by T. K. Malone
“Hello,” she again cried out.
The tiny snakes were now crawling everywhere, glowing a brilliant white, and in amongst them floated a body, but when she glanced up from it, she saw two eyes staring at her from within the darkness on the far side of the chamber.
Teah’s eyes grew wide as the image faded. “Jenny,” she whispered to herself. “Jenny’s was the other voice.”
“I won’t say I’m proud of what I’ve done,” Cornelius’ voice filtered into her mind, “but I’ll tell you, Teah, I ain’t got remorse in me. You do what needs to be done, and those young women, well, they needed to die.”
She heard a lighter being struck and smelled smoke, but she remained still, not sure she could move even had she wanted to. She was lying down, something covering her, her eyes tightly shut.
“They needed to die, Teah, because the stiffs were too close. Back in those days, smuggling was frowned upon.” He scoffed a laugh. “When I say ‘frowned upon’, it was downright illegal. You see, men of vision, well, they were few and far between back then. There was one, though: a young up-and-coming man by the name of Josiah Charm. Now there, I tell you, there was a man I knew I could work with. There was a man who knew hard truths.”
Her head pounded and her throat felt dry as all the new memories tumbled through her mind. She now knew Lester and Jenny had been there that day, and they’d both died because of it. Why hadn’t she? Why hadn’t Connor? More questions than answers, but memories, precious memories.
“What Josiah Charm knew that the other would-be leaders of Black City didn’t was that folk would drink, they’d smoke, take drugs, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. What Josiah Charm reasoned was that he may as well use that for his own gain. I’m telling you, Teah, a man of vision.”
Connor’s body had been the one floating there; she’d seen that. He hadn’t moved. She’d rolled him over, his body coated in the glowing film. His eyes had been wide, vacant. Teah’s head now throbbed, another bout of pain clawing through her mind like silent forks of lightening; without the thunder. Thunder? Something had happened, something important, something to do with Clay.
“So,” Cornelius was now saying, “we went into partnership, Josiah Charm and I, and very profitable it was, too. But—” and he paused, at which Teah smelled the smoke from his cigarette engulf her. “Some folk just can’t keep their noses outta other folks’ business. Some folk just gotta keep niggling away at things till they become a liability. But, Teah—and there’s always a but—how do you warn them away in the most heavily regulated city in the world? Ain’t like bribery could have tripped up one of those perfect citizens, now, is it? Killing their friends and colleagues, strapping them to a drone and suspending them in plain sight, now, that certainly did it.”
She heard a chair scrape on a wooden floor, heard his hollow bootsteps walking away.
“That is…until you come across the incorruptible. Lester Avery Savage. Fuck that man, I hope he rots in hell.”
Lester, Teah thought, more memories being triggered, triggered by something, but by what?
Her stomach compressed and she sat bolt upright, panic coursing through her.
“Clay!”
3
Connor’s Story
Strike time: plus 4 days
Location: Outside Project Firebird
Connor squinted, trying to make out the stockade, trying to see the prisoners. Was Banks really destroying all the towns around and corralling everyone? Was he selling them, as Sticks had inferred? Molly’s lips were tight, her knuckles white as she focused the binoculars. Connor let out a breath. How fast the world had deteriorated.
He suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable. Just five days before, was that all it had been? Just five days since he’d been drinking in his brother’s bar, when he’d been safe in the arms of The Free World, in the embrace of a government which had then forsaken them. And now this?
Sticks tensed and grabbed the binoculars from Molly, holding his free hand up. “Stay still.”
“What?” Connor asked.
“Shh,” Sticks hissed.
Connor looked at Molly, but she merely shrugged and scrunched herself down against the wooden walkway of Observation Point Four. A bad feeling spread through Connor’s gut, and he looked around at the mighty redwoods behind them, then down the valley and across it to the other side. Something was definitely wrong. Sticks’ binoculars swung around, clearly scanning the valley, too. “Shit,” he soon said and threw them down, pulling up his machine gun. The click of the safety coming off seemed loud in Connor’s ears, very loud.
“Either of you know how to shoot?” Sticks asked.
They both muttered, “No.”
“Well, that there’s sumthin’ we gotta correct…if we get outta this alive.”
“What?” Connor asked again, but Sticks didn’t reply, as he continued to scan the valley. Connor realized it had fallen silent. Even the skirmish they’d been watching had paused. Then Stick’s machine gun burst into life, spraying fire everywhere, before he paused and shouted “Move!” He jumped from the walkway and into the sandbags below, Connor and Molly close behind, as the whole valley erupted toward a crescendo of death.
Sticks urged them toward the ladder which led back up to the pathway, coming up backward behind them, his machine gun repeatedly spraying spits of fire to their rear. Connor pushed Molly forward and onto the ladder and followed her up, bullets thudding into the wooden watchpoint below them as others zipped through the trees or almost silently splattered across the muddy bank. Connor glanced over his shoulder just as Sticks leapt onto the ladder himself, barking, “Up, up, up” as he scurried after them.
Molly then Connor were the first to roll onto the muddy trail above, Sticks just behind them and soon pulling the ladder up. He then shuffled to the edge of the ledge and peered over.
“They’re coming, and lots of them,” he said between bursts of breath. “Up, but keep low. We’re exposed here,” then, “Ah, shit,” and he pointed up.
Connor followed his gaze to a drone, flying quite high above them. It looked a fearsome piece of equipment, its guns raining down fire. Though he’d only been in the valley for a few hours, he knew darned well it just had to be headed toward Commander Croft, Kenny and Byron Tuttle. “Shit,” he hissed.
“Tactics outta the window now,” barked Sticks.
“So, what now?” Molly shouted.
“Run.”
And they did, retracing their steps back toward Croft’s command post, darting through the maze of alleys and sandbags in the wake of the drone. Every time they were out in the open, bullets peppered everything around them, but Sticks didn’t waver once, running on until they’d reached the D-shaped bunker where he urged them both in. With their backs against the sandbags, he managed a wry smile. “That was a bit hairy,” he muttered, “but I gotta say this about you two: they sure do want you both alive and in mint condition.”
“Sure felt like they were trying to kill us,” Molly said, her voice quivering, her legs pulled in close.
“Trust me, you’re either remarkably lucky or extremely valuable. Me, I’m just lucky, I guess. We all fit?” They both nodded. Connor, though, was far from ready. He felt a little heady, a bit strange, unable to focus properly. He blinked a few times, not only trying to clear his vision but also his mind.
“Do they normally attack like this?” he managed to ask, sweat now blooming on his forehead.
“Been building up to it, but something’s forced their hand. So, again: you fit?”
Connor nodded once more, though his mouth now felt dry, dried by the fear of being far from convinced he was in some way purposely being left unscathed. And the noise of the intense attack pressed in on him, pounding, fizzing, cracking and crackling and crying out, the weight of it all crushing his hope. Then a shadow crept over them, and Connor looked up.
The drone hovered directly above them.
Sticks got up and Connor heard him
bark something, but the drone’s rotors drowned it all out. Then the soldier took off, Molly hot on his heels, and Connor leapt after them. Ducking and weaving, they hared their way through the sandbag alleyways, the air thick with the sounds of screams and the smell of cordite. Connor was gasping for breath, sucking in the stench of death, as they came upon pockets of Croft’s beleaguered army leaning against their defences, trying to stem the tide of the enemy. More jumped back into the trenches, though, their advanced positions abandoned. Sticks just threaded Connor and Molly through the chaos, waving them on into what looked like hell on earth, the drone seeming to shadow his every move.
An explosion behind pushed Connor off his feet and sent him clattering into Molly, both then skittling along the narrow path. Sticks stopped and retraced his steps, pulling Molly to her feet before pushing past her and grabbing Connor by the shoulders. But then a burst of red fluid erupted from Sticks’ arm, spinning him around, his hand whipping across Connor’s face.
“Fuck!” the man shouted, dropping his gun but quickly grabbing Connor with his good hand and pulling him up. “Move!” he screamed, and they bolted after the disappearing figure of Molly. She ducked into Croft’s bunker and Sticks pushed Connor in after her, throwing himself inside before staring around it like a man possessed.
There was no sign of Croft, Kenny or Byron. Sticks crashed to the floor, shuffling himself back against the wall, his arm limp at his side. “Anyone any good at field dressing, or is this going to be like the shooting?”
His fatigues were already stained crimson as Molly crouched down beside him. “What do I do?” she asked frantically, but Sticks shook his head.
“Don’t sweat it. Both of you, do you remember the way back?”
Molly nodded, but Connor remained rooted to the spot, his head pounding as though something was trying to stretch his mind. He put his hands up to his temples and was about to cry out when everything suddenly went calm.
“Breathe, Connor,” Sable’s voice, alien at first but soon accepted, soothed him. He felt her take control as she altered his hormones, then he felt his anguish slowly dissipate. “Ask him where the meds are. You have a better chance of survival with him.”
Connor did as she bade, and Sticks nodded toward a metal cabinet of drawers in the corner of the bunker. Following Sable’s directions, Connor stripped Sticks’ arm and bound it. It looked a mess, ruined, but how bad really Connor could only guess.
“You’ve got to come with us,” he said and looked Sticks in the eye. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw fear in them, although that soon turned back to resolve when Sticks then nodded.
“I’ll be safe with you,” he said, managing the slightest of grins. “No way could that drone have missed…but it did. I reckon it was shadowing one or both of you.”
“But it blew—”
“It herded us, herded us right back here. I don’t get it,” and he looked closely at Connor. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I—”
“Forget it, I don’t want to know. Pump some of that into my arm,” and he grabbed a primed syringe, biting the needle cover off. Connor took it from him, not waiting for Sable’s instructions but plunging it deep into Sticks’ bicep.
The man gasped in pain but then nodded, his teeth gritted. “Let’s go,” he finally forced out between them. “I’ll take you back.”
“Where’s Croft?”
Sticks eased himself up, edging to the bunker’s entrance. “Probably took the other two on.” He poked his head out. “Come on. We’re gettin’ our tails whipped here.”
“Steady, Connor.”
“Where have you been all this time?”
“I couldn’t seem to function where they took you. You need to get me access to a mainframe computer.”
“We gotta get back there first.”
“Follow the soldier; he’s better than he makes out.”
“Set?” said Sticks, and Connor and Molly nodded.
The clamor outside had intensified: soldiers barking orders then falling back, shots mixing with the screams and grunts of close combat, of the fighting and dying. Sticks came beside them, his arm limp at his side, and Connor stared down at Molly’s boots as he followed them, his muscles screaming their hurt, toward the door to the compound. As they neared the last bunker, the shooting briefly stopped, almost as if they were being welcomed home, and hands grabbed them and pulled them toward its door. The soldiers defending it retreated with them, pressing them in to the relative safety beyond, then returned to pull others in.
“Don’t forget the computer,” Sable whispered in his mind, and then she was gone.
“We’re gonna have to seal the passage,” someone shouted.
“Not until every last one of ours is in,” Croft barked as he turned to face Connor. “Well, did you see everything you needed to?”
“So, Croft, you lost,” Josiah Charm said, and sat at their table. “Tell me: how many of your soldiers made it inside before you finally sealed the passageway—one which also happens to be the only way out of here, apart from...” and he pointed at the Hell’s Gates.
Croft didn’t move a muscle, just stared at Charm.
Connor wondered why he’d been summoned to this meeting on the loading bay balcony with Croft. He’d barely had time to take a breath since going outside.
Molly and Byron had gone with Sticks and the rest of the men, some in search of medical supplies, others just bringing the military area to life. Connor would have much preferred that task from this; he could hear the racket of the battered remains of the army settling into the place. Sable’s words were still spinning around in his mind, but he couldn’t fathom what her instructions had meant. “You need to get me access to a mainframe computer.” It wasn’t so much the words, he understood them well enough, but surely she had access any time he touched a keyboard, any time he played a song. No, he thought, she must have meant something else.
“I said you lost, Commander Croft,” Charm again stated. “How many?”
“A hundred or so. We would have had a few more if the gates had opened once the blast threat was over,” Croft told him.
“Indeed,” and the faintest of smiles played across Charm’s wet lips. “It appeared Banks was early. One could almost say he had the jump on us.”
Croft again stared at Charm, as though trying to dissemble the man for a truth inside. He raised his hand, index finger outstretched. “I wonder who tipped him off.”
“You lost after four days, not one,” Charm countered, and Connor sensed an impasse had been reached, for silence filled the once noisy space as a shroud of tension descended over the table. Connor, Charm and Croft remained unmoving until Kirk pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Well,” he said, his face devoid of any expression, “perhaps we can commence working together now.” He leaned forward. “Instead of detaining each other’s men. Unless you want me to start rounding up yours, like you did mine.”
Croft inclined his head slightly. “Noted,” he said in a flat tone.
“Good. One hundred and eighty: the number of soldiers left. Three critical, twenty or so walking wounded. How long have we got?”
“Got?”
Charm cleared his throat. “I think, Commander Croft, that what Kirk is asking is fairly plain in its meaning. A ‘How long until Banks starts blowing the gates?’ sort of question.”
Connor looked over at the very objects, at their colossal mass. Could anyone really blow their way through nine sets of those?
Croft shrugged. “He never showed me his arsenal. Assuming he’s got the munitions close by, I’d guess at three…maybe four days.”
“Really?” exclaimed Charm.
“Banks is military through and through, and this is now a siege. He’ll consolidate first, resupply and plot and plan. He’ll be in no hurry. Plus, we don’t quite know who’s pulling the strings yet.”
Connor noticed Charm shift in his seat, as if uncomfortable, before he asked, “Does
that make a difference?” and then Croft smiled.
“Of course, the timetable will be theirs.”
“Fair point,” and Charm shuffled his attention to Connor. “Did you and your friends enjoy your field trip?”
His innocent smile confused Connor. It seemed so out of place after what had happened outside, after the battle had started and the slaughter began. Why smile when the enemy was now knocking at their gates? Though they were no ordinary gates.
“Enjoy?”
“Why, yes. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“Do you know what Banks wants? What he wants us for? Why he’s attacking us?” Connor spat.
Charm raised his hands. “Calm down, Connor, calm down, before I have Kirk arrest you.” But the glint in his eye told Connor he was only playing with him. “So, tell me, tell me what dastardly fate Banks has in store for us.”
“For us? I only know what I saw.” He noticed Croft was now staring at him. “Banks had folk in pens, all caged up like prisoners. Sticks said—”
“Sticks?”
Croft coughed. “One of mine; he was showing them the enemy.”
“Showing them? You let Connor out of your sight?”
“And the woman—my command, Charm. He needed to see what was what, otherwise, why did you let him out? What was the point?”
Charm now held Croft’s stare. It was obvious to Connor the two men had some kind of abrasive history. “And why not the other two?”
“Kenny…”
“Kenny Holmes, Croft, and Byron Tuttle, as you well know. You don’t forget names, or the number of men who survived. Stop playing dumb. I’m not your commander and I’m not military, so there’s no chain of command you need to cover your ass from.”