Out of Exodia by Debra Chapoton Page B

a woodsy hunting
theme which now looks hauntingly gruesome with shaggy animal heads
tilted on the walls and broken wooden furniture pushed against the
stairs. We shove aside the dusty wheeled chairs and tables and
ascend the steps.
    The room at the top is unexpectedly
clean. The chairs are gone; their empty stalls are clear of debris
and consoles hold nothing more than screens and some kind of thick
black wires, curly at one end and bowed in an arc at the other end
with round protuberances. Harmon lifts one up and wonders aloud if
it’s a communication device. I look out the windows that, though
filthy, are all still unbroken. We have an astonishing view in
every direction. Some runways are bare, others are strewn with
propellers, small plane noses and tails, and large wings from jets
whose bodies were wheeled off to use as cabins. I see one battered
fuselage that didn’t get towed away. It blocks a gateway. A ripple
of movement shines off its windows. I prop the rod against a
console and look more sharply.
    “ There. See?”
    Harmon spins to peer out to the
south.
    “ And there.”
    He jerks in equal surprise at the
northern view. “Two enemies?”
    “ No. The same enemy.
Divided. See their garments? Same colors.”
    The horses and men to the north are
stationary, planted directly in our path, ready to mow us down when
we leave the flat ground. The southern army approaches steadily,
swarming east and west as they advance, as if they intend to round
us up like sheep and herd us toward a slaughter.
    Directly below us the Reds are swelling
across the runways completely unaware of the disaster that will
strike from every side. I hear the crowd’s usual noise: the buzz of
talking, the clunks and scrapes of sleds and carts being pulled
behind huffing travelers. But there is also a low hum.
    “ I expect you’ll need
this.” It’s Malcolm. He’s followed us up into the tower, toting his
machine like a precious babe. The hum stops; the fresh, white cloud
the machine controls hangs low, just above the heads of those in
the lead, then it descends further presenting a fog through which
they fear to pass.
    “ We have to fight.” I grab
the amplifying device that Malcolm offers and swallow hard. One
word from my dry mouth and the people below jump back. Another word
and they look to the cloud and then toward the tower, see me, and
settle down, only to rile when I tell them we must fight an enemy
they cannot see.
    “ They’re moving!” Harmon’s
arm reaches north indicating the impending attack.
    For just an instant the hum
abates and I hear those words again: raise
the rod and win . It’s God’s voice, though
others might claim it’s Ronel’s.
    Harmon repeats his panicked claim and
adds, “Are these those underground dwellers?”
    I have no idea who they are, though I
suspect he’s dead on. I stare unseeing until the words I heard from
the machine rearrange themselves to answer Harmon in a distorted
puzzle. “Risen town head raid.”
    He scowls at me and waves his hand in
front of my face. “Risen town? What? This is more than a raid.
Listen!”
    The first sounds of gunfire precede
horrifying screams. My head clears and my vision sharpens. The Reds
under the cloud drop their things and run toward the tower. The
people who lagged behind now race forward. I stand perfectly still.
A chilling silence deafens my ears. It’s followed by a lightning
strike so profound that it must turn everyone’s hearing to stone.
When the ringing in my ears subsides, I hear erratic shots. Our
people are wasting their ammunition.
    “ Put your backs to the
tower,” I shout into the amplifier. I search below for Lydia. She
rushes her mother toward the base of the tower.
    The enemies, some running on foot,
others galloping, cross the landing fields firing precious bullets
to start the slaughter. They close in and the fighting changes.
It’s a primitive struggle, with knives and bats in the hands of the
attackers and faux swords and