by Posey, Jay
Just past the building she paused at another corner, and then covered the remaining ground to the waypoint. As she closed in, though, it vanished. Cass glanced around looking for a good vantage point, but as far as she could see there wasn’t anywhere that had a sightline to the Weir. A few seconds later, a second waypoint appeared, further east, maybe thirty yards. Again, she made her way to it and again, as she neared, the waypoint vanished. The position seemed even worse here. Still no clear lines of attack, and even the roar from the Weir seemed dulled. What was Wick doing?
It occurred to her now that she had no way to communicate with him directly. She hadn’t thought to ask him to patch her in to the team’s secure channel, the low-frequency, low-profile method they used to communicate in the Open without attracting the attention of the Weir. She didn’t dare risk a pim to him, knowing the signal would surely reveal her. Maybe he’d misunderstood. Or... was he leading her back towards the tunnel? Trying to send her out of harm’s way?
A third waypoint appeared for her, northward, though still with an eastward bend. She stood for a moment, uncertain of his intentions. After a moment she resolved to go to the third point and evaluate. If by then she wasn’t seeing a place to ambush, she’d make her way back and hope she got there fast enough before Wick and Able did whatever it was they were really planning to do.
Cass upped her pace to a trot. The third point was slightly elevated, and she had to scramble up and over a low wall to reach it. She didn’t like that wall, given the need she was going to have of a quick, direct path out. There was a single-story structure there, some kind of old storage facility she guessed. It had a sloping roof that was only about four feet above the ground in the back and angled to maybe twelve feet in the front. Wick’s waypoint hovered midway up the roof. Cass hopped up on to it, dropped to a crouch, and made her way up. She had to move a few steps ahead of the waypoint to get a view on the Weir, but once she did, she realized Wick hadn’t led her astray. Far from it. Cass couldn’t imagine a better position from which to launch a surprise assault.
Two rows of low buildings separated her from the host of Weir, but the gentle rise of the terrain and the way the buildings lined up gave her a clear field of fire. When her first rounds found their mark, the Weir would most likely turn their attention to the buildings closest to them, giving her plenty of time and cover to make it to the next point.
Cass settled in and tucked the rifle stock tight into the pocket of her shoulder. Sighted in, took a deep breath, held, released. On target, she slipped her finger inside the trigger guard and lightly rested it on the trigger. She wondered briefly how much recoil the weapon had.
And then, as if her thoughts had summoned it, the attack began.
Able’s first grenade made a pop Cass could barely hear above the clamor, but there was no missing the flash. Lightning-bright, it made her flinch reflexively even from that distance. The Weir closest to the detonation scattered blindly, and Cass took advantage, sighting in again and firing three bursts in succession at the clusters of Weir gathered on either side of the blast. Able’s second grenade went off twenty feet from the first, with similar results. Except this time Cass didn’t flinch. She ripped off two, three, four more bursts as the line of Weir rippled and broke open near the blast points. Wick had warned her not to fire more than twice from the same location, but her vantage was so good and the chaos so complete, she couldn’t miss the chance to take down as many Weir as possible at the height of their confusion. This first strike was critical.
Cass sighted in on a tight cluster and let off a burst, then snapped her weapon to a second group and fired again. Some Weir stumbled, others fell. Whether they could tell where the shots had come from or not, Cass didn’t know. By then, she was too busy leaping down from her perch and dashing towards the low wall. She’d pushed her luck as far as she’d dared. As she scrambled up and over, a new waypoint appeared. Cass sprinted for it.
Five, seven, ten seconds. Each one felt like a potential loss of momentum, a possible unraveling of the plan. Forty-four seconds after her initial attack, Cass slid on her knees into the new position Wick had marked for her. This one low, with a narrow line to the courtyard. Not knowing how many rounds she’d expended, she dropped the magazine out of the rifle and slapped in a fresh one. Then without hesitation, she shouldered Wick’s rifle and fired two quick bursts into the thin sliver of the teeming crowd she could see. Her fire was accurate, but she didn’t confirm whether or not her targets were dead. Kills were a bonus; chaos, the goal. Already the next waypoint was waiting for her, and speed was of the utmost essence.
Cass vaulted up to a full run, north and west, circling behind a row of squat cement structures. She was only fifteen feet away when the first Weir surged out of a darkened entryway into her path. The creature hesitated for a heartbeat. It was enough. She fired a burst directly into its center of mass, and then leapt and brought her knee high. She caught the creature just under the jaw and rode it to the ground, then rolled and let the momentum carry her back to her feet. The Weir managed a ragged, gurgling howl, but Cass didn’t bother to look back. The adrenaline was flowing. She was too fast now. Far too fast. The entire world seemed to have slowed around her, for her, because of her.
She reached the waypoint, dropped to a crouch, fired, moved on. She had to stay one step ahead. Two, if possible. But Cass was forced to restrain herself; it was several seconds before Wick marked a new position, and she had to loop back to reach it. Speed was critical to keeping up the illusion, but if she outran Wick, she might end up in a place she couldn’t get back out of.
The next waypoint was at an intersection of alleys, and Cass slowed her pace just enough to squeeze off three accurate bursts as she crossed. It took her less than two seconds. And even as she resumed her sprint, she found she could see it all so clearly in her mind’s eye; the sight picture the weapon presented, the impact of the rounds, the uncomprehending expressions on the faces of the stricken Weir. Like still frames, each instant perfectly preserved. Like when she’d boosted on quint. Like, but not the same. This was clearer somehow, cleaner.
Out there, in that courtyard, the clamor of the Weir was changing, shifting. Cries and howls transformed from savage mockery into anger, confusion, pain. And above it all, an eruption of gunfire. Cass couldn’t see the building where Gamble and her team were pinned, but she knew they were fighting now. Not defensively, not conserving ammo. Counter-assaulting.
There was another delay before her beacon showed up, longer this time, and when it finally appeared, it was so close Cass almost overran it. She skidded on the concrete-dusted asphalt as she took the hard corner towards the newest destination. This position was in a tight alley, and Cass was startled by the number of Weir just at the other end. Wick was taking her much closer to the Weir.
No, not closer. The crowd was breaking up, turning outward. Searching. Seeking.
Two Weir were hunched down, sweeping their heads back and forth in measured movements. Hunting. The waypoint blinked away as she brought the rifle up and on target.
She felt it somehow, just before.
A dread presence, like someone standing too close behind her.
Cass whirled–
Too late. The barrel caught, her burst of fire stitched the wall. The world went sideways.
The impact blacked her vision for an instant, something heavy atop her. Even as her mind swam and fought to recover her scattered senses, her body was in motion, reacting. Automatic. Her claws rent her attacker before she could even see it.
As her vision cleared, she swept the dying Weir to the side with one arm. Still on her back, she arched up and brought her weapon above her head, the world momentarily upside-down as she fired into the two Weir that were now charging at her. One twisted and tumbled into the wall, but the other took the hit and kept coming. Cass rolled to her belly and squeezed the trigger again. Her rifle only clicked. Empty.
She scrambled back on her knees, but didn’t have time
to make it all the way up to her feet. She let the rifle drop free, trusting the sling to carry it out of the way as she reached out her hands. Time stretched in that final second before contact. The Weir was wounded. Two dark blotches in the upper abdomen. Its right hand was sweeping in, claws extended, aimed at her eyes.
Cass intercepted the creature’s wrist with the palm of her left hand, lifted it up just enough to pass it over her head. In the same instant, she stepped up and drove forward with her right shoulder, planting the strike right in the Weir’s wounded midsection. It folded over her with a shriek and she continued upwards, using the creature’s momentum to carry it off its feet and send it flying face first into the hard concrete. It squawked once as it impacted with a wet slap, but Cass spun and stomped down on the back of its neck before it could recover.
Another group of Weir skidded around the corner, further down the alley, back the direction she had come. They were starting to home in on her. Four of them, thirty feet away and closing fast. Cass swapped the spent magazine for her last one. Fifteen feet. Cold, savage fury rose within her and spilled forth as she advanced to meet them. Her burst of fire killed the first two at nearly point-blank range, and she swept the third’s attack aside with the rifle, spinning between the last two as she did so. The Weir seemed sluggish, unable to match her speed or predict her movements; she was behind them before they reacted. She slammed the butt of her rifle into the base of the third Weir’s skull, sent it headlong into the fourth. Two bursts into the confused tangle. Then she was off again, at a full sprint.
This was the most dangerous time; the Weir were like hornets, frenzied by the attack. The tight mass of them had begun to break, with many individuals scattering in wild search for their tormentors. A single Weir would be nothing to her, and even a handful could be overcome. But if they got a lock on Cass’s position, they would surely kill her with their thousand stings. She’d burned through her ammo much faster than she’d expected to.
And where was the next waypoint? Had she missed it? Was it back the other way? Cass scanned all around her as she ran, searching for her next position. She risked a quick glance back over her shoulder; when she looked forward again, another Weir was just flashing out of an alley ahead and to her right. She touched the trigger but the instant before she squeezed, instinct stopped her. There was only one; ammo was low.
The Weir squawked at her once, hands outstretched. She twisted and punched out with the rifle, one-handed, and jabbed the creature in the forehead with the muzzle, checking its momentum. Its head snapped back with the impact, its hands splayed to the sides. Cass jolted in close and followed with a strike to its exposed throat. The creature managed a broken croak and locked its eyes on hers just before she drove the butt of her gun into its temple.
She was moving too fast to stop. The impact sent a sickening crunch vibrating through her hands. And as the blue-light glow of the creature’s eyes doused and it collapsed, the look on its feminine face lingered, fixed in her mind, crystal-clear as if time had frozen. Not the emotionless stare of the dead; not the savage snarl of animal rage. An expression. Wild-eyed, frantic. Lost. Afraid. Not an it. A she.
What had Cass just killed?
A clatter from behind spurred her forward, even as her mind lagged behind. She leapt over the stricken Weir and ducked into the alley, weapon up in case any others had been trailing the one she’d just slain. There was nothing. Cass quickly swiveled and leaned back around the corner, just enough for the rifle barrel to clear the edge. Nothing there either. Calls were still coming from every direction. And Wick still hadn’t sent her a new position.
A pair of Weir raced by the opposite end of the alley, but they didn’t look her way. In fact, they looked like they were headed back towards the courtyard. Cass drew in close to one side of the alley and slowed to an aggressive walk.
She had to get some distance to regroup, reassess. She tried to get her bearings as best she could. As she analyzed her surroundings, Cass realized she’d been so intent on Wick’s points, she hadn’t paid full attention to how she got from one to the next. Surely he’d send her another any second now. Maybe he was tracking her somehow, and her sudden flight from her last position had him scrambling to find her another position. Thin hope in that, but she clung to it.
A single Weir called out somewhere off to her left and Cass swiveled at the waist, weapon leveled in the direction of the cry without interrupting her stride. Wherever it was, she couldn’t see it now. And as she turned back to face forward, it suddenly dawned on her. She’d heard that call clearly enough to know it was a single Weir. Things were quieting down. And she couldn’t hear any more gunfire.
Cass rounded a corner and saw a gutted three-story building across the street that looked familiar. Something she’d passed before. She checked both directions before crossing to it; there were no Weir in sight. The building had a wide entrance, wide enough for two doors though only one was hanging there now. There were no windows on the lower floor, not even cracks for the moonlight to get in. Even though her modified vision enabled her to see in total darkness, the building had a deathly feel that made her hesitant to enter. Still, she needed cover while she waited for Wick’s next update, or until she could figure out what else to do. There was no way to know what she might find inside, no way to tell if Weir had gotten in first, or were searching for her in there even now.
Three Weir appeared further down the wide road and made the decision for her. She pushed into the dusty entryway before they spotted her. There was a lot of clutter in that front room; strange shapes, broken outlines. Cass had never tried to clear a room before, but she’d seen Gamble’s team do it a handful of times. She did her best.
She pushed in aggressively, sweeping the corners of the room as she moved to the front-right corner and dropped into a crouch there. She held for five seconds, ten, thirty. Nothing stirred. The room was clear. And as she held her position, glad for something solid at her back, the weight of the moment settled on her.
Her great unspoken fear, come to pass. She was on her own. Cut off. Utterly alone.
And with the Weir scouring the streets, Cass knew that her chances of reconnecting with her companions were slim and growing ever slimmer.
TWO
Wren stood silently at the edge of the roof, staring out over the swirl and churn of Greenstone’s midmorning streets as the citizens went about their business and the Greenmen kept careful watch. But despite the clamor below, he wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings. Instead, he was locked in a struggle of the mind, stretching out with all his will and might. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the east, were the signals that told the fate of his mother and of his friends and guardians. Somewhere across the vast expanse of the Strand, amongst the ruins of his once-great city, were traces and digital footprints that could tell him whether they still lived, or, if not, at least maybe where and how they had died.
And yet no matter how focused he was or how hard he strove, there was nothing. Or rather, there was Something that hid all else from him, like a great static fog or electric darkness. Digital nightfall. Vast and impenetrable, even to Wren’s innate talents.
It was as if everything beyond the Strand had ceased to exist; worse, had never existed at all. Every sign, every imprint, every shadow of what once had been had been swallowed up in the roiling fog. And it was no natural phenomenon. Wren could feel it pushing back against him. It was a gloom born of malice and an evil will, a manifestation of Asher’s great and still growing power.
At the same time, Wren dared not probe too deeply. There was a searching quality to that great shadow, as if something roamed about within it, seeking others to devour. Wren feared drawing its attention. And whenever he extended himself to it, touched it, filaments of it seemed to cling to him when he withdrew. To stretch and trail after him, like threads of a web or heavy strands of tar. The effects of his last encounter with his brother still hadn’t worn completely away. Every light seemed too bright, ever
y noise too loud. His head felt too heavy, too full. And a dread lingered over his every moment and thought; the possibility that whatever Asher had done to him had been the result of a mere fraction of Asher’s capability.
Asher. His laughter echoed in Wren’s memory, and Wren came back to himself with tears in his eyes and a hollow cold in his gut. Fear, anger, frustration. But worst of all, uncertainty. Maybe Mama was still out there, maybe she was gone. And the others. Gamble, Sky, Able. Mouse. It’d been what? Three days now? More than enough time for any survivors to make their way through the underground tunnel that ran beneath the Strand. Bonefolder’s trainline. The same path Chapel and he had used to escape. Wouldn’t they have followed, if they’d survived to do it?
Of only one thing there was no doubt; Asher would come again. But when, and how, Wren didn’t know. It would be in his own time, in his own way, some manner carefully calculated to bring the most pain and terror. Wren knew that even the waiting would be a part of Asher’s planned torment; each day haunted by the question will it be today?, and thus robbed of any peace. Wren had tried before to stop him and failed catastrophically. When Asher finally did come, Wren would be utterly powerless to prevent it. And he would come. As long as Wren remained free, Asher would be seeking him. Pursuing. Bringing wrath wherever Wren had trod.
Unless.
Wren leaned forward and placed his hands on the waist-high wall that enclosed the rooftop. Forty feet below, the streets teemed with Greenstone’s citizens. The array of colors was almost dazzling, the droning buzz of voices hypnotic. Theirs was a wild expression of life, a walled city’s flagrant protest against the rest of the world’s colorless decay.
A little further forward, a small hop; would his death disrupt any of those people below? Might it not even be their salvation?
“Come away from there, child,” a voice came from behind. “Such thoughts do not suit one so young.”