I lost the kid for the fourth time in a row, and I’m starting to lose my cool.
The little rascal is unbelievably quick and nimble, seeming to know the shipping yard like the back of his hand. I’m confident that if it weren't for my training, he would have since lost me for good. Even now, I can barely keep up with him as our cat-and-mouse chase takes us deeper into the quiet metal maze of shipping containers, further from the gate that would lead to the administrative building I spotted earlier.
I hear a soft flutter of cloth around the corner and quicken my pace. Rounding the corner of a rusty container, I find the shadows empty. The boy has given me the slip again.
“Oh, come on, man!” I exclaim, kicking the side of the container in frustration. I sigh, debating whether to leave the kid behind and head off on my own. By now, I’m sure Cato and the others have returned to HQ and are running a trace. They would find me and be on their way to extract me any moment now. The kid was not my problem, and the company could always send a fresh team to investigate this memoryscape.
“Okay, kid, you win,” I call out to the towering stacks of containers. “You want to be on your own? Fine.”
I cast one last frustrated look at the silent metal blocks and turn to leave. That's when I hear it—the hiss that stops me in my tracks. It’s low and coming from a different direction. I cock my head to trace the sound’s origin, turning until I face what I think is the source. I scan my surroundings, my hand lightly resting on the hilt of my knife. I still haven’t forgotten the strange sensations I felt when I walked through that dark portal. Maybe something followed me through?
I finally spot the source of the hissing, and I just stare. The boy is crouched on top of a three-stack-high container, looking down at me. After a long moment, he waves me up. I frown; if he thinks I’m going to let him lead me on another wild chase, he must be joking. He glances to the side for a brief moment, then his motions become more intent… frantic, even. I consider just walking away again, but then I swear under my breath and begin looking for the fastest way up.
It takes me a couple of seconds to reach his perch. As I pull myself up, I notice that the boy is now lying prone on the cold metal, peering over the edge. I have to restrain myself from grabbing him to make sure he doesn’t bolt again. Instead, I crouch beside him and wait in silence, watching his every move. He ignores me, focused intently on the yard like a silent sentinel.
“So… what are we doing?” I ask.
He whips his head around and shushes me. I frown in annoyance, ready to give him a piece of my mind, kid or no kid, but then I notice his eyes. They are wide with terror, but he is clearly not afraid of me. Who then? I realize how good the view is from our perch. Somehow, the kid picked a container tall enough and well-positioned so we have a clear view of the yard in all directions while remaining hidden in shadow.
Interesting.
I recline beside him, watching the yard, but everything is quiet—almost lifeless. I keep the boy in my peripheral vision at all times; I don’t trust him to be out of sight. My arm still aches from his bite. As I survey the area, my mind races, replaying everything that has happened since I landed in this place: how the kid reacted to my touch, how he bolted, the raw, sheer terror I saw in his eyes. There’s a question floating somewhere in my mind, a question that I know I need to ask.
“What are you hiding from, kid?” I whisper. “What’s out there?”
At first, it seems like he’s going to ignore me. But after a long moment, he points toward a patch of shadows along the western perimeter of the yard, where I had first spotted him. I follow his finger and stare, but there’s nothing there. I shake my head and start to rise, but the boy grabs my arm—he has a surprisingly strong grip for such a small fella. He stares at me wordlessly, then points again, at the same spot.
I take a deep breath to quell my frustration and peer once more in the direction he’s pointing. There is a long moment, then another and another. I’m about to call it quits when I see it.
It emerges from the darkness like a newborn entering the world for the first time. Pitch black from head to toe, except for dull yellow eyes that send chills down my spine. It stands 7 to 8 feet tall, easily, with an unnaturally wide upper body and long, stick-thin limbs. It slouches forward, its posture more predatory than lazy, and wisps of midnight black hair cascade down its shoulders, limp and lifeless. I had read about Reavers in my second year in the garden, but this was the first time I had seen one.
It stalks forward noiselessly, bowing with its nose almost to the ground as if trying to kiss the concrete… or catch a scent. Then, like a wisp of smoke, it darts around a container and disappears from sight. Beside me, the kid finally drops his hand and stares at me, and I realize my hands are shaking.
A Reaver!? What the actual hell!?
Reavers are dark light creatures. They aren’t necessarily agents of the light; they are more agents of chaos. According to our manuals, they are only found in and around the fringes of Shoel. They are formidable and have been known to terminate Walkers with extreme prejudice. While the Unfamiliars were more or less mindless brutes, Reavers are cold and calculating. They hunt, and from reports, they are much harder to dispatch.
“Oh, this day just keeps getting better and better,” I murmur under my breath.
I close my eyes and rein in my emotions. I’m not some random defenseless guy; I’m a trained Walker. I’m not going to lose my cool now, especially not in front of a fricking ten-year-old. Satisfied that I am reasonably calm, I begin to process the events of the day: first, the murdered asset, the mystery door, the darkness, the kid who shouldn’t exist, and now a real-life Reaver. I don’t need a Polymath to tell me it’s all connected.
Also, from all appearances, it seems the Reaver is hunting the boy, and for some reason, I believe the boy has something to do with the door. But that’s all conjecture, and I need answers quickly. The kid moves beside me, peering in a different direction, and I realize he’s somehow also tracking the monster. A plan begins to form in my mind.
I snap my fingers softly to get his attention, and his eyes dart in my direction. With quick hand movements, I try to convey the plan to him. He watches me for a moment, frowning, and I’m distracted by how tired his eyes look. He’s really just a kid.
It doesn’t seem like I’m getting through to him, and I stop, suddenly feeling foolish.
“Yajib ‘an tughadir,” the boy croaks suddenly.
The sound is so rusty and raw; it’s clear he hasn’t used it for anything other than screaming in a while.
“Yajib ‘an tughadir,” he repeats, his eyes boring into mine. “Min fadika, ghadar alan.”
The language is musical and sounds Middle Eastern, which surprises me. “Dude, I don’t speak…” I say. “No English?”
The boy shakes his head. “Yadhhab.”
I’m about to crack a joke when the boy suddenly gasps and whips his head around to stare at a cluster of containers close to the western perimeter that are roughly the same height as ours.
“Kid…?” I start to say, but the words die in my throat when I see what he’s staring at.
The Reaver had gotten the same idea as us. It was crouched on top of the containers like a nightmare come to life. But even more terrifying, its pale yellow eyes were staring right at us!
