The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves)

by Claudie Arseneault

  “Thanks, Alex,” he said. “I’d like to be alone.”

  His friend squeezed his shoulder, then left without a word. Seraphin breathed deeply, taking in the scent of lilies again. Slowly, Seraphin undid the clips on the case. The lid sighed as he opened it. Inside, the family’s old flint-and-lock pistol was displayed on rich red velvet. The old weapon had been passed from one generation to the next, as much a family heirloom as any skeptar. Unlike his father, Seraphin intended to use it.

  He pulled up his sleeve again and undid the knot holding his skeptar. Seraphin unwrapped the string with care and reverence, then reached for the pistol. The bone handle was smooth beneath his trembling fingers. These were the only links to his ancestors. He didn’t want to lose either of them. Seraphin took the precious red string and tied one end near the trigger. The knot in his throat unwound as he wrapped the rest of the skeptar around the handle. His hands steadied. When he finally pulled that trigger, the braid would be itchy under his palms. His ancestors would be right with him.

  With renewed determination, Seraphin removed the holster from the case, straightened up to tie it around his waist, and slid the pistol in it. The added weight was both strange and comforting. Everything about this felt right. A strange calm sunk into Seraphin, down to his bones, and he left the bedroom.

  Alex had grown jittery. They spun to face Seraphin as soon as he left the room, wringing their hands. Seraphin met their gaze and managed a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. Whatever happens.”

  Doubt was written all over Alex’s expression, but they nodded. “I want to do more for you.”

  “You came here. That’s … already a lot.” Alex was not only alive, but they had waited for him. They had come to the house on the off chance Seraphin would do the same, just to be there for him.

  “If there’s anything else you need, tell me.”

  Alex hadn’t hesitated at all. They stared at him with the defiant expression that said they would brook no refusal. Seraphin forced himself to think of the future, to imagine what might happen after tonight. It proved a difficult exercise.

  “Pack supplies for me,” he said at last. “Food, changes of clothes, a rechargeable heater. Anything I might need to survive on my own. Bring them to my tree. I’ll be along to pick them up as soon as possible.”

  “Understood.”

  Neither of them said a word about his chances of survival. Seraphin drew his old friend into a final hug. This might very well be the last time he held anyone, and Seraphin clung to this miniscule parcel of human warmth.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”

  Then he willed himself out of Alex’s arms, and into the chill autumn night.

  *

  The sky was lengthening into a prey-dawn gray by the time Seraphin made it back to the perimeter of the Union’s encampment. Though he hadn’t slept at all, he had never felt more awake. Birds had started singing to one another, leaves brushed against his skin, and the cold wind gave him goosebumps. The weight at his waist served as a reminder of his mission. It would be over soon, one way or another.

  Crashes through the undergrowth warned him of an approaching soldier. Seraphin bit back a swear, spotted a low hanging branch, and scrambled up the large pine tree. He crouched amidst the needles, coaching his short breath into the most discreet pant he could. As Seraphin’s fingers tightened around the branch, Stern walked right under him. He strode without care for the plants he crushed, his shoulders hunched, his hands in tight fists. His lips were pressed in a tight, alarmed line. Seraphin hesitated, then remembered how Stern had helped him stay on his feet as the pub burned down.

  “Stern!” He called out in a low whisper, before dropping from his tree. “Is something wrong?”

  His friend jumped a little when he heard his name, but surprise never lasted with Stern. He straightened up and recovered his seriousness quickly. “They are looking for you.”

  Seraphin’s hand went to his new pistol. For a brief moment, Stern’s eyebrows shot up. Then he frowned—the concerned expression of a worried friend. Seraphin wondered how much he’d guessed, and if he was going to try to convince him otherwise.

  “General Vermen wants to speak with you,” Stern said. “You won’t have another chance.”

  “I won’t need one.”

  Stern nodded, then shoved his hands into his pockets. He came out with an impressive amount of bills, which he extended to Seraphin. The Regarian didn’t reach for them. What was Stern thinking?

  “You’re not likely to see that money again.”

  Stern met his gaze. “Let’s just say I decided to bet on you. This is my money. Take it, you’ll need it more than me.”

  The little reference made Seraphin smile. He hesitated a moment longer, but Stern had a point. He accepted the money and shoved it in his pocket. He considered asking Stern to follow him. Even if he did escape, he would have the army at his heels. Trustworthy friends like Stern and Alex would be worth a thousand times the money Stern just gave him. But this was his duty alone. He couldn’t ask such a thing from Stern—the man was too likely to agree and follow him into almost certain death.

  “Thank you,” Seraphin said. “I won’t forget.”

  “Don’t. What I saw last night … it wasn’t a fight. It was a massacre. I will pray for your bullet to hit its mark. We know it’ll be well deserved. I’ll stick to the army for now to see how it shakes out, but if you ever need a friend, you can count on me.” Stern extended a hand, which Seraphin shook with firm pleasure. “Good luck.”

  “I’m going to need all the protection my ancestors can provide,” Seraphin said. “Stay on alert, soldier, because I heard one of those traitorous Regarians was about to cause a commotion.”

  Stern snickered, gave a quick pat to his shoulders, then stepped back. “Looking forward to it.”

  After a quick nod, Stern continued on his way. Dawn’s gray light framed his silhouette as he disappeared between the trunks. It was strange, how fast he’d come to rely on the other soldier. Seraphin had come to expect the same unwavering support Alex would’ve given, and to his surprise Stern had never disappointed. The young Regarian never understood how he’d gained such loyalty. As Seraphin made his way towards the encampment, his friend’s offer remained at the back of his mind. He hoped he’d live long enough to ask for help again.

  For now, however, General Klaus Vermen waited for him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Seraphin’s passage never went unnoticed, but the amount of stares he garnered as he walked into their camp disturbed him. The rumor must have spread that General Vermen had sent for him, and Seraphin was nowhere to be found. He was glad most soldiers were still either asleep or in a drunken stupor. Those left whispered to one another without care for being noticed. Seraphin had no trouble imagining the suppositions. He was the squad’s only Regarian and he had vanished for a night. Seraphin held his chin up, striding with forced pride as he approached the large command tent. The sun had just peeked over the horizon. It reflected against the small row of army bikes, throwing blinding light into Seraphin’s sensitive eyes. When he reached the tent, Seraphin lifted his glasses to wipe the tears out of his eyes, then took a deep breath. He might have to be quick about his business, depending on the general’s mood. The Regarian touched his skeptar, then pushed the tent flap aside with renewed determination.

  The general sat behind his desk, relaxed. A large map of Regaria was spread on the desk’s surface, but dozens of papers masked most of it. Vermen was studying one of them. When Seraphin stepped in, he looked up and smiled.

  “The Regarian rat has returned,” he said. “Did you believe no one would notice if you slipped away to sell information to your little friends?”

  Seraphin stiffened. Not that it bothered him to be called a traitor—not with what he was about to do—but Vermen might be wary of him. Except the general then laughed and relaxed into his chair. If he realized he was in danger, he didn’t show it. He snatc
hed one of the sheets of paper on his desk and showed it to Seraphin. The Regarian couldn’t read it at this distance, but that was a perfect excuse to step closer.

  “This is a list of Iswood’s residents, with notes about those likely to be part of the resistance movement.” General Vermen had the same cruel smile as the previous night. Angry bile roiled in Seraphin’s stomach. “You never told me Holt was such a common family name in northern Regaria.”

  “It’s not.”

  The general tilted his head to the side. His eyes narrowed, but his smile remained. He had to know, Seraphin thought. Vermen was playing with him, mocking him.

  “It’s on my list. Three times.”

  Damian. Helen. Leanna. His name should’ve appeared next to them. He should never have left. Seraphin lifted his chin, met the general’s dark eyes. Did Vermen not understand at all what Seraphin had come to do? Was the idea anyone would dare so far-fetched?

  “They were my family. I am the only son.”

  His rock-hard tone tipped General Vermen at last. The officer’s eyes widened and he jumped from his chair. Seraphin brought the pistol out in one smooth movement and pointed it at his head. He was just a few feet away. Too close to miss.

  “You wondered about my aim,” he said.

  Vermen’s cruel smile turned into a grimace of outrage. He glared at Seraphin, his cheeks flushed red, his fingers crumpling the list. The Regarian took another step forward. The skeptar prickled his skin. His heart beat so loudly he was certain Vermen would hear it, too.

  “My only regret is that I won’t get to watch your execution,” General Vermen said. “You won’t escape.”

  “Then I, at least, will die without regrets.”

  That was a lie. There was so much Seraphin wished he’d done, or hadn’t done. So much he wanted a chance to do. But this needed to be done. This bullet was for his father and mother, for all of their ancestors, and for Leanna. Even wide awake, staring at the general, Seraphin could see the moment her skull had shattered under a bullet. He was willing to die for the opportunity to put General Vermen through the same.

  “At least have the decency to look into my eyes when you pull the trigger, boy.”

  Their gazes locked together. There was a challenge in Vermen’s dark eyes. You can’t do it, they said. Not the coward who’d watched his family die. Anger wasn’t always enough to shoot another. It took a special kind of courage to end a man’s life and watch the light go from his eyes. The inhuman, hollow kind.

  Seraphin could be inhuman and hollow.

  His ancestors were with him, in the string against his palm. His hand remained steady. Vermen’s pupils dilated with surprise as Seraphin squeezed the trigger.

  The pistol kicked and the stench of burned gunpowder nearly choked him. Blood and brain spattered the tent as the general fell. The desk hid most of the corpse, with his black boots sticking out on one side. Seraphin stared at the pattern on the wall, ears ringing. To the end, there had been no fear in General Klaus Vermen. He had died ruthless and angry, as he’d lived. Seraphin exhaled, relief supplanting the shock and disgust. His family was avenged. He could wear his skeptar with pride until the day he died.

  Which might not be all that far away.

  Someone yelled in the sleepy encampment outside, then the alarm blared. Seraphin shoved the pistol back into its holster and sprinted out of the tent. He had to get out now, before they understood what had happened. Seraphin thanked his ancestors for the drunken celebrations of the previous night as he scanned his surroundings for the best route. Soldiers were rising, confused and scrambling.

  The glare of sun reflecting on metal blinded him as he searched, drawing a hiss of pain from Seraphin. He wiped his eyes, then the cause of this painful light crossed his mind. The motorcycles! Army bikes, unused and fully charged, waiting for him.

  The Regarian dashed in their direction, squinting in an attempt to protect his eyes. Tears blurred his vision but he pushed forward. Not a single guard protected the vehicles. Seraphin vaulted over the fence protecting them, landing in a stumble and almost falling to the ground. Adrenaline was keeping him moving, but he could feel the fatigue in his muscles. Not enough sleep. He climbed on top of the motorcycle just as he heard the first soldier shout his name. The keys were still in it. Seraphin let out a short, almost hysterical laugh. His ancestors were watching over him.

  He kickstarted the engine as soldiers gathered behind him, a fair distance from the fence, forming a line. Sergeant Dresden was with them. “Take that bike down, and Holt with it if you must!”

  The first shots rang out as he drove back, away from the motorcycles. One caught the fence, another whizzed past his head. The others were so wide Seraphin suspected the soldiers’ hangover affected their aim. His grip tightened and he hunched closer to the handles. The moment he was out of the bikes’ lane and facing the road, he pressed the accelerator hard. Sparks came out of the bike at the sudden demand, and it jumped a little, but then he was off, the engine whirring under him.

  A second series of shots rang from behind. Seraphin gritted his teeth as one bounced off the metal frame with a tink. Too close, he thought, then a second bullet hit. There was a characteristic hiss of air, and Seraphin had time for a soft swear before the rear tire skidded to the right. The bike tilted. He fought to keep it upright and control it, but he knew it would never last. Every second, his tire grew softer.

  He had to jump off.

  On his right was nothing but flat ground, with no cover for a hundred meters. He’d be safe to land—or as safe as one could be when leaping off a speeding bike—but the troops would shoot him down before he reached the forest. On his left … Iswood was nestled down a harsh and unforgiving slope, covered with pine trees. Soldiers might not get him, but he was likely to break his back against a trunk while rolling down.

  Still, Seraphin liked his odds better with the slope.

  With one hand, he touched his skeptar. Then he let go of the bike’s handles and sprang as far from the bike as he could.

  Seraphin tucked himself into a ball and landed hard as the motorcycle crashed and slid on the ground. It gave an ear-splitting shriek before coming to a stop in the sand and gravel. Pain flared in Seraphin’s shoulder, which took the brunt of the impact, then all along his arm as he rolled. He ground his teeth against the burning sensation. Bullets clipped behind him. Seraphin sucked his breath in, then went over the ridge.

  The world spun as he tumbled down. He fought to keep his arms over his face, to hold his glasses in place and protect them, but his coat snagged in thorns and branches. They pulled at it, as if intent on ripping it off him. Rocks and the occasional dead trunk smashed into Seraphin’s back, elbows, and knees. Every spin downward brought new flares of pain. At any moment now, he’d crack his skull open. Or maybe break his spine. The Regarian clung to himself, waiting for his luck to run out.

  The ground vanished from under him. It lasted a second, maybe two. Long enough for Seraphin to brace for impact. He crashed into a thick pack of ferns. His arms spread out as a grunt escaped his lips. Every breath was a ragged pant. Blood ran down his forehead from a new cut. Battered and exhausted, Seraphin considered staying where he lay. He never wanted to move again. Soldiers would be down the slope soon, though, and he had no time for rest. His ancestors had kept him safe through the tumble down. He couldn’t waste their gift.

  Seraphin stumbled to his feet and out of the ferns. His body had left a clear shape in the broken plants, with arms at a weird angle. The Regarian shed his torn and bloodied coat, then placed it so it’d look like he had crawled a few feet and stopped moving. He tried to keep the collar as hidden as he could. It wouldn’t fool them for long, but from the top of the tiny drop, they might think that was him down there, unconscious. Every minute counted.

  Still dazed from the impact, Seraphin headed farther into the forest. He had no idea if he could reach a safe hiding spot. This area had no caves for him to hide in, no natural stream to throw houn
ds off his scent. He limped on, trying to sift through his confused mind for a solution. He couldn’t outrun the soldiers. Every step was a study in muscle pain and agony. He needed shelter, but the only thing he could think of would be the soldiers’ first stop: Iswood.

  Seraphin started in that general direction, unsure where in the town he’d hide. He refused to bring soldiers down on Alex, and they would check his family’s house. Seraphin took a deep breath, as if the perfect hideout would surface in his mind if he just calmed down. Nothing came. His brain had been slammed against his skull too often on the way down. It’d left a dysfunctional mess, unable to hold a thought.

  By the time the first house came into view, he still didn’t have an answer. He could hear the shouts of soldiers behind. Seraphin’s feet dragged on the ground, sometimes catching in roots. The initial adrenaline rush from his escape was gone. His heart hammered in his chest, but exhaustion weighed more heavily than fear. He couldn’t keep going much longer.

  The village seemed empty when he reached it—no voices lamented the dead, insulted the soldiers, or questioned his presence in the Union army. Crawford and the other diggers must’ve gone to bed. The smoke still rising from the Wet Lizard and the utter silence gave Iswood an eerie feel. Seraphin walked toward the pub, one step after another. He moved out of habit, numb to the world around him. Birds still sang, pursuit wasn’t far behind, but it all seemed to belong to another world.

  He almost fell into the grave.

  Iswood’s residents had placed the bodies of last night’s victims in a single large pile, at the bottom of a large pit. Seraphin registered the known faces but refused to place names on them. There had to be half the village in there. Large burns covered their backs and arms, and some had blackened into an unrecognizable crisp. Others had made it out of the tavern before the flames caught them, only to find themselves in front of an execution squad. Bodies riddled with bullets mixed with the burnt corpses. These were pale, rigid, and bloodied.