The Dark Sky Collection: The Dark Sky Collection

by Amy Braun

  The Junker screamed in agony, clutching his wounded leg. I pulled the blade out and scrambled to my feet. My boot shot into the man’s temple. That single strike sent him to the ground, where he didn’t move again.

  I whirled to the mountain of scrap metal to see how much trouble we were in. It was worse than I thought.

  Both Sawyer and Nash were still trapped on the pile. Sawyer had his cutlass out, swinging and slashing at the two Junkers climbing up from the main floor. Maybe they wouldn’t have been a problem, if one of the rappelling Junkers wasn’t creeping up on his back with a knife in hand. Sawyer saw him and whirled around to stop the knife from going into his neck, but the other Junkers took advantage of his back. Two blades sliced across his lower legs. Sawyer buckled and winced in pain. The Junker at his back slammed a harsh punch into his temple, nearly knocking him out.

  Across from him, Nash was facing the same three-on-one-battle. But he didn’t have a sword or a pistol. All he had were brass knuckles and brute strength. Seeing him fight was impressive. Every time his fist struck one of the Junkers, I heard a sound like a tree-branch snapping. All three Junkers had blood smeared on their faces.

  But they had blades, and treated Nash like hunters wearing down a cornered bear. Every time he hit one man, another would slice a line across his back or his stomach. None of the cuts looked grievous, but the Junkers would get bolder. Strong as he was, Nash would weaken soon. The cuts would get deeper, bloodier, and then they would close in for the kill.

  I couldn’t be in two places at once. Helping Nash meant Sawyer would die. Helping Sawyer meant Nash would be cut to ribbons. That was assuming I could climb the pile fast enough to get to either of them.

  There has to be another way. T, think, Gemma, think, think––

  The answer was right in front of me, right in the boiling cauldrons of blazing hot liquid metal. Nash said that these Junkers continued to make their own materials.

  Wouldn’t it be a shame if something happened to those materials?

  I sprinted past the scrap metal mountain to the control panel. I noticed the deep groove dug into the floor, a manmade trench to catch the molten metal if one of the cooling boxes failed and released the lava onto the floor.

  It would probably do the same for all of the boxes.

  Maybe.

  I ran until I was beside the panel. It was a scratched metal box missing its door. Dozens of switches and breakers lined the interior, each one labeled for its corresponding kiln or cooling box. In the middle of the panel was a large red lever with a label that read: “PULL DOWN FOR EMERGENCY RELEASE.”

  Please let that mean what I think it means.

  I stopped and whirled around. The Junkers were closing in on my marauder allies. Nash and Sawyer looked about ready to collapse, and the Junkers didn’t seem to be short on energy.

  I placed my fingers in my mouth and whistled, an ear-piercing shriek that couldn’t be missed. The Junkers whipped their heads in my direction. They saw where I was, and froze in terror that quickly morphed into rage.

  I grinned and grabbed the main power lever. “Guess you’ll need a new stream of revenue, boys. Unless you can catch this one.”

  I pulled down the lever.

  Immediately, the flow of the molten metal increased from the kiln. The steady stream was now a waterfall. It spilled over the funnel, too heavy to be caught. The gears stopped clicking, the emergency lever shutting off the flow of cool water. Steam billowed in a thick fog as the uncooled metal spilled out of the cooling box’s sliding door, gushing unevenly into the trench in the floor.

  Now there’s an interesting cast, I thought wickedly.

  The Junkers started screaming incoherently, abandoning the battered marauders and charging for me.

  But I still wasn’t done. Flipping the knife in my hand, I hammered the hilt of it against the thin switches, snapping each of them off. There was no way the Junkers would be able to make their faulty metal scrap now.

  I didn’t have time to boast or enjoy my victory. The Junkers closed distance fast. The last thing I had time to do was glance over their shoulders and meet Nash’s eyes. He was holding his battered body, sliding down the scrap metal pile with his collected items. He divided his attention between his footing, the unconscious men he’d fought, and me. His eyes were wide, as though he was horrified he couldn’t move fast enough.

  “Go!” I screamed.

  The Junkers halted just feet away from me, as though they remembered there were three of us. I decided the best way to get their attention was to sweep a wide, roundhouse kick into the closest man’s head. He dropped like a sack of bricks. The Junkers howled, but I was already running.

  Thankfully, there was a door close to the control panel. Since the Junkers sprang on us with virtually no warning, I had to assume it was open. I grabbed the handle and shouldered through it, throwing the metal door hard against the wall. I ended up in another wide room like the one we came in through. Sheets of rain poured through the scattered, broken skylights overhead, creating puddles that I splashed through on my way to the exit––a torn down wall leading outside, fifty feet away. It might as well have been in the clouds.

  Something hard and sharp skittered over my shoulder, nicking my leather jacket. I jumped as I watched the blade clatter to the ground in front of me. Okay, so one of the three men chasing me knew how to throw a knife. Best to keep running, only faster.

  Rainwater doused me sporadically as I continued to weave an erratic pattern through the corridor. I vaulted over clumped metal debris on the right, then dashed a hard line to the center, and finally veered left. It made the journey longer, but I didn’t gain any knives in my back.

  The Junkers were closing in. Metal armor clanked against hard, wiry bodies. Feet pounded pools of water. Grunts of exertion hounded my steps.

  I pushed myself harder and faster, forcing my mind to ignore the aches growing in my legs. The open wall was just ahead of me, a curtain of rain pelting down into the yard. I barreled into the storm, instantly re-soaked to the bone. I blinked the streaming water from my eyes, searching for a hiding spot to lose the Junkers––

  My eyes froze on a deformed shadow in the sky. It hovered and descended between the cluster of snapped smokestacks less than fifty feet away.

  No, I thought. No, not here––

  Rough hands gripped my shoulders and yanked me back. I landed on sharp, unforgiving gravel. My elbows struck the ground and jolted my knife from my hand. The Junkers wasted no time in pummeling me.

  I rolled to miss the kick that would have landed in my spine. It hit my right shoulder instead. Still painful, but nothing I couldn’t deal with. The kick that landed in my stomach was less forgiving.

  I gritted my teeth against the pain and launched to my feet, missing another boot and slamming my fist into someone’s jaw. I ducked, whirled, and kicked again, hitting what must have been someone else’s ribs. I threw out elbows, swept out legs, refused to stop moving. All I needed was a single opening, a chance to break out of this circle of death and run for cover.

  I never got it.

  The punch came out of thin air. Thanks to the torrential downpour, I couldn’t see where my enemies were until it was too late. The blow collided with my cheek and pitched me to the right. Arms looped through mine and held me upright. As soon as I was straightened, the Junkers surrounded me.

  Rivulets of water sluiced down the dents of their rusted armor and soaked the thin tunics beneath. Their dreadlocks were plastered to the sides of their face, matching the wildness of their eyes. Each face was twisted in a hate-filled scowl, revealing chipped, yellow teeth. Even through the hammering rain, the sour reek of their unwashed bodies and rotting breath gagged me,

  In the distance, shrouded by shadows and veiled by rain, were two more figures creeping out from behind the wall of an abandoned warehouse. Dark as it was, I could still see the pinprick red of their eyes as they closed in.

  I twisted my upper body, struggling to
slip free of the Junker holding me. A solid punch to my stomach stopped my fight. Another hit landed in my ribs before I had a chance to breathe. Two more strikes rammed into my torso, filling it with pain. A hand fisted my hair and jerked my head up. This time, I saw a knife.

  I widened my eyes, but was still looking over the Junker’s shoulder.

  The thugs had no idea what was behind them. Not until dagger-like claws stabbed into the knife-wielding Junker’s shoulders. He tilted his head back and screamed, making it all too easy for the Hellion to sink its teeth into his throat.

  His scream became a choking gurgle, stark red blood gushing out from the gaping holes in his neck. The two other Junkers started yelling and leaping away. The man trapping my arms let me go. I dropped to my knees, hearing a sharp cry and a thick, ripping sound, like something tearing skin away from bone. I grabbed my knife from where it fell and watched a body drop in front of me.

  The Junker who’d been about to cut me now lay bleeding out in the rain, a huge chunk of flesh missing from the left side of his throat. Wide, dead eyes stared at me with surprise and horror. I raised my head and watched another Hellion trap a second Junker on the ground. Its claws were plunged deep in the shrieking man’s back, pinning him in place as it clamped its mouth on the back of his neck. He wailed in agony as the Hellion pulled, lifting the flesh from the dying man’s spine.

  A sharp, raspy growl came from behind me. I pitched to my feet and swung the knife back. I was doing it to keep the Hellion away from me.

  I wasn’t expecting to cut open its face.

  The cold steel sliced open a gaping wound on its cheek. Its head barely turned, blood-red eyes fixing on me. I raised the knife and aimed another stab.

  The Hellion tilted its head and let the blade fly harmlessly into the empty space over its shoulder. It barked harshly and snapped its pointed teeth at my upper arm. I yelped in surprise and jumped back, getting the distance I desperately needed. I kicked the beast in the stomach before it could recover, buying myself a chance to escape. The dread set in when I turned and bolted into the rain.

  I didn’t know how long I had until those dagger claws plunged into my back. There was no way I could outrun one of the creatures, let alone two. All I could hope for was Nash and Sawyer escaping––

  The Hellion chasing me let out a sudden squawk. Another one screamed with rage. I pushed myself faster. I didn’t want to know what was going on. Not unless I was at least a hundred feet away and hidden on a roof.

  A man’s sharp grunt of pain stopped me.

  I whirled around, petrified as Nash attacked the final Hellion. Sawyer was recovering, the severed head of the Hellion lying at his feet behind me.

  This Hellion had a mouth full of blood streaming down its chin. More drizzled from its fingertips like red lightning. The first Hellion might have been caught unaware, but this one wouldn’t be.

  Sawyer lunged with his cutlass, aiming to run the Hellion through. It turned away, but not far enough. The blade sliced into its body right below the ribs.

  The Hellion didn’t seem to notice. It hissed and grabbed the sharp, naked steel, and pulled itself forward. The cutlass went straight through its body. The Hellion slashed its claws at Sawyer when he was too stunned to move. He came back into himself and stepped back, but wasn’t going to get far enough––

  Nash cracked his fist into the side of the Hellion’s head. The brass knuckles circling his fingers glistened under the rain. The monster roared and turned its attention on the large marauder. The back of its fist crashed against Sawyer’s cheek, pushing him away from the fight. At the same time, the monster sped toward Nash, hissing and spitting, and moving too fast for the marauder to do anything but raise his arms––

  I didn’t remember moving. One second I was standing back, watching the fight, the next I was right beside the Hellion, watching its head turn, and sweeping my arm down with every ounce of strength I had left. The blade punched through the Hellion’s soft eyeball. Dark gore spewed out of the ruined eye and onto my hand. The Hellion’s shriek pierced my ears mercilessly. I grimaced and twisted the blade as it swung its claws at me. The Hellion’s cry ended abruptly, its arms flopping down and banging harmlessly into my sides. I yanked my knife from the monster’s face. Watched it slump onto the ground.

  I stood over the monster’s body, stared at it, waiting for it to get up.

  It didn’t. Sawyer made sure. He stalked over to the monster and hacked the cutlass onto its neck. Two more swipes, two more meaty crunch sounds, and the beast’s head was removed from its body. I continued to stare at it.

  “I killed it,” I finally whispered. “I killed a Hellion.”

  I didn’t know I was shaking until Nash put his hand on my shoulder. A bruise swelled over his temple, and his shirt was a mess of sliced fabric that concealed the paper-thin cuts on his chest. He smiled grimly when I looked at him. “You did.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Killing a Hellion shouldn’t have bothered me. They were murderous creatures with no thought or care for the torture and suffering they put humans through. They would have eaten me without hesitation––while I was still alive––and gone on to Nash and Sawyer for dessert.

  But I had never killed anything before.

  Nash squeezed my shoulder. That was when I realized I was shaking.

  I shrugged away from his touch and stepped back. My bruises throbbed under the cold rain, reminding me of the beatings I’d taken, both old and new. Sawyer appeared on my right. He seemed to be in the same state as Nash––bruised and lightly cut. If the slices on his legs were bothering him, he didn’t let it show.

  “That should be the last of them,” he said, “but I don’t feel like staying here and waiting for reinforcements from either side. We have what we need for now, but we can come back later.”

  I gaped at him. “You’re coming back?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “As far as I know, this was the only Junker gang in the industrial district. Most people go to the Southside Junkers for supplies. More variety.” He glanced at the bodies of the three Junkers who’d followed and attacked me. “Besides, it’s not like these guys will give us trouble any more.”

  I would have berated him for his callousness, if I didn’t hear the tinge of sadness to his voice. Sawyer was masking his pain. I knew all about masks.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “When dead men start haggling you for trade, you know you’re in serious shit.”

  Gallows humor. The only kind that survivors had left.

  It worked. Sawyer smiled, and even Nash managed a dry chuckle behind me. Right then, I knew three truths:

  Sawyer might be wary of me, but he was beginning to trust me. Nash probably talked his partner into helping me because he cared about me.

  And finally, the gut punch to it all.

  I would never forgive myself when I betrayed them.

  Chapter 7

  The trudge back to the Dauntless was free of Hellions, but now we were on the lookout for thieves. We were lucky that none of them accosted us as we carried our collected scrap metal, bolts, and malformed boxes with wires dangling from them like tentacles. Our successful anti-mugging stretch was largely because I told Sawyer where to maneuver. He seemed to know the streets as well as I did, but I was a professional thief when I wasn’t spying on my new friends. Sawyer liked the streets because of the hiding spots they could provide, but right now we needed speed.

  So I suggested the roofs, and was amazed again when he listened to me.

  As we bounded from one rooftop to the other, shifting the bundles and flattened metal so we could cross, I cast glances into the streets. Since no other raiding skiffs seemed to have come down in the past couple hours and the sky lightened to a morbid slate grey––the sign of dawn in Westraven––the streets were alive with survivors.