From that vantage point he could see a pile of metal barrels across the room, in the furthest corner from where the soldier now searched. Behind these a half-ladder clung to the wall, leading up to a rampart that led to the next deck. If he could just get to it in time, and survive the run, he might be saved. Yet it seemed awfully far away.
The soldier knocked over a large storage box, emptying its contents to the floor in a thunderous spray. This was Whistler’s opportunity. He leapt out from the metal tube and raced across the room. He knew the soldier saw him, and he heard the angry rattle of gunfire in his wake. He threw himself on top of the barrels and grabbed hold of the ladder. He was almost at the top when he felt the soldier grab his ankle and pull him down. He slipped a rung and cried out, and he tried to kick, but the soldier’s massive fist engulfed his leg, and he was dragged to the ground. He yelped as he fell, and grunted as his head hit the ground, and when he tried to get up he was stopped by the butt of the soldier’s gun.
“The cat always gets the mouse,” the soldier said. But cats did not have guns.
“On your knees,” the soldier ordered. That day he was also an executioner.
Whistler held himself up on his elbows. How he wished he could make some brazen remark like Jacob might. How he wished he could stare down the barrel of a gun, and stare down Death. How he wished he could defy the soldier, or defy his own trembling limbs. But he could not. The soldier hauled him to his feet, then tapped the back of his knees with the gun until he knelt down to await his fate.
He felt the icy touch of the gun’s barrel, and he was frozen. He clenched his eyes shut, as if that would somehow save him from his doom. If he could not see it, it did not exist. How he wished for fairy tales, for happy endings, and how he hated that he knew that horror stories were more real. It was part of growing up, and he wanted that so bad. And now he feared he would never get to.
And yet he hoped. He did not want it all to end, that he might no longer feel pain; he wanted to live so he could still feel those brief moments of pleasure, those fleeting times of happiness. Now, as he knew it all would end, he wanted it to continue all the more.
The gun marked a large O on his forehead, where it would mark his end. He tried to be brave, to take it like a man, to die like a man. But all he could do was tremble like a child. He did not realise for several seconds that tears were pouring down his face, as if to flee the site of the carnage to come.
How the soldier must have loved that Whistler shook before him. The more the boy knelt down and cowered to the ground, the more the soldier must have felt taller and more powerful. Whistler knew all this deep inside. He knew it was why the soldier delayed the kill. It was not about the end itself; it was about making the prey understand that the end was coming, that the when was in the predator’s hands. As much as the predator controlled the gun, he controlled the prey. It was a kind of primal power. It was its own kind of drug.
“This is what you get,” the soldier said, circling the tip of the gun across Whistler’s forehead, ensuring that he could always feel it, “when you mess with the Regime.”
Whistler wanted it to end, one way or another. The waiting was torture.
“I kill dozens every day,” the soldier said. “Most of them get a quick death. You could have had that, but instead you had to try and fight.”
He moved the gun down the ridge of Whistler’s nose. “I could start here,” he said, before moving the gun to the boy’s right cheek, which was still bandaged from the burns. “It looks like someone’s already started here. Or maybe it’s better beneath the chin.” He moved the gun to Whistler’s neck and nudged up his chin. “No,” he said, moving the gun back to the boy’s forehead. “It’s better between the eyes. That way you can almost see the bullet coming.”
This was it. Whistler clenched his teeth, and clenched his fists, and raised his shoulders. He waited for the bang, for the blackness, for the pain, and then the painlessness. The wait might have only been seconds, but if those seconds were to be all he had left to live, his mind instinctively tried to make them last. He waited for the end of his brief life, and whatever awaited him thereafter.
Then he heard a whack, and the soldier grunted and collapsed.
“No,” he heard, and he opened his eyes to see Jacob standing there clutching a metal bar. “It’s better on the back of the head, where you can’t see it coming at all.”
Jacob helped Whistler to his feet, and Whistler tried to straighten up and stop his trembles, to pretend as if he could have taken the soldier any minute.
“It’s okay to be afraid, kid,” Jacob said. “In this world, there are a lot of things to fear.”
Whistler gulped and snuffled, and then looked up to Jacob. “Like you?”
Jacob smiled. “Like me.”
24 – DEATHMAKER
Taberah and Domas struggled in the darkness. She kicked and fought, and he tried to hold her down and contain her flailing limbs. He used the thick muscles of his arms, but she used everything she had: her knees, her elbows, her teeth, and her nails. She scraped and scratched, bit and bashed, and when she found the bullet hole in Domas’ torso, she pressed her fingers into the wound until he yelped and squealed, and then she prodded and twisted until he let her go.
She scrambled away. She knew she could not fight him like this. Teeth and nails could not defend against bullets. She decided against racing towards the door they had come in by. He had locked it tight, and it would take too long to open. It would take less time to fire the gun. She ran down the corridor, which led to several other rooms. She tried the doors on some as she passed, but most would not budge, and those few that did led into dead ends. She did not mind a dead end, so long as it was an armoury. She wished she had not been drawn by Domas’ voice, wished she had found the gun supply before seeking him out. She could not help but hear Rommond berating her in her mind. Rommond was all about planning; she was all about doing, but she could not do anything here without a plan.
She continued down the corridor, turning left at the next intersection. She knew the submarine well, but she felt disorientated. The problem with the passages is that they, for the most part, all looked the same. The flickering oil lamps did not help, nor did the darkness in the places where the flames had died out. She entered one of those dark corridors now, and she did not take a lamp to guide her. It was safer in the darkness.
She heard Domas stirring far behind her. His moans echoed down the passages. It was clear that Rommond got him good. A bullet in the gut was the least he deserved. She was glad Rommond did not shoot him in the heart. She wanted that pleasure herself.
She followed the winding walkways, doubting her memory, trusting her intuition. She knew the armoury was around here somewhere. She just hoped they had not locked the doors. She looked for vents as she went, but she could not see any. The darkness plotted against all eyes.
* * *
Domas found it a struggle to get to his feet. Every muscle seemed to be connected with his stomach like a conspiracy. He cringed and groaned, and he clenched his teeth as if he could bite away the pain. He got his back against a wall and pushed himself up against it, while clutching his gut—and clutching his gun.
I hope you like your bullet more than mine, Rommond. He stumbled towards the door he had locked, and looked through the circular window, hoping to see Rommond’s body slumped down upon the floor. He sighed when he saw just a few specks of blood. There was much more on this side of the door. Let’s make it two for one, then. Taberah needs to join us.
He hobbled down the corridor Taberah had ran down. He liked a chase. Sometimes he let them run just so he could run after them, often just so he could shoot them in the back. How they fell. The faster they ran, the swifter they fell. There was pleasure in the hunt. With Taberah, the pleasure would be more.
“You know me, Taberah,” Domas shouted. “Or should I call you Tabs? Did Rommond ever get as close as I did?” He scoffed and laughed, and then cringed from the pai
n.
He continued down the corridor, the wall supporting his body, the hunt supporting his will. He patted his hand on the emblem of the Regime on his left shoulder. A single pat for a single leader. How the Iron Emperor would commend him if he brought back Taberah’s head. How he would elevate him if he heard that Rommond had fallen. But those pleasures, great as though they would be, would pale in comparison to the acts themselves. It was not about the end; it was about the means.
“Come out, Taberah,” he called, banging his gun on one of the sealed doors. “You never used to hide. Isn’t that a coward’s game? Did you learn it from Rommond?”
He thought that would have done it. She always had more pride than sense.
“You know, I was gentle with you, Taberah,” he said. “When you got hit in the Hope factory, I didn’t dig my fingers into the wound. That’s not very nice, now, is it? Tell me, who’s the real demon?”
If he had been hunting Jacob, he knew the smuggler would have answered back. With Taberah, he did not expect a verbal reply; he expected her to come out to fight him. It was only a matter of time, a matter of enough questions asked. He kept asking.
“I’ve heard tell that some in the Resistance wonder about us, about our nature, what we’re really like, what we really are. You can paint us with horns to justify your war against us, but we know what we are, and we know that you’re not as angelic as you make out. But let me tell you something about us. We dream, just like you. And do you know who I often dream about?”
He continued down the corridor, leaning against the wall, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He had to kill Taberah before it ran out.
“Time’s up,” he said. “The answer, of course, is you! I remember that first year in Altadas as if it were yesterday. I always preferred my old world, but I’ve got to admit, the women here are a much finer specimen.”
Domas heard a faint whimpering from a nearby cupboard. That isn’t like her, he thought. She never let me hear her cry. He opened the cupboard door to find another woman there, cradling her bulging belly.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“M-m-marya,” she said, but it was a struggle.
“Don’t cower,” Domas said. “Do you want the baby to come out a coward too?”
She shook her head, sending the tears in all directions.
“Oh, you don’t want the baby to come out at all?” he asked, and fired his gun.
He took a moment to savour the sight. He recognised a Pure when he saw one. They had a certain glow about them, like a halo. But they were no angels. They were the ones that Chance created, the ones that somehow escaped the Birth-masters’ webs. No matter how many worlds they went through, there was always a flaw; someone always escaped with the birth channels intact.
“I just killed one of your Pure,” Domas shouted down the corridor, chasing Taberah with echoes. “So much for the Lifemaker. You just rounded them up for us, making it easier for the cull.”
He began to tap his gun on the wall as he went, forming a rhythm like a heartbeat, a tempo to replace the heartbeats he had just ended.
“Do you know what we did in our old world?” Domas continued. “There used to be a people there, greater than your own. It took time, over a century, in fact, but we got there in the end. We wiped them all out. With you—what is it, humans?—we’ll likely get there in half the time.”
Still no sound or squeak. Her silence bothered him. He knew that was why she did it, why she refused to speak, refused to squeal. She got to him in a way that no one else ever had. But he knew that deep beneath the silence, she was screaming.
* * *
Taberah found the armoury after what felt like hours. She heard many of Domas’ taunts. It was hard not to turn back and charge at him. She would get there, she told herself, once she found a weapon to charge with.
The armoury was mostly empty, bar the bodies. It had been raided by both Resistance and Regime soldiers, leaving very few weapons left. The few guns she found had no bullets. She threw them to the ground in anger, as if the ground were Domas. She rummaged through the mess in the room, well aware that she was making far too much noise, and almost not caring. She did not want to run forever. She wanted to fight and win, or fight and die.
She found a knife amidst the clutter, but as she took it up, the blade fell from the handle. She almost cursed aloud. It seemed that she herself was cursed. Maybe it was the Lifemaker. It had not lived up to Rommond’s promise, despite all his plots and plans. Now it might become the Deathmaker for them all.
Everything she found was useless. There were no projectiles and no ammunition. There was very little that was sharp, and those that were, were not sharp enough. Even the blunt weapons, the wooden bats, were splintered and broken, as if they had already been used in the fight for control of the armoury. By the looks of it, she was not sure anyone had won.
* * *
Domas trudged forward. His determination could not stop the flow of blood, but it pushed him on.
“Some wonder why I follow the Iron Emperor,” he mused aloud. “Some think that it is weakness to follow, but not if you follow strength. I have lived through so many wars, but they pale in comparison to the conquests he has made. Our people live and thrive because of him, because of his glorious leadership, his divine wisdom, his endless love for our people. He offers purity in a universe of impurity, where world after world mock the intended order of things.”
He tapped his hand against the Regime emblem again, and bowed his head, just as he had bowed it so many times before the Iron Emperor. That was the salute, right hand upon left shoulder, head bowed, knees bent. It was humbling, but when a million soldiers made it together in unison, it was strengthening—it was empowering.
“Who do you follow, Taberah?” he asked. “You used to follow Rommond, but we all know how that went. You did a better job of stabbing him in the back than Teller tried to. So, who do you follow now? No one? Your dreams? Your ideals? No, I think you just follow yourself, and you want everyone else to follow suit, to bow down to you and call you the Iron Empress.”
He laughed. He could not hear her response, but he was certain he was pushing buttons. Everyone crumbled with enough persistence. It was just a matter of finding the right combination. He knew he was close. He knew that the next line would likely break her.
“And what about your son?” he said. He waited a moment to let the words reach her ears. He did not rush his taunts. It was better to let her insecurities form their own. “Well?” he asked in time. “Don’t pretend he isn’t yours. We all see the resemblance. But does he follow you? You might think he does, but isn’t he supposed to ‘blow the whistle’ on us ‘demons’? Isn’t that his job, his duty? How many people has he let through the net? Ardra, Daniel, Teller. Are you sure he doesn’t follow us instead?”
He heard a rush of footsteps, and he smiled. He almost heard the button push. Soon he would hear the gun click.
Taberah charged at him in the darkness, screaming and brandishing a spear made from the bits and pieces she had found in the armoury. He fired the gun, but instead of falling back, she ran into the bullet, and ran into him, impaling him with the spear. He grunted and clutched his chest, and then he collapsed upon the ground.
Taberah leaned on the handle of the spear, partly to drive it deeper, party to support her. She felt the sudden pain of the gunshot wound in her abdomen, and of the energy it drained from her. Domas shouted when she twisted the spear, and then he moaned and laughed, until she twisted it again.
“How does it feel?” she asked. “How does it feel?”
He smiled at her, with his mouth and his eyes. She got him deep, but he got her deeper. It was like he was in her mind. Perhaps there he could not die.
She pulled out the spear, but it fell apart in her hands before she could thrust it a second time and finally end the beast before her. He laughed as she stumbled and fell, but his own pain silenced him and prevented him from standing up.
“Is this how it ends?” he asked. He could barely see her from the floor. She was slumped against a wall. “Do we both die together? What a fitting end!”
“We didn’t live together,” she said. “If dying together is a fitting end, we would have had to share life together.”
“Didn’t we?” he asked.
She said no more.
* * *
It was hours before anyone found them. The attack by the Regime was repelled, but not without substantial losses on the Resistance’s side. Rommond rounded up the surviving Regime soldiers for interrogation. When he was called to where Domas and Taberah lay, he rushed to the location, and he told Jacob to keep Whistler back, for he feared the worst.
Taberah was injured, but she was still alive. So was Domas. If left untended, they both would have perished. How Rommond wanted to let Domas rot, and yet wanted to finish him once and for all.
“A sorry sight,” Rommond said to the enemy general.
Domas scoffed and smiled. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for me. I know you don’t.”
Rommond helped Taberah up. She had spent much of her strength.
“You’re wounded,” Rommond said.
“So are you.”
“I took the bullet out.”
“I left mine in,” Taberah said through gritted teeth. It almost seemed like she would keep it as a prize, as a trophy. She looked deep into Rommond’s eyes, and he knew immediately that she wanted what he desired: to finish Domas once and for all.
“Clear the room,” Rommond ordered to his troops. They left without question.
“Can’t have any witnesses?” Domas taunted. “Don’t tell me you’re about to do something … inhumane.”
They ignored him, even though he continued to taunt them as they spoke.
“I want this honour,” Rommond said.
Taberah shook her head violently. “No. He’s mine. I didn’t spare him. My weapon did.”
Lifemaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Fantasy (The Great Iron War, Book 2) Page 14