“We’d better get to work.”
She climbed onto the truck and stared ahead, numb.
Stone picked at the remains of a small fire with the tip of his boot. He spotted prints in the soil.
He lingered in the growing shadows of the dark forest, staring at Mosscar, thinking of Nuria and the anger she’d directed at him. She was right to be pissed. But Quinn’s niece, a girl he’d never met, a child, had been taken from this world, and he vowed to push those responsible bleeding and begging from existence. The wind whipped around him. He scraped his hand down a tree trunk, the bark healthy. He plucked a leaf from an overhead branch, sniffed it, let it sail to the ground. The sweeping countryside turned silver, a three quarter moon sitting in the dark sky. He stroked his horse, whispered to her and tied her to a tree.
Armed with crossbow and revolver, he moved half-crouched across the exposed scrubland.
The metropolis loomed before him; tower blocks with terrible cracks through the brickwork, highways of buckled asphalt, half-collapsed bridges, crumbling into almost nothing. He had seen cities buried beneath centuries of ash and dirt and rubble but he’d never encountered a city ravaged by vegetation. He kept moving toward it. There were no lookouts. His boots touched a hard surface. He edged to his right and spotted horse tracks less than a day old. They had come up the hill, three of them, from the direction of Brix. The tracks stopped, overlapped and then swerved into the city. He spotted puddles of dried blood.
Stone rubbed a hand over his beard, angled the crossbow toward the city. He had seen men and women suffer vile deaths at the hands of the sickness. It was what they all called it. There were no names for the myriad of illnesses that blighted mankind. Sickness was sickness and once inside Mosscar he would be infected within minutes and dead within days. But his instincts had kept him alive this far and there was no wailing scream inside for him to turn around and run.
There was something coiled in the grass. He stooped, lifted out a belt of knives and recognised them. Quinn had been captured. And she had been right. Whoever was responsible for the death of Clarissa most likely had her as well. The belt was too short for his waist or chest so he carefully folded it and jammed it into his pocket.
He crossed into Mosscar.
The most obvious way to hide a lie was to place it in plain sight and you couldn’t get more plain and visible than a city.
He stepped over choking vines, black in the dark night. Still he saw no lookouts but understood how the lie negated the use of them. He followed a long street and approached a junction of several roads. Trees punched through the asphalt. Ruined buildings were shrouded in gloom. There was no one around. The Ancients had taken power from the sky cables and threaded them across cities and swathes of open land to bring light but now the giant towers of metal had fallen and the thick wires were rusted, their great power dissolved as nature roared back to reclaim her soil.
The darkening skyline of Mosscar bristled with a new and visceral power and no steel or glass could temper it.
Stone heard movement.
He darted across the street and pressed his back against the pitted wall of a three storey building, beneath a faded metal sign featuring a curious row of black circles with holes in the middle.
He listened; voices, running feet.
He poked his head around the corner and counted five bare-chested men running down the street. They were painted with the inverted cross and carried weapons and spoke in a language he did not understand. He remembered how Essamon, the freak with the feathers and the box of light, had garbled words at him before turning on the beam. It was the same tongue.
Stone went inside the building. The floor was strewn with pieces of black debris that crunched noisily beneath his boots. He carefully picked his way toward a window, the wind whistling sharply through the opening. He put the stock of the crossbow against his shoulder and waited, a faint glow in the distance momentarily attracting his gaze.
The Shaylighters came toward the junction, arms and legs pumping. He narrowed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.
The warrior let out a strangled cry as the bolt drilled into his throat. His body catapulted away from his companions and his axe flew and clattered loudly against the street. Stone cranked the crossbow and fired again as the group of men stuttered to a halt, frantically looking around. He took down another within the blink of an eye, slamming the bolt into the man’s forehead. The warrior reeled backward, blood flooding his eyes, legs buckling, and as his skull hit the asphalt with a wet smack there was a blood curdling screech from the remaining Shaylighters. A spear whistled through the blackness and bounced off the concrete building, spraying Stone with masonry.
He peppered them with bolts, licking his lips as he rapidly cranked the crossbow. A warrior screamed as a bolt sank into his thigh but he managed to limp toward the trees for cover before Stone could take him down. A rifle type weapon was aimed at him and something whistled past his head in a blur. Two Shaylighters ducked behind a crushed car, barely visibly beneath the spreading greenery, and more projectiles volleyed into the building. Stone crawled over the jagged pieces of black rubble as chunks of concrete erupted all around him. A steel ball pinged off his crossbow. He heard the two men calling to each other and then the shooting ceased for a moment.
He made it to the doorway, crouched down in the shadows and drew his knife.
Steel balls whipped all around him as the Shaylighters opened fire once more. Quinn had been wrong about their weapons. He wondered what else she had gotten wrong. The Shaylighters had broken cover and fanned out; the first one heading for the door, the second one coming for the window, pretty much as he’d anticipated. The men barked a constant stream of gnarled and hate-filled words as they drew close, rapidly firing their weapons. Stone didn’t budge. Dust clouds filled the room. He steadied his breathing as the first warrior edged along the side of the building.
A shadow filled the doorway and Stone lunged from his crouched position, driving the blade upward. The Shaylighter let out an agonised cry. Stone jerked the knife free and rammed it in once more.
Scooping up the crossbow, he moved into the street. The other Shaylighter was utterly exposed, his weapon pointing into an empty building.
Stone fired.
The warrior hit the ground and Stone ran, chasing down the final man, the one with the wounded leg.
He tore across the street and spotted a trail of blood leading onto a sidewalk and over a stony and grass covered lot. The trail disappeared over a half-collapsed wall and into winding alleyways. Stone ran for the nearest building, vaulted onto a ledge and scrambled onto the roof. His boots scraped against the gravel covered rooftops as he ran. The painted warrior turned and fired blind into the darkness, a steel ball looping through the air.
Stone dropped and skated beneath a long row of metal boxes once neatly bolted together, now rattling noisily in the wind. He reached the edge, dropped to one knee, raised his crossbow and fired down into the alleyway; his aim was perfect, the bolt struck the Shaylighter in his other leg. The man wailed and fell to his knees, clutching his thighs and grimacing in pain. He knew it was the end for him. Stone sprang off the roof and ran toward him, slinging the crossbow over his shoulder and whipping out his knife. He charged into the warrior, sending him sprawling. He straddled the man, roughly jerked back his head and placed the knife against the Shaylighter’s throat.
“Where is she? Where did you take her? Where is the woman?”
The man spat words but they made no sense. Stone rolled him onto his back, the blade still at his throat.
“Can you understand me? Do you know what I’m saying? Look at me. You’re not fucking dying yet.”
“Le do thoil nach gortaitear dom.”
Stone yanked one the bolts from the man’s legs. He screamed.
“Where is she?”
“They … whore,” he spluttered. “Fight.”
He limply raised his hands, bunched them into shaking fists.
“She fight. She … she fight.”
“She fought you? Good. Where is she?”
“Mo chosa,” he said, grinning, blood running from his mouth. “She die. Mo chosa. Ennpithia weak.”
Stone clambered off him and scratched around the alleyway, hunting for the weapon he’d dropped. He spotted it in the rubble. It was a steel ball firing carbine, utilising an internal slingshot.
“Impressive,” he said, turning it over in his hands.
It had been skilfully constructed, metal and wood welded together, a hand grip and trigger guard at one end with a ridged sliding bar at the other, similar to that he’d seen on a pump-action shotgun. He raised the weapon with both hands and slipped his finger against the trigger. It was a good weight, naturally heavier than a revolver but lighter than a rifle.
“Where did they take her?”
Blood pooled around the warrior’s legs. His eyes rolled. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
Stone kicked him.
“Where?”
He squeezed the trigger, without waiting for an answer, but the weapon failed to fire. He dragged back the pump and it clicked as the sling tightened. A steel ball was released from the magazine into the channel. He’d seen all manner of custom made weapons in the wastelands but this was certainly a superior one. In accurate hands the steel ball would puncture flesh as deadly as any bullet.
“Beidh muid a mharu,” said the warrior, slowly bleeding out. “Mharu, mharu, beidh tu go leir bas.”
Stone buried the steel ball in his throat.
This time, Nuria was ready for her.
Kevane and Maurice had left on one of their many circuits around the property and she sat alone on the truck with her back to the house. The three of them had been mostly subdued through the evening. Kevane had attempted to entertain her with stories of drunken escapades at previous festivals but she really wasn’t really in the mood and politely nodded and smiled through his many tales. Maurice continued to bring up Stone’s foolish decision to venture into Mosscar. He began to recall the misery one of his neighbours had endured from contracting the sickness.
“She never went to Mosscar,” said Kevane, sensing the tension in Nuria. “That’s horse shit. She picked it up from that fire-eater she banged. You’re a real cheery bastard tonight, Maurice. C’mon, it’s time for an extra long patrol.”
Nuria had mouthed a silent thank you at Kevane and he winked as he led away his more serious companion.
With the crossbow at her side and an open bottle of wine in her hand, Stone rattled around her thoughts. She hadn’t been able to think of anything else since he’d left. She should have gone with him. It was as simple as that. What was she doing here anyway? Why was she honouring a deal with a man she hardly knew and forsaking a bond with a man she was falling in love with? She tilted the bottle and drank. Falling? He was inside the city now. The sickness would be sucking its way through his flesh. No. He was convinced. She patted the small item in her pocket. She should have given it to him before he’d left but his stubbornness had angered her. It would have to wait until he returned.
And he would return. He would return.
The village was noisy. Lights showed from the green. The band still played. Men and women still drank.
She shut out the noise and listened to the steady and gentle crunch of footsteps across the ground.
“I know you’re there, Kaya.”
There was hesitation. The sea hissed against the cliffs. Stars blinked in the cloudless black sky.
“It must be nice,” said Nuria, sipping the wine. “Waking up in a bed of your own with the sound of the sea in your ears.”
She dropped from the truck.
“Why would you want to run from that?”
Kaya was crouched on the ground, attempting to slide beneath the vehicle and conceal herself once more.
“You keep getting it wrong,” said Nuria. “Tomorrow is our last night. That’s when you should try and hide yourself.”
Kaya got to her feet and jutted out her chin, unsure if she was being mocked.
“I just want to leave.”
Nuria pointed at the front gate.
“Climb over that then.”
“How far would I get on foot?” she said, sullen.
“Why do you want to run?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. Tell me.”
“Who are you?”
“Nuria.”
Kaya looked over her shoulder.
“It’s not them, if that’s what you’re thinking. My mother can be a hard bitch but it’s not them.”
Nuria swigged the bottle. She offered it to Kaya.
“You spoke to Stone today.”
Kaya drank, wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“He’s no monster under the bed.”
“For some he can be.”
A smirk touched her mouth.
“He has a nasty scar.”
“He does.”
“Do you have any scars?”
“Plenty,” said Nuria, leaning the crossbow against her legs. “This is the one I hate the most.”
She rolled up her sleeve. Kaya gaped at the trio of shapes burned into Nuria’s fair skin.
“Did that hurt?”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
Nuria took the bottle from her. “A sick man once controlled me.” She swallowed a mouthful, handed it back.
Kaya drank.
“But not now,” said Nuria.
The girl shuffled on the spot and looked at the closed gate, the sky, the truck. Nuria waited. Kaya made eye contact a few times, accompanied by an awkward smile but she remained silent and still Nuria waited.
Eventually, she spoke. “We call him the Predator.”
“We?”
“I’m not the only one.”
“Does he hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“We don’t know.”
Nuria waited.
“Can I show you something?” said Kaya.
“Of course.”
“Will you believe me?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“No one believes me. No one believes any of us.”
“Who did you tell?”
“My parents.”
“And they don’t believe you?”
“No.”
“I’ll believe you.”
“Do you promise?”
She nodded. Kaya motioned with her head and stepped into the shadows along the side of the truck. Kevane and Maurice had turned the corner of the Earl’s house but were busy checking the stables and outbuildings. Kaya grabbed the bottle and gulped down more wine. She handed it back to Nuria. Her hand was trembling. She turned away and gingerly pulled out the flaps of her shirt. She lifted it to her shoulders. Her back was narrow and pale in the moonlight. Her skin was smooth, unbroken. Kaya turned around, pulling down her shirt.
“You see?”
“Is this a sick joke?”
Kaya shook her head.
“You told me you’d believe me. You have to believe me.”
“There’s nothing there.”
“The Predator is real. I swear on the Lord. He beats us, does … stuff … he beats us all.”
“Go back inside and stop wasting my time.”
“Over and over,” said Kaya, eyes wet. “He’s sick. He sends men to snatch us and then he beats us.”
There was pleading in her face.
“No one believes me.”
“There’s not a mark on you,” said Nuria, jabbing a finger at the girl, nerves shredded worrying about Stone.
She wanted Kaya to go back to the house so she could drink until the veil of oblivion smothered her.
“This isn’t a game,” she snarled. “What’s the matter with you? Stone and I would kill a man for hurting a child.”
“I thought you’d understand,” said Kaya,
crumbling. “That’s why I want to run away. My parents don’t believe me.”
Nuria saw Kevane and Maurice approach.
“Go. Now.”
“I’m not lying. The Predator is real. He touches himself, does it on us.”
Kaya pulled at her hair. Tears rolled over her cheeks. She stamped her boots against the ground.
“I thought you’d help me. He’s a monster, a real monster.”
“Not this again.” Maurice was calling to her. “Kaya, you have to stop doing this.”
The front door of the Earl’s house creaked open. The doorway filled with lamplight.
“Kaya. Is that you, Kaya? Where are you?”
It was the girl’s mother, voice like a gunshot.
“I’m not a liar.”
“Let’s get you back inside,” said Maurice. “This can’t keep happening.”
“You’re a silly little girl, Kaya,” said Kevane, shaking his head.
The Earl’s wife stepped from the doorway. She was wrapped in a cloak. The waves pounded the cliff. The smell of seaweed filled the air.
“You have to stop him,” sobbed Kaya. “I’m not making it up. I’m not. I promise. The Predator is real.”
“Not him again,” said Kevane, rolling his eyes.
“There’s not a mark on you,” said Nuria, turning away, lifting the bottle to her mouth.
“That’s because he gets the one-eyed witch to heal us. She makes the wounds disappear.”
Nuria spun round, eyes wide with shock.
“What did you say?”
ELEVEN
Jeremy looked crushed.
“I thought you’d understand,” he said.
Quinn twisted her mouth into a grimace. They had taken her into the heart of the city where a vast building stood. It was so immense she couldn’t even see around it. There were hundreds, possibly thousands of Shaylighters inside, in every direction she looked. It was a grand, open-roofed stadium with thousands of mangled and empty seats curving up at an angle toward a stubby overhang of rusted metal. There were gaping holes with greenery wound around exposed metal poles and fractured concrete where vegetation grew wildly. She glimpsed long rooms wedged between the seats and the roof. Fires glowed and shadows moved inside. The banks of seating, on all four sides of the building, surrounded an oblong stretch of overgrown grass where many of the tribe gathered. There were wagons, livestock and cooking fires blazing into the night.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) Page 13