by Travis Brett
“You ready?” he muttered to Candle.
Candle rolled up the sleeve and held out his forearm. “Do it.”
Roman reached into his coat and pulled out the activation needle — the one he had taken from Candle after their fight — and jabbed it into Candle’s wrist.
Candle grinned as the first pulse of blue light shone through his shirt. He quickly used his coat to cover it. Standing, he looked ready to charge towards the Ministry.
“Wait.” Roman stepped in front of Candle, warily watching the militia in their way. Two of them had crossbows — Roman didn’t like the idea of being shot down before they even got close. “I’ll go first.”
Candle shrugged. “Be my guest.”
“I’ll get their attention. You follow behind, keep your head down and pretend to be a curious beggar.”
“Getting their attention sounds a lot like getting an arrow through your neck. You have a plan for that?”
“Half of one.”
Roman moved to the centre of the road and raised his arms in surrender.
He casually strolled forward, letting the entire streets attention shift to him. Ahead, one militia cried out in alarm and raised his crossbow, but another stepped forward and motioned for him not to fire. Roman let out a quick sigh of relief, not faltering in his stride. The militia waited for him.
Vendors, shoppers, and beggars hastily made a path for Roman, stopping their efforts to flee from Reformation Square just long to rush to the footpath and cower until he passed, as if the militia would shoot anyone standing too close to him. They were too distracted to notice Candle slipping amongst them.
As he approached, Roman recognized the militia in charge. Regan. The militia’s pudgy face curled into a wide grin as he levelled his crossbow at Roman’s chest. “I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to show your face, but the Captain was right.”
Roman stopped five yards away. “I would say how glad I am to see you’re still alive, but, truth be told, I am deeply disappointed you still have all your limbs attached.”
“What the fuck are you doing, Roman?” Regan demanded.
“Surrendering. I thought that was obvious.”
Regan glanced behind him towards Reformation Square. Already half a dozen militia were on the ground with arrows through them — some were still screaming, most were already dead — while the rest were charging towards the opposite corner of the square.
Roman grinned. “Ruby, on the other hand, is not surrendering.”
Regan looked confused about what to do in this situation. He settled on tightening the grip on his crossbow and scowling more. “So why shouldn’t I shoot you now?”
“Because we both know that I’ve captured Candle, and that Juliette wants him. That gives me leverage over her.”
“If you’ve got him, then where the hell is he?”
Roman pointed. “Right there.”
The militia all turned to the side, just in time to see Candle pick up a table — it had been abandoned by a vendor, whose collection of rusted blades now clattered to the ground — and swing it over his head and onto the closest militia. The wood snapped in half, splintering, as the man beneath it crumpled. In a blur of motion, Candle darted to the next militia, grabbed his head with both hands and snapped his neck.
Regan still had his crossbow aimed at Roman. He fired. The bolt glanced Roman’s shoulder as he sprinted forward and seized Regan by the front of his amour. Roman’s other hand reached over the militia’s shoulder, pulled a bolt out of his quiver, and stabbed it through the back of Regan’s neck. Regan gurgled blood, eyes wide with disbelief. His body went limp and Roman let him drop to the ground.
The last militia fled. Candle set chase. Roman reached into his coat for his gun, but by the time he pulled it out, Candle had already closed the gap on his target. He had picked up a knife and now used it to slit the militia’s throat.
Roman hands were shaking with the sudden rush of adrenaline. He turned towards the Security Ministry and—
Oh . . . shit.
A militia had stepped around the corner of the building. His gaze swept over the carnage, finally settling on Candle. He raised the pistol he was holding.
Candle was distracted, looking at the militia who were still charging towards Ruby. He didn’t see the militia taking aim at his chest.
Roman didn’t have time to shout a warning. He lifted his own gun and fired. A headshot — the militia died before his body hit the pavement.
Candle spun around, first looking at Roman, then to the corpse. “Oh. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Roman’s gaze moved past Candle to the militia and mercenaries on the opposite corner of the square, over a dozen of whom had obviously heard the gunshot. Roman could tell because they were now sprinting back towards him and Candle. “We might have just distracted them away from our previous distraction.”
Candle bent down and picked up the axe from the mercenary he had killed. “I can do more than just distract—”
“No time to wait for them. We’ve got to move.” Roman dashed to the Security Ministry. Most of the windows on the first floor had been boarded up; he moved to one that was still empty. He leapt up, landing with one boot on the window frame, and was halfway through before he saw the crossbow pointed directly at him. He tumbled backwards, out the window, and landed hard on his back as a crossbow bolt pierced the air where he had been a second before.
Groaning, he sat up. His spine and neck made a series of popping sounds as he turned to Candle, who was smirking at him. “This time,” Roman said, “you can go first.”
In one swift motion, Candle dived through the window. Someone inside began to scream. It was cut off a second later. Roman heard a crash, wood breaking, and the clang of steel striking concrete. Now a half dozen people inside were screaming.
Roman waited, letting Candle clear most of the room. From his brief glance inside, he had spotted at least ten guards. He watched the militia returning from across the square. They were only fifty yards away now. Deciding it wasn’t much safer out here than it was in there, he climbed through the window into the Ministry, knowing that, this time, he most likely wasn’t coming back out.
* * *
Sparks pressed his face against the bars of his cell door, trying to see what the commotion was about. A dozen militia had arrived about half an hour ago, and now another group had turned up. They huddled together, speaking in panicked whispers. Sparks couldn’t make out their words, but the tone was clear: they were anxious.
“Has this ever happened before?” Sparks asked Bruise, who appeared entirely indifferent to the situation. The two of them had barely spoken since Sparks had first arrived — that might have been six hours ago, or six days. There was no way to be sure. All Sparks’ knew was that it felt like forever.
“They made a big fuss after the scientist helped that guy escape,” Bruise said. “But the next day everything was back to normal.”
“Well, this is different then.” Sparks watched another militia rush down the hallway and join the rest. “This could be our chance to get out of here.”
“Believe me, kid, there’s no way in hell to—”
“Shut up. For one, I’m not a kid. And secondly, stop saying ‘believe me’ like you’re some wise mentor. You’re just a pathetic old man who doesn’t even want to fight anymore.”
Bruise shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t kick your teeth out and shove them up your nose.”
Bruise shuffled back into the shadows.
The militia went quiet. They hurriedly moved to the sides of the hallway, as if making a path for someone. One of them finally spoke loud enough for Sparks to overhear, “The Captain’s coming.”
Sparks redoubled his futile efforts at slipping his head between the bars to get a better view. Although he wanted more than that — he wanted to fit his whole body through, run past the militia, grab Juliette by her hair and see how we
ll her head fit through the bars.
She strode down the hallway, flanked by two huge brutes who both shared the same square face and blond hair. Brothers? They each looked like they weighed four times Sparks’ weight, and none of their bulk was in fat. Sparks opened his mouth to shout an insult and get Juliette’s attention, but he realized she was already headed straight for his cell.
Juliette stopped just out of his reach, folding her arms as she glared at him, lips pursed. Sparks was pleased to see the side of her face was bruised from where he had slammed her against the wall.
“You’re going to regret bringing me here,” Sparks spat.
She nodded to one of the two militia who came with her. “He’s the one. Take him.”
The man stepped forward and pulled a key from his belt. Sparks stepped back from the door as the man unlocked and pushed it open. Sparks dashed forward, ducking under the militia’s first blow and countered with a punch to the gut. The militia barely seemed to notice, and his fist came around a second time. Again, Sparks was too quick, sidestepping away, then driving his knee into the militia’s groin. That had more of an effect. Sparks scurried around him and lunged towards Juliette.
The second militia tackled him from the side and sent them both sprawling to the ground. Sparks struggled to get on top, but he had a vast disadvantage in size. The militia pinned Sparks’ arms against the floor and drove his forehead into Sparks’ nose.
Sparks felt — and heard — his nose break. Hot, metallic-tasting blood clogged his throat. His eyes watered and his ears rang.
“Grab the other one too.” Juliette’s voice. “We want them both.”
The other one: Bruise. Sparks blinked, trying to clear his eyes and head. His skull felt like it had split into shards that were now digging into his brain. It was impossible to think clearly. She doesn’t need two Adrenalites to power the machine. So what does she want us for?
Why me?
And why Bruise?
* * *
Ruby watched Roman enter the Ministry. Don’t you dare fucking die. She imagined her thoughts could reach him. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.
She reached into the quiver hanging from her waist. In one smooth motion, she drew an arrow, nocked it, and pulled back her bowstring. A handful of militia were running back towards the Ministry. She selected the one in front as her next target. Taking a slow breath, Ruby carefully considered how much the arrow would fall mid-flight; how far the militia would have moved by the time the arrow reached him; and how the northern breeze would affect the shot.
It wasn’t easy — at least, it wouldn’t have been easy for anyone but her.
She fired, and was already aiming her next shot when the arrow struck its target between his shoulder blades. He stumbled two steps before collapsing. The rest of the militia hastily spread apart and switched to running in zigzag paths, making her next shot harder.
She released two more arrows; the first missed, the second caught a mercenary in the leg. She reached into her quiver for another arrow but found it empty. Damn. She moved her hand to her second quiver, hung over her back. She wasn’t finished yet.
A gunshot rang out behind her. “They’re here,” Caleb shouted.
Hopefully, she had brought Roman enough time. Ruby turned from the window and rushed to join Caleb crouching behind at the barricade they had set up at top of the stairs. She peered over the top of the overturned desk. A dead militia lay at the bottom of stairs, blood pouring from a hole in his forehead. Another stuck her head around the corner, quickly ducking back when he saw Ruby watching.
“Good shot,” Ruby muttered to Caleb. “That’ll give them pause before they charge us.”
“Won’t take them too long before they take the risk, and I’ve only got two bullets left.”
“Make them count.”
Ruby stood up, drew another arrow, and took aim at where the militia had poked his head around. As soon as she caught a glimpse of movement, she fired. The militia pulled back just in time, and the arrow bounced off the wall with a clang.
Caleb pulled his machete from his belt. “If they get close, just let me do the talking.”
“We shared the cigarette, might as well share the killing too.”
A series of wild shouts came from the stairs. Ruby glanced over the barricade just in time to see three militia come around the corner and sprint up the stairs, swiftly followed by more.
No time to think. Ruby took a shot that caught the leading militia through the neck. Caleb brought down another with a knife — throwing it and striking the militia between the eyes. Ruby didn’t have time for a second shot; she pulled out an arrow and thrust it into the chest of the first mercenary to scale the barricade. The arrow stuck in his ribs, and she didn’t have time to pull it out before another mercenary leapt over the desk and landed on her. They both tumbled to the floor.
Ruby’s bow was still in her injured hand; it got caught between her and her opponent as they wrestled, pressing against her chest. With a loud snapping sound, it broke in half.
Furious, Ruby tore at her opponent’s face, digging her nails into his skin, while her other hand stabbed him in the side with the half of the bow she still held. He was armed with a thick wooden club and he brought it down against the side of her head. Lights flashed in her vision. She tasted blood.
The club came down again. She twisted her head to the side and dodged it. Letting go of his face, she reached behind her, pulled an arrow from her quiver, and shoved it into his eye.
Ruby pushed the now limp body off her. She sat up, fighting to clear her throbbing head enough to make sense of the room around her. She heard Caleb yelling. Where was he?
The stairs. Ruby stumbled to the barricade, dragging half her bow with her, and glanced over. Caleb’s huge figure blocked the stairs, shouting like a madman as he swung his machete at two militia facing him. He sliced through one opponent’s arm and quickly finished him with a blow to the head. The other militia turned and fled.
Caleb slowly walked back up to her, stepped over the barricade and reclaimed his position. His forehead was covered in sweat, there was a wild glint in his eye, and he was smiling. “I reckon that’ll give them some second thoughts,” he said cheerfully.
Ruby was lost for words. She had never seen Caleb like this. It was like her friend had vanished and was replaced with something far more . . . primal.
Caleb noticed her broken bow. He pulled out his pistol and offered it to her. “Take it. I can handle these bastards the old-fashioned way.”
Ruby carefully took the gun from him. “Caleb . . . are you alright?”
“Why?” He checked himself for wounds. “Am I hurt?”
“No, but . . .”
He faced her, still grinning, and she had to force herself not to flinch away. “Did you know that back when I was a mercenary, I used to be the most expensive man for hire in the whole city?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, are you surprised?”
“Not anymore.”
He nodded. “I reckon we’re all born with a gift. Yours is with that bow. Mine is less graceful, but no less deadly.”
“I’ve just never seen you so . . .” Ruby trailed off. There was no precise word to describe Caleb right now.
His smile faltered, just a little. “I don’t like being like this. But, in these situations, we’ve all got our own way of dealing with it.” He paused to glance over the barricade. “I guess we don’t always get to be the person we want, do we?”
More shouting and running footsteps — another wave of militia were coming. Ruby raised the pistol as she stood. It lacked the proper feel and beauty of her bow, but it would do the job just as well. The first pair of militia came around the corner at the foot of the stairs, and her heart sunk. They both held wooden doors, using them as shields. They stood together, makeshift shields interlocked, so the whole area behind them was sheltered.
Beside her, Caleb began to chuckle quietly. “Now this is
going to be fun.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I told you: leave. I’ll follow once I’ve dealt with these fuckers.”
Ruby hesitated. She did need to get to Roman, but leaving Caleb felt wrong. The militia were nearly at the top of the stairs, shouting insults from behind their shields. By the sound, they were well over a dozen of them. Ruby fired at the wall to the left side of the shields. There was a cry of pain as the bullet ricocheted and hit a militia behind their makeshift shield.
Caleb grabbed Ruby and pushed her away. “You’re not going to be much use once they get up here."
“I’m not leaving without you.”
“If you want to help me, get to Sparks as quick as you can.”
Ruby made up her mind. “Don’t be long,” she said, then ran into the room where she’d left the rope. After checking the knot around the desk leg one last time, she tossed the rope out the window, watching it unwind until the end hit the ground below.
She tucked the pistol into her belt and climbed out. Clinging to the rope with her wounded hand hurt like hell, but she gritted her teeth, planted her feet firmly against the wall, and began to climb down, hand over hand.
Somebody flew from the window above her, screaming. Ruby's heart caught in her throat, thinking it was Caleb. The man fell past her and she saw it wasn't him. She looked away before he hit the ground, but she couldn't stop herself hearing the sickening thud of flesh meeting pavement. Ruby resumed descending, throwing caution to the wind and quickening her pace.
She was halfway down when Caleb climbed out the window. For a second Ruby wasn't sure the rope would hold both their weight, but it did. "Hurry!" he shouted, and the urgency in his voice was all the convincing Ruby needed.
She loosened her grip and the rope began to rapidly pull through her hands, stinging her palm that wasn’t protected by a bandage. A burning hot, searing pain. Her feet skidded along the wall as she descended as fast as she dared. Not quite free-falling, but not far from it.