Dead Remnants

Chapter 8 (Part One): THE OLD WOMAN AND THE DUCK

The desert sun's weak morning rays filtered through the slits between the skyscrapers, warming sections of pavement in long, golden stripes. In the shade where the heat didn't reach, thick frost clung to the sidewalk. Every time Ashen stepped on it, she expected to hear that familiar, faint crunch underfoot, but instead there was an eerie silence.

Macajah stormed on in the lead, intent on reaching their final destination, while Ashen and Max lagged behind. She frowned in thought. Even though she'd read books and magazines and articles on anything related to the paranormal, she didn't have a single idea as to what lay ahead. Was she supposed to ascend someplace where angels squawked in choirs while playing enormous harps? Maybe reincarnate? Or perhaps she was giving herself too much credit and was destined instead to plummet forever through a dark emptiness.

She'd waited long enough and wanted answers. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Union Station downtown," Max said.

"The old train depot?"

Max nodded. "I guess you could say it's the Warders' base of operations."

Morning light revealed details on the soldier's military fatigues. The shapeless, combat-practical uniform definitely wasn't modern. Several small canvas bags hung from his heavy-duty tan belt, including a canvas-clad canteen on one hip and a sheathed knife on the other. His trousers billowed over the tops of his mid-calf boots; the drab army-green material clashed with the chestnut-toned leather.

"Are you, um, were you in a war or something?" she asked.

"Yeah, it was something, alright," he said with a laugh. His eyes twinkled, softening the seriousness of his features. He jabbed his finger at a blue diamond patch stitched to the arm of his jacket. On it, the word "Ranger" was embroidered in yellow. "Army. Second Ranger Battalion. A D-Day mission was my last."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear about—" Ashen raised her eyebrows. "Wait, did you say, D-Day? Like, 'the' D-Day?"

"Was there a different one I don't know about?"

"But," she scanned him head to toe as he grinned back at her. "You're barely older than me!"

He shoved his hands in his pockets and gave Ashen a wink. "We're all the same age here, darlin'. Young and old souls alike. The only timetable we've got is eternity."

An unexpected flush crept across her cheeks. She looked down to avoid any uncomfortable eye contact. Darling? What was with this guy? And the idea of eternity seemed, well, forever. Too massive to wrap her head around. She glowered at her feet, watching the flames lick up her leg with each soundless stomp she took. When she and Max crossed from the sunlit concrete to the shadow of a building, her footsteps remained inaudible, but beneath the soldier's boots, the brittle frost cracked.

Confused, Ashen debated if asking Max about something as silly as sound was worth the risk of turning red again. Once she had formulated her question, she raised her eyes, but a movement beyond the soldier next to her caught her attention.

New, dazed, dead souls strolled alongside them. They seemed like regular people, but there was a hint of how each had perished, just like the blue-fingered old woman pursuing her invisible duck. Although most of these indicators were subtle, others were more obvious: wisps of smoke tangled around a boy's arms and legs, specter water enveloped a lady, seeping growths covered an old man's chest. Visual chronicles of every person's death.

When the old man with the sores let out a phlegmy cough, Ashen winced before glancing at her own silver flames. She guessed getting blown up in a wreck had its advantages. At least her weird ghost power was pretty. It could have been worse. A lot worse.