Esmeralda’s pleas turned to tears as the guards left. She hugged Fiona tightly, sniffling. Kirby watched the guards disappear down the alley, swallowed by a few slaves who had emerged from their homes to watch. After a few moments, the slaves lost interest and left.
“I prepared for this moment,” Esmeralda explained, wiping away her tears. “But when the guards came to remind me, I lost control of my emotions. I am sorry.”
Kirby nodded. Even without children, she knew the strength of a mother’s love.
Esmeralda consoled Fiona with gentle words and caresses, as if it might be the last time she saw her.
“They said you are to leave her with Isabella?” Kirby asked.
“One of the caretakers,” Esmeralda explained. “A while ago, Isabella lost a finger in one of the machines in the shops. She couldn’t work as fast, so they pulled her from the shops and tasked her with taking care of the children. Isabella has a challenging job. She will do her best to handle Fiona, but it will be hard to give her specialized attention.”
Kirby nodded. Turning her sympathy into a suggestion, she said, “I am sorry to hear about your trouble. Perhaps you can visit her at lunch?”
“Perhaps, but the guards mostly discourage it.” Esmeralda sighed. “We have so little time, as you know.”
Kirby nodded. Too many rules.
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she inadvertently touched her swollen eye.
Guilt passed through Esmeralda’s face as she said, “I am sorry to wake you like that. You might’ve had a few more moments to sleep.”
“It is okay. I needed to be up for work anyway.” Kirby looked around, surprised she had slept as long as she had. But it made sense, after the physical and emotional pain she’d endured the day before.
“I find that some cold water works best in the first few days, to reduce the swelling of a black eye,” Esmeralda said. “Let me get a washcloth for you.”
Kirby nodded. Too many previous injuries told her that what Esmeralda said was true. She accepted the washcloth and held it to her eye.
Esmeralda bent down, getting a better look. “I don’t see any blood in it. Can you see all right?”
Kirby nodded. In another scenario, she might’ve considered herself lucky. Not now.
“Thank you,” Kirby said, thinking to add, “I’m sorry about Fiona.”
“It is fine.” Esmeralda looked back at Fiona, perhaps finding some new guilt, or a reason to obey, as she considered Kirby’s injury. “I will prepare her things. When the time comes, I will leave with the others.”
**
Kirby kept a steady, inconspicuous gait as she walked past the last few houses in her row, approaching the path near the shop buildings. Slaves mingled, or parted ways as they broke from the homes around her, heading for various buildings in time for work to avoid a beating, or a scolding.
She kept her head down, trying to hide her bruised face and her swollen eye. Her injury felt like a beacon to those around her, drawing curiosity or sympathy. More than once, she hurried away from someone whose stare made her uncomfortable.
At the edge of that path, a caravan of wagons and carts trundled up the pathway. Kirby hesitated, watching a line of slaves pull or push the goods inside. Most were covered by cloth, or secured in boxes. One slave fought with a tipsy wagon, loaded with sheets of metal that he continually readjusted, probably headed for one of the many metal shops. Another slave rolled a cart filled with carefully tied bags, about the size of a man’s head. She couldn’t see what was in them.
Like with most shipments she’d seen, the guards were careful, moving the goods from the gate to the eastern side of the city with haste. None of the slaves faltered or delayed.
Farther back, toward the end, Kirby saw a few guards helping to wheel a wagon covered by a tarp, pulling a heavy load as they headed for the Glass Houses.
Probably some material for the massive building’s windows, Kirby thought.
She continued in the direction of her shop, grateful for the distraction that gave the slaves and the guards something to look at, other than her. She spotted Drew. Pushing faster, she caught up, getting his attention long enough for a careful word.
Concern crossed his face as he spotted her injury. “What happened to you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, with no desire to explain any more. Drew could read her tone. He didn’t ask any more questions.
“Can we meet tonight?”
Drew said, “I will make it happen.”
Chapter 44: William
William lay in his bed under the covers, listening to the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. After allowing him out for those few moments to see Barron, Amelia had returned him to his room.
All morning, the guards had either occupied the stairwell, carrying Barron’s body down and out of the building, or making preparations. A few times, he’d caught snippets of conversation from The Gifted, speaking about Barron’s death. His passing was a sobering reminder of their mortality.
Good, William thought. Let them think about it.
William had seen the end of The Gifted in Barron’s lifeless eyes as he lay on that bed, staring at nothing. More than that, he’d seen an end to the violence and enslavement.
He had the gun, and the ammunition to go with it.
Looking under the covers, he studied the smooth, antiquated weapon he’d managed to acquire, at the cost of Barron’s life. In those quiet moments when The Gifted were in their rooms instead of the stairwell, he’d figured out how to load it. The old weapon wasn’t as simple as the guns he’d used in the forest.
The balls and the small, cap-like pieces he’d found in Amelia’s tin were easily paired, though he’d had to figure out where to put them. The powder had taken more time. After unlocking the long, metal piece under the gun’s barrel, he’d swiveled open the chamber, smelling and seeing some of the black powder’s residue inside the holes. That had given him direction.
Studying the flask, he had figured out how to portion out what he needed, using a mechanism that placed some of the powder in the tube.
A few times, he had spilled some of the black substance, stopping to scoop the precious powder. Once he had the hang of it, he’d put some in each of the gun’s six chambers, along with a ball, and carefully put each of the caps in the back of the cylinder, using intuition to figure it out. It seemed as if he had loaded it right.
He wasn’t sure.
He wouldn’t know, until he fired a first shot.
Or the gun failed.
William was unnerved.
The uncertainty of the gun wasn’t the only problem. The gun only had places for six balls, making the seventh ball and cap useless. Once he started firing, those rounds would go quickly. The Gifted wouldn’t stop and wait for him to ready a last ball.
That meant he had six rounds to kill nine Gifted.
The gun wasn’t the solution he’d hoped.
He couldn’t stop recalling Barron’s grasping hands as they’d struggled. The Gifted were centuries old, but they had adult bodies, and more strength than he did. Taking on all of them at once seemed impossible. He might kill a handful, but not before the others got to him.
Frustrations.
William thought about an individual attack. Maybe he could enter each of The Gifted’s rooms at night and take them down singly with his gun, as he had done with Barron. But a single gunshot would rouse attention. He’d kill no more than one or two before the guards and the rest of The Gifted determined that there was a threat and cornered him. A bludgeoning might work, and would be quieter, but he might only kill a few in that manner before he created noise, or a struggle that forced him to use the gun, and then he would blow his cover that way.
He needed a quiet method to dispose of them.
Perhaps smothering them?
Thinking of Tolstoy’s large, imposing figure, William couldn’t envision taking the man out with his bare hands. Most of The Gifted had similar statures, or were at least
bigger than him. He needed to kill all of them at once. Another death would cause too much suspicion, and he’d certainly be questioned, or caught. He felt just as frustrated with the gun as he did without it.
The gun was power.
But it was power he couldn’t use.
Even if he could get past the guards downstairs, the demons would eat him before he took a few steps. There was a possibility he could threaten the guards into showing him more weapons, but he didn’t know for sure where they were kept. William might raise enough noise in the process to be caught.
William felt as if he had only one chance.
He needed a better way—a more probable way—to use that chance.
The gun was part of the answer, but not all of it.
Chapter 45: Esmeralda
Esmeralda looked out the doorway, holding Fiona in her arms. Hot, mid-morning sun beat down over the stone roofs of the neighboring dwellings. Most of the slaves, including Kirby, were hard at work in the shops, toiling on machines, or sewing clothes in the eastern side of the city. Others worked in the fields in the hot sun.
Holding Fiona tight, Esmeralda walked out to the path and headed down the row of houses, aiming for the main path.
She took several turns, winding between some houses until she approached the larger buildings on the city’s eastern side. She glanced at a tall building with an open doorway, with larger buildings in front and behind, peering inside at the room filled with machines. Slaves slid pieces of fabric through the devices in front of them, stepping on pedals at their feet. Head Guards stood outside the doorways. Others walked the rows.
Esmeralda kept going.
Passing another tall, wide building with a large chimney, she saw three furnaces inside one of the Glass Houses. Esmeralda didn’t need to get close to feel the heat coming from that room. A few guards stood near the doorway, overseeing the melting of some product.
She continued.
Esmeralda passed a row of machine shops with similar setups. The slaves sweated through the day’s heat as they labored on machines, creating whatever pieces The Gifted had in mind. Tomorrow, Esmeralda would return to one of those buildings, producing angular pieces of metal, helping to power the windmills, or other pieces of equipment that she didn’t understand. The slaves were taught the skills to do what The Gifted wanted, but rarely more.
Passing more machine shops, and then some woodworking shops, she finally stopped. Esmeralda kept to the sides of a nearby house as she waited to be noticed.
Across the path, Ollie yelled at some people inside a building used for storage. A few guards stood next to him. Esmeralda knew better than to interrupt. She looked down at Fiona, who smiled at her from beneath the blankets. When she looked up, Ollie was coming across the path and toward her.
He looked at her as if she might be lost. “What do you want?” he asked angrily.
Esmeralda lowered her eyes. “I was hoping I might speak with you a moment.”
“What is it?” Ollie’s eyes showed disdain, as he looked her up and down. A few guards behind him smirked as they stepped in to take over his duties.
“Can we speak privately?” she asked, gesturing toward a nearby alley.
Fiona cooed, forcing Ollie’s eyes to Esmeralda’s arms. He quickly looked away. “Only for a moment.”
Esmeralda led him down an alley that resembled her own, passing a few empty houses whose inhabitants presumably worked. Finding a quiet place, she stopped.
“What is it?” Ollie demanded again.
“It is about my new roommate, Kirby.”
A memory flitted through Ollie’s oversized head, followed by a smile. “I know who she is,” he grunted.
“I wanted to give you a warning,” Esmeralda said.
“A warning?” Some anger flitted through Ollie’s eyes as he looked from Esmeralda to Fiona. She didn’t want to know what might happen if she wasn’t carrying the infant. “It sounds as if you want something.”
“I was hoping I might get another month at home with Fiona, if I gave you information.”
“You’d be punished for withholding it,” Ollie said, a spark of aggression in his eyes.
“Which is why I came to you,” Esmeralda added quickly. “I knew you’d need the information.”
Ollie looked around, as if someone might be listening, even though they were the only ones around. “Spill what you know.”
“She has been sneaking around lately, mostly with the man she came here with,” Esmeralda said. “I think they are planning something.”
“Planning?” Ollie asked, as if the word itself was foul.
“I think she is up to no good,” Esmeralda explained, making an assumption that even a thickheaded brute like Ollie would understand.
Ollie didn’t seem impressed. Looking down at Fiona, Esmeralda felt a pang of failure.
“Tell me something that will make it worth stepping away from my work,” Ollie growled, “or I will send you away. Maybe I will take away your rations.” Esmeralda felt sick to her stomach. She hated him. Fiona was the reason she did this. Not Ollie, and unfortunately, not Kirby.
“Before The Plagued Ones fed last night, I saw her ducking into the flooded house at the end of our row. She skipped dinner.” Esmeralda put on a grave expression worthy of the information she gave. “A while later, I saw her meeting the man with whom she was brought here. They are definitely consorting.”
“Probably fraternizing,” Ollie said.
“I am not sure,” Esmeralda answered. “But it seemed more sinister than that.”
Ollie’s eyes riveted to hers as he made a promise. “She will regret the day she tries anything, if she lives long enough. We have plenty of hungry Plagued Ones to feed, if she steps out of line.” Ollie pronounced the words loudly and looked around, as if some others might hear his threat.
Esmeralda remained quiet, waiting. When it was clear she was done speaking, Ollie wiped some sweat away from his forehead with his large, grubby hands. He looked over Esmeralda, his eyes lingering on the top of her shirt.
“Can I receive another month of time with Fiona?” she asked, hating the fear in her stomach, hating that she had to ask twice.
Ollie nodded. “I’ll call in a favor with Rudyard and inform the other guards.” With a dismissive wave, he said, “Now get out of my sight.”
Chapter 46: William
The wind blew through William’s shaggy hair as he stood in a semi-circle with the other Gifted on the rooftop, all wearing their robes and hoods, all standing with their arms folded. Tolstoy stood in the center of the curved group, holding Barron’s ashes in an urn that he had received from the guards. Every so often, the wind blew loudly enough that he projected his voice to the other Gifted, who adjusted their hoods to keep them from blowing off.
William sucked in a breath of fresh air. He’d spent most of the morning and lunch confined to his room. After a while, Amelia had come for him. He was instructed to keep his distance, but he was allowed out for the ceremony. His gun and ammunition were safely in his bureau.
He listened to Tolstoy’s extolling words.
“We are here to celebrate the life of our brother, Barron,” Tolstoy said, pronouncing each word with clarity. “A brother who has walked among us for centuries, a brother who has transcended all of the beings who have walked the earth before, or will walk after. One of ten chosen Gifted, the founders of New City.”
The Gifted bowed their heads.
“Most of the world will not know the impact of our dead brother, but we will not forget him. Barron had evolved past a simple human, but he still carried the shell of his former self. His vessel was imperfect, as ours are.” Tolstoy met each of their eyes before turning to the rooftop, waving a ceremonial hand over the city. “We bear the scars of our human predecessors, and we are forced to breathe the same air. We are prone to accidents of nature. Barron might be gone, but he has given his life for his work. His life is an inspiration, but also a warning. We must be ca
reful. We must stay alive, to follow his vision.”
A few of the Gifted murmured their agreement.
Staring at Tolstoy, listening to his pompous words, William wanted to knock him off the roof.
If they were alone, he probably would have considered it.
Tolstoy gestured off the rooftop, toward the tall and short buildings in the distance. The Gifted turned their heads, following his hand. “It was Barron’s planning that led to the creation of the walls around our city. It was his intellect that led to the development of the machines the humans use to prepare our clothes, and the innovations of our windmills. It was his ingeniousness that created the parts for our lathes. Barron has helped our city run at a greater efficiency than most of the cities before The Collapse. In his latest years, he developed a vision that will carry us into the next phase of our existence, a mission to find more of our people, through his study of flight. We honor his accomplishments by remembering our brother, but also by continuing his work. Barron might not have lived to see the end of our great experiment, but he has contributed in lasting ways.”
The Gifted nodded their agreement. A few shifted, or held onto their hoods.
“We will mourn his loss, but we will continue. We will follow his ideas until we reach our goal. We will build a grand city of our people, if not in this century, then in the next.” Tolstoy’s voice grew hard as he held up the urn. “Let us take a moment to honor Barron with a moment of silence.”
The Gifted tilted their heads, staring at the roof of Ancient stone. William followed suit, pretending as if he were mourning, while his thoughts ran dark. He recalled when he’d first met Barron, in The Library Room, and the few conversations he’d had with him before his friends were enslaved.
That first day in New City held a magic he couldn’t forget.
But each of those memories was overshadowed by Barron’s coldness as he stood next to William on the balcony, gripping his arm and forcing him to watch the snarling, writhing demons, pulling out Cullen’s insides in the Feeding Pen. Barron’s words from that day came back to him.
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