Step Children

8.

Scott squeezed Brian's shoulder for dear life as their surroundings flew by at the speed of light.

The field of goldenrods came into view. They slammed to an abrupt halt in the center of the scorched circle.

Whether this was a projection or real life, Scott didn't know. He patiently followed Brian's lead.

"Reapers all make the same mistake," Brian said. "They put their feet on the bottom step. As soon as they stop hovering, I can track them. You see those boot prints?"

Scott looked to where he pointed. Sure enough, boot prints that looked as if they had been dipped in blue and pink paint were imprinted at the edge of the circle.

"Let's see where they go," Brian said as he patted his own shoulder.

Scott grasped it and braced himself.

This time, however, they flew much more though the air. Drops of the same vibrant blue and pink lead the way, and they followed them with caution.

The goldenrods weren't endless, Scott soon found out. An old farmer with a rusty tractor and two pigs stood at one end of it. The old man didn't so much as wave to them as they flew not fifteen feet above his head.

Blacktooth wasn't far past the farmer. The siren to the firehall had no need to sound its piercing cry, and Scott was glad for it.

The paint dripped further and further. Same consistency, same distance apart.

"Do you think the Widow-Maker could have done this on purpose? To lay a trap?"

"Perhaps. I doubt it though. Mostly because they're pretty good at killin' folks. I don't reckon he accounted for you being a zombie."

"A zombie, huh?" Scott said with a chuckle. His feet floated weightlessly through the air in the wake.

Before too long they were in Chapel Hill. The paint dripped on rooftops and tree tops alike.

Scott's palms were a bit sweaty. He alternated shoulder hands and snapped his fingers to dry them a couple times. They started to get closer and closer to his baby mama's apartment.

They busted through the balcony window into Melissa's room.

She lay on her back as stiff as a board. Scott could discern her sillouette, but it was shrouded in black. The Widow-Maker was all encompassing.

Scott stepped forward, but Brian stopped him.

"If you do this, I can't go with you. This is the end of the line for me."

"This is my demon. There's not much you could do anyway," Scott said.

The black mist smelled terrible. Scott tucked his nose inside his shirt and touched the Widow-Maker's shoulder.

The world around him collapsed into darkness as he dove deeper into yet another projection.

Scott never liked rowing, or boats in general. Yet here he was, rowing away. A little one-man rowboat.

The sun clipped the horizon. The clouds looked ablaze, as did the surface of the water, which sprawled in every direction.

A crosswind blew onto his face, and he knew for sure that the water wasn't water at all. It was whiskey. The smell was intoxicating. It would have been all too easy to reminisce, but he tried to stay focused.

He was certain that the sun was to the west; It was dusk, not dawn, he knew. Scott didn't need a watch to know. His craving was right on schedule.

The only object in sight was a colonial ship. It had a wooden haul, and Scott could make out its inhabitants on the deck. Quite the party they were having.