The Witch of Jakarta

Chapter 11: Progeny (Part 1)

    Hope was only a wisp away from burning with the rubbles. From the slews of Central Jakarta, the rogue and the speed caster quickly made their way to M Block. The time was barely seven o'clock, and the city had long been devoid of daylight, with the only exceptions of the flaring fires the mob had started. The two kids quickly slithered around the commotion, making sure no one saw them running in the opposite direction.

    ‘We need to hurry!’ Vincent yelled out; hitched breath quickly muffled as he fell on the hard concrete.

    The rouge stopped in her tracks, the serpent’s genetic advantages quickly giving out on her. She quickly helped him up, making sure to dust of any ash and glass shards out of his uniform. They were nearly there, though another problem precedes them as the girl checks her pockets for Pink Taffy potions—only to find out her pockets had been torn and hollowed out.

    ‘s**t!’

    ‘No no it’s okay, I can still go with you,’ The boy insisted.

    ‘I’m not risking that again, especially in a time like this.’

    ‘We don’t have time to argue!’

    Like a gunshot, Vincent’s phone rang, startling the two of them as they try to slip away from another rampaging mass. They slithered away inside a small store, making sure to avoid stepping on the broken windows and glass. The boy paused for a bit, catching a glimpse of the caller’s name before Inca pulled the two of them further into the store. The air becomes thicker as the remains of smoke and tear gas slowly made their eyes water.

    ‘Under here,’ The rogue said, pulling him behind the cash register.

    It was only for that brief moment that the two of them had looked farther than themselves, to realize the body of the cashier was still lying on the floor. It didn’t take another second for the two of them to scream, panic and urgency thrown out of a window once the poor old woman’s cold skin grazed their finger-tips. The foreign feeling set their mind ablaze—as their eyes met with what used to be a living person. Soft air blew ever so slightly on the old woman’s hair, the peppery mix of grey and ebony mingling against the white ash as if she were laying on snow; the back of her head stained in red.

    The speed caster quickly poked the side of the woman’s shoulder, confirming that the husk will do nothing else but remain still. With his newfound bravado quickly overtaking his panic, his quivering hands slowly dragged the body away. He wouldn’t dare touch that skin again, so he settled for the back of the old woman’s shirt, slowly tugging and yanking at the burnt fabric as if he were a lost dog.

    He kept his eyes locked on Inca, the fear of looking down suddenly overtaking him. Her fear bounced on him, a violent ricochet that yearned to scream—reminding him with each second of what his hands were doing. Yet after what felt like a sea’s distance, the woman’s head knocked on the store’s furthest wall. He dropped the fabric he’d been clinging onto, his hands electrified by the sound of the bloodied head against the wall.

    He quickly went back behind the cashier, opting to ignore the trail of red viscous he’d been spreading as he carried the woman away. His eyes met again with the rogue, she had that look across her face—the nearly bottomless pit of despair laying just under her glinting eyes if only they’d grow older. The worlds insistent sounds quickly seeped back into the forefront of their minds, and with a quick slide on the phone’s screen Ralph’s voice quickly broke the silence between them.

    ‘Vincent, report!’

    ‘We’re nearly there, there are no big fires around the area so it may be safe.’

    The audio crackled as what seemed like an explosion rang from on top of Ralph. ‘No, I need you to be f*****g sure that the place is safe.’

    Another wave of explosion rang from the other side of the phone, and Inca’s hand quickly yanked away from the speed caster’s phone. Hurried exchange of dialogues, the faintest sound of worn shoes against dusty rubbles. His mind couldn’t help but retreat. Far away, dark and endlessly tapering away from the screens of his eyes—he could barely see her, though he could hear. Multiple casualties, one near-fatal…Need to regroup, hideout in irreparable condition, and the serpent-

    ‘No, I don’t understand why-’

    ‘Inca your friend is hurt!’ The sentence cuts for a moment, leaving the two kids in silence. ‘That place is our safest bet to regroup.’

    ‘Why would you still trust her?’ She screamed.

    ‘She did what was best-’

    The audio cuts off for a moment, sounds of revving motorcycles instantly blaring into the speaker. Any witch and wizards know that sound by heart—and without a second to miss, the revving engines melded into gunfire. He could only imagine what the place had looked like, all their pain and labor reduced to an inky incarnation, as the rest of those who still lived were gunned down at the entrance.

    Inca’s voice was relentless, setting aside her anger for just a moment to help guide them to a safe street from the hideout. However, the questions persisted, becoming more and more insistent with each time Ralph’s voice turned bitter. It was that tone again, the same tone their high and mighty leader had screamed just a few weeks ago when he’d found out about Andrew’s death. Vincent couldn’t help but wonder what happened, the haphazard mention of Mandy’s name sending a grating sense down his back.

    ‘She made a deal-’ Ralph said, the audio deafening yet again. ‘We were ambushed! We had no other choice!’

    ‘We understand,’ He answered, quickly closing the call.

    ‘She betrayed us again!’ The rogue screamed, punching into the foot of the cash register. ‘After all the chance we gave her she-’

    ‘Inca, we don’t have time to argue.’

    ‘So, you agree with him then?’

    ‘Yes!’

    A beat of pause overlapped what would’ve been their rising noise, it was pointless. She was betrayed, as she were before—yet he had hope, something that seemed impossibly insolent to have with what she’d been through. Foolish, without a shadow of a doubt. But they had a plan to follow, and there was no time to bicker with the world burning around them. Vincent let out a heavy breath, leading their way out of the store.

    ‘Why?’

    He paused, carefully answering. ‘You can’t deny that she did have our best interest at heart.’

    ‘Yet she runs away so easily.’

    He wasn’t one to answer to something so blunt, opting to observe how many pillars of smoke he could saw as they ran. The murky grey sky slowly turned red as they made their way to the serpent’s den. The two of them looked towards the light, only to realize it wasn’t the sun. He’d never seen it, not even on tv. The striking carmine blooming upon square silhouetted buildings, his knees buckled at the sight—the faintest smell of flesh enveloping his mind.

    Shaky hands struggled to pick him up from the ground, Inca’s voice barely registering in him. He was far away, flashes of piling bodies setting his mind ablaze—lists of long-forgotten friends and strangers reclining to the forefront of his mind. Daily broadcasts of the dead paraded every day since he’d learned how to read, it was all real, and its standing right in front of him.

    ‘Burn the witch!’

    Black blood, torn veins, deep holes, gasoline—A sea of red spread across the seemingly mourning sky, the cries of people drowned and wasted away by celebrating cheers. He forced his eyes to look up, mustering up the courage to see the dead with dignity as the fumes of their magic danced up the atmosphere. It boiled up slowly, reaching desperately in thin tendrils across the sky—the remains of their will and memories dissipating as the lines slowly blended into a bigger and shapeless mass. The hands clutching on his school uniform tugged again, pulling him away from his thoughts.

    ‘Vincent, please…’

    ‘I know,’ He said, whipping away his tears. ‘No time to lose.’

    ‘There might be a stash just behind the counter,’ The rogue said, surely backtracking the memories in her head.

    Vincent was quick to nod. ‘I can hold out.’

    ‘No time for bravado, Vincent,’ She replied. ‘These sirens, they seek out fear.’

    The boy said nothing more, pacing faster until he was in front of the rogue. Surprisingly, his friend said nothing—letting the slow but insistent voices slowly creep into his mind. The red sky slowly dulled under the druggy smoke coming from the serpent’s little shop, the lack of fire on the auspicious bricked walls stopping him for a moment.

    ‘I won’t die,’ He answered.

    Vincent wasn’t one for suspicions—with that in mind, his own deductions could only stay for so much longer, the silhouetted sight of the place quickly reminding him of how close he was to the sirens. Their voices were no longer contained in the background of his mind, firmly pressing and wrapping its tendrils across his consciousness. They screamed of his fears, incoherent yet more than recognizable as the bitter aftertaste of his cowardice bounced in the back of his head. However, the taunts soon became disjointed, muddling into one body of voice that nearly exploded him.

    He remembered the feeling well, knowing that this was the part where his body gives out. Inca walked past him, the look across her face quickly telling him that he was no good at hiding it. It had only taken him a few more steps for it to become unbearable, the very vibration of the voice shaking the core of his bones. His legs finally stopped, frenzied hands clawing at his ears to w**d out the voices within.

    ‘Vi-’

    ‘Don’t say anything,’ He cuts off. ‘Keep going.’

    The sirens were not so merciful as to wait, and the voices slowly seeped further inside his skull. He kept his eyes forward, knowing very well that Inca had long realized that the sirens were too much to bear for the him, though that didn’t stop him from walking further into the heart of the beast. Vincent’s back arched forward, the instinctual force to cover his ears slowly churning into the desire to pick on it—to chew and rip out whatever it was placed inside his head that allowed the voices to pin his skull.

    Certainly, his subtlety had lasted longer than most—his itching hands ever so often brushing and scratching just behind the ears as the rest of his body marched on. He kept his eyes down, the swift embrace of pride overtaking him as he spotted the tiniest spill of Pink Taffy by the concrete; he’d passed his last attempt.

    ‘Almost there, right?’ He asked, realizing how desperate he’d been as the words slipped out.

    ‘Just a few more turns,’ The rogue’s voice echoed.

    His breath hitched at her answer. ‘Please…I need a distraction.’

    ‘Did they find Sarah? Or Holy?’ The rogue said, playing along.

    ‘No news from them.’

    His breath caught against his throat; the rest of his answer steadily jumbled in his conscious as he tried in futile to block out the noise. His face turning pale as his expression twisted into something Inca had grown acclimated with in terms of suffering. As they usually do, those eyes of hers had already effortlessly conjectured the slurry of words tossed away from his mouth, he whipped away the tears and saliva, realizing what pity he must’ve looked to her.

    ‘No, I can do this,’ He quickly said, looking up to meet Inca’s eyes.

    ‘Then stand up.’

    Inca’s grip suddenly went loose, and as if on cue, his legs plummeted to the ground. He frantically scrambled back on his feet, nearly screaming as he weeded out the voices chipping away at his sanity. His vision clouded with the pain, giving him no choice of distraction from the sirens. Though he knew why he was doing this, and it didn’t take him long to come back to his senses—to walk straight with white knuckles and gritted teeth.

    He was a speed caster, just as Andrew was—and he would rather relinquish his identity than let the mantel end with a tragedy. Vincent whipped away his tears, droplets of salty tears which somehow looked like blood as the red sky reflected from above. He wondered for a moment how much they’ve burnt at the capital, how many they’ve buried if they had the decency to do so. The thoughts mingled with the screams, slowly building up as new spirits joined old ones. He was surprised he was still standing.

    Yet there was a sliver of relief when the shadow of the serpent’s little shop house reached the tips of his shoes. He looked up, the dungy shop appearing more beaten compared to his last visit; it’s light like all of Jakarta, completely punched out. Still, he relished the sight, not knowing if he’d be able to guess how many more seconds his head could withstand the screams, the urge to. Tremored hands clasped unto Inca, hesitant to admit he needed her to walk. However, his friend said nothing, out of pity he’d assumed though also of a twisted sense of comradery—wherein she simply cannot allow him to die.

    The two of them finally made it inside, the seemingly sweet and muggy aftertaste of the serpent’s infamous cloudy pink smoke still lingering in the air. Instinctively, he let himself inhale the gas; the cold and lightless shop gradually becoming brighter in his eyes. He knew the smell was merely his own imagination; he knew it was all odorless, or perhaps a bit more akin to raw meat from the way the room actually smelt.

    Still, he played with the thought, instincts of the human mind refusing to acknowledge something so pretty could be so cold. He made himself at home, letting his half-collapsed body bounce on the dungy couch. The remains of the powder and gas were enough to distract him from the noise outside, and he welcomed the slow pinkish blur washing over his vision.

    The odorless gas entertained his mind, letting his imagination wander and cling to the possibility of no harm. The gas pried for more, soft tendrils dragging his new senses around in a lackadaisical spiral, he aimlessly watched Inca’s silhouette wander around the back of the cash register. Her white school uniform blending against the subtle pink dust. He’d nearly forgotten to ask himself where the customers were.

    ‘Drink!’

    He’d barely recognized the small plastic bag hitting against his chest, the remains of the fumes slowly overdosing his inexperience body. All things his eyes saw at that point were nothing but pink, the most extreme shifts in silhouettes blending together into foamy colors—the screams long penetrated the deepest pits of his mind.

    By the time the rogue had gotten to him, his face had already turned white, chest barely rising as his breath hitched against the over-stimulation. He could feel her weight slowly shifting onto him, fevered hands grabbing something from his chest as the suede material of the couch abruptly turned to needles under him. He’d lost track of his limbs, having everything else to feel and soak, his wit lost to the sudden feeling of falling.

    There it was, the sirens’ calls finally breaking him, breaking the last bit of his consciousness as what remains of their coherency beaconed his soul to join them. Each one sounded so pleasing, so polite, a bonding sympathy that recognized suffering amongst the pain. It was near impossible for him to deny them, and the light he once had in his eyes seemed so far away.

    Piles of body, piles of the head, the sweet scent of the burning soul—holding him by a thread yet pulling ever so persistent. How he wished he could’ve just left, the boiling motivation he’d possessed suddenly so lost and unrecognizable as the voices and air poisoned him. Yet he didn’t join the dead just yet, the horrid, relieving smell of Pink Taffy yanking him back out of the deep end.

    ‘Please…’ A voice pleaded, just barely heard under the sea of stimulants barraging him.

    It was as if bullets had suddenly pierced through his head, clearing both the screams and his own thoughts. There was nothing left, any memories of what had happened before simply whipped away—replace by nothing but hunger and thirst. He could feel the potion’s bag placed in his hands; he didn’t wait to open it.

    The thin and sticky plastic slicked the tips of his throat, held back only by the pinch of his fingers. Sickly, slick pink liquid slid down his throat, waking up every nerve it touched. He coughed and gagged, finding the mere tablespoon of liquid overwhelming. A firm hand ripped away from the plastic in his mouth, barely missing his tongue as it slammed his jaw shut.

    ‘f*****g swallow.’

    His throat ached as the liquid painfully traveled down, a painful groan escaping his closed jaw. His vision went white, a low thump vibrating the top of his head as he hit himself on the wall. He could feel his hands flail around, not out of choice—the sound of a slap just in front of him sending his eyes wide open. His vision, now much duller in color, presented a rogue haired girl holding him down by the hands. The rogue stared back, bleary-eyed as a sparkling red hue spread across her cheek. He swallowed the remaining liquid in his throat, spitting in his own mouth to help push it down his throat.

    It worked almost too quickly, the sounds of the dead no longer caught in his ears, the effects of the pink smoke utterly flushed away. Her eyes caught his, the worried look strewn across her face; something he never wished to see again. The room seemed to appear straight again, the pink hue a faint memory in his mind.

    He traced over his jaw, realizing he couldn’t feel his own skin, nor face, nor limbs. Slowly, his head slipped down further into the couch, nothing. No prickles, no needles making his back arch as if he’d been flayed—nothing, painless yet unbearable. Yearning, he closed his eyes, the sudden absence of any sort of stimuli building him up to squirm for anything to ground him back to earth. He needed smell, touch, anything that wasn’t the equivalent of watching a TV through a deep dark cave. Inca the saint that she was, pried herself away from him, letting him have enough space to breathe. He quickly thanked her and apologized for the slap.

    ‘I’m just happy you hadn’t died like the others,’ She said, whipping the tears he hadn’t realize were there.

    He let out a breath he’d been holding, relieved he hadn’t torn a bigger rift than the ones he already had. Yet, something stuck out from her sentence. A low whizzing suddenly spread across his core, and the firm instinct to not look down suddenly overwhelmed him. He opened his mouth to ask, knowing the answer. As curiosity got the better of him, his eyes finally met with the dead men scattered throughout the bar, their inky-black blood splattered across the walls as their eyes reflected their fear and demise.

    He had to ask himself if he’d died, the faces of drunk and drugged wastes of what could’ve been revolution slowly blurring and spiraling in his own head. He’d recognized some of them, reports of lost prisoners and “anarchist criminals” plaguing him since he’d known what he was, and where the world stood with it. They were Yogyakarta’s remains, slaughtered in a d**g and s*x shop.

    There were his stimuli, spread deadly on the floor with a bottle of alcohol, yet just as quick at dragging him back to hell. He jumped up from the couch, staggering towards the door. His eyes darted towards the only other person alive in the damn block, he’d beg if he could get the words out.

    The rogue seemed to get the hint, slowly closing the distance between them as if each step would set off a bomb. He lets her walk, his mind too hoped up on Pink Taffy to fully register what was happening. He couldn’t just ignore those darkened stains, chunks of body parts swiped across the floor as if a car crashed inside the building. And those dainty hands, just barely visible behind the bar; what had they done with the women?

    ‘Oh, God…’

    Inca’s hand finally reached him, the sudden contact sending shockwaves under his skin. A thousand reminders suddenly rushed through him, pulling him away from the b****y display. They were in a hurry, they hadn’t even found the warehouse yet, and someone already got here before them! They-

    ‘No no! Don’t look, just…’ The rogue’s voice trailed off, nimble hands shoving the top of his shirt at his nose.

    He’d attempted to speak, quickly realizing he was still stammering his words. Inca whispered her words, understanding quite well that any words too loud would only send him further down. He nodded, breathing in short and hitched breaths as the rogue instructed him to follow the finger she’s moving across his eyes. He was fine, and they had no time to waste; not while others were counting on them.

    ‘Someone…S-someone got here before us.’

    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ She urged, already halfway through the fake wall. ‘Let’s go.’

    He let himself up, testing his balance as his sharp vision settled back in his head. Those eyes looked towards the entrance, just now realizing that the door had been torn apart. He hoped in his head, hands rummaging through his pockets to find something to shield the entrance. He hadn’t quite forgotten why he’s here, though the hands in his pockets have turned out empty.

    ‘Ambat.’

    His eyes glowed a soft blue—soft, erratic branches of cerulean nerves pulsing through his veins. The soft blue nerves spread and traversed above his skin, sending a breezing sensation through him as it wrapped through the door frame. The sudden lack of energy bubbled in him, though he didn’t care much for it. He could tell Inca was watching him, and she would’ve offered to do this given the chance. His thoughts stayed just as that, the tips of the nerves finally joined at the middle of the door, fading to near invisibility.

    ‘Am I allowed to ask?’

    ‘What?’

    ‘This…You…’ The rogue haired girl sighed, seemingly already knowing the answer. ‘Let’s just go, people are dying.’

    ‘Right,’ He replied, opening his phone.

    Ralph: Call ended at 6.58

    Vincent: Main road not clear, use Senopati road and aim for smaller branches

    Ralph: Survivors?

    Vincent: None. Watch for sirens, some places louder than most

    Ralph: Red sky down south and capital, verdict?

    His knees grew weak at the dotted animation, indicating their leader was typing—before those dots disappeared again. A painful reminder hit him, the whereabouts of Holy and Sarah still unknown; the sky blaring with red hues just outside of the cold-rainy scenery around him. Disconnected, isolated by soundless walls and red-stained floor—he paced around the isle, finally typing despite the shaky bones under his skin. His pale skin reflected on the phone, despite its high-brightness; he types another message just to be certain. Then another, and another.

    Vincent: Not safe

    Vincent: How is everyone?

    Vincent: Have you gathered everyone?

    Ralph: [is typing]

    ‘You done?’ The rogue pressed again, her foot halfway through the wall.

    He cleared off his throat, realizing where she was heading ‘Wait, isn’t that just the-’

    ‘Same entrance different places,’ She cuts off, saving him the embarrassment of asking.

    ‘So, she ripped off our place,’ He replied, his humor slowly getting back to him.

    Inca snickered at his words. ‘You do realize she was the one who designed our hideout, right?’

    ‘How many centuries has she lived again?’

    ‘Eh, I only the ones I’m in.’

    They phased through the walls; the ice-cold feeling was just what he needed to snap himself back into his usual state. The breeze brushed past his hair, grazing the wound on the back of his ears. Yet when he stepped further, assuming they’d already arrived—the rogue took hold of his hands, pulling him in another direction. A shot of hot breeze stunned him, the familiar prickles on his skin sending him nearly over the edge. However, the electrifying feeling only lasted for a couple of seconds, the grip on his hands yanking him further until they exited the wall.

    ‘Don’t breathe,’ She warned.