Not Flesh Nor Feathers (Eden Moore 3)

Nick knew, and I knew. Nick had the good idea first. “This way,” he said quietly. We’d all gone quiet. We were all listening, trying to place the spot where the noise was coming from. “This way—back over here. Come on. One level up, we can walk it. ”

“Is that where we’re going?” A small girl asked way, way too loud.

“Yes,” he whispered down at her. “Yes, that’s where we’re going, and we’re going there right now. ” He looked up at me. “Out of sight might be the best we can do for now. ”

“Yeah. ” I hated to admit it but there wasn’t much choice. “Okay, yeah. You take them up there. ”

“Oh, I don’t like the sound of that. . . . ”

“Because I’m going that way. ” I pointed out at the square of gray light where the parking garage hit Broad. “They’re slow. I’m fast. You do the math. Take these guys up and out, go farther than the vans if you think you can. It’s only what—eight or nine floors? Okay, get them up, at least one floor. ”

“Eden,” he warned, and I ignored it.

I had to ignore it. There they were. Two of them. Knees first, into view, then off-balanced torsos, and with them came the dragging scrape of chains.

“Go!” I hissed at him, and the little girl with the big questions started to cry.

I took off. I dashed the thirty yards out into the light, into the open street right in front of the moving, wandering things. Only then did I realize that I was splashing too, and that the river was higher than I’d thought. In the garage it was harder to see, maybe; or maybe it was farther above street level than I thought.

But I was splashing, boots slapping one after the other through maybe three or four inches of navy-black water with a sheen on top like motor oil and a current of leaves, paper coffee cups, and a dead pigeon or two.

One of the things raised a hand at me, but there wasn’t much motive behind it. It was the equivalent of “I see you” and “Here I come” rolled into one. So slow. So stupid. So perfectly empty and knowing nothing at all, but there they were—walking. Moving. Breathing in jagged coughs. Seeing me, and recognizing that I was something to be chased. The teeth-rattling scrape of a rusted chain whipped through the low water with a heavy splatter, and its tail cracked against the bottom of a glass door, shattering it.

“Run, people,” I said out the side of my mouth.

“Eden!” It was Nick.

I didn’t listen to him, and I knew he was too preoccupied to chase me. “Get them upstairs. I’ll join you as soon as I can. ”

The things were already shifting their forward paths, trying to turn to follow me instead of continuing on whatever course they’d been programmed for.

And there was the sound of those chains again. They were caught on wrists and cinch

ed around waists. Dead hands gripped and swung the brownish links, which slid through the air and ripped messily through the water. Everything they struck broke and feel. A potted plant beside the main entrance, the brass concierge desk, the polished marble panels along the walls, all met the terrible snaking chains and were destroyed.

My back was to the elevators, and to the people there. “You promise?” Nick asked.

“I promise. Go. They won’t catch me. ”

One of them groaned as if in protest, so I went ahead and challenged it. I took three long steps out into the light in front of them—directly in their path. Their wobbly, charred-wet heads swiveled jerkily to follow my movement.

“Come and get me then, if that’s what you want. Come on. Over here. ” The water had reached mid-calf on me. They were not so slow here, in the street where the curbs held a few inches of water in the road.

They made a decision, if it could really be called that. I ought to say instead that they were distracted by the more immediate stimulus of my body’s motion, and they pursued me—mindless, quick, like a cat jumps after a bird flying past, even though a closed window separates it from the back yard.

Forward came the things, and faster—now that they’d been given a goal more interesting than “forward” alone. The biggest one hoisted his elbow and flipped his wrist, coiling a length of chain up and reaching back, as if he were preparing to strike.

“That’s right,” I said, backing up, and backing away from the parking garage. “Follow the bouncing brunette. Come to me. Come and get me. ”

I had to turn around then, because they were coming approximately as fast as I could walk backwards. They were easy to track, though—tearing through the clotted water behind me they were about as quiet as a flock of angry ducks. I dashed and splashed forward and they came on my heels. They were smelly and loud, but not close enough, not yet.

I’d concocted a half-formed idea that all I really had to do was get them up out of the water. If they’d struggle their way up and out into the road, or onto the grass on the other side of Martin Luther King . . . if I could get them out onto land where they were weaker and slower, I might be able to—I didn’t know, really. Kick them out far enough to strand them, or assault them, or hack them up. With what, I didn’t know yet.

But it was a thought, and the germ of a plan. Put them where they’re weakest—lure them there. Then beat them down. Into how many pieces must they be broken before they’d stop coming?

I didn’t know, but I aimed to find out.

Alas, it’s never quite that easy. I heard them slowing behind me; I thought maybe it was just the way the water was getting lower, but then I looked over my shoulder and saw that I was mistaken—or partly mistaken.