Lead Demon

One With Water

None of them spoke as they made their way through the abandoned streets. The air was still and perfectly silent, save for the twins’ occasional muffled sobs. After the roar of battle and water in his ears, the hush made Seven’s head ring, like he’d stepped from a crowded school dance into the night air. This was the type of silence that always, always, foretold disaster.

He focused instead on the city, or what was left of it. They’d already passed over the ruins of Chicago, and this was all that remained of the once-thriving metropolis. Countless streets of empty houses, broken and gaping like corpses, all stretched out in a disrupted grid. The place looked like something out of a disaster movie: browned yards tangled with faded clothes and toys, overturned cars and pileups at every intersection, charred houses, and craters carved into the concrete. Even three years later, death and absence hung in the place like a ghost. He expected to hear the wails of the dead, to smell the smoke of burning bodies, a scent other than rain. Hundreds of thousands of people had tried to escape the city during the Resurrection.

Hundreds of thousands of people had failed.

But even here, there were no bodies. The necromancers had turned those they could into Howls, while the rest were devoured by the loved ones that had been turned. The cities were always the worst.

He shuddered and forced down the bile in the back of his throat.

“Did you ever come here?” Jarrett asked, breaking the silence. “Before...”

Seven nodded. “I went to school nearby.”

“Silveron?”

Seven’s heart hitched with the name and Water pulsed with recognition. Too many memories were attached to it. Too many ghosts. He nodded again. He couldn’t get any words out around the pain.

“I did, too.”

Seven looked to Jarrett, opened his mouth to ask more. How had he not recognized Jarrett? Why hadn’t he said anything earlier? But Jarrett gestured, and around the corner Seven saw what was left of true human civilization.

A smooth, black-earth wall rose from the street, stretching four stories above the pavement. Its surface glinted in the dull light like obsidian, impossibly slick and impossible to scale. Great metal spikes stuck out from the highest ramparts, all angled down to impale anything dumb enough to try climbing over. It stretched beyond eyesight, cutting through the remains of the suburb in a protective ring.

When the four approached, Jarrett called out in a loud, clear voice.

“I am Jarrett Townsend, commander of Troop Omega, requesting permission to enter.”

Something shifted on the high wall. A figure peered over the top.

“Are you untouched?” the guard called.

As one, the three of them opened to their Spheres. Jarrett glanced at Seven and quirked an eyebrow; abashed, Seven opened only to Earth. He didn’t want to risk Water, not after so much use.

The guard disappeared from sight and, moments later, a chunk of the wall in front of them shivered. Like the waves of a mirage, the stone faded from sight, revealing a large door of rusted steel and heavy girders. It slowly parted with a shrill scream and the rumble of machinery.

They slipped through before the entrance fully opened.

“Welcome back, commander,” the guard said. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen, yet she carried a bow and arrow and sword, and her face was crossed with scars. She nodded deferentially to the twins, but when her eyes caught on Seven, suspicion clouded her face. “You found him?”

Jarrett nodded. Seven’s stomach lurched; how many people knew him?

“I knew I would,” Jarrett said.

The guard didn’t linger. She was already turning a great gear that slid the entry shut behind them. Apparently, he was worth noticing, but not much beyond that. At least it saved him from answering any questions.

In stark contrast to outside, the town within the stronghold’s walls was packed and thriving, like some modern reinvention of a Renaissance fair. Houses had been converted to apartments. Apartments had been built upon and converted into multilevel units. Laundry stretched from roof to roof, flapping like flags above stalls selling the last of the season’s fruits and vegetables. He inhaled deep. There was even the scent of baked bread. Three years had passed, and with the Resurrection had come the fall of modern man: no more smartphones, no more internet, no more technology. All of it had been rendered useless with the onslaught of magic. But here, in Outer Chicago, humanity actually seemed to be doing more than holding on. It seemed to be crawling forward.

His cheerfulness cut short when he stepped in a pile of crap. He glanced down, nose instantly wrinkling, and wondered if it was human or dog. He hadn’t seen a dog in years.

“Careful where you step,” Jarrett muttered. He didn’t seem amused.

Even though they were surrounded by people, and even though the guard had very clearly known them, no one in the city met their eye. People walked about in a crazy mismatch of fashion: high-end coats and shabby jeans, dresses layered with parkas, piles of jewelry amid rags. Like they’d just raided whatever shops they could, and had been stuck with it ever since. The citizens all milled or argued or hurried past. They talked to each other, but it felt like Seven and his comrades were invisible.

Someone elbowed him in the side as they rushed past. Seven started, but Jarrett’s hand was on his shoulder before he could react.

“Don’t bother,” Jarrett said, his voice still a low grumble. He was watching the crowd with outright animosity. “To them, we’re as bad as the Howls. We keep them alive, but we still use the magic that put them here.”

Seven kept his head down and his eyes peeled after that, feeling the weight of the city press against his shoulders. He’d experienced this before, in smaller communes. Hunters used magic; civilians didn’t. And even though Hunters fought off the Howls and the necromancers, even though Hunters were sworn to defy the servants of the Dark Lady, they were still viewed as the cause of the Resurrection. With so much spite concentrated in one spot, he was surprised there wasn’t a riot.

He wanted to scream at them as his group pushed their way through the crowd. He wanted to yell at them just how many good men and women had died to keep them all safe, the names and faces that would go unmourned, unburied. Worse, he wanted to tell them about the Farms, where unturned humans were kept as cattle, and how much worse their lives could be. But he didn’t. He feared what speaking up would do. There might not be a riot now, but he knew the desire for vengeance like a bad taste in the air.