Setsura came to the central courtyard. The rain continued to fall, though now more a drizzle. A number of things were moving around inside the ruined remains of the building. The dragging of feet, the drawing of ragged breaths, and all ruled by one overriding will—
That was sending them at Setsura. They came down the hallways, descended the stairs, bearing those vile vibes with them.
He sensed everything through the fingers on his right hand.
Setsura looked around. The rainy haze cloaked the heaps of bricks and debris, but couldn’t mask the stench. Puddles formed here and there, smoldering like sulfurous hot springs, throwing off an acrid miasma.
That demonic spirit still held sway in the open air, for the air sweltered with the same heat and humidity as inside the building. Add to that the smell of sulfur, and the atmosphere became a lung-choking witch’s brew. Even the clouds above seemed to shrink away.
Setsura brushed a strand of hair away from his damp forehead. It was hard to tell the difference between drops of sweat and rain. He pointed his finger at the cedar tree. Thanks to its sturdy roots and trunk, it alone remained standing as it once stood.
The tree was over thirty feet high and would take the embrace of three grown men to span its circumference. The branches stretched wide and reached out, casting faint shadows on the ground.
Holding that pose, Setsura leapt into the branches of the tree. Plunging into the sheltering darkness within the indecipherable yellow and green leaves, the rich foliage wavered for a moment before springing back to its original position.
A few seconds later, several people emerged from the studio doors and from behind the piles of debris. They came in various types and sizes, but all with the same disheveled appearance.
Two rangers in military fatigues. A young man, bare legs poking out from a T-shirt. A young woman in a blouse and skirt. A middle-aged woman with heavy breasts that swayed as she walked.
Five altogether. Their faces and clothing were dirty and stained. The one thing they did have in common was that, one way or another, all of them were armed. The SDF rangers carried Model 89 SIG P220 assault rifles. The young man had a steel pipe in his hands. The young woman wielded a foot-long carving knife.
The assault rifles were set on auto, the men holding them in possession of their senses and their mission. The countenances of the rest were equally suffused with vitality. Theirs were not the vacant eyes betraying psychological compulsion exerted from without. Every step, every movement was sure and swift.
Setsura lay on a branch and didn’t budge.
The motley bunch gazed around the courtyard and exchanged puzzle looks. “Nothing here,” said the young woman, smacking the blade against the palm of her hand. Perhaps she had always been an irritable sort, and now had no reason to hide it. A stream of blood trickled between her fingers and mixed with the rain before staining the ground.
“No, the Master is never wrong,” said one of the rangers, gesturing with the muzzle of the Model 89. “Keep searching.”
“Okey dokey,” said the teenager in the T-shirt.
They fanned out—nobody leading them—apparently of their own volition. No two of them moved in the same direction. This was the ideal military squad on maneuvers. Unlike the man in the PR department, they could communicate.
This must be a special unit.
One of the SDF rangers approached the tree and cast his suspicious gaze up. Then walked on. It took them ten minutes to make a complete circuit of the courtyard. They gathered back where they’d started.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said one of the rangers.
“Looks normal to me,” said the middle-aged woman.
“We’re going to catch hell for this,” the young woman said in a frightened voice.
“There is no returning with our honor besmirched,” said the second ranger, with bitter resolution. “This is the only reason our lives are worth living.”
The rest of their rain-washed faces brimmed with equally wrenching distress.
“There’s only one place left,” said the ranger, the same one who’d previously checked the tree.
He took a step away from the group and raised the Model 89 to his shoulder. The muzzle spat orange flame. The 7.62 mm rounds tore white gashes in the thick, leather-like bark and turned the sickly yellow leaves into confetti. The hot spent brass raised puffs of white steam as they fell through the rain to the earth.
The thick limb Setsura was lying on shuddered and shook. Hot lead buzzed by his ears. It was like the rain had turned into a shower of incandescent cinders. But his countenance did not contort in the slightest. Facing a painful death, his features would doubtlessly remain as impassive as ever.
The SDF ranger unleashed fifteen rounds and released the trigger. “All we can do now is deliver an honest report.”
Raw fear and resignation showed on their faces. Without another word, they turned back the way they came. The rain drummed down as they vanished into the mist.
A spider inched down a slender line of silk from the tree limb above and alit on the ground. Though this spider stood erect on two legs and wore a black slicker. The hems of the slicker fluttered and snapped as he cut across the courtyard to the building beyond, raising his left hand above his head.
The handle of the whirling carving knife came to a curious halt in midair. At the same time, from the same direction came a groan—the silhouette of the person who’d thrown it writhed—her hand pressed to her neck.