[Longlisted!] -Ghosts of Galena- [#Wattys2018]

It

King.

It's right there, written on the chest of the thing these Lost Boys have brought back. Etched in gold lettering, the word stares up at us all like the graffiti that tarred-and-feathered the crumbling brick edifices in the city.

King.

The word itself is topped with a crown, a tiny drawing, placed there to emphasize the importance of the thing, a pictograph for those that wouldn't otherwise understand.

King.

Those golden marks mar the otherwise perfect layer of filth that covers the rest of him. Like statues of bronze, rubbed to a shine in places from a hundred thousand hands touching them. Except there aren't hundreds of thousands of hands anymore; there's just the two, flopped as they are in the dirt, they've obviously taken great care to ensure that king is implicit, not implied.

"If it's not one of us," Con starts to say, "then why'd you bring it?"

It.

It lies still on the ground, limbs at a sprawl, likely unconscious. Whatever it is, it's wearing armor made of hard leather and metal-mesh. It is covered from head to toe in protective gear that looks heavy and hot, uncomfortable at the very least.

"Well," says the newcomer, an older boy of maybe eighteen, nineteen years, "it didn't die and it didn't seem very sporting to kill it."

"Yeah," one of the others laughs, "the Dead Ones gnawed on him for the better part of an hour and couldn't get through."

"Shoulda just left him," Con scoffs, snorting in disgust and drawing back his foot to nudge at the thing called King. "Ain't gonna do anybody here any good."

There's a slow shift, the twitch of a hand, then a leg, then there's the sudden flurry of movement as King comes back to consciousness. Guttural sounds escape through a hole cut in the mask covering its face, howls like some sort of animal, unaware of its surroundings. Limbs start to flail and the brown exoskeleton rocks back and forth like a turtle stuck on its back. Con laughs, jumping back as a gloved hand comes in contact with his shoe; he kicks at it violently, the steel-toe tip of his boot making contact with hard leather and metal. Other boys gather around then, laughing and kicking until the sounds coming from behind the mask grow louder, more frantic, more angry.

A warmth at my right shoulder tells me that Ree has returned to my side. I can sense her, feel her there like a part of myself that had gone missing. Her breath comes in even cadence, even exhalations that somehow manage to escape without the words I know she's dying to say. Her hand wraps around my arm from the inside, her small, delicate fingers curling into the crook of my elbow.

"Don't," she says, barely whispering the words.

I know she feels the tension in my muscles, feels the intent in my stance. There's laughter, malicious and mean, it echoes through the night, the sound of it dampened somewhat by the surrounding trees. Con kicks the thing in its chest, eliciting another throaty howl. There's a circle of them now, monkey-see monkey-do, boots and shoes and toes and heels all striking like snakes, quick and venomous. I can feel Lyran at my side, his heat filtering through the cotton of my left sleeve, and maybe I'm imagining it, but it's like it's always been there.

"You wanna field this one?" I ask, not even bothering to turn my head. I can see his frown in profile; he doesn't approve of this any more than I do. Lyran opens his mouth to shout—

"Stop it!"

Ree.

Her voice is not her voice when she yells. There's an attempt on her part to make it lower, raspier, more masculine. It draws Con's attention immediately, his blue eyes flickering red and orange with firelight and rage. The other boys follow suit and suddenly we're fixed in the trajectory of all that misplaced ire.