“The quake destroyed all the bridges and the smuggling routes. The stranger is here.”
“What are your thoughts on that?” asked the man.
“During his short time in power Omar constructed relationships with many of the street level gangs. He used them for special assignments that could not be linked to the League.”
The fire crackled. The windows rattled in the wind.
“You mean assassinations?” said the man.
“Yes,” said the soldier, without hesitation. “We have exploited these partnerships to flush out the stranger. We also have a network of spies and informants but rapid communication is a problem.” He paused. “Kiven is a huge city. I’m sure you realise that.”
“And its people must never know how close we came to a second war,” said the man. “Missiles are not progress. Not in the eyes of the Ministry.”
“Nor the Society,” said the woman. “I cannot fathom how this Omar was able to take us to the brink so easily.”
“We have made changes to our old laws,” said the soldier. “A man like Omar will never be allowed to murder his way into such an influential position. The League will burden all and any blame. However, the imbalance in our city provided a conduit for him.”
“What imbalance?” said the woman, lowering her glass. “I’m not sure I appreciate your tone.”
“Half of the city is in ruin. Half of the ruins are occupied. But all of the occupants belong to the League.”
“What are you suggesting?” said the man.
“I’m a soldier therefore I suggest nothing. I speak as I find. There is an imbalance in Kiven. Omar exploited it. That is fact. The League sacrifices the most and suffers the most. That is another fact. I am a fighting man. I do not play word games.”
The man and woman looked at each other.
“What about all these weapons at the factory?” she asked. “Have you destroyed them?”
“No, of course not. Any hope of peace with the Ennpithians has gone. We fired a missile at them. They will never trust us. Never. One day that crime will be answered. We must be capable of protecting our borders.”
“Back to the matter of the stranger,” said the man. “You mentioned the street gangs?”
“Yes, they understand he is to be killed.”
“After all what has happened,” said the woman. “Is this really the only resolution? Using death squads?”
“He cannot be allowed to live,” said the soldier. “Not only is he responsible for the murder of League members he is the only surviving witness to what really happened at the Place of Bridges.”
“One hundred thousand citizens believe in the Alliance,” said the man. “And it has to remain that way. Even those who occupy the ruins. It took years to stabilise our city after the first war. We cannot afford a second one.”
The man raised his glass. “In memory of Governor Cooperman.”
The woman raised her glass. “Governor Nichols.”
The soldier raised his glass, but offered no words.
“The meeting is concluded,” said the man.
The glasses were set down. They formed a triangle; the soldier clenched his fists, the woman touched her chest, the man placed his hands above his eyes.
“Kiven,” they said, in unison.
“The stranger will be hunted down,” confirmed the soldier. “He is outnumbered and outgunned. He will be dead before the snows fall.”
The boy was six years old; wild stringy hair, clothing of cotton and animal fur, idly playing on the worn stairs, racing his two wooden cars with wooden wheels. The building resonated with noise, his excitable and animated voice blending into the tapestry of tenement life. Large families with multiple jobs lived here. Large families with little coin and little opportunity to earn more lived here.
The lobby door creaked open. The boy felt the cold air on his skin but he didn’t look up. There was no need. He knew the neighbourhood belonged to a gang. He knew the gang protected the families. There was no reason to be frightened or intimidated.
But he was curious.
His cars stopped in mid-collision and he peeked from the corner of his eye. The boy counted three men. He knew numbers, he was bright with numbers, adored them. Bandanas were wrapped around their faces and the sleeveless vests they wore were emblazoned with the head of a mythical creature. Their bare arms bore ink, dark curls and swirls, numbers and letters. The door eased shut. The cold air was gone. The men carried black pistols. They patted the boy on the head as they crept onto the stairwell.
The boy put down his cars and stood. He tilted his head back and watched them edge along the landing toward a closed door where the stranger lived. The man who hardly spoke. The man with the scar. The man with the gun. The child waited and watched with fascination. It was raining outside. It was windy outside. Thrust into adolescence, the rain and wind would always remind him of this day. He wet his lips as the three masked men reached the door.
Shockingly loud gunshots splintered the wood. The boy cried out, slapping his hands over his ears. One of the masked men toppled over the railing and hit the filthy floor with a wet smack.
The gunshots brought his mother rushing into the hallway. She frantically grabbed him as there was more firing from above.
“It’s going to be okay,” she said, rubbing the back of his head. “Don’t look at him, don’t look at him.”
The man’s skull had cracked wide open and the floor tiles were streaked with blood.
The child raised his head and stared up at the landing. He saw the bodies of the other gang members.
Then he glimpsed the man who hardly spoke. The man with the scar. The man with the gun.
And then the man was gone.
“Why did the stranger kill them?”
“Because they wanted to kill him. That is the way of things.”
“Is the stranger a bad man?”
“No,” said his mother, warmly, looking up. “The stranger was a good man.”
“Will he come back?”
She hesitated. “No.”
“Where will he go?”
She picked up his wooden cars.
“Into the wasteland.”
THE END
The story continues in …
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 3, Drums Of War (TWS) Page 42