The Faith Eaters, Chapter 10: Shadows of a Family Tree

The maelstrom of emotions which drew Terrance downward into madness had ebbed, leaving his mind to drift and bob along the rocky shores of sanity. His Glare slept, sustained by the even, steady flow of horrifying visions parading through the boy�s memory.

Other Glare Hosts, most much further along in their transformation than Terrance, pressed by in the darkness. They loped along, drawn further and further south by their Beacon, tongues lolling in eager anticipation.

Terrance barely noticed them as he ambled through the night shadows of Kinsborough South. Head hung low, hands plunged deep into the pockets of his father�s overcoat, he followed their path as if by accident, each step tripping distractedly into the next. As his feet sloshed through puddles left by the evening rains his mind registered a different sound: His father collapsed onto the tile kitchen floor and blood splattered Terrance�s pants, soaked his shoes, dripped, dripped, dripped from the jagged, fleshy piece of jaw gripped in his hand. Splash. His foot came down in another puddle and his father fell again, and again, and again, as if the dying man was each and every tile in a macabre domino chain tumbling through Terrance�s soul.

Clouds overhead blocked all but the faintest shimmer of starlight. The air was heavy. Oppressive. Terrance sniffed the air. Rain was coming again. A rain of blood. Terrance watched his father fall again. Hot, cold, slippery, sticky, crusted, wet rain was coming. Rain and blood and -- the young man stopped, feet causing a final wet splash in an icy pool of water which quickly soaked his feet. Yes. Rain. Blood. Pain. Flood. A painful flood of rainy blood. And something else. Something familiar, welcome and threatening.

The others continued to rush by him in the darkness, pushing, scrambling, dodging as Terrance stepped into the dark recess behind a rusted dumpster. Easing onto his haunches, back supported by the crumbling walls of a long-deserted bakery, Terrance snuffled softly to himself and focused his attention on the dimly lit entrance to a building across the alley. His brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to identify the smell which teased his nostrils.

The movement of Hosts through the alley slowed. The last was a young boy, perhaps younger than Terrance. He skittered sideways on all fours like some sort of giant, malformed crab, and came to a brief, panting stop near where Terrance crouched. The boy turned his head frantically from side to side, dilated eyes wide in panic as if maybe he had been left behind in the reptile chamber during a class field trip to the zoo. Then, still bent double, he scampered further down the alley, hands slapping the wet ground.

Terrance watched him until he faded from sight and hearing.

Silence descended on the night.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Not thunder. An explosion. Followed by the sharp clatter of gunfire and a single, rolling echo from much closer by.

Terrance�s gaze wandered briefly up the side of the building across the ally, then the faint scrape of rubber on concrete drew his attention back to the entrance at ground level. His eyes caught a flicker of movement and the light above the door was extinguished.

Over head a new noise erupted and a flight of Banshees burst through the night sky, the screech of their packs drowning out the distant sounds of conflict. That sound faded as the Banshees landed on the roof above, only to be replaced by an inhuman, wailing cry from down the alley in the direction the Hosts had moved.

Terrance, though still confused by the smell in the air, was intrigued by the activity around him. Turning his body so he could simultaneously observe the doorway and the alley to the south, he squeezed further into the shadows.

A panicked yelp. Scrambling footsteps. Ragged breathing. Crab Boy came lunged into view, tripping, falling, clambering over several trash cans. He pawed through the refuse in a vain attempt to regain his footing. Slipped, tumbled to the ground and then was simply gone beneath the rending claws and trampling feet of the Hosts teeming back through the alley like a frantic herd of rabid lemmings.

*****

Erin knelt beside Guerin�s crumpled form and placed two fingers to his neck. His pulse was steady and strong, his breathing regular. The Inquisitor would live. In fact, she thought, after a 15 second Blessing he probably wouldn�t show so much as a bruise. Erin let a sigh of relief escape, then stood, stepped carefully around Guerin and followed after Jargon into the stairwell.

*****

Crab Boy never stood up again. Terrance watched in grim fascination as he tried once, twice. Each time the boy was knocked aside and bounced along the blacktop until he became just another crumpled mass of the Forgotten South�s street clutter. Somewhere in the troubled, inner reaches of his mind Terrance was deeply grateful for the boy�s misfortune. For the moment at least it distracted him completely from thoughts of his father.

Deprived of their beacon the Hosts began to scatter, directionless, into the city. Once again their movement through the alley dwindled until just over a dozen remained near Terrance�s position and the now-dark doorway he was watching.

*****

Had Jargon and Erin exited the building 30 seconds sooner they would have been swept away like so many leaves in an autumn storm. As it happened, the fact that his sword was still drawn saved Jargon�s life when he stepped into the alley. The instant he cleared the doorway a Glare Host slammed into him, arms and legs wrapped around his body, claws digging into the armored padding beneath his coat. Jargon�s sword was gripped in his right hand, blade low, and he had just enough time to elevate it before he was driven to the ground.

Erin, following just steps behind, saw Jargon disappear in a tangled ball of grappling limbs. She immediately discarded her rifle and drew her own blade and stepped sideways out of the door, back pressed against the wall. Shadows flitted past her in the near total darkness, the parade of Hosts seemingly oblivious to her presence.

*****

Terrance saw the man emerge from the building and recognition flashed like a bolt of lightning through his brain. That smell... Stepping from behind the dumpster, Terrance thrust his head back and declared to the night: �Paccavi, brother. PACCAVI!� I have sinned, brother. I have sinned! They were the last words he uttered of his own volition.

K�T�Aitch came awake, startled by the disruption of its slumber. Angered and surprised at the sudden loss of control over its host, fearful for its life, the Glare reflexively injected the contents of its overladen bowel into Terrance�s brain stem. Control was regained immediately. This time when Terrance opened his mouth, it was to rally his fellow Hosts. Voice cracking as the last vestiges of his destroyed psyche fought vainly for self control, Terrance called to them. �Aik tan may choklu! Mein karn! Mein karn!�

*****

The momentum of the Host which plowed into Jargon forced his blade into its chest, through its spine and out its back just below the left shoulder blade. From the waist down, it ceased moving. With its hands and teeth, however, it continued to fight. The weight of the creature thrust Jargon back. surprised and off balance, he had no choice but to fall, but his reflexes were quick enough to take advantage of the movement -- as his back struck the pavement he drew his knees toward his chest to continue the motion and rolled backward so that he came up on his knees, straddling the Glare. Somehow he�d managed to maintain a grip on the hilt of his sword. Jerking the blade violently up and across the creature�s chest, he penetrated its heart. Its arms flopped uselessly to the wet ground but its eyes continued to glower up at Jargon. Wrenching his sword free, Jargon drew it across the monster�s throat and its head clunked backward, eyes still staring, but thankfully in another direction.

Jargon heard Terrance�s first yell then and sprang to his feet, eyes probing the shadows of the alley. �Terrance?� His eyes clouded with tears of disbelief and he blinked to clear them. Then he heard the second yell and his eyes cleared, set instead with a look of steely determination.

Erin recognized the words as well and moved quickly into the alley to a position which allowed her to protect Jargon�s back.

The remaining Hosts no longer ignored them. They came slowly at first, as if curious to see who had stumbled across their path. Jargon and Erin managed to counter the first few assaults, then the creatures attacked in earnest. The Hosts, many of them nearly full-blown Glare�s by this time, carried no weapons other than their teeth and claws. It was nearly enough.

Moving reflexively through the steps of a delicate and grotesque ballet choreographed years before, Jargon and Erin countered each assault, somehow managing to avoid the potentially deadly fangs and talons. Always Jargon sought to find Terrance in the melee. Always the boy managed to keep another Host between them until, finally, only Jargon, Terrance and Erin remained.

All three crouched low, breathing hard.

�Jargon?,� Erin asked tentatively.

�He�s mine,� came the icy response, and Jargon lunged.

He was met midway by Terrance, their bodies colliding in the air as they leapt. Terrance struck high, the blackened nails of his right hand drawing three ragged furrows down across Jargon�s face, nearly piercing his eye; Jargon stuck low, his sword blade thrusting up and into Terrance�s heart. The two collapsed onto the pavement.

A chill rain began to fall.

Erin padded quietly up behind Jargon, saw his shoulders wracked with sobs, and moved instead to recover her rifle before settling into a crouch against a wall to clean her sword blade.

Jargon smiled a cold, tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. Then he stroked a hand slowly across his face, wiped the blood onto his pantleg and placed a foot solidly on the chest of the thing that lay in a crumpled heap on the ground before him.