Terror of the Shadow

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Laban awoke to a parade of footsteps marching past. Low, barely palpable murmurs and whispers fluttered by, as soft and as impossible to catch as a flittering butterfly.

Laban didn't even have the strength to open his eyelids, but he could tell by the faint, red glow that it was light out. He must have slept through the night. His entire body ached. His joints felt so stiff that he thought they might break in two if he tried to move them. He started out small; he wiggled the ends of his toes and the tips of his fingers just to get some blood moving through them again. When he was comfortable with that, he finally managed to pry his eyes open. He blinked a few times, allowing his eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness.

He was exactly where he was the night before, lying on the rotting floorboards of an old, abandoned cottage. People-shaped shadows moved across the fogged window. They all whispered quietly to one another, but Laban couldn't hear what they said.

Once again gaining feeling in his extremities, he used his arms to push himself up so that he could lean against the wall. Every movement was painful. He wasn't ready to stand up just yet.

Laban noticed the thin layer of dust that had accumulated over his body—much more than a single night's worth. He began dusting himself off, silently trying to convince himself that it wasn't possible to have slept more than one night, and yet the soreness of his body and the sharp pangs of hunger that throbbed in his stomach told him that he had.

He tried to stand. His knees ached and wobbled beneath him. All his muscles were weak and starved. Using the wall as his guide, he managed to limp out the door. A long line of people shuffled past, making their way from the center of town. All of them wore or carried gas masks or small respirators. Were they going outside? Laban asked himself.

"W–what's going on?" Laban asked a passerby. His voice was hoarse and parched.

"Haven't you heard?" replied a young woman, stepping out of the crowd. She held a pail of soapy water in her petite hands.

"Heard what?"

"We're going to clean... are you alright?" the young woman asked. "You don't look well."

"I... I... um..." Laban stuttered, unsure of how to respond. "I'm fine. What are you going to clean? Are you all leaving the city?"

"The elders asked every available hand to help wash the exterior wall. I don't know how you would have missed the announcement."

"Well, I've gotten pretty good at not being involved," Laban muttered.

"Sorry?"

"Nevermind. What is there to clean—"

Laban suddenly recalled watching the War'acks paint something on the side of the wall using makeshift brushes dipped in blood. He guessed that the War'acks probably weren't trying to share with them their latest work of art. They were delivering a message.

Laban had only met Ithtar once, but it was enough to wager a good guess as to what was written.

"Are you sure you're alright?" the woman asked again.

"Fine. Just need some water, is all," Laban replied.

"You really don't look well. Where do you live?"

"On the south side of town. It's really not far," he said, pointing down the road in the direction of his home. Laban took a few teetering steps forward. His knees buckled. He nearly fell face-first into the sand, but a pair of hands stopped his fall.

"Let me help you," the young woman said, pulling him back up to his feet.

"I'm fine, really. Just a bit hungry," Laban protested. "It's alright. You should go back. The others are almost gone now. You'll get left behind."