Rain poured down on his back as he pried what he hoped was the final piece of glass from the meat of his left buttock. Now laying face down and naked in a creek bed, he let the water run over his wounds, the persistent stinging sensation just enough to remind him he was still alive.
How far had he run? How long? He hadn’t stopped until their voices were gone, until all he could hear was his ragged breath and the rain. Had it been raining when he started running?
He stood, gathering the sopping wet clothes and tucking them under his arm. No point in putting them on now.
Instinct carried him. Food, water, and shelter. Green eyes shifted to the sky. Rain fell from the sky in heavy sheets, slapping against his skin like a reprimand each time the canopy cleared for a moment. Water wouldn’t be a problem. Food and shelter, then.
He kept moving. Direction didn’t matter, so long as it wasn’t back the way he came.
Eventually he came upon a hollowed out tree wide enough for him to crawl into. His brain immediately labeled it: black bear den, abandoned. Perhaps that should have worried him. It didn’t.
He stooped down and slipped inside, neatly folding his clothes and setting them in the corner. Scouring a radius around the shelter, he gathered branches and fallen logs to create a marker for himself at his new home so he could spot it from afar.
Shelter: Complete
Food could wait until morning. Squirming into the tree, he pulled the still wet clothes over and rested his head on them. Curling himself into a little ball, he closed his eyes. Dreamless sleep overtook him with surprising ease.
Chirping songbirds and the hollow growl of his stomach forced his groggy eyes open, but he didn’t move. He stared out mouth of the tree, watching the world outside. The gentle babble of the water not far off, the quiet but constant buzz of the many bugs of the Southern United States, and the occasional animal that would walk right past his hide. It was all so alive.
Several hours must have passed before he decided to move. Emerging from the tree for a few minutes to search nearby bushes for berries or nuts that had fallen from trees. His stomach needed something more, but lethargy was winning the day. The weight of his limbs left him suspicious he’d not yet left whatever nightmare the ritual had put him through, and, frankly, he didn’t want to be awake when the world proved him right.
After eating a handful of blackberries and a couple of nuts he’d found off the ground, he took a few minutes to find a rock and a hunk of wood to carve out a little bowl to catch rainwater. Once satisfied with that, he crawled back into his hole and laid his head back down on his makeshift pillow.
Tracking time was a puzzle that the woods didn’t particularly care about. Each time the sun rose and set again, he found himself caring less about as well. He couldn’t say for sure how many days he’d spent scrounging for berries and sleeping in that tree, but it was more than one.
After…maybe the third day? He’d found himself waking up early in the morning, well before the sun rose and while the forest was still eerily quiet. It was prime time for the tiny rodents that would forage around and within his home for any berries he might have missed. The tiny echo mice had bright yellow throat sacs they used to mimic the sounds of predators to scare away other scavengers.
At some point, foraging was not enough. His body no longer felt heavy, so the likelihood he was still stuck in whatever hallucination had occurred was low. Now he just felt weak. He needed meat.
Wandering out beneath the dense canopy, he noted the smaller critters didn’t immediately run at his presence anymore. He gathered a couple of long sticks and a flat stone on the relatively short walk to the stream. Clearing a little spot to sit with his foot, he plopped his bare ass on the ground, shoved his feet into the cool water, and started to shave the sticks down to sharp points.
There were memories of fishing in his mind. The trouble was the faces. Surely the small one was him, but he couldn’t place the older man. Only his hands twinged something deep in his brain. Rough, but safe and gentle the same time. Whoever it was, they had proper fishing gear. He grimaced at the makeshift spear, then glanced at the clear water. He was quite certain he didn’t know how to spearfish. If he wanted to eat, better figure it out quick.
He stabbed with the spear. Again and again. Each thrust coming back empty. Time slipped, now measured in trial and error rather than hours and days. The fish evaded him in ways that made no sense. The first few days made sense. He was awful and took his pity berries back to his hollow with deserved hunger echoing through his gut. The next few were horse shit. He’d gotten a handle of the spears and was hitting the fish head-on, but the water was doing something weird to the trajectory….
That was when a word surfaced in the fog that was his consciousness.
Refraction
The voice that sounded in his head wasn’t his. Was it? When was the last time he spoke? He huffed and shook the thoughts away.
The fish look closer and higher up in the water.
Adjust.
So he did. It took a few more thrusts, but eventually he’d skewered the first fish of many. Spear now a kebab of fresh fish, dripping and heavy, he headed back to the hollow as the sky opened up in a late spring rain.
Fire was his next issue. He didn’t have the bandwidth to admonish himself for not moving the wood he’d collected into the hollow when he’d left it, but spinning the hand drill did nothing but spring leaks in both his palms and coat the already wet tinder in his blood.
He glowered at the sky, still pissing rain at him, then his fish. For a moment he’d considered eating them raw. People eat raw fish, right? That same deep, confident voice sounded in his head.
Parasites. Bad idea.
He rolled his eyes and scooted back in his hollow to lay down. Such a crushing defeat after the victory of fish should have felt…bad? He didn’t feel anything. With a sigh, he reached out and pulled a few logs into the hollow with him, hoping they’d dry out by tomorrow, before laying down and embracing another peaceful sleep.
The sound of scurrying feet and snapping twigs woke him not more than a few hours later. Raccoons. They’d found his hovel, and worse, his fish. He sat up slowly, expecting them to bolt. They didn’t. The whole family stared back at him, one baby still gnawing on a fish nearly as big as it was. Another pulled one from the spear with eerily human dexterity.
He considered lunging. Snatching the fish back. Making enough noise to scare them off. But why? He could catch more. He lowered himself back down to the damp, makeshift pillow. The smell of mud and fish and sound of raccoons stealing his sustenance lulled him back to sleep, but somewhere deep in his chest a dull pressure stirred. Like a bruise in his core, someone decided to probe for fun.
Warm sunlight cut through the fog of the forest floor as he sat at the entrance to his home the next morning. Fish bones littered the immediate area like a mass grave of broken promises. He let out a heavy sigh.
“Should have seen the little bastards.” His voice was dry and cracking and even hurt a little to use. How long had it been? “The big one just stared at me like I was the one interrupting them.” He chuckled, but his mouth couldn’t manage a smile.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the couple logs he’d pulled in the night before looked dry enough to light, before rolling onto his feet and grabbing the spears.
“I remember.” He grumbled at the empty air. “Refraction. Light and water. Physics or whatever.”
He jabbed the spear into the river for what must have been the twentieth time, finally coming up with a fish. He waved it in the direction of the bank. “See. I know what I’m doing.”
The wind rustled the branches above like phantom applause.
“Don’t patronize me.” His eyes narrowed, and he threw a rude gesture up to the leaves before going back to fishing.
He returned to his hollow as the sun hit its highest point. The fog had faded, and after wrapping his hands in his shirt to keep the wounds from reopening, he was able to get a fire started with the hand drill. Then it was just a few more sticks to set up a makeshift stand to rest his spear-kebab over the fire and roast his bounty.
The sun fell and rose again, over and over. He spent daylight hours gorging himself on fish and exploring the woods, and nights huddled in his hollow with only a bed of leaves to keep him warm. The family of raccoons became frequent visitors. Eventually, he’d become quite proficient with the spear. Paired with his dwindling appetite, they would have a smorgasbord waiting for them on most nights. Much like his occasional conversations with the empty air, they too ignored his attempts to connect.
Like most mornings, he woke well before the sun to watch the echo mice. Occasionally they would frighten each other with terrifying growls that should not have come from their tiny bodies and pull a little laugh from some place deep in his core. Unfortunately, they also lulled him into a false sense of security.
This morning, instead of the pulsing yellow throat sacs, two glowing blue orbs emerged near the mouth of the hollow. His fingers inched for the spear, but it was just out of reach. The low rumbling growl, the glowing blue eyes, the alligator-like gait…it could only be one thing.
Gravemaw.
Not taking his eyes off it, he slowly eased himself to the back of the hovel. The spear was at the entrance, but if it was, in fact, one of the rarest carnivores in the world, he didn’t want to harm it. Its carapace should be too big to get into the shelter, so as long as it didn’t rip the tree to splinters, he should be fine.
The little blue orbs bobbed in his direction, occasionally flickering in and out individually as the beast blinked one eye or the other. More patterns lit up as it started sniffing at the mouth of the hollow. Thin swirling blue lines that ended in teardrop shapes spread across its head, along the bony plates of its belly and back, and down its legs. It was ready to strike.
“It’s alright, buddy.” He tried to reason with the deadliest predator this area knew. “I’m just gonna hang out in here, and you can keep it moving, alright?”
It was apparently not alright. The gravemaw lunged. Its carapace collided with the tree, the wood around him making a gut wrenching cracking noise, and its neck elongated like a snapping turtle. Teeth like needles gnashed at him as the growl shook the inside of the tree. Once it realized it wasn’t going to get to him like that, it rocked back on its powerful hind legs and shot forward again, with more power this time. The cracking sound was followed by a groan as the entire tree tilted back, but didn’t give out. Not yet, at least.
It would only take one bite. The power in those jaws, and the sharpness of its teeth would tear limb from body in an instant. This was the end. It was fitting, really. He’d spent his life caring for creatures just like this, and now, in his final moments, he was witness and victim to one of the most elusive predators in North America.
A purple shimmer erupted from the darkness behind the gravemaw. It was being tugged backward in quick, powerful jerks. The gnashing, mere inches from his legs folded into his chest, finally stopped as the beast awkwardly rocked backwards out of the hole before wheeling around on its attacker. The turtle-like head hit the ground, only a puff of thin, purple smoke remained.
Kane appeared atop the gravemaw, chomping down on the extended neck and violently shaking his head. It’s limbs retracted into the carapace, and after no small amount of deep red blood and struggle, it got its head in as well. Kane let out a threatening growl, then a sharp bark. The gravemaw hesitated, then must have decided this meal wasn’t worth the struggle. It poked its legs out and fled.
Another puff of purple smoke and the glimmerfang was in his face, jowls wet with blood, sniffing at him suspiciously.
“Kane…” His voice cracked with hope. “It’s me, boy.”
His heart couldn’t take another illusion. One more trick and his mind might break entirely. He reached out tentatively, and after a brief hesitation, Kane bowled into him and licked his face.
Marcus wrapped his arms around the thick neck of the hound, fingers digging into his fur. Kane smelled like he hadn’t been bathed in weeks, but that didn’t matter. He was real. He was here. Marcus felt his heart swell for the first time since the ritual.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Marcus laughed, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. “And you saved me!”
Kane barked at him, shaking his head until he let him go, then took a couple of steps back to sit down. He lifted his head and around his neck was a little barrel.
“Like a real rescue dog? Look at you.” Marcus scratched the top of his head and popped the barrel off the fasteners. His lips pursed at the lack of weight. “No whiskey, huh?”
Kane whined and laid down at his feet as he popped open the barrel and pulled out its contents…a rolled-up sheet of paper. Hell of a care package.
Marcus,
If this fucking dog finds you when I’ve been stomping through the woods for three weeks, I’m going to kick your ass.
You really scared the shit out of us me. I don’t know what happened, but running like that was not okay. I hope you’re alright. If that was the last time I’m ever going to see you…Well, that would suck. We’ve got unfinished business. If you get this, get your ass back home. I don’t know how much longer I can take this.
-Victoria
Marcus’ heart pounded. Her voice filled his mind as he read. The words gruff, pissed, and just barely covering something soft. Then he remembered. The nightmarish vision of Victoria backing away from him as he stood over Porter’s body. It felt so real. But it couldn’t have been. She’d carried him out of there.
He sat down slowly, crossing his legs in the leaf littered dirt and stared down at the paper in his hands. three weeks. He’d been gone for three weeks? It felt like it couldn’t have been more than a few days. Maybe a week at most. He looked down at himself, really examining his body for the first time since he ran.
He was thin, and not in a healthy way. His ribs showed beneath pallid, sagging skin. Once solid muscles had atrophied. Nothing drastic, but enough for it to look wrong. Worn out. He pushed his fingers through the thick, unruly, fiery beard. His face was even leaner, almost hollow.
“Shit…” He muttered under his breath. What had happened to him?
His mind was a minefield, but he forced himself back to the day. Through the fog of panic and grief to his mother. The chanting to dissolve the contract. Had it worked? There was really only one way to find out.
Norah was killed by Arcanex
He let the thought marinate in his mind for a few minutes. Nothing. His breath hitched, then a disbelieving grin spread across his lips.
“They drugged me, and James, and Ophelia. Made us sign these stupid NDAs, so we didn’t expose their dirty laundry.”
He stood up. After every word, his voice grew louder and more confident until he was yelling at the top of his lungs into the emptiness of the forest.
“They’re experimenting on blightshrew victims to corner the market on a cure for a plague they’re spreading!”
Goosebumps covered his utterly nude body. For the first time in weeks, clarity crashed over him. It would have felt fucking wonderful…were it not for the flicker of rage in his gut. A surge of purpose as he found himself again.