Monsters (Ashes Trilogy 3)

“Yeah. Come on.” Turning, Tom started in a fast hobble for the trees. “We’ve lost a lot of time. Going to be full daylight soon. We need to get to town before the Changed get here. Jarvis!” Tom called to the old man, still turning his circles. “Come on! We have to—”

“What?” Jarvis whirled so fast a foamy line of spit flew. His eyes, crimson with broken capillaries, started from their sockets. Blood trickled from his nose, and one ear. He shot the bolt of his rifle. “Stay away from me, stay away!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tom held up both hands. “Jarvis, calm down, man. We got to go, the Changed—”

“Who? What?” Jarvis screamed. “What what—”

“What’s wrong with him?” Chris asked.

“Probably the pressure wave. Scrambles some people up. Jarvis,” Tom tried again, “listen to me, man. It’s okay, but we have to go, we have to—” Suddenly, Tom stiffened and turned back toward the plateau and the smoking tower.

“What?” Chris asked. “What do you—” Then, over the crackle of flames, Chris heard it, too: the sharp snap of brush, the stomp of boots on rock.

Deep in the smoke, something moved. Something . . . dark blue. For a disorienting moment, Chris thought the smoke was pulling together, changing color, becoming parkas and then jeans—and then he realized that what he saw were Changed, a lot of them, surging up the rise only a hundred feet away, materializing like invaders teleported from a distant planet.

“Chris.” Tom clamped a hand on his arm and tugged. “Come on. Don’t look, just go.”

Oh my God. Chris was paralyzed, rooted to the spot. Jarvis was screaming again—“What what what”—and Chris was thinking, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t . . .

“Chris!” Tom snapped him around so quickly Chris had to clutch Tom’s arms to keep his feet. “I said, don’t look at them. Get on your horse, Chris! Get on your horse, now!”

“O-okay,” Chris gasped. He took off in a stumbling run, Tom crowding behind, urging him on. Snatching his bay’s reins, Chris tried to boost to his saddle, but his feet wouldn’t work. “Come on,” he heard himself plead, “come on, come on, come—”

He heard them: boots stirring debris, kicking wood, crunching glass. Getting louder. His back prickled. Coming closer, don’t look, don’t look, don’t! But then, he did snatch a glance—stupid—and a nail of terror jabbed his heart. The Changed, so many, too many, were fanning out, spilling over the plateau, charging right for them.

“Chris, no!” Tom was already whipping his horse around. “Don’t look! Come on! You’ve got time, just don’t panic!”

Too late. Socking his boot in a stirrup, he grabbed leather and swam to an awkward half-sit on his saddle. Tried not to look. Couldn’t help it. The Changed, these children of Rule, were less than fifty feet away. In the coming day he could see their mouths open in silent snarls and their eyes, their eyes, so wide, so wild. No weapons, only teeth and clawed fingers and—

Don’t look, Chris. No voice but his own, one that wanted him to live. Move, or you’re dead.

But it was fascinating, appalling, awful: every nightmare come to life and why deer froze in headlights and people died at train crossings and Moses covered his eyes. No one can help but stare at the monster, because horror is a cousin to awe.

“Chris, no, what are you doing? Chris!” Tom shouted as the same moment that Jarvis bellowed, “Whaaaat! Whaaat whaaa—”

Braying, Night finally shied, Chris’s panic communicating itself to a shocked animal that understood death was a hair’s breadth away. The bay reared. Not yet fully seated, Chris let out a strangled cry as the slide started. He felt himself peeling backward; he was falling, he was going to fall into the Changed and their arms, and they would get him, they were there, they were—

“Ho!” Bullying his prancing mare alongside, Tom snatched at Night’s bridle. “Chris, set your damn knees, grab his mane or withers, and get on, get on!”

Sobbing out a breath, Chris scrambled for a handhold. Night’s terrified eyes rolled; his head snapped back and slammed Chris’s face. The blow was terrific, so hard that Chris’s vision blacked. Stunned, he lost his grip, began to slump . . .

And then there were hands, everywhere: skittering over his left leg and thigh, fingers clutching to pull him off—and he thought, I’m done.

An enormous bang came from someplace over his head. The questing hands suddenly fell away. Another bang. To Chris’s left, a Changed boy slapped both hands to the crater where his nose had been, and tumbled back. Still dazed, Chris felt Tom’s fingers claw his shoulder.

“Don’t lose it, man!” Tom shouted, manhandling Chris onto the saddle. “You can’t lose it, Chris, come on!” Despite his injury, keeping to his mare with only his knees, Tom had a big black Glock in one hand and Chris’s shoulder in the other. Another girl with very long, filthy hair made a lunging grab. Cursing, Tom swung down, stuck the pistol in the girl’s face. The Changed was so intent on him she never saw Tom, much less the gun, and—bang! Her head shattered, skull and scalp and brains and blood and wild hair flaring in a wet spray.

“Sit up!” Tom roared. “Get up, Chris, sit—”

The crack of a shot, not from Tom but to their right. The high zing of a bullet ricocheting off a tree. Bellowing, Jarvis fired again. This time, a Changed boy staggered as a red sunburst suddenly flared over his right breast. The line didn’t exactly falter, but some Changed peeled off, heading for Jarvis, and that gave Chris the precious two seconds he needed to slot his foot into his stirrup.

“All right, come on!” Tom shouted. Wheeling, they kicked their horses to a run and bulleted into the trees, heading back for Rule’s center three miles in their future.

It wasn’t a mistake, but Chris snagged one last look. Two Changed had their arms around the still-bellowing Jarvis. The three danced a drunken pirouette. Then another Changed joined in, and then more and more, and then Jarvis wasn’t bellowing but screeching, the Changed boiling over him the way ants devoured prey, and there was blood, so much of it.

And more to come because it’s the end of the world. Chris faced forward. His eyes stung. His cheeks were wet, and he didn’t think that was only blood. It’s the end, it’s the end, it’s the end.