[The Remnants 01.0] Ashes of the Fall

by Nicholas Erik

  “Kid!” I call, hoping for backup. But he’s already out of earshot, my yell drowned out by the destruction in the background. Hearing much beyond where Bodgen is would be a challenge.

  With the stubble, he looks like a maniacal hobo—not the clean-shaven agent of death that he was before. But rage gleams in his eyes, and I can tell he’ll enjoy picking me limb from limb. Tanner no doubt made an example of the two Special Committee Agents.

  A small lump forms in my throat as I think about Agent Sten and his family. But they made their beds, throwing in with Tanner. Everyone knew the Chancellor’s favor was fair weather.

  I stand tall and assess my attackers, backing up as they slowly fan out and close in. There are five, including Bogden. He’s got quite the diverse group here—a woman with a cross dangling from her neck, a man with a phoenix tattoo across his chest. Another guy speaks in Spanish beneath his breath, the last in French—must’ve managed to slip through the Frozen Wastes in the north before everything spiraled into permafrost up there. We got everyone covered, all bases.

  Everyone would be so proud that I finally united the factions.

  Only problem is, it’s against myself.

  French screams, apparently unable to contain his excitement any more. He has a rusted kitchen knife in his hand, still formidable despite its twisted blade. But there’s still at least twenty feet for him to cover, and I manage to clear the .38 from my waistband and shoot him in the chest before he can do much damage.

  He crumbles to the ground, the hollow point killing him on impact.

  “You think you can kill us all, Stokes,” Bogden says with a low growl, patting his baseball bat against his palm. The group has stopped, allowing me to back up. “How good a shot you think you are?”

  “Ask your friend.”

  Bogden smiles, then nods to the Lionhearted supporter. In a quick, practiced motion, she reaches into her shirt pocket. I raise up and fire, missing. She hurls a knife and the sharp, thin blade lodges itself in my thigh.

  I scream in pain and limp backward, toward the shell of a ruined clothing store. Mannequins covered in soot and grime still stand in the broken window, staring blankly out at the scene. I tumble over the display, gritting my teeth, as another knife comes spinning my way.

  It lodges itself next to my head, in a unisex mannequin’s chest.

  With seven bullets left and four targets, I gotta get somewhere I can hunker down. But then it’ll just be a waiting game. Bogden can send bodies at me for as long as necessary, then split the proceeds among his cronies. The system works because, it occurs to me, he doesn’t want money.

  He wants power. Most of these people probably don’t even want to work for the Circle, but he craves it, gets off on it. He’ll let everyone else lead a life of relative luxury. He doesn’t want security, or freedom, but pure control.

  I kind of respect him for that. I scramble behind an empty pants rack in the center of the floor. Peeking out from behind the hangers, I watch as the four spread out and enter the store. The Ashes of the Fall member plays with a lighter. I can’t quite see what he’s doing. Smoking?

  “There’s no Circle to go back to,” I yell from my vantage point. “You’ll get nothing, Bogden.” In the back of my mind, I wonder where the hell Kid went. For how brilliant and enamored he is with himself, this wasn’t a smart play. Not that I need him to babysit my ass—but two against a horde makes for better odds.

  A flaming bottle crashes to the floor nearby, fire immediately spreading out along the floor. Ethanol fumes rocket into my nose, and I’m forced to retreat further into the store. A smoky film rises into the air as the blaze devours empty store displays and wooden shelves.

  “It’s only a matter of time, Stokes,” Bogden calls from somewhere toward the front. “You’ll die of smoke inhalation, or the flames will get you. We can wait.”

  “Unless someone else edges in on your score,” I say, goading him on. “Everyone’s tracking me.”

  “Not many have a personal HoloBand locator, though,” Bogden says with a primal growl. “They’re only given to Circle members.”

  I put two and two together. Only he’s crazy enough to kill a Circle soldier down here, steal his gear in order to catch me. I admire the dedication, but admit that it’s wholly unnerving to be in the presence of a psychopath.

  The smoke thickens, obscuring the view of my four assailants. I glance around the back third of the store, then at the ceiling. It’s pockmarked with holes and missing large chunks. With nowhere else to go, I tear toward the stairs, just managing to slip past the flames.

  I won’t be taking that route back down. As I go up, I start walking softly, to avoid alerting the attack squad to my position. My thigh burns, the knife still sticking out from my pant leg. I plunge my head into the arm of my jacket and then rip the blade out, stifling my cries of pain.

  Another weapon is another weapon. I look down, a small trickle of blood running down my pants. It didn’t hit an artery. Guess I’m lucky, for now.

  With a limping gait, I walk toward the second floor window, carefully choosing each step to avoid suddenly plummeting through a hole. Fiery shadows dance through the gaps, and I can hear Bogden talking to his team in low whispers. Some of them respond with more animated exclamations, clearly annoyed about his plan taking so long.

  “Could be hours before he burns,” the big guy from the AoF argues. “Someone will swoop in our score by then.”

  “Patience,” Bogden says. “It won’t take that long.”

  “Ain’t no time for patience,” Ashes of the Fall says.

  But they stay put, having made their bed.

  I spot a large hole in the floor near the second floor window. Getting down on my belly, I worm my way through the dust, gun ready. I reach the edge of the hole and peek over. The flames don’t touch the front, near the mannequin display where I crawled in. Bogden and his crew ensure their little patch stays fire-free by feeding the flames at the back of the store with all the debris from the front. The angle isn’t right for a clean shot.

  I watch as the knife throwing woman picks up one of the dirty mannequins and hauls it past, out of view. There’s a thud as she throws it, then a pop as the plastic expands in the heat. She walks slowly back into view, pausing to say something I can’t hear.

  I steady the pistol against the floor, lining up her head before a quick squeeze of the trigger drops her instantly. She crashes into one of the remaining unburned racks and lies still. Immediately I hear panicked voices from below.

  “He’s upstairs, you morons,” Bogden says. “Keep away from the holes in the ceiling.”

  I maintain my position, but this particular gambit has been exhausted. None of them will peek out and play easy target. Smoke begins to filter up through the hole, denser and more ominous. Glancing over my shoulder, I find that the stairs are filled with a thick gray haze.

  I push myself up and push further toward the window. Half of the pane is still intact. Using the .38’s butt, I smash it out into the street below. Amid the crackling, I can hear Bogden and the survivors on the move.

  They run out of the shop at different angles. I take aim and hit Ashes of the Fall in the leg. He stumbles behind an old newspaper box, where I can’t get a good shot.

  Five bullets left for three people. Getting tight.

  The flames have reached the second floor, and I can feel the structure start to give way and collapse as its structural integrity disintegrates. It won’t be long before the floor collapses and I hurtle to the ground. I scan the empty street for any sign of Bogden. But he’s disappeared from sight, no doubt lurking in the shadows, hoping that he can wait me out.

  I need to get down. Examining the hole nearby, I find it’s too dense with smoke to slip through. Besides, the drywall is too old and brittle to reliably hold my weight. Another option is necessary—and I settle on the window before me as the sole remaining choice.

  I scrape out the rest of the glass around the bottom of the
floor-to-ceiling window frame. Ashes of the Fall scurries away from the box with a heavy limp, trying to keep his body compact. I don’t shoot. Bullets are too precious to waste.

  Crouching down, I test the edge of the frame. It’s still rough and sharp. Using the throwing knife, I cut the sleeves off my jacket, inviting a bitter cold to whip against my skin. It’s somewhat offset by the heat of the encroaching flame.

  Not a good spot to be caught in.

  I wrap my palms in the fabric, then I take a deep breath. After a final scan of the street, I tuck the .38 in my waistband and swing myself over the frame. The remaining shards of glass that I couldn’t get immediately rip into my skin. My hands go wet.

  I lower myself over as steadily as I can, searching the concrete for a landing spot. My feet dangle about three yards off the ground, which seems like nothing when I think in terms of the numbers, but feels like forever when I look down.

  I let go.

  When I collide with the surface, I scream. The knife wound ignites a searing pain that courses up through my body. A grim memory floats to the surface, of Adriana jumping off the roof, her own leg being ruined upon the fall.

  When I look down, though, I find that my own leg isn’t mangled or destroyed. A bloody patch is seeping through the fabric of my pants. And my scream has brought my attackers out of the woodwork.

  Ashes of the Fall and Spanish come charging at me. Spanish reaches me first, since he was hiding in the store across the street, behind a bookshelf in the front display. Bearing an ax, he looks ready to decapitate me for his prize.

  I roll out of the way, unable to stand, as the ax collides against the pavement with a huge thud. My safety is short lived, because I knock right into Ashes of the Fall’s legs. He grunts as I hit his wound, but then I feel myself lifted up by strong arms.

  The .38 sits helpless in my waistband.

  Ashes wraps his broad arms around my neck. I struggle for air.

  “He’s mine,” the guy says to his companion, “back off.”

  Spanish glowers a few yards away, holding the ax, uttering spitfire questions.

  “I don’t know what you’re sayin’ amigo,” Ashes says, “but you’ll get your cut.”

  My injured leg hanging limply at my side, I realize that there’s only one way out. Mustering as much energy as I can, I force the leg backward, into my attacker’s injured limb. He buckles and his grip loosens.

  I stumble forward, and Spanish swings his ax toward my head. I duck just low enough, and I hear the ax strike true with a sickening thud. Ashes lets out a burble but is either too stunned or too dead to speak.

  I reach for the .38 to finish the job while Spanish is busy trying to free his ax, but he wisely lets the tool go and kicks my hands. The gun clatters off to the side, near the bookstore across the street. Harmless.

  For now.

  Ashes tumbles into a heap behind me, the ax handle cracking as he collides with the pavement. Spanish, his eyes on me like a wolf’s, his hands spread in front of his chest, stalks forward, ready to grab me. He lunges, and I sidestep, a sharp pain shooting through my thigh. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.

  We square off in the street again, separated by only five feet. There’s no sign of Bogden. Whether he’s abandoned his campaign or gone in search of backup is unclear. It would be prudent to consider the latter and end this current altercation as quickly as I can. But it’s not for lack of trying that I’m still here.

  Spanish rushes forward again, this time managing to grapple me to the ground. He flings me onto the pavement, the impact knocking some of the wind from my lungs. I groan, and then he’s already on his feet, ready to pounce and choke the life from me.

  With the last bit of will I have, I reach into my pocket and pull out the knife. I hold it upward just as he flies through the air. His eyes flash with horror as he realizes, too late, that he’s condemned himself to die.

  The blade cuts through his ragged leather jacket, cracking his ribs as it plunges into his lung. Blood drips out of his mouth, onto my head, as he chokes. His body slumps on top of mine. It takes what remains of my strength to push him off as he bleeds out.

  I go to collect the gun, where it fell. But my gaze falls on nothing but empty pavement.

  “Goodbye, Stokes,” Bogden says. “And thank you for making the bounty easier for me to collect.” I hear the hammer click. Five bullets left. “In the end, we all get caught.”

  Behind him, I hear the throb of a growing crowd. They’ve come to inspect the fire, the gunshots—they don’t need GPS to figure that such a commotion might mean I’m around. The gun fires, a bullet ripping through my shoulder. I stagger forward, willing myself to run. Another bullet screams over my head.

  “No, you idiots,” I hear Bogden scream, “he’s mine.” There’s a pounding symphony of footsteps as people rush up the street. I pick up the pace, every step a trial. I reach the corner, the mob roaring now, Bogden yelling in the middle of it.

  I hear a gunshot, then another.

  I keep pushing, hoping that the distraction’s enough for me to put distance between me and him. It isn’t. When I round the corner, I’m not ten feet up the next street before I hear him scream, “Stokes!”

  It’s hard not to stop when you hear your name called. It’s like a command—hard-wired to be obeyed. My shoulders stiffen, pain shooting through the injured one. Too late, I realize I need to keep moving.

  But it’s hard to keep going when everything hurts. I manage a few steps, but then the final bullet sails out and thuds into the back of my torso. And then everything spins and falls, and the world winks out of existence.

  34 Patch Job

  When I awake, my first thought is simple: I can’t be alive. Bogden shot me twice, was closing in. Surely he finished what he started—claimed his bounty and punched his ticket out of there. If not him, then one of the other screaming people closing in on my helpless body.

  But here I am, alive, lying beneath a single bulb dangling from a long chain. Pliers go into my torso, come out with bloodied fragments. I try to get up, pain searing my abdomen, but there’s no way I can. They’ve strapped me to the table. An empty IV leads into my arm. Apparently they ran out of sedative.

  The doctor removes his surgical mask and looks down.

  “You’re a tough summa bitch, you know that?” He nods toward a man standing in the corner, who comes forward, into the light.

  “Slick,” I say through parched lips. The patch jobs holding together my torso and shoulder sting when I try to speak. “You.”

  “You tried to fuck me, Luke,” he says in that warbling voice of his. The veins in his forearms bulge. “You think I wouldn’t find out?”

  I laugh, which proves to be a mistake. “I thought you wouldn’t find out until I was gone.”

  “What’d Blackstone and that snake Kid offer you?”

  I think about it and realize the truth. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t you lie to me, Luke.” His broad head comes down within inches of mine, spit dripping off his lips like a wild dog’s. “You lie to me, Luke, and I swear—”

  “That why you patched me up,” I say. “Just to kill me?” He backs up, the bluff called. “Evelyn told you?”

  “She said you wanted the drive, and then you just left. She was worried.”

  “I didn’t want the drive anymore,” I say. “So I didn’t really fuck you. Only thought about it. Hell, if I got in trouble for that, I’d—”

  “Watch it, Luke.”

  I continue anyway, “If I got in trouble for every con I thought about running, you’d have wanted to kill me a long time ago.” I try to shrug, but the leather straps keep me on the table. So I say, “But hey, I got morals buried somewhere deep inside.”

  And they got me shot twice, stabbed and on the road to being completely screwed. Had I just gone along with Blackstone and Kid, grabbed the drive, none of this would’ve happened. Then again, why had Kid left me behind? That was an odd mistake fo
r someone as smart as him. Calculate the exact trajectory to knock down part of a city and create chaos, but fail to keep an eye on your supposedly prized asset?

  That didn’t quite track.

  “Yeah, I bet you’re just brimming with empathy and love for mankind,” Slick says, letting out a weary sigh. He reaches down and starts undoing the straps. “But you learned from me, so I can’t blame you if you’re a piece of shit, bud.”

  “Taking responsibility is the first step to recovery.”

  “Shut up, Luke.”

  I do. He helps me off the table. I test my injured leg, find that the doc’s bandage does a decent job of supporting my weight so I can walk semi-decently. The torso and the shoulder, well, not so much. Breathing is a chore. Each one is a cautious, halting endeavor, a futile attempt to find a sweet spot where it doesn’t feel like my entrails are being torn out.

  Finally, I give up and just suck air through my clenched teeth.

  “That was your mob,” I say, putting things together. “You came after my ass.”

  “After Evelyn came by and told me about you, I decided it was best to track you myself. We got Tanner’s bulletin loud and clear over here.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a watch. GPS locator. “A couple guys, tracking from a distance. You’d never see them.”

  “I didn’t, no.”

  “They’re good,” Slick says. He opens the door, into a long hallway. I realize I’m back at AoF HQ. Clearly they want something, otherwise they wouldn’t drag my ass down here as the Otherlands burns. “Then, when you pulled that stunt with the buildings, I saw an opportunity.”

  “To snatch my ass up?”

  “To take control of the city,” Slick says. “This is what we’ve been preparing for. First, Atlanta. Then the remainder of the Otherlands.”

  “Republic of the AoF,” I say. “Has a nice ring to it.” I stop next to a small, grime-smeared window to lean up against the wall and catch my breath.

  “I have something for that, if you want.”

  “Let me guess,” I say, pushing off the wall to continue what feels like a ten-thousand mile journey, “it has a price.”