by T. C. Edge
He doesn’t see me until I reach him and tug on his arm. A smile dances onto his face.
“Lady Orlando is getting some sleep. She said to let her know of any important developments. Anything at all.”
The smile is gone. A more serious expression takes over. This is war, after all. No times for smiles and joy and anything like that.
“OK. Thanks, Brie.”
I look across the bank of monitors and the many technicians sitting before them.
“Anything I can do to help?”
His eyes scan me.
“Nothing here,” he says. “You should wash, get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
He’s turned somewhat formal again. It’s the right way, the only way, to act at times like this.
“And you?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty to be getting on with here,” he says. “You go, seriously. You’ve had a rough day by the looks of things.”
The reference is clearly to my current state. My physical appearance, quite appropriately, matches my current mental condition. I have, after all, killed quite a few people today.
That thought is going to take some getting used to.
I decide that it’s best to agree. Nodding, he leans in and kisses my filthy cheek.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” he says.
Then he turns back to the technician and resumes his conversation.
I re-enter the hustle and bustle of the main hall and aim my step towards the corridor stretching away in the far left corner. The church, rather than being a single structure, is linked to others via little routes to the left and right, allowing the Nameless to move around without having to venture outside.
In this case, the washing and eating and sleeping quarters are off to the left. I don’t quite know what’s away to the right.
I head left now, move down the corridor, and return to the showers I used the previous night. Stripping out of my armour, I step under the cool spray and try to rid myself of all the pollutants that have seeped into my skin over the course of the day.
Some, I know, won’t come out so easily. They’ve gone beyond the skin. Deeper. Into the flesh. Deeper. Right down into my bones and the core of my spirit.
As deep as possible.
It’s the sort of day that changes a person. Like the day that Amelia was taken. That changed Adryan. Like the day of the Fanatics’ attack on the market. That changed Rycard.
We all have that one day. Sometimes, people have many, an incremental build up that rewires you from the inside out without you ever really stopping to think. Because you don’t think. It’s not a conscious decision to change. It’s a natural process based purely on your experiences.
And this is mine.
I’ve been changing, of course, for weeks now. Physically changing. Mentally changing. Changing the way I look upon the city and the people within it. It’s been a gradual process, and now, I’m very different to how I was before all this happened.
But even so, today is different. It feels different.
And I think it’s because I’ve killed people.
Only hours ago, I took care of six Con-Cops. I shot them dead and watched their bodies torn apart. I did it without even thinking. It has now become instinct.
Before that, I’d taken aim at that car full of City Guards. I’d disabled it, and perhaps killed an occupant or two in the process. I don’t even know. Freya took over from there, cutting the entire platoon up with her minigun.
She seemed to enjoy it. And that kind of shocked me.
But not long after, there I was, killing six men and women. And it didn’t shock me. It was natural. It was instinct. It was war.
And it’s changed me.
More than my eyes being able to see so far. More than my body being able to move at such speed. More than my mind being able to enter others and bend them to my will.
Killing has changed me more than all of that. It’s altered something at my core, deeper than these superficial powers that now inhabit me. And the strangest thing of all is that I know, when faced with my next foe, I’ll kill them too.
I’ll kill a dozen more. A hundred more. I’ll kill whoever stands in my way in the name of this cause, in the name of war.
Kill a person of your own accord, you’re a murderer. Kill a hundred in battle, you’re a hero.
Go figure.
My musings drain me as I shower. When I step out and re-enter my dirty clothes, picking up my armour and weapons, I stumble towards my room in a slight daze. I reach my assigned room and say a prayer of thanks for having my own space.
For having some measure of solitude at a time like this.
I drop my armour, put my pulse rifle and sidearm and grenade belt against the wall, and drop onto the bed.
And with a swirling tornado of thoughts in my mind, I slip away into nightmares of the day. Nightmares that will probably play out again and again until the day I die.
It’s gunfire that dominates. Gunfire and muted explosions. At first, as I drift away, it’s merely the soundtrack of the city, of the current battles playing out.
Then, as I fall into sleep, my subconscious takes over, replaying the highlights of the day again and again. Bodies torn apart. Limbs flying across the street. Streams of blood, oozing and meandering gently down the roads and into drains.
I see it all again. I smell it all again. And all the while, the gunfire chatters endlessly, nibbling at my ears like a plague of rats.
It seems to grow louder. Within the chatter, a single shot fires, clearer and more thunderous. Then another comes, followed by several more.
But not just louder. Closer.
Here.
My eyes snap open. In the darkness of my room, my Hawk-eyes blink and draw in the available light. I shake the cobwebs of dreams from my head and listen.
And then, clear as a cool autumn morning, I hear it again.
Gunshots.
18
I bolt from my bed and scoop up my handgun. Instinct instructs me as I rush for the door and pull it open. I glare down the corridor and see that it’s quiet.
Another gunshot, further away this time.
I rush down the passage, turn left, and continue on until I burst into the main hall. It’s still busy, but less so than before. Some people have given in, gone to get some rest. Shifts have been assigned to keep people fresh.
Those that are here have wide, anxious eyes. They’re all looking towards the other side of the church, to the right hand passage leading away from it.
I move towards the apparent source of the commotion, and turn to see that the first door towards Lady Orlando’s quarters is open. As I pass, I look down the short corridor and see two guards standing outside the door, fully armed and with eyes alert.
I move straight on as I see Adryan emerging from the crowd of frightened faces. His isn’t the same. He tumbles right towards me.
“What’s going on?” I shout.
He shakes his head.
“I don’t know. I heard gunshots just now…”
As he speaks, there’s another. It rattles from the distance, starting a short succession of others.
“Stay here. I need to go.”
I don’t wait for any response from him. I rush off away and down the corridor, without knowing where it leads. I go so quick he can’t follow, scanning ahead, listening closely, following the path until it leads me towards a door and a short flight of stairs.
I reach them and arch my eyes down. It appears to be a cellar. I see a pair of legs lying still and tumble down to find that there are two bodies lying in pools of blood. Two more of our soldiers slumped into an awkward bundle on the floor, knives gripped to their palms and embedded in each other’s chests.
I pass my eyes over the room in confusion. There’s a chair fixed to the floor, chains attached to it. The place looks like a prison cell. There’s no way out.
And then a terrible truth dawns.
Agent Woolf. Is this whe
re she was being kept?
Is this her doing?
I turn on my heels and dart back up the steps. At the top, the corridor leads away to the left. I follow the dimly lit path and find another two bodies curled up awkwardly, their faces written in pain and torment.
I have no choice but to skip over them, dashing straight towards the exit. The security door sits ajar, hung skewed on its hinges. I kick it open, holding my pistol aloft ahead of me, and find myself stepping into the night.
It’s dark, so very dark. No more gunshots sound in the gloom. I turn my eyes to the dirty track and see signs of footsteps written into the earth. I follow them, using my Dasher powers to speed my way towards an open space beyond the ruins of the old town, passing the foundations of forgotten buildings and the remains of rusted cars.
Soon, more shadows appear ahead. Shadows of trees to mark the start of the woods. My eyes stick to the trail of prints as I move on, a hundred metres from the church. Then two hundred, nearing the tangled woods and its many beasts within. The shadows of the trees clear, and other silhouettes join: bushes and stumps and collections of rock.
But one, in particular, draws my eye.
A body.
I’m there in a split second, panting hard as I disable my powers and skid to a halt. My gun remains primed and my eyes alert. Carefully, I approach the body and see a familiar face, half embedded in the mud, the ooze filling one of his dead, half-open eyes.
The other stares forward, empty. I lean down and reach for his neck to check his pulse, knowing of the answer before my fingers greet his skin.
Burton, the gatekeeper of the church, is no longer part of this cause. No longer part of this war.
Burton, the gatekeeper, is dead.
I turn my eyes forward again and stand, but see that the trail has gone cold. I see no prints now, the woods concealing the escape of the killers. My fists curl and a swift breath of deflation escapes from my lungs.
This has the markings of Agent Woolf all over it.
I bend down and conduct a closer inspection of Burton’s body. I turn him over so that he’s facing up, and suddenly, from his lips I hear a final sound, an escape of air.
It shocks me, and I reach again for his pulse. I feel a single beat, and watch as his eyes flicker.
“Burton!” I say, trying to revive him. “Burton, can you hear me?!”
I have no experience of such things. The only medical knowledge I have is how to deal with cuts and bruises. Not this. Burton’s body is riddled with holes, each of them bubbling with blood.
Another trickle of air escapes him.
“Burton,” I say again. “Who was this? Agent Woolf? Who helped her?!”
His lips move, and I lean in. And with his final breath, I hear these words…
“You have spies…and…so…do…we…”
I lean back, slowly, and look into his eyes as they fade once more. His words were not his.
They were Woolf’s.
And just as his eyes and mind fades, I flash into his dying brain, still just about operating even as his body gives out.
I sneak inside and see it all. See Burton, standing at his post, vigilant as always. See him hear the shots ring out, and immediately pour forward towards the long corridor to the right, and Woolf’s cell beyond.
See him shout orders for Lady Orlando to be protected as he goes, rushing away as more gunshots rattle.
He reaches the end and looks down into the cell. The two guards there, knives in hand, and with terrible orders sent into their minds, plunge the blades into each other’s hearts.
I feel Burton’s confusion.
I feel his fear.
He turns to the corridor leading away and rushes on. He has Dasher powers, and surges straight for the opening. The other guards are already dead.
Out he goes into the night, and I find he has Hawk-eyes too. They glare into the distance and see two forms running away towards the trees. He paces after them, catching them quick.
He holds out his gun as he reaches their backs on the edge of the wood. The arms of Agent Woolf and her ally are raised aloft. The ally is slim, tall, his hair short and black. No other features are clear in the night, except his outfit. He looks like one of the Nameless.
“Hold your hands behind your back. Do it gently!” commands Burton.
Agent Woolf follows the order. Her hands begin to descend. The other man doesn’t. They stay aloft. And I hear a chuckle gurgle from his throat.
“You laughing?! You’re laughing are you, you traitor?!” shouts Burton.
He turns the gun on the back of the man’s head. His finger gets set to pull the trigger. And just as it squeezes tight, and the bullet rings out, his target seems to disappear.
Gone.
Burton’s eyes flash left, right, behind him. The man moves with explosive pace, unable to be caught even by Burton’s eyes.
Frantically, he searches, but to no avail.
And then, suddenly, the air fills with gunfire, and the scorching bullets fill up the gatekeeper’s body.
He drops to his knees, and in a flash, the man materialises before him and takes possession of his gun.
Agent Woolf walks forward, smirking. She kneels down as the man says: “We must go, Romelia.”
“We will,” replies Woolf.
But before she leaves, she looks Burton right in the eye, and flashes the final order into his mind, the final words for him to speak.
You have your spies, and so do we…
And with that, they’re gone.
19
I don’t find out the time until I get back to the church. It’s still early morning, not yet five. Dawn is a ways off.
Out by the woods, several guards are now gathering up Burton’s body and preparing to bring it back. The other four dead soldiers are also being seen to.
No search party is being arranged to hunt down Woolf and her ally. Under orders from Lady Orlando, and despite several men vociferously demanding to go on the hunt, the commands are to stay put.
“We can’t spare the manpower,” she announces solemnly. “Especially not now.”
Gathered in a corner of the main hall, I give my account of what happened, and what I saw in Burton’s head. It quickly becomes clear just who the culprit was: one of the soldiers tasked with watching over Woolf. A man named Rafe, a gifted hybrid with the powers of a Dasher and Bat.
“I don’t understand it,” calls one of the soldiers. “Rafe was loyal. A good soldier. He’d never…”
“He didn’t have a choice,” cuts in Lady Orlando. “Woolf must have got to him somehow.”
“But how?! She was on drugs to suppress her powers. And she was wearing a damn mask to cover her eyes! How could she have done this?”
No one has a proper answer. Only suggestions.
“A lot’s been going on recently,” says Adryan. “Perhaps someone forgot to give her a dose? Or maybe her body has grown to repel the drug. I know just how powerful Woolf’s mind is.”
He looks at me as he speaks, and memories of his strong fingers around my neck flutter through my head. Not too long ago, she’d managed to get him to try to kill me with little more than a glance. And she’d taken complete control of his faculties at the same time, allowing her to control him via verbal commands.
If she can do that without breaking a sweat, she can probably do a whole lot more.
“But even if her powers were back, how could she control Rafe without seeing him with her eyes? Don’t you have to look into someone’s eyes to control them?” asks another soldier.
The question is aimed at me.
I nod, although my knowledge and experience is limited.
“As far as I know, that’s how it works,” I say. “Certainly for me. But who knows, maybe Woolf can issue some voice commands. Maybe just enough to get Rafe to remove her mask briefly. That’s all it would take, and then she’d have him…”
“And his powers?” continues the guard. “You said he almost dis
appeared in front of Burton’s eyes. That’s not possible. Burton was a Hawk. He should have seen him move! I don’t get it.”
“She must have augmented him, I guess,” I suggest. “Maybe she was able to unearth his true potential or something using her powers?”
“You people can do that?” questions the guard. “Why wouldn’t your brother do that with all of us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he can’t. Maybe Woolf is more gifted. I don’t have the answers…”
“OK, OK,” comes Lady Orlando’s calming voice. “We need to consider the ramifications of this. Woolf will now know of our location here, as Rafe already does. They will try to re-enter the city as soon as possible and get that information to Director Cromwell. If that happens, he will know we’re here, and will immediately send out a force to destroy or capture us. Needless to say, that cannot happen. Ideas, people?”
“We need to inform the underlands and our sentries across the city,” says Adryan immediately. “And spare who we can to keep a watch on the gates. It’s the only way that they’ll get back into the city. Which way were they headed?”
His eyes turn to mine.
“To the west, the same direction Zander went in.”
“OK,” continues Adryan, his sharp mind tackling the issue. “The nearest way into the city from here is the northern gate. She might make for that. I suggest we get some soldiers there immediately. They’ll be slow. Woolf has no powers beyond her mind, and even with Rafe alongside her, they won’t be able to move at pace. Guard the exterior of the gate, and block off that option.”
Lady Orlando nods her approval, and looks upon Adryan, impressed.
“The second option for her will be to make for the western gate, which is the way they were travelling,” continues Adryan. “It will take her a while to get there, and we know how dangerous the woods are. It’s quite possible she won’t even make it. To my mind, this was an act of desperation and nothing more.”
“I agree,” says Lady Orlando. “We must take this threat seriously, but logical thinking dictates that we have time on our side. Did Rafe have any method of communicating with the city on him?”