Chapter V
The air, strangely vacant where the monstrous form had towered, hung heavy around Watters and Grimm. A choking miasma of burnt flesh and settling dust clung to them, a grim testament to the once formidable mutant, now reduced to ash swirling on the bitter wind. The roars faded, leaving a silence that pressed against their ears, heavy as the smoke, prickling the skin like unseen eyes.
"Grimm," Watters' voice cracked sharp, his brow creasing as he leaned forward, eyes flashing with disbelief, "this… this defies all logic. Lycans, purged by the Order's steel, resurrected? It's impossible!"
"Until a warlock's craft clawed them from the earth," Grimm replied, his voice a low, gravelly counterpoint to Watters' disbelief.
Grimm turned, his measured steps carrying him towards the skeletal outline etched in the ash. He paused, his gaze locking with Watters' over his shoulder. "The Order's steel has failed your town, Doctor," Grimm's voice, dry as the ash underfoot, echoed with a chilling finality, "not me."
He continued, his gaze piercing, "Logic has little purchase here, Doctor. Warlocks twist the very fabric of death with their forbidden rites. Resurrection is merely… a tool in their hands. This Lycan, this abomination, is not the endgame. It's a message, a grim herald of what is to come."
Grimm knelt, brushing aside the gritty residue, revealing the faint glimmer of silver beneath. He retrieved his knife, the blade catching the flickering firelight, and sheathed it with a sharp, metallic snick. Rising, he moved with a purpose that belied the chaos around them, towards the deeper shadows cast by the ravaged beast.
Watters shook his head, slow and heavy, as if shaking off a nightmare's grip. "Warlocks? In Barrowham? That's preposterous. I've always dismissed them as nothing more than fireside tales, whispered to frighten the gullible. This town is hardly a breeding ground for such… heresy."
"You've read plenty, Doctor, but reading isn't seeing," Grimm cut in, his words slicing through Watters' like a blade. "Dismiss at your own peril, Doctor. You have never seen a warlock. But I assure you, this is no fireside tale."
"Peril?" Watters laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "I've seen death, Grimm—don't lecture me on tales." He gestured to the surrounding devastation. "I've seen its handiwork."
"Then see this," Grimm growled, his gaze fixed on the ashen remains, "and wake up." With a swift, almost disdainful flick of his wrist, Grimm swept aside a layer of ash, revealing the glint of silver. Watters' jaw tightened, doubt warring with a growing dread. The silver letter opener, now coated in soot, was retrieved. He straightened, his silhouette a stark contrast against the flickering firelight, his attention already drifting back to the ravaged town.
"Alright, alright," Watters' shoulders sagged, his voice softening as if testing the words, a frown tugging at his lips. "Assuming, for the sake of argument, that there is a warlock… how do we even begin to find him? To undo this… chaos?"
Grimm turned, his cold eyes fixed on Watters, a chillingly direct gaze. "We," he repeated, the word a flat correction, a stark reminder of Watters' isolation.
"Yes, well," Watters stumbled over his words, hands darting to smooth his suit, fingers twitching against the fabric. "The Order has protocols for this—mystical threats. If their lines are down, they'll still come," he murmured, clinging to the last vestiges of hope. His words faltered, eyes flickering away from Grimm's unblinking gaze, a shiver tracing his spine.
"Your Order's protocols mean nothing here," Grimm repeated, his voice laced with scorn. "Protocols for order, Doctor. Not for wickedness like this." He gestured towards the burning town, a wide, encompassing sweep. "The Order has faced worse," Watters countered, his voice betraying a flicker of desperation. "They'll come."
"Worse?" Grimm sneered, his gaze cutting. "Open your eyes, Doctor. This is not a breach of protocol. This is a breach of reality itself. And your 'Order'… they are conspicuously absent."
"They have to come," Watters insisted, his voice fraying, the echo of his own doubt ringing in his ears.
"Or, perhaps," Grimm interjected, his voice now carrying an edge of dark prophecy, "they will not."
The air grew still, pressing against their chests, each breath a labor as the wind's howl sharpened. The bitter winter wind whipped at Watters' face, stinging his eyes, and Grimm's coat snapped and billowed around him like a storm-torn sail. Watters' breath hitched, his hands trembling as he scanned the burning village.
Minutes stretched into an unnerving silence. No horn blast echoed from the ridge, no Order banners appeared on the horizon. Watters' gaze swept the ravaged town, each empty street, each unmoving shadow a silent testament to their absence. Protocol, the word echoed hollowly in his mind, yet the protocol remained broken. Was the Mayor cold flesh amidst this carnage? Had his hand, the one meant to send the urgent summons, been silenced forever? He swallowed, the thought a bitter pill. No. Mikkelson. He had to be breathing, a poisonous root left to fester.
He waded into the corpse-strewn square, the air thick with the metallic tinge of blood, the sickly sweet cloy of death. His boots squelched on the crimson-soaked stones with each step. Eyes darted from one mangled form to the next, searching, desperate. Evidence. He sought a broken shard of green glass, a flash of emerald fabric, anything to whisper relief. But there was only carnage. Limbs twisted at impossible angles, faces frozen in silent screams, guts spilled like butcher's refuse. He knelt, his fine coat brushing the gore, and with a gentleness that belied the scene's brutality, he eased a heavy torso from a smaller frame beneath. Familiar faces swam in his vision, then dissolved back into the anonymous dead. He searched on, each fallen body a silent question, each blank stare a fresh wave of despair.
Across the ruined square, a patch of faded blue snagged Watters's gaze – a splash of color in the monochrome wasteland. "Gordon!" he shouted, the name ripped from his throat, and broke into a run. His shoes pounded the rubble, each stride fueled by a desperate, fragile hope. Gordon would know. Gordon always knew. He pictured the Chief's steady hand, his resolute gaze – a beacon in this nightmare. Help. Answers. Mikkelson. The frigid air tore at his lungs, each breath a painful reminder of their dwindling time.
He skidded to a halt, hope slamming against the brick wall of reality. The figure was too slight, too small. Not Gordon. His hand, suddenly leaden, trembled as it reached out, fingers brushing rough fabric, grasping at the arm. He heaved, muscles straining, turning the body with agonizing slowness. A deep exhale shuddered from his chest, a sound closer to a sob. His vision blurred, stinging behind his eyes, as he whispered, "No…" Before him, Daniels lay broken, a grotesque mockery of the young officer he'd known. Crimson stained his Order blue, saturating the once-proud bright fabric. Mangled limbs splayed at unnatural angles, flesh ripped and raw. Daniels's eyes were fixed open, frozen in a silent scream, the pupils rolled upwards, disappearing beneath the lids, leaving only the whites, stark and vacant. Nightmares, cold and familiar, clawed their way back from the shadows of his mind, each mangled corpse in the square a mirror reflecting his own crushing failures.
Watters shuffled back towards Grimm, shoulders slumped, head bowed, each step heavy as if dragging anchors. The absent horns of the Order echoed in the silence, a phantom weight pressing down on him, bending him inwards.
Grimm watched the doctor approach, his gaze unwavering, fixed, like chips of glacial ice. "They're not coming, are they," Watters murmured, the words barely audible, a breath of cold air escaping his lips. A visible tremor ran through Watters's frail frame, the line of his jaw hardening with grim certainty. "Then what?" Watters asked, his voice pitched too high, too tight, threatening to crack. "Just… wait? Here?" He gestured weakly at the ravaged square, a dismissive flick of his wrist. "For them… to end this?" His brow furrowed, skin creasing around his eyes in a silent, desperate appeal. His gaze latched onto Grimm's face, clinging to it as if it held the last flickering ember in the encroaching night.
"Hmph," Grimm grunted, the sound a rumble in his chest, his gaze riveted to the silver edge, as if seeking answers there. "No." He lifted his head, his gaze now a burning brand locked on Watters. "No, Doctor." Grimm extended his hand, the silver blade held out not as a gift, but a gauntlet thrown down in the twilight. Watters hesitated, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly before reaching out, accepting the letter opener from Grimm. "We fight tonight," Grimm stated, his voice devoid of sentiment. He studied Watters—frail, yet unbowed. "You're no soldier," he said, "but you'll do." His hand extended, offering the blade. "Are you ready, Doctor?"
Watters gripped it, meeting his gaze, "I'm ready," Watters straightened, his voice cutting clear through the wind, a flicker of shock crossing his own face, nodding a single, decisive nod.
"Very good, Doctor," Grimm's voice held a thread of grim pragmatism. He whistled sharply, and hooves thundered from the alley, his horse emerging into the light. A creature of midnight and muscle, it trotted with a spectral grace to its master's side.
"Amazing," Watters' breath caught, eyes widening as they traced the horse's towering frame, "it dwarfs any horse I've ever…" His observation ended abruptly as a hand clamped down on his jacket, yanking him backwards. Before he could protest, Grimm had effortlessly hauled him upwards, depositing him onto the broad back of the animal with the casual strength of a man lifting a sack of grain.
"Well, I…" Watters' lips parted, words dissolving into a faint stammer as Grimm's grip lingered in his mind.
Before Watters could coherently stammer a reply, Grimm was already mounted, his movement swift and economical. "Logically, Doctor," Grimm stated, his voice level, devoid of patience, "the Order is no longer a factor. Had they the means or the will to intervene, Barrowham would not be burning." He paused, his gaze sweeping the horizon, assessing the next threat. "Your Mayor… he is your liaison to The Order?"
Watters blinked hard, shoulders squaring as a spark flared in his chest, voice firming. "Yes." "Mayor Mikkelson. He possesses secure channels to contact the Order. Protocol dictates immediate contact in cases of…" He hesitated, the word catching in his throat, "…emergency. Why do you ask?" His throat tightened, fingers twitching as he glanced at Grimm.
Grimm waved a dismissive hand, a gesture of pure impatience, brushing aside Watters' reliance on protocol. "Where is this Mayor, Doctor?" His tone brooked no further explanation, demanding direction.
"I didn't see his body among the dead, so he might be alive," Watters thrust his arm out, pointing towards a faint glow on the hill, a solitary island of light in the encroaching darkness, "There, the manor on the hill. His residence."
The manor was far, a toy sculpture swallowed by the green sea of forest surrounding the town. It stood high, nestled against the cold backdrop of the cold rugged rockface grappling the unforgiving mountain range.
"But it would take hours…" Watters' voice softened, each word dropping like a stone into silence, breath faltering. He turned, the movement slow and heavy, his gaze dropping to the blood-soaked ground before drifting back to Grimm, a silent plea hanging in the air between them.
Grimm tightened his grip on the reins, a subtle but decisive signal that spurred the warhorse into motion. "The Manor it is," Grimm declared, his voice firm, resolute, the new direction now unquestioned. The horse turned, its hooves crunching on the ashen ground, and together, they plunged into the encroaching shadows. The wind howled, a mournful cry echoing through the burning town, a grim serenade to their desperate journey.