59. Fifty Six
Fifty Six
Creed
Astorm is coming. I can smell it in the breeze—damp and metallic.
The air is electric, a faint buzz flowing deep in the Earth and all the way into the clouds. I splay my fingers out, as if static might shoot sparks from the tips.
Moonlight has been shrouded by low hanging clouds, making it difficult to see. All the better for the task at hand.
A single tiki torch in front of Veda’s RV illuminates faces in shades of orange.
“We stick together until we get inside. Then, split into teams of two. If anything goes wrong, you leave and meet back at the vehicles. Or…” She shrugs her shoulders. “Run.”
There’s more she says, but my attention is scattered, ruminating on all that my brother and friend could be enduring.
After eating, I attempted to take a nap.
Every time I closed my eyes, the same vision taunted me: Eden, mouth stretched open in a silent scream, holding my brother to her chest as he took his last breath.
I gave up on sleep pretty quickly.
The speech concludes, and everyone makes their way to the vehicles.
There’s a commotion in my peripheral vision, and I turn to see the mother pass her little boy to the older couple.
His limbs flail, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
The mother’s mouth moves, her own eyes filled with tears.
Though I can’t be sure what promises she’s making, I’m certain she knows as well as the rest of us that she might not be able to keep them.
I glance down at the cast on her leg, then flick my eyes forward before I paint the dirt in chicken soup.
Loaded into the damaged SUV, the seats are covered in dust and blood splatters. In front of me, two boot prints are visible on the back of the seat. My fingers wring together painfully.
With missing windows, the air that slices through the vehicle is sharp, forcing me to squint. Sylvie drives like a bat out of hell, and I find myself clutching the seat on more than one occasion.
The vehicle slows, and I peek out into the night.
Fragmented glass, pooling blood, bullet casings, and bodies litter the stretch of road.
It must be where the fight occurred. The display is so gruesome, I’m shocked Sylvie was able to make it out.
The lights on the dash shine over her eyes, and in the rearview mirror, glistening amber stares back at me.
I have to look away.
Lights shine in the distance, close together and staggered. The city. We come to a crossroads, and instead of turning towards the rows of buildings, we take the stretch that leads to more empty road.
My gut twists. There’s so many of them and so few of us.
Even if I had years of training, I would still be at a disadvantage.
My lack of hearing has never bore down on me with the burden of cannot’s.
Yet in this moment, minutes away from facing those who could snuff me out like a low burning candle, I can’t help but consider the hindrance my condition offers.
The gravel of the road turns looser, the ride bumpier. Leaning forward, I peer between the two front seats and into the night.
Never in my life have I seen the Sanctuary, but there’s no mistaking it.
Plopped in the middle of an expanse of beige fields, the white of the edifice gives it an otherworldly quality.
A few smaller buildings are dispersed behind it, though they aren’t nearly as impressive.
It’s an unusual vision; all sharp edges and imposing in nature.
I can’t imagine anyone coming here as a place of worship.
The building seems to glow without the aid of moonlight. Few lights are dappled around the perimeter of the property, offering no more than a sinister glow. Even the windows are eerie; impossibly large with gruesome scenes painted in shades of red, green, and blue.
It reminds me so much of the house when we first found Eden. Cold, out of place, haunting.
When the SUV is parked, there’s a heavy pause where no one dares speak, all of us staring at what will be one large grave by night’s end.
Sylvie opens her door first, the rest of us having no choice but to follow suit as the other vehicles line up behind us. My eyes struggle to adjust, and when they do, I can faintly see the motion of Sylvie’s lips as she gives instructions.
There’s no inspirational speech. No hugs, no pats on the back, no well wishes. It’s as casual as anything as they begin their march towards the Sanctuary, fists closed around blades and firearms.
Sylvie steps close, gripping my wrist and giving it a squeeze. At the camp, she told me that the two of us would stick together—she would watch my back if I watched hers. I admit that she got the short end of the stick in that deal.
We creep through the dark, and I attempt to embody the man that my brother is. Face stony, shoulders back, muscles taut.
If I find my brother… when I find my brother, I hope I’ve made him proud.
My foot sinks into a low spot in the dirt, and I lurch forward. Sylvie is quick to grab my arm, shooting me a look. I begin to sign an apology, but a flurry of movement ahead stops me short.
Sylvie hastens her steps. Eyes peeled, I don’t see any flashes of light that would suggest gunfire. Bodies twist and turn in an inky dance, but as we reach them, they slow again.
The others step over something. Squinting, I come upon a mass on the ground. Actually, three masses.
Bodies. Three bodies, of three men I don’t recognize, with deep crimson flowing from a line on their throats.
My steps falter, and I twist my head over my shoulder even as we move, unable to look away. I should be grateful it wasn’t three of ours. But I just feel… heavy.
A palm grazes my back. Sylvie inclines her head toward the group, and I keep walking.
The more ground we cover, the more the night unrests. With the Sanctuary looming closer every second, the wind picks up, whipping through the empty fields and pushing against us. We have to fight with each step, demanding passage.
The sky, too, is limitless and foreboding. A yawning mouth, it opens further than what my vision can behold, no moon or stars to give any sense of distance, or limits. Where I can only imagine the horizon must sit, there are winks of light.
The promise of a storm.
With the back entrance to the building in sight, my trembling bones ease. All the anticipation leading up to this moment ebbs, making room for action. I’ve spent so much of the day thinking, it’s time to do something.
A lantern sits on a post a few yards from the door, its light hardly helpful. Creeping close to the siding, we press against the outer wall, peering around to ensure we’re alone.
One of our men tries the handle. It’s unlocked, and he pulls it open without resistance. Darkness waits on the other side of the door, and when he disappears into it, I hold my breath. Gun hanging loosely at my side, I squeeze the grip in a series of three.
Not even a minute later, he emerges and points his thumb skyward.
We’re in the clear.
One by one, we filter in, crowding around the entrance. I can only hope my footsteps are silent, as well as everyone else’s.
Eyes narrowing into the unlit cavern, the only light source is the lamppost outside. Its glow carries through the small window above the door, and I realize we’re at the base of two staircases. One leading up, and one leading down.
Sylvie stands to my right, and we exchange a look. There’s a wariness to her as she raises her hands and addresses the group. “That was easy.”
A warning is nestled between her words.
Be careful. Stay wary. Don’t be too confident.
An unanimous nod, startlingly militant, and then the group splits, leaving Sylvie and I alone.
Her attention is elsewhere, eyes unblinking.
Two fine lines separate her eyebrows, and her jaw moves back and forth as she stares into nothingness.
I raise my hand to touch her elbow, but her head snaps in my direction. The sudden movement makes me flinch.
“Slow and silent,” she reminds me.
As if I could forget.
Choosing the descending stairs, we make our way into the lower level.
The dark is so consuming that I feel along the wall to steady myself on the steps.
Without hearing, there’s no way to know that Sylvie is still ahead of me, but there’s a tension that radiates from her person.
I focus on keeping close to her, tamping down my fear of what might greet us at the bottom.
A chill has the hairs on my arms standing at attention, the temperature dropping drastically the lower we get. The steps seem never ending—a nightmare where you run and run and run, but only stay in place.
I’d almost prefer that to what we actually find.
At the bottom of the staircase, we look out into a tangle of catacombs.
Sconces are spaced far apart, many of which aren’t lit at all, but enough to illuminate the passages.
In the corner, a man with a long blonde ponytail is slumped against the wall.
One of those ahead of us must have taken care of him.
His chin rests against his chest, throat slit ear to ear.
The tang of copper intermingles with the musty moisture of the underground, and I breathe through my mouth to relieve myself of the smell. The taste of stale air coats my tongue.
Sylvie bends down, frisking the corpse. She pulls at pockets, searching within them while I watch in a stunned stupor. As misplaced as it may be, I can’t help the empathy that gnaws at me.
Eyes sparking with triumph, Sylvie waves a handful of keys in the air, shooting me a rare grin. Her smile disappears as quickly as it came, replaced with sheer panic.
Clumsily, she rises to her feet and shoves the keys into her back pocket. Grabbing for my hand, she pulls me into the hall that stretches to the left. I don’t need her to tell me that she heard something, not with the way she continuously looks behind us.
The hall is a dead end, a stretch of nothing but water stained concrete and cobwebs. Sylvie is desperate, pushing me ahead and increasing her speed. The odds of our footfalls remaining silent are zero; if someone is following us, they know exactly where we are.
By the grace of something, a rusted door comes into view just before a split in the maze.
We can turn left, right, or take our chances with the door.
Sylvie hesitates, so I make the decision for us and grab the handle.
It takes both of our weight to shove it open, and if our running was loud, I can only imagine the ancient hinges screech like a siren.
We hide within the mystery room, holding onto hope that whatever resides in here is the lesser of two evils. Cloaked in utter blackness, Sylvie keeps the door open a fraction of an inch, pressing her face close enough to peer out. The dismal light slices a vertical line directly across her pupil.
A head taller than her, I’m able to get my own glimpse of the corridor. I see his shadow before I see the man, but when he comes into view, I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.
His hurried gait slows as he nears the door, face pinched in agitation as he searches for his prey.
Lines of age are spread across his face, deepening his expressions.
Flummoxed, the Brother rests his hands on his hips and blows out an exaggerated breath.
One foot stretches forward, turning to the right.
For a moment, I think that luck truly is on our side. I should know better than that by now.
Abruptly, he halts and turns toward the door. My heart rate doubles.
Gunfire will draw more attention, so as slowly as my shaking limbs allow, I reach into my back pocket and grip my switchblade.
The man is close enough now that he blocks out the light peeking through, and within a second, the door swings open.
His eyes are wide with surprise, and I assume it’s because he’s found us. But then blood trickles from his mouth. The handle of a blade is buried in the soft base of his throat. The man sways on his feet, and Sylvie gives a swift kick to his stomach.
And then, he’s dead at our feet.
He was alive, and then he wasn’t.
I don’t know if I’m breathing or not, not with the way my lungs spasm.
Sylvie plucks the knife from the man’s body, wiping it on her jeans. Sharp, unsatisfied breaths become more frequent until a hand rests on my cheek. The grip isn’t kind, but it isn’t cruel. It’s stern, fingers digging into my flesh and bringing me back to the present.
When our eyes meet, she releases me and signs, “For Cecil. For Eden.”
The reminder doesn’t erase the guilt, or the horror, but gives them purpose.
Shaking out my hands, I roll my shoulders back, attempting to release some of the tension in my body.
Sylvie offers me one more swift pat to the cheek before marching ahead of me.
We make another left.