Chapter 6
The Unconscious Hero
My world was already gone, but now my reality was shattering into a million sharp, incomprehensible pieces. The man, the collaborator with the black eyes, laughed. "You haven't had enough, scrub? I'll get to you in a minute." His cocky arrogance was infuriating, but my body, my finely-tuned athlete's body, was useless against whatever he was. My dislocated shoulder was a constant, searing pain.
Then Thomas moved. He moved like nothing I had ever seen. Not like an athlete, not like a machine, but like a force of nature. In the blink of an eye, he was on the other side of the room. The man's laugh died in his throat as Thomas's glowing fist connected with his jaw. The crack was sickeningly loud, like a tree snapping in half. The man's teeth, most of them, flew from his mouth, and his body slammed into the concrete floor.
I stared in disbelief. Was this a trick? An illusion? The man got up, a snarl twisting his face, and charged Thomas. But Thomas was faster. He was a blur of motion, his white aura a trail of pure light. The man tried to land a punch, a kick, but Thomas evaded every attack with an effortless grace that was a hundred times more elegant than my own Olympic-level reflexes. This wasn't skill; this was something else entirely. Thomas was clearly dominant, his movements powerful and precise.
The man, furious and humiliated, let out a sinister shriek. The sound was so loud, so raw with evil, that it made my ears ring, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the world. But in the middle of his monstrous cry, Thomas's fist shot out, a clean punch to the face. A second later, a kick sent the man stumbling backward. Then, with a chilling calmness, Thomas grabbed the man's head and, with a final, decisive snap, twisted it.
The man's body fell to the floor, dead.
I couldn't breathe. My mind, which prided itself on logic and order, had no box to put this in. It was a miracle. A nightmare. I finally found my voice.
"Thomas!" I yelled.
He didn't respond. He just stood there, his eyes still a brilliant white, the soft aura still glowing around his body. He stared down at the dead man, a statue of pure light.
Then I heard it. A chorus of guttural growls in the distance. They were coming. A lot of them. I looked out the ruined doorway and saw shadows moving in the streets, getting closer.
"Thomas! We have to get out of here!" I screamed, but he just crumpled to the floor, the light and the aura vanishing as he fell unconscious.
My mind reeled. The hero, my brother, the answer to all my questions, was taking a nap. Now? With demons on their way? A wave of pure fury washed over me. I wanted to shake him awake, to yell at him, to tell him that this was no time for his usual ineptitude. But I knew this wasn't like him. He was truly out.
The growls were louder now. Closer. I had no choice. My life had been defined by grace and effortless strength. I had always been the one to carry the team, the one to lead, the one to put my burdens on others when I needed to. For the first time, it was my body that mattered more than my mind. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my shoulder, hoisted Thomas's surprisingly heavy body onto my shoulder, and began to run.