, Laney gets off the couch and sits on the loveseat, as if to send a message by putting distance between us.

Huckle’s attention remains firmly on his game, where his blonde warrior begins cutting down a robot attack squad in a barrage of automatic fire punctuated by a teeth-chattering grenade blast. Metal arms, legs, and heads go flying all over the screen.

Laney looks at me as if to say
Seriously?
and then uses her index finger to make circles around her ear. The message is clear: Your friend is certifiably insane. I shrug one more time.

“Where’d you come from?” I ask Tillman.

“I go where the action is,” Tillman says, which doesn’t answer my question at all.

“I mean, how’d you get here?” I rephrase.

“Glad to see you still have all six of those throwing stars,” Tillman says, slamming his thumb down on a button. On screen, a wide metal door splits in the center, opening to either side. Hundreds of wolf-like beasts with snake heads charge right toward us, and I realize that video games don’t seem so unrealistic anymore.

“What happened to the Pyros?” I ask, watching as his buxom character whips out dual swords and begins hacking body parts off the snake-wolves, splattering green blood all over the place.

“You know, witch hunters and their games,” Huckle says cryptically. I’m beginning to wonder whether my questions are poorly worded. I can’t seem to get a straight answer out of my friend.

“Witch hunters did that?” Laney says, looking at me with newfound respect.

“Sort of.”

I have the sudden urge to rip the video game controller out of Tillman’s hands and chuck it out the window. “Huckle. This is important. We need to know what happened here.”

Tillman sighs and pauses the game, green blobs of blood and furry body parts frozen amidst two arcs of slashing swords. Finally, he looks at me. “The Pyros moved in a week ago, took over. I’d been here for a couple of weeks, selling weapons to witch hunters passing through. There was a group here, maybe two hundred survivors. They never stood a chance.”

“Then why aren’t you dead?” Laney asks.

Tillman laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve been around awhile. I found a place to hide.”

“Coward,” Laney says.

“No,” Tillman says, his voice remaining level. “A survivor.”

“What about the Pyros?” I say, trying to get things back on track. “They moved in and took over, but now they’re all dead.”

Huckle’s fingers twitch on the controller, as if his addiction to gaming is urging him to hit the unpause button. “They got sloppy. Your friends snuck in, found me, bought some weapons, and then killed the witches. Hence Laney should be thanking me for the pile of Pyro corpses out front. Without my weapons things might’ve gone very differently.”

“You’re a saint,” Laney mutters.

“My friends?” I say, my lip turning up slightly.

“The group of witch hunters you were talking about earlier. You know, The End.”

Without thinking, I stand, subconsciously raising a hand to my forehead, which I suddenly realize is pounding with a headache.

Despite the missiles that destroyed Waynesburg, The End is alive and doing what they do best: killing.

“A
nd this is a brand new item—a Glock with bullets formed from cursed superheated steel.” When Tillman Huckle talks about magic weapons, his eyes light up the same way they do when he talks about video games.

“I’ll take one of those,” Laney says, reaching for the big weapon.

“Not so fast,” Huckle says, pulling it away. “I require payment in advance of all sales.”

“What happened to trying before buying?” Laney says.

“What happened to you only going with me as far as the Necros’ stronghold and then going our separate ways?” I ask.

Laney punches me lightly in the shoulder. “Jury’s still out on that one,” she says. “But regardless, I could use a weapon like this to protect me and my sister.”

Huckle’s clutching the gun to his chest like an overprotective mother with her baby.

“Tillman Huckle. Give it to her. She’s not going to steal it.”

He squints an eye as if he finds that hard to believe, but hands the gun over, barrel first. Laney grabs it, spins it around, and points it square at Huckle’s chest. “Any cursed bullets in this thing?” she asks, peering down the sight.

“What do I look like, an amateur?” Huckle says.

Laney plays with the gun for a minute and then says, “Where’d you get all these weapons anyway? I’m guessing the witches don’t just make them and then hand them over.”

“Trade secrets,” Tillman says obscurely.

“Whatever,” Laney says, testing the weight of the gun in her hand.

“There’s no way you can afford a weapon like that,” Huckle says.

“Not even for a friend?” I say.

“She’s not ‘a friend,’” Tillman retorts, his fingers forming air quotes. I swear his glasses have a new strip of duct tape from yesterday. “If you want the gun, you’ll have to pay up.”

“We don’t have any money,” Laney says.

“Money?” Tillman laughs. “Money is worthless. Trading is not.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I’d accept a certain four-legged beast whose name rhymes with sex,” Huckle says.

“Gross,” Laney says, as if just hearing that word roll off of Huckle’s tongue is more disgusting than trudging through a puddle of vomit.

“Why do you want Hex?” I ask.

“Companionship,” Huckle says. “All my other friends just end up dying.”

I’m about to respond, but Trish starts air-drawing. “Trish, stop it,” Laney commands, but it only makes her sister form the letters faster.

“Death…” I start to read, but then Laney grabs Trish’s hand.

“No,” she says. “No more.”

Why is she so unwilling to explore her sister’s apparent gift, if that’s what it is? At the very least, we need to know what it means. Whether it’s real or just the random ambiguity of a child still in shock.

“Let her finish,” I say, taking hold of Laney’s wrist and trying to pull her away.

“Don’t touch me, Carter,” Laney says, her eyes blazing. She’s still got the Glock in the other hand and I’m tempted to reconfirm with Huckle that it’s not loaded.

“What are you scared of?” I say.

“Nothing,” she says, but I can see the fire in her eyes die just a little, replaced by something resembling anxiety.

Even as we stare at each other, we both seem to realize at the same time that Trish is now drawing with her other hand. “Cometh,” Tillman says. “Death cometh.”

T
rish’s finger slashes at the air, moving with more vigor than I’ve ever seen from the small girl. Her blue eyes are beaming with intensity and there’s a determined line to her jaw and pursed lips. She looks a little scary, if I’m being honest.

And she’s drawing the same message one more time, as if once wasn’t enough.

D.E.A.T.

Blood is throbbing in my head, pulsating in my temple, hot and fierce.

H.

“Death,” I find myself murmuring aloud.

“C. O. M. E. T. H.”

I grit my teeth and hope for a few more words, something to change the message to a phrase less grim and horrible, but the nine-year-old’s slender hand drops back to her side.

“Death cometh,” I repeat, my voice nothing more than a whisper. “From where?”

Her hand lifts once more and she points to the ceiling—but no, that can’t be it.

She’s pointing to the sky.

“Flying witches,” Laney says, quickly getting up to speed.

“Destroyers? Maybe…” I say, but it doesn’t sound right and Trish is already shaking her head. An attack from the sky. Something overhead. Something that brings only death. Icicles lance down my spine and my legs freeze in blocks of ice, because I realize there’s only one answer out of a million that makes sense:

Missiles.

“We’ve got to go, now!” I say frantically, grabbing Trish’s hand and pulling her toward the door. When Laney and Huckle just stare at me, I yell, “NOW!” which Hex punctuates with a loud
“WOOF!”

Laney’s eyes widen but she moves, even grabbing Huckle by the elbow and hauling him forward. She looks like an elf trying to move a lumbering giant, but, despite the surprise plastered on his face, he allows himself to be dragged toward the door.

Down the hallway, into the stairwell, down the stairs. Second floor. Look back to make sure Laney and Huckle—who’s walking on his own now—are following. First floor lobby. Out the door and onto the street where the air is warmer than it looked from above. Perhaps winter is further away than I thought.

I try not to look at the heap of dead Pyros, but I find I can’t look away from the gruesome spectacle, no matter how hard I try. Are they the target of the air strike? Did someone alert the military that the gang of Pyros had taken over the city, only to have them destroyed by The End before the air strike could happen? Is some kind of a perverted pattern of destruction emerging?

I crane my head back, searching the endless miles of clear blue sky. Empty. Emptier than empty. Not even a wispy cloud or a patrolling bird paints a stroke on the rich blue canvas. Could Trish have gotten it wrong? Or did she hold back part of the message? Death cometh…in three weeks, maybe? Or—and now I’m starting to think like Laney, which scares me quite a lot—is her air-drawing just some weird form of post-traumatic shock syndrome, as meaningless as a firecracker with no fuse? Have I been forcing truth into something false?

“What do you see, Sis?” Laney says, snapping me out of my convoluted thoughts.

I glance down at Trish, who’s still holding my hand. But now her other hand is pointing skyward. Toward the east, I think, the opposite direction to where the sun is beginning to set. I follow the invisible path of her aim, holding my breath…and seeing nothing.

Letting out a deep sigh, my thoughts about whether I’m crazy for following this disturbed mute girl’s random messages return. And then I see it: a dark speck. Could be anything, a bird or a bit of dirt on my glasses or…

No, it’s moving fast. Too fast to be a bird, and dirt on my glasses wouldn’t move.

“Run!” I shout, even as I realize it’s too late—far too late. But we have to try.

I take off down the road, practically ripping Trish’s arm out of her socket, yanking her with me, willing her to move faster than her tiny legs should be able to move. Huckle quickly outdistances me, his long, loping strides awkward and stumbling, but effective enough. Laney passes us, too, because I’m anchored down by Trish, but she stops, looks back, waits for us. She won’t leave her sister behind.

Her eyes widen as she sees something over my head, skyward. Her mouth forms a dark circle and I can see the fear penetrating every part of her expression, a look completely foreign to anything I’ve encountered from her so far.

Even as I gesture for her to keep running, Trish squirms suddenly, wrenching her hand from my grasp. Propelled by momentum alone, I take another two strides before I’m able to stop, turn, and watch her bolt away from me, back down the street, right toward where—I can barely believe what I’m seeing—a freaking missile is blazing across the heavens, right at her, as if she’s the very target of its pent-up destructive forces.

She stops in the middle of the street.

—and the missile screams through the air.

Trish raises her hands over her head, almost preacher-like.

—and Laney screams from somewhere behind me: “Trish!”

She’s so small, so small, and yet there’s something about the way she stands that makes her look so much bigger than she is.

—the missile screaming, Laney screaming, and then…

There’s a scream from somewhere else, so much LOUDER, an earth-shattering keening that forces my hands over my ears, my body to the ground, as if I’m praying or bowing to a king.

“Oh God, not again!” Laney yells from behind me, but it’s muffled through my fingers and I can barely discern it, almost completely drowned out by the pitch of the
other
scream, which I only now realize is coming from

Trish.

With a bright light, the world explodes.