Between Images

The click of Paul’s boot heels echoed from the concrete as he walked to board the train. He was the only one at this station, but he could hear others chatting through the open windows.

He stepped up and into the train, the conductor eyeing him.

A flash of cold, Paul’s gaze snapped around, nothing.

But he knew.

“Not seen someone get on from this station in a long time, Ticket?” the conductor asked. Paul replied by pulling his ticket from his black shirt.

“Not a talker, eh?” The conductor asked as he punched the ticket and waved Paul on.

Paul stepped into the passenger carriage, the passengers' voices deafening him, the smell of smoke permeating the air, the conductor shutting the door behind him.

Moving forward, as the train lurched and started forward, Paul’s eyes scanned. Something prickled at the back of his neck; another like him was here.

Paul’s eyes closed, and he felt within; something around him cracked, and he latched onto it. The world stuttered, slowed to a halt; the train moved yet remained perfectly still.

The smell of smoke was replaced by rot, decay, and formaldehyde. The sounds of people turned into utter silence.

Paul looked about him, seeing not the crowd of lively people, but corpses that watched him with glowing red eyes.

Paul let go of that crack in reality, and the world flashed forward in motion. The scent of cigarettes filled the air once more, along with the chatter of people.

Paul knew the type.

Paul moved through to the next car, and as he moved, he noticed the faces started repeating. Even the outfits.

Such a limited mind.

Paul moved forward, mentally grabbing and cracking time, slowing but not stopping. He could see the images flow from ahead, the lag making them appear like a stretched painting rather than a life-like imitation.

The glowing red eyes pierced the illusion and tracked Paul. The dead stirred for a moment; one hand started to move towards Paul, then froze mid-movement.

Paul chuckled to himself as his knife found the sheath, and the hand fell, slowly, free of the undead. He let go of time, and it rushed forward.

The hand thumped wetly onto the carpeted floor. A woman screamed. Her husband started to yell at Paul.

Paul paid it no heed; they were already gone after all. He knew they were standing now; he didn’t need to slow time; he simply felt it. Something he’d picked up after warping time; his senses standing in the now, the then, and the soon-to-be.

He stepped to the side, instinct warning him. Something clattered to the floor unseen, barely heard over the crowd.

He stopped time; something was wrong. The Illusion broke, and the horde of dead stood before and behind him. One lay on the floor where he had just been standing.

He stepped into the first, smashing it aside; he knew that when time started, it would become a greasy stain on the side of the train.

At one point, he would have had a problem striking the dead, let alone the living. He was past that now. Humans in general are dangerous. Give them the powers of a shifter? Well, you get over having to kill them pretty quickly.

He pushed through the wall of the dead, and with a gentle shove, the door started to move. He sighed inwardly, and he let time start up.

A thud, a splash of blood and gore. The door slammed open, the handle rent free and clattering to the floor. Paul kicked the handle aside as he stepped out of the car, greeted by the sounds of wind rushing and the train rattling. Crossing quickly into the next car.

The glamour flickered like an old film slowing before stopping, then it was gone; this train held only the scent of death and corpses. The red eyes shimmered to life from the front to the back, one by one.

Paul almost felt bad, almost, a horde of bodies only worked if they could intercept after all, and the Glamour? It was only good against others.

Too bad for them.

They thought they were hunting.

He passed through, the undead starting to lunge as time shimmered and flexed, halting to a near stop. He moved on, repeating the effect on the door.

The next car was empty, save for a table in the middle where two people sat.

“You must be the kin slayer,” The female stated.

Paul felt the air and smiled. These were the two.

“And you must be the Glamour,” Paul answered, before pointing at the man with ash-grey skin. “And you’re the Grave keeper.”

The man frowned at that. “I prefer Necromancer.”

“Right,” Paul said, slowly moving forward.

The Glamour’s power was starting to ripple out, but a severed finger, plucked from one of the dead, struck her temple and broke her concentration.

She screamed as she tumbled to the floor. Paul hadn’t consciously stopped time in the moment that he threw the finger; he did it instinctively.

A pain lanced, sharp, sudden, but an echo of what could be. Time stopped. Paul blinked as the pain went away.

He looked and saw the Grave keeper aiming a pistol, the muzzle flash frozen like a picture, the bullet only a few inches away.

Paul stepped around the bullet and slapped the pistol. Time started once more.

A thundering crack, a bullet hitting a wall, a new scream. The Grave keeper’s wrist bent in the wrong way, shattered gun bits spraying across the train car.

Paul shoved the man, sending him crashing to the ground. Stepping over him, blade instantly in hand. He brought the blade down, reminding him, for an instant, of Oleg in that snowfield, as he rent the neck wide.

His gaze shifted to the Glamour, still screaming, a finger embedded in her cheek.

Paul moved, instantly appearing over the screaming woman.

“Where are they?” He asked, his voice cool and dry.

She answered by screaming. Paul scoffed for a moment and grabbed a crack in time. The world bent and twisted, and the screaming stopped. She blinked, still holding her cheek, the finger gone.

“What?” She said, confusion crossing her countenance.

“Where is the council?” Paul asked again, patience wearing thin.

“No,” she answered, spitting.

“Very well then,” Paul replied, as the time cracked, shattering for a moment like shards of glass. Then it all snapped back into reality.

Blood ran free from her nose, ears, and tears of blood running down her face.

“The snowfield,” she half-whimpered, falling to the floor, the echoes of thousands of deaths taking their toll.

Paul smiled while adjusting his black coat, a cruel joke in the end. He’d known, and now it was certain.