Quadragesimus Secundus Gradus

Rumbling jet engines suffocated Zariah’s ears as her head traced a benign dance through the air. Pressure throbbed all around her skull. Her eyes bobbed, struggling to focus. The cabin was dark and splashed red from the onset of dusk, so her eyes flitted from reddish shadow to shadow. Faust squirmed next to Zariah, straining against the bindings which held his hands and feet together.

Zariah sensed a thud. Faust began to shout, which seemed to cue the pressure on her head to lift. Her ears continued to ring, but Faust’s voice grew clearer against the engine growls. Her head still hung limp, but she could settle her eyes on the aisle; on a silhouette. She blinked, as in a lull, to clear her vision. When they opened, the silhouette remained. It was a man. He loomed over Faust. A man, but ghastly. Catatonic. Even as the shadows of seats and windows pitched around him, his form remained steadfast, as if the world was anchored to him.

Zariah felt pressure along her side as Faust adjusted in his seat to turn toward the man. His bottom rose onto Zariah’s thigh, his shoulder pressed into her cheek. Now his shouts soared into the man’s face. Of more importance, his body hid hers from him.

The shadow in the aisle spoke in a whisper. Zariah heard it over the deep groan of the engines, over the creaking of the plane, and over Faust’s angry cries, because it sliced like a silver dagger through the air. It silenced Faust and hushed the cacophony of flight. Faust trembled. Zariah shivered as well, desperate to escape the shadow’s presence.

When the whisper withered, Faust barked at the man. The rage in Faust’s voice was now tinged with horror. Zariah registered not a word, but she gathered the hopelessness just as well. She jerked her head back and twisted her neck. Her body obeyed, allowing her a perfect view of the aisle over Faust’s shoulder.

A hand fell on the shoulder. The heat from Faust’s body disappeared as the shadow-man snatched him away. He crumpled to the floor. Zariah tried to shout, but found her mouth full of cloth. A sliver of light glinted near the man’s hand—a knife. Zariah’s eyes snapped onto it. She commanded her legs to thrust her forward, but they couldn’t muster the strength for the endeavor.

Then it was gone, returned to the man’s black sheath. Faust was alive. The rope from his hands fell to the floor, severed. Zariah watched him stabilize himself on his hands and knees. His abdomen quivered. Zariah decided that he was weeping.

The shadow-man kicked Faust, who clutched at his belly as his face fell into Zariah’s feet. He turned away from her. She could only stare at him. The cutting whisper of the man returned for a moment. In response, Faust sat up to hurl more venom towards him.

Howling, like a storm, assaulted her ears. Air gushed around her. Her eyelids flickered. She curled as the cold bit her. When Zariah opened her eyes she saw Faust standing before the man. She saw that he was yelling, but she could hear nothing aside from the rushing wind. The shadow’s arm shot out from his side, with an awful glimmer, and a spattering of blood fell upon Zariah’s face. Faust fell to a knee. A desperate scream scratched her ear. She shut her eyes tight, unwilling to watch him die. The wailing continued, harmonizing with the wind. When at last it fell silent, Zariah felt that she may never open her eyes again.

Hands grasped her shoulders. Firm, but tender. His hands. 

Her eyes snapped open. Faust was staring at her, but his eyes were shut. His face was split from edge to edge and bathed with red glow and black shadow. His eyes were shut tight. His cheeks gleamed with tears and blood. He squeezed her shoulders. He shoved her. She tumbled out of the plane.

—

A sudden, searing pain in her leg snapped Zariah awake with a lurch. 

The motion threw her body out of a precarious balance, sending her careening down a hill. Even as she rolled, she unwittingly reached for her calf. As her face struck a sharp branch, she gave up on the leg. Instead, she brought her forearms up to protect her head. Branches and rocks carved out gulleys in her skin as she descended. Rivers of blood ran through them. Anything uncut was battered, though most of her body met both pains. Zariah fought the urge to flail in an attempt to brake, an urge which strengthened with every punch and slice. The urge subsided when at last she began to slow, rolling to a stop in the dirt. Zariah seethed, body coiled tight, and was grateful that she hadn’t crashed into a trunk.

She lifted her leg to see what had caused the pain that sent her down the hill. A rat, ten inches from head to rump, caked with blood and missing an eye, slid off her shin and splattered to the ground in a heap. Zariah turned the opposite way to vomit.

In agony, she stumbled away from the rat and the bile, leaving a thick trail of blood behind her. Wood snapped beneath her feet; an owl sounded to her left; she was grateful she could hear.

Zariah spotted a boulder in the crimson moonlight. She used branches and fallen trunks to stabilize herself as she crept toward it. She was desperate to reduce the pressure on her legs, which gushed blood. She nearly fainted with every step. Reaching the boulder, she sat, hard. Leaning forward, she took a moment to spit and pant.

The little backpack on her shoulders fell away, rotating into her lap. She slipped a wet hand inside and produced a canteen. Tears streamed down her face as she rinsed every inch of her broken skin with alcohol. Dipping back into the bag, Zariah secured the canteen and drew out gauze. Taking a deep breath, then draining her lungs, she began to stuff a puncture wound beneath her ribs. Her fingers soaked in blood immediately. The gauze disappeared. So, she drew more, and stuffed. Again, and again, until the gauze was level with her skin. She dabbed at the blood to dry her skin, then applied a bandage. Another riffling through the backpack produced a thick roll of wound wrap. She wrapped the deepest lacerations on each limb first, then used up the rest of the roll. Many scrapes remained exposed.

Zariah felt blood trickling out of the puncture, so she placed both hands over the bandage and compressed. She couldn’t sob. The gauze might’ve tumbled out, followed by another pint of blood. She couldn’t risk a sob, as the hitching would’ve torn her wounds wider. So, instead, she sat there upon the boulder. She stared into the blackened ground. She used her hands to trap her blood inside her body. Water streamed from her eyes, cascaded over her cheeks, melted into her blood, and wetted the soil. But, catatonic, she would not sob.