The Prophecy (Watty Awards 2013)

Chapter 4

IV

The beautiful night sky wore a waning gibbous moon, surrounding it tiny dancers glittering in the cold air, the night was still but at the same time the storm was ruthless. Lozada’s men had to be ninjas in the sandstorm air, invisible to the naked eye and silent as the night sky. Logan peered out, wearing some vintage 80’s skiing goggles to protect his eyes from the devouring tempest. It was impossible to see a few metres ahead. Collective killers could have been anywhere. They were known to be ‘nocturnal’ killers; they could stop such adventurous, audacious events. Logan signalled the go ahead still not sure if it was the right thing to do. They battled ferociously against the unforgiving wind. They were making a snail’s progress, but still that was progress.

Gradually they reached the outskirts of the storm, no sign of collective members yet. Lozada knew this wouldn’t be easy however; he saw hallucinations in the distance. The intense heat showed him silhouettes dancing in the wind like Brazilian carnival dancers chanting to their Gods.

“Lozada snap out of it! We’re nearly out of here” Exclaimed Blake, unknown to the arrows about to pierce through him like a knife through butter.

“Noooooo Blaaaake!!!! Logan get him out of here! Tyson kill the son of a bitch!” Lozada shouted with the anger shining through.

Tyson ran over before the next arrow was summoned; he swiftly punched the Collective in the face and uppercut his chin until his jaw had broken in three places. He was left as a sacrifice to the starving storm. The four found refuge in a nearby sand dune, the storm, now passed, left the four enough time to get Blake back in shape. “Get the concoction!” Lozada hurriedly ordered Logan what to do, for Blake’s life was in danger.

Lozada started muttering the old-tongued language, Latin was recognisable but it went further back than that. The world became darker, his eyes fixed upon Blake, changed from a tired brown to a magical baby blue; the world around him stopped but the storm arose from the ground and circled him; a small golden bubble pilgrimaged from Blake’s mouth to the insufficient air around him, and then turned light pink and went back to where it came from. The revival had begun. Lozada had studied the mystic tongue since he had been a young boy but never needed it but today was of the upmost importance, it was an emergency.

“Ava vanta i salquessë, Nai Valaraukar tye-mátar… That should do the trick, he’ll be dizzy for a few minutes but it’s the best we can do!”  Lozada had to reassure the others or else this day would be their last. “I’m afraid we’ll have to turn back! Our position has been compromised! Guys go back! We’ll just have to retreat near the ruins of Kensington, but underground of course; the storm is worsening, and the Collective will be on our tail like there’s no tomorrow! There won’t be a tomorrow if we don’t find this bloody prophecy!”

The inadequate sunlight was poisoning the wasteland but the pilgrims began their rough and strenuous journey to Kensington, at least half a day’s walk: They had to stray from the hardly distinguished path; by making their own way, if they were followed they would die; it was an uphill struggle that followed them.