Smoke Sky
Page 6
That much was true. In its prime, the industrial district was a hive of pipelines, smokestacks, and towering buildings. Half a dozen buildings were erected in the district, each one centralizing in some kind of heavy machinery or hard product. From the oil and gas sector, thousand of barrels of gasoline were sent daily to the Trade Board where they would be distributed throughout Aon and its meager provinces. The watering sector pumped fresh water from the ground and filtered it until it was drinkable for Westraven. They were also responsible for taking care of the dirty water we used.
But the metalworking sector was the largest in the district. Westraven was famous for its engineers and their tools, as well as for the Sky Guard and their weaponry.
When the Hellions came in The Storm, it was one of their first targets.
Bombs turned the smokestacks and pipes into charred black sticks. Central buildings and warehouses were imploded, as though a mighty fist had punched them down to the earth. Piles of shrapnel and rippling sheet metal were strewn around the ground. Electric wires dangled out of the warehouse windows and over the doors. The entire district was encased in gnarled barbed wire, the spiky clumps of metal attempting to warn us away.
I gazed at the stocky, haunted looking factory standing erect in front of the ruins, through the shadows lingering beyond its cracked windows. I half expected a pack of Hellions to burst into sight and tear us to pieces.
Sawyer strolled through a torn gap in the fence without missing a stride.
I was a little more cautious and a lot more grateful that Nash convinced Sawyer to let me have my knives back. I had a feeling that he was the reason Sawyer let me come at all.
As we treaded past the fence to the heart of the metalworking factory, I swept rain soaked hair off my face and zipped my jacket up until the collar jutted against my chin.
“Where are the Junkers?” I asked as the rain pounded down around me. I’d only been to Junkyards a couple times, but I figured they all enjoyed the same style of living––towering piles of useless crap that was too rusted to save.
“Probably inside here,” Sawyer stated, pointing at the door we were about to walk through.
I glared at him. “Do you always walk into dark buildings owned by possibly cannibalistic hoarders?”
Sawyer glanced at me, and even offered me a small grin. “Marauder, remember?”
I scowled, but followed him inside. Mentally, I made the excuse that I wanted to get out of the rain before it froze me. Truthfully, I felt a lot more comfortable with Nash at my back.
Once we were inside, Sawyer turned to the left. We quickly followed him into a vast, empty room.
There was nothing––no machines, tables, or equipment– to tell us what had once been in here. The two hundred foot space was gutted, the hard concrete floor coated in thick layers of dust and dirt. Rain pattered on the curved plate glass roof canopying over our heads.
But the light that illuminated the tarnished metal walls didn’t come from the stormy sky. In front of us was a set of double doors propped open, a beckoning orange glow spilling out into the hollowed room. Mechanical noises groaned from within it.
Sawyer took out his flintlock pistol and held it at his side. He didn’t stop walking.
“We need to move fast,” he said in a quiet voice. “I want to walk out of here with something for the Hove-porter. Take some scrap if you can manage to carry it, but the Dauntless needs to get off the streets. After that, we can think about fully restoring it.”
“Can I know where you’re planning to take it yet?” I asked half seriously, since I didn’t expect him to answer me.
Sawyer hesitated, narrowing his eyes suspiciously from over his shoulder as he walked through the desolate room. He turned away and fell silent. I didn’t expect him to answer me.
“The ports.”
“The ports?” I repeated, shocked that he’d answered me. “As in the ones owned by the Trade Board? The ones that everyone stopped raiding because they’re supposed to be cursed?”
“The same.”
“They were never cursed,” Nash rumbled. His voice was close to my back. “Just a lot of bad luck. The Hellions haven’t passed by them in years, and nothing outside suggests there are any other survivors hiding in them.”
Which made sense, since the ports were all but bombed to oblivion when the Hellions attacked. Hundreds fled to the large air hangars in hopes of finding shelter, only to be picked off easily by the much faster, stronger, smarter Hellions.
“Besides,” Sawyer commented, his voice echoing slightly as we approached the fiery light, “where else are we going to hide something as big as the Dauntless?”
Sawyer slowed his pace as he came to the exit of the massive hall. He stalked to the door and tucked into cover by its frame. Nash and I followed him. We peered around the corner where the glowing orange light and heavy clicking and grinding noises were coming from. The room beyond was a cavernous space with hundred foot high ceilings and a network of catwalks. Lining the far wall was a row of towering kilns pouring white-hot molten metal into ten- foot wide, cast iron funnels. Steam raced out of the funnel tops and large gears on either side of the funnels clicked and rotated, the machine probably signaling water to be pumped into its cooling area. The contraption hissed as it moved through the base of the cooling box, which looked like another giant kiln. At the very bottom, a sliding door clicked open like a yawning mouth, and spat out a distorted metal sheet.
I frowned at the casting machines. All six of them were battered and producing warped products. I turned my head to the right, squinting through the thick steam and shadows. I thought I could make out the edges of a control panel, but I wasn’t sure.
Doubting I would have use for the control panel, I turned my attention to the most glaring item in the room––the giant pile of junk.
Sitting in the center of the casting chamber was a towering mountain of scrap metal, cogs, pipes, and gears. Other than that, the room was empty.
“Why are they running the casters?” I whispered.
“Could be forming the metal to make parts for trade. Some people still might still remember their jobs from before The Storm,” Nash whispered at my back. I shivered at the feel of his voice against my neck, though I didn’t mind the sensation.
“Doesn’t change who they are,” Sawyer grumbled. “They’re not generous folk. We run into them, we knock them out.”
“Not exactly a friendly negotiating,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “If you want to be skewered and roasted on a spit, then by all means, try to reason with them.”
I scowled at Sawyer, but couldn’t come up with an argument. I suppose I should have been glad he didn’t immediately say we should kill them. I was a thief, not an assassin.
Turning his back to me and drawing his cutlass and pistol, Sawyer stepped into the casting chamber. I followed, putting my hand on the hilt of my knife. Nash strode up to my side, his hands balled into fists.
Sawyer moved in a circle as he approached the junk pile, his tawny eyes scanning for hidden enemies. He holstered his cutlass when he reached the metal mountain, though his pistol remained in his hand and his eyes never stopped moving.
“Nash, Gemma, start collecting.”
Nash nodded and began scaling the pile. I looked at Sawyer. “I don’t know what to look for. I’ll watch the ground. You collect what you need.”
Sawyer looked at me for a moment, then nodded and holstered his pistol. He turned and climbed the pile of scrap.
I turned my back to them and curled my hand around my knife hilts. I watched the corners and the shadows, felt the heat flaring from the casting machines as the molten metal poured from the kilns. Over my head, Sawyer and Nash worked through the pile, speaking in hushed tones and gently pushing aside pieces of metal they didn’t want. With the sizzling sounds coming from the funnels and cooling boxes, I didn’t think anyone would hear us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that angry eyes were watching us.
Still nothing.
“You boys gonna be much longer?” I asked, keeping my gaze on the dark corners.
“Hard to say,” Sawyer remarked. “Why, do you see something?”
“Not down here––”
As I was talking, I was turning to the scrap mountain. I froze in mid-sentence, my eyes widening as I watched the Junkers rappelling from the catwalks on thick ropes. They brandished knives and raised them to strike at Nash and Sawyer. The marauders didn’t see or hear them.
“Sawyer!”
He snapped his head in my direction, saw my upturned finger and wide eyes. His flintlock was out of its holster before he ever saw the threat. He leaned back and tilted up his head up. When he saw the man descending over his head, he startled. But he fired a shot nonetheless.
The bullet struck the rope the Junker was using to descend. He let out a surprised yelp when the line snapped. The sound was cut short when his head smacked straight onto the top of the metal mountain. His neck bent at an awkward angle, his body flopping awkwardly between Nash and Sawyer. The two men raised their heads, seeing the same thing I was.
Two more Junkers flipping around on their ropes and sliding down to attack.
I watched Sawyer fired another round at the descending Junkers before I was driven into the ground.
I was so busy worrying about Nash and Sawyer that I didn’t watch my own surroundings. I didn’t think that other attackers might have been hiding in the shadows that I thought were watching me, each one of them waiting for the perfect chance to pounce.
The right side of my body slammed against the concrete with jarring force. I scrabbled against my attacker, both of us trying to get the upper hand.
I lost.
A lanky Junker straddled me, the edges of his dented, homemade, scrap-metal armor digging into my hips and thighs. Oily dreadlocks dangled from his head like fat spider-legs. I swung my fist at his chin. He grabbed my wrists with one hand and pulled them away from my body. His other hand struck me square in the face.
Stars burst behind my eyes from the punch, but I didn’t black out from it. Or from the second one, though I came close. My head filled with pain, each movement becoming a ruthless spike jabbing into my skull.
I wouldn’t beat him with physical strength. Speed was my only chance.
Pooling strength into my lower body, I bucked my hips and pitched to the right. It was like moving a ton of bricks off my stomach, but I managed to tip the Junker off balance and toss him onto the ground. The gangly man roared and lashed his boot at my face. I grabbed his ankle and pulled it away from my body. With my free hand, I grabbed a knife and jabbed it into the back of his knee.
The Junker screamed in agony, clutching his wounded leg. I pulled the blade out and scrambled to my feet. My boot shot into the man’s temple. That single strike sent him to the ground, where he didn’t move again.
I whirled to the mountain of scrap metal to see how much trouble we were in. It was worse than I thought.
Both Sawyer and Nash were still trapped on the pile. Sawyer had his cutlass out, swinging and slashing at the two Junkers climbing up from the main floor. Maybe they wouldn’t have been a problem, if one of the rappelling Junkers wasn’t creeping up on his back with a knife in hand. Sawyer saw him and whirled around to stop the knife from going into his neck, but the other Junkers took advantage of his back. Two blades sliced across his lower legs. Sawyer buckled and winced in pain. The Junker at his back slammed a harsh punch into his temple, nearly knocking him out.
Across from him, Nash was facing the same three-on-one-battle. But he didn’t have a sword or a pistol. All he had were brass knuckles and brute strength. Seeing him fight was impressive. Every time his fist struck one of the Junkers, I heard a sound like a tree-branch snapping. All three Junkers had blood smeared on their faces.
But they had blades, and treated Nash like hunters wearing down a cornered bear. Every time he hit one man, another would slice a line across his back or his stomach. None of the cuts looked grievous, but the Junkers would get bolder. Strong as he was, Nash would weaken soon. The cuts would get deeper, bloodier, and then they would close in for the kill.
I couldn’t be in two places at once. Helping Nash meant Sawyer would die. Helping Sawyer meant Nash would be cut to ribbons. That was assuming I could climb the pile fast enough to get to either of them.
There has to be another way. T, think, Gemma, think, think––
The answer was right in front of me, right in the boiling cauldrons of blazing hot liquid metal. Nash said that these Junkers continued to make their own materials.
Wouldn’t it be a shame if something happened to those materials?
I sprinted past the scrap metal mountain to the control panel. I noticed the deep groove dug into the floor, a manmade trench to catch the molten metal if one of the cooling boxes failed and released the lava onto the floor.
It would probably do the same for all of the boxes.
Maybe.
I ran until I was beside the panel. It was a scratched metal box missing its door. Dozens of switches and breakers lined the interior, each one labeled for its corresponding kiln or cooling box. In the middle of the panel was a large red lever with a label that read: “PULL DOWN FOR EMERGENCY RELEASE.”
Please let that mean what I think it means.
I stopped and whirled around. The Junkers were closing in on my marauder allies. Nash and Sawyer looked about ready to collapse, and the Junkers didn’t seem to be short on energy.
I placed my fingers in my mouth and whistled, an ear-piercing shriek that couldn’t be missed. The Junkers whipped their heads in my direction. They saw where I was, and froze in terror that quickly morphed into rage.
I grinned and grabbed the main power lever. “Guess you’ll need a new stream of revenue, boys. Unless you can catch this one.”
I pulled down the lever.
Immediately, the flow of the molten metal increased from the kiln. The steady stream was now a waterfall. It spilled over the funnel, too heavy to be caught. The gears stopped clicking, the emergency lever shutting off the flow of cool water. Steam billowed in a thick fog as the uncooled metal spilled out of the cooling box’s sliding door, gushing unevenly into the trench in the floor.
Now there’s an interesting cast, I thought wickedly.
The Junkers started screaming incoherently, abandoning the battered marauders and charging for me.
But I still wasn’t done. Flipping the knife in my hand, I hammered the hilt of it against the thin switches, snapping each of them off. There was no way the Junkers would be able to make their faulty metal scrap now.
I didn’t have time to boast or enjoy my victory. The Junkers closed distance fast. The last thing I had time to do was glance over their shoulders and meet Nash’s eyes. He was holding his battered body, sliding down the scrap metal pile with his collected items. He divided his attention between his footing, the unconscious men he’d fought, and me. His eyes were wide, as though he was horrified he couldn’t move fast enough.
“Go!” I screamed.
The Junkers halted just feet away from me, as though they remembered there were three of us. I decided the best way to get their attention was to sweep a wide, roundhouse kick into the closest man’s head. He dropped like a sack of bricks. The Junkers howled, but I was already running.
Thankfully, there was a door close to the control panel. Since the Junkers sprang on us with virtually no warning, I had to assume it was open. I grabbed the handle and shouldered through it, throwing the metal door hard against the wall. I ended up in another wide room like the one we came in through. Sheets of rain poured through the scattered, broken skylights overhead, creating puddles that I splashed through on my way to the exit––a torn down wall leading outside, fifty feet away. It might as well have been in the clouds.
Something hard and sharp skittered over my shoulder, nicking my leather jacket. I jumped as I watched the blade clatter to the ground in front of me. Okay, so one of the three men chasing me knew how to throw a knife. Best to keep running, only faster.
Rainwater doused me sporadically as I continued to weave an erratic pattern through the corridor. I vaulted over clumped metal debris on the right, then dashed a hard line to the center, and finally veered left. It made the journey longer, but I didn’t gain any knives in my back.
The Junkers were closing in. Metal armor clanked against hard, wiry bodies. Feet pounded pools of water. Grunts of exertion hounded my steps.
I pushed myself harder and faster, forcing my mind to ignore the aches growing in my legs. The open wall was just ahead of me, a curtain of rain pelting down into the yard. I barreled into the storm, instantly re-soaked to the bone. I blinked the streaming water from my eyes, searching for a hiding spot to lose the Junkers––
My eyes froze on a deformed shadow in the sky. It hovered and descended between the cluster of snapped smokestacks less than fifty feet away.
No, I thought. No, not here––
Rough hands gripped my shoulders and yanked me back. I landed on sharp, unforgiving gravel. My elbows struck the ground and jolted my knife from my hand. The Junkers wasted no time in pummeling me.
I rolled to miss the kick that would have landed in my spine. It hit my right shoulder instead. Still painful, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. The kick that landed in my stomach was less forgiving.
I gritted my teeth against the pain and launched to my feet, missing another boot and slamming my fist into someone’s jaw. I ducked, whirled, and kicked again, hitting what must have been someone else’s ribs. I threw out elbows, swept out legs, refused to stop moving. All I needed was a single opening, a chance to break out of this circle of death and run for cover.
I never got it.
The punch came out of thin air. Thanks to the torrential downpour, I couldn’t see where my enemies were until it was too late. The blow collided with my cheek and pitched me to the right. Arms looped through mine and held me upright. As soon as I was straightened, the Junkers surrounded me.