Chapter 7 - Shriekers

  The shrieker’s skull trailed flames, the eye sockets were empty and black, and its raggedy robe flapped in eerie slow motion.

  But it was the long, glinting claws that sent a bolt of abject terror through Arlo’s body, causing him to shrink low rather than dive in through the open doorway. That mistake cost him dearly.

  The creature slashed and knocked him sideways off the front step. The sting on his back made him cry out in pain, but he clambered up again, determined to leap into the safety of the cottage.

  Only the shrieker now blocked his way.

  Arlo backpedaled as it lurched toward him. He ducked low again, but once more it slashed at his back, this time catching his shoulder and arm as well. Stumbling clear, Arlo turned to run.

  Emery’s voice rang out. “Get inside!”

  Easier said than done. With the shrieker dogging his every move, all he could do was stumble farther away. He found a neighbor’s door to his left and banged on it but had no time to stick around to see if they would answer.

  The demonic figure was already in pursuit, flying gracefully at times and falling behind, then shooting closer and reaching for him. Sometimes, its claws nicked his skin. This made him sprint even harder, his bare feet slapping on the hard cobblestones.

  He took a left turn down an alley, feeling hemmed in by the close quarters of the cottages on either side. If he held his arms out to both sides, his fingers would scrape both walls. The shrieker glided after him, its skull grinning and shrieking, flames trailing, razor-claws flashing.

  Left again. Arlo tore around the corner, his heart pounding. To his horror, three more shriekers appeared above the rooftops ahead, looming out of the darkness. He barreled onward, hoping to speed past before they spotted him. They did soon after, and their shrieks filled his ears.

  Gasping, he took another turn, praying he wasn’t getting himself hopelessly lost. This had to be the way back to Emery’s home. He now had four of the demons on his tail, and they randomly shot closer to slash at him. And more times than not, they scored a hit. It hurt like crazy, and he was sure his back would be mincemeat before long.

  Breathless, he whipped around yet another corner and kept moving, his bare feet slapping on the hard surface. He couldn’t keep this going all night. “HELP ME!” he screamed in frustration.

  Soft lights flickered inside a few cottages, but most remained dark. Though the sun had set not so long ago, it was full-on night here in Olde Village. People couldn’t help but hear the unearthly shrieks coupled with his own. They had to be used to the racket after all these years, but did they really choose to ignore his desperate pleas for help?

  At that moment, Emery appeared in the street ahead, her white nightdress almost luminous in the gloom. She beckoned and turned to run long before he reached her, but he moved so swiftly that he caught up and grabbed her hand, and they sprinted together, pursued by the four shriekers. One was far more persistent than the others and kept lashing out. Arlo imagined he could feel its icy cold breath on the nape of his neck every step of the way.

  Emery led the way around several corners, but every street looked the same. He must have zigzagged all over the place before she’d intercepted him. “There!” she gasped at last, pointing to his left.

  Her door was wide open and unguarded, and he almost laughed maniacally with relief at the sight of it. He pushed her ahead of him, then received another painful slice across his back as he dashed through the doorway and fell inside.

  Emery threw the door shut, but the shrieker’s arm got jammed against the frame. As she put her weight against the door, Arlo leapt to his feet and joined her, squeezing the creature’s arm so tight that it wailed.

  “Hold it!” Emery shouted, and she dashed off to fetch something. She returned a moment later with an ax and swung the tool with all her might. The blade came down on the shrieker’s forearm. Her aim was so good, and her swing so hard, that she buried the ax-head deep into the frame—and half of a skeletal arm fell to the floor with a nasty splat.

  At this, the shrieker wailed and yanked itself free, and the door shut with a thump.

  Arlo kept his shoulder to the door, panting and gasping. Emery bent double, her hands on her knees while she collected herself. Then she stood up straight and looked at Arlo with obvious annoyance.

  “Why? Why did you go outside?”

  “I-I’m sorry! I just went for a piss. I thought I’d be quick. I was quick, but—”

  He felt faint. His back and shoulders stung like crazy. Stretching to reach his injury, his probing fingers came across warm dampness. Blood. He stared in shock, and the pain doubled.

  “How bad is it?” he groaned.

  Tentatively, he turned sideways, keeping his gaze on Emery the whole time. Her eyes widened, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  “It’s really bad,” she whispered.

  “Damn.” Arlo closed his eyes. “This is a nightmare. What the hell?”

  “You need mage pomelos.” Emery went to rummage around in a cupboard, and it was only then, with her back turned, that he realized she’d been injured too. Her white nightdress had a couple of bloody slashes.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Arlo felt dizzy. He staggered to the kitchen table and flopped down into a chair.

  “Take these,” Emery said, putting a bowl of red fruit in front of him. “Mage pomelos have healing properties and increase vitality.”

  They looked similar to strawberries only malformed and ugly. Arlo counted seven of them, but he didn’t care if there was some kind of safe limit; he stuffed them in his mouth and chewed quickly, swallowing them with a grimace. They tasted sour and unpleasant.

  Emery eased around to stand behind him. He didn’t want to know how horrified she was, nor see the damage.

  Still, he already felt marginally better. The mage pomelos definitely helped. But he needed more. Staring at the empty bowl, he pointed with a shaky hand. “Where can we find these?”

  “Tonight?” Emery eased into the chair beside him. “We can’t. We’ll have to wait until the morning.”

  Arlo gazed at her, suddenly filled with remorse. “I just ate the whole bowl and didn’t offer you a single one! I’m such a jerk.”

  She shrugged. “Your injuries are far worse than mine.”

  “Yeah but—” He smacked the table. “What’s wrong with me? Why did I do that?”

  “Eat all the mage pomelos? Or go outside in the first place?”

  “Both!”

  She considered, then lightly patted his arm. “You’re an outsider. It’s hard for you to understand the danger of shriekers until you’re slashed by them. And you ate all the mage pomelos because you needed them more than me.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Even now, you’re still worse off,” she insisted. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll fetch more at first light.”

  Arlo sighed. “And until then, we’re supposed to lie around in agony?” He closed his eyes. “Dammit, sorry. This was my fault, and— I’m sorry, Emery. I’m gonna stop whining now.”

  This time, Emery placed a hand firmly on his arm and smiled. “We may not have any mage pomelos, but I do have some numbing ointment that will help us get through the night.”

  The ointment she spoke of came out of a jar and was foul-smelling, requiring her to wear gloves while handling it. They both wrinkled their noses as she dabbed it on his back. At first, it hurt like crazy. Then the pain eased, and she switched to a rag, dipped it in a bowl of water, and rung it out before carefully wiping his flayed skin. He was appalled at the amount of blood rinsed into the bowl.

  It was a slow, gentle process, and he sat still, sideways on the chair, while she cleaned him up. Then it was time for more of the numbing ointment. After a while, he felt absolutely nothing back there, not even her gentle dabbing.

  “You’re done for now,” she said. “Let me change the water, and then you can fix me up.”

  Once again, he felt like a jerk. She’d been hurting the whole time and hadn’t said a word. He immediately got up and took over from her, first throwing the bloody water down a drain in the floor, then dipping into a small barrel near the wall. Just for a second, he studied the metal pail next to it and wondered how close the nearest stream or pool was. It wasn’t like they had indoor plumbing.

  It smelled fresh, though. “Is this drinkable?” he asked, filling the small bowl.

  “Yes. I refill it every morning.”

  He returned to the table, where she now sat in his place, sideways on the chair. She was carefully trying to peel her nightdress off her shoulders, but the bloody fabric had stuck to her back.

  “Tell me about quanthors,” he said as he helped her. “Is it safe to ride them?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  She winced, and then her arms were free of the nightdress. Arlo pushed her hair out of the way and concentrated on her wounds.

  “People ride them for fun, or what?” he asked.

  “No. They’re very strong. They can pull plows, logs, wagons . . . They’re made to work.”

  “Do people ever crash through walls with them?”

  The slight tilt of her head told him it was a dumb question. “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Arlo dabbed at two vicious lines across her back. If she hadn’t already told him, he’d have guessed the old scar higher up was also the result of a shrieker’s attack. Now she had three. When she winced again, he switched to the ointment and dabbed some on, and he could plainly see the tension leaving her body. Her bare shoulders relaxed, and she rolled her head from side to side as if working out a knot.

  He realized he’d made a stupid mistake when he dipped into the bowl for the wet rag and went to squeeze it out. “Oh, crap.”

  She peered over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” Then her eyes widened—and she broke into a grin. “You didn’t put the gloves on. You handled the numbing ointment with bare hands.”

  “Yeah. And now . . .”

  He had absolutely no feeling in his fingers. No sensation of the wet rag clutched in his hand even though he held it up in front of him. He couldn’t even detect the dribble of water as it ran down his arm—at least not until it reached his elbow, and then it tickled him.

  Emery laughed and stood up, clutching the nightdress to her as she headed for the bedroom. “It’ll be hours before that wears off. Let me change, and then we should turn in and get some sleep.”

  He tried to clean up the kitchen while she was gone, but the absolute numbness in his hands threw him off more than he could have imagined. He gently thumped the table and felt nothing but the slightest jarring farther up his arm.

  Emery returned, having changed into a clean, pink nightdress. This one was wrinkled and a little tattered, and when he briefly looked her up and down, she reddened and shrugged. “I only have two. This is not my favorite.”

  “Oh, it’s fine! I didn’t mean to—”

  “You need a change of clothes too, though,” she said with a frown as she edged around him. “Your pants are all bloody at the back. Should I wash them again? We can hang them in front of the fire to dry.”

  I also pissed my pants. Don’t remember exactly when. Most likely when the shrieker first sliced my flesh open.

  “Um, yes, please,” he said with a grimace.

  “Go to bed,” she suggested. “I’ll wash our clothes and be there shortly. We need to sleep before we run out of nighttime.”

  Her remark confused him. Just when he’d begun to wonder if the days in this place were crazy-short and the nights extra long, she blew his theory with a throwaway comment like that. His mind spun as he carefully crawled into bed and let Emery take his pants. Short days and nights? How on earth did these people function?

  This isn’t Earth, he thought. It’s a game setting. Why bother with full twenty-four cycles when you can condense it down to a reasonable seven hours of daylight and then a similar period to reboot.

  Julian hadn’t mentioned that. He’d said only that a few minutes plugged into the VR was equivalent to a few hours in the game. Oh, and he’d said the real-life VR duration would be about an hour tops.

  So, call it seven minutes for seven daylight hours, and the same again for night, meaning fourteen minutes for one complete daily cycle. An hour of VR time in Julian’s office would allow for four days and nights inside the game. Food for thought.

  Despite unrelenting visions of burning skulls and razor-sharp claws, he eventually succumbed to sleep.