Dead Waters - Anton Strout [28]
Mason flexed his hand as he stood back up, calling his flashlight back over to him like he had Jedi powers. It swirled back into place above him, the light once more falling on the folder still in his hands. He pulled one of the papers from the folder, held it up, and shouted. “The head,” he said with excitement. “It seems to be the only way noted in the file.”
“Yes,” Quimbley said, quite pleased. “It appears so. Of course the head. Tends to work for most creatures, really. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”
I felt the sparkle in his eye, the way his adrenaline pumped him up with hope. Just knowing how to take them down was enough to turn the tide of this battle. With renewed vigor, he swung his sword into action, beheading the creatures left and right like he was the Tasmanian devil on steroids.
Mason joined him in the fray, pummeling the creatures with an impressive type of telekinetic arcane, using nearby stones as his projectiles. The rocks alone weren’t enough to stop the monstrosities, but they were enough to hinder and distract them while Argyle Quimbley moved in to deal the deathblows. The dispatching of the remaining ghouls went quickly, and in the end, there were only the two agents from the Fraternal Order of Goodness left standing in a sea of headless ghouls.
“Are you all right?” Argyle asked, huffing and puffing. He dropped his sword to the ground and bent over with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
“I believe so,” Mason said. He held his hand out under the flashlight and it dropped out of the air, slipping through his fingers. It clattered to the ground and the light went dead. “Can’t say as much for my light source.” He bent down to retrieve it, giving a groan. Young as they were, the pains of combat were still on them. They might bounce back quicker, but peril still took its toll.
The graveyard along the fissure was a little darker for the lack of light, but there was still enough ambient city light that I could make out Mason’s movements, even though they were far more shadowy. Despite that, I sensed another shift among the shadows and I felt Quimbley’s muscles tense.
“Mason!” Quimbley shouted. “Behind you!”
Mason stood up with his dead flashlight and spun about, but his focus was too high. The threat was at his feet. The upper half of the ghoul that Argyle had cut in two moments ago had clawed its way back up to the lip of the fissure. One of its arms lashed out, its sharpened talons catching the fabric of Mason’s pant leg. Using its other hand for leverage, the monster grabbed onto one of the jutting rocks down in the fissure and started pulling Mason toward him. That split second Mason wasn’t looking down undid everything, and as the creature tugged, Mason lost his balance. He fell down, wincing as several of the pointier rocks dug into his back.
Argyle Quimbley dove for his friend, his heart racing. Mason flailed on the ground, trying to flip himself over while kicking at the ghoul, but each move he made only drove him farther toward the fissure. Argyle caught Mason’s hand in his, rolling his partner over. Mason grabbed at anything he could with his free hand.
“Pull!” Mason screamed out, his face pure panic. Terror filled his eyes, the widened whites of them standing out in the dark graveyard.
Argyle pulled, but it was having little effect. “I am, blast it!” he shouted. “Just mind your feet! Don’t let that thing bite you.”
While sound advice by my reckoning, the thought of being bitten only caused Mason to panic more. He started lashing out with both of his feet over and over, catching the ghoul in its maw of decaying teeth every time. The creature cackled as if it were relishing the pain of it all. What was worse was the fact that with every kick, I could feel Argyle’s grip on