Chương 29: Revivification

Shrike pulls into the driveway, late in the night, listening with quiet contentment to the hypnotic universality of a long-loved band playing in her earbuds. With care, she carries the bags of takeout and cold sodas. She has started appreciating ice in drinks recently. With the constant state of cold far from her mind, its left her room to experiment with the temporary bite of the frozen cubes that produce a surprisingly pleasant sensation. She imagines this is how spicy must feel for humans.

She opens the door with a foot, not feeling a need to put down what she's carrying. She pushes the door inward and enters, pushing it closed it behind her with her hip. She sets the food down in the kitchen, briefly walking over to check on Martin. He isn't on the couch. She hears a sound from the basement, and rapidly runs down the steps, barrier glittering. Martin is, against all sense, talking with Counter-Magic Specialist Marissa about equipment. Martin tersely smiles at Shrike.

"We've been waiting for you, love."

"Oh?" Shrike steps forward, cautiously, analyzing the threat in front of her.

"Marissa is asking for help with something. I'll let her explain." Marissa gets up from the chair she was on, looking at Shrike nervously.

"Before we start... Shrike, the target is a human being. Not undead, not brain-razed, just a normal human being. I know that's hard for some people, and even with your warrior past, it may be difficult to do this. Are you willing to kill a human?"

"I am willing to kill many humans," Shrike answers without hesitation. Foremost in her mind right now is anyone working with Counter-Magic. Martin playfully punches Marissa in the shoulder.

"Told you." Marissa presses on the back of her neck.

"I expected more resistance to that, honestly. I thought you were..." She pauses, trying to think of the least offensive way to put it.

"I want to say 'civilized' but that sounds as bad as 'tamed.'""You are humanizing me," Shrike states plainly.

"I believe this is a compliment, or at least intended as such."

"Yeah..." Marissa smiles awkwardly.

"Anyway, the target is a reanimator. Takes dead bodies, infuses them with stolen life."

"This is a major cultural taboo, correct?"

"More than that. No one creates undead for good reasons. It's always for something nefarious. Our mission is to kill all the undead, and either capture or kill the reanimator. We start tomorrow at 800." Shrike pensively runs through the factors that would prevent her from pursuing the mission.

"Multiple qualms remain. First, I am decidedly non-affiliated with Counter-Magic, as an officer recently attempted to assassinate Martin and myself. I currently consider all active members a serious threat to my partner and I." Marissa lifts her right heel off the ground, balancing the leg on her toes.

"Is that so... Martin, did you feel like telling me about that before you brought me into a basement with a single exit?"

"Not really," he admits.

"Didn't want to give the game away if this was a trap of some kind." Marissa grits her teeth, voice lowering an octave.

"I had no idea about any of that until after it happened. I still don't know the whole story, just that someone in Counter-Magic sent a group of hunters on a really dangerous job."

"It was 2nd Lieutenant Andre Norwood, 12th Counter-Magic Group," Shrike says.

"He is your superior officer. As such, it is reasonable to suspect you are working under his command. For what other reason would a hunter be enlisted to eliminate a threat Counter-Magic would typically handle themselves?"

"We heard about the vampire nest you cleared. Reanimation typically requires night, so we theorize you can stop any undead-creating spells the reanimator tries to use."

"You present an interesting hypothesis. Regardless, Martin is unavailable for field work currently."

"Right... we just need you. We'd be working together on this, along with three other Counter-Magic soldiers." Shrike open-mouth smiles, and lets out a quick trio of breathy laughs.

"I believe this to be joke at my expense. It it amusing, admittedly."

"I'm not joking. Look, I even have the mission document." Marissa pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, offering it to Shrike. She looks at Marissa as though the soldier is trying to hand her a live grenade.

"Martin?" Shrike queries, eyes fixed on Marissa.

"Don't ask me. This one's all you," he says, learning back in his chair.

"Specialist Marissa, assuming this is in fact a genuine request, I decline for obvious reasons."

"Please, Shrike. This isn't coming from Norwood, and if we go without you there will likely be more casualties."

"Ideally." Marissa tenses up, looking away as she holds her hands behind her back.

"Fuck, Shrike, I didn't realize you felt that way about me."

"I do not, and truthfully, I would typically assist. Unfortunately, I have been subjected exclusively to neutral and negative experiences with Counter-Magic. Did you expect sympathy and trust?" Shrike speaks with an undercurrent of growing anger.

"I get it, we-""No," she interrupts, "You do not. When I was pulled from hibernation, I was locked within unpleasant conditions for a year. In turn, I worked for the people who did it. I was rewarded with the edge of death numerous times. My reward for this was being sequestered by Counter-Magic for a crime I had not even heard of prior. And still, I did as I was told. I sparred with your soldiers.

My reward was the brightest shining beacon in my life nearly dead as an acceptable casualty with the objective of killing me by the very same organization. And now, you stand before me in my own home to ask me to go through this again willingly? My connections with others are nearly all I possess, the bridges between us stone-solid within my mind, yet Counter-Magic miraculously managed to burn through the rocks." Shrike's hands repeatedly clench and unclench at her sides, her breath deepening.

"I query again, Marissa, on why I should trust your institution." Marissa's forehead furrows as she gathers a response.

"You want to know why, Shrike? Three reasons. First, Norwood isn't returning. How he got his rank in the first place, even, is under suspicion now. The only one who's tried to hurt you and Martin is out on your account. Second, because I'm not Norwood. My name is Marissa Skeldon, and to say I'm at all like that bastard is grounds for a fight. Finally? Because if I were going to try something, what I would do is wait until you were asleep, cast a silence spell, and kill you both.

Or maybe I'd kidnap him while you were away, hold him hostage unless you went inside a cell voluntarily, and then let you starve to death. Or maybe I'd simply beat you to death when you weren't expecting it. I didn't do any of those, now did I?" Marissa clenches her own fists, matching Shrike's burgeoning rage.

"God damn, acting like a massive military division is a single universal entity is ridiculous. So fuck you for saying my fellow soldiers and I should die because you got fucked over." Shrike's hands start to relax, as she slows her breathing. She raises good points.

"You are correct."

"Piss off, I-" She does a double take.

"Wait, what?" Shrike calms herself with a long breath.

"I stated you are correct. If the intention was harm in any form, you would have caused it. Additionally, our source said Norwood almost certainly worked alone. I have respect for you as an individual, and I apologize for my crassness." Shrike closes her eyes, releasing the last of her anger in a long breath.

"My seething resentment is not directed towards you, and I had used you as an outlet. I additionally apologize for subjecting you to it." Marissa looks at Martin, who lightly shrugs in response.

"As recompense, I am prepared to compromise on slaying the reanimator under a singular condition: I understand Norwood's position is beyond your capacity to alter, but I would like your word that you will not obey his orders should he be reinstated."

"Deal. Norwood is a piece of shit."

"Then the arrangement is finalized. I will eat and then sleep. It is late, and I am tired." - Shrike lies down in bed with Martin.

"You are certain this is safe?"

"I'm not made of tissue paper. There's nothing left to reopen." Martin grunts, lying on his side.

"Just try not to kick my leg."

"I will."

"And Shrike? I think you did the right thing with Marissa."

"I do not dislike being incorrect, but there is shame in letting my emotions best my judgement."

"You, me, and your friends were almost killed by a giant worm. You get a pass on being emotional." He wraps his arm around her waist, holding her close. - Shrike spends most of the next day alternating between sungazing and napping, breaking only to attend to Martin. By the time she is ready to leave, she is energized, and ready for the mission with clear eyes and focused thought. She drives to the prearranged location, the driveway of a small ranch owner, who was kind enough to let Counter-Magic bribe him.

Shrike exits the Jeep, looking curiously at the soldiers. She vaguely recognizes the man with freckles, but not the other two. Marissa, once seeing Shrike, launches into the debriefing.

"Shrike, this is Latchkey, Freckles, and Bolter." She points to the three of them in turn. Despite just now seeing him, Shrike can tell Latchkey is the quiet type. Something in his eyes, and the way his spellbook is affixed to his pants like an afterthought. Freckles has freckles, she thinks, and Bolter is a lanky, antsy guy with both a compact but stout submachine gun and a spellbook.

"They are unique surnames." Shrike notes, looking between them. Marissa glances at her before continuing.

"That's Shrike. Two of you know her from sparring with her. As for you, Latchkey, she's a kynde with the ability to store and project light in several forms."

"Gotcha." He tilts his head upwards at Shrike in acknowledgement.

"Here's the plan. Shrike's abilities work best on an individual target. We keep whatever goons the reanimator has in store off of her, and she can handle the bigger problems." The three other soldiers nod.

"Our target is holed up in an old fallout shelter about a mile away. Remember, Uncle Sam used to test some scary shit out here in Dugway, so we'll be wearing full-face respirators just in case. Try not to stand too close to anything glowing." Marissa opens the trunk of her car, handing out the masks to each of them, and offering one to Shrike.

"I am not affected by human disease or poisons."

"Yeah? Wanna bet on the government not testing poisons to hurt magical beasts?" Shrike takes the respirator with a quiet "thank you." Marissa takes point at the entrance to the fallout shelter, Latchkey and Bolter cover from the front, and Freckles opens the door. Shrike stands behind them, catching her breath from the mile long hike over hard ground. It creaks open easily. Marissa sucks her teeth.

"Yep. This is the place. Bolter, stay next to Shrike at all times. Freckles, Latchkey, stay in view of her in the front. I'll be in the rear." They form around Shrike with practiced skill, as they start moving into the corridors. It's a fairly narrow fit at first, as they descend a ridiculously long steel staircase, slipping on their respirators as they descend into the Earth. Shrike struggles to breath in it, but Marissa confirms that's normal.

After a few minutes, they reach the bottom of the seemingly endless staircase, as it opens up into a... town?

"Shrike, lights?" Marissa asks. Shrike projects a few on the ceiling next to existing but turned off floodlights, brightening the area. There's two dozen small, dilapidated townhouses, lining two streets in rows of 6. At the end, a scarce few empty buildings: a chapel, a store of some kind, a restaurant... This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"What the hell?" Bolter looks around in wonder at the cavern. It's a fraction of the 1960s, stolen from time and hidden somewhere it never returned from.

"We're going to have to check each house individually. They have two floors each, it looks like. Teams of two. Freckles, take Bolter. Latchkey, on me. Shrike... don't touch anything." Shrike takes the moment to sit down on the old concrete. Her legs burn from the staircase, and it's a bit hard to breathe in the respirator. She watches the two teams walk in and out of the buildings. It's relaxing, as though it were a giant fishtank.

That is, until she reminds herself that humans here don't typically build homes underground. She watches the teams enter into the chapel, then the store, and finally the restaurant. The lights on the ceiling flick on, as a voice plays from the speaker.

"Welcome! The following must report to the chapel for housing assignment: Guest 1, Guest 2, Guest 3, Guest 4, Guest 5, Guest 6, Guest 7, Guest 8..." The voice drones on, stopping somewhere in the 20s.

"Today's weather: no unusual radiation, low humidity, moderate biohazardous material, so keep your Sunday best on!" Shrike stands up, and sees Marissa waving her over. Shrike starts walking over, until a hand on her shoulder stops her. She turns around, unsure how one of the soldiers made it back around, just in time to watch the desiccated corpse bite into her outfit. Shrink watches it gnaw fruitlessly at the cut-resistant material for a few seconds. It's fairly relaxing, like a half-assed massage.

"Am I supposed to eliminate them now?"

"Yes!" Someone from inside the restaurant calls out in response. Shrike projects her macuahuitl out, and slices the corpse's head in half just above its jaws. It keeps trying to chew through, even as its brain is bisected. She must have fallen victim to television's lies, Shrike thinks, as she spikes it through the chest, carrying it up and away from her, before releasing it and letting it fall. The heart isn't important either, she thinks, as it tries to get back up.

She hears the sound of coalescing ice, and watches a chunk of it fly out from the restaurant, spearing another corpse that seemingly came from nowhere. Shrike, curious, tries a different approach, and summons an intense beam of light on the other moving corpse. Next to no effect, even as it melts skin and decayed muscle from bone. She stops the light, reserving her energy. Another spell comes from the restaurant at the corpse they're dealing with, this time fire.

The corpse lights up in flames immediately, but after a moment, explodes into a cloud of yellow-brown gas, scraps of charred leathery skin and cracking bone splinter out like a grenade, shattering the restaurant's glass window. The loudspeaker crackles on, a frustrated, snobby woman's voice comes over the loudspeaker.

"Jeff, I swear to gosh, if you're messing around with the Neophites in the living quarters I'm going to kill you for a fourth time. What? Wait, then who the heck is-" The speaker turns off. Shrike half-jogs to the restaurant, meeting up with the others as they calmly develop a plan. The ex-corpses can be killed with fire, but that makes them explode. They have a brief discussion as a third one wanders over, as Freckles casts a spell on it. Immediately, the corpse collapses, deflating like a popped pool toy.

It releases the same gas as before: brown, yellow, and sickly as it hangs in the air by the door. The loudspeaker springs back to life.

"Okay, got a pretty good look through the last one I sent through. There's what, three or four of you magicians? Not to be crass, but you all are screwed. I locked the door leading out, and the door leading to me. I can't really ask you to turn yourselves over to me, since I'd just convert you, but you're fine. All in all, it's a quick process. Dying, that is. But don't worry, I've saved many from outer darkness before. Right Jeff?" The loudspeaker clicks off again.

"Okay. Standard crackpot. Nothing to it, we continue as normal." Marissa starts moving to the door, then stops.

"Actually, Shrike, you want to go first?" Shrike purses her lips, but does so. Immediately, something moves fast enough to trigger her barrier, which splinters on contact, causing her to put up a second, much stronger one. It catches the attack, letting Shrike look at what almost hit her as the sound of thunder reaches her. It appeared to be a normal rifle, shot by a normal looking man, who chambers another round.

Shrike passively shatters the old wood of the gun in half with a spike of light, walking over in confusion.

"Hello?" The man draws a sidearm, so she repeats the process, this time stabbing him through the arm with a long, thinner spike to get him to drop the gun and simultaneously stop his movement.

"Are you the reanimator?" The man ignores her, trying half-heartedly to free his arm as Shrike takes the revolver. Only three bullets, she notices. The rest of the squad soon follow suit over, guns trained on the stuck man.

"Shrike, that's a fresh reanimated corpse, not the guy we're after."

"Oh." Shrike casually slices through his neck with her sword, balancing the head on her weapon before launching it like a lacrosse ball a dozen feet away. Bolter recoils from the display, hands on his gun and spellbook. Marissa steadies his hands, as she moves forward to where the rifle-wielder must have come from. A door, partially concealed by the rocks, waits for them.

"All you, Latchkey." Marissa says, as his spellbook flips to a page near the middle. Latchkey is gone for around twenty seconds, as Shrike looks around in confusion. Latchkey suddenly reappears.

"Some farm. Two of the exploding things behind the door. I don't want to walk through that gas even with the respirator." He keeps his sentences direct, voice slightly distorted through the mask.

"Gotcha." Marissa points to Bolter.

"You open the door from a distance, Freckles banishes their animating energy like last time after luring them away, okay?" Two "Rogers" echo each other, as the plan works exactly as expected. The group moves in, and the farm is even bigger than the neighborhood. It holds all sorts of crops that tower over the soldiers and Shrike, and also some completely unfamiliar plants. Shrike plucks a leaf from one. Marissa whistles, sharp and short.

"You zoning out?"

"This plant is extinct. The final bloom was sometime in the previous handful of centuries. I recognize it from around a thousand years prior, it was used as a painkiller." She rubs the leaf between gloved fingers.

"Fascinating." Her voice leaks with sarcasm.

"Get your head out of your ass, Shrike. Lives are on the line."

"Of course. I simply found it curious." She returns to the group, eyes forward, as they progress a bit farther.

"Fuck!" Freckles suddenly shouts, stomping his foot on a rat. It twitches despite being a soaking puddle, trying to move despite not having any connection to its limbs intact. A brief plume of gas rises from it.

"Little bastard bit me."

"Let me know ASAP if you feel sick. Everyone, watch for rats. Latchkey, another door on the other side of the room. I got point." She starts leading the team forward, Shrikes eyes searching for more rats. She spears another as it scampers behind them, halting its attack. Once again, the loudspeaker comes to life.

"Seriously? Do you know how hard it is to fit a soul into a rat body? Whatever. You're about to enter the final chamber. Have fun with that. And keep your masks on. Whatever happens, that gas would be worse." As the speaker dies with a shrill squeak, Marissa gathers them together.

"So the next room has the worst of it." She quickly fires a spike of ice into another rat.

"Shrike, just try and cover us. Save your light for the finale.

"Yes, Ma'am." Shrike confirms, feeling a bit hazy from forcing her breathing through the mask. Bolter opens the next metal bulkhead door, as Latchkey saves his energy reserves for the finale confrontation. As Marissa takes point and enters with Latchkey and Freckles behind, the penultimate locale seems empty. A massive storage room, with rows and rows of wooden crates, furniture, preserved food, and the like. Over the loudspeaker, hymns familiar to the soldiers play.

"Shit. I'm definitely feeling something, ma'am." Freckles says, still in formation.

"Okay... close the door to the farm, stay on this side of it and rest for now. Bolter, move from Shrike to Freckles' spot. We have to assume every one of these crates has a reanimated corpse or worse inside. We'll have to take them all out individually, but we don't have time to be careful. Bolter, give 'em the ghostbuster. Latchkey, stay behind him and light em after. Shrike, you take left, I'll take center. I'll race you to the door." Marissa tries to sound friendly, but there's a clear glint in her eyes.

Shrike's nose twitches a bit, as she smiles in return.

"The victor determines the our celebratory meal's location." Marissa's spellbook immediately flings open, as she's off to kicking through crates, spilling their contents out onto the floor.

"Sneaking fiend." Shrike mumbles with a smile, beginning her own advance. Each box receives the same treatment: a large spike sent through it. To save energy, Shrike projects two of the conical spikes at once, alternating them on each box for maximum efficiency. She continues on until she feels something fleshy in contact with her projections. Something indeed unfolds, reaching its full height of eight feet.

It is composed not of a human, but of humans, a freakish centaur with triple jointed arms and legs, a quintet of heads with disturbingly long necks and viscerally pained expressions. Shrike immediately punches through it a few more times with her spike, as the monster starts to laugh, the individual heads forming a jeering audience, as one of them regurgitates the same gas as before, flinging out its arms like whips at Shrike's head. She deflects both, but is grabbed from behind.

Another of the exploding and biting corpses. Shrike beheads it with her weapon before it can move, but both sees and feels her mask move notably to the side, breaking the seal and letting in a small amount of the gas. Shrike inhales it, and it feels almost... familiar. Despite the appearance, it has the same scent as the spirit world. With a smile, she projects a burning shaft of light, channeling significant energy into it. It slowly burns through the monster, as Shrike deflects, dodges, or bisects every hit.

Within thirty seconds, the creature's skin entirely gone, leaving purple muscle exposed and burning away as well. Shrike glances at Marissa. She's dealing with her own issue: a complete swarm of rats and mice, her rapid and complex movements clashing tonally with the soft hymns playing in the background. Shrike continues cleaving through her own monster's arms with her sword, before splitting it through the middle, carving through dense muscle and bone.

The quickly decaying heads try to lash at her like a giraffe's, and are each met with swift elimination. She presses on, almost dismissing the light that was baking exposed bone, but saves Marissa some trouble by redirecting the shaft over to the glut of the rodents, shredding their small bodies in seconds, before Shrike dismisses it to concentrate on the task at hand. She's already used more energy than she was hoping, but she's halfway through, at least.

She keeps moving, impaling crate after crate, until a small horde of the nearly impossible to kill reanimated corpses leave their crates simultaneously. Counting at least ten, Shrike cuts through the first, as it grabs her leg with a severed arm completely disconnected from the head. Right as she's about to opt for another expensive beam of light, eight of them collapse, deflating as the gas in them escapes like last time. Marissa winks, as they press on.

With a final push, Shrike reaches the door, and tries to open it. It is, as expected, stuck tight. The loudspeaker's hymns are removed in favor of the reanimator's nasally voice.

"Gosh darn it, that's a lot of work you've destroyed. No matter, what's dead can be brought back to serve the Lord again. And so, it seems we end in a stalemate, neither of us-" Her speech is cut off by the door groaning. Then, through a bulging dent in the center, she watches a spike of light pierce through the six-inch steel door. The spike grows in a burst, radiating out, as the door's gaping hole and number of dents both grow.

With one last spurt of growth, the door is ripped from its hinges, the bizarre projection shattering into uncountable pieces. The reanimator points to the door as her thrice-dead brother Jeff raises a flamethrower. As her brother pulls the trigger, some kind of monster charges through the now removed door, throwing up a golden barrier. It doesn't matter: the heat will prevent her from getting closer, or she'll be cooked in fractions of a second.

At least, that's what should have happened, but instead her brother is ripped in half from shoulder to hip by a sword of light. The reanimator senses the monster that killed him has some connection to the spirit world already. With a- Marissa's heel cuts the reanimators thoughts short, collapsing her skull with a strong kick. As she does, a wretched sizzling sound burns through the reanimator, as her body jerks, trying to reanimate itself.

Marissa stomps on her skull a few times to make sure, before casting a final anti-magic spell on her head. She briefly shares a nod with Shrike, who Marissa knows will be sure to remind her who reached the door first. Marissa quickly finds the release button for the bunker, and turns back out into the storage room. She's breathing hard, running out of steam, but still runs back to check on her squad. Latchkey and Bolter had done their row, as she skids to a stop at Freckles.

His skin has turned pale, sweat-soaked, as his breathing hastens. She calls out to her team, as they rush to carry Freckles- no, Fred- to the surface for an evac. They don't even make it to the staircase before his heart stops. - She is laughing with her adopted tribe around a large fire. Her friend made a joke about how instead of catching many small fish, they should catch one fish the size of the ocean instead.

She continues whittling a thick bone with a sharp stone knife, and in honor of the joke, decides to make it a bit larger than usual. Ek-tak, her friend, throws the line into the ocean from the edge of a natural jetty. The water is deeper here, so its a prime fishing spot. Ek-tak says she's going to catch more fish than she is. Ek-tak is ridiculous, she thinks. She says that she can catch a fish so big that even two of Ek-Tak's won't compare.

Ek-Tak sticks her tongue out at her friend, who is busy with her fire pit despite the summer heat. There's a massive tug on the line, so strong the line slips in her hands for a moment, cutting into her left hand. She manages to hold on, wrapping the line around her hand a few times, pulling with all her strength. She sees it flop up two dozen feet from where she's braced her feet, and sends down a single spear of light from above, piercing the fish's head. With it no longer fighting, she drags it in.

It is so large, it is difficult to lift. Ek-tak laughs, admitting defeat, and returning together with her friend back to her tribe. They cook the fish, and its enough for the entirety of their number to have a filling meal. They thank the sky and sea, and after, Ek-Tak reminds them who they should really be thanking. The tribe briefly chants the name of the one who caught the fish. She stayed for another year, leaving at the end of the summer to hibernate again.

Ek-Tak, as a parting gift, shows her the fish hook used to catch the giant fish last time the season was warm. It is looped around a firm cord decorated in small shells, and the hook itself was painted in a variety of greens, yellows, and reds. Her name was Het-Helk, and she will be told in stories by her friends to their children, as the passing spirit who caught the ocean-sized fish. - Shrike's drive home was solemn.

The joy of a new memory was tainted by the death of Freckles, who she had been told was actually named Frederick Pikeman. Had it been her mistake? If she wasn't distracted, could she have saved him? The gas didn't end up affecting her, so could she have simply removed the respirator and get enough air to think more clearly? She doesn't have a firm answer, and it eats at her. When she pulls into the driveway, she opens the front door to see Opie on guard, his eyes shifting location on his head.

She owes Possum one for this. Shrike sits on the couch, talking to Martin and Possum about the success, and about the incredibly irritating decontamination procedure. She waits until Possum and Opie leave for the night, before dropping her fake smile, and telling Martin the less enjoyable details.

"A soldier named Frederick perished." She states, gauging Martin's reaction. He tersely frowns.

"Damn. I'm sorry, Shrike."

"It bothers me, because I am unsure if I could have prevented it. We were wearing respirators, which I believe limited my breathing ability, and led to me becoming notably inattentive and disoriented. I am unsure if his death would have happened, had I opted out." Shrike scratches her ungloved hand, along a line where the faintest scar was left from the fishing trip so long ago. Martin exhales.

"Shrike. You can't blame yourself for what happens to others."

"I do not. It was his own fault. I... worry, I believe, if this was you in the situation."

"Worrying about other people that you know are okay, huh? Where have I heard that before?" Shrike almost tries to object, but there's nothing to object to. She smiles solemnly, resting her head on his lap.