The Phoenix Trilogy (Book 1): World On Fire (24 page)

    “I
guess we’ll find out how it went in a little while.” The prospect of waiting
for a few more hours brought a hefty yawn from Natalie, a wave of exhaustion
overtaking her now that she actually had downtime to consider sleeping. BJ
paused briefly, looking her over.

     “If
you need sleep, we’re near the barracks. You can settle down there and I’ll
keep an eye on things.” Natalie went to turn his offer down, but he had already
taken ahold of her arm again and was forging a path through the crowd. She did
need sleep, but everything about the idea of letting her guard down around so
many strangers was rubbing her the wrong way.

    Her
attitude managed to take a dive for the worse as BJ veered into a building that
seemed to be stuffed with people in sleeping bags. They were body to body
across the floor, save for a handful of narrow pathways meant to allow for
easier navigation. After a moment of surveying the room, BJ found a space for
her to bed down.

    There
were two people, total strangers, on either side of where he intended for
Natalie to sleep. Her skin prickled again, and she found herself resisting the
urge to sprint from the building as quickly as her legs could carry her. The
crowds of people who were awake at this hour suddenly seemed less confusing as
Natalie eyed the alternative. If it weren’t for BJ’s constant insistence, she
would have left.

    “I
told you: I’ll watch, you sleep. You’re going to be busy soon, and there’s no
telling when you’ll get your next opportunity. Take what you can get.” His tone
had resumed its commanding nature, and while Natalie understood that the man
had a soft side, she knew better than to try ignoring him.

    Getting
nestled into her space was a chore, but once she had taken her position, the
aching need for sleep came crashing over her again with greater force. As
usual, she found herself making a weak attempt at trying to recollect how much
time had actually passed since she first left the house with BJ and company.
The memories begun to blur beyond comprehension, tied together in a mass of
adrenaline and confusion. It felt like weeks had passed, but it must have been
only a day or two. Or was it three, now?

    Buried
in her memories and worn out from a long day, Natalie began to relax. Slowly,
her head was flooded with the oddities and half-thoughts that often signaled a
coming rest. The last thing that crossed her mind before she finally gave in
was a vague memory of camping with her dad, their sleeping bags nestled next to
each other in their tent. For the first time in a long while, Natalie fell
asleep with a smile on her face, content to relive a pleasant memory from a
much better time.

    
“Clever. Clever clever clever.” He was speaking aloud to no
one in particular, and while the words were meant as an honest compliment, his
hands were shaking with rage. That anger was making it increasingly difficult
for him to work, and after another minute of sloppy progress he abandoned his
current project with a howl of frustration. His gaze landed on his soiled coat
and shoes, favorites of his that he had been unable to clean, and he screamed
even louder.

    One
disappointment after another, and absolutely no pay-off or release. Feverishly,
he began running his hands through his carefully managed hair, losing himself
in his emotion.

    I
had found them, they were mine to deal with, but no. Orders. Orders were
orders, and I have to obey.
The longer he stewed on it, the more irregular his breathing
became. Ragged inhales gave way to snarling exhales, and his outrage continued
to escalate.

    
They
took it from me. They stole my opportunity, my hunt, as if that were their
right. As if I were a dog for them to command, content with the scraps they
throw me and ever-eager to lap at their feet.

    No.
No no no. I am more than that, more than them, cowards hiding in their
castle-cradle in the dark. Children playing in a world they couldn’t possibly
fathom, couldn’t know nearly as intimately as I do. Worthless. Worms and
wretches, the lot of them.

    With
no other outlet available to him, he had taken to pacing the rooftop that he
called his home in a vain effort to relieve his ire. He was supposed to be
watching for other survivors, cataloguing and observing their actions, but his
spiteful nature refused. His
masters
didn’t let him play, so why should
he continue to jump at their beck and call?

    Memories
roiled in the depths of his mind, his twitching fingers recalling the
excitement he had felt. They were special
,
different,
worthy
. The
soldiers had been all too willing to allow him safety in their number, so
sickeningly happy to do “good work” for the people. He had felt a pang of joy,
knowing that he would be removing their weakness from the world, and when the
job was over he went to sleep knowing he had done well.

    But
the others had been different. He had screamed, begged, threatened, everything
under the sun to get them to open their sweet shell to him, and they had
ignored it all. Even when they knew he would likely be torn apart by hungry
hands, they chose themselves, content to let the stranger at the threshold meet
his fate.

    He
had felt such pride. They were beautiful, these new survivors. They knew what
the world had become. They had seen the rules change, recognized what survival
meant, and embraced it without pause. It had inspired him, and so he took his
performance to a new level in their honor.

    It
hadn’t been easy. The undead were an indispensable tool for hunting, but they
made for cumbersome puppets. Summoning them was simple enough; he just had to
play the part of the panicked refugee, raising his voice until it inevitably
drew the attention of his wandering stagehands. The real challenge lay in
convincing them to play their parts.

    He
had already decided on his grand finale, but it would require his putrid
assistants’ flawless cooperation. He had salvaged a grenade from the troops
he’d butchered before, and it was an excellent idea for a
coup de grace
. The problem that remained was how to
ensure his audience survived long enough to appreciate his showmanship.

    That
was where he was determined to shine. Setting the stage had been a work of
genius, and it had gone off without a hitch. First, he took on the role of the
victim, desperately trying to hide from the monstrous beasts that roamed the
hall. With that as his cover, he was able to position his helpers away from the
entrance to the building, ensuring he had his exit after the performance.

    Next,
he wore the mantle of the spurned stranger, all fury and vengeance at being
left to die. His commitment to the character was masterful, bringing goosebumps
to his skin. A handful of scattered gunshots into the room where his toys were
hiding were meant to coerce them into taking cover, just in time for his
assistants to take their position in the hall.

     All
that had been left to him then was the dramatic finish. He took care to cripple
his helpers, dropping them down to a literal crawl, before bellowing his final
line with conviction:
If you’re going to let me die, then I’m going to blow
all you bastards to Hell with me!
Even in memory, it brought a twitch of a
smile to his lips. It wasn’t exactly writing of Shakespearean caliber, but it
was only meant to warn them of what was coming.

    The
grenade was heavy, but he had more than enough time to take careful aim with
it. A practiced lob rolled it right under the writhing pile of his undead
lackeys, exactly as he had intended. With his part completed, he took his
leave, content that Act 1 had been a roaring success.

    His
only regret was that he had not been able to witness the destruction for
himself. He had longed to stay, to see the sweet slush of gore that was sure to
appear, but he needed to set up for Act 2. The sound of the explosion was
guaranteed to draw crowds of more dead, and if they were left to their own
devices, they would descend on the building with violent intent.

    He
couldn’t allow that, of course. If the rotters were allowed to find his
audience, they’d slaughter them. Worse than that, they wouldn’t even appreciate
the kill. His new survivor toys were worth more than a meaningless butchering.
When it was time for them to die, it would be a good show. An event that he
could truly savor, something to take pride in.

    If
he wanted to have that chance he needed to create a distraction, and so he had
set about luring the coming hordes away. It had taken time, but he was
confident his prey would need to recover from the detonation. If they were half
as capable as he believed, they’d make their move to leave once the street was
clear, likely heading straight for the military outpost that was nearby.

    He
had predicted their movements to a T, at least for a time. Every path they took
had been accounted for, every action expected. It had been thrilling to
experience, and even the memory brought a rush to his heart. There was nothing
he loved more than playing a game of cat and mouse, but he had been wrong, in
the end. They had gotten the better of him. It was in that moment that he felt
true exhilaration.

    Everything
had been going according to his plan, at first. His playmates had escaped the
apartment building and made their way toward the outpost just as he expected.
Watching them scurry had been an entertaining diversion, but he was impatient.
Observing was not as fun as participating, and he had many ways to play all
ready for him.

    First
came the surprise of sudden company. He had a small group of undead set aside
for just such an occasion, and removing the crossbar on their cage had allowed
them to break through and into the street. He wasn’t impressed with how quickly
his playthings had escaped his trap; he knew they were capable already. The
real fun would come next.

    He
had watched them pass the car in the street, marking their distance until they
were right where he wanted them. A click on his keychain brought the vehicle to
life, and he counted to three. He did want to play fair, after all, and a
warning was only courteous. Then he let the alarm scream.

    They
ducked into the only alley available, primed for his next surprise. All like
clockwork, and he had felt a burst of anticipation. How far would they make it?
What trap would be their downfall? It was only a matter of time, but he had
high hopes for these mice.

    They
were smarter than the others, more willing to do what must be done in order to
survive. They might even make it to the sewer gauntlet, a feat that had yet to
be accomplished by any others.

    Then,
things began to change. He heard the alarm that signaled his window had been
taken, but before he could rush to the next trap, there came a sudden bright
light. He couldn’t see into the alcove from his position, unable to understand
what was happening, but his heart had begun pounding. All he knew was that this
was not something he had anticipated, and that uncertainty brought with it
equal parts rage and elation.

    It
wasn’t until the explosion echoed through the building that he had felt his
hopes sink. He’d known it was a possibility that they wouldn’t notice his
tripwire, but he had expected more of them than that. Sullen, he made his way
toward the building only to dive down behind cover as all of his guests came
running around the corner, completely unharmed.

    A
giddy squeal of joy had escaped his lips before he could choke it back down,
and he flinched as the young woman he had taken such a liking to reacted. She
had heard him, of that he was certain, but the pressing nature of her situation
had kept her from investigating further. It was the first time in a very long
while since he had ever been that close to getting caught, and the swell of
emotion that accompanied this revelation was nearly overwhelming.

    To
add salt to the wound, he had no more tricks prepared. He had possessed
absolute confidence in his ability, and was certain that no one would be able
to avoid his carefully planned detours. They hadn’t just confounded him once;
they had beaten him entirely.

    Abruptly,
the memories became too painful for him to recall. Everything that came after
that moment of defeat was a blur of rage and gore, his sad attempts at
reasserting his dominance via butchering the undead serving only to make him
feel more pathetic. The zombies were meaningless. He needed to get to his
quarry in the outpost, but his orders were clear: he was to stay put outside
and continue his work.

    They
were
his!
They had escaped him, proved to be the best prey he had ever
had, and now they were out of reach because of what? Some weak, meaningless,
mewling little fuck with a shiny medal and fancy clothes said so?

    He
had accepted his invitation to this little society of theirs because they had
promised things like that wouldn’t be an issue anymore. They were falling
through on their end of the deal, so maybe… maybe it was time he fell through
on his. A slow smile found its way back to his face, and the rush of anger that
had been causing him such trouble began to subside.