Homecoming

Chapter Nine

Brad, Gunnar and Commander Horton, along with six of our men (basically, the inducted rangers who aren't injured from the explosions and from the riot during the trial), have gone after the enemies with nothing but their knives and daggers, and I know better than to trust that they have a good chance of making it out alive with those alone.

This may sound a little self-righteous, but they need me. They need my ability. They need the deus ex machina. What for if I can't use it to help humanity, right?

"Ross!" some girl calls out, the resonance prevailing from the frantic wails and howls that score the scene.

Knowing exactly who that is, I stop in my tracks. I turn my head, fanning the smoke away with my hand, and pick Peyton out among the crowd, waving hers as she stands behind the conscious but hurting President Moore on a wheelchair.

"Be back, okay?" Her voice sounds like a squawking crow as her wind pipe seems to close up from the anguish that's evident in her pout.

"I will," I reply, forcing a strained smile before breaking into a run.

It surprises me that, considering my weakened state a short while ago, I can still dredge up sufficient energy to make a run for something. Heck, I can even chalk up a touchdown against those cocky Sacred Heart Academy boys with this speed.

If I didn't know better, I'd think of this whole thing as a giant plot hole, requiring a great deal of suspension of disbelief for people to be able to buy it. Except, this isn't the first time an inexplicable thing like this has happened since I woke up. There has been enough incidents that seem to defy the rules of logic, making this reality more of a fantasy than most high fantasy television shows. Even the mere fact that I woke up after three years without food or any medical intervention is inexplicable.

To make everything even more surreal, I also would have forgotten that I still have these fresh wounds all over my arms, if I haven't caught a glimpse of them. Strangely, I am not feeling them sting with every swing of these limbs anymore. Actually, I don't feel any pain or discomfort anywhere in body.

I feel... invincible.

Maybe it's the rush of adrenaline from the tension of the situation coursing through my veins that's energizing me. Maybe it's my intensifying thirst for revenge. Maybe it's both. Maybe it's neither. Whatever the explanation behind all of this is, there's no point in troubling my mind to make sense of it.

I need to end this; that's all that matters now.

Emerging out of the shroud of smoke, I slow my pace down as none of the rangers or the terrorists are in sight. I scan the surroundings, and the same image of a ghost town that has been the backdrop for most of this expedition greets me.

Where could they have gone? Have I been running that slow that they have managed to vanish into the distance?

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

Silence. All there is to hear is this deafening silence. The faint echoes of the distant screams are the only thing convincing me that I haven't lost my hearing from the explosions. Other than that? Nothing. No footsteps. No hint of any skirmish. None.

I inhale another time, and the overpowering stench of the scorched concrete penetrates my nostrils like how I imagine snorting cocaine would. I can smell the drying blood on my upper lip, and I can also tell that my body reeks of sweat, but there remains nothing to clue me in about my buddies' location.

Before I peel my lids open, some sort of a trance hijacks me.

Antes. Dozens of them.

Exact replicas of the same hideous creatures from the raid at the Village besieging the ranging troop swamp my sight. Their towering, heavyset bodies are hunched as they trudge closer like supersized zombies with lion-like sensibilities stalking their prey—basically real life's version of the Gargantuars, sans the accompanying Imps.