*********************
Elizabeth Stroudwater
Hanging off the side of the train from the front car, I keep the cloth wrapped around my face as tight as I can. The sands are only getting more invasive, making it harder and harder to breathe as the tremors grow in breadth.
But as I glance back along the train, my heart trembles in doses of panic. We're down nearly an entire third of the massive metallic vehicle. Wyatt has been running low on stamina and forced to retreat while he recovers. Yet, even if he recovers at a prodigious rate, rejoining the battle within a single minute each time, it's not enough. That hand of his is not indefatiable. Neither is he. In the end, he is only human. As we all are.
The Crimlimes are gradually making their way through the train. I can't imagine how it would be if we weren't dropping as much weight as possible. So many more of those creatures would be attacking that we'd be overwhelmed in minutes. Every second feels like an hour, but based on my watch, it's only been one hour since the first Crimlime was spotted. Not enough for anyone to sleep other than Virgil.
Beside me, the cloaked form of the man is gearing up, equipping his knives and guns and tightening a new mask that he had stored with his things on the train. I raise a hand to him just as he steps toward the door backward, obviously going to help our shared friend.
It pains me to say these things, let alone shout them over the sound of the storm, but I can see it in the distance. Gravecross.
"Don't! We'll need you up here, Virgil! I see things on the route that goes up the plateau from here!"
Our salvation, I note, lies atop a massive ridge of the plateau. Like a lifeline, the train tracks wind their way up this steep incline, leading to the crest of the spine where most of the roiling sand cannot reach. We've been told by many figures we'll be safe there, so I have to trust it. If I don't... No, I can't think like that. It's a glimmer of hope, a chance to escape the relentless pursuit of the sandstorm, but even then, it comes at a cost.
Virgil twists, frustration brimming in every portion of his body that he shuts down in an instant. His control over his emotions is something I envy. The part I don't, however, is how he came upon that control.
"Fine. What's the issue?"
He steps beside me, not quite peeking out the open window as I am. I nod to him as I leverage my telescope, extending it carefully to not drop it in the whistling sands. Shifting into a partial sit out of the train's window, one hand steadying the telescope against the fierce rattling of the carriages, I see beyond in far more clarity. Ahead, the land stretches out in a desolate plane of sand, a wasteland carved by the relentless winds of the crimson sandstorm. The city that used to be here is gone. Blacktile is nothing but a sand-covered mound five miles to our north. It's a nightmarish dreamscape, and the entire world seems to have been swallowed by a sea of red. The dark stone that once was the earth to be tread upon is invisible, hidden by the crimson granules.
We're lucky the tracks for the train still exist, made out of material far more dense and resistant to Ether than any common metal. Before us, a vast expanse of stone earth is strewn with a chaotic dance of red. Hideous creatures, Crimlimes, spawned from the very substance of the storm, gradually gain significance as their gaseous figures crash into the sand. I shiver, watching them transform from dust to nightmare.
These creatures, almost formless upon arrival, hurriedly, as if on the Pale Lady's doorstep, take on ghastly shape. Their skeletal frames are made visible as they crack and groan like ghoulish undead. Thin tendrils of red sand seem to connect their limbs as they break and contort, twisting the limbs with inhuman shapes and forming crude substitutes for flesh and muscle. Eyes, hollow and filled with a swirling abyss of red, replace the pupils, granting them a grotesque semblance of life.
They seem to be a mockery of the Undead and the living. Silas' face is not far from me, his efforts made audible by the creaking of the train as he does all he can to bolster it. The Flames Of Undeath that hide in his eyes are the opposite of what I see in these beings.
Crimlimes don't possess life. They don't even hold a semblance of it. They are nothing but manifestations of decay. Vincent Harvey...
Why did it have to be him? Why? Why couldn't anyone else rise to become a God? Maybe... maybe it wouldn't be that bad if the other Dominions rose instead. I mean, what has the Prime ever done for us?
I heard his proclamation, his words resounding through the whole continent most likely, but I couldn't bring myself to believe him. What he's done... he's brought upon an apocalypse to this world while trying to stop one.
As I observe the apocalypse with shaky hands, these abominations claw their way into being, contorting their grotesque forms in the ever-shifting sands. They may lack true minds, resembling brainless undead animated by malevolent Ether, but they share a common goal—to reach the train and its terrified passengers.
So many of the people on this train, likely bordering on two thousand or so people crammed tightly as the back two are for fighting back the Crimlimes, are Unsigiled. These are families of the soldiers of Bent or of my companions. Those people have no power over what is happening to them. They are relying on Wyatt and Primrose, alongside others like Laura, who have recovered enough to join. They are...
They are relying on me.
Tightening my gaze, I focus, analyzing the threats with my thunderous heart.
While they are not fast enough to match the train's speed on their own, many Crimlimes have been carried by the howling winds, steering them toward our path. It's a collision course, a calamity waiting to unfold, and the situation grows graver with each passing moment. And with each passing second, the trembles in my hands only worsen. Our train, already battered and bruised from our desperate flight, is in no shape to withstand the impending impact of these apocalyptic creatures. I don't know if I'm in a shape to do anything about it.
I stare down at the tendons in my hands. Just a few hours ago, I was nearly dead. Blake and Earl pulled me back from the abyss after Dawn's help, but...
I can still feel it. The shadow of Death. She touched me. The Pale Lady was knocking on my soul. I didn't have the heart to refuse like those stronger than me. I don't have that kind of will. All I could do was be saved. Can I even save anyone here, though?
It dawns on me that we face an impossible choice. We must confront this impending horror head-on to ensure the safety of my passengers. We can't simply run them over. A single Crimlime can't match Wyatt in strength, but four can. And I see hundreds barreling toward us. Our only hope is to clear the tracks, keep our wounded locomotive moving and reach the protection offered by the plateau's heights.
But how?
As the train's navigator and controller, the weight of this decision bears heavily upon me. Millie is back with Wyatt right now, focusing on leading in direct combat as she does best. It falls to me to decide how we will do this. It's a daunting task that makes the telescope nearly tumble out of my sweaty palms..
Pulling myself from the windowsill, I relay my findings to Virgil. He's growing impatient, something I can tell by how he is fidgeting with a knife on his belt. Without wasting time or withholding any information, I give it all to him.
"Crimlimes. Hundreds of them around us are rushing for the train. They are too slow to catch up, but many of them will meet us on the tracks. The worst of it will be on the way up the ridge, as that's where most land from the sandstorm."
Virgil nods, his hands no longer shifting. Instead, they rise to his face, drawing aside his mask. I almost flinch at the new scars on his countenance before glancing down at his still-limping leg. He's not ready for this. He might have slept, but he's not healed all the way.
"I can handle it."
I raise my eyebrow, even as I see him double-check his Colt. The man tightens his belt, rearranges his knives, fixes his light armor, and drops his newly-earned scythe to the train as it falls with a considerable heft. No way. No fucking way. He'll just get himself killed.
"No."
He twists his hood as if confused by my answer.
"No?"
I nod, lightly grabbing the gun in his hand. My eyes stare directly into his twilight-like pupils. The shifting whites, grays, and blacks pull me in, but I refuse to be affected. He's double my Sigil, with two more Absolutions than my zero. But he's not thinking straight.
"No. You will die on your own. I'll help you. Silas! Go get Millie!"
Virgil scoffs as Silas nods, coughing as he stops his work on the Steam Train. I don't know how useful he actually was, to be honest. Such a grand machine has to be beyond his capability, but I need Millie here right now.
"Sir, yes, sir. Haha, just kidding. Don't die while I'm gone!"
I ignore Silas and focus on Virgil's mind as I step back toward him with purpose. My eyes land on the only box still in this room now that we're out of fuel. It's a long thing, made of stern wood and ornate steel. Walking past Virgil, I kneel beside the coffin-like box.
"I'll help you. I might be low in Sigil, but Earl, as you know, can make up for those little things."
Virgil hums as he's lost to my actions but still agrees with me. Compared to Earl and Wyatt, I'm nearly useless. The former can keep a half dozen or so Angels alive with his medical knowledge while also creating wondrous inventions. I know part of it is his Sigil, but most of it is him. Meanwhile, Wyatt is a miniature Marshall Travis—unrelenting, unbreakable, tireless.
So, I asked my dear friend to create something for me.
I push open the box and reach inside. My fingers curl around the cold, ominous grip of the weapon. This long rifle is an amalgamation of everything Earl has learned so far since we left our home. I could not be more proud of him or it.
The stock of the rifle is hewn from dark, warped blue wood, etched with grooves for the flowing of blood. Placing it against my shoulder, I feel the unperturbed timber sit snugly. I stare down the lines of the wood, finding it shining to the eyes.
My eyes follow up the rifle, focusing on the edge next. The barrel is a twisted, sinuous monstrosity made from the insides of the Urayuli that was killed by Kwakiteh. It's tougher than any steel and lighter than any wood, but there was so little of it that was gathered before we left; only the barrel is made of it to handle the bullet's velocity from inside. My pupils then float upward as Virgil crouches, seeing the weapon for the first time.
The telescope mounted on top of the rifle is not ordinary either. Simply having one is expensive alone, but the scope has a gear on the side that I can spin, shifting the lenses inside for better vision.
But then, I gaze at the two main sections of the rifle. What really makes it unique. What makes it... powerful.
And there's something more, something that makes this weapon genuinely unique. On its left side, a bag of blood is inlaid into the cold steel, connecting to the weapon's inner workings. It's a macabre addition, a lifeline for the rifle's inhuman power. The bag pulses, sending crimson life into the heart of the weapon through steel cables acting as veins, fueling its potential.
In the center of the rifle's right side, an eye has been sewn into the steel, a hollow Ail. Kaelin's Thrust, the Ail made from a long-dead Nahullo. They were a master with a lance, capable of moving at unheard-of speeds and penetrating anything with their force. Thin cables, like tendrils of sustenance, snake outwards from the eye, connecting it to the rifle's mechanisms. The lines end at the blood bag, proving how it is sustained.
I smile at Virgil as he coughs out a question, lifting the rifle as I stand.
"What is that thing?"
I laugh with a bit of anxiousness. Hefting the surprisingly light rifle over my shoulder, I answer him.
"Earl's newest invention while you were all preparing for the battle with Eli Weiss. Lifepiercer. Not a Colt. Not an artifact. Not an Ail. Something... entirely unique."
Virgil simply nods, some hidden jealousy in his eyes. I see it and reassure him as Millie enters the room. The Colonel from Bent merely shakes her head at our conversation, wanting an update.
"I'll have Earl make something for you after this. Maybe a mask with an eye in it? Oh, Millie!"
I give her a brief rundown on the situation before she understands, giving us the go-ahead.
"Sounds like a plan. I'll stay here in case I'm needed to relay information, but what will we do if these things follow us up? Sure, we're supposed to be safe atop the ridge, but I find that hard to believe."
Millie's logic breaks through the illogical hope I had. She's right. We need something to ensure they can't just effortlessly chase us up. The lift is the only way up the ridge other than the train tracks, which I doubt still works.
I find an answer in less than a second, and I loathe it for being an Earl-answer.
"Explosives. We'll blow it all up after us."
Millie's eyes light up at the suggestion, and she quickly runs out of the room, yelling at Silas as he shambles in, exhausted.
"Stay here! Relay any information if needed!"
"Huh? Okay! What the hell was that?"
Silas turns to us, but Virgil is already sliding out the window to the front of the train. And so, I quickly join him, shouting backward at the Undead.
"Sorry! Just stay within earshot of me!"
The Undead man wipes his face as I shimmy out the window, latching a rope onto the inside of the train before leaving. Then, with Ether fueling my veins with Adrenaline Surge and Lifepiercer on my back, I climb to the top of the train. Not even sparing a glance behind me, knowing the sight to be brutal, I focus on my beyond.
As I reach the roof of the speeding train, the biting wind with wafts of sand tears at my clothing, sending a shiver down my spine. I anchor myself with a chain to the swaying ceiling, my body tensed for the battle ahead. At the same time, I tighten the cloth on my face to help me breathe easily. Below me, Virgil has already dived onto the treacherous sands.
The abominations emerge from the crimson abyss of dust, grotesque and formless, their limbs shifting like tendrils. My friend moves with a speed unlike any human I've ever seen, simply a shadow that makes even the train pale in comparison. Virgil is a blur of motion once he reaches his first Crimlime, his knives and tendrils of darkness dancing through the approaching horde on the tracks, but their numbers threaten to overwhelm him even as he Flickers between them. His incredible speed is a marvel to behold, but even he struggles to keep up with the relentless advance of the abominations. He can't just kill the ones on the tracks, either, as more are coming from his interceptions.
I raise Lifepiercer to my shoulder, my eye locked on the writhing horde. I pull the trigger upon finding one close to ambushing my friend. With a quiet whisper of a shot, the abomination explodes into a gruesome spectacle of mist and sandy flesh, their forms disintegrating under the rifle's insidious power. It's a silent death, proof of the weapon's horrifying capabilities. With the death, I tally a number in my mind, focused only on doing the best that I can.
One.
Smiling, I place my eye behind the scope again, searching for another target. The blood fueling this weapon comes from Johnny, and it's enough to fuel the Ail's usage for approximately a hundred shots. Within the bag on my side are enough bullets to also fulfill that limit.
Together, we form a lethal partnership, Virgil's incomprehensible agility and my marksmanship as a deadly balance against the unrelenting tide of Crimlimes. Just barely are we able to clear the tracks before the train reaches them, and closer and closer, we come to the ridge.