The arrow that stood out straight and immutable from Chong’s torso. Chong looked down to see the feathered end of the arrow standing straight out from his stomach. He craned his neck and looked over his shoulder. The barbed tip of the arrow stuck out red and glistening behind him.
“Oh,” said Chong.
The archer opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, blood poured from between his lips. His skull looked wrong to Chong. Misshapen. Dented. Chong looked down at the broken wooden sword. The top half of the sword lay on the ground between him and the archer, shattered by the force of the blow he had just delivered.
“Oh,” he said again.
With a wet gurgle, the archer dropped to his knees, then fell sideways, making no effort at all to catch his fall.
Brother Andrew turned away from the woman he had just murdered, and his grinning face went slack with shock.
“Danny . . .?” he asked uncertainly.
Danny—the archer—was beyond answering.
Chong felt his legs beginning to tremble.
I’m shot, he thought.
The handle of the bokken tumbled from his rubbery fingers.
I’m in shock.
There was no pain. There was . . . nothing.
I’m dead.
And . . .
Well . . . that’s what town boys get for trying to be heroes.
Brother Andrew took a step forward as he swung the scythe around to point at Chong. “You little piece of scum. Do you know what you’ve done?”
Chong wanted to explain. At the very least he wanted to ask why this man, this reaper, would be angry at the death of the archer. Clearly they were dedicated to death itself. It did not make sense that he would be angry at an incident that was part of his own beliefs. That was the thread of logic that was sewn through Chong’s mind, and he wanted to discuss this philosophical point with Brother Andrew.
Chong found enough of his voice to croak out two words: “I’m sorry.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and he really did not mean to give that apology to the reaper. He wanted Eve to hear it. Because her parents both lay dead on the sandy ground; but more so because Chong knew that he was not going to be able to save the little girl from this big brute.
He wanted to, though. He would even have accepted death as a price for saving her. That’s what a samurai would do. There was justice in that. There was closure in that.
But to die with half the job done . . .
You’re not a hero, he told himself, but don’t die a loser. Don’t let them win.
Chong took a step, but his knees buckled and he dropped down beside Danny’s body. The bow was right there, inches away. The arrows were spilled all around him.
The universe is throwing you a bone, he told himself. Take it.
He reached for the bow with clumsy fingers. Picked it up. Picked up an arrow. The black goo smeared on the tip smelled horrible, like cadaverine or something worse.
But even as he fumbled it onto the string, Chong felt his strength pumping away. Flowing out of him.
He looked past Brother Andrew to where Eve stood.
“Run . . . ,” he croaked.
The girl was frozen to the spot. Wide-eyed, voiceless with horrors so vast that she could do absolutely nothing but stand and stare.
And die. Chong knew that she was going to die. She’d stand there and be killed and never lift a hand because there just wasn’t enough of her left for even that.
Brother Andrew seemed to snap out of his own daze. His lip curled in anger, and he adjusted his grip on his scythe as he began stalking across the clearing toward Chong.
“Run,” begged Chong. He raised the bow and arrow, but his hands trembled with the palsy of shock and injury.
“I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done,” promised the reaper. “I’ll make this last. I’ll hear you scream and beg before I let you taste the darkness. By the god of death so I will.”
“Will you please just shut up,” Chong said between gritted teeth. Then, with the last energy he had, he pulled the string and released the arrow.
It flew straight and true and buried itself in the dirt between Andrew’s feet.
The reaper laughed and raised his scythe, and its shadow painted a promise of darkness across his face.
FROM NIX’S JOURNAL