I stumble down another alley. An alley that leads to nowhere.
Slumped against a door, I stare at the brick wall in front of me and gasp for breath. My lungs burn and my hand shakes as I raise it to wipe my eyes. But I’m still holding the knife. Somehow, I’ve kept hold of it all this time. I almost have to prise my fingers off it to replace it in the sheath.
I stare down at the ground. Matthews and Jameson are dead. The box didn’t work and is probably smashed to smithereens now anyway.
“What happens now?” I ask aloud.
But I’m alone in the alleyway, not even an old hobie around to give me an answer.
Then we’re in for a fight.
Bryn’s words come back to me. But how can you win a fight against an enemy that’s almost impossible to kill?
Maybe we can’t win. But we can still fight. Dad said I’d never be able to break Aleesha out of the government headquarters and that if I tried to rescue her, we’d never escape. But I did it.
Dad.
My chest constricts, and my throat goes tight. Did the Chain get his body home before all this started? Or is he lying alone in a room somewhere, waiting for someone to return for him?
I push the thought away. I can’t think about that now. Except that the harder I push, the more vivid the image becomes in my head. Without really thinking, I walk back to the entrance to the alleyway and peer out. The street is empty. Doors hang off their hinges, boarded-up windows have been smashed open and a thin trickle of smoke weaves from a burned-out shop. But there are no Metz around.
I’m alone. In a place I don’t belong. I close my eyes and lean back against the wall. Maybe I should just go home. Tell Mother what happened. Find Father’s body and take him home.
Abby was right. I’m no fighter. And why should I help these people? They wouldn’t help me. I shuffle up the street. In the distance, the top of the Wall rises above the dilapidated apartment blocks. Once through it, I’ll be safe.
Not really safe. They’ll still be after you Inside.
Maybe. But not today. Not when this is going on.
Further up the street, a group of hobies are clustered around a body on the floor. I’m reminded of the first time I came through the Wall, all those weeks ago. When the hobies had attacked me and stolen my coat.
Nothing changes.
I cross to the opposite side of the street, ready to run if need be. But their demeanour is different. They’re not pawing at the body, searching it for chits or food. They’re … stroking it? Two of them are crying. Rough, angry sobs, as if they’re embarrassed about it.
One of them looks up at me. The side of his face is bruised, and when he holds up a hand I see a bloody piece of cloth roughly wrapped around it.
“They killed ’im,” he says shakily. “Why do they do it? He ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
He pulls back, revealing the body of his friend. Though the dead man’s hair is lank and filthy, they’ve smoothed it away from his face and laid him out with his hands crossed on his chest. One of the men spits onto a grey cloth and wipes the blood off his fallen friend’s face.
“We were going to take ’im to the river. But they’re swarming down there.” He looks down sorrowfully. “Can’t even give the dead some dignity, can they?”
I shake my head. “I-I’m sorry.”
“You lost someone, lad?” an old woman asks. At least she looks old; she’s probably no more than forty.
I nod, tears pricking my eyes. “Yes.”
She stands and walks over to me. A stench of body odour and rotten food washes over me and I have to force myself not to recoil. She reaches out a dirt-crusted hand and gently pats my arm. “You should head that way.” She points to a road further up the street. “Bill said they’re heading to Five, but if you can get past ’em up to Six, mebbe you’ll be safe there. They’ll likely be round ’ere with the cleanin’ bots once they’ve finished off the fightin’.”
I look down into her bright eyes, and behind the tiredness and grief I see a spark of determination. “We stick together out ’ere. They might be ’shamed of us and want rid of us, but we’re tough to kill off.” She glances back sadly at the body on the floor. “’Ee went down fighting.”
The lump in my throat gets thicker. And I thought they were going to attack me. Presumed they were raiding the dead, not mourning a friend. What kind of person does that make me?
I place my hand over hers. Her skin is warm and rough. “Thanks for the directions. But I’m going that way.” I glance back down the street to where I last heard the sounds of violence.
The woman’s face wrinkles in concern. “But that’s where the fightin’ is.”
I pat her hand gently. “Exactly.”
A toothy smile splits her face. “Careful, lad. You look like a smart one. Yer not big enough to take ’em down, but mebbe you’ll think of some other way.”
I hurry down the street. The box may not have worked but there may be another chance to change the tide of the fight. One I bet the Chain won’t have thought of.
Rogue. He’ll be out there somewhere. I just have to find him.
As the noise of violence grows louder, my heart begins to race and adrenaline powers my legs. Dizziness washes over me. I think back to my lessons with Aleesha. What had she said? You have to control your breathing. Control the adrenaline – don’t let it take you over.
I slow my pace slightly and try to breathe evenly. The dizziness passes.
A man staggers past me, bleeding heavily from a wound on his leg.
“Where are the Metz?”
“They seem to be heading to Rose Square. Dunno if they’re trying to herd people there or what.”
“How do I get there?” I call after his retreating back.
“Right, left, then right again. But it’s a bloodbath. I’d stay away if you want to live.”
A bloodbath.
I run into the first Metz on the next street. There are three of them, fighting a group of about ten men and women. One guy has managed to wrestle a gun off one of the officers, but as I watch, he gives up trying to figure out how to fire it and takes to beating the officer over the head.
I skirt just close enough to check the officers’ codes. None of them are Rogue. I duck left down the next alley and follow it up to another street. Finally, I’m somewhere I recognize. I’m pretty sure this road runs parallel to Rose Square.
There are lots of Metz on this street, some searching houses and dragging people out from hiding, others engaging with Outsiders. But for every person they shoot down or throw aside, another person steps forward to take their place. It’s like they’re trying to overwhelm the officers with sheer numbers.
My step falters. How am I ever going to find Rogue in this lot?
I’m jolted to one side by a man backing away from a looming dark figure. His face looks familiar. Half of his head is shaved, and the other half is braided to his neck. I step back as he raises his arm and deals the officer a blow on the hand with a nail-studded club.
The Metz officer pulls back, dropping its weapon. The man stoops down to retrieve it, revealing a snake tattoo that winds around his neck.
There’s a shout from above followed by a crash. The black figure sways from side to side then slowly topples to the ground. A scatter of cheers erupts from the surrounding Outsiders who swarm over the figure, tugging weapons free from its belt.
“Damn thing won’t work,” the man in front of me mutters, turning the device over in his hands.
I step forward. “It may be programmed to only work for them.”
The man looks up and frowns. “Do I know you?”
“I, err … know Aleesha.”
Recognition dawns on his face. “Oh yeah. I’m Jonas. You with that Chain lot?”
“Not exactly. Have you seen Aleesha?”
Jonas nods. “Yeah, she’s over there. Says she’s got something that can stop ’em. The Metz, that is. We’re tryin’ to get her up to Rose Square.”
My heart leaps as I follow his gaze. But I can’t see Aleesha, just a crowd of people who seem to be trying to force their way through a line of Metz officers to a narrow street. They look more coordinated than most groups of Outsiders. A huge black man – almost as big and bulky as the Metz officers – seems to be in charge.
What has she got?
“Coming?” Jonas asks.
I nod, but he’s already taken off, running toward the crowd, gun in hand. I wipe my sweaty palm on my pants and pull the knife from my belt.
Be brave.
But my legs are shaking as I set off down the road. The crowd of people has broken through the line. They’re running up the street. I walk faster, then break into a run. But when I’m about ten paces away, the line of officers closes up again and I skid to a halt.
One of them raises its gun. I stare into the barrel.
“Don’t move,” a voice says quietly in my ear. “If you don’t attack they probably won’t shoot.”
Probably?
I take a step back and feel hot breath on my neck.
“There’s an alley on the left. Ready to run?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Run.”
I run.
Bullets whizz past me. There’s a sharp pain in my shoulder, another from my ear, but I keep running. The crack of the gun drowns out all other sounds. A weight hits my back, propelling me forward into the shelter of the alleyway. There’s a crash from the street and a volley of shouts. People run toward the line of officers, brandishing weapons.
The young man who’d fallen on me lies face down at my feet. I crouch down and roll him over. He’s younger than I’d thought, perhaps thirteen, with dark hair cropped short. A dark stain on his chest slowly spreads outward. I touch it and my fingers come back covered in blood. A familiar wave of nausea turns my stomach.
The boy’s eyes flutter open and he lets out a low moan. For a second our eyes meet, and he opens his mouth, trying to communicate something. Then his eyes roll back and his head falls to one side.
I reach out and gently close his eyelids, then pull his body to one side of the alley and place his hands on his chest. “I’ll come back for you,” I whisper.
If I survive.
Then I turn and run up the alley to Rose Square.
Smoke rises from the south part of the square, the black skeletons of the market stalls just visible above the crowd. The rest of the square is a sea of black, but at street level it’s impossible to see what’s going on.
I kick down a door into the building to my right and run two floors up. Numbered apartments lead off the landing, but one of the doors is slightly ajar. I run inside and over to the window.
The guy with the leg wound had been right. The Metz are herding people into the square. They’re lined up in the far north corner: men, women and children, ringed by Metz officers. Guns pointing in.
On the opposite side of the square lie the wounded and dead. Anyone who can’t stand. That’s where most of the screams are coming from. Across the rest of the square, more people are being herded in. There are pockets of fighting but too many Metz for it to make a difference.
Except in one area.
A group of Outsiders are slowly but surely making their way toward the statue. The front line holds makeshift shields in front of them. Metal doors, trash can lids and what look to be pieces of Metz armour. They use them to push the Metz back. Behind them, others fire guns or throw bottles filled with some kind of explosive.
The Metz shoot back. Some of the Outsiders fall. But still they keep going.
At the centre is the tall black man with the dreadlocks. He seems immune to the bullets whizzing around him as he shouts orders and throws impossibly large missiles at the officers. Following in his shadow is Aleesha. She’s hunched over, clutching something to her chest.
I turn to leave, but a movement near the wounded people catches my eye. A woman with long dark hair is pushing through the line of Metz, a familiar dark green bag slung over one shoulder.
Abby.
I run for the stairs. Something tells me the Metz aren’t going to take kindly to anyone interfering with their plans.
I burst through the door, but I’ve barely taken two steps when someone barrels into me, knocking me to the ground.
“Trey?”
I gasp, the air knocked from my lungs by the impact.
A hand grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. I lurch to the side, somewhat unsteadily. Bryn’s face looms into view.
“I thought I told you to stay out of this! You’re bleeding. Are you hurt?”
Bleeding?
I reach my hand up to my ear and it comes away wet. “I’m fine. Abby—”
“Where is she?” The colour drains from Bryn’s face and his grip on my arm tightens.
“With the wounded.” I point across the square. “I think they’re—”
But Bryn is already off. I run after him, trying to follow in his wake as he ploughs between Metz officers, pushing them and Outsiders aside in his haste. A man tumbles to the floor and I jump to avoid him but my foot catches on his leg and I’m sent flying.
I crawl to my knees, but the gap ahead of me has closed.
A foot catches me in the stomach. I gasp for air, stars dancing across my vision. Then I’m being dragged along the ground.
I barely have time to figure out what’s happening before I’m tossed like a limp doll onto a pile of bodies.
Underneath me, somebody groans.
“Gerroff!”
Feeble hands roll me over and I hit the dirt again.
“Sorry,” I gasp.
A cry of terror rips through the moans of the wounded. I twist around, just in time to catch sight of Abby, her hands outstretched as if to ward off the huge black figure in front of her, a trailing white bandage unravelled in her grip.
I scramble to my feet, knowing I’m already too late, that there are too many people between me and her. I lurch forward, jumping over prone figures in my haste.
“Abby!”
Bryn’s voice, coming from the right. He fights his way past the Metz lining the square. Two officers lie on the floor in his wake, clutching at their knees.
Abby turns at the cry and, at that moment, the officer brings the butt of its gun down on her head and she crumples to the floor.
No!
I try to move faster but there are just too many people. I glance down to find my footing, and when I look up Bryn is almost there. Another officer intervenes. Bryn lashes out but the officer swipes at his arm and I catch the glint of steel as his knife cartwheels through the air.
Abby lies motionless on the floor beside a gibbering man who looks like he’s praying. That or begging for his life. The officer hovers its gun between him and Abby as if unsure who to shoot first.
It decides on Abby.
Time seems to slow. I’m still ten metres away.
It takes aim.
Bryn launches himself at the officer’s arm.
The shot goes wide, bouncing off the helmet of an officer a few feet away who staggers back. Bryn falls to the ground, almost landing on top of Abby. The officer swipes at him, dealing a hard backhand that whips his head around with a crack.
Five metres. Three more prone figures.
The officer lowers the gun, pointing it at Bryn, who shakes his head, dazed.
Three metres.
Somehow the knife is still in my hand. Throw it? No. I’m no Aleesha. I’d probably hit Bryn or something.
Bryn tries to get to his knees. To shield Abby’s body with his own.
“Stop!”
The officer’s head turns a fraction toward me. Bryn launches himself forward, but the officer throws him to one side.
I leap over the final man and run into it. Literally. It stands there placidly as I wheeze, then it reaches out a hand to shove me aside.
“Wait! Let’s … talk about this.”
Talk about this? What are you doing
?
I need a plan. I have no plan.
Then I catch sight of the number on the officer’s chest. ML486.
“Rogue?” I whisper.
The figure doesn’t move.
“Rogue, it’s me, Trey,” I say more urgently.
He knows who I am. Doesn’t he?
“Trey, get out of the way!” Bryn staggers to his feet.
“No, you don’t understand. This is th—”
A gloved hand connects with my cheek. Pain lances through my jaw and my legs collapse underneath me.
I look up into the barrel of a gun. Behind it a blank mask. The hope that had surged through me dissolves into fear.
I close my eyes and wait for the shot to be fired.
29
Aleesha
They crowd around me as we move across Rose Square. My arms are pressed tight to my side, and though I stumble occasionally as we push through the tide of Metz officers, the press of people around me means I never fall.
My protectors.
They’re a mix of people. Some are Samson’s – the core members of the Brotherhood – the rest are Snakes. I know them all by sight, if not by name. Which makes it all the harder when they’re cut down.
I want to help fight but I don’t even have space to draw my knife. Even if I did, I’m too short to throw it over the heads of the people surrounding me. I clutch the box to my chest to protect it from the buffeting and wonder if I can get it out here, to stop the Metz who are standing in our way. But it’s too chaotic. I doubt I could even bring up the display, let alone select the small dots representing the chips.
We have to get to the monument. There I’ll have some space to see.
At one point I glance up and catch sight of a figure standing in a window looking out over the square. They must have a good vantage point. I should have thought of that.
I shake my head. No, Giles said the device had limited range. I must take it to the centre of the fighting.
Our arrowhead is breaking through the ranks of officers. We’re pressing forward. Not far now.
Samson looms over me, shouting orders and throwing wire baskets of stones passed up by the people behind. It seems the Metz guns don’t work against them, so taking them out by sheer force is the only option. Relieved of their burden, the carriers step forward to replace the people who fall or are swept aside by the black army.
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