It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: The Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion: Part Four

Episode Date: October 29, 2023

In this episode of the Cool Zone Media Book Club, Margaret Killjoy reads the final two chapters of her folk horror novella the Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion to Robert.  https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-lamb-will-slaughter-the-lion-margaret-killjoy/7104105See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

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That's iHeart.com slash podcast awards. I'm doing the intro right now. I'm Robert Evans. This is the podcast. It could happen here. Book club edition. And that's my job. I'm done Evans. This is the podcast. It could happen here. Book Club Edition. And that's my job. I'm done. Yep.

You know, that's closer to true than it usually is. That's my job or that I'm done? Both. Oh, good. Okay. Because Cool Zone Book Club is where, at least this month, is where Margaret reads you stories. Oh, yes.

In particular, I read you from The Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion, the first book in the Daniel Cain currently duology of novellas. A novella is a short novel. They're fun to write. I recommend them. They're fun to read.

See, I thought in the Spanish that a novella was a lady novel. I hope that's a correct joke about Spanish. I may be wrong. My Spanish is terrible. You know, it's funny. For a little while, I knew enough Spanish to actually kind of answer these things

because I used to pay attention to old Spanish fiction projects. But I don't know enough to play off of that joke successfully. No, no, no. Yeah, probably not a joke. No. That was reasonable or a good idea to make because I don't know enough Spanish.

And here we are, and it's a shame that there's no live editing or we're just only forward, the only direction. The only way out is through robert that's right that's right what hand dare seize the fire i feel like i could seize the fire i feel like it wouldn't be hard yeah yeah what's that there's that study that like um it's like like 25 of american men think they could fight a grizzly bear or whatever it is yeah i mean i i feel like i i feel like i have a shot the other years ago i read a story there's a guy who got

attacked by i think it was a grizzly up in canada like his dog got attacked and he just like through a just a sheer crapshoot of fate swung at it with like a stick he found on the ground and killed it and like yeah like i feel like there there is some some percentage of people who will get lucky so all we need to do is have enough of us try to fight a grizzly bear a couple of people will make it work right i have found i often run combat simulations and there's always a five percent chance of success no matter what. Because if you roll a natural 20, it's a critical hit. That is, every time you do occasionally come across stories like that, where it's like, oh yeah, some dude just rolled a 20.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Good stuff. Well, shall we get back into it? Yeah. We are on chapter seven out of eight. So this is the last episode of The Lamb Will Slaughter the Lion.

Wow. And if you like this book, you can go out and buy it. It's a book. You can buy it in print. They can't stop you. The man will try to stop you. Yeah, that's right. But he hasn't the power.

Yeah. The man might try and stop you from stealing the book, but I'm not going to stop you from stealing the book. Yeah. Either way. Yeah. So where we last left our heroes they are in a tree house and they're like ah shit we figured out the obscure clue but it didn't really do us any good and truly the complicated thing ulexi's down below the tree house waiting for them what are they gonna do well for an hour at least, Bryn cried in the hammock about

the death of her friend as I tried to comfort her. The sun set behind the hill after an interminable day, and Ulyxie ran off into the gloaming, his guardian bull keeping pace alongside. The birds remained, watching us with their dead eyes, but they made no move to follow us as we went down the ladder and headed for town. We were hungry and thirsty, and there weren't really words left for us to say. By the time we made it as far as the lookout rock, it was full dark and every light in town was on. The streets below us were swarming with a commotion of lanterns, headlamps, and torches. Brynn broke into a run, and I went after her down the hill,

taking the steps two at a time. The first house we reached was a run- I went after her down the hill, taking the steps two at a time. The first house we reached was a run-down split level. A pickup truck was idling out front and a family was loading bags and boxes onto its bed. What's going on, Bryn asked. A white woman in her mid-thirties set down a laundry bag full of clothes and put her hands to her head to rub her temples. Bryn, where have you been? Out in the woods. What's going on? We're leaving, she said. Everyone's leaving.

The cops are on their way. What? That punk kid, Eric, the tall one, he said he went into town to cool off. Says he saw more cops in the parking lot at Walmart than he could count. The manager at the food bank, that old guy with the ponytail,

the one that likes us, he told Eric the cops were gonna raid. He's lying, I said. What? The woman looked at me for the first time. He's fucking lying, I said. I looked at Bryn. He's just trying to get everyone panicked so that we leave Doomsday alone. I don't know, Bryn said. The next house down was overgrown and covered in graffiti. Vulture and a stranger were walking out of it, each with a sack of concrete over their shoulder. Bryn and I saw them and started running.

Bryn, Danielle! Vulture loped over like he wasn't holding 50 pounds. You're all right. What the fuck, Bryn asked. The cops, Vulture started. We heard, Bryn said. Who's watching Doomsday, I asked. Thursday is, Vulture said. The rest of us are getting ready. Where's Rebecca? She's dead, I said. Doomsday might end up that way too, and soon. She was the only one left who

could dismiss Ulysses, and Eric knew it. Bryn stayed behind to help Vulture, but I ran down the hill. Barricades of lumber, brick, and trash blocked the street at every bend, with only small gaps still left open to let through the vehicles of those who sought escape. Lengths of rebar thrust forth from anchors long ago embedded in the concrete. Freedom, Iowa, had been preparing for this night since its first day. There was a fire in the air, a certain spark that's only found in the otherworldly calm of conflict. But it was all wrong. It was all a distraction. The cops weren't coming. I was sure of it. I ran downhill, my feet slapping on the pavement. I ran past anxious people, excited people,

terrified people. I wasn't any of those things. I was furious. The largest mass of lights and people was by the bridge, the most logical choke point. Probably, people there were getting ready to delay the police long enough for Doomsday's ritual and for everyone else to escape through the woods. That's how I would have planned it. I reached the block with Doomsday's house, but the place was unlit. It looked abandoned. No, not abandoned.

A hooded figure crouched over in the side yard. The ward stone, whoever it was, they were pulling up the ward stone. My fast-beating heart, my ragged breath, and the rhythm of my feet were all I could hear. My legs burned and ached. I could feel my pulse in my wounded hand. My lungs had long since given up complaint. Anger alone fueled my body. Hey! I shouted, which was all I could get out between my failing breaths.

Hey! The figure stood up just as I started up the embankment. They turned toward me, a crowbar in one hand. You shouldn't fuck with someone who has a crowbar. I launched myself toward them,

a desperate tackle. The crowbar struck my left shoulder. I was lucky, I suppose, since as likely as not they'd aimed for my head. The claw of it split my skin and sent blood into the air. My antagonist went down, me on top. I spun around behind them, got their neck in the crook of my right arm, and applied pressure. I spun around behind them, got their neck in the crook of my right arm, and applied pressure. A sleeper hold, choking off the blood to their brain. Useful self-defense for someone as small as me. They fell unconscious.

It wasn't Eric. It was Kestrel. The white wardstone lay cracked, open to a black geode. The house was no longer protected. Shit. I stood up. He wouldn't be out for long, just ten seconds or so. I needed something to tie him up with. The world exploded. Sort of. It felt like it at the time. It was a gunshot, really, but it was louder than noises have any right to be, and the bullet crashed into the wall of the house not two feet from my head. Get down, I heard.

I didn't register the command, though, so I didn't follow it. Another shot, this time from behind me. Gunshots are kind of like a non-verbal way of communicating get down. And after that second shot, I listened. I dropped down next to Kestrel. If he was conscious, he wasn't showing it. I might have killed him.

I never killed anyone before. It turned out that I didn't very much like the thought of having killed somebody. It bothered me more than I expected. Then a rapid back and forth of bullets, and I saw the squat figure of Thursday on the porch, calmly firing in a two-handed grip. figure of Thursday on the porch, calmly firing in a two-handed grip. A figure ran off toward the tree line. A tall figure. An Eric Tall as Fuck figure, more accurately, his punk rock spikes gleaming in the muzzle flash as he fired wildly behind himself. I staggered to my feet to go after him. Then my brain turned itself back on, and I dropped to the ground again, because there might be bullets up there, and because I'd just taken the pointy end of a crowbar to my central mass,

so what the fuck did my body know about still working? Ulyxie is the revolution. It was Kestrel talking, his mouth right next to my head. Ulyxie is the lamb that will slaughter the lion. Doomsday is going to end it. Doomsday is going to end the revolution. At least I hadn't killed him. I was going to add it to my bucket list,

right next to visit Antarctica and torch something evil, was going to be, make it through the whole of my life without killing anyone. You're a fucking wannabe, he whispered conspiratorially, like he was imparting the wisdom of the ages. You act like you're a revolutionary, but you're a fucking poser. On the other hand, maybe it would have been okay if I'd killed him. It wasn't like I was probably going to make it to Antarctica either. I staggered my feet, then almost fell back over when the

report of a pistol exploded in my ear. Thursday was next to me, his arm around my back, supporting me. Get inside, Thursday said. Jesus, Danielle, get the fuck in the house. Kestrel was gone. I saw him running after Eric. What kind of asshole calls someone a poser? Welcome. I'm Danny Thrill.

Won't you join me at the fire and dare enter? Nocturnum, Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern-day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures. I know you. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time.

that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season your podcast. from an industry veteran with nothing to lose. This season, I'm going to be joined by everyone from Nobel-winning economists to leading journalists in the field, and I'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible.

Don't get me wrong, though. I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better. Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. On Thanksgiving Day 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere. Elian Gonzalez.

Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with. His father in Cuba.

Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts,

or wherever you get your podcasts. No one's answering, Doomsday said. All of her composure had been stripped away by days of stress and fear. Her hair was a wild tangle, and she clutched at her phone in a shaking fist. She hadn't taken it well when I told her what Kestrel had done to the ward stone. She'd taken it even worse when I told her what had happened to Rebecca. I sat on the edge of the bathtub in my sports bra while Thursday cleaned the wound on my shoulder. They're mixing and

pouring cement, Thursday said. Would you answer your phone while you're mixing and pouring cement? Yes, Doomsday snapped. I'd answer my goddamn phone. This is pretty bad, Danny, Thursday said, trying to mop at the blood that dribbled down my chest. Danielle, I said, for fuck's sake, my name is Danielle. Like, I can clean it out, and if you want, I've got a sewing needle. I've never been given no one's stitches, never even read a book about it. The basic idea seems kind of simple, right? Clay could stitch a wound. I mean, you're not, like, bleeding out or something, I think. I'm at least as worried about the blunt trauma as the cut. Your confidence is really inspiring, I said. Hey, I never signed up to be a doctor. I'm just doing what needs doing, okay? Sorry, I said. It didn't mean anything by

it. Your hand all right? I still had the bandana tied tight around my right hand. The pain was a dull throb, but nothing compared to how bad my left shoulder hurt. It's fine. Come on, come on, Doomsday said, praying to the room with her phone to her ear. You ever read The Man Who Was Thursday? Thursday asked. What? I'm trying this bedside manner thing. You're looking pretty pale, even for you. I'm trying to keep you thinking about something else. No, I've never read it. That's where I got my name, Thursday said. It was written about anarchists like a hundred years ago. There are these seven anarchist leaders, each named after a day of the week. And Thursday, well, the first Thursday, he's the only one of them who, it turns out,

wasn't a cop the whole time. You know how the first Thursday gets it in the end? Well, actually, the beginning. How, I asked. He's so committed to his ideals of anti-oppression that he refuses to drink milk. But since he's, you know, British, he has to like drink something, I guess, in his tea or whatever. So he drinks powdered chalk all the time. And one day it kills him. Huh, I said. No, seriously, it's hilarious. That shit was making fun of vegans before vegan was a word. Okay, I said. Anyway, Doomsday named me after the book. She told me I was the only person in the world she knew wasn't a cop. Undercover's right. They're lying anyway, so they'll swear up and down their God's gift to revolutionary politics. Me, I was set on

this no politics thing for a long ass time. Now I'm a damn third generation Central American leftist, and I didn't even want to be a leftist at all. I guess my dad would be proud. All right. Hey, look at that. The bleeding stopped, he said. I smiled. No, no, it started again. Shit, don't smile. The bathtub was slowly filling with bloody toilet paper. God, God, God fucking... Doomsday put her phone down carefully on the porcelain sink, barely containing her rage. Clay's dead. Anchor's dead. Rebecca's dead. You're not dead, and you're not going to be dead, Thursday said. The wards are down. I don't even know how to dismiss you, Lixie. And now? Now the fucking cops are coming.

The cops aren't coming, I said. Eric, he just said that to stir up the town. You've been here two years. The cops aren't coming tonight. If they were evicting us, you'd have heard about it before tonight. Probably been warned to clear out. Not unless the cops were serving a warrant for something serious. Thursday and Doomsday looked at each other. Someone's got a warrant, I said.

Kestrel knew, Doomsday said. Yeah, Kestrel would have known, Thursday agreed. Knew what? The cops are coming for Doomsday, Thursday said. What? I used to live in Alaska, Doomsday said. I was married for 15 years. It was good for a while.

But I couldn't get pregnant. My husband got worse and worse. I shot him. He deserved it. It wasn't self-defense, not in the immediate sense, not in the way that I could have proved in court. Jesus, I said. Doomsday took a deep breath. Neighbors heard the shots, I could have proved in court. Jesus, I said. Doomsday took a deep breath.

Neighbors heard the shots, I guess. Sheriffs showed up. I tried to talk to them. Tried to make them understand. They didn't understand. Damn, I said. You shot them too. I wasn't going to prison, Doomsday said.

Not for that motherfucker. Okay. So maybe cops are coming, I said. Kestrel must have snitched me out. I never would have thought. Fucking hell, Thursday said. It's almost like you can't summon otherworldly beings into existence, let them loose on your enemies, and set up a culture of worship around them without people getting all crazy. You were in favor of summoning him, Doomsday said. I know, Thursday said. Hell, I'm still glad we did it. It was worth a shot. I've got until dawn to figure out how to unsummon him, Doomsday said. What hand dare seize the fire, I said. Pardon? I told them what I learned

from Clay's notebook, which wasn't much. Doomsday put her hands to her temples. I think you read the signs right. Clay's misquoted poetry, Rebecca's figurines, solstice is solstice. But how? How do we dismiss him? And with the police there, as likely as not. Oh, Jesus, I said. The cops. If Ulysses is around, cops. He'll slaughter them, Doomsday said. And everyone who's ever lived here will wind up running or in prison. I don't want to be on the run, I said. No one does, Doomsday said. Then what's the plan, I asked.

We somehow get everyone out before the cops show up, somehow unsummon Ulyxie before the river runs red, and somehow evade the remaining police. Somehow, Thursday asked, all the while avoiding Eric and Kestrel. I would go with stop more than avoid, Thursday asked, all the while avoiding Eric and Kestrel. I would go with stop more than avoid, Thursday said. But yeah. What was the line, Doomsday asked suddenly?

What hand dare seize the fire? I nodded. Doomsday got a glint in her eye I'd never seen before. It was frightening. Maybe Ulyxie took down Anchor for the same reason I took down those sheriffs. Self-defense. Maybe we summoners can control him. Maybe I could turn him on, Eric. Hell, after that, when we summoned him in the first place, we named these hills, this river, as his territory. If I renew the summoning, I could name a whole lot more than that. If I renew the summoning, I could name a whole lot more than that.

I could name the world. The only way out is through, Thursday asked. What hand dare seize the fire, Doomsday agreed. No, I said. I didn't want to fight with them. I just wanted to go home. If only I had a home. What?

I've been through way too much shit for you to switch sides on me now, I said. And I know what the other side looks like. Eric, Kestrel, all of them. They say they want to make the world better, but they're just supplanting one authority for another and they'll fucking murder anyone who tries to stop them because that's what power does to people. I believe in a messy, imperfect world where we just collectively or individually figure things out. So no, world where we just collectively or individually figure things out. So no, I'm not going to let you switch sides. And what do we do? I don't fucking know, I said. We figure something out. Bryn and Vulture came in, slamming the door behind them and startling all of us. Bryn took the gun from Thursday, knelt with one knee on the dining room chair, and started reloading the mag. How many bullets do you think Eric shot, I asked.

Four in Rebecca, and it had to be at least three more outside the house. How many can its mag hold? Can't, like, think like that, Bryn said. Bullet counting is some next-level shit. You see someone with a gun, it's loaded. Same as you treat your own gun like it's loaded, even when it's not.

Still, I said. Still nothing, Danielle. You see a gun, it's got. Still, I said. Still nothing, Danielle. You see a gun. It's got a bullet ready to shoot. Vulture, for his part, took over treating my shoulder. You want stitches, he asked. What are my options? I can stitch you up, and I'll probably do a decent job, but not a great job. I could not stitch you up. Maybe hit it with butterfly bandages and splint your shoulder to keep you from moving and reopening the wound. Or you do what you should do, which is get someone to take you out of here, get you to an emergency room. What would you do? I asked. He bit his lip.

If I were you, just come to town chasing after your old friend's ghost, I'd use the excuse to cut out. You're not in any shape to stand behind a barricade. You're not any shape to go to jail. There's no shame in leaving now. He was right, of course. It was a liability. Still, just leaving after all of that? But what I'd do if I were me, Vulture continued,

is stick around and see what goes down. I watched Brynn through the open bathroom door as she loaded an extra mag. Dozens of cops were en route. A demon slept nearby. I had seen two corpses already, and the wards were down. I had already been bitten by an undead goat, crowbarred by a fanatic, and shot at by an asshole. Fuck it, I said.

I'll go down fighting. Vulture put his fingers to his lips and hopped with joy. Then he took out his phone and took a photo of my wound. I've always wanted to stitch someone up, he said. I'll do a before and after for Instagram. It turned out he'd done it plenty of times on dogs as part of an animal rescue operation in New Orleans. I was long past the point of nervousness, regardless,

but he did a fine job. You all right about Kestrel, I asked, as he was fussing with the last stitch. Well, I thought I loved him, but I don't anymore. As easy as that? As simple as that. Not easy. He didn't want to talk about it, and I realized I shouldn't risk upsetting a man who was in the process of reassembling my body with needle and thread. When he was done with my shoulder, he unwrapped the bandana around my bitten hand. I don't know what I had expected, maybe blood, maybe open wounds or teeth marks. Instead, my skin was whole, already healed. But my hand was mottled with the pale gray of

overcooked steak, not the white of scar or the pink of new skin. It hurt like it was still healing, though, and I had the sudden fear that the pain would never stop. Then I remembered the rest of my situation, and honestly, my hand didn't seem like the worst of my problems. Vulture tied a spare t-shirt around my arm as a sling and chastised me not to move my arm, and I stood up. As a group, we made our way out to the front door, heading for the bridge and the relative safety of the crowd. The moon hung heavy and low on the horizon, and I focused on my breathing, reminding myself just how tough I was, how not close to panic I was. We hadn't made it halfway down the block when the cop cars poured out of the woods in a cacophony of red and blue light.

A crowd on the bridge overturned a school bus, and it began. Welcome. I'm Danny Thrill. Won't you join me at the fire and dare enter? Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows, presented by iHeart and Sonora. An anthology of modern-day horror stories inspired by the legends of Latin America. From ghastly encounters with shapeshifters to bone-chilling brushes with supernatural creatures.

I know you. Take a trip and experience the horrors that have haunted Latin America since the beginning of time. Listen to Nocturnal Tales from the Shadows as part of my Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Ed Zitron, host of the Better Offline podcast, and we're kicking off our second season

digging into how Tex Elite has turned Silicon Valley into a playground playground for billionaires from the chaotic world of generative ai to the destruction of google search better offline is your unvarnished and at times unhinged look at the underbelly of tech from an industry veteran with nothing to lose this season i'm going to be joined by everyone from nobel winning economists to leading journalists in the field and i'll be digging into why the products you love keep getting worse and naming and shaming those responsible. Don't get me wrong, though.

I love technology. I just hate the people in charge and want them to get back to building things that actually do things to help real people. I swear to God things can change if we're loud enough. So join me every week to understand what's happening in the tech industry and what could be done to make things better.

Listen to Better Offline on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, wherever else you get your podcasts. Check out betteroffline.com. On Thanksgiving Day 1999, a five-year-old boy floated alone in the ocean. He had lost his mother trying to reach Florida from Cuba. He looked like a little angel. I mean, he looked so fresh. And his name, Elian Gonzalez, will make headlines everywhere.

Elian Gonzalez. Elian, Elian. Elian Gonzalez. Elian, Elian. Elian Gonzalez. At the heart of the story is a young boy and the question of who he belongs with.

His father in Cuba. Mr. Gonzales wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or his relatives in Miami. Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. At the heart of it all is still this painful family separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story, separation. Something that as a Cuban, I know all too well. Listen to Chess Peace,

the Elian Gonzalez story, as part of the My Cultura podcast network, available on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Police raids are always at like 4am or some shit. Always after the witching hour, when they think everyone's not only asleep,

but going to be groggy as hell when they wake up. It's honestly pretty smart. That's actually why Robert Evans stays up very late. Just to make everyone... Yeah, I want to go to bed after I know we're safe from a raid. Yeah. There were a couple hours of night left, but only a couple of hours.

None of us were sleeping. We'd had enough warning that most of the town had cleared out. The 15 or so who remained were there for the same purpose we were, to keep Doomsday safe long enough for her ritual, whatever it was going to be. Safe from the police, safe from Eric. Most of us were veterans of riots and demonstrations across the country. It wasn't going to be a morning of civil disobedience, however. The police were there in force to arrest a cop killer.

And we had no way of knowing if they'd come in with less lethal weapons like pepper spray, or just come in guns drawn. The police were masked up on the far side of the bridge. Dozens of cruisers, four vans, two SWAT Humvees, and a prison bus. It wouldn't have been enough to handcuff and drag off everyone in town, but it was more than enough to mass arrest those of us who remained. Their preparedness to arrest us was, bizarrely, comforting. They were stopped in their tracks, though, by an overturned school bus.

You can block a hell of a lot of road with 15 tons of yellow steel, and there was something beautiful about watching the military-style police vehicles emasculated by something designed to get kids to school. Brynn helped me get a black t-shirt tied over my face as a mask, then donned her own. The police had cameras, and it wouldn't do much good to escape now

only to be arrested later. Still, with everything that had happened, I couldn't bring myself to believe it mattered. I had no real expectation of surviving the coming day. We made it to the bridge just as the police rammed the bus. The steel of the Humvee struck the steel of the bus struck the steel of the guardrail, and the whole bridge shook from the impact. Townspeople lined up to push broken-down vehicles up against the back of the bus.

A band's touring van, replete with black metal stickers, joined a DIY ice cream truck and a box truck as reinforcements. We set the brakes and slashed the tires. The police backed up to ram again. Again. With each impact, I prayed our side had been smart enough

to drain the bus's fuel tank. They gave up ramming, leaving us with a moment's calm, presumably while they awaited further orders. We crowded around Doomsday and never realized she was so short, not until she was masked and hiding. Most people had their attention on the bus and on the bridge and the police gathered on the far bank, but my friends looked elsewhere. They looked at the woods, at the street, at the masked figures gathered around. They watched for hands that might reach for waistbands. As unpleasant as it was to have the masked power of the state waiting to take us into custody,

waiting for comrades to betray us was worse. The woods were inviting. I could make my way over the hill, and by daylight I might be out of range of police blockades and Ulysses' wrath alike. Travelers, they say, watch out for themselves. The situation was hopeless. No reason for us to all go down. Brynn found my hand with hers,

and her strength made its way into me. Collective safety sometimes trumps personal safety. Friends who aren't willing to fight alongside one another aren't friends. Ten long minutes later, a helmeted cop stuck his head over the top of the bus. Then another. Things were about to get worse. A masked figure threw the first stone. Her aim was true, and the cop dropped down from the edge of the bus.

More rocks followed, a hailstorm to keep them at bay. They were too armored for us to hurt, but hurting them wasn't the point. The point was to drive them back. Tear gas canisters arced through the sky and people with work gloves threw them back or tossed them down to the river. Then flashbangs.

You never get used to flashbangs. It could have been one or it could have been several. A blinding flash of light that stops your vision like a stuttering film that holds too long on a single frame by the time i regained my senses several cops had made it to the roof of the bus two had riot guns aimed at us one had his pistol drawn more tear gas rained down and the poisonous smoke was soon indistinguishable from the morning fog visibility dropped to only a dozen yards. Only enough to see the bridge and the bus. The forest behind us was scarcely a silhouette.

The cars on the far bank were invisible but for the red and blue light that lit up the air. It wouldn't be long before dawn. If I were Eric, I told Doomsday, I'd come now with the fog and the gas. I I know Five cops were atop the bus and enough guns were drawn that some of the fight went out of us Next to me, Thursday was sweating with fear Both his hands were in the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, holding the gun He wanted to use it

He knew he shouldn't I was living a nightmare When Ulyxie comes, Doomsday said, I need three of you. I'm standing guard, Thursday said, which left Vulture, Brynn, and me. A public address system on the Humvee began an announcement. I scarcely registered it.

Something about being under arrest. Something about her hands in the air. Eric says he doesn't want to hurt you. I whirled at the voice. A masked figure stood a few feet from us. He must have come from the woods. Kestrel. Vulture put his body between Doomsday and his so recently ex-lover. What the fuck do you want? Look, just drop this. Drop all of this. Let Ulyxie be. I heard Brynn's baton flick open, saw it flash through the air. She put all of her not inconsiderable weight into the blow. I saw Kestrel's face twist to the side, his body soon to follow. He didn't fall, so she shoved him. He dropped. You told the cops about Doomsday.

You beat Danielle with a crowbar. You think we'll listen to you? Do you know who the fuck we are? You beat Danielle with a crowbar. You think we'll listen to you? Do you know who the fuck we are? Do you? Drop it. A policeman atop the bus aimed his handgun directly toward us. 20 yards through the fog.

If he fired, there was no telling whom he'd hit. Brynn dropped her baton. It clattered to the pavement, not six inches from Kestrel's face, and the shiny black steel glittered in the morning light. The morning light. The small crew of us met each other's eyes, and we waited, breathless. Doomsday put her cold hand in mine. I took Bryn's, and she took Vulture's, and we were a circle. Ulyxie crawled out of the river to the bank, then leapt thirty feet to the bridge. A policeman atop the bus dropped his riot gun and it clattered. No one spoke a word. Only the sound of idling police vehicles fought against the subtle roar

of the river. Ulysses, bounded atop the bus, began weaving his way through the five cops, eyeing them. Stop, an officer commanded, as though he were speaking to a person. Stop, an officer commanded, as though he were speaking to a person. Ulyxie lowered his head, three horns facing the man. He edged forward. The cop planted his feet, but the antlers pushed him back, back towards the edge of the bus. Stop, the officer shouted.

Fired. Time froze. We froze with it, but Ulyxie kept moving. The officer tipped over, collapsing atop the bus, and the demon punctured the man's chest with his antlers. Time returned just as his death cries shattered the air. Another officer opened fire. His gun exploded in his hand, and his face went up in a flash of fire, searing his flesh to the bone. He collapsed, never to rise. searing his flesh to the bone. He collapsed, never to rise. I threw up. Fear? Revolsion? I don't know, but the contents of my stomach were out on the ground. I wasn't the only one. Ulyxie turned toward the police, raised his front hooves, and slammed them down onto the

steel of the bus. Like startled birds, the police scattered to the woods away from the river and away from our town, leaving their cruisers and compatriots behind. More of Ulyxie's magic. The wounded officer on the bus continued to cry out, sobbing. He kept crying until Ulyxie pried open his ribs and masticated his organs. I couldn't wish that on a soul, no matter how much I despised them. Doomsday started chanting, too low under her breath for me to follow.

Doomsday! The voice came from town, and it was angry. Eric approached, unmasked and seemingly unarmed. He strode up like he owned the place, like everything was going according to plan, never mind the corpses. Thursday turned, and his hands started out of his pocket. Don't, Doomsday said, dropping the ritual. He's goading you. Ulyxie's watching. Doomsday, you pretentious fuck, you don't have an ounce of magical power in your body. Thursday was twitching. I looked over my shoulder. Ulyxie was staring intently. Whatever we were going to

do, we had to do it soon. We had to do it now. As soon as Eric was done trying to wield Ulyxie like a weapon, the demon was going to turn on Doomsday. Who knew what would happen from there? Eric was trying to wield Ulyxie like a weapon. It came over me in a flash. Oh, fuck this, I said. I dropped out of the circle and went to Thursday. I reached into his pocket, took out the gun, and pointed it at Eric. Ulyxie bounded down from the bus and was halfway between us. Eric, a grin across his face, raised his hands in surrender. Ulyxie looked at me, looked at Eric. Don't hurt me, Danny, Eric said in a mocking tone. Ulixi charged Eric. The beast took the young man by the throat and dragged him,

thrashing, down to the river. He didn't scream. As soon as his face touched the water, he stopped struggling. As soon as he shot Rebecca, he must have known how he would meet his end. He tried to meet it with dignity. We watched from the bridge, all of us strangely calm, as Ulyxie drowned him in the waters. After Eric was dead, Ulyxie let go of his throat,

and the body lay half in the river and half on the rocks. The water's slow current tugged at him, gave him a strange semblance of life and motion. Ulyxie stepped gingerly over the corpse to stand knee-deep in the water. He cast a long look back at us. I can't pretend to read Adir's expressions, and even less so at demons, but for once the beast's eyes seemed passive. They didn't pry into my soul anymore. They didn't read my thoughts and desires.

He stepped deeper into the river, until the water was at his neck. He ducked his head under, and he was gone. Thursday took the gun out of my shaking hand, and everyone turned their gaze from the river to me. We thought he was hunting his summoners to save his own skin, I said. He wasn't. He was hunting his summoners because his summoners were predators, hands that dared seize the fire. He attacked Eric, not me, because Eric was goading us to attack. Eric was trying to use him as a weapon. Ulyxie knew that Anchor, Rebecca, and Clay used it as a weapon. Clay ran when he figured that out.

Then he killed himself because he knew Ulyxie was right to be after him. I don't know how many times he and I talked about it. The revolution is about taking power away from the oppressors, not becoming them ourselves. Or in this case, not crowning an endless spirit as king. I thought Clay had killed himself because he couldn't come back to freedom. That wasn't it at all. Clay killed himself because he recognized the full weight of what he'd done to the world. I was the innocent summoner, Doomsday said.

Ulyxie didn't kill me because I was the innocent summoner. And you don't need to go out like Clay either, Thursday said. Is Ulyxie gone then, Vulture asked. On the twelfth page, what hand dare seize the fire, Doomsday said. On Solstice. Today. Eric tried to use him today. Solstice thins the veil between worlds, being used like a weapon today. It was enough to convince Ulyxie to depart, since departure was an option. It was enough to convince Ulyxie to depart, since departure was an option. I nodded. That's what Clay was trying to tell us. The world was quiet there in the morning as people limped to their feet.

The sirens still flashed, though no cops remained to drive the cars. Birdsong came, though, after some time, and the sun began to burn off the fog. What will you do now? I asked Doomsday. Five of us were crowded into a booth at a diner in the middle of nowhere Minnesota. Next to me, Brynn was cleaning her nails with a folding knife. Across from us, Doomsday and Thursday sipped black tea, their faces deadpan. Vulture sat with his legs astride a backward chair and he was grinning like the sun had never been brighter. I don't know, Doomsday said.

Find somewhere else, I suppose. You guys, you guys! Vulture tilted his chair dangerously forward and to lean toward us conspiratorially. I was thinking. Clay and Rebecca can't be the only ones who knew magic like that, right? Elixir can't be the only endless spirit out there. So I was checking my phone in the car, right? Because Doomsday told me I wasn't allowed to post any more pictures that were going to incriminate us to Instagram. So I had to waste my time some other way. And there's this forum

I found where people track things like Ulyxie and most of his bullshit, but like, I don't know, some of it's probably not like there's this private club in Oregon and every couple of years, local kids try to sneak in, but most of them go missing, and some of them just go crazy, telling everyone about a bear without any skin. And there's a coal mine in West Virginia where translucent dogs have been attacking activists. And there's this bank in Canada that's being guarded by a headless man.

And, and, and... He was actually hyperventilating. He waved his hands up and down, unable to control his joy. And we could be demon hunters, I asked. Coordinated, the days reached down and sipped their tea. Brynn folded shut her knife and put it on the table. Yeah, Brynn said.

All right. Of course, Doomsday said. Thursday nodded. I put my hand, still mottled, with a lifeless gray, though no longer painful, in the center of the table. The rest put theirs on mine. Vulture took a picture with his phone. You can't be serious, Doomsday said to him.

We're wanted. We shouldn't even be talking about this here, let alone taking pictures. It's for Instagram, though. She glared. Fine, I'll delete it. Jesus fucking Christ. He was still grinning. The server brought her hash browns and refilled my coffee, and I swirled the thick black stuff of life around the mug as I sorted out my thoughts. Looks like we're all outlaws now, I said. The police will be back, and they'll be investigating the hell out of Freedom, Iowa. That's not so bad as you'd think, Doomsday said. She pulled her hand off the stack,

It's not so bad as you'd think, Doomsday said. She pulled her hand off the stack, and the rest of us followed suit. Oh? No matter who you are, you go through your life, every day of your life, sure that one day you'll die. One day, the light will be gone from your world and the grave awaits, right? Well, I don't think about it as often as that, I lied. I looked at each of my new friends in turn. The days, stern and serious.

Brynn, as walled off as me, a slight smile on her lips. Vulture, who clearly wasn't happy about being awake while the sun was up and was just as clearly had as much energy as the rest of us combined. It felt good to cast my lot with them. It felt good even to have friends to cast my lot in with. One day you'll die. one day you'll be in prison doomsday face was impassive as always but i was learning to read its warmth today though you're alive today you're free I am excited for the second one, which I've read, and I'm excited to force you to write a third one. Oh, I started drafting it. Oh, excellent, excellent.

So I may not need to actually invite you back here and trap you in some sort of, yeah. The book is just about escaping Robert Evans. Yeah, exactly. It's like a reverse whatever that Stephen King novel is. It's very, you know, I thought a lot about that line that you had in there about how you never get used to flashbangs. Because I had a slightly, I have a slightly different relationship with flashbangs. Where maybe it'll be different now.

But I got extremely used to flashbangs. But as a consequence, got extremely used to flash bangs but as a consequence got less use to everything else like the uh the thing that would particularly fuck me up was the sound of the sound of a flashbang grenade landing next to you is almost the same as the sound of a glass bottle hitting the ground without shattering and anytime that would happen i would just like clinch up and immediately be like in hell. And it was the same with like little fireworks or poppers or anything like that. Like it was it was everything, everything that was vaguely similar to a flashbang fucked me up.

But the flashbangs themselves, I was used to. Honestly, that makes sense to me. Like I've only had my like vision stuttered by a flashbang once and actually it was in portland also and yeah we're a real flashbang town 2003 march 20th 2003 somewhere in southwest portland maybe northwest portland uh before they charged us they flashbanged us and um yeah that like that freeze frame i'm never forgetting that freeze frame like i've forgotten most things that happened 20 years ago yeah but no that makes sense the fireworks have never have not been my friend since then although i slowly yeah pulled

out of it a little bit yeah i go back and forth on them but yeah margaret wonderful uh very excited to continue this but next we will have a different set of stories for you all so every sunday will be either a different story or a new start for a story that'll continue for a different length of time or possibly sometimes robert and i will jabber about books or maybe other people will jabber about books yeah exactly it's a mystery so look forward to that everybody and until next time stay spooky yeah bye you should probably keep your lights on for Nocturnal Tales from the Shadowbride. Join me, Danny Trejo, and step into the flames of rife. An anthology podcast of modern day horror stories inspired by the most terrifying legends and lore of Latin America. and Lord of Latin America.

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