by Jay Posey
A snowflake.
Once he noticed the first, it was easier to see the others, like dust or ash, gently settling around them. The flakes were small and widely spaced at first. Even when he looked directly up into the grey sky, it was several seconds before he felt another flake fall to his face.
Now that his awareness of his surroundings had been reawakened, however, he was startled by the marked change. Wren had traveled enough of the open to understand that most of the sprawling urban wasteland looked like a bad place to be. But somehow the shattered former city around them now made him feel powerfully threatened far beyond the usual.
“Swoop, where are we?” Wren asked, and his voice seemed harsh, though he’d barely spoken louder than a whisper.
Swoop’s head snapped around and he bounced his index finger off his mouth, motioning for Wren to keep quiet. They stopped moving and Swoop swept his eyes across the space around them. Then he bent low and put his face beside Wren’s head, so close Wren could smell the sweat coming from him. “About five klicks from the bridge, if we go straight through,” he whispered. “Gettin’ into the badlands now.”
He glanced up at the sky, watching the snow fall. The flakes were already bigger than they’d been a minute before. Swoop shook his head, and then looked back to Wren. “Eyes sharp, OK?”
Wren nodded. Swoop straightened again with one more look at the sky, and then turned and led them onwards.
Cass had stripped everything out of her pack and was reloading her smaller lighter slingpack. She didn’t know what, if anything, she’d need for this trip, and she wasn’t in much of a planning mood. She grabbed what looked best and tossed it in her go-bag.
“Some of us can come with you,” came Mouse’s voice from the door. Cass shook her head without looking at him. “Wick still needs a couple of more days, else we’d all be coming along, whether you wanted us to or not.”
“I’ll be moving fast, Mouse.”
“I’m not going to try to change your mind, Cass, but I hope you know we’re trying to do the right thing by you and your boy. All of us are.”
Cass just focused on her packing. Good enough. She closed it up and slung the strap over her shoulder. Cinched it tight against her body. She turned and faced the door, where Mouse was standing.
“Let us know when you get there,” Mouse said.
“I will.”
Mouse nodded and backed out of the door reluctantly. “Watch yourself out there,” he said as she passed by. She stopped next to him.
“This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” Cass said.
“I know.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“You too. We’ll catch up when we can.”
Lil was waiting for her by the front entrance. They exchanged a few brief words, warm but hurried. Lil led her out through the gates and, unexpectedly, embraced Cass before they parted ways. Cass thanked her a final time and started off at run, trusting that her body would perform what she demanded of it. East to the bridge, and then south.
The snow was falling steadily in big wet flakes, coating the ground in a thin layer of slick grey slush. Just deep enough to leave footprints. It looked pretty as it fell, though, and made everything feel more peaceful to Wren. It seemed somehow less likely that anything bad could happen when it was snowing.
“Alright, check,” Swoop whispered. He stopped walking and turned towards the boys, motioned them close. “Mama’s on the way.”
“I thought Guh, Gamble was going to keep her there,” Painter said.
“Said she’d try.”
“Is she mad?” Wren asked.
“I’d count on it.”
“Are we going to wuh, wuh… to wait for her?”
Swoop shook his head. “We can’t sit in one place for long. She’ll have to catch up on her own.”
He paused and scanned their surroundings, intensely, like he was looking for something in particular. He’d been leading them in a fairly predictable path for the first several miles, mostly straight ahead. But for the past half hour or so, Wren had noticed a change in their pace and their pattern of movement. Their progress had been inconsistent, with more pauses, and they’d taken to winding through different alleys, sometimes even doubling back.
Wren knew they weren’t lost, but it almost felt like that. For all the walking, they hadn’t made nearly as much progress towards the bridge as Wren would’ve expected. Wren was briefly tempted to check their location, but he’d decided it was too risky. If Asher was out there looking for him, he might be able to locate Wren’s signal.
Swoop lowered his head and leaned towards them again.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t want to scare you, but it’s best if you know. We picked up a couple of stragglers. Been trailin’ us about fifteen minutes now.”
“Who are they?” Painter asked.
“Nobody we want to meet. Keep your eyes up.”
They nodded, and then Swoop turned and led them forward. As they moved, Wren glanced behind them, looking for any sign of the people Swoop had seen. He didn’t notice anyone, but he understood in a flash why Swoop had been shaking his head at the sky earlier. Their trail was clearly marked; three sets of slushy footprints, highlighted by the edges with crusted white. The snow would cover it up eventually, but definitely not soon enough to hide their tracks from their pursuers. He hoped they wouldn’t have to fight anyone. But he checked his knife in his belt anyway.
Swoop took them through narrow streets and alleys, hemmed in on both sides by sagging tenements with holes through the walls. The amount of debris and rubble in the streets was more than Wren could ever remember seeing. It was almost like someone had picked up each of the surrounding buildings and shaken their contents out all over the street. Most of the junk had been transformed by the snow into white lumps with the occasional jagged edge or frayed cable poking out. Wren could hardly believe that anyone would be living out here. But he couldn’t escape the feeling that others were around them. And not just behind them. He felt sure they were on all sides.
The snowfall had lightened, the flakes smaller and swirling on the wind. But it was starting to accumulate in a thin sheet of white, almost like frost on top of the slush. Wren glanced to his left as they passed an alley and caught a glimpse of two figures at the far end. They seemed to have just been standing there, and Wren got the feeling that maybe they’d been waiting there.
Off to his right, a loud squawking call went up, echoed through the side streets. Further ahead on their left, it was answered by a screech. They sounded more like animal noises than any kind of human.
Swoop halted, and quickly scanned the narrow street ahead. Further down on the corner, a five-story building had collapsed in the center, looking as if some titanic fist had smashed the roof all the way to the foundation. Somewhere near the third or fourth floor, Wren could see a red door frame with the door still intact, right at the edge of the gaping hole. It was a strange detail to notice just then.
Swoop turned and grabbed Wren by the shoulder, and dragged him into a narrow space between two buildings. Not really an alley, it was barely wide enough for Swoop to walk down without his broad shoulders touching both sides. When they reached the midpoint, Swoop stopped and dropped to a knee.
“I gotta get out in front of these guys, see how many we’re dealin’ with. Wait here, stay low.”
“What if th-th-they find us?” Painter whispered in a harsh tone. “What do we do?”
“Fight. With everything you got. Be right back.”
Swoop continued down the alley and disappeared to the right. Wren drew his knife and gripped it tightly.
“Lean back against me,” he whispered to Painter. “You watch the way we came, I’ll watch this way.”
Painter scooted closer, so their backs were touching. It was some comfort knowing his back wasn’t completely exposed, but not much. There was a sharp noise from above them, like sheet metal falling flat – and then quickly silenced. It sounded like
it came from a rooftop somewhere, but the way the noise carried made it impossible to pinpoint.
They waited in that narrow space for three terrible minutes. Wren’s heart leapt in fright when a silhouette appeared at his end of the alley, but it was just Swoop coming back. He only came part of the way towards them, and then motioned with his hand for them to follow quickly.
Wren reached back and patted Painter’s arm, and they rejoined Swoop.
Swoop bent close and whispered, “Looks like eight, maybe nine total. Trying to ring us in. We need to keep movin’.”
“Can’t you just shoot ’em?” Painter asked.
Swoop shook his head. “Last resort. Real low on ammo, and there’s no telling what else that much noise might bring. Come on.”
He didn’t wait for a response before turning back around and leading them out. They paused at the end for a second while Swoop scanned, and then he stepped out and grabbed Wren’s coat again.
“There,” Swoop said in an intense whisper, and he pointed across an open stretch to a wider alley on the other side. “Run there.” He gave Wren a little shove, and then walked out into lane with his weapon up and ready. Wren ran to the alley as he was told, with Painter right behind him. As he ran, he noticed there were already footprints in the snow. A bunch of them.
They made it to the alley and stopped. A few moments later Swoop followed them in, and then passed by.
“Come on, with me,” he said.
They kept moving like that, leapfrogging from alley to alley. Every time Swoop wanted them to start, stop, or reposition, he’d grab some part of Wren or his coat and drag him around: an arm, a shoulder, once behind his neck. It hurt a little. But Swoop knew right where he wanted everyone to be, and he had no problem putting them there. Wren still hadn’t seen who was chasing them, but he could hear their strange calls back and forth.
Swoop held them in place for a moment, and leaned out weapon first to check if it was clear. He kept his gun up and shouldered, but he let go of it with his left hand to reach for Wren. Just as he did so, there was a funny tonk sound, and Swoop grunted and fell back hard against the wall of the alley. He slid part way down, but caught himself, and managed to push Wren and Painter back away from the entrance. He motioned for them to go back the way they’d come.
But Wren noticed Swoop wasn’t standing up straight, he was kind of hunched over to his left, and when Wren looked down, he gasped. There was what looked like a six-inch-long steel rod sticking out of Swoop’s middle, about two inches below and to the left of his heart.
“Go, go,” Swoop said.
They backtracked, but as they came out into the open space, there were three figures further down the street. Scrapers. One of them let out a high-pitched whoop.
They were too far away for Wren to make out many details, but he saw enough to know he would rather fight to the death than be caught by them.
Swoop forced Painter and Wren to cut to their right, but as they crossed the mouth of another alley, they saw two more scrapers heading their way. Swoop drove them towards another gap between buildings, but when they entered it, they saw the far end was blocked by a wall of debris.
Instead of turning around, though, Swoop pushed them further in. Wren didn’t understand why, unless he was just trying to get distance between them. He was going to have to gun them down as they entered. But then Wren understood. He hadn’t seen it from the other end, but as they got closer, he saw a gap in the ground.
It was a stairwell that led down to a door a few feet below street level. Swoop shepherded them down the steps.
“There, back against the door. Make yourselves as small as you can.”
Wren did as he was told, and balled himself up in the corner. Painter squatted down beside him.
Swoop sprawled on his back in what seemed like a terribly uncomfortable position on the stairs, with his legs kicked wide for support. Across his body he laid his weapon, pointed back down the alley and braced on his right fist, which he rested on the lip where the ground met the stairwell. Very little of Swoop would be visible from the opening of the alley, but Wren had no doubt that Swoop had a clear and deadly view. The rod was still jutting out of his ribcage, and it made Wren feel sick to see it, but Swoop didn’t seem to be paying any attention to it.
Wren pressed his hands over his ears, knowing at any second one or more of their pursuers would round the corner, and Swoop would open fire. Every pounding heartbeat seemed like the last one before the fight would start. But Swoop didn’t shoot.
Wren uncovered his ears and listened. Painter was panting next to him. Swoop might’ve been holding his breath for all the sound he was making. And there was the soft patter of snow falling. There was a cry from one of the scrapers, and another several seconds later. And then all was still.
They waited ten maybe fifteen minutes there in that alley, waiting for the end to come. But nothing ever happened. Swoop finally took the time to glance down at the thing sticking out of him. He grunted again, like he was unimpressed.
He sat up part way, and shifted position so he was seated on one of the stairs, with his weapon still pointed at the entrance. He transferred the grip back over to his right hand, and then with his left, he took hold of the rod and waggled it back and forth with a grimace. It didn’t budge.
“Well,” he said. “Don’t that beat all. Painter, come gimme a hand here.”
Painter looked at Wren with a pained expression, but he reluctantly went to Swoop.
“Get a good hold on the end there,” Swoop said, indicating the rod. “And pull it straight back. Pull, don’t yank. And straight. Nothin’ side-to-side, alright?”
Painter nodded and took hold of the tail end. “Ready?” he asked.
“Do it.”
Painter strained for a moment, which made the wound seem even more terrible to Wren, but then it came free with a metallic pop.
“Figures,” Swoop said. “Of all the places it could go.”
Wren looked more closely and could see now that whatever the thing was that had been sticking out of Swoop moments ago, it’d actually gone through one of the magazine pouches on his chest harness first. Whatever was inside was surely destroyed, but it’d very likely saved Swoop’s life.
“So we’re real low on ammo now,” he said, taking the damaged magazines out and looking at them briefly. “But I’m only a little nicked.” He pulled his harness away from his body and Wren saw a wet crimson spot on the garment beneath.
“Guess that’s a good tr-trade?” Painter said, still holding the rod. Some kind of projectile, though Wren didn’t know what kind of weapon it had come from. It was about eight inches long, cylindrical, and sharpened to a stake-like point. About an inch of the point was bloody.
“Would’ve rather taken the hit and had the ammo,” Swoop said.
“Are you OK?” Wren asked.
“Yeah. Burns a little, but I’ll be fine.”
“What happened to the scrapers?” Wren asked Swoop.
“Let’s go see.” Swoop got to his feet, and started moving cautiously towards the end of the alley, weapon up and ready. “Stay close behind me.”
Wren fell in behind Swoop and put his hand on the man’s back. Painter came along right behind Wren, with his hand on Wren’s shoulder. Together the trio edged their way to the end of the alley.
“Well, that’s something,” Swoop said. He paused and lowered his weapon. Wren peered around Swoop, and then immediately wished he hadn’t.
Two of the scrapers were lying in the street. One on his back, the other face down. Both in puddles bright red upon the snow.
“What h-h-happened to them?” Painter whispered.
Swoop shook his head. “No idea. Don’t think we want to find out, either.”
He didn’t waste time moving out. There were several more scrapers lying in the snow in both directions, and as they made their way towards the bridge, they came across yet more. More than eight or nine, though Wren wasn’t really keeping
count by then. He mostly tried not to look at any of them.
It was another half hour or so before they came within sight of the Windspan. Calling it a large bridge had been a massive understatement. It didn’t seem especially wide, no more than maybe two normal streets side-by-side. But it looked like it was miles long. And now that he saw it, Wren understood why it was so much of a time-saver on the way to Morningside. And too, he guessed at how it’d gotten its name.
The Windspan actually climbed up and over the sprawling urban ruins. There’d be no twisting or turning alleyways, no navigating unfamiliar territory. Just a long, straight shot to the other side.
Swoop halted for a moment, maybe fifty yards from the bridge.
“There it is, boys,” he said. “The Windspan.”
Wren noticed he kept pressing his arm into his side, and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet.
“There’s s-s-suh, someone on it,” Painter said.
“What?” Swoop said.
“There,” Painter answered, stepping forward and pointing. Sure enough, there seemed to be someone on one side of the bridge. Just sitting there.
“Do you think he’s dangerous?” Wren asked.
“Dunno,” Swoop said. “But I wouldn’t trust anyone just sittin’ around out here.” Swoop blinked a few times and squinted, like he was trying to clear spots out of his eyes. “What’s on his face?”
Wren looked as carefully as he could. It was tough to make out from this distance.
Painter answered, “I th-think it’s a… a… blindfold.”
TWENTY FOUR
Runners were a rare breed. Even under the best conditions, with a well-known route cleared ahead of time, it took a certain kind of person to risk all the dangers the open offered at that pace. A bad step, a rolled ankle or a twisted knee, and runners could find themselves a dozen or more miles from their destination when night came. And that didn’t take into account the number of traps that evil or wretched people sometimes laid for the unwary. A shortcut through the wrong alley, or even the right one taken too fast, could lead straight to the grave.