Black Moon

by L. A. Weatherly

  “Up high, for the best transmission,” murmured Dwight. He licked his lips; his eyes flicked to the highest point in Centre Park: a rocky outcrop over the lake.

  Getting there would take us out into the open.

  Reaching topside had been harrowing enough. The nearest entrance to Dwight’s parked van was the monument of the Cataclysm ruins. I’d hated having to take Dwight back there. We’d passed Nate’s unmarked grave in silence, though I’d seen Dwight swallow and touch his mother’s ring.

  There’d still been no sign of Hal in the tunnels. Fear was mounting in me, cold and strong. The odds were that he hadn’t made it back to the monument’s hidden entrance after he’d broadcasted, or he’d have met with Collie.

  Neither of us mentioned what might have happened to him.

  Dwight’s gaze was still on the high stretch of boulders. His voice was hoarse. “Hey, Amity, what did one Resistance worker say to the other?”

  My smile was just a faint lifting of lips. “Feel like doing something really stupid?”

  “Hey, you’ve already heard it.” He let out a breath and straightened, wiping his hands briskly on his denims. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  We brazened it out across the long stretch of grass. I had my veil down over my face – somehow I’d managed to keep hold of the small, flimsy hat through all of this. I kept hold of Dwight’s arm as if we were a couple as we strode down the path.

  We didn’t see anyone. I kept picturing Guns hiding behind bushes, watching.

  When the path entered the treeline the world became shadowy, cooler. “Should we go off the path?” I murmured.

  “Holy moley, don’t ask me…Mac’s the brains of the outfit.” Dwight swallowed; his pale blond hair looked damp against his forehead. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Maybe.”

  We started making our way up the hill through the sheltering trees. The rocky outcrop was hidden from view now, but I knew it was there, looming just ahead.

  I remembered my pistol and brought it out. It felt hot and heavy against my palm. Dwight gave it a sideways look. “You look pretty good as a gangster’s moll, doll-face,” he muttered.

  “Could you knock it off with the jokes?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  We kept heading upwards. Finally a road intersected through the woods from the park’s other side. Dwight touched my arm suddenly.

  “Look,” he said in an undertone.

  His van was parked beside the road. As we left our cover I felt far too exposed, like a fly on a rock.

  We peered inside the van. Dwight silently opened the door and checked the back. “The wireless set is gone,” he whispered – then we both looked up sharply at the faint crackle of a handheld talkie. Voices drifted to us from somewhere down the hill, where we’d just come from.

  My chest clenched in dread. Very softly, Dwight shut the van’s door. His blue eyes were wide.

  “This way,” I murmured. We quickly crossed the road, still heading up the hill. Once in the woods again we pressed against a pair of birch trees, their lush green leaves partly shielding us.

  I craned to hear approaching footsteps. None from below – but I suddenly realized how many people were in the woods nearby, rustling in different directions. More static came from above us.

  Dwight swallowed, his fist tight as he bumped it against the birch’s curling white bark. “Oh, wonderful, the place is crawling with them,” he murmured.

  I frantically scanned the hill, trying to see if there was a route up that would avoid them.

  And then I saw him.

  Hal was crouched behind a boulder, maybe fifty feet away. Though he still wore the Harmony armband, he could never be mistaken for a Gun. His face looked unlined, stark with fear. One hand clutched the boulder, his olive skin dark against the grey-green lichen.

  He hadn’t seen us. My pulse throbbed in my ears. How could we get him back to the truck with Guns all around? I nudged Dwight and nodded quickly towards Hal.

  Dwight looked – and then gripped my arm hard.

  A pair of Guns were walking through the woods, heading towards Hal’s hiding place. One spoke into a talkie. “No, nothing yet.”

  The crackling response was muffled: “Here neither. He’s got to be close. Keep looking.”

  I stood locked in horror. Hal had his cheek pressed against the boulder, his eyes screwed shut as if he hoped to make himself invisible. I couldn’t take my eyes from the tightness of his fingers.

  One of the Guns had a stick; he beat diffidently at the undergrowth with it as he passed. They couldn’t see Hal yet, but if they kept going straight, they wouldn’t miss him.

  And then they’d see us too.

  I thought of Harmony Five – of the severed heads on the fence. Hal. No.

  I couldn’t let them take my little brother.

  My hands were trembling. I looked down at the pistol still clutched in them. I felt dizzy – unreal. Was this how I’d felt when I shot Gunnison? Slowly, I started to raise the weapon.

  Dwight grabbed my wrist. I could see his chest heaving. “Amity, no…there’s too many of them to get away with it. Too many people will die.”

  Fifty people shot for every Gun. I couldn’t answer. I stared frantically at them, realizing we were all three about to be captured.

  “I’ll run out and distract them,” I hissed. “When they take me, grab Hal and go, all right?”

  Dwight glanced at me in alarm. “Amity, you can’t!”

  “Don’t argue!”

  Dwight was breathing hard. He looked back at Hal – at the approaching Guns. He fumbled with his finger and pressed something into my hand.

  His silver ring.

  “Hold this for me, okay?” he whispered. He gave me a quick, crooked grin.

  Before I could react, he burst from the trees, shouting, “Death to Guns! V for Victory and Vancour!”

  He raced at an angle through the trees, away from Hal, still shouting. His thin, gangly form crashed through the undergrowth. The Guns had already whirled around, were already after him.

  Suddenly the woods were alive with shouts. Grey uniforms pounded after Dwight from all directions. A Gun sprinted right past me, so close he’d have seen me if he looked. In the distance, three different Guns had dropped to one knee, levelling their pistols and training them after Dwight. I bit my fist to keep from screaming.

  Birds flew away as shots echoed like thunderclaps, one after the other.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The blood beat in my ears. I didn’t stop to think. I raced out from the shelter of the birches towards Hal; half-stumbled on my weak leg and regained myself.

  Hal had risen slowly, gaping after Dwight. He whirled around, bright-eyed, when I reached him.

  “Come on!” I grabbed his arm.

  As we ran, I cast a frenzied glance to my left – in a dim blur, I saw Dwight’s prone form. He lay on his stomach, arms akimbo, legs sprawled. His blue shirt was stained brownish-red. A Gun stood over him. Several more were approaching through the trees.

  The Gun kicked Dwight’s motionless body. Another shot rang out.

  No. No. I kept running, the trees dimming with tears. I swiped them away, furious with myself, clutching the silver ring. Dwight did not die just so that I could stumble like a fool and get Hal and myself caught anyway.

  Shouts came after us. “Down there!” “He’s getting away!”

  I still gripped the pistol; I must have dropped the purse somewhere. Hal and I reached the van and I shoved the ring onto my finger.

  “Keys, where are the keys?” I gasped.

  Hal slapped his pockets. For a terrible moment I thought he didn’t have them, then he thrust them at me. I snatched them from him; we got in the van’s cab. My hand was shaking almost too hard to get them in the ignition; I gritted my teeth. “Focus, damn you,” I muttered to myself.

  I turned the key and the engine burst into life. I wrenched the steering wheel; we lurched away from the kerb just as Guns poured down t
he hill after us. I floored it, quickly righting the van as we started to hurtle off-road.

  In no time we were away from the wooded hill, speeding through the park. The road spun away under us in a ribbon of grey. I was panting, clenching the wheel – my gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror every few seconds.

  “We can’t stay on this road – we can’t – they’ll have put the alarm out already—”

  The sound of my clenched voice startled me; I hadn’t realized I was talking out loud. Hal gave a kind of sob. When I glanced over he was sitting hunched, gripping his dark head. Relief and agony burst through me in equal measure.

  “What were you thinking?” I cried.

  “Nothing! I don’t know!”

  I shifted gear. “Yeah, well, your ‘I don’t know’ just got Dwight killed.”

  We were heading south-east, far too close to the palace and its security. Can-Amer Avenue lay nearby. Abruptly, I spun the wheel and took us off-road. I parked with a lurch in a grove of trees next to the fence, sickly aware that our tyre tracks would show like dark ribbons through the grass. I switched off the ignition.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Hal looked up, his face streaked with tears. “Amity…I…”

  “Hurry!”

  Sirens were approaching. The fear was cold and palpable in me. We climbed onto the van’s hood and got over the fence; I staggered as I dropped to the ground. Then I stiffened: Can-Amer now had crowds lining both sides of the street. Something was going to happen and I didn’t want to know what – but we had to get out of here.

  We were still partially hidden by the trees. I quickly adjusted my veil and then held out the pistol to Hal. “Put this in your inside pocket, then take my arm and get us into that crowd,” I whispered.

  He didn’t move. Panic surged; I gave him a fierce, brief shake. “Hal! Do it! And look normal.”

  He shuddered and straightened his spine. He swiped at his eyes, then took the pistol and tucked it away.

  With the Harmony armband showing on his suit jacket, he took my arm. We walked down the short hill to the main street and joined the crowd. “Keep going…don’t draw attention to us,” I murmured.

  The crowd was silent as we moved slowly through it. One woman had tears glistening on her cheeks. What was going on?

  Then with a jolt of alarm, I saw Guns stationed on both sides of the street. Why hadn’t I noticed before?

  They stood at attention, arms behind their backs. As the sirens still droned through the park behind us, a few picked up their talkies. They started looking around, craning to see over the crowd.

  My heart racketed against my ribs. “Stop,” I muttered to Hal, putting my hand briefly on his. We were pressed into a dense knot of the crowd – it would have to do, for now.

  A hush fell, unearthly-seeming in this busy city. Across the street a pair of frightened-looking children clutched their father’s hands. The boy was holding a toy boat, as if they’d been planning to float it on the lake.

  Heads started turning, peering up the street. Hal stood rigidly beside me. I saw his throat move. “What…what’s going on, do you think?” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  Just then, a figure stumbled into view down the block.

  I sucked in a breath: it was a man being led by ropes. Guns yanked him from side to side, making him stumble. He had his arms tied behind his back.

  The crowd was as silent as snowfall. The woman next to me bit back a sob, and I suddenly realized the figure was President Weir.

  The Guns leading him were marching quick-time, their steps smartly in unison. As the deposed leader staggered closer, I felt Hal tremble. His grip on my arm tightened and I pressed close to him.

  “Don’t move, don’t react,” I whispered hoarsely.

  The man who’d studied me with such troubled, intelligent hazel eyes the single time we’d met had been badly beaten. From his hunched walk, he had a broken rib. A dark, bloody bruise stained one cheek. The eye on that side was swollen shut.

  A sign hung around his neck: TRAITOR.

  As he passed, I stood stiff with terror. Part of me wanted to catch his eye – was desperate to tell him, by some nod or indication, that his family was safe, as far as I knew. The other part was weak-kneed with relief when he didn’t look our way.

  I’m sorry, I thought, clutching Hal’s arm. He’d trusted us – to no avail. The plan that we’d all gone into with such high hopes had crumbled into dust and I still had no idea why.

  What role had Collie played in its failure, exactly? What did You wouldn’t understand mean?

  My attention snapped back to the Guns. As the ones leading President Weir passed, others patrolled the crowd, peering intently at everyone. I swallowed and dropped my eyes, wishing desperately that Hal had a hat to cover his face.

  The rest of the crowd seemed as nervous as I was. I could almost feel them twitching in apprehension as they wondered: what were the Guns looking for? Was anyone doing something wrong?

  Or not doing something that they should?

  It erupted all at once. “Traitor!” screamed a woman, her voice shrill and desperate. Something – a piece of fruit? – was lobbed and struck President Weir’s shoulder. It left a murky stain.

  Others started screaming too – “Traitor! Traitor!” More missiles arced through the air, pelting him.

  Almost immediately, other shouts started welling up. “No! President Weir! V for Victory!”

  At this last, the crowd surged like a wave towards the street. “V for Victory! President Weir! Down with Pierce!”

  Instantly, the Guns started swinging their blackjacks – shots began ringing out. Next to me, a man went down, red blooming over his chest. A woman screamed as a bullet jerked her sideways, taking part of her shoulder.

  Stunned, I watched her fall – saw another Gun club her with his blackjack. Everywhere I looked, the same thing was happening.

  The words tore from me with no thought: “Stop! I’m Amity Vancour – it’s me you want!” They were lost in other shouts, though I screamed them.

  “Amity! Shut up!” Hal’s voice was frenzied with fear as he tugged at me.

  I shook him off. The crowd jostled me as people scattered, tried to run in all directions. Pistol shots echoed every few seconds.

  “Stop!” I cried again. “I’m—”

  A sudden jolt – a cracking noise – a feeling like sharp pressure on my head. I sank to my knees. In a dazed blur I saw the Gun who’d hit me stride away into the crowd, still swinging his blackjack. “Get back, Discordant scum!”

  Almost seamlessly, I was lying on the ground – feet were stampeding all around me. I stared at them, weirdly disconnected, watching how they moved – noticing people’s shoes.

  I became aware of Hal pulling at my arm. “Hurry! Come on!”

  Pain thunderclapped through me as he got me to my feet and I cried out. It was as if my skull had been cleaved with an axe. We started staggering away through the mob. I felt my little brother’s arm around me – I gasped and put my hand to my head.

  Warmth. Redness.

  The world swam in and out of focus. Dimly, I became aware that my head was on Hal’s shoulder – that the streets had become quieter.

  “Keep going, keep going,” muttered Hal, and I had a sudden, distant memory of flying a plane with my leg shot – of Ingo’s hands on my injured thigh as he said the same thing. Had that really happened?

  The half-memory faded. We were in a building. What building? I didn’t know. I was lying on the ground again. Hal’s voice came, distant and urgent at the same time:

  “I don’t know how long we’re safe here. I…I’d better…”

  Black.

  President Weir was executed on one of the few days of these long, hot months where rain finally broke through, changing the humid blanket that hung over the city to a warm drizzle. A crowd of thousands was forced to watch – to cheer when he dropped. Anyone seen not cheering was shot. Guns posted in the crowd made
sure of it.

  As President Weir’s body hung, gently twirling, people cried through their “cheers” – those with umbrellas thankful that their true expressions were shielded. Some people didn’t cheer anyway, staring stoically at the gallows, and were killed. When the sombre crowd was finally allowed to depart, dozens of bullet-ridden bodies lay on the ground.

  That’s what I heard afterwards.

  The first I knew about it was when I opened my eyes and squinted painfully at my surroundings. I was in what seemed to be a small storage room. There were dusty boxes stacked against one wall. I lay on a piece of cloth – I only knew that because I was clutching it with one hand. Something small was digging into my back.

  Hal sat nearby, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, his fingers raking up through his dark hair.

  I stared at him blearily, my head throbbing. “Where are we?” I asked, but nothing came out. I cleared my throat and tried again.

  At my first noise, Hal’s head had come up with a jerk. He scrambled to my side. “Amity! Are you okay?”

  I tried to sit up and the world tilted – my skull felt like a knife was stabbing into it. I fell back again, gasping. “Is there any water?” I whispered.

  He had a soda bottle filled with some. He put his arm around me and helped me drink it. I licked my lips. “Thanks,” I murmured.

  I wanted to close my eyes again but didn’t. I gazed up at the ceiling. It was corrugated metal. It was all starting to come back, the thoughts pounding at me like my headache: the assassination attempt going so wrong; Mac being shot; Dwight’s death.

  Ingo.

  My memory stopped with watching President Weir being dragged through the streets. “What…what happened to my head?” I got out.

  Hal put the bottle aside. “You were hit. A Gun got you with his blackjack.” His voice was husky; he wasn’t meeting my eyes. His own were red-rimmed. Wearily, I remembered telling him that Dwight’s death had been his fault.

  I wanted to tell him that I’d been too harsh with him – that things hadn’t been that simple. The words felt slippery, hard to grab hold of. I struggled to focus. “How long have I been out?”