Rain’s arms and face.
Tarren goes first, gun drawn and a
high-powered flashlight in his left hand, crossed over each other like the cops
do it.
“On three,” Tarren says softly.
“One…two….” Gabe throws open the barn door, and Tarren steps inside, sweeping
his flashlight from side to side.
After the last month with my
brothers, I’ve gotten pretty good at handling horrors. But not like this.
“Oh God, oh holy shit,” Gabe
whispers next to me.
Chapter 10
“Breathe through your mouth,” Gabe
hisses. His aura is arcing high, splashed with volcanic reds. My body reacts,
going all taunt, the monster drifting her nails down my brain.
“Control your energy,” I hiss at
him. “You’re going haywire.”
But the thing is, I’m kind of going
haywire too.
“Sorry.” Gabe swallows loudly, and
his energy starts to stabilize. Those reds don’t go away though.
Tarren walks down the central
aisle, sweeping his flashlight inside each stable. Three on each side of the
barn facing each other. Small whimpers and sobs cut the air each time his light
hits another stall. The smell is horrific. Uncleaned bodies, putrefied flesh,
shit and piss—all mixed within the swampy heat of the unvented barn.
“There are more than seven,” Tarren
says when he reaches the end of the aisle. His voice is tight but steady.
“I can’t feel the ones who are
dead,” I whisper and have to repeat it so he hears me.
I take a step forward.
“Not yet,” Gabe says to me. “Let
him give the all clear.” Tarren walks back toward us, his flashlight tilted up
to reveal heavy wooden beams above.
“No wings,” Tarren says. “Put one
in the second stable to the left and the other in the third on the right. Clamp
them in just in case they wake up before the authorities arrive.”
We act quickly. I walk down the
aisle toward the last stable on the right. Each is filled with hay and the limp
forms of humans, at least two, sometimes three to a stall. Their wrists are
cuffed in front of them with plastic ties, and their ankles are shackled to a
central peg planted in the back. Both these precautions seem like overkill.
The captives are barely alive. Actually,
some of them aren’t even that. They are all young, late teens, early twenties,
dressed incongruously in clubbing outfits that have been torn and stained.
They are pale, shivering, their arms and legs festering with sores. Most lie in
the filthy straw or huddle in a corner. A few look up at us with terrified
eyes; most stare at a random fixed point and blink slowly. The rest are
unconscious or dead.
There are also three rusted buckets
in each stall. One holds water. Another is filled with something that looks
like dried oatmeal. The third, I guess, was supposed to be a toilet, but it
looks and smells like most of the hostages haven’t been using it.
None of them speak. I see bruises
and lacerations on almost every face.
I make it to the last stall, though
my legs are barely holding me up. My brain is actively trying to eject the
visions of what I’m seeing. The stench is so thick and cloying that I think I
can taste it even through the filter of the bandanna.
There are two bodies already in the
stall. One is dead. A cloud of gnats fills the cavities of his eyes and crawls
around his nostrils. I start gagging, even as I lower Rain onto the stained
straw.
“I tried to close his eyes, but I
can’t reach him,” a paper dry voice whispers.
This comes from the other occupant
of the stall. I know that she is a young girl—teens by the cut of her
hardly-there black clothes—but she looks old. Incredibly old. Her skin is pale,
hanging off her face and frame like her body deflated. There are still smudges
of eyeliner on her cheeks, and her Kool-Aid red hair is matted around her head.
She looks part Holocaust survivor, part alien.
Her luminous green eyes latch to my
face, and I am surprised to see no fear in them…until I realize her features
are bereft of any emotion;
Tarren goes first, gun drawn and a
high-powered flashlight in his left hand, crossed over each other like the cops
do it.
“On three,” Tarren says softly.
“One…two….” Gabe throws open the barn door, and Tarren steps inside, sweeping
his flashlight from side to side.
After the last month with my
brothers, I’ve gotten pretty good at handling horrors. But not like this.
“Oh God, oh holy shit,” Gabe
whispers next to me.
Chapter 10
“Breathe through your mouth,” Gabe
hisses. His aura is arcing high, splashed with volcanic reds. My body reacts,
going all taunt, the monster drifting her nails down my brain.
“Control your energy,” I hiss at
him. “You’re going haywire.”
But the thing is, I’m kind of going
haywire too.
“Sorry.” Gabe swallows loudly, and
his energy starts to stabilize. Those reds don’t go away though.
Tarren walks down the central
aisle, sweeping his flashlight inside each stable. Three on each side of the
barn facing each other. Small whimpers and sobs cut the air each time his light
hits another stall. The smell is horrific. Uncleaned bodies, putrefied flesh,
shit and piss—all mixed within the swampy heat of the unvented barn.
“There are more than seven,” Tarren
says when he reaches the end of the aisle. His voice is tight but steady.
“I can’t feel the ones who are
dead,” I whisper and have to repeat it so he hears me.
I take a step forward.
“Not yet,” Gabe says to me. “Let
him give the all clear.” Tarren walks back toward us, his flashlight tilted up
to reveal heavy wooden beams above.
“No wings,” Tarren says. “Put one
in the second stable to the left and the other in the third on the right. Clamp
them in just in case they wake up before the authorities arrive.”
We act quickly. I walk down the
aisle toward the last stable on the right. Each is filled with hay and the limp
forms of humans, at least two, sometimes three to a stall. Their wrists are
cuffed in front of them with plastic ties, and their ankles are shackled to a
central peg planted in the back. Both these precautions seem like overkill.
The captives are barely alive. Actually,
some of them aren’t even that. They are all young, late teens, early twenties,
dressed incongruously in clubbing outfits that have been torn and stained.
They are pale, shivering, their arms and legs festering with sores. Most lie in
the filthy straw or huddle in a corner. A few look up at us with terrified
eyes; most stare at a random fixed point and blink slowly. The rest are
unconscious or dead.
There are also three rusted buckets
in each stall. One holds water. Another is filled with something that looks
like dried oatmeal. The third, I guess, was supposed to be a toilet, but it
looks and smells like most of the hostages haven’t been using it.
None of them speak. I see bruises
and lacerations on almost every face.
I make it to the last stall, though
my legs are barely holding me up. My brain is actively trying to eject the
visions of what I’m seeing. The stench is so thick and cloying that I think I
can taste it even through the filter of the bandanna.
There are two bodies already in the
stall. One is dead. A cloud of gnats fills the cavities of his eyes and crawls
around his nostrils. I start gagging, even as I lower Rain onto the stained
straw.
“I tried to close his eyes, but I
can’t reach him,” a paper dry voice whispers.
This comes from the other occupant
of the stall. I know that she is a young girl—teens by the cut of her
hardly-there black clothes—but she looks old. Incredibly old. Her skin is pale,
hanging off her face and frame like her body deflated. There are still smudges
of eyeliner on her cheeks, and her Kool-Aid red hair is matted around her head.
She looks part Holocaust survivor, part alien.
Her luminous green eyes latch to my
face, and I am surprised to see no fear in them…until I realize her features
are bereft of any emotion;
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