Exousia - The Patron Saints of the Damned -Book II

Exousia searched for the missing human along the perimeter of the tree, wondering if he had wandered back into the woods. If he had … there was a good chance that his soul would be twisted into an abomination by the demons. Then the challenge would be lost. The thought of it caused her to swear against the Creator’s soul under her breath. Then, she heard a whistling noise just above the sound of the wind. Exousia followed the sound back to its source and found the human named Sam. He was hyperventilating; tears stained his cheeks as he knelt in the grass with his arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes were bloodshot, and all his energy was focused on a small object he pressed to his wrist. It was a small, leftover fragment of the glass from the bottle.

Exousia stopped. She couldn’t help but feel like the situation was … advantageous. The human’s would remove himself from the challenge. Not only would this put the challenge further in Exousia’s favor, but in the human’s as well. His life was all but surely forfeit. And dying now would assure that he would not suffer the eternal consequences of damnation. More than that, it would be a more peaceful death than anything else he could hope to experience in this Challenge.

Still, a pit of discomfort formed in Exousia’s stomach. She reached into her pocket and twirled the red checker piece between her fingers. This choice seemed far too simplistic. Too much like … Ammon was sacrificing something in order to get Exousia where he wanted her. The loss of another friend might push some of the humans over the edge and make them ripe for corruption. No … the reality was that Ammon would have a plan ready for either outcome. The only option for not playing into his hands was to do something completely unexpected, to embrace the situation and throw even more variables and chaos upon it.

Exousia cursed again. The idea that had occurred to her would not be pleasant … for either her or the human. She drew upon the demon power within and braced herself. Meeting his eyes, her psyche was overcome with waves of emotion, chaos, and shadows.

-O-

In part, Sam knew where he was. In the dark and hopeless woods, where his life was sure to end in a way more terrifying than he could imagine. Which was why he had separated himself from it all. Found a tiny hole in the recesses of his mind where he could curl up into a ball and make himself as small as possible, while the storm raged just outside. Beyond this, he struggled to understand much of what was happening. All he knew was that the shard of glass he'd found felt like peace when he pressed it to his skin.

That feeling suddenly vanished when tendrils of darkness dragged him back into panic and the dark. Gone was the tranquility of that place behind the tree. Now, dogs chased him into the darkness, their coats ablaze with fire. Glass shattered, and blood sprinkled from above. A single piece of that glass struck his chest with a light thump before it fell to the ground.

“Why did you run?” These words repeated themselves in his mind over and over. They wanted to know why he always ran away from the monsters, why he just shut down for as long as he could remember.

Then a second voice answered for him, “Just a scared little sissy-boy. Answer me, goddammit!” This one was the monster from his dreams … the nightmare from long before the woods.

Sam closed his eyes. If he stayed like this long enough, the nightmare would end like it always did. There would be no more forest, no more wolves, no more screaming. His legs would be scratched up, his ribs would be a little battered, and he might have to wear a sweater to hide the bruises and burns on his arms. But it would be over.

“Look me in the eye when I'm talking to you!”

Sam wouldn't do it at first. But then he heard the familiar sounds of a woman screaming, his friends screaming, bones snapping, flesh being ripped out by an animal, gargling on thick blood. He forced his eyes open but saw nobody and nothing. There was only gray fog that blurred everything he looked at, including the black shadows of a tree that curled over him like a claw.

Then he saw something he hadn't before—a figure breathing heavily in the grass. She was a woman standing under the claw tree, hunched over and breathing hard.

“Mrs. Darsan!” Sam tried to stand but stumbled and fell. His ankles were bound by a rope that trailed behind him. He tried to scream, but there was a rope there too, burning the corners of his mouth. So, he began to crawl on his hands and knees through the dirt. The soil didn't smell or feel right. It felt like cheap carpet and smelled like beer mixed with old cigarettes.

Something pierced his wrist, and he screamed into the gag before he looked to see what it was. It was the upper piece of a denture set with pieces of rope wedged between the teeth. They were cutting hard into his wrist, drawing blood. He shook the dentures loose, but a few teeth remained embedded in his skin. He crawled faster, trying hard to get closer to the fallen figure on the ground.

As he approached, he noticed that his friends were standing around their teacher. They were smiling, happy, and armed with weapons. They all began to wave and beckon him toward him.

“We've got you, buddy. Don't worry,” Brennan said with a wink.

Finally, Sam reached Mrs. Darsan, lying in front of him. He began to undo the knots, which came apart like wet noodles. He turned her over to face him. His eyes met her blank stare. Then, he watched as pink and red cords began to spill from her belly, making the old woman thinner and thinner.

Sam screamed for his friends and began to claw at the dirt to get away. His friends circled around, their smiles gone. They were brooding and snarling like rabid animals. Their eyes were all black, and they all looked … hungry.

Jodie was the biggest of the monsters; he had blood on his fingertips and was clawing at the others so that none came too close to him. Derrick was covered in his brother's blood, shivering. Brennan was curled in a corner, covering his ears and singing. David's body was collapsed on the ground, his face covered in glass. Marshal stood over David, rubbing blood off of his hands. And he kept rubbing … till the skin came off and it was nothing but fleshy tatters that he had to pull off. He looked up briefly and revealed his bloodshot eyes. He then tucked his bloodied hands under his armpits and whispered, “Please Sam... don't tell the others. I was just trying to help. Don't tell.”

Tears welled in Sam's eyes, and he looked back at his teacher. But it was not her face he saw. It was his mother—with her long brown hair, pale skin, tall body, and bony shape—all of which he had inherited. She looked at him with dry and distant eyes and said, “Why did you run into the woods, Sam? Why did you leave me?”

Her skin began to bubble and darken until she became David. His skin bubbled and lightened, and became Ted. One by one, each looked at him through milky eyes and asked the same question. “Why did you leave me?”

“I didn't mean to,” Sam tried to shout back at his mother and his friends, but his jaw felt locked and sluggish. Those words echoed in his mind as he opened his eyes yet again. Suddenly, Sam felt the rope around his ankles tighten. He looked up to see a shadow with black eyes, staring at him callously as it pulled the cord over its shoulder. It tightened more, and he felt his body being dragged. No! He dug his fingers more deeply into the soil and crawled for his life–back into the dark hole where he could wait out the storm. And to the glass … that could be his escape.

“Then why do you not go back to them?” the shadow whispered, unable to pull him any further.

“What?” Sam asked.

“If you did not mean to leave them, then why don’t you return to those who need you?” the shadow whispered. It pointed at his friends–all desperately doing anything they could to survive. “They still need you.”

“I’d just … slow them down,” Sam said, trying to look away. And it wasn’t just an excuse. He knew that he wasn’t strong, that he’d never been the friend that any of them could look up to for strength or reassurance. He wasn’t like charismatic like Brennan and Ted. He wasn’t strong like Megan, Derrick, or Jodie. He wasn’t smart like Marshal and David. All Sam could be was … Sam.

As Sam thought these things, he saw himself in the bathroom rubbing his nose with a dry tissue until blood came out … and then running into Principal Fowler’s office to distract him. All to … help his friends. He saw a much younger and more terrified version of himself clutching his stomach … making himself ill with worry until his mother took him to the doctor … and both of them away from his father.

“I think you are more important to them than you think you are,” the shadow said.

For a moment, Sam released his death-grip on the muddy walls of his burrow so that he could see his friends once again. What they really needed was rescue, from something more powerful than Sam could ever hope to be. He would never be enough, not in the face of this darkness that terrified him to his core. But as he sat there shaking, what he did know was that he could be there with them. Several more tears fell down his cheeks, for the fear he felt now and the terror he knew to be ahead.

Then, finally, Sam let go.

The shadow was finally able to drag him by the ankles from the hole. The dragging made his skin feel like it was being burned by friction with the soil, then by the grass, and then by cheap old carpet. But then … he was awake.

-O-

Exousia opened her eyes and struggled to remain standing as she panted for air. She found herself lying in the grass and tried to collect herself. She could hear the buzz of insects and feel gnats drop to feed on her sweat. But, when she was finally able to sit up and see the humans gathering, she knew that she’d done what she needed to.

The human named Sam was biting his lips so that they bled. The drops of blood went down his chin and dripped over his wrist. But his eyes were now alert.

The moment of silence was broken when another human, Brennan, stepped over plants and briers. His eyes opened wide when he saw the scene before him. “Sam?”

“I didn't mean to,” Sam whispered. He stopped shaking and said, “I didn't mean to leave. I thought if I could pretend that it was a dream, maybe it would be. Maybe the nightmare would end; I'd just wake up, and everything would be safe again. Or if it didn’t I wouldn’t have to be in the nightmare before it killed me.” His voice was distant, but not completely gone.

Exousia tried to listen, but she could barely hear with her head spinning from exhaustion. She struggled to her feet and walked towards a secluded spot in the brush. She had to rest, without any physical or magical strain on her; she had to be alone. She dragged her feet forward and pushed past the brush until she found a small secluded place where she could lie down.

-O-

Brennan's mind was in a haze at seeing Sam with a shard of the glass bottle … having nearly killed himself. Why? And why had he said that he didn’t mean to? Did he have something to do with Ted's death or David's? Was he the one who shouted that they were clear of the holes?

“I think,” Sam said, suddenly looking a little more present than what he'd been. He stood onto his thin, shaky legs and pointed at the enormous tree that they'd climbed. “I want to go back to the others … are they there?”

Brennan swallowed, nodded, and began to walk back. Without thinking, he looked back over his shoulder to make sure that Sam wasn't too close. It made him feel ridiculous and paranoid. But his friend's sudden change in his demeanor and running away made him feel … uneasy. This new prospect playing in Brennan’s mind was impossible; Sam had been in no state of mind to say or do anything to David on purpose. It was an act of manipulation, just like everything that had happened so far.

David had believed everything that the Woodcutter said. But now … now he was dead.

Brennan's thoughts created a well of emotions within him. Sorrow, fear, and anger battled for supremacy in his stomach. He was tired of feeling weak and powerless, putting all his hope in the motives and decisions of a serial killer who currently looked like she could barely stand. He felt hopeless … and worthless to his friends and his sister.

“There's only one way to change that,” said a familiar voice. It was the one that had told him to get his friends just before the wolves broke free! The one that had saved them. A part of Brennan thought that he'd imagined it in his exhaustion, dehydration, and adrenaline. Now that he was hearing it again, he hesitated to answer. Desperate as he was, he knew that talking to the voices in his head was not a good sign. And it being something in the woods instead of just in his head … that did not seem much better. Still, against his better judgment, he eventually whispered, “How?”

“Eat the fruit and become a player in her game.”

Brennan stepped out of the brush and shook his head in disbelief. He realized that the Voice was referring to the same fruit that was supposedly poisoned. He looked down and saw several of them at his feet. Without any intention to take a bite, he knelt to take a closer look. Then he rested a hand on it. It felt surprisingly warm.

-O-

After some of the others left, Jodie knelt in the grass a few feet away from where the rest tried to sleep. He suspected, by their worried looks, that all of them wanted to go looking for Sam. But if they were a fraction as tired as what he felt, with every muscle in his body shaking with just the effort of kneeling, he understood why they hadn't. It seemed easier … and even smarter to trust the Woodcutter to find him. And maybe this was an excuse. But after a certain point of being tired, miserable, and afraid, it became easier to trust that others knew best.

Was that the reason he'd left Ted to die?

That was the question on Jodie's mind as he laid down in the grass, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep. Of course, he couldn't sleep but closing his eyes and remaining still meant that everybody thought that he was. They wouldn't look at him fearfully, or worry about him, or need him … at least for a few minutes. But now he had to listen to his brain repeat that question. If there was anyone in the world that he knew would always have his back, it was Ted. Ted would have never left Jodie to die in that hole, had their situations been reversed. But there was no mistaking that he had wanted his brother saved.

But now Jodie wondered if he'd been right. He replayed the memory in his mind. Ted had looked at him … then at Derrick and told them to go. He had, hadn't he? Was it possible that the woods had played a trick on him? Or had he been so afraid that he heard what he wanted to? Maybe Ted had meant that Derrick should run while Jodie pulled him out of the hole!

The more Jodie tried to remember, the more confused he became. And no justification changed the fact that his best friend in the world had died by wolves tearing him limb from limb. Hot tears welled in his eyes, while they and his sinuses swelled with pressure. And when his eyes had misted up enough that he could no longer keep the tears from falling, he pretended to roll in his sleep so that his face was pressed to the grass.

-O-

Megan watched Sam and Brennan walk back toward the tree; she exhaled in relief. They were both safe, at least as much so as the rest of them. Now, the only one of them unaccounted for was their guide. On the one hand, this was strangely comforting in and of itself. But after that strange speech she'd given, Megan wasn't sure how comforting her absence actually was. Most of what the Woodcutter had said sounded like the ravings of a lunatic. It reminded Megan of the paranoid hallucinations of a great aunt she had in an assisted living facility. But, in the case of this aunt, there had been a disconnect in her pattern of thinking and how she acted. Her stories and delusions were a jumbled mess of nightmares, yet all she wanted to do was watch television and murmur about it.

With the Woodcutter, her views and actions seemed to line up. Her story was vague … but purposefully so, like she knew and was not bothered by the fact that she would not be believed. Still, she had to be crazy on some level, didn't she? Megan thought so, but the more she tried to remember evidence for any sure signs of insanity, the more she realized that she couldn't.

Even the Woodcutter’s speech about great powers watching seemed legitimized by the fact that there was something else in these woods. The entire forest, other than the half-acre around the strange tree, was without life. And though this and the plays on their fear could have all been hallucinations, there was no forgetting the unnaturally large wolves that couldn't be killed by a gun. And what about the fire? She hadn't seen it directly … but there was no mistaking that something had created a giant wall of flames during the wolf attack.

Megan decided that the only way she could find out more about the situation or about the Woodcutter herself was to ask. Whether she was crazy … or lying to them … or if there was something much more sinister really happening in these woods.

There were a few problems with this plan, however. For one, the Woodcutter wanted to be left alone. She was visibly tired and had gone for a reason. Second, there was no way to appeal to her conscience or empathy as she didn't seem to have them … or at least wasn't able to show them. She didn't even seem to have interest in attaining their affection or trust. In a way, it was this lack of interest in convincing them that made her come off as more honest.

Megan walked back to the front of the tree while she thought about this. When she arrived, she saw that Brennan and Sam were the only ones standing; the rest slept. Well … except for two of them. David and Ted were … gone. This created a hollow feeling within Megan. She hadn’t really let any of it impact her, not while part of the group had been missing. Now that they were all together, she realized that her headcount was two short. Now, it would always be two short

Megan shook her head forcefully. She couldn’t dwell on it. She had to do something, fix something! She walked over to Sam and Brennan and asked, “Are … you alright, Sam?”

Sam looked at her, seeming a little surprised. But then he nodded quietly, not all that different from how shyly he acted when they were at school. He attempted a smile and then moved to the edge of the living grass to stare at the distant holes in silence. It was surprising … his eyes were no longer clouded over.

“What did you say to shake him out of it?” Megan whispered to her brother.

“I … didn't,” Brennan replied. He looked down at the ground with a wrinkled brow and an expression of frustration, no doubt trying to figure all this out as much as she was. Megan placed a hand on her brother's shoulder until he sat down in the grass. She then turned and walked towards the overgrown brush. But she felt herself being stopped by a hand grabbing her arm. It was Brennan, his face dirty and his eyes looking like they would shut at any moment. The grip on her arm was very light, and then quickly gone. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“I'm going to talk to her,” Megan said. “Whether she's crazy or not, at least some part of her doesn't want to hurt us. I think we need to figure out what we can and what we can do to help ourselves.”

“She's dangerous,” Brennan said, with a shake of his head. “And she made it clear that she doesn't care what happens to you or any of us. What if she decides that you're annoying her? She could kill you.”

“I think if that were the case she would have killed you already, little bro,” Megan said, managing a small smile to try to comfort him. But this didn't seem to work, so she changed to a serious expression. “I have to try something. I haven't been walking around in the woods for as long as the rest of you, so I don't need the rest as much. You need to sleep if you can.”

Judging from Brennan's swollen, watery eyes, it looked like he hadn't fully heard everything she's said. But at least he seemed to have understood enough to agree that he wanted to sleep, because he nodded and looked at where he'd been sitting. He took one last glance at her arm before he turned his back and returned to the tree.

Megan looked down and saw a bruise she hadn't noticed before, wrapping around her arm from where her brother had held on during their run from the wolves. She wanted to tell him that it was just a bruise, that it was alright.

But there was something wrong with Brennan, something that couldn't be resolved over a few seconds. His best friend was dead … and he probably blamed himself. And knowing him, he certainly didn't want to be alone. After this was all done, she'd be there for him and talk as much as he needed. But for now, figuring out how to get them all out of the woods was on the top of Megan's list of priorities. So, she walked into the thicker brush behind the tree, careful to not step on anything that would make sounds. It took several minutes of searching before Megan found her.

The Woodcutter was sitting cross-legged on a patch of grass, her eyes looking out as if searching for something. The piece of green fabric from Megan’s own torn tank-top was still wrapped around her head. Her hands were placed gently on the grass. She looked like she was in a state of meditation and a bit more rested than before.

The closer that Megan got, the cooler the air became. Her beating heart seemed to slow down a bit, and her breath felt deeper and more efficient. There was a momentary temptation not to say anything, but to just sit and rest. But she knew that she had to get answers. “Um, excuse me,” she said, making her presence known.

The Woodcutter gave no indication that she'd heard her.

This made Megan feel a touch of anger. She had to take a breath and force herself to remember that the Woodcutter was a crazy person who lived in the woods. She was a killer who fought wolves and who cut open people's chests to remove their hearts. It was of little surprise that she didn’t have good manners. So, Megan worked up her courage and tried a different approach. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

The Woodcutter remained motionless.

Megan decided that his lack of answers meant that she didn't care one way or the other, so she sat down. She chose a spot about two feet away, in another patch of grass. She sat still for a moment, while her body tried to recuperate as much as it could. Like before, there was a temptation to remain quiet as the air lulled her into deep relaxation.

Again, Megan forced a feeling of determination and tried to speak. But the shaky feeling in her throat reminded her of how nervous she was about testing the Woodcutter’s patience. She tried waiting for the shaking to stop but eventually decided that it never would and that she had to speak through it. “You said that you're the Woodcutter but … what's your name? I mean, you don't have to say all of it. I’m guessing you don’t want people to be able to identify you.”

For several seconds, and it didn’t seem that the Woodcutter was going to answer her. But then she said, “Exousia.” She added nothing more.

“Good … now we know what to call you,” Megan replied, immediately feeling like it was a stupid thing to say. She bit her bottom lip and then became irritated at herself for her struggle to talk.

“If it serves to keep you from getting yourselves worked up over a nickname,” Exousia said, her eyes unmoving. “I assume the title was meant for humans to have a more gruesome legend to speak about … to glorify the acts of brutality that I've committed. But that doesn't help you, here.”

Megan's cheeks burned red for a moment, as she remembered her own gossiping about the local legend. The instance she remembered took place a few years before, with some of the friends she'd had before leaving middle-school. It was around the time when the first dozen bodies had been discovered, and the priest had talked on the news. She had to admit to having walked very quickly while taking the trash out at night for a few weeks after. But in her defense, everyone had gossiped and carried on like it was a game. If you said the name out loud while walking around in the dark, he might appear and disembowel you then and there. In a small town, a serial killer was big news and not the sort of thing that went away after a year or two.

“It doesn't bother me, what humans do amuse themselves,” Exousia said. The far-off look still in her eyes.

This lack of caring made Megan feel strangely drawn to her, little as she liked that fact. She imagined the girl being an outcast of society, sort of like her. The difference was that the Woodcutter clearly had no interest in being accepted or liked. Megan had always fought to do the same, with every good grade, every college application, and every hour spent saving her minimum-wage pittance. But, there was a part of her that secretly wished that the girls in her class would like her. This same secret part of her hoped that her parents would suddenly take an interest in her life and that she could be a sister to her brother. And it dreamed of one-day finding people who really accepted and loved her.

But there was a difference between them. The Woodcutter killed people … brutally. And that fact limited how much Megan could feel any sort of connection to her. Still, she wanted to know more. No, she needed to know more … for survival.

So Megan asked, “What does your name mean?”

“In some contexts, it means the ability to choose,” Exousia said, but then frowned. “I’m not interested in meanings. I carry the name because it is the one I remember, the one that has always felt like it belonged to me. And I do not appreciate its irony.”

“What do you mean?” Megan asked, encouraged that she had added more to the conversation.

For a moment, Exousia glanced at her with reservation. Her expression did not change, but it seemed like she was considering answering. For the first time, Megan got the impression that maybe the Woodcutter was uncomfortable. She said, “It implies that I have the power to change what happens. But I'm beginning to think that I do not, that I am trying to stop the inevitable.”

“You … think you'll … lose against the things in the woods?” Megan asked.

Exousia shook her head as if she didn't know the answer. “I've gone over the possibilities repeatedly, and there is no way that my enemy should be able to corrupt your souls. Don't get me wrong, he could have easily done so. He could have picked easier targets or played a more aggressive role. But he's not done any of it. It's like he already knows he's won, and that nothing I can do will change that.”

“Then...” Megan said, swallowing back a pocket of air that had formed in her throat. “If you can't change things, then why are you still trying to get us out?”

“You think I should stop?” Exousia asked, a hint of cruelty in her facial expression as she said it.

“No! I just mean-” Megan said, trying hard not to say something stupid. “I mean that maybe there's something inside of you that … maybe cares about other people. Or maybe you're fighting for some greater good, like people do sometimes, even though things look hopeless.”

“Ah, you're trying to appeal to my humanity,” Exousia replied with a tired sigh. The reaction seemed to say that she understood, but that Megan’s attempts were pointless. Exousia closed her eyes and went back to looking serene.

“Exousia … what happens if you lose?” Megan asked. “You said it would be worse than if we died. If we just understood, maybe we could fight harder or help you.”

There was another pause, and it looked like Exousia was going to remain silent. But then, she spoke. “There will be war … and lots of people will-” Her words were cut off. She touched the strip of green fabric around her cut and bruised temple, in the exact place where Megan had accidentally struck her with the gun. She fell backward.

Megan looked around, unsure of whether to scream for the others or to keep silent. In the distance, she saw a shadow in the woods beyond the protective space around the trees. But before she could make out what it was, she felt herself being drained of consciousness and collapsing beside the Woodcutter, barely making out the shape of a white circle with two black holes.