The central building, an ugly maroon-bricked tower block, was nearing its end. The exterior walls on the upper levels had fallen away, taking with them cabling, piping and myriad office-room clutter. The resultant wreckage lay in the grass below, forming a rubble field that stretched for almost a hundred feet in every direction. In the harsh light of day, the building was rendered bare and cold, its cracked, grey pallor unwelcoming.
Running along the edge of the complex, beyond a small car park, was what remained of a chain-link fence, some ten feet high. Creepers had woven between the wire, obscuring its outline and engorging its apparent size. Heavily rusted in many places and torn away completely in others, it offered no protection to the complex’s borders now.
Sarah shifted in the shallow well her body had created in the grass. She started forwards on her elbows, but succeeded only in digging herself deeper into the stinking mud.
“What are you doing?” Robert hissed. He pointed to the blades of grass above their heads, which were undulating at her every move.
“I can’t see,” she answered, squinting and darting her head back and forth. She jostled for a few seconds more, during which time Robert’s gesticulations became ever more adamant, and the grass continued to sway.
He maintained his gaze upon her until her face had grown sheepish and her head still. He glanced down at the building, back to her questioning face, and then shook his head. “Nothing’s moving,” he whispered.
“Then why are we lying down?”
“We don’t know who’s down there. We have to wait until we’re sure.”
She cursed under her breath, pulling clods of sodden fabric away from her body. He watched her face scintillate with restless energy, and smiled despite himself.
“How much longer? I can’t breathe down here.”
Robert took another look at the building, seeing nothing of interest other than the outer door teetering in the lacklustre breeze. “I don’t know,” he said. “A little longer.”
He made to shunt the duffel bag forwards with the utmost delicacy, but winced as Sarah turned her head to watch, blinded by a ray of reflected light from the rim of her spectacles. “Take those off, will you?” he muttered.
Sarah’s eyes grew forlorn, and her head slid down to make contact with the ground. “I’m sorry.” She paused. “I’m not like you. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have followed you.”
Her skin was now showing the first signs of sunburn, the delicate pallor of her thighs and upper arms taking on an angry pinkish glow. A lifetime with her nose in books had robbed her of any protection from the sun’s rays.
He reached out, chancing an errant rustle, and gripped her arm. “It’s okay.”
They would have to leave. He’d get her back to the city and return to the clearing later with reinforcements. All they had to do was clear up a little recon now, and then at least the journey would not have been wasted.
He assessed the complex afresh as flies buzzed about his head. He was almost certain that this was the very same office building that the injured boy—Charlie—had mentioned. This was where he’d been held prisoner. And others had been held here too, entire enslaved families. Perhaps the nerve centre of the mysterious coalition Norman had spoken of. If this was indeed the place, they would have gained a major tactical advantage: they would have made the first step towards mounting an effective resistance.
If it was empty then they could set a watch and surprise the enemy when they returned. If it was occupied, they could saddle up every volunteer and storm the entire complex. Troublesome they might be, but a few marauders couldn’t stand up to a hundred-strong cavalry charge. They could rid themselves of this scourge.
The tower block’s door slammed against the outer wall, caught in a sudden gust of wind. He ducked instinctively, but forced his head back up and focused on the distant doorway. All was still. The wind died, and the door settled, squeaking.
Then a shadow moved inside. It was a mere blur of darkness against the concrete floor, but it sent a shiver down his spine nonetheless.
The heat suddenly seemed far away, the insects’ chorus a distant nuisance. The doorway became scarred on his retinas, and he saw its frame even when he blinked, cast in glowing greens and neon purples.
The movement came again soon after. The shadow—that of a slouching man—slid across the floor beneath the open doorway. It was positioned some way inside, but from Robert's raised vantage point he could see some two metres into the building.
He froze in place and scanned the meadow by swivelling his eyes in their sockets, determined not to make a further sound. If the tower block was occupied then there might be others lying in wait, or patrolling the surrounding areas. The last thing he needed now was to be spotted because of his own carelessness.
Beside him, he sensed that Sarah hadn’t noticed this turn of events. Her head still rested upon her arms. Sweat now ran in rivulets down her back, and she breathed laboriously in the heat. For the time being, Robert was glad for her exhaustion. As long as she remained as she was, they would most probably remain unseen.
The pair of legs passed the door again, stepping around debris and plant matter scattered on the floor. Robert almost cringed when the tip of a rifle barrel swung into view.
Moments later, another man came around the corner from behind the tower block, twirling a stunted pistol in his hand: a grizzled old goat with unkind Hispanic features and a long, grey beard. His skin was tanned a uniform bronze, weathered and pockmarked, and one arm was tarnished by deep scars that snaked from elbow to shoulder. Patrolling the edge of the rubble field, he didn’t bother to look beyond the bounds of his path, making for a poor guardsman. Yet Robert wasn’t fooled, sensing danger in the man’s brutal face and lumbering gait.
Inside the doorway, the pair of legs passed into view again. This time they moved fast, with purpose. A few moments later a resounding clatter emanated from within the tower block.
Sarah jumped as though electrocuted. Robert reached for her arm to steady her, once again risking a stray rustle. She looked at him with wide eyes, but yielded under his soothing grasp, and settled back into the grass.
The banging grew louder, now accompanied by shouting. It sounded as though several people were fighting inside, and more were joining the battle by the moment.
The Hispanic man stood very still. He glanced about himself, then trained his gaze upon the wall closest to him, head cocked, listening. The pistol hung lame in his grasp, the hand twitching near the safety catch.
A single resounding rumble brought the scuffling inside to an abrupt end, leaving in its wake a deathly silence.
“What’s going on?” Sarah whispered.
“Shhh.” Robert didn’t take his eyes from the Hispanic guard. “I’m not sure.”
The guard remained frozen beyond the rubble field, patient and calculating despite his brutish visage.
The doors of the tower block flew open as a group of men burst outside. Two bore automatic rifles and sported dark, lank hair, their faces cruel and grimed. The other three stumbled some way ahead, arms folded behind their heads, unarmed, backing away. Those in the former group were dressed in ragged, shapeless shawls, while the latter were clad in somewhat cleaner work shirts and dungarees.
Two of the unarmed men were babbling, falling into a crouch before their captors, hands drawn up to their faces. Their companion stood erect and still, face set and expressionless, his blue shirt flapping in the wind. Even from a long way off, and with only the back of his head to go by, Robert could sense perseverant dignity and pride about him.
The Hispanic guard came striding forwards, his patience having vanished, waving his pistol and uttering rapid obscenities. He approached the two armed men and struck one of them across the head with the butt of the pistol without a break in his stride.
The three unarmed men glanced at each other, blinking in surprise. The Hispanic guard continued to berate the ragged pair, and struck them each a further two
times. The unarmed men who had grovelled looked almost hopeful, but Robert saw a flicker of sorrow cross Blue Shirt’s lips.
The armed pair threw off the Hispanic guard’s assault with a barrage of their own obscenities, gesturing towards their prisoners with their rifle barrels.
The Hispanic guard turned slowly to the unarmed men and cocked his head; an almost childlike curiosity had infected his manner. Robert’s gut twisted at the sight of it. The guard then sauntered closer, skirting around them, and said a few words. His voice was reduced to a near-inaudible hum by the intervening distance, but Robert picked up the tone: a faux-pleasant sigh far more sinister and blood-curdling than any bellow of rage.
The grovelling captors didn’t answer, stood rigid—as one stands when confronted by a snarling hound—staring at the ground. Blue Shirt, meanwhile, hadn’t moved. He still looked straight ahead, as though unaddressed.
The Hispanic guard nodded, as though to himself, and backed away. He and the ragged pair bickered with their backs turned while their prisoners waited in silence.
Sarah was tugging at Robert’s cuff, her voice strangled and agonised. “What’s going on?” She was once again darting her head back and forth, trying to see through the grass.
“They’re just talking,” Robert said, eyeing her carefully. He was now very aware of the rifle beneath him. He sensed that he should have it ready, as there wouldn’t be time to prepare when the standoff broke. At least he’d positioned it so that it was easily accessible. Careful not to make a single rustle, keeping each motion fluid, he released the barrel from the duffel. Its size made it impossible to hide from Sarah any longer.
Her sudden outburst caught him off guard, and he almost lashed out, thinking her an assailant. He winced as she dug her nails into his shoulder and let loose an angry spiel from between gritted teeth.
He whirled, glaring. With as much delicacy as he could muster, he removed her arm from his shoulder, observing the blood welling up in the fingernail-shaped puncture marks in his skin. “Be quiet,” he hissed.
He turned away, flipped up the tripod, and slid the barrel’s length into the grass until the scope was positioned before his face.
“What are you doing? We can’t, Robert. There are only two of us.”
“I’m not doing anything. We’re just here to watch. I promise.”
“But we can’t just let this happen, we have to help them. We have to go for help.”
“We can’t. We’ll be spotted.”
A pause. “They’re going to be killed, aren’t they?”
He swallowed. “I think so.”
He tried to ignore the stifled noise in her throat, and peered through the scope. The men below ballooned to five times their previous size, revealing minute details that even Robert’s hawk eyes hadn’t been able to pick up before.
Sarah didn't answer, but he could feel her eyes burning a hole into the side of his head.
Shame festered in the seat of his loins. But not for a moment would he consider risking her. Not ever. If saving them meant living with the knowledge that she might have died through his doing, he’d watch them die a thousand times over.
The captors were now more animated in their speech, and the conversation was becoming heated. They hadn’t bothered to glance over their shoulders to check on their prisoners for some time.
One of the men who had grovelled took a step forwards. He started babbling once more, hands clasped together, outstretched. Then he stumbled forth as his voice broke and he began whimpering, falling limp and cowering, as though recognising his terrible mistake.
The Hispanic guard turned to him, looking genuinely shocked at such audacity. He surged forwards, screaming, and began beating indiscriminately, sending both grovelers to the floor and plunging his fist into Blue Shirt’s gut, doubling him up.
Sarah’s exhalations shuddered. “What’s happening?” she breathed.
Robert didn’t answer. Though she didn’t have the best vantage point, he knew that she’d caught at least a glimpse of it. And a glimpse would have been more than enough to see just how grave the situation was.
The three armed men by now stood before their prisoners, unmoving. Their weapons now seemed more obvious, more significant.
The prisoners visibly realised their imminent fate. They cringed unanimously and stepped back. The two who had begged before began in earnest now, sinking lower to the ground as they pleaded in high-pitched wails.
Sarah caught Robert's arm in an iron-fisted grip. He could feel her shaking. “Robert,” she breathed. “Robert, kill them.”
“What?”
“Kill them.”
“They’ll know we’re here.” The rifle wasn’t silenced, and in the valley the sound of any gunshot would travel for some distance. If there were more men inside—and he suspected there were—shooting these three would be a deadly mistake.
“Well, do something.” Her fingers dug into his shoulder with shocking strength, enough to make him wince.
“I can’t.”
“They’re going to die unless we do something!”
“I know.”
He could feel her eyes on him, and sighed. In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have hesitated. In fact, he was fairly certain that if he’d been alone, he would have intervened long before now.
But he wasn’t alone, and his feelings hadn’t changed. He would watch them die, if he had to. It would haunt him—the callousness of it would forever be a blight on his memory—but at the same time he knew it was indisputably just.
The Hispanic guard now approached one of the two grovelling men and flicked his pistol towards the floor in a quick motion. The meaning was unmistakable: Kneel.
The man responded by redoubling his pleading. Soon after, his companion joined him.
The three armed men shook their heads. One of them laughed openly. They waved their weapons at the ground imperiously.
Still, the two grovelled. Only Blue Shirt remained upright, his face grim.
The guards’ amusement soon waned. The Hispanic then strode forwards, grasping the wailing pair by their collars and yanking them to the ground.
“Robert,” Sarah hissed. Her voice was wooden, without intent, seeking comfort rather than attention.
Robert didn’t look away. All his attention was focused on steadying the scope’s crosshairs, each movement cold and fluid. Despite his certainty that he would watch—just let it all happen—he reached forwards and adjusted the magnification, bringing the Hispanic’s head into sharp focus. Just in case.
Blue Shirt was still standing proud, staring at the tower block wall. He didn’t acknowledge the guards’ orders, or even their presence.
The Hispanic guard approached him, looking him up and down. The grey moustache above his lip bristled as his eyes constricted to fine slits. Then he spoke softly, a sibilant hiss of ill intent. Robert didn’t need to hear the words to know what was coming.
Blue Shirt didn’t answer. He still gave no indication of recognising anybody around him.
Then a scream rang out from the tower block, a feminine shriek laden with weeping shudders. Scuffling and grunts also issued from within, but were almost unnoticeable beside the volume of her piercing voice.
Blue Shirt’s trance broke immediately. He surged forth, calling back to her, raising his arms, his set expression having dissolved into a mask of horror. Yet when he spoke, his voice was soothing, affectionate—dulcet tones of reassurance.
She answered, her cries interlaced with sobbing. She sounded young—Robert wouldn’t have guessed any older than twenty.
Blue Shirt replied, his voice having exhausted its reassuring powers. He came to a staggering halt and hung his head, staring at the floor. He was shaking. Robert saw his shuddering shoulders and rapidly clenching-unclenching fists, and knew that his nerve had broken.
Through the scope, he saw the Hispanic’s face crease into a wicked expression of satisfaction as he gripped Blue Shirt’s collar and tugged him to
the ground.
Blue Shirt, however, resisted. He threw off the Hispanic’s grip and managed to land a single punch on his captor’s face before being restrained by the ragged pair.
The woman still called out from inside, wailing with such pain and fear that Robert’s chest felt as though a dagger had been thrust through it. Sarah whimpered beside him, cursing.
The Hispanic man roared, blood flying from his lips, waving the nose of his pistol and stalking forwards, striking Blue Shirt across the face with the sharp edge of the butt. An arc of crimson opened on Blue Shirt’s face, right down to the cheekbone, exposing a streak of white.
“Why are they doing this?” Sarah shrilled.
Robert didn’t dare look away now. The Hispanic visibly inflated as he took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. Then he raised his pistol, aimed at one of the grovelling prisoners, and squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot was deafening. It tore along the valley walls, returning from every direction in repeating echo, throwing a flock of birds from their nests in the nearby forest, scattering them into sky.
The prisoner flopped onto his side without a sound and landed in a heap amidst the dirt-streaked rubble, his hand twitching. The back of his head had been completely obliterated.
The woman inside let loose a spiel of unconstrained screams, choking on her own sobs. There were other voices in the building now, male and female. The sound of movement inside built as it had done before. Dozens of voices were suddenly ringing out, accompanied by as many sources of disturbance.
The Hispanic ignored the tower block, looking coldly at the remaining beggar. He dispatched him before a single plea could be made. The bullet caught the prisoner dead between the eyes. He fell beside his comrade, his arms splayed melodramatically across a jagged lump of concrete.
Sarah cried into Robert’s shoulder, gripping his sleeve. Robert’s curses intermingled with hers as he watched the Hispanic turn to his last prisoner.
Blue Shirt had struggled to his feet, and was staring forward once more. Though his eyes were wide, he trembled only slightly—it was only with the aid of the scope that Robert could see his shuddering knees. He called out to the woman, his voice raised over the increasing racket inside.
Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) Page 35