Burn this City: A Dystopian Novel

by Brenda Poppy

  Pierce stalked around the edges of the troop’s formation, picking off errant men with a touch of his finger. He wasn’t impenetrable like Shaw, so he kept to the shadows, catching his targets unaware. His poison worked quickly, so before the soldiers even had time to turn around, they had already lost control of their limbs and crumbled to the ground. His progress was aided by the nearby Brindle, armed with a gun, who sent small parts of the street into darkness so she could fire on the officers with advantage.

  From her position, Burn narrated the battle as best she could, sending her troops this way and that as the tides changed. As the riot of citizens began to coalesce and descend en masse, she dispatched Ansel and Hale to stop them, hoping they could form a barrier between the two sides before more chaos could arise.

  Ansel conjured a wave of fire that set the street ablaze, drawing a flaming line in the sand that set apart the two camps. Despite their ManniK-addled brains, the citizens drew back, something within them still recognizing the danger of the inferno. Hale tackled any that were brave enough – or high enough – to test the fiery line, sending them flying to the ground and knocking them out with a punch.

  More of the Lunaria, including Symphandra and Meera, did what they could from the sidelines, picking off enemies from strategic perches behind benches and around corners. Together they held the line, keeping both the citizens and the Peace Force at bay.

  Despite all the odds, they were winning, forcing the army back through the streets and steadily gaining ground against their mighty foe.

  Then Burn’s ears pricked, catching on a sound from a nearby street. It sounded like…marching. Troops. Peace Force reinforcements were coming, and they were coming quickly. Burn bellowed through the comms, warning the Lunaria of their imminent company, but she couldn’t tell if it even registered amidst the madness.

  And then they descended, a second horde shoring up the first, bringing new energy and fresh weapons to the raging battle. Burn watched in horror as Innoxia’s dead army faltered, then fell, dropping too rapidly to replace. Pierce and Brindle moved to help, a cloud of darkness billowing around them, but a sudden burst of shots sent the darkness flying. In its place were two figures on the ground, immobile and bleeding.

  Ansel turned his fire on the Peace Force in an attempt to block their progress, but they kept moving forward, their gear immune to his flames. Burn glanced around hastily, trying to find someone to send in to help, but her troops were scattered across the battlefield, either pinned down or too far away to help.

  Five men had grabbed Shaw and brought him down, tying him tightly to a nearby post so he couldn’t escape. And Ramus had been cornered by one of the local mutants, his vines no match for the man’s razorlike teeth and claws.

  The tide was turning against them, and all Burn could do was watch. She felt a frustrated powerlessness rise up in her chest and threaten to overtake her. She wanted to dive down, to join her brethren and fight, to smash the Peace Force’s weapons to bits. But she couldn’t. Her gift was no use in battle. She couldn’t help them.

  And then Scar screamed. It was a bloodcurdling scream, one that went straight through Burn and pierced her heart. Turning on her heel, she immediately scanned her sister for injuries, fearing the worst. But she saw no bullet wounds, no fire damage, no hint of physical injury that could explain the sound. Then she saw where her sister was looking.

  Down on the battlefield, Symphandra lay face up, unmoving in a growing puddle of dark red blood. Burn stepped closer to the edge of the building, staring unblinkingly at the body and willing it to move. But it didn’t. She didn’t. Burn’s heart sank, tears threatening her eyes. She gulped, swallowing the lump in her throat, and turned to Scar. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she had to say something. Only Scar wasn’t there.

  Burn heard the clatter of the metal staircase and ran over to the ledge. She just caught sight of her sister’s dark gear before Scar leapt off the stairs and into the street, running at full speed into the fray.

  Burn didn’t even think. In fact, she couldn’t think. Her mind had ground to a halt the instant Scar had left her, leaving one thought in her head: She had to save her sister.

  She leapt from the building onto the stairs, the weak metal groaning under her sudden weight. Taking the stairs two at a time, she all but flew down them, all the while searching for her sister in the crowd. Her heart raced as she ran, but she couldn’t spot Scar’s wiry red curls anywhere amidst the commotion.

  Reaching the bottom of the building, Burn dashed to the mouth of the alleyway. While fervently scanning the area, her eyes locking on every bit of red in the crowd, she withdrew the gun that she had strapped to her back, holding it tightly against her body. Its weight felt strange in her hands, and she prayed she wouldn’t have to use it on another living soul. But when it came to finding her sister, she would do what she had to.

  Taking a deep breath, she left the safety of her hideout and entered the fight.

  It was unlike anything Burn had ever experienced. Watching the action from above was nothing like being in it, down amongst the fire and the bullets and the bodies. The acidic iron smell of blood penetrated her mask, tinged with hints of smoke and dirt and burnt hair. The haze that had covered the sector was thicker than ever, mingling with the smoke to create walls of misty fog.

  Burn stumbled on something in the road but caught herself before she fell, looking down to see what had tripped her. To her horror, she saw a woman’s body, the face and arms charred past recognition and the hair still smoking. Bile rose in her throat, and she had to concentrate to force it down.

  Despite the shock, she kept going. And going. Past citizens who were intent on killing each other with their bare hands. Past injured officers screaming for help. Past Lunaria who lay unmoving on the ground. She saw Crete bowed down over one of them, his hands to their face, concentrating. He already looked so gaunt, so weak, that she wondered how many more people he could possibly save, how many wounds he could heal before he, too, was just another casualty of the war.

  She pushed the thoughts away, pressing onward toward the front line. That’s where Symphandra had been, so that’s where Scar would be headed. But navigating the battlefield was more difficult than she had anticipated.

  A loud bang rocked the street. Burn turned to see that one of the citizens, crazed beyond sanity, had pulled down one side of a building, sending showers of heavy bricks raining down on top of him and the nearby crowd. Screams erupted as people tried to flee, taking off in every direction in search of a safety that didn’t exist.

  Burn continued onward, her ears ringing from the noise. All around her, screams and gunshots and sounds of warfare clouded her consciousness, dampening her ability to hear the world. Disoriented and panicked, she lurched forward, no longer certain where she was headed.

  Suddenly, something hit her from behind, knocking her to the ground and forcing the breath from her lungs. Before she had time to react, another blow struck her, sending a shock wave of pain through her body. Knowing she had to move, she rolled blindly, just missing another swing.

  She glanced up to see a burly man, his eyes wild, standing over her with a plank of wood gripped tightly in his hands. He was preparing another strike, and Burn rolled again, this time managing to get her feet under her. She shot upward, dodging his attack, and rapidly searched the ground for anything she could use to defend herself.

  She didn’t want to shoot this man, this innocent citizen operating under the effects of a terrible drug, but she needed something to incapacitate him. Spying part of a metal signpost poking out from beneath the prone form of woman, she resheathed her gun and dashed to grab it. Her hands closed around it an instant before the wood plank came sailing back into her vision.

  This time, however, she wasn’t quick enough to avoid the blow entirely. It clipped her left shoulder, and a numbness temporarily immobilized the limb, followed by a sharp pain that caused her to swear loudly. The next time a blow cam
e, she was ready, holding up the sign fragment in front of her like a shield. The wood slammed against the metal, sending painful reverberations through her wrists and up her arms.

  The two stood there, weapons locked, battling it out with pure strength and force of will. And Burn was losing. Her muscles were straining to keep the plank of wood away from her body, but it was inching closer, her small frame no match for the man’s drug-fueled rage. She couldn’t hold on much longer, the weapon now only inches from her face, and she felt her grip on the metal sign starting to slip.

  She had to think of a plan, a way out of his grasp, but for some reason her brain didn’t seem to be working at its normal speed. It inched along, unable to find an avenue of escape or a way to distract him. Pure terror washed over her as the plank’s rough edge grazed the side of her face.

  Another loud shot echoed through the street, this one nearby, and the man’s eyes went wide. He loosened his grip on the plank and staggered forward, grabbing Burn’s shoulders. Unable to stop his momentum, she lost her footing and fell, the man’s staggering weight landing on top of her with a sickening thud.

  Pinned under his enormous body, Burn struggled to free herself as blood started to pump from a gaping wound on his chest and spill out over her torso. The warm metallic taste filled her nose and mouth through her mask, threatening to choke her. She squirmed as she tried to free her arms and legs from beneath him.

  Through the pain and the terror and the thrum of battle, Burn made out a heavy pair of footsteps headed in her direction. Still trapped beneath the body of her assailant, she had no way to know if it was a friend or foe coming toward her. So she froze, willing herself to stiffen, fighting against every instinct that was telling her to run.

  The steps grew closer and closer, coming to rest an arm’s length from where Burn lay. She held her breath, worried that even the slight movement of her chest might cause him to shoot. Through squinted eyes, she could just make out a pair of Peace Force-issued boots and dark pants. If she had wanted, she could have reached out and touched him. But that would have been a death sentence.

  He stood there, towering over the pair, admiring his kill. He gave a rough kick to the man on top of Burn, chuckling sadistically as the body lurched. For good measure, he aimed a kick at Burn, too, hitting her in the same shoulder as the wooden beam had just moments before. She bit her lip to keep from screaming, forcing her body to remain limp and pliable. The officer seemed satisfied because he sauntered off, shouldering his weapon as he re-entered the fray.

  As soon as his footsteps receded, Burn doubled her efforts to free herself. She writhed painfully, making slow progress as she pulled first one arm then the other out from beneath him. Her top half now free, she was able to drag herself the rest of the way out, panting from the exertion.

  She knew she had to get up, had to find her sister, but the thought of moving seemed like too much for her already ravaged body. It was the idea of Scar, hurt and alone, that ultimately spurred her forward, and she pulled herself to her feet. With the gun once again clutched in her hand, she strode back into the fight, ready to do what she had to in order to survive.

  Through the haze to her left, another Peace Officer emerged, gun drawn. Burn didn’t hesitate. She pointed and pulled the trigger, a kick knocking her back as the gun erupted, blasting a bullet directly into the man’s chest. She watched as he collapsed, a sudden numbness encompassing her thoughts. After the terror and panic that had been racing through her brain, the lack of feeling felt soothing. She relished it, embracing the detachment from everything and everyone around her.

  Suddenly everything seemed quieter, like the action had been muted and the harsh soundscape dulled. She walked like a zombie through the field of the dead and dying, her mind focused on one thing: Scar. She had to find her sister, had to save her.

  As she wandered through the hushed landscape, the image of Scar’s face and the memory of her voice permeated Burn’s brain, sinking into every corner of her consciousness. It was as if her ability had been completely reversed; instead of hearing everything, she heard nothing, her mind scanning the void for the one thing that mattered. And then, like a beacon shining on the darkest night, Scar’s voice broke through the haze.

  “Stay with me,” Scar pleaded, the whisper pulling Burn through semi-collapsed buildings and over piles of debris. “Don’t leave me.” Burn knew the words weren’t meant for her, but they burrowed into her soul, nonetheless, spurring her into a run.

  Dodging people and weapons and objects flung blindly through the smog, she followed the voice, listening with rapt attention as it begged. It felt like a cord had been tied around Burn and she was being reeled in, closer and closer with each step. She scrambled over a mound of rocks and rubble, one of the jagged peaks ripping through her pants and into her flesh, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

  Minutes later – minutes that seemed to span days – she spotted Scar’s red hair, her head bent low as she crouched over a form on the ground. Burn put on a burst of speed, rushing to her sister’s side to grab her, to protect her.

  That’s when the world slowed and time seemed to stop. A bang broke through the silence in Burn’s head, and a bullet sped straight for her sister’s heart. It felt like she was running through water, pushing her legs as fast as they could go but getting nowhere.

  Burn screamed her sister’s name, the single word imbued with such anguish and heartbreak that she thought it might tear her apart. Scar looked up just as the bullet pierced her skin, her eyes widening in shock as they met Burn’s. And then she dropped, time falling back into place as she hit the hard, packed earth.

  Burn slid to her sister’s side, shaking her in a vain attempt to rouse her. But she wouldn’t wake, wouldn’t move. She just lay there, broken, like a small China doll. A fire so hot it would melt stone erupted in Burn’s core, coursing through her veins like molten lava.

  She looked up, scouring the area for the monster who had done this. Her eyes alighted on a hooded figure, his gun still raised toward her, ready to fire. Without thinking, she barreled toward him, knocking the gun out of his hands before he had the chance to pull the trigger.

  Instead of staying to fight, the man turned and fled, Burn trailing behind him as he swerved and ducked across the battlefield. He took a sharp turn down an alley, skittering on the loose stones and debris rolling under his feet. Burn couldn’t react fast enough to his sudden change in direction, and she collided with the wall on the far side of the entrance. Pushing off of it, she resumed her chase, the man still within her sights.

  The bedlam of the battle faded behind her as she ran, her vision clouded with red. The man made another sharp turn, then another, weaving through the dirty back streets and dingy alleys. Burn kept her eyes trained on him, following every movement he made. Her legs ached with the effort and her lungs burned, but she kept going, swerving to follow him into yet another dim lane.

  As she turned the corner, a hand reached out from behind the wall and slammed into her face, knocking her to the ground. Before she had time to react, the man had kicked her gun away, leaving her defenseless. She sprang to her feet, crouched in a fighting position, and stared straight into the eyes of Illex Cross.

  Chapter 25

  A growl sprang from Burn’s throat, low and guttural, an animalistic drive overtaking her senses. She stood, weaponless and alone, before the very man that had caused this devastation, this travesty of justice, and she wanted revenge. She wanted to make him pay for the lives he’d ruined, the chaos he’d crafted. And for Scar. Smart and loyal and beautiful Scar.

  “I was hoping we’d meet,” Cross said with a self-satisfied air, as if he’d coordinated this entire encounter. As if he, too, wasn’t alone and weaponless in a dead-end alley. “I was disappointed in Wight for not killing you, of course. But then I realized that I would have the pleasure of ending you with my own bare hands. And that is going to be so much sweeter.”

  They circled each other slowly, li
ke two fighters in a ring. Burn wanted to reply, to tell him what she really thought of him and the sadistic Peace Force he had curated, but her mind remained feral, consumed by need and hate.

  “Fuck you,” was all she managed to snarl before taking a wide, clawing strike at his face.

  He lunged backward, easily avoiding her attack. As she withdrew, he aimed a kick at her midsection, sending her staggering into the opposite wall. She reeled slightly but regained her balance in time to sidestep another kick. This one hit the wall instead, propelling Cross backward.

  Burn took the opportunity to punch Cross as hard as she could in the face, his head snapping back with a satisfying crunch. She followed it up with a kick to the groin, which caused him to groan involuntarily. Not wanting to lose the momentum, she pinned him to the wall with one hand, readying another punch with the other.

  But before she could make her move, Cross thrust his knee into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and sending her stumbling back several paces. His body now free, he returned the punch she had given him, slamming her head into the wall behind her.

  Dazed, she stuck her hands out in front of her to protect herself as her vision swam. She somehow managed to parry another blow, then kicked out blindly, making contact with his leg. He fell to his knees and Burn descended on him wildly, striking his face and torso with both hands as she raged.

  Finding himself unable to rise amidst the fury of her blows, Cross grabbed her midsection, pulling her down next to him. She screamed as her injured shoulder struck the ground, sending waves of pain through her body. Cross noticed and capitalized on her weakness, pressing down on her damaged shoulder as she writhed.

  Burn kicked and clawed at his face with her free hand. After a moment of struggling, she made contact, her nails ripping ragged strips of skin from his cheek. He bellowed in pain as he brought his hands up to his ruined face, freeing Burn from her prison.