"You gotta untie me, man," I holler to Johann as I approach the porch, limping.
His close-set, sunken, green eyes look into me with confusion. His soft-angled brows tug together, and his lids droop, as he traces the trickle of blood continuing to flow from my nose. He opens his mouth, but not a word comes out of it. He seals it, before swallowing twice, his Adam's apple moving up and down with every go.
His glance moseys around, absorbing the view of the catastrophe encompassing us. He turns his head to the people clustered behind him for answers, but all eyes are glued to the rangers loping to chase the weapon thieves as they disappear into the smoke.
"C'mon!" I spin around my heels, my back opposite him, extending my fastened wrists and twisting my neck to look him in the face. "You need to help me out, so I can help you. And you know I can."
He taps a tight fist against his pale, quivering lower lip, before taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.
Without a word, he takes out his drop-point knife from his burlap sling bag and tries to snip the tether around my wrists with it.
"What are you doing, J?" Cora asks him, her abrasive tone cloaking her otherwise bubbly disposition, as she clutches his hand to stop him from cutting me loose. "We're not even sure if he's one of the enemies."
"I have to do this, Cor." He yanks his hand away and the blade slices through the spool of rope in one fell swoop.
Stretching out my hand, I take one last look at the mayhem and devastation those four bastards left in their wake, my humanity engulfed with feral wrath.
Humans or Antes, those bastards deserve the most horrible deaths violence could provide. They aren't worthy of a quick arrow to the heart or some one-shot decapitation. Even being burned or flayed or disemboweled alive wouldn't feel enough to serve justice to what they did here. Perhaps nothing from the list of television's most gruesome deaths ever could.
What they descended upon us was the textbook embodiment of savagery, and it's just right for their deaths to be nothing short of savage. If I could slay them all and make a giant pie out of their sickening flesh to serve their Mind Flayer of a king, I would.
Sure, they may not have killed one of us (at least, not explicitly), but what they did was unarguably worse: cutting off our food supply and taking our weapons away, ensuring our path to a slow death—either by starvation, welcome slaughter or both.
This entire sequence is no different from the loot train attack from the seventh season of Game of Thrones—but with the Faceless Men-like assassins and garden-variety explosives, instead of a horde of Dothraki criers and dragon fire, of course.
Don't get me wrong; I'm team Dany all the way (except maybe during the final season), but her forces ambushing the combined Lannister and Tarly armies—and demolishing the stolen supplies from Highgarden—along the Goldroad, while the enemies are on their way to King's Landing, was a tough course to cheer for. It's like cheering for the idea of innocent people dying in famine being nothing but a collateral damage in a move that would bring her one step closer in her quest for the crown.
Yes, they were at war—so are we—but civilians should never be treated as collateral damage, no matter the end goal.
While thinking about it, it's also hard to deny the similarities between Daenerys and the Antes themselves: both claim to be the rightful rulers of the world, both use violence to enforce that claim, and as of the final season, both are mad and have to be stopped.
Using the words of the Mother of Dragons herself, the wheel has to be destroyed.
Borrowing Johann's weapon, I begin striding to follow the rangers.
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.
Like their game counterpart, they are also wielding (stolen) weapons—the same weapons intended to defeat them now aiding them. The perfect irony.
Last time I counted, there were only four of them. Three, in fact, if I'm going to trace all the way back from what remained of them after the raid. Now, they're more than triple in number—just like what Johann had predicted.
What are they? Asexually reproducing Gremlins, only way bigger, way less cute and with way less fur?
Perhaps, a cross between Gargantuars and Gremlins? I hope not.
We are already no match for them, even without their advantage in numbers—like a bunch of Peashooters against one gigantic zombie. We can't afford them spawning more clones who can only speed up humanity's defeat.
Holding out their blades in defense, the men are all wearing a look of hopelessness in their faces. Their moist eyes are blinking almost every two seconds, as beads of sweat gather around their foreheads. Pulling their lips apart, they grit their stained teeth, while their jaws tremble and their chests heave with every short breath.
It may not be showing in him as much as in the other guys, but I know Brad is fearing for his life as well. He may have the audacity to even play with the dagger in his hand, but it's obvious in how his neck veins are pulsing so much—they seem like they want to crawl out of his skin—that it's all just pretense.
Indeed, picturing these Antes outside of their human disguise and in all their monster glory is reason enough to make anyone cower—myself, included. They look like those creatures every kid would wish to remain under the bed or behind the closet after lights off.
Hideous.
Abominable.
Fear's magnum opus.
Thinking about their relentless savagery, however, would be reason enough to disregard the horrors of it all and just keep fighting.
And fight we will.
With a battle cry, Brad lobs his weapon straight to one of the enemies' forehead. The motion is swift, almost like a bullet—its trajectory only visible when dragged out in slow motion. Before the target could make a move, the tip buries itself in the skull like a dart pin on the cork padding of the circular board. Bullseye.
Like a plank, the target drops to the floor. Dead.
A loud thud and a clangor flit through the low grunts of the still-standing beasts, as streams of ropy, greenish-black liquid spill from the target's wound, coating its pallid mug like a canvas of an unfinished abstract painting.
Brad races to the fallen Ante. He picks up its sword and pulls out the dagger from its skull. He edges away, handling both weapons on either hand as he reintegrates into the pack. He positions a foot forward, both knees bent slightly, and assumes on-guard position.
He sure knows what he's doing. None of these stressors appear to rattle his concentration at all. He obviously remembers everything we have been taught about during training and applies them like a pro. Ironic, since even the trainer himself, Commander Horton, seems to have decanted all of his instructions down the drain.
Well, Brad has always been so good with swords—or any weapon, for that matter. In fact, I envy him for it. A little. Okay, maybe a lot.
I guess I can never be Jon Snow while he's alive.
Provoked, the remaining beasts snarl, baring their all-canine dentures and their salivating, three-forked tongues.
Uh oh. Gargantuars, Gremlins and Demogorgons all rolled into one?
Humanity truly is doomed.
No longer keen on playing the long cat-and-mouse game, the three-way hybrids pounce at the troop like the aggressive lions they are. Gripping their swords with one limb, they ram them against the relatively shorter blades of their opponents. At the same time, they use their free pincers to try and slash the men in the face.
Alright, scratch that, and make it four-way hybrids. I can't possibly not add Grievers into the mix; that's betrayal of geek culture.
Funny how these Antes are turning out to be the ultimate geek fantasy and nightmare at the same time.
Although, I'm seriously wondering why they need disarm-able medieval weapons when they have a pair built into their bodies like that. These blades are actually slowing them down instead of helping. Not that I'm complaining; it's favorable to us, after all.
However, with the Antes' muscle power still proving superior, the men are forced to retreat, their backs colliding with each other's as the attackers encircling them continue to step closer. The beasts corner them, emitting the same growls that are as earsplitting as they probably are foul-smelling.
Finally realizing that the stolen swords are of no help, the monsters throw them down to the cracked granite floor of this random mansion's living room, which they have oddly chosen for a battlefield. Putting both claws in front of their chests like some boxing athletes awaiting the referee's signal to start punching, they tilt their heads left and right, making their necks click. All these movements they do in unison.
Before any of the rangers can snatch a sword from the floor, the Antes make their move. They strike the daggers with their claws; the blades clatter on the floor in response. They strike the faces next, and the heads literally go spinning, as crimson liquid colors the white slashes across these faces. Then, they pepper the bodies with more strikes, tearing through the fabrics of the clothing, then through the skin.
With their eyes gored and/or their hearts plucked out of their open chests, one by one, most of the rangers fall to the floor alongside the blades. Almost as stiff as the latter.
Brad, Gunnar and Commander Horton are the only men standing, while the Antes remain just less-than-one-member strong.
Vindictive, the three go on a rampage.
"These are for Mike and Dave," Commander Horton utters, his bloodshot eyes even redder with rage, as he simultaneously clobbers the two Antes coming for him with both daggers on hand. The blows impale each of them up the chin, his move smooth and assured.
Similarly seething, Brad slices off one of the Antes' torso with the longsword like an actual piece of cake. "This one's for father."
"And this one's for all our other brothers and sisters your kind has turned to worm food." Gunnar pulls out a couple of arrows from the quiver strapped to his back and flings them like javelins—one piercing through one's neck, another into another's middle eye and a few more through others' hearts (if they happen to have one).
Whatever happened to his bow is everyone's guess.
"Die already, bitches!" Gunnar grabs a couple more and hurls them, complete with swivels and swerves. "You're taking up too much of our oxygen."
Meanwhile, Brad carries on with the water dance like he's Syrio Forel now carrying a real sword, whereas the commander stabs whichever monster he can in a dance of his own. Soon enough, the whole scene blurs into a confused tussle.
A few more swipes and spurts of the dark fluid, and it's the enemies' turn to drop dead one by one, until there are only three of them left.
Three on three.
The battle's now even. Well, sort of.
Coincidentally, the mood is all set for the showdown that's about to happen. The sunlight coming in from the smashed glass windows hedging the once-grand staircase looks like some sort of spotlight. The pile of dead bodies surrounding them serve as audience.
Going to this final face-off, all six of them make use of the same beats: the men with their slick, calculated moves and the Antes with the more turbulent, prickly attacks.
Scratched on one thigh by one of the beasts, Commander Horton drops on all fours, shrieking in pain. Retaliating, he jabs both its feet with his daggers, causing it to fall to its knees in front of him, growling. "You, nasty son of a bitch!"
"You want me to finish him off, sir?" Brad asks, standing behind the beast, his sword swung up, ready to deliver the concluding blow.
"No, let me." The commander forces himself to stand up and reaches for the weapon from Brad. "Reward this Xenomorph to me."
Just as the commander lifts up the longsword to kill the thing with an overhand hit, an arrow flies out of nowhere. Toward him. Through him.
The projectile passes through his body—from back to chest then out—like it's moving across thin air. It lands on the floor, the arrowhead sodden with blood.
Fuck.
Not the commander.
Watching the fountain of gore spring up from the commander's chest as he dives to the ground, Brad and Gunnar cries out, "Nooo—"
Before the echoes of their voices dissipate, another arrow comes flying their way.
Fuck.
Not again.
Then, a voice, different from Brad's or Gunnar's, snaps me out of my vision, its timing earlier than intended.
What the heck just happened? I ask myself internally as my vision zooms in to the desolation around me. Did I just see the future again? Did I just witness the impending death of a few more brothers?
Suddenly, hot flushes creep up from my chest, all the way to my neck, cheeks and nasal cavity. It's like I'm having a fever, and my insides keep getting hotter and hotter, until I feel like throwing up. My eyesight starts to blur and the world around me spins, dizziness overcoming me. My lids, I can sense, are about to close up, and my body begins to lose balance.
"Hey, hey." The man with the same taut voice restrains my back, preventing me from passing out. "Are you okay?"
I twist my neck around to see him. "Johann."
The worry on his face seems worse than it was a while ago. "Your nose is bleeding again."
I look down and get the drift of the reddish-brown pigment among the other-colored blots on my faded grey flannel shirt. I mentally shrug. "We need to help them out, man."
"I know." He helps me straighten up. "I saw it too. Bradford, he's—"
"What about him?" I ask, wiping the blood off my nose.
"He's shot."