Chapter Two: Roads (From Sanctuary, First Draft)

Author's Note: And we're back with a new chapter. A lot shorter than the first, but I may make it longer. Not sure. Enjoy!

Emmy D’Amour walked through spectral sheets of fog, its bulk displacing around the green skin of her ankles and tennis shoes. The air was favorable, scented by the night and evening flowers. She stretched, picking up pace, a plain sports bra keeping her large bust in check. Emmy’s shorts clung to her thighs and waist, a cool breeze blowing through her legs. She felt it kiss the bare skin of her midriff, her body heat radiated away by a thin sheen of sweat.

She felt good. Really good, probably as good as an orc on a nightly walk could feel. Before leaving Cinder, she had attempted to wrangle her long, wavy black hair with a tie. It proved useless. Two steps into the walk and she threw it somewhere in the ferns and bushes. Fuck it, I like my hair down anyway. There were no fashion judges, no clique takings notes – no, it was just her and only her. Aside from the hair-tie, there was the matter at Cinder: Maddy hadn’t done laundry. That meant that, after sweating off a few hundred calories, Emmy would come home without any clean towels to dry herself.

It was annoying, she thought, that Maddy didn’t keep up with laundry. She yawned, picking up a lazy haste, golden eyes fixed on the dark trail ahead. She’d walked it a hundred times, jogged it a few dozen more and gotten lost maybe once. Sometimes, she’d stop at the stream, kick her feet in the crystal-like water and count the fireflies. It was corny, but she didn’t care. Most orcs couldn’t be bothered with biology, let alone something cliché like lightning bugs. Perhaps it was her innate abilities, her natural prowess to heal that made Emmy appreciate nature.

But it didn’t matter, and it shouldn’t matter, she told herself. She slung stones, forged swords, hammered iron, so why would it be a big deal to do anything else? The typical boxes were checked. Emmy’s old clan would have lambasted her. She could already hear the jeering, spiteful laughter. “You make trinkets and plant turnips?”

But they weren’t just turnips. There were tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, onions, parsley, garlic, peppers, and corn. Berries, too. And they weren’t just trinkets – no, they were healing artifacts. Keepsakes and necklaces meant to ensure safety and protection, as she had described to any who may have questioned.  She adjusted the strap of her tank top, already clammy with sweat and midnight mists. Tomorrow, she’d lift a few weights, maybe sharpen the dagger she’d forged a week or two ago, possibly –

Crash.

She stopped in place, surprised. It was a car accident, surely. A road ran by the trail, maybe a quarter mile away from the very spot she stopped. Emmy craned her neck, swiveling around. She peered through the dense trees and bushes, eyes searching for a hint of flame or spark. Nothing came through. But there was a sound of someone, a person struggling. Bated breathes, final breaths, she thought. Emmy recognized them from about anywhere. Most animals, humans or Otherkind, had similar traits – death rattles, rapid breaths, delirium, fatigue – and she knew the sound of a dying creature too well.

Emmy D’Amour was a healing orc, after. She’d saved too many living things to count. It struck her then that the dying thing beyond the tree line was likely human. She’d never saved a human before and, hopefully, wouldn’t have to. If she knew anything, she knew Otherkind were not appreciated, especially in the nearby areas. She sighed, pulling her ear buds down, her instincts taking over. Her hands pushed through stubborn weeds and ferns, the first signs of a fire flickering through dew and leaves. Oh great, everything’s probably on fire.

She felt the mud squish under her impressive feet, then twigs snap in no meaningful rhythm. Smoke tinged the air, the smell of burnt metal and plastic hitting Emmy’s sensitive nose. Her nostrils flared. Finally, she crossed the barrier of trees after what seemed like an hour, though the journey never exceeded five minutes. She huffed, heart pacing from the unexpected exercise. Emmy’s eyes narrowed, staring at a man laying on the road, mumbling wet, blood-soaked words of delusion. Unfortunate thing, she thought. He was cute, too. Cute in that kind of average, unimpressive way. What a shame.

She didn’t know if the girls at Cinder ever found humans attractive, or considered them cute, but it was a secret that Emmy would keep to herself. She was never picky. Human, orc, elf, demon – didn’t matter. Skin was skin in her book.

Emmy took a few more steps. What would the girls think? They weren’t exactly anti-human, but they also had a proper respect of being disliked by the locals. The smell of gasoline hit her next. A small fire had grown beneath the driver’s old truck, consuming it from within. The man had managed to crawl maybe a few feet from the wreck before giving up. It appeared he accepted his fate, sprawled over a cold, asphalt deathbed.

God… she couldn’t leave him there like that. She was a healing orc. It was principle, really. It’d be a cardinal sin against herself. “What’d you get yourself into?” Emmy whispered, pacing around him.

Drinking, she thought. Too much alcohol. There was a bar not far that served as a parting way for the residents of a nearby city. So why should she save a drunkard? It was a miracle there were no passing cars. But Emmy knew the internal struggle was a charade; she would save him no matter what. It was who she was, through and through, in and out. And, for some reason, there was a pull, a desire to save the man. Emmy was compelled. She didn’t understand the emotion, but maybe in time, the root cause would reveal itself.

She covered her mouth. There was a hole, a gash on the man’s left side. How deep did it go? Emmy leaned forward to better survey the dying human, jerking back with a gasp. Where had his intestines gone?

* * * *

Blake swerved, mind racing with unspeakable images and pieces to a puzzle that he couldn’t put together. What had just happened? What was that? Where was he? Things weren’t linear. Time was asymmetrical. He… was going to a hospital. Fast. Had to go fast, or… no, he was dying. There was no hope and Blake knew that. His intestines (liver too, probably) had been pureed and given to the bar’s dirty floor. He knew he was dying and soon to be dead, more than he knew water was wet and hot was hot, cold was cold. Blake Slater was going to die, and he was going to die in minutes.

The primal urge to survive was all that motivated him. It wasn’t enough. Too much of him had been lost, ruined, or destroyed. He coughed, stringy, internal material spraying across the truck’s dashboard. He felt his heart slow, each beat further and further away until it felt like there were no beats at all. His fingers, wrapped tightly around a sticky steering wheel, lost grip. His hands felt to his sides. Unable to lift his foot off the pedal, he sped forward.

The truck didn’t drift immediately. Blake had several seconds to consider his life before the truck would ultimately collide with a ditch, another car, or trees. He hoped that tonight was a slow night, that there would be no other cars on the road. He didn’t want to commit manslaughter in his last moments. As much as he wanted to take the keys out of the ignition, let off the gas and hit the brakes, Blake was too weak. His eyelids grew heavy like anchors on a ship drifting to the sea’s floor, down, down…

He coughed again, the inertia of the truck violently shifting. Ah yes, the wreck. He was in a wreck or the process of a wreck. A bad one. The windshield shattered, glass embedding itself into his face, tearing parts of his cheek away. Pieces of metal shot from the center console, driving into his hollow abdomen. Jagged, hot steel rods split his arms open. He saw the road roll and tumble before him, spinning, spinning…

The truck finally rested. The limits of its momentum had been reached. Gravity won, friction prevailed. Blake’s vision was no more than a smear of black, grey and red. But he felt the heat – the heat from a fire, probably from the truck. He didn’t want to burn to death, too. But he was so weak…

Just crawl out, doesn’t have to be far, crawl out, then let go…

Blake wormed his way through the open window, leaving a thick, glimmering trail of blood behind him. So much blood. Blood like when it was inside of him. The… shadow-thing. What was that thing? It had no eyes. But it had teeth, so many teeth, rows, and rows…

Somehow, he’d rolled to his back, arms stretched out and blurry eyes to the sky. His identity began to melt away. Whoever he once had been faded into the nothingness of things forgotten. The adrenaline had worn off, immense agony constricting his body. That too began to disperse in rapid waves. He’d forgotten how he’d ended up in the middle of the road. It was frustrating – Blake knew that seconds ago, he had precise recollection of… of what?

And who was this above him? This tall, green woman? Why did she have her hands over her mouth? She was so tall.

Was she asking questions?

She was… saying something.

He felt his mouth move, unintelligible words soaked in spit and blood dribble out.

Hold on.

Hold onto… but Blake couldn’t hear anything anymore. He couldn’t see the tall, green woman with fangs and gold eyes, could only see black…

His diaphragm froze, all reserves of strength diminished. He felt his brain turn off. Neurons went dark. Lingering pain vanished. Thoughts ceased. Senses shut down. No, there was only black now. Only black and the final memory of being in that woman’s strong, green arms. They were warm and soft, but powerful. He felt secure and comfortable. He was safe. And if he was dead, Blake reckoned that would be a good place to die.