Dry Bones

Brown bones broke through dry earth. Ligaments clung to their gnarled fingers, still attached to old bone. Next broken arms and pointed shoulders slid through. Crushed skulls soon followed, cool autumn air whistling through hollowed eyes. Silence hung in the air, all living things knowing something was different about tonight.

They were coming.

They had been quiet for far too long. Only being summoned for the first time in over 500 years, and oh were they ready. A boy was standing in the middle of the field, sacred words flowing from his lips. The moon overhead silhouetted the large book in his small hands. The Army slowly clawed their remaining limbs out of the still clinging dirt, disassembling themselves from grass and soil alike.

As the Army fully rose out of the ground, the boy’s chanting grew frantic, strained. His face broke out into a sweat. Beads flowed down his face, catching in his eyes. He looked up to observe his work, hoping the book was working, it had to be working.

The Army was now standing before him, perfectly lined and standing at attention, watching and waiting. The boy still chanted those long forgotten words, his work not just yet finished. His voice rose, the chanting turning into rushed nonsense. The wind picked up, throwing his hair into his eyes, pages rustling under his white-tipped fingers.

Tendons and ligaments grew over bone. Muscles flexed on arms and legs. Skin wove its way over the newly formed muscles. Hair and nails healthy and new sprouted from scalps and fingers. Color glowed on their cheeks and skin, their eyes alight.

They stood there naked, staring at the boy now knelt on the ground, dirt and grass digging into his knees. He was sucking in air, trying to recover whatever strength had left him. Those last few sacred words still hung in the air, hanging over them like a blanket. One of the Reformed stepped towards the boy, now standing on wobbling legs.

“Why have you summoned us?” The voice rolled like thunder in the distance, quiet but ground shaking.

The boy’s eyes slowly connected with the soldier. Determination shone through, despite the shake in his hands. He lifted his chin, trying to show composure amongst the monsters he was now surrounded by. “He won’t stop hurting my little sister. There’s nothing I can do. No one will listen to me.” The boy’s voice broke. Tears started to form in his eyes, threatening to spill over and mingle with the culminating sweat.

The Reformed looked at the boy then, really looked at him. His matted hair, the sweat now pooled in his collar bone and armpits, his grassy knees, and those determined eyes. The soldier extended a roughly calloused hand, gripping the boys hand in their own. The Reformed’s eyes held no pity, only the reflection of the moon and an unspoken promise.

As they marched from the field, the moon as their only witness, the boy relaxed. He didn’t think it would actually work. No one had told him it would actually work. The Army trailed behind the boy as he staggered down the hill towards his house.

As they approached the white chipped door the boy froze. Uncertainty clouded the boy’s eyes, his hand hovering above the doorbell. The Reformed shuffled up next to the boy, “I can do it if you want.” The boy’s eyes cut to the warrior, still standing bare for the world to see.

After a moment of pause, the boy’s hand swung up to the doorbell, jamming the button into its socket, trilling the alarm. Footsteps scuffed, getting louder as they approached the doorway. The Reformed squared their shoulders, ready for the battle ahead.

The boy’s father yanked open the door, recognition lighting his eyes, fear guttering them moments later.