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  "Maltor…"

  It was just a whisper, but it could be heard from its place in the woods.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  I place my head down, listening to the heavy rush of blood in my ears, the slam of my heart against my bruised ribs. “It’s them.”

  “Who?” She’s looking around now, all around, trying to locate the source of the whisper.

  Another whisper comes, this one from the tree branches above us. "Maltor…"

  Shea backpedals, looks up. “Where’d that come from? Michael, what’s going on here? I’m starting to freak out.”

  “Maltor!" This one, still a whisper, but louder, voiced by three or four of them in unison. It comes from a point just beyond the perimeter of the woods. No doubting it now. They’re out there. And they’re watching us.

  Shea grasps her elbows, teeth chattering not from cold but from fear, eyes ping-ponging back and forth at the stones, at the woods, at the trees and the thousands of naked branches reaching out all around us. A wind springs up, jarring the rabbit in my grasp. I squeeze harder, and the rabbit’s eyes bulge.

  "Maltor…maltor…maltor…"

  The scattered whispers come together into a unified chant where the unseen audience of Isolates now pressure us to complete the ritual.

  “W-what are they?” Shea sobs, icy tears forming in her eyes. Her lips quiver, and she nuzzles up against me for comfort, for warmth. I can feel her trembling, nearly as madly as the beat of the rabbit’s tiny heart.

  “They’re the ones I’m going to protect you from…but I can’t do that until you kill the rabbit.”

  The whisper rises into a chorus of acidic hisses. But the word remains clear.

  "Maltor…maltor…maltor…"

  “Maltor,” Shea whispers, looking out into the stark woodland. “Kill.”

  And all I can think of is how the Isolates had said that word to me seconds before shoving a baseball bat in my hand, while a group of others restrained a crying Phillip Deighton within swinging distance from me.

  "Maltor…maltor…maltor…"

  The chant bores into our heads, repeatedly, with no hint or promise of ceasing. Shea’s sobs turn into cries, her gloved hands now over her ears, fingers clawing at her hair. “Make it stop, Michael!”

  “Only you can do that!” I shout, shoving the rabbit at her.

  Her hands swing down from her ears and clamp around the rabbit’s neck. Tears are streaming from her eyes and she tightens her grip.

  "Maltor…maltor…maltor…"

  “Maltor,” I say, just once along with them. The rabbit fidgets, paws scraping the surface of the stone. “Do you have it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!”

  As I release the rabbit, a gunshot rips through the air, shattering the momentum of the horrible act we’re about to commit. Shea releases the rabbit and staggers back, crouching down alongside the huge stone. At the same time, I flinch…and the rabbit makes its escape, launching itself from the center stone and bounding off into the woods like a bolt of lightning through the sky.

  A million harried thoughts race through my head, fueled by the adrenaline pumping through my body. There’s another gunshot and I can hear an encircling commotion in the woods, twigs breaking and footsteps pattering and heavy, frightful breaths: the Isolates, fleeing the scene. Cowering down alongside Shea, we wait, trembling and praying that the next shot doesn’t take us down.

  “What the fuck are ya doin’ with my daughter?” Damn. It’s Pops-Eddie.

  “Shit…it’s my dad. And he’s shitfaced.”

  Great, I think, eyes fixed now on the spot where the rabbit fled into the woods. My salvation…and the lives of my family, gone with a single burst of horrible timing. And now this: a drunk asshole, here to spoil the party.

  Shea stands up. “Damn it, pops. You almost gone and got us killed us.”

  “Didn’t fire anywhere near ya. Now git your ass over here.”

  It’s only now that I feel the pain lancing through me, the heat of the wound and the pounding infection that’s riddling my body with fatigue and weakness. Yeah, the meds are wearing off, and fast. It’s a struggle simply standing, which I do with the aid of the bloodstained stone. “Leave her be.”

  “What the hell were you doing with that rabbit?” He walks over to the stone, eyes it curiously. “That blood on there? What kind of sick shit you into here, doc?” He then looks around at all the rocks, head shaking back and forth. His disbelief is evident. “What the hell is this place?”

  Shea, in an effort to inject some normalcy into the situation, walks over to her father. “It’s cool, ain’t it pops? The doc was just showing this place to me.” But as I watch her, I can see: her eyes keep triggering back to the woods, her mind struck with the presence of the mysterious creatures that nearly got her to carry out the sacrifice they so dearly wanted from her.

  It makes them stronger, Michael. The sacrifice. It’s why they require it of Ashborough’s newest residents.

  Pops-Eddie grabs Shea by the hair. She cries out as she crumples down alongside him. “You stay away from this sicko, you hear me?”

  “Leave her alone!” I shout, using up much of my energy. Frozen air billows from my lungs in a huge burst, nearly blocking my view of Pops-Eddie backhanding his daughter across the face. She falls to the frozen earth, shivering, crying.

  “See that doc? You come near her again, and she’ll get a lot more.”

  “You fuck.”

  Pops-Eddie grins, then marches over and places the barrel of the rifle against my head. It’s ice cold, and sends a dreadful wave of chills throughout my body. Nausea rises in me like a tidal wave and I begin to gag. I’m sick, so sick, and it distracts me from the fact that there’s a sick fuck pointing a gun at me.

  At this moment, I suppose he’d be taking me out of my misery.

  He leans down close to me, sour whiskey breath urging my gorge. “First a deer, then a bunny. Whatever sick shit you’re into, doc, you keep my daughter out of it. Ya hear?”

  I nod, seeing nothing but a gray void, smelling Pops-Eddie’s breath and hearing Shea’s sobs. The crazed man walks away. I hear a smack and more sobs, then his voice: “Git your sorry ass up.”

  I remain utterly motionless, a frightened deer in the woods, listening to the footsteps of Shea and her abusive father as they disappear into the cold, barren woodland.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Time passes. A minute. More. I remain seated on the cold, hard ground, the center stone the only thing keeping me from collapsing. The chills have embedded themselves into every inch of my weakening body. The pain in my wound is agonizing, the blooming heat of infection the only relief to the invading cold. My head is pounding now, as though someone is trying to chisel their way inside my skull. My joints ache, swollen and difficult to move.

  "Michael…"

  The voice comes from the woods, a single rasping whisper from the throat of one of them. I look out into the gathering gloom, the knotted branches above closing out the weak splay of gray light. In the distance, a sole pair of golden eyes signal me: two floating orbs winking out as the body they’re attached to passes behind the trees.

  "Michael…"

  This time it comes from behind me, no different than earlier while inciting Shea into performing the ritual. Maltor! There’s a sudden rustling from all points: from behind, ahead, left, right, and above. They’re everywhere.

  I urge my body to stand, heaving and nearly puking in the process. My body is a mess, damn near death. I’ve got very little left in me. “Give me back my family,” I utter, my voice a weak rasp. More rustling comes from the woods, cracking ice and snapping twigs. I shout again, “Give me my family!” This time my voice is loud and echoes across the expanse of woodland surrounding me. But the effort it takes immediately fatigues me, and I have to rest my palms against the bloodstained stone, heaving lungs tossing frosty plumes out like phantoms.
r />   From the woods, something arcs up over one of the stones. I follow its circular path as it comes down and thuds on the ground a few feet from me.

  Dead rabbit.

  I can’t help but laugh, mad giggles crawling from my lips like maggots from a corpse-hole, pulling runners of spit from my mouth and snot from my nostrils. I shake my head back and forth, gazing at the rabbit.

  (That would be Mr. bunny-in-the-bag)

  There’s a gouge of flesh missing from its neck, perhaps the result of a diseased swipe from one of their claws. Blood oozes from its wound onto the cold, hard ground, painting the surrounding area crimson.

  From the woods: "Michael…Michael…Michael." The repetitive nature of the whispers is erratic, overlapping one another. The mouths of many are uttering my name. Calling me. Beckoning me. They want me.

  I struggle to stand. The whispers continue. Peering out into the distance, I can see the random signal of their eyes…the eyes of a whole host of Isolates preparing me for some sick punishment.

  You’ve failed them once again, Michael. I believe they’re going to make you pay.

  And how will I pay? I’ve neither the strength nor the mental capacities to continue on. The painkillers in my body are wearing off, the low dose of antibiotic defenseless against the rampant infection wreaking havoc on my immune system. If they take me now, fevered and in agony, I might as well give in to their summon, and die in their domain, an utter failure.

  "Daddy!"

  “Oh my God! Jessica!” I crawl up from my place on the ground, peering out into the gloom of the day, searching for my baby girl. “Jessica!” I scream, giddy with dizziness, short of breath. “I’m coming for you, baby!”

  Clutching my midsection, I stagger across the clearing toward the stones near the rear of the circle. In a flash, my mind harkens back to the time my daughter ran away from me in a foolish tantrum, and I’d chased her all the way up here. Upon arriving here, I saw them camouflaged amidst the leaves on the ground, twisted arms and faces peering out at me from the brown foliage like leaf insects perched in a jungle tree. There’d been a revolting stench of waste and rot, and I’d realized that someplace below my feet lay the entrance to their subterranean lair.

  It’s in the ground, Michael.

  I peer about, seeing only mud and snow and twigs and frozen brown leaves. Where is the entrance? “Jess?” I shout, listening to my voice echo away like the slam of a door in some mansion’s distant room. “Jess…” I say more quietly, realizing her voice as only a tease to lead me on. Right now, not too far away, one of those dirty motherfuckers has its filthy claws over my little girl’s mouth, holding back her cries. Damn them to hell, again and again.

  I look at my surroundings. The scene is deadly silent.

  From around a giant stone not ten feet away from me, an Isolate appears. First, its claw, long and talon-like, scraping the surface of the stone. Then, its body, draped in dark, filthy burlap barely concealing the grimy skin of its torso. Finally, I could see its face, long, lank hair falling across its eyes—its glowing eyes—red scars zigzagging across gaunt cheeks, some freshly bleeding. Lips, rife with sores, cracked and dripping with pus as it glowers at me.

  I stay unmoving for a prolonged time, helplessly charting my mind for strength, for resilience, wondering if more of them are going to appear from their hiding places. Take me down, kill me.

  Just as I surmise this dreadful probability, I see more of them, emerging from their dark spots in the woods, little men, little demons, creeping…creeping…creeping towards me, some on all fours, slowly as though tentative of my ability to harm them, their eyes igniting before me, illuminating the gloomy environs like lighters might in the hands of concertgoers. The silence is broken from the multitude of claws snapping twigs, cracking icy snow patches. They surround me, a mob of jackals preparing to pounce, some of them crawling up the sides of the stones with the efficiency of skittering insects, others simply standing there, contemplating me with tilted heads and derisive expressions on their faces.

  One separates itself from the crowd, larger than rest, perhaps four feet tall, sinewy arms and legs rife with tendons, rippling beneath its dark, hairy skin. It approaches me with deadly silence, golden irises beaming like giant fireflies, lips spread wide to reveal brown stumps for teeth and a black, craggy tongue. I stand there helpless and shivering, peering around and watching them surround me like an angry mob, wholly unable to do a single damn thing about it. I clench my hands before me as if to show I’m unarmed.

  The lone Isolate slowly draws its face close to mine, to within six inches, five inches, four inches, stopping only to gaze at me curiously as if I were an oddity at the zoo. Perhaps, to them, I am.

  Without warning, it unleashes a scream on par with that of a vampire taking a stake through the heart in some modern day horror film, its strident holler echoing throughout the woods as though electronically amplified. Its breath is that of death and rot. Drops of hot spittle come to rest on my face, nearly burning my skin. I flinch, cower down on my knees. The mob screams a chorus of fury. At once a throng of claws grasp me, pulling at me in all directions, hot breath and marauding limbs smacking me back and forth as they begin to drag me across the icy ground, toward the center of the clearing.

  Oh, God no. They’re going to sacrifice me on the center stone.

  I make a vain attempt to fight back, but there’s literally ten or twelve of them on me, holding me, their claws digging into my skin, my wound. The pain is nearly unbearable, and I pray for a quick death to come, thinking only of my little girl and her cries for help that still echo inside my head.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ice and snow scrape the bare skin of my back as they drag me across the clearing, the pain of which—given my fever and chills—assaults me like slashes from a razor. I wonder how they plan to do it, to kill me. Will it be a quick slash to the throat from one of their diseased claws? Or will it be a slow, painful, torture-filled death, of which they are truly capable of doing? I consider the possibility that Shea and Pops-Eddie might have heard the horrific shriek of the Isolate and are now trudging their way back up here to investigate—to save my life. But I soon shake off the possibility of this happening. Pops-Eddie had been drunk and petulant, and perhaps too far away by the time my only chance of him coming back had been sounded. And even if he did come back, would a single shotgun in the hands of a drunk and terrified man prove a worthy defense against this monstrous mob of beasts?

  Only as I resign myself to certain death do I consider the possibility that they still need me, just as they did nine months ago when they first introduced me into their den. Every resident here in Ashborough has paid their dues to the Isolates, assisting them in some subservient way to protect the hellish race from outside threat. My job was to heal them, to mend their broken limbs and administer medication, so that they could thrive in the woods as they have done for hundreds, if not thousands of years.

  The Isolates dart all around me, a pack of lions surrounding captured prey. In the dim light I could see from the corners of my eyes two camouflaged entrances rise up from beneath the muddy, icy earth. Each is constructed of clay and thatch, leaves and twigs intricately woven upon them so to permanently disguise their existence.

  The mob of Isolates holding me drags me toward the hole, one heave at a time as my shoes dig irregular trenches into the cold earth. Once at the hole, they pull me in feet first. I slide down a steep and narrow passage and land in a pitch-black cave ten feet below the earth’s surface. I scramble into a sitting position and stretch my arms out, feeling the surrounding bodies of the creatures as they hover about me. Rough claws grab me by the arms and force me to my feet, then guide me along a dark passage, lit solely by the intense glow of the eyes of the Isolates at my sides. Trying desperately to ignore the pain, I follow their lead, shoulders scraping along the dark soil walls, head against the low ceiling. The passage twists and turns as it winds down into the darkness, widening in some places, th
inning out in others. Sections break off into branched corridors where more Isolates appear for a glimpse of me.

  Savior. That’s what they once called me. I do not hear this title being uttered now, and cannot imagine what they think of me, now that I’ve murdered their envoy Old Lady Zellis, plus hundreds of their brethren. Bodies scamper by me as I stumble farther down into the earth, harsh voices now hooting and hollering, limbs groping me, guiding me, only their bulbous golden irises visible in the utter blackness.

  Moments pass where I can do nothing but permit them to carry my near-dead weight forward. I have no strength in my limbs, no desire to carry on. All I can feel is pain and cold…horrible chilling pain and cold.

  A flickering of lights appears ahead, that of torches dancing on muddied walls, reflecting out into the tunnel I am traveling through. The light at the end of the tunnel morphs into an opening, which I am led through. It’s here I behold a terribly familiar sight: the subterranean dwelling of the Isolates.

  I look around at the immense den, the walls constructed of red soil and dark slimy moss, tendrils of roots sprouting from the walls, dangling from a ceiling six feet above my head. Hundreds of wall torches burn, igniting the chamber with flickering, yellow luminescence. Crude grottos perforate the muddy walls, glowing eyes inside peering out at me. There’s a large group of Isolates gathered at one of the gouged-out areas supping on the remains of one of their dead, the creature’s bones stripped bare of its rotting flesh.

  It smells awful in here, of sewage and rot and of massive death. Breathless, I dare to look at the creatures staring at me with their golden eyes, the collective glow occluding their faces and the sea of dead Isolate bodies surrounding them.

  I’d done good job of killing them. But it wasn’t good enough.

  For a fleeting moment I bear in mind the fact that the Hantavirus I infected them with must be thriving here. Knowing that they eat their dead doesn’t comfort me of the fact that there are many of them still living, still breathing, still haunting my dreams and terrorizing my days. As it seems, they have survived my attack upon them, and have somehow adapted to the disease that should have brought them all down. It’s this supposition alone that gives credence to their past ability to survive the elements over the millennia—to continue wreaking havoc upon those who cross their many paths. Add in the supernatural influence working for them behind the scenes, and you’ve got one indestructible force to be reckoned with.