Reaper's Legacy: Book Two (Toxic City)

by Tim Lebbon

  A clap! stirred dust across the hotel lobby, and Fleeter sauntered from between two marble columns.

  “The Chopper was right,” she said. “Half a mile past the Millennium Dome on the north bank. The container yard's massive, but I got in pretty close and saw some of them patrolling.”

  “You found the containers they're using?” Jack asked.

  Fleeter glanced at Reaper. He nodded for her to continue.

  “Not as such. But I got close to an open area in the piled containers. A sort of courtyard. I found one route that twisted its way in there, so there'll be others. And there were sharpshooters up on some of the higher boxes.”

  “How many troops?” Reaper asked.

  “Difficult to say. I couldn't get too close, didn't want to risk giving anything away. But I saw at least twenty in the courtyard. Dressed casual, not in Chopper outfits, but they're slack at hiding their weapons.”

  “Could be countless others in the containers,” Jenna said.

  “Yeah, great place for a barracks,” Sparky said.

  “Tell the others,” Reaper said.

  “Hang on a minute.” Sparky walked from behind the reception desk, twirling a set of keys on one finger. “We can't just storm in all gung-ho.”

  “I don't storm anywhere,” Fleeter said.

  “You're as good as a blazing gun,” Jenna said. “All you Superiors are. No subtlety, that's your problem. So, we go in like that and they'll respond in kind. Who's to say they won't just execute whatever prisoners they have and then get away somehow? No way they'd risk an HQ like this without having a pretty good escape plan. In case of…” She waved her hand at Reaper.

  “In case of something like this,” Sparky said.

  “So what do you suggest?” Reaper asked.

  “The girl,” Jenna said. She glanced around at them all, and her gaze finally rested on Jack.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Show of strength.” He glanced at Fleeter. She was smiling at him, leaning against a wall, hand on hip. She was trying to look seductive, and after what he'd seen her do he found that grotesque. But they could work together.

  “You and me?” Fleeter asked.

  Jack nodded.

  “We go in, kill the girl, show them they don't have a hope.” Fleeter's voice was high with excitement.

  “No!” Jenna said. “Don't you get it, you stupid bitch? You don't kill her. You don't kill anyone. You just—”

  A clap!, a swish of air across the hotel lobby, and between blinks Fleeter was behind Jenna with one arm tugging across her neck. Jenna gasped in surprise, then choked, clawing at Fleeter's arm. But the woman was stronger than she looked.

  Sparky threw a punch and Fleeter stepped aside, dodging the blow without having to flip.

  “Stop it,” Jack said, but no one heard. He glanced at his father, breathed deeply, and spoke the words again, this time imbuing them with Reaper's power.

  Behind the counter, cobwebbed keys jangled on their hooks, and dust rose from the lobby carpet. The building itself seemed to grumble, and everyone froze.

  With a grunt, Jenna shoved Fleeter away. Sparky glared at the woman, and Reaper watched them all with a humourless smile.

  “What Jenna said,” Jack said. “We don't kill anyone. We need a distraction, then Fleeter and I go in and take the girl. Bring her out. Show them what we can do right under their noses, and that to stand against us will be hopeless.”

  “Even if there's forty of them?” Sparky said. “Eighty? A hundred?”

  “They're ants,” Reaper said.

  “Ants with machine guns!”

  “We'll force a stalemate,” Jack said. “They've got a perfect hiding place, but it'll go against them as well. They might know the area, but they can't see around corners.”

  “And you can?” Breezer asked.

  Jack shrugged. He hadn't tried. “With the talents we have here, we can find our way in. And it's the best way. If what we're doing here is actually going to help anyone, we have to move on. Them picking up Irregulars and hunting for…” He nodded at Reaper and Fleeter. “And you killing them whenever you can. If any sort of progress is to be made, the killing has to stop. Here and now.”

  “Progress,” Reaper said slowly, as if tasting the word.

  “I'll be your distraction,” Sparky said.

  “Me too.” Jenna turned her back on Fleeter and faced Jack. “And maybe Breezer and a couple of his people can help.”

  Reaper grunted in agreement.

  Jack experienced a sudden, overwhelming sense of familiarity—the way his father stood with his hands behind his back, the brush of his hair, the shadow of weak light falling across his cheek and chin. He wanted to go to him and hug him, squeeze away the last two years and tell him how much he loved him, and how much they all needed him.

  “And if the distraction fails,” Reaper said, “we'll be waiting to mop up the pieces.”

  “It won't fail,” Jack said. But the fragility of their alliance was already obvious. Reaper and his people seemed almost flippant in their confidence, and there was no telling what their real aims and ambitions were. Reaper had left Miller alive because he amused him. Like a cat leaving a mouse to play with the next day.

  And yet Jack was certain that there were underlying insecurities that he had yet to find. If not, why did Reaper not rule London?

  And why was he even still here?

  He sighed, and thought of his mother and Emily.

  They slowly drew together with the others. One of the women with Breezer could communicate in a basic way with her mind, sending hints and urges rather than words. She liaised their meeting point, and long before they got there, Jack and his friends saw the huge area of stacked containers.

  It was almost beautiful. The rectangular metal containers came in an array of colours—yellow, green, rusty red, cream, varying shades of blue. There seemed to be no design to how they were stacked, and the mess of colours was busy and pleasing to the eye. But knowing what lay within the container park gave it a sinister edge.

  This was where Miller and his Choppers operated from. A place of imprisonment and cruelty. A place of chopping to see what made London's survivors—the New—able to do the amazing things they could. He probed inward and reached out, but he was not able to see far into the maze of containers. It was confused. He wasn't sure why, but his senses were flooded with input from all around, like splashes of colour and light on a dark background. Thousands of containers filled with millions of items. Perhaps they all meant something to someone—all bearing distinct, deep histories—and that concentration of meaning was confusing his talents.

  They crossed a wide spread of concrete and approached the first of the containers, watching out for movement. Breezer and his people emerged from behind one of the metal boxes where they had been waiting, and without a word they joined forces. It was a significant moment, marked by no more than a glance between Reaper and Breezer. Both men hid their thoughts.

  The Choppers already knew they were there. Of course they did. They had the girl working for them. But this time the advantage belonged to the New.

  Jack and Fleeter held back at the tail end of the group as they moved into a shadowy passageway between container piles. The route quickly became as wide as one of London's streets—wide enough for container trucks and mobile cranes, Jack guessed. Sparky and Jenna led, with Breezer and the three Irregulars just behind them. Puppeteer followed, to the side and slightly apart. Reaper had vanished, advancing from elsewhere, and Jack knew that others would be with him—Shade, Scryer, and more.

  So these are the New, Jack thought, and a tingle ran down his spine. Tense though this moment was, it was also painfully exciting. He had seen more death and murder than anyone his age should ever see, and he hoped that this might be the first step beyond that.

  But he also knew that grudges ran white-hot. The slightest mistake could push one side or the other over the precipice.

  After ten minutes wending their way bet
ween piled metal containers, Fleeter grabbed his arm and pulled him close. The others paused as well, watching expectantly.

  “The open area is around the next junction,” she said, nodding at where two routes met a hundred yards ahead.

  “The air's loaded,” Jack said. “Tense.”

  “Don't need Spidey senses to feel that,” Sparky muttered.

  “They'll have guards,” Jenna said.

  “And the sharpshooters I told you about,” Fleeter whispered, pointing up.

  “Come on,” Jack said. “Fleeter and I will get out of sight while you move on. But…”

  “Of course we'll be careful,” Sparky said

  Jenna nodded. “I'll look after him.”

  Jack watched his friends moving away from him, and the sinking feeling could only have been dread.

  Fleeter grabbed his hand and pulled, edging into a much narrower gap. Then she started to climb. He followed, glancing up and then looking away, embarrassed, when he realised he could see up her short skirt. He heard her chuckling above him, and he concentrated on handholds and footholds. In places it was easy, and elsewhere he had to prop himself across the gap and edge upwards an inch at a time. After a few minutes Fleeter's hand reached down and helped haul him up, and they emerged into sunlight.

  Jack rolled onto his stomach and looked around. They'd climbed four containers, and around them many were stacked only two or three high. Fleeter pressed her finger to her lips and pointed, and thirty yards away Jack could see someone lying on a lower box, rifle resting before them. They had one hand pressed to their ear, listening to some sort of communicator. Binoculars sat beside them. Fleeter gesticulated “wanker,” then nodded in the opposite direction. To the east the wide, open area where there were no units at all was obvious. They crawled across the roof of the container, keeping as low as possible, and looked down onto a large expanse of concrete.

  There were several Chopper vehicles parked there, Land Rovers and a few of the powerful motorbikes they'd seen only recently. People rushed around, weapons on display. They exuded an aura of confidence. Good, Jack thought. We'll soon change that.

  Fleeter tapped his arm and pointed. Across the other side of the open area, which must have been the size of a football pitch, several metal containers seemed somehow out of place. They'd been placed side to side in two distinct arrangements, one consisting of four units, the other three. Electrical cable was strung around them, and around them were the signs of a well-used compound. Oil drums were stacked beside one, pallets held plastic containers of food and water. Spare tyres, a row of portable toilets, stacked bags of rubbish, and there were even several large, open tents.

  They're settled, Jack thought. Safe. At ease. He could not hold back the smile. And then from below, a shouted warning.

  “Stop right there!” Across the clearing, men and women brought up their weapons and pointed them at the intruders. Some of them edged sideways until they aimed from behind vehicles. Others went to their knees, rifles propped against shoulders.

  Sparky, Jenna, and the others had emerged from the maze of containers and now stood at the edge of the open area. Breezer glanced back, and Jack realised for the first time how nervous the man was. He'd spent the past two years trying to avoid Choppers. Now he was offering himself to them, in full knowledge of what they did.

  “Stay strong, not long now,” Jack muttered. Beside him, Fleeter giggled. He ignored her.

  The man next to Breezer lowered his head and looked at his feet, and Jack just caught his words. “Drop your weapons.”

  From across Camp H, the clatter and clash of guns being dropped.

  “That's us,” Jack said, turning to Fleeter. She raised an eyebrow at him, licked her lips as she looked him up and down, and then vanished with a crack! and a swirl of dust.

  Jack concentrated, grasped the talent, and did the same.

  “You don't seem surprised,” Rook said.

  “Seen it before.”

  “On TV or something, yeah?”

  Lucy-Anne shook her head. Rook frowned, but said no more.

  The sculpture was huge, outlandish, and it seemed even stranger now that there was no one left to appreciate it. The table was thirty feet tall, plain, square-edged. An equally plain chair was tucked halfway beneath it, and together they dwarfed the landscape. Lucy-Anne couldn't shake the unsettling conviction that she, Rook, and the surroundings were too small, rather than the table and chair being too large. It was dizzying and unreal, but she was not too concerned with what she saw now.

  It was what might come next that concerned her.

  “Nomad's here,” she said. Farther up the slope, shadows moved slowly uphill.

  “So did you dream that as well?” Rook's voice was loaded with doubt, and she looked at the boy who was barely older than her, his dark beauty belying the dreadful things he was capable of. I saw him having his face eaten off, she thought, but already she could not recall whether that had been a dream and what came after was real, or the other way around. Had she really dreamed to re-imagine reality? Or had reality merely followed the course of her dream?

  “I'm so glad you're alive,” she said, realising how strange that must sound to him. She hadn't told him. How could she? The worm monster ate you, but I dreamed it all differently and now you're not dead.

  “You're strange,” Rook said. For an instant his voice sounded almost childish—as it should sound coming from a boy his age, when adulthood and childhood still crossed paths—and Lucy-Anne laughed out loud. A killer and an innocent, perhaps Rook was no longer capable of subtleties of emotion.

  At the edge of the tall tabletop, a silhouette shifted.

  “There,” Lucy-Anne breathed, laughter ceasing.

  “Oh,” Rook breathed.

  Nomad stepped from the table and fell softly to the ground, landing on her feet without causing an impact. Lucy-Anne wondered whether the grass even bent beneath her feet. She looked like a special effect, superimposed on the strange reality of London without any influence on the surroundings. It's like she's too real and everything else is a shadow, Lucy-Anne thought, and the idea disturbed her terribly.

  “Is that you?” Rook asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You. Is that you doing that?” He was looking at Lucy-Anne, not at Nomad. Denying her presence, not wishing to see her.

  “No,” Lucy-Anne said. “Who do you think I am?”

  “I don't…” Rook said. He was confused and vulnerable. She didn't like him like this. Not one bit.

  Nomad was watching them. Her hair shifted to an absent breeze, her clothes were old and tattered and yet suited her perfectly. Her eyes were piercing. She might have been mad, or scared.

  “You,” Lucy-Anne said. She came to kill me, but that was before my dream. Or is this my dream?

  “And you,” Nomad said. She started walking forward, raising her fisted hand as if ready to open it palm-up, presenting something for Lucy-Anne's perusal. But this was death she brought with her. She could scorch Lucy-Anne to a cinder with a gasp, blast her apart with a blink, crush her into a smear across the wild landscape with one stamp of her boot.

  “I'm sorry,” Nomad said, and the wretchedness did not sit well with her strength.

  But things had already changed.

  “I dreamed of you,” Lucy-Anne said, “and you won't kill me here.”

  The woman frowned, then—

  —she opened her hand. But everything had suddenly changed. The power she had been nurturing in her fist ready to blast the girl and her bird-boy to nothing but memory had become something else; a swarm of flies, flitting to the air and dispersing from view. And Nomad was glad.

  The fear she had felt whenever she thought or dreamed of the girl had changed into a stunned fascination. And she was pleased.

  The girl has to die, she thought. She closed her eyes briefly and recalled the visions from her dream—the mushroom cloud, the blast-wave levelling what was left of London, and her boy Jack
meeting his end before he had even touched a fraction of his potential.

  She felt herself steered towards other actions. She experienced a flush of déjà vu, as if she had dreamed this same scene a thousand times. Now I walk forward and squat in the grass, the boy cannot accept me because I trouble him so, but the girl talks to me. We exchange information, discuss plans. We are like friends. Yet she had never dreamed of this meeting before. Not like this, and not with this result. The girl had been a horror in her imagination, but now she was rapidly becoming something else.

  Nomad lowered her hand and walked towards the girl. She was confused, frowning. Shaking her head. I am my own woman, she thought, but the startling déjà vu remained. She grasped onto it for as long as she could, because for the first time in years Nomad did not feel responsible. She was not master of her own actions, and she could allow a small weight, at least, to lift from her shoulders.

  In that moment of clarity she understood that her guilt would have killed most people, but she had borne it with madness. Perhaps because she sought a way to put everything right.

  Maybe she is the way.

  “But no one knows me,” Nomad said.

  “It doesn't matter,” the girl said. “My name is Lucy-Anne, and I think you can help.”

  Nomad went to her knees and ran her hands through the long grass, really connecting with the world. Heat grew behind her face. For the first time since she had become Nomad, she began to cry.

  Rook stayed close to Lucy-Anne for a few more moments. She could hear his heavy breathing, sense his fear, and when he reached for her hand she took it and squeezed. His rooks were circling high above, and many had landed in the tree bordering this open land to the north. She had never seen them so far away from him.

  “I need to…” Rook said. He let go and turned his back on the woman, retreating a dozen steps before sitting down and looking out over London.