The stench of death brought a certain. . . comfort. Two years ago the smell would’ve made him sick, but now it had become routine. It all felt familiar. For years now, his father’s rules kept them safe. None more sacred than silence.
Silence so they could think.
Silence so they could prepare.
Silence so they could hear the dead approach.
Iceal picked through the old store, looking for dried or canned goods with a strong seal. Dad did the same only feet away, the light clink of metal can or glass jar the only sound that dared to break the rules. He shivered, frigid from the damp coat that clung to his arms. He’d need to change clothes when they camped again.
A noise echoed outside the building, followed by a light thump against the old door. It had a poor, little metal hook fit through a ring to serve as a lock. A strong breeze could break in. Iceal glanced at his Dad, who nodded in silent acknowledgment.
The old wooden door rattled again, and the hook struggled to hold. Then came the distinctive groan of someone that lived but had no soul. Dad called them graywalkers, or grays for short. The souls they had been given as babies stood dormant on their foreheads, their Chromatics abandoned. Before, when Mom was alive, that meant the person had died and would be buried.
Now they didn’t need graves. Two years ago, everything changed. Dad didn’t know why. One time, a man said he knew what happened, but Dad called him a nutter. He’d talk with other travelers sometimes, and they’d trade guesses, but no one knew. Now the grays outnumbered the living. They traveled in herds, like grazing animals Iceal learned about in school.
Where one wandered, there would be more. That’s another of Dad’s rules.
Oh, and don’t fight if you don’t have to. Fighting makes noise, and noise attracts grays.
Iceal felt a low rumble from the ground. Sort of like a small earthquake that shook everyone and everything, relentless in its approach. Iceal knew the cause. Grays. Well, Dad knew. Iceal only knew because that’s what Dad said, not that he’d ever seen a full herd with his own eyes.
Dad tapped him on the shoulder to follow and crept to the opposite side of the store, pack slung over his shoulder, then peeked out the door. A second tap on the shoulder meant they were clear. With the door open, you could hear the light drizzle of rain—almost a thick curtain of mist. Rain always seemed super dangerous to Iceal, but Dad said it was good, not bad.
“If you can’t see them, they can’t see you,” he always said. He supposed it to be true. After all, Dad had fought in the Chromatic Army. If anyone knew, he did.
They always held hands as they moved through trouble. Another rule. Probably Dad didn’t want to lose him, too. Made sense.
More commotion to the left, but the rain made it difficult to see the cause. Hunched over and sliding through the buildings, they did their best to get out of the little town before the herd arrived.
I wonder how many grays Dad could kill, he thought. Like if—
Dad stopped and shoved Iceal behind him, face to face with a gray as it turned a corner and spotted them. Iceal peaked out from behind to get a good look.
An old one. His face rotted out in several places, clothes ripped to shreds, and he stumbled along, emitting a low, coarse groan. Must’ve had a great cook for a wife, too. He looked two men wide, at least! Odd that their hair didn’t stop growing; his fell in front of his face down to his chest.
Dad had one hand behind his back to keep a touch on Iceal, and his right hand extended with a sword that used to belong to Iceal’s great great grandfather. It was plain. Disappointing, even. You’d think it would look cooler when you say you have a really old sword. Plus, Dad didn’t ever use his Chromatics anymore. He’d tell Iceal stories about it, but the grays were, well, gray. Chromatics had no effect other than to summon more of the things.
The pot-bellied gray shuffled his way towards them, meal in sight. A two-for-one! What a day for a gray. Dad stiffened up and raised the sword, ready. All things considered, an old, rotten gray would be an easy kill—now the fresher ones. . . those sprinted. Those were scary.
A high-pitched squeal pierced the rain behind them. Dad jerked around to look back out of instinct.
“Dad!” Iceal said, pointing. The gray lunged in to get hold of him, and he snapped back to attention, ramming the old, plain sword unimpressively through his mouth. He ripped it back out of the falling beast, then spun around with a single finger to his lips to say, “Shhhh.”
Dad’s eyes darted back and forth. Water pelted both of them with a gentle patter, and the ground rumbled beneath their feet. An ominous, growing thunder.
Again, the squeal and cry. Louder this time. That sound didn’t come from a gray. Someone needed help. In an instant, Iceal hung almost upside down, slung over his father’s shoulder while he sprinted towards the sound. He bounced up and down with his father’s footsteps as they sloshed through little puddles in the ground.
“No! No, no, no, no! Go away, go away!” the young voice said. Iceal couldn’t see anything but the damp ground and buildings behind where they had just been, but he knew better than to protest. Dad set him down inside a barrel of all things, made the shhh motion again, popped a lid onto the barrel, and took off. He never left Iceal alone.
He’s going to leave me here? I can help!
The barrel carried a sickeningly sweet and pungent scent that made Iceal gag.
I can’t stay here. I’ll throw up. Then the grays will know I’m here. I’ve gotta get out. Because of the smell. Yeah, the smell.
He tried to stand and balance the lid, but it fell and clattered to the ground. Several grays lamented at their empty bellies just around the corner, but Iceal couldn’t see anything from his stupid barrel. Ridiculous. He wanted to at least watch. He’d be careful, right?
Right.
The stupid barrel was tall. Real tall. Up a little past his stomach. He braced himself on the edges and lifted a leg to hoist it over and escape the boredom prison, then everything went sharply black for a second, and his head hurt.
Shit—er, rats. No curse words.
The barrel tipped over. Iceal cringed at the thought of the scolding he’d get later. Shaking off the daze and wiping dirt from his face, he rounded the corner and finally saw the action: six grays up, two grays down. Iceal huddled next to a pile of trash and watched. The six still standing had arms outstretched towards a boy on top of a rubbish pile, and one had ahold of the boy’s foot. He kicked and fought until it lost the grip, and he scrambled back out of reach, stuck and surrounded but with help on the way.
“Couldn’t get me that easy!” he called down with a bold tone.
Three grays down. Dad slid the bland sword through the back of his head and kicked his back as he pulled it out.
That was kind of cool, he thought.
Five still stood, eyes—or what was left of them?—locked onto their prey, with no regard for the predator that stood behind them.
Four down. Five down. One of grays noticed and got a clue. His moan trailed upwards like a question as he turned, rotten head cocked at Dad. Iceal giggled. The final three all turned towards Dad and shuffled, jaws clacking as they snapped at the empty air. Lucky, lucky! No sprinters. The boy scooted to the edge of his roost and started to get down, but Dad held out a hand and signaled, ‘Stop.’ He listened. Smart.
Something bumped into Iceal. Wait.
Something bumped into Iceal.
He screeched as the gray grabbed him, and they fell to the ground. Iceal fought to avoid the soulless thing’s mouth as its teeth clicked and clacked, the hot stench of its rancid breath against his face. Its hands—bones with a bit of flesh—scratched all over his arms.
Atzu, please! Atzu!
Dad yanked it off of him and threw the thing to the side, then did the same to Iceal in the opposite direction. He nursed the wounds on his arms and watched his father work.
Six, seven, eight, and Iceal’s attacker included now, nine all fell the same as the others. Just as uneventful as the sword that dropped them.
Iceal huffed and puffed heart racing. Right. Predictable. Piece of cake, really. Dad had it covered.
The boy dropped down to the ground, “Hey, thanks! That was a lot. You guys feel this earthquake, too, right? Isn’t this neat?”
He almost shouted it to be heard. Iceal cringed.
Dad yanked Iceal up and dragged him towards the blonde boy. Not cool. Don’t have to embarrass me, he thought. He didn’t dare say it, though.
Now that they were closer, he could see the boy had no pack. Not even a coat. He had a worn-out shirt on and some trousers. Dumb. Not what Dad would do.
“What are you doing here?” Dad whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” the boy said with a mockingly loud whisper. He smiled, proud of himself. “Lookin’ for food, you?”
Dad nodded. “Alone?”
“I mean. . .no? There’s three of us.”
There’s more of them? And they didn’t help? Iceal thought. “The rumble. We gotta go, right Dad?” He, of course, followed the rules and spoke with a quiet tone.
“Right,” Dad said. “Good luck, then.”
The boy smiled from ear to ear, with a gap right in the front where one of his teeth should be. Way too happy for someone that almost lost his soul. “Yeah, ‘course, you too!”
And with that, Dad took Iceal’s damp hand, and they scurried off again. Little puddles of rainwater collected in the uneven ground and made for a great little traveling game—he always tried to step in every one. If you missed one, a gray would bite somebody somewhere. No clue where he’d heard that, but it sounded true enough. The puddle game kept his mind off the lecture in his future.
Sounds of grays popped up all over the little town, and the smell grew stronger as the herd closed in. Dad didn’t relax his grip until they made it out into the wood-covered trail, and the thunder of the herd started to die down under their feet.
“Slow down!” a squeal said behind them. “Boy, you guys go fast. Where do you gotta go so fast? I’m not much of a runner, so maybe we slow down?”
What?
In a rare moment, Dad broke his own rules and spoke up, “Kid, what are you doing? You almost got yourself killed, my boy killed, and now you follow us? I’ve ended men for less. Go back to your people. Go on now, get outta here!” He shooed him away, then turned and kept walking.
You tell’em, Dad.
“My people?” the boy said. Dad’s grip tightened on Iceal’s hand until he winced, then Dad let go. The boy stood with his brow tensed.
Dad stopped, took in a deep breath, and sighed.
“Yeah, go back to your—” He paused for what seemed like forever. Little raindrops filtered through the canopy above and dove down onto them. “Ah, okay. . . Come on then.”
What??
They didn’t hold hands now that they made it to the woods, but they still walked side by side, so Dad always had an eye on him. Smart. Dad knew best.
“I’m Arlo. What’s your names?” Arlo asked and shoved his way inbetween. “Where we goin’?”
Iceal didn’t answer. Not supposed to talk ‘til we get home.
“Blue. And he’s Iceal,” Dad said, breaking his own rule.
“Cool! Blue, like the color? Or Blue, like the feeling? Oh, and where we goin’?”
“Arlo.”
“Yeah?”
“Shush.”
Finally. Silence. Dad didn’t break the rules. Iceal didn’t break the rules. Arlo didn’t—
“Can I just know where we’re goin?” Arlo asked.
Iceal wanted to scream, but he couldn’t because. . .