Filaria - Brent Hayward [100]
Mereziah screamed for the creature to stop, not sure what to expect next, or what to do — close enough now to the sloth to see his own lanky reflection trapped upside down in the tiny, fear-scarred eyes. He said, “Let’s go back, where we belong . . . We’ve done enough damage here.”
The creature stopped its advance, panting, one huge foot lifted over a man who, thankfully, was unconscious or already dead. The hot rancid breath fell all around Mereziah —
Then everything changed: a warm yellow light erupted, spreading out from above, falling over Mereziah, the beast, over the myriad wounded arranged at their feet. Mereziah’s eyes watered anew. He felt his uniform and areas of his exposed skin instantly warm.
The sloth came no closer. Mereziah was close enough to lay a hand on the quivering, mucus-strung snout.
The second beast had also stopped, sniffing the air, blinking in the new light. Even the moans of those hurt in the fire and collapse of the world had stilled, poised in the new warmth, as if for resolution.
Mereziah waited for that big-clawed fist to finish its arc and smear him down into nothingness.
It did not move.
He broke contact with the animal’s stare, looking up to see what could only be two shining suns, one almost directly overhead, another more distant, burning high against the roof of the world. All about him, the air was moist and steamy.
The light forced Mereziah to look away. But he had gazed upon the suns. He had seen their brilliance.
Perhaps his efforts to return himself and the beasts to the gloomy shaft from whence they had emerged were not futile. All he had to do was follow through, lead both creatures back to the hole, send them down, and vanish along with them. He might not be able to reverse time, or bring the dead back to life, but saving what lives he could was worthwhile, repair some damage, put a few things back where they belonged.
As if attempting to seek what small encouragements Mereziah had spotted in the clearing sky, the sloth lifted its head too, opening its mouth to show those grinding teeth, big enough across to be used as beds. Between the cuspids, in the fetid gape, a great black tongue rose and fell. The sloth took an awkward step backwards.
“Yes,” Mereziah said. “Return.”
With grace — the existence of which Mereziah had not previously suspected — the nearest sloth turned, shedding water and mud from its pelt.
There was a cheer, and other noises of relief, as if all breath had been held. No one was more shocked and elated than Mereziah. “Wait for me, brothers! I’m coming with you! Wait for me!”
But as he took a step, his legs simply folded under him without warning, without any further pain, and he fell to splash on his side in the mud. He could not move. Despite the membrane, there was foul mud in his mouth. He lay there, between two wounded men, as if he had been part of their numbers all along, as if this spot had been reserved for him.
When the pain finally did return, it grew in great surges, coming up his left side. Yet he could do nothing but curl slightly in the mud, rocking like a helpless infant. As his vision darkened, he could not even see the retreating beasts, though the ground shook under him and he was dimly aware of their fading moans.
He focused on the face of the man lying next to him: handsome, middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed moustache and the pale green eyes of someone who had lived his life in the light. The face was alert, watching Mereziah. A very faint voice said, “You are brave . . .”
Mereziah remained silent, teeth grinding against each other as agonies whirled around and around inside his body and his vision grew darker still; whatever drug Steven had given him had clearly worn off.
All around, people were resuming efforts to assist the injured. Had both sloths gone back down? He could not raise his head to look. No one came to