Devil's Gambit

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  “My ace,” he said, simply. “Well, aces. When you said we were going after vampires, I made sure I brought them.”

  He held out his hand and I passed him the Glock. He checked over it and continued.

  “Silver frag grenades. Normal pineapple ‘nades, but chock-full of silver shrapnel.”

  “Bullets and my blades just glanced off those monsters. Silver needs to interact with their blood to stop the regeneration. It doesn’t really make the weapon stronger against vampires, it just stops the regeneration,” I said, channelling Miriam LeBlanc.

  Brett nodded. “You know quite a bit about vamps. Thought they wouldn’t interest you. They don’t smell like year-old trash.”

  “I’ve got a good teacher,” I answered. “So, how did you use the grenades?”

  Brett indicated for me to take a space beside him at the range stall. He took a loaded magazine out of a container and inserted it into the Glock.

  “I pretended to fall,” he said, no hint of his usual humour. He was describing business, in a very business-like fashion. “And as it opened its mouth to feed, I shoved a grenade down its gullet.”

  “And you still have your arm?” I asked, genuinely impressed. I don’t think I could do anything like that. My respect for Brett grew tenfold.

  “I pulled out in time.”

  He said it seriously, but then smirked. I stared at him with an expression that I hoped could melt an ice giant. If he wasn’t holding a loaded firearm, I would have shoved him.

  He put the Glock on the table and made space for me to enter the stall. I rolled my eyes, and advanced. The stall was big enough for the two of us to stand apart comfortably. Brett leaned up against the plastered brick-wall and looked me up and down. I first thought it was the predatory gaze of an admirer, but then he spoke.

  “You sure about this?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You used to be squeamish about the idea of killing anything other than undead.”

  “Things change.”

  He nodded. “People change, yeah. But you need to understand that guns don’t work well on the dead. They’re just good at making things dead. You can kill a lot of things with them. Could even kill a zombie with enough lead, but that’s not why you’re here…”

  “Let’s learn to shoot, Brett,” I said with a hint of finality that he ignored. He put his hand on the Glock as I reached for it.

  “If you were just wanting to learn to shoot for sport, I’d smile as we unloaded a few mags into those cut-outs. But I see it in your eyes.”

  He paused. “And your posture.”

  I looked up at him. He had real concern in his face. Didn’t think I’d ever see it from him.

  “Kat, I need to know that this is what you want.”

  I didn’t lift my hand off the Glock. I looked at the range, at the cut-outs that were vaguely human-shaped.

  I didn’t need a gun to kill the undead, and guns weren’t the best thing against vampires. Even then, I’d shown just how well I could kill vampires without a gun already. Brett knew this. He knew that I knew it.

  “You don’t need it, Kat,” Treth said, voice soft and, just a bit, pleading.

  I didn’t need it. I could walk away. I also didn’t need my swords. Didn’t need to be a monster hunter. Didn’t need to risk my life slaying beasts. I could live a normal life. That’d make Trudie happy.

  I looked at the Glock. It wasn’t a weapon made to kill the beasts of the Cataclysm. It was designed to kill humans. The humans I’m paid to protect. But not all of them.

  Some humans are monsters.

  I looked Brett in the eyes and nodded, once. He nodded back and let go.

  “Slide that back until it clicks…you cock a gun like a girl.”

  I glared at him and he grinned, boyishly.

  “Hold the gun with both hands, keep your finger off the trigger until you intend to shoot. To aim at your target, line up the front and back sights. Good…”

  “Anything else, teach?”

  “Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull.”

  I nodded.

  “And Kat…”

  I looked away from the sights towards him.

  “Don’t regret this.”

  ***

  My shoulder was still aching and my hearing still had the echoes of the bangs, despite my ear-protectors. Brett said you got used to it. I’m sure I would. It wasn’t nearly as sore as driving my sword full force into a fleshy looking monster that ended up being as hard as metal. Firing a gun was the type of initial shock you got used to with practice. I spent most of the time firing the gun at the target, getting a feel for the recoil. Brett gave me some pointers, but it was pretty straightforward. Line up the sights and then squeeze the trigger. After some shooting two-handed, he suggested that I practice one-handed, and that I fire as fast as possible. It wasn’t something he usually advised but, because my fighting style involved a sword and speed, I should rather be using the pistol in my off-hand, as a support weapon. I fired a bit using one hand, and this was much harder. A lot of my shots went wide, and my shoulder felt like it’d been punched by an orc.

  “You’ll get better. Any person with an eye-ball can fire a gun at a stationary target while taking ten seconds to aim between shots. But that’s not how fighting works,” he said, taking a sandwich out of a tin lunchbox and offering one to me. I accepted.

  I took a seat next to him, on a dirty bench by the cargo container, and took a bite of the sandwich. It was peanut butter and honey.

  “A glorified crossbow,” Treth hissed. What was with the disparagement? This was for the cause, even if it was to kill the humans controlling the undead more than the undead themselves.

  Brett was still biting into his own sandwich after I finished mine. I always ate too quickly. Treth said it gave me indigestion. I told him he wasn’t my mom. Trudie already held that position.

  His 56-3 tattoo faced me, illustrated on his tree-trunk arms. It didn’t look artsy. Not a fashion statement or some outlet of his creativity. Didn’t look like a date either…

  “So, Bretty,” I said in as playful a tone I could muster. He raised his eyebrow at me, his mouth full of sandwich. I tempered my grin. “What’s the tattoo about?”

  He stopped chewing and his expression changed. He looked distant. Reluctant. Finally, he swallowed. But, he didn’t reply.

  I raised my hands diplomatically. “Hey, sorry. No need to talk about it if it is private.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, nah. It’s fine. Just…haven’t…yeah, shit.”

  His words were garbled. Nervous. I’d never seen Brett act like this before. He was normally so cocksure.

  “Eh, Katty, won’t hurt to tell you. We’re alike enough that you’d understand, I think.”

  I nodded, even though I didn’t understand.

  Silence.

  He sighed, heavily.

  “Tattoo means unit 56 of section 3. That was my designation. Very simple. No rank. Simple hierarchy. Soldiers at the bottom and then the Manager, at the top.”

  “Military?”

  He frowned, and the frown went up to his forehead, creasing it. I didn’t know how old Brett was, but the wrinkle in his forehead now and the strain in his eyes made him look very old. Very worn out.

  “No,” he finally said. “Or, not exactly…I was in the Extermination Corps.”

  To my credit, I didn’t gasp. Everybody knew about the Extermination Corps. They were a death squad formed in secret by the oligarchs of the Goldfield Magocracy. Their prime directive was to eliminate non-human sentients. That meant more than just vampires, but also elves, fae, orcs, centaurs, otherworldly humans, even…the list goes on. When non-humans began gaining more sympathy among world governments, the Extermination Corps was discovered and shut down.

  “Killed a lot of vampires,” Brett continued. “That was the reason I joined, after all. But also killed a lot of elves. Can’t say if they deserved to die or not. Wasn’t thinking about that when I did
it.”

  He looked at his feet.

  “Very different types of missions than what we do now, Kat. When they did fight back, they shot at me. That’s why Guy and I were able to keep our heads cool against those vamp gangsters. We’ve been shot at a lot. Perhaps, hunting monsters is better. Teeth aren’t as fast or as dangerous as a gun. But, I can’t help but admit there’s something about being shot at that makes a man come alive.”

  “Was Guy in the Corps?” I asked, ignoring the last disturbing comment. Well, disturbing was unfair. I had to admit that there was something thrilling about coming close to death. Brett was right. We were the same, at least in some ways.

  “Guy? Nah. He got his experience leading the Transkei commandos against the Zulus. They sent a vampire clan after his unit and then his village and that’s why he’s here in Hope City. Nothing left for him in Zulu turf now.”

  Brett took another sandwich out, offered it to me and then took out his own. We both ate in silence.

  So, Brett had killed more than just traditional monsters. He’d killed elves. The people my aunt admired, despite their annexation of half of New Zealand. He’d also killed innocents, by his own implication. But, why? For the sake of my own view of him, I hoped he had a good reason.

  “You said you joined the Corps because of vampires?” I asked, another sandwich gone.

  “Vampires killed my family,” he said. Simply. Matter of factly. As if he had been telling himself that every hour of every day. It was the type of phrase said in the way that revealed that it had become his mantra. His justification for everything.

  I realised that Brett and I were, indeed, very much alike. I could not judge him harshly at all for his being in a death squad. If given the opportunity, I may have joined too. For a long time, and maybe even now, I would have done anything to eliminate the undead from this world.

  The sun started to fade and Brett offered to take me home. I had a small job nearby, though, so politely declined. He understood and was not offended. He took all the guns with him, of course. I didn’t have a license. Was not allowed to have a gun in my possession.

  “I don’t like this,” Treth said again, when we were alone, on the way to the rift-wrought zombie extermination job.

  “It’s just a zombie.”

  “Not that. I don’t like spending time with that man.”

  I bit my lip and, instead of scolding the spirit in my head, I just said. “Brett helped us save Trudie.”

  “He serves vengeance and profit. He helped us so to sate his hatred for vampire-kind.”

  “That’d be good enough for me,” I said, honestly. “But I don’t think it was just that. Brett is a good person.”

  “You didn’t always think that.”

  I shrugged. “People change. In this case, I changed. I grew enough to see past his teasing. He’s honourable.”

  “Honourable, if you pay him enough.”

  “I’ve never paid him anything.”

  “Not yet.”

  The zombie staggered outside of an alley and I beheaded it with a single swing. It was too far gone for me to know its gender, as its head rolled onto the pavement.

  “What are you implying, Treth of Concord?” I evoked his full title like a parent would use the middle name of a misbehaving child.

  “He is a man,” Treth said. “Men want things.”

  “You are also a man.”

  Treth hesitated, then snapped back. “A man without a body. All I want now is the quest.”

  I sighed, irritated. “So, what if Brett is interested in me? You didn’t mind when it was Andy.”

  A pause. The spirit was wracking his brain for a response. Before he could think of one, I spoke again.

  “It isn’t Brett, is it? You’ve been in a bad mood for a while. What’s up?”

  “Bad mood? Nonsense!” he said, but there was nervousness in his voice. I put my hands on my hips, sword still in my hand, dripping black blood, and glared at nothing in particular. He felt the glare all the same.

  “We’re effectively one and the same, Treth,” I said. “I accepted that a long time ago. No secrets. Or, at least, very few secrets.”

  “We are both closed books to each other, Kat, and you know it,” he snapped, but I felt a sadness in his voice. I sat down on a bench, the zombie corpse unmoving next to us.

  “As you’ve said before, Treth, we’re in this together. What’s up?”

  In the long pause that followed, I could hear birds chirping and the distant crash of waves. I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty sea air. I ignored the stench of undeath next to me.

  “Today marks two years that we’ve known each other.”

  I froze. I didn’t know. Hadn’t been keeping track. I burst out laughing. Couldn’t help it. It felt so absurd.

  “Why are you laughing?” Treth asked, more confused than offended.

  “Is that why you are upset? That I forgot our anniversary? Rifts, Treth. We aren’t married. I lost count. Been a bit busy.”

  “It’s not that,” Treth said, sheepishly. I felt a tinge of sadness emanate from him. I stopped laughing. Shit. I hoped I hadn’t offended him. Didn’t know he could be sensitive.

  “I haven’t had a body for that long, Kat,” Treth finally said. “Haven’t been my own person for that long.”

  I was about to argue with him as a substitute for actual sympathy but stopped. Treth had always seemed so content with his lot. So certain and accepting that this was his fate and he needed to make the most of it. But was that just a façade? Or had he finally had enough of not being his own man?

  “Treth…” I started.

  “No, Kat. It’s fine. Nothing you or I can do about it. I died. This is just punishment for that failure.”

  “I hope being in my head isn’t that much of a punishment,” I tried to joke.

  Treth didn’t notice that it was a joke. “It isn’t a punishment, Kat. For all the people I could have been tethered to, there could be no one better than you.”

  He sighed.

  “I’m sorry for my behaviour,” he murmured. “I’ll…think things through.”

  We didn’t speak after that while I collected the bounty on the zombie. Throughout, I hoped Treth didn’t notice the redness and warmth of my cheeks.

  Chapter 5.

  Patrols

  The Titan Citadel was paying me to walk around. Usually, I only got paid when I threw the monster’s head at the King’s feet and then bowed and scraped for a reward, but there were some benefits to detective-work. Because of its long, drawn-out nature, I was being paid for my time, in addition to the final reward when I solved the case. While this was definitely still not my cup of tea, I certainly did not mind the wage.

  My work brought me back to the top of Table Mountain, where I was patrolling around the windswept expanse surrounding the black Citadel. I must say, it was quite pleasant. The day was hot, but the unrestrained wind did wonders to keep me cool and refreshed. The plant-life, called fynbos, was also beautiful this high up. The flora, native to the Cape, were flourishing on top of the mountain, with only the cable station, Citadel and a few footpaths to restrict their growth. It made for a field of green and brightly coloured shrubbery, emitting a faint and pleasant peppery smell. It was a major improvement over the smell of trash, gas and decay down at the mountain’s base. This was the true smell of the Cape. The smell of its nature.

  “What are we even looking for?” Treth asked. Despite his promises, he had still been cranky on occasion. I chose to ignore his tone. He’d get over whatever it was that was eating him up. Eventually, at least.

  “Tracks, disturbances, what doesn’t belong…” I said. “The usual. Find the chaos among order. The broken twig in a field of unbroken twigs. Find the outlier and we’ve found the next step in the investigation.”

  “Sounds much more complicated than our usual fare.”

  “Complicated doesn’t mean bad.”

  Treth grunted, but I felt that he was assen
ting.

  I was wading through the brush around the smooth, void black walls of the Citadel. The shrubbery had grown right up against it, leaning on it for support. My investigation brought my gaze up from the foliage below, up the expansive wall next to me. I didn’t see any windows. No ventilation holes, either. Cornelius had told me that some sort of magic kept the people inside breathing. That made me uncomfortable. I was only just getting comfortable with magic, but still wasn’t near to being comfortable enough to allow it to help me breathe. The lack of air-holes and windows raised a more pertinent question, however.

  Something had made Titan mages disappear. But how could anything get into this impenetrable shard of black?

  Two possibilities.

  It broke through the front door.

  Or: it was let in.

  I was not sure which was the more terrifying possibility.

  I finished rounding the exterior of the Citadel and found no vulnerabilities, signs of tampering or even footprints besides my own. That, at least, narrowed my investigation. Barring something with wings that could pass through walls, the assailant making mages disappear on camera must’ve come through the only hole in the Citadel – the locked, metal door guarded by a CCTV camera.

  I pressed the buzzer by said door and was let through.

  “Find anything?” Cornelius asked. He was straightening some paintings. I walked up to him and examined the artwork. It was a Sekoto painting, depicting a pre-Cataclysm South African township. It was colourful, and despite the people’s faces being vague representations of their humanity, it held a sense of energy and sincerity.

  “Print?” I asked.

  Cornelius looked confused and then made an oh with his mouth.

  “No, no. This is the original. Outside the Shop by Gerard Sekoto.”

  He finished straightening the, most likely, priceless work of art and examined his handiwork with his hands on his hips.

  “So unfortunate that he died so soon after the Vortex. I would have liked to see how he would have depicted what became of his country,” Cornelius said.

  “Perhaps, it is fortunate for him that he did not. He lived a long life. At least he died when his country was still a country,” I replied. I knew a bit about Sekoto. We had done him in school history and he had been mentioned in pre-Cataclysm history.