by Rick Wood
“Where’d we find that one?” Brooklyn asked, a lecherous grin still smacked from cheek to cheek.
“I found her outside,” Dalton said, his voice monotone, unimpressed. “She was unconscious.”
“Well done you! I’ve never had a brown one before.”
“She’s not brown.”
“Black, brown, green, whatever she is.”
“By the look of her, I’d say she’s of mixed heritage.”
“What does that mean?”
Dalton shook his head and walked on. Brooklyn didn’t seem to take the signal, and he followed.
“I mean,” Brooklyn carried on, “I tell you, mate. The things I could do to a fancy little thing like that.”
“What makes you think she’d want you to do those things?”
Dalton hated himself for getting drawn in. Reminded himself not to.
“How could she resist?”
“You’re not God’s gift to every woman out there, you know.”
“Maybe I won’t give her much choice.”
Dalton stopped, forcing Brooklyn to stop. Brooklyn’s face didn’t match the anger shaking his. If anything, the smug look on Brooklyn’s face only fuelled that anger more.
“What are you saying?” Dalton said. “You’re going to force it on her?”
“Relax, Dalton. All I’m saying is we live in a different world now.”
“A world where a woman doesn’t have a choice?”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, mate, I was joking. Lighten up, would you? When are you off duty? I fancy a beer.”
From sexual assault to a beer break in a matter of syllables.
That summed up Brooklyn.
“I’m not off duty for hours,” Dalton lied. “Go on without me.”
“Right you are, shit-face.”
Brooklyn sauntered off, that fake swagger to his walk, that arrogant stride to his legs.
If only Dalton had known, right then, what was going to happen, he may not have spent the rest of the night worrying about it.
As it was, he couldn’t seem to get this woman out of his mind.
NOW
Chapter Fifty-Two
Cia saw them.
Dalton and Boy.
She saw them as she approached, unease stabbing at her chest.
What did she expect?
Dalton armed, firing at her, running at her with a knife?
Whatever she had imagined, it wasn’t this: Dalton standing neatly over Boy, in the garden, watching her approach.
She slowed down. Gaining ground with caution. She pulled the wooden sword out and held it ready by her side, the sharp end as ruthless as the blade tucked into her belt.
He smiled as he saw her weapon.
“You are a good girl,” Dalton said as soon as she was in earshot. “Taking the lessons I taught you. Look at that! It’s got a point as prickly as your personality. What a beauty.”
“I don’t want to do this, Dalton,” she said.
“Do what?”
She paused a few yards from the fence.
Dalton walked casually to the garden bench where she saw an array of weapons, some assembled some not, all ready and assigned to a different part of her torture.
“What is this?” she asked.
He really had lost it.
From a kind, caring human – to this.
“You’re a monster,” she quietly muttered.
“What?” Dalton said, patronisingly cupping his ear.
“I said you’re a monster. You’re no better than a bloody Lisker. Or a Thoral.” Dalton began laughing. “Or a Waster, or a Maskete.”
“Let me ask you a question – how many people have I killed?”
She shrugged.
“I mean, since you’ve known me – it’s just been that guy, right?”
“You mean Colin,” she stated bluntly.
“Oh, that his name? Don’t really matter, question that I’m asking is, how many people do you know of that I’ve killed? So far, just the one, yeah?”
Cia shrugged again. She really didn’t care, she just wanted this to end.
“And when I’m done with you and Boy, that will be three, right?”
“I guess,” she said, waving her arms in the air. She turned her attention to Boy and began thinking how best to put herself between the two of them.
“And how many people have you killed since you’ve known me?”
“None.”
“Wrong.”
“Okay, one – my dad.”
“Wrong again.”
He cocked his gun.
He pointed it at Boy’s head.
“Try again.”
“I don’t understand what–”
“How many people,” Dalton demanded, his voice now impatient and shouting, “Have you killed?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Two thousand six hundred and thirty-three.”
Cia stared at him. He really has lost it.
“What are you talking about?”
“That was the population of the Sanctity, Cia. That’s how many people you killed.”
Ah.
Now it all made sense.
“So there’s no way I can talk you out of this?” Cia asked, resigned to the fate she once thought impossible.
He just gripped the gun he pointed at Boy, who sat there with leaves draped around his feet, his face concealed by his own quivering arms.
“Drop your weapon.”
Cia looked back at him, weighing up her options.
She could drop it and they would both be exposed.
She could give it up, and Boy would live – for now.
Or…
What?
What else?
She had no choice.
The most important thing was survival and, for that reason, she threw her weapon to the floor – but she threw it beside Boy, in hope that he would find some way to use it or keep it for her.
“What now?” Cia asked.
“What do you mean, what now? Come and get what you came here for.”
Come and get what I came here for?
He was talking about Boy. Boy, who had covered his ears and buried his face in his hands. Boy, who was shutting himself away from a world he couldn’t handle.
“You came here for Boy, didn’t you?” Dalton persisted.
“Yes,” Cia said, still not quite understanding.
“Then come and get him.”
Could it really be that simple?
“What’s the trap, Dalton?”
“Trap?” he echoed, looking around inquisitively.
Whatever he was planning, at least this would put her between them. At least her body would protect Boy, for as long as Dalton would allow.
She stepped forward, climbed over the picket fence, and edged into the garden.
Keeping her eyes on Dalton’s gun at all times.
She stepped another pace closer to Boy. He was in reaching distance now.
Dalton backed away to the bench. Put his gun down. Picked up his knife.
Why on earth would he do that?
Cia paused. Steps away from Boy, but sceptical.
Why would he back away and discard his gun for a knife?
“What have you got planned, Dalton?” she asked.
He smiled.
“Do you want the fucking kid or not?” he asked.
Fine, she decided.
She would put herself between them.
She stepped forward, went to the ground and put her arms around Boy. Stroked his hair, kissed his forehead, spoke to him as softly as she could, “I’m here, Boy, I’m here now, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
She didn’t see what Dalton did, but she heard the swing of his knife. He plunged it downwards, and she went flying into the air.
It took seconds for it to happen, then far longer for her to readjust.
She now dangled from a wayward tree branch by her ankle, right above Boy, looking down at him.
&nbs
p; Boy, whose foot moved out of the leaves surrounding him to reveal a rope around his ankle.
There was something Dalton had slashed, some kind of rope that led something buried in the leaves, something that now had her helplessly flailing in the air…
She thrashed and fought, but this only made her swing and felt nauseous.
Dalton stepped forward with his large, curved blade and stood over Boy.
“You really are a fucking idiot,” he stated, clearly and concisely.
He grabbed Boy by the hair and dragged him as far across the garden as the rope around his ankle would allow, before pressing him face down in the soil and mounting him.
With his knife, he cut through Boy’s shirt and scraped a line of blood down his back. Boy screamed like he never had before, wailing that was so much more than the whining he often did.
A Maskete screech responded.
Dalton looked over his shoulder at Cia and grinned.
She dangled there helplessly, forced to watch.
Forced to watch, as she moved her hands upward, behind her back, reaching for the blade tucked inside her belt.
Chapter Fifty-Three
She wasn’t subtle about it.
No need to be, really.
There was no discrete way for her to find herself out of this predicament.
She waited until Dalton’s back was to her, until all that could be heard were the heart-wrenching wails of the person she wished to protect more than anyone else in the world.
She swung up and grabbed the rope around her ankles with one hand, took the blade from her belt with the other, and sawed through the rope. She dragged her blade back and forth, until it frayed and grew weak, twisting her arm until it ached.
She ignored Boy’s cries.
They were killing her, but she had to think clearly and strategically if she wanted to prevent any more of his tears.
“What are you doing?” Dalton shouted.
By the time he had stood up and charged at her with his blade, she had cut the last bit of rope and fallen on her back. She cried out as she felt something hurt, but ignored it.
Dalton swung the knife for her, but she managed to roll away from his swipe and leap to her feet.
There they stood. Opposite each other. Looking into each other’s eyes, each with a blade in their hand, awaiting the other’s move.
Circling.
Watching.
Waiting.
She clutched the blade.
The wooden sword was a few paces behind him.
He snarled. Took a few small steps as if he was readying himself. Clutched his weapon tighter, stiffening, getting ready to pounce.
He was stronger than her. Quicker. Better. Trained by the army. All she knew about such combat was what he had taught her.
But, as it turned out, that would be enough.
He lunged for her.
Duck, duck, swing – that’s what he’d said, and that’s what she did.
She ducked the first swing that went over her head.
Ducked the next that went down to her left.
And swung her blade into the side of his ribs.
Took it out quickly, not long enough for him to recover from the pain, and stuck the blade into the wrist that held his knife, forcing his palm to open and the knife to drop.
She went to her knees and stuck her blade into his right foot.
Took his knife and stuck it into his left foot.
Punched both blades in further, and further still, so that they stuck through his feet and into the ground, holding him firmly in place.
He collapsed to his knees, screaming and wriggling and prodding at the sharp edges stuck in his feet. He tried pulling at one to release it, but this only caused him to cry out in further anguish.
She took a few more steps, picked up the bokken and returned.
She took his right hand in her left, stuck the bokken through his palm and wedged his hand into the ground. He fought with his one free hand, only to find it too painful to move.
Boy was in the corner of the garden. Shaking. Staring. Immovable.
Cia went to him and crouched. Rested her hand on his face, but only momentarily. She wasn’t ready to see to him yet.
She untied the rope from Boy’s ankle and threw it at Dalton, who was still crying. Writhing. Pulling at the blades with his one free hand; the blades that were too sore to pull out, and too fixed in place to remove without the strength he no longer had.
Blood had become him. Trickling into the leaves, sinking into the ground
He collapsed, delirious, losing energy and losing it quickly.
But still alive.
Cia took Boy’s hand, stroked his face, and rested her forehead on his, speaking as softly as she could.
“Boy, it’s okay,” she said. “I’ve stopped him. No one’s going to hurt you now.”
He looked at her.
She placed her hand on his back and he winced.
She led him into the cottage, where she found a broken wooden chair and sat him on it. She took some of the leaves and began dabbing at his wound – it was the best she could find.
The whole time she did this, she kept her eyes on Dalton, making sure that he neither moved nor stopped suffering.
THEN
Chapter Fifty-Four
Evacuation, get to first floor.
Evacuation, get to first floor.
Dalton reacted to the rude awakening with a rub of his eyes. He’d only just managed to start dozing. Now what?
He rolled out of his bed, threw his feet on the floor, and looked to the top bunk where he’d expect to see Brooklyn.
He wasn’t there.
The click of a gun being assembled drew his attention. Behind the bed, he saw Brooklyn.
“Brooklyn?” he asked, his mind quickly readjusting to being awake, and his voice drowned out amongst the urgent instructions.
Evacuation, get to first floor.
Evacuation, get to first floor.
Thudding pounded outside the room. He opened the door to find all the other soldiers moving from their rooms, running across the corridor. The emergency message was even louder in the third floor corridor.
He shut the door and searched for some paracetamol.
“Brooklyn!” he shouted. “What’s going on?”
Brooklyn turned to him, a machine gun held across his chest, a look on his face he hadn’t seen before; something between alarm and excitement.
“What are you doing?” Dalton asked, unnerved by this look.
“Have you not heard?” Brooklyn said.
Evacuation, get to first floor.
Evacuation, get to first floor.
“No, what’s going on?” Dalton shouted, cupping his ears.
“The creatures on the bottom level are loose. They’ve gotten out. Everyone is evacuating.”
What?
How the hell could they get out?
They were pumped full of depressants, chained up with an excessive amount of chains, forced into submission. They had been so for years, how could they possibly be out now?
Brooklyn rushed to do the door.
“Wait then, mate,” Dalton said. “I’ll come with you.”
“Negative,” Brooklyn replied, somewhat distracted.
“What are you on about? I’ll just be a second. We can go to the first floor together.”
Dalton dressed as quickly as he could, tied his boot laces, and searched for his gun.
“I’m not going to the first floor,” Brooklyn announced.
Evacuation, get to first floor.
Evacuation, get to first floor.
“What are you on about? Of course we’re going to the first floor!”
“Nah, you are. So’s everyone else. I ain’t.”
“Where the hell else are you going?”
Dalton looked at Brooklyn with utter confusion, complete mayhem dancing in his mind.
Then he realised.
It dawned on him.
>
And it all made sense.
And, in that moment, more than any other, he learnt who Brooklyn truly was.
His friend, but a friend who was only constricted by morals that were forced upon him.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Dalton said. “You can’t seriously be thinking of–”
“Listen.” Brooklyn stepped strangely close to Dalton, and Dalton grew instantly wary of Brooklyn’s gun. “I haven’t had a nice piece of ass for ages. It’s been fucking years, you hear me? Now I get the opportunity, with no one telling me no.”
“I’m pretty sure she’ll tell you no.”
“I’m pretty sure it won’t make a bit of difference.”
Brooklyn turned to leave, but Dalton grabbed his arm back.
“So you’re going to what? Find her, fuck her and die down there?”
“I don’t care about this shitty little existence, Dalton. Look around! What have we got? Nothing! I just…”
“Don’t do this–”
“I am fed up of living by the standards of a society that don’t exist no more.”
Brooklyn turned to leave again, but Dalton grabbed his arm once more.
“What!” Brooklyn screamed, lowering his gun with a tight grip.
Dalton stared at it. To Brooklyn, to the gun, to Brooklyn.
“She’s seventeen, mate,” Dalton said.
“Old enough for me.”
“Don’t be that guy.”
“What guy? Shut the fuck up, Dalton, with your righteous shitty chat. What, you want to convince me? Tell me what’s right or wrong? Go to hell.”
Brooklyn went to leave. Dalton grabbed his arm once more, and this time, Brooklyn raised the gun to Dalton’s face.
The thudding steps from outside had left.
The army would no doubt be getting ready to escort the richest and most powerful inhabitants of the Sanctity out.
Isn’t that the way it always goes?
“I can’t let you do this,” Dalton said.
“What you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t… know. I just… I can’t let you.”
“Let me ask you a question, Dalton – are you willing to die for this girl?”
Dalton didn’t answer.
Just looked back at the eyes behind the gun.
Brooklyn turned and left the room.
This time, Dalton didn’t pull him back.