by T. C. Edge
I hear him whisper on the other side, just before he shuts the trunk.
“Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I’ll take you somewhere safe in the city and let you out. My partner’s coming…”
With those words, the trunk suddenly slams down loudly, blocking out the light and sound. All I hear are muffled and indistinct words as the Sniffer joins him.
It sounds like they’re quickly discussing whether they found anything. Then, I hear two doors opening and shutting, and the car’s engine begins to rumble to life.
I stay tense as the car begins to move. It feels like it’s turning around, crunching through the dirt and returning to the southern perimeter gate a little way away.
Soon, we start to slow, and then I feel the car stopping completely. Its engine continues to hum, the temperature in the trunk starting to rise. Beads of sweat start to gather on my forehead, sliding down and breaking up the patches of mud that still cover me.
For a few moments, the car stays still. Outside I hear the shuffling of feet, and the tapping of fingers on the metal coffin that hides me. Suddenly, the trunk opens, and a sweep of cool air pours in.
I go rigid like a statue. Voices come now, clear as day.
“Is this really necessary?”
It’s the Brute. My saviour.
“Protocol,” grunts another voice.
I feel him prodding and poking around inside. The jacket around me gets nudged, almost slipping away. I tighten my bundle of limbs and sink deeper.
If he finds me, I’m dead. And the Brute will be too.
His life is now on the line. He’s put it there on my behalf.
I hear his voice come again.
“Are you satisfied yet?!” There’s a menace to him now, a burgeoning frustration. “Hurry up. I have more important things to do than to waste time with you wall-watchers.”
It sounds like an insult. Perhaps among the City Guard, those guarding the wall are considered of low position or rank.
“I’m just…doing my job.”
The other man sounds a little more cowed now. By the tone of his voice he doesn’t sound like a Brute. More likely a Hawk, I’d imagine, watching from the ramparts.
“And what’s the smell,” says the guard. I hear him sniffing, his nose growing closer.
Even from behind the jacket, the shadow of the Brute appears to grow, looming large over the other man.
The sniffing stops abruptly, and the man leans back.
“I’ve just been out in the toxic marshes,” booms the Brute. “What the hell do you think that smell is? Now step aside. I’m a busy man. You may not have heard, but the city has been under threat and needs defending…”
A momentary silence follows. Then, quietly, the guard speaks again.
“Fine. Be on your way,” he says.
I hear him step to the side. A hand comes down on the top of the trunk, closing it with some force.
Back in the darkness, I let out a long drawn out breath, my heart-rate thundering. I stretch out my legs as much as I can, my limbs growing numb, and feel the car begin to grumble off again, passing through the gate.
A smile of relief hovers on my lips for a moment, but is quickly doused. It’s not over yet. Until I’m back in the academy, safe and sound, I can’t lose focus.
From the motion of the vehicle, we seem to keep to a fairly straight route, presumably moving up through the southern quarter. The car slows and speeds up, keeping to the traffic rules, before eventually stopping.
I listen to the muffled voices inside the car for a moment, a discussion taking place. Then, a single door opens and shuts, and the car begins to move off again.
It feels like it’s turning around again, working its way westwards. Another ten or so minutes pass before it comes to a stop once more.
The engine shuts off, and a door opens. I hear the stamp of heavy feet, and the creeping of fingers on the trunk. Even before it’s opened, I smell the scent of the city streets I know so well, seeping in through tiny gaps in the rear of the car.
The odour only increases when the trunk lifts and the jacket covering me up is pulled away. I blink in the low light and see the Brute standing ahead of me.
“Get out,” he says.
I climb from the car, my body numb and in need of rest, and finally pull the gas mask from my face and place it in my pocket. I check out my surroundings and see that we’re in a quiet alleyway, the light of the sun blocked by the tall buildings around us.
By the look of them, we’re around the border of the southern and western quarter, somewhere in the outer districts.
“You should be safe now, Brie,” says the Brute. “The Conveyor Line isn’t too far to the left at the end of the alley. I’m sure you’ll get your bearings quick.” He looks at my hands, bloodied and blistered, and the filthy clothes that hang off me. “Best get home as fast as you can and have a clean…”
He turns back to the trunk of the car and roots around for a moment, before pulling out another jacket.
“Here, put this on. It’ll cover you up.”
I take it and wrap it around me. It’s too large, but not ridiculously so.
“Whose is it?”
“My partner’s. Don’t worry, I’ll make up some excuse…”
“I really don’t know what to say. I don’t even know your name.”
He pulls up his visor – his gas mask already discarded – and smiles.
“It’s Titus.”
“Thank you, Titus. You saved my life.”
He bends down onto one knee, coming face to face with me.
“You know, I don’t usually do this, Brie. And especially with someone like you. I can’t be sure what you’re up to, but whatever it is, be careful…”
“I’m…not up to anything.”
“I can see what you are. I saw it when you looked at me out there. Your eyes…I know you’re a Hawk. God knows I’ve spent enough time around them to know how they look at the world. I imagine you’re probably a hybrid too, and you were on the run because of it. For all I know, it was you who freed those prisoners being taken to the REEF.”
My lack of immediate response is enough to solidify his suspicions. I consider working up some lie, but don’t. Instead I merely ask: “If you know I’m a hybrid…then why did you save me?”
“Because hybrids are the same as the rest of us. I don’t think they should be rounded up and killed just because they have mixed blood. For my mind, the only bad hybrids are the ones the Consortium have cooked up themselves.”
“The Stalkers?”
He nods.
“They spend their lives hunting people, most of them innocent. But then again, I suppose that’s what they’re designed for. They don’t have much say in the matter. But you do, Brie. Whatever you’re doing, I suggest you cut it out. It’ll only get you killed.”
“I…maybe I have no choice,” I say.
“Few of us do,” he sighs. “All I can suggest is that you be careful. The way you looked at me gave you away. Don’t go making a habit of that unless you’re in safe company.”
I nod slowly.
“Thank you, for the advice. This is all quite new to me.”
“I can tell,” he says with a wry smile. “But I’d better get back to work.” He stands back up to his full, towering height, before fixing me with a firm stare. “Don’t make me regret helping you. Or I’ll escort you over to the REEF myself.”
He starts moving back towards the front of the car.
“Titus,” I say, calling him back. His mighty trunk wheels round. “I won’t ever forget this. Not til I die…”
He smiles.
“Think nothing of it. Sometimes it feels good to do the right thing, even if that means betraying your duty. And this was a good thing, Brie. Just try to make sure you don’t die too soon! Take care.”
He turns again, climbs back into his car, and begins rumbling off away onto the street.
The alley grows quiet, the throbbing in my he
ad becoming clearer once more. And as I stand there, every ounce of me weakens, a surging flood of relief gushing from every pore.
I drop down, lie back against the alley wall, and suck in the stale air.
I got lucky this time. Very lucky.
But sooner or later, my luck is going to run out.
56
My journey home brings with it a sense of high anxiety. That’s not so rare for me these days, although mostly it’s my night-time jaunts after curfew that get my blood pumping.
Right now, it’s still not even mid-morning, and the streets are filled with pedestrians going about their days. Yet still, I shuffle my way through the crowds with an intense aching in my chest, and a deep pool of nerves bubbling in my stomach.
Even hidden under my new jacket, I feel as if I’m completely exposed. Every time I pass a patrolling Con-Cop, or sight a Hawk peering from a high rooftop, I quickly avert my eyes in a manner that would suggest utter guilt to anyone.
In reality, none of them are likely even looking at me. If I keep myself to myself, I’m sure I’ll get right back to the academy safe and sound.
When I reach the Conveyor Line, I get a few funny looks. Lining up in the queue, the people around me narrow their eyes and crinkle their snouts in disgust.
I can only assume it’s a mixture of the mud, and the thick coating of toxic fumes that will almost certainly have seeped into my clothes. I keep my head down and don’t engage with them, stepping quickly onto the Conveyor Line as it swishes around from the east and begins turning northwest.
I cling onto the pole like my life depends on it. It’s not something I can control right now. My hands tremble so hard I have no choice but to clamp my fingers down, my knuckles growing white as I’m carried along through the city.
Until now, I’ve had my run-ins with the law, but nothing like what I’ve been through over the last 24 hours. This time yesterday I was still gearing up to attend the funeral of Fred and Ziggy, an emotional enough experience as it is.
A little after that ended, I was discovering that Drum had murdered a man, had been incarcerated in the holding cells, and was set to be taken out to the REEF that very night.
Firefights, chases through the tunnels, and a terrifying ride through the raging underwater river quickly followed, and that was all before midnight. The events of this morning have only added to the feeling of utter tension that grips to every single one of my muscle fibres.
I feel exhausted. I feel filthy. My head throbs harder than it ever has, and my hands burn with terrible sores and blisters.
I think it’s safe to say that I’ve had a rough time of it recently.
And yet, I can be pretty certain that I’m only just getting started. Now that I’m back safe in the city, I’ll have little rest before I’m being called upon to carry out my mission.
But as with earlier, when I could think of little else but getting warm, now my brain has a single function: get me home to bed.
I’m so drained that even thoughts of Drum and Zander’s safety make little more than a cameo. I’m worried about them, of course, but being properly worried takes energy.
And I have none to give.
What little reserves remain within me are directed to the task of getting me home. With the Conveyor Line doing most of the work, I merely need to look out for the nearest stop to the academy.
When it comes, I step off as the line slows at the debarkation point, summoning my wits to make sure I don’t take a tumble. Safely back on stable ground, I drag my heavy limbs through the streets until I arrive at the bottom of Brick Lane.
So close now…
More funny looks follow from the local residents, who may or may not recognise me. Still covered from head to toe, it’s only when I turn into the academy and pass its threshold that my true identity is revealed.
A few kids linger inside the foyer. They sniff as I pass and ask why I ‘stink so bad’.
I don’t answer. I don’t even look at them. I just drift by like a member of the undead, pumping my legs dry as I move up the stairs and onto the second floor.
I don’t even spare a thought for whether Tess will be around. Seeing me in this state will certainly raise more questions, but our relationship can’t really get much worse right now so it hardly matters.
Mercifully, however, she’s nowhere to be seen – not wholly surprising given the amount she’s been working recently – leaving me to strip out of my clothes in private.
Peeling off one layer after another, I grab my wash bag and fill it to the brim, tying it up tight to make sure the stink doesn’t escape. Then, grabbing a towel, I amble along the corridor to the shower, step inside, lock the door, and let the water flow.
It’s cold, as it almost always is. Not freezing, just unpleasant and tepid at best. After last night, however, my definition of what constitutes freezing water has been permanently modified. Stepping under the flow, this doesn’t feel too bad.
For the first minute or two, my hands feel like they’re on fire. I carefully work to remove the clumps of mud on my exposed skin, before removing the rag from my head and working on my hair.
Despite already having washed it in the lake this morning, it remains covered in filth. The reddening of the water at my feet also tells me that more blood has accumulated, the gash on my head still leaking. It’ll need attention.
But that’ll have to wait.
Working in a state of autopilot, I perform a perfunctory wash of the rest of my body. Before I know it, I’m trailing wet footprints back down the hall to my room, pulling on my soft nightclothes, and crawling into bed without a second thought.
Shutting my eyes, my mind flashes with lights and guns and toxic, green mist. For a few minutes, I struggle to turn off, the events of the previous day starting on an endless loop.
Soon, I’m back out there, struggling through those woods, being tossed about in that river, running through the tunnels from the hoards of mindless slaves. The memories fill my mind, turning to dreams as I drift into an uncomfortable sleep.
Rarely do I wake in a sweat. Only when I’m sick – which in itself is a rare thing – do I come out of a sleep feeling drenched. Yet today I do, the sheets and blankets both carrying a cool damp as my eyes blink open in the darkness of my room.
It takes a few moments for my vision to kick in, revealing that Tess’s bed isn’t quite how I left it. When I’d fallen asleep, it had been empty. Now, there’s a bag on it – her work bag.
Without even having to check my watch, I know it must be evening. When I do, I discover that I’ve enjoyed a solid 10 hour stretch of slumber, the clock ticking towards 9PM. It’s done me the world of good.
As my fingers grip the watch, however, it takes me a second to realise that my hands are strapped up in coils of white dressing. I squeeze them into balls and then stretch out my fingers – actions which were causing a great deal of pain before I dropped off – and feel little discomfort.
My head, too, no longer throbs. Reaching up, the tips of my fingers come into contact with yet more dressing, my head wrapped up tight in a fresh bandage.
I search my mind for any memory of having had treatment, but nothing materialises.
Did Mrs Carmichael creep in while I was sleeping and patch me up?
I consider that that must be what happened, and set my feet to the floor. With a clearing mind, I move to the door and exit into the corridor, keen to pay my guardian a visit to say thanks.
I hear her music playing inside, and knock. When I appear, she bolts from her chair in surprise.
“Brie, you’re awake!”
“Er, yeah. Was this you?” I ask a little groggily, holding up my hands.
“Um, yes,” she says, frowning. “ You don’t remember?”
I move in and shut the door, lazily dropping into a chair in front of her desk.
“Should I? What happened?”
“Tess found you on your floor, passed out and face down. Your hands, Brie…they were te
rrible. And your head…” She shakes hers. “Tess was half out of her mind with worry.”
“She was?”
Such a thing shouldn’t surprise me. Recent events have changed that.
“Of course. So was I! We sorted you out and put you back to bed. You were awake for some of it, mumbling about chases in tunnels and firefights and freezing water and all sorts of things…”
“I was?”
I rack my brain for some recollection. Nothing comes.
“I guess it’s no surprise that your memory’s hazy. You were delirious.”
“And did Tess hear?”
“She heard some. I don’t think she knew what to make of it, though.”
She shakes her head, exasperated, and her eyes turn from relieved to accusatory.
“I swear, each time you step out that door you come back with some sort of nasty injury. And they’re getting worse every time. One day I’m going to come back to find you dead in the foyer,” she says grumpily. “But don’t worry…I’m not going to tell you to stop. I’m done trying to do that. Although I would like an explanation from your mouth…I’ve heard bits and pieces and put some of the puzzle together myself, but I want to hear your side.”
“You’ve heard…what exactly?”
“The attack on the prisoner convoy. It’s been on the news. They’re talking about it being the Nameless, freeing all these murderers and rapists, causing all this trouble. It’s all sanctioned by the Consortium, of course, but the people don’t know that.”
“More fear mongering,” I mumble. “That doesn’t surprise me. That’s not exactly what happened, though…”
I lower my eyes and her voice looms again.
“It was you,” she starts. It’s not a question. “I mean, that’s obvious enough. You and Zander set free a bunch of criminals to get Drum back. OK, so it’s great he’s safe and all, but didn’t you stop and think…”
Her words form in my head, but it takes me a second to react.
It’s great he’s safe and all…
Drum’s safe…
“Hold on,” I say, cutting her off mid-sentence. “You said Drum’s safe?! Are you sure?! How do you know?!”