Pretty Dead City He didn't notice that still had his eyes tightly screwed shut and his arms protectively over his face until he felt someone tug at them, slap at them and finally claw at them. He cracked open an eye and saw JC, but he couldn't hear what he was saying because there seemed to be a storm raging somewhere close by, inside this ballroom, under the gilded ceiling with the chubby, naked angels squirming against each other in their never-ending orgy.
JC's mouth was screaming at him and he wanted to close his eyes again. There were shadows moving behind JC, like the shadows of tall trees. If tall trees could creep closer.
JC threw himself over Chris, and Chris thought he yelped but couldn't hear his own voice. JC was scrabbling for something on the floor above Chris' head, his breath hot and fear-sour on his face.
The tree-shadows breathed in unison and closed in, too fast, too fast, and Chris thought he was screaming but he couldn't be sure, and then JC got to his feet with one hand pushing heavy and unforgiving against Chris' breastplate, straightened up, and Chris saw something slim and gleaming and lethal in his other hand.
Chris didn't dare close his eyes, so he saw JC swing the - what? sword? machete? huge, shiny razor? - awkwardly but with clenched-jaw force and cut into the stomach of something tall and dark and no longer entirely human.
The blood was insanely red and flew in a graceful arc, flew with every twitch and landed on brilliant gold and dazzling silver and deep blue and warm green, ran in cheerful rivulets over the polished floor and dripped on JC's pale face. The sound that went out with the blood was the thin, piercing screech of an insect, if insects were six feet tall and dressed in green frock coats. Chris stared, unblinking, too surprised to remember to duck or even throw his hands up, and he could suddenly taste it, thick and noxious, running over his tongue.
JC spun and held the sword high - it was a sword; cold, sharp steel, slightly bent like one of those things you saw in the hands of fierce Bedouins in Indiana Jones movies. He was streaked with crimson all over, face, the shirt, his bare legs.
What the hell were those swords called? Chris tried to remember. He'd watched a lot of movies.
"Back the fuck off," JC said in a voice that was calm and unwavering. Chris saw his free hand knotted in a tight fist by his side, though - white-knuckled tight - and thought he might be holding all his fear contained there.
They weren't machetes. Broadswords were straight, katanas were Japanese.
The shadows that no longer looked like trees fell back a step. Chris realised he was sitting on his ass with his mouth open and scrambled to his feet. He felt light-headed and couldn't stop himself from weaving slightly from side to side, but at least he was upright.
A saber! he thought triumphantly. The creature (his brain had long since stopped calling them men or women) JC had struck let out a final groan and keeled over. Chris saw worming, white shapes in all the blood and realised they were its guts, pouring out of the gash in its stomach. He turned away quickly. Everything was suddenly very quiet.
JC started walking. Chris focused on the white of his shirt and followed.
"Dude," he said under his breath. The crowd parted around them. He could hear the soft rustle of clothes; his own harsh breaths; the sound of JC's barefoot steps. "Dude, fill me in here."
"We're gonna find them," JC said loudly, out into the air.
"Okay," Chris said and tried to straighten up. If JC could walk tall with monsters standing in a quiet circle around him, then by God, Chris could too. "You have another one of those?"
"Take one," JC said.
The hall was enormous. It seemed to exist in the same kind of warped space as that endless street outside; for every step, the end of it seemed further away. Oh yeah, this was a good idea, he thought. Fucking JC has gone completely over the high side, lost the last marble. Well, provided he ever had any in the first place, a stipulation that could definitely be disputed--
He stopped. Why the hell was he running around after JC for? JC was a lunatic. That wasn't hard to see, what with the blood on his face and the huge fucking blade in his hand.
He was going to get Chris killed. This was pretty much a given.
Chris turned around. Everyone stood where they stood, beautiful women and handsome men in fantastic costumes. Chris felt underdressed.
A tall, golden-haired woman in a white and gold dress that was so shiny-bright that he had to squint when he looked directly at him smiled a brilliant white smile and said, "We have a change of clothes for you, Mr Kirkpatrick. Just this way."
"Right on," he said and smiled back. Took a step towards her and saw something move in the corner of his eye. Something. Important.
Wait, wait, wait, he thought and chanced a quick sideways glance and saw a familiar face there, in the crowd. Two familiar faces.
"Hey, Joey," he said. "Hey, Lance. What's going on?"
Lance lifted his head from the crook of Joey's neck. His eyes were kohl-rimmed and impossibly round. There were feathers in his hair. "Hi, Chris," he said, his voice soft and slow, crème de menthe flowing over ice.
He turned back to the smiling woman. "Hey, look, I'm gonna. Um. I'm gonna hang out with those guys for a. Um. While..." He trailed off as her smile slipped off her face. Like magic, one second it was there, the next it was just gone, replaced by a stonefaced stare.
The guy next to her had a short sword in his belt.
Chris looked down at himself. His chest was bare and painted with a light spattering of blood. His hands were trembling.
Oh, fuck.
"Oh, you fuckers," he said. He looked up and met Lance's eyes, Joey's eyes. Their dazed eyes with blown pupils.
Note to self: they have evil brain mojo. Stay sharp.
He smiled widely at them; the disgruntled woman, her burly partner, the merry guys 'n gals behind them. Everyone smiled back. Oh, good.
"If you're there, JC, you might wanna back me up," he said, keeping the smile wide, keeping it cheerful even though it was starting to hurt his face. He walked with steady steps into the crowd - "Cheers, man, hey, how ya doin'? Like the dress--" - and when they were all looking at his face and his smile, he spun and dove for the burly guy's belt.
Got the sword, too; had his hand on the intricately decorated handle and yanked at it, goddamnit, but it wasn't budging and the guy was pulling back, slapping at his hand, still not very efficiently, but Chris was pretty sure those things could fight once they got themselves collected. There was noise again, a rustle going from a whisper to a roar, hurting his ears and he yanked again, hard, and the sword slid from its sheath with a metallic whine and he struck upwards at a bad angle but it wasn't very long but very sharp and it cut into the guy's chin just as he was raising his fist to strike for real. He screamed, that same insect-screech again and Chris screamed, too, through the roar of the crowd.
Hands on his shoulders and he spun and almost struck before he recognised JC.
He didn't hear his voice, he thought, not with his ears, anyway, but he knew somehow what JC said.
"Let's go get them."
Chris held the sword in both hands and felt like he was going to war.
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