by Bali Rai
Martha blushed and agreed. ‘Thank God!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought it was just me.’
‘Whenever I’m near him, I start to think very naughty thoughts,’ revealed Faith.
‘Faith!’
‘A fine specimen but far too young for me,’ said the older woman. ‘I like my men with a little more . . .’
‘Muscle?’ teased Martha. ‘Big, broad-shouldered men who smell of sweat and liquor? Hmm . . . who do we know fitting that description?’
‘You know you’re not beyond a slapping, young lady,’ warned Faith.
Martha giggled and started polishing the bar. A loud knocking made Faith start.
‘That’ll be the door, then,’ said Martha. ‘Way too early.’
Faith shrugged. ‘Might as well let them in,’ she replied. ‘Not much else to do.’
As Martha walked to the entrance, cloth in hand, Faith heard Prior make his way downstairs, his wheeze growing stronger each day.
‘Coffee?’ she asked him, jumping down from the bar.
‘That piss?’ asked Prior, shaking his head. ‘That ain’t coffee, Faith. In my day . . .’
Across the city, close to where Valefor’s legions were stationed, Aron raised his weary head and groaned. His clothes felt stiff with dirt and his stomach grumbled with hunger.
His shelter was a three-storey terrace, one that he’d checked for threats and then made his own. It was basic and it protected him from the elements, but not much more. His bed was a length of board raised on a single layer of bricks. A musty sofa had provided seat cushions for use as a mattress, and once past the smell of mildew and grime, it was almost comfortable. He sat up and scratched his head, blinking in the fingers of light that filtered through the boarded windows. His bladder screamed for release and he made his way down to the ground floor, where he’d raised the floorboards and dug out a latrine. He relieved himself slowly, ignoring the flies that buzzed up around him and the pervasive stench. Finished, he walked back through two empty rooms and into the hallway.
He was about to head back upstairs when he noticed that the doorway, little more than a barricade, had been pushed open slightly. Sure that he’d secured it, his senses kicked into overdrive. Someone – or something – was in there with him, and they had to be upstairs, otherwise he’d have seen them already. He unsheathed his knife and took the steps slowly, wary of every angle of possible attack. When he reached the first landing, he crouched and waited, ready for anything. A minute passed before he moved on, heading towards the room he’d slept in. He entered slowly, wielding his weapon, and was greeted by a lazy, arrogant laugh.
‘Nice place,’ Stone said in a mocking tone.
Aron sighed and replaced his dagger. The mercenary intrigued and angered Aron in equal measure. He wondered what Stone’s life was like. How he lived with what he did every day. ‘What do you want?’ he eventually asked, rubbing his face.
‘You,’ Stone told him. ‘I want you.’
Aron walked to his bed, found his trousers and put them on. He wasn’t about to stand there and talk to this guy with his tackle on show.
‘This must have been some house once,’ continued Stone. ‘You know, back then.’
‘Probably,’ Aron replied. ‘Why do you want me?’
Stone was standing by the window, hands in the pockets of his combats. He wore a black sweatshirt with two holsters strapped across each side, both holding guns. His eyes bored into Aron’s face, unblinking as always.
‘We can help each other,’ he offered. ‘You give me what I want, and I’ll sort you out.’
Aron shook his head. ‘Why would I want to work for you?’ he asked. ‘I hate people like you.’
Stone took his hands from his pockets, found a cigarette and silver lighter in another flap on his combats and lit up. He took a couple of drags, exhaling the smoke fully before responding. It swirled around his head in a blue-grey haze. ‘You don’t know who I am,’ he parried.
‘You’re a collaborator,’ Aron offered in rebuttal. ‘A scumbag.’
‘The world is more complicated than that,’ Stone explained before taking another drag.
‘You work for the demons,’ Aron replied, watching the smoke curl around Stone’s cold features. ‘That’s all I need to know.’
Stone considered the boy and his surroundings before deciding to change tack. ‘You hungry?’ he asked.
Aron nodded. He’d been hungry for over a day and his head felt light. ‘I’ve got some bread,’ he added.
Stone smiled. ‘A bit of mouldy crap, no doubt,’ he scoffed. ‘I’ve got steak and eggs, part of my ration. I’ll make you some – in my room at the Mayor’s mansion.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Just give me a couple of hours,’ asked Stone. ‘No more than that. Have some food, take a hot shower and consider my proposal. If you want to leave after that, you can.’
‘What proposal?’
Stone dropped the half-smoked cigarette and clasped his hands together. ‘It’s simple really,’ he told the boy. ‘I know that you work with the Resistance. I know that because I’ve seen you. Now that leaves me with a dilemma, Aron. I could let Valefor have you or I could help you out. I don’t like the first option, because you impress me. You’re strong, smart and single-minded. So I’m choosing option two.’
Aron felt his opposition fading slightly. If Stone knew that he was a rebel, why wasn’t he dead already? What was Stone waiting for?
‘That’s better,’ Stone told him, seeing the change in Aron’s face.
‘I haven’t agreed yet,’ Aron reminded him.
‘Ah,’ Stone countered, ‘but you will. Because it’s either you or Martha . . .’ He left his words hanging in the air; enjoying the confusion working its way around the boy’s expression.
‘But Martha isn’t like me,’ Aron blurted. ‘She’s nothing to do with—’
‘Yes. She. Is,’ Stone insisted. ‘I’ve seen her, Aron. Either you play ball or I’ll go and persuade Martha to help. And I won’t be as tactful with her, Aron. I won’t be as nice. In fact, I might have to hurt her, maybe try out that lithe body for myself. I’d enjoy that immensely.’
Aron clenched his fists and took a step forward, raising a sneer from the mercenary.
‘Don’t be stupid, son,’ warned Stone. ‘I could just kill you here and now, and then I’d still interrogate Martha. I’m offering you a chance, boy. A chance to leave your shitty life behind and become a soldier.’
Aron wanted to kill him, to beat him to death with the bricks that held up his bed. Only he knew that he wasn’t strong enough, knew that he’d die before he reached Stone. He felt useless, impotent.
‘No tears, Aron,’ Stone mocked. ‘You’re not a baby. Life is about making decisions, son. And sometimes the decisions we make aren’t nice. You need to learn that. I like you, boy, and I want to help you. Leave all this shit behind and become someone. You can use the talents you have and live like a king. Now, are you coming or not?’
Aron shrugged and wondered what choice he had. Much of what Stone offered was enticing, particularly now that his so-called friends had ostracized him. And then there was Martha. There was always Martha. How could he let Stone hurt her?
‘Yeah,’ he mumbled. ‘Yeah, I’m coming.’
‘Good lad,’ replied Stone, lighting another cigarette. ‘You won’t regret it.’
33
MIAS WAITED UNTIL midday before arriving at one of the large factories in the industrial zone. He summoned the lead manager, a short, tubby man with round glasses and tufts of grey hair circling a balding pate.
The man’s eyes lit up with fear when he saw who was waiting in his office. Damien Wilson was a company man, a paid-up member of the party that had taken control of the country alongside the demons. He had always followed orders, and worked in many of the smaller protected zones outside the main citadels. Not once had he complained about leaving his family behind, or having to oversee the Unwanted. He did as he was told, and
had nothing to fear from Mias, but he was still afraid. The demon underlord before him had a brutal reputation.
‘Bring me anyone who has missed a shift or been late this month,’ Mias ordered. ‘And hurry.’
‘May I ask what this concerns, my lord?’ asked Damien, trying not to shake.
‘You may,’ replied Mias. ‘I’m in a good mood today. I’m looking for information about the Resistance.’
Damien nodded slowly. ‘Why those who’ve missed days, then?’ he enquired. ‘Most of these wretched creatures have been ill at some point.’
Mias picked up a photo frame from the desk in front of him. He studied the woman and two girls it showed. ‘Are these your women?’ he asked the manager.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘They are not here?’
Damien’s left leg twitched. ‘No, my lord, they live in the south,’ he replied.
‘Are they considered attractive?’ Mias continued, a cruel smile sweeping across his ape-like face.
‘I think so,’ said Damien.
‘Would they be just as attractive if their eyeballs were cut out? If they were made to eat them, perhaps?’
The manager’s right leg began to twitch too.
‘I sense fear,’ teased Mias. ‘Do I scare you, human?’
Damien nodded, unable to speak. His tongue felt like a wedge of sodden cardboard in his mouth.
‘Then why do you not obey me?’ snapped Mias.
Damien shook his head. ‘I’ll do your bidding at once,’ he spluttered.
Mias replaced the frame and passed wind, his eyes gleaming. ‘Gather them downstairs, at the loading bay,’ he replied. ‘You have ten minutes.’
* * *
Exactly eight minutes later, Oscar stood facing a line of human soldiers in the factory warehouse with fifteen other workers, most of them men. Most of them Resistance fighters. One of them was Raj, who stood next to him. Unsure of their situation, the two whispered to each other.
‘Everyone here is one of us,’ Oscar pointed out.
Raj, who at six foot five towered over everyone in the room, turned and studied his colleagues. He saw that Oscar was right, and that meant only one thing.
‘We’ve been rumbled,’ he replied, trying not to let his anxiety show.
‘Not necessarily,’ answered Oscar. ‘Could be something else.’
‘What else could it be?’ Raj countered, his deep brown eyes showing alarm. Creases lined his coffee complexion. ‘We’re in trouble.’
A short mercenary, his thick forearms covered in bright green and red tattoos, told them to shut up. Oscar turned to his left; saw a man called Marko standing next to him. A long scar bisected Marko’s olive-skinned face; it led from just below his left cheekbone, across his nose, and almost reached his right ear. Oscar had been with him when he’d received the wound – the result of a fight with an angry patroller.
‘What do we do?’ Marko asked out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Dunno,’ Oscar murmured, trying to stay calm despite his fear. ‘Just be on guard.’
The warehouse was at least three thousand square metres in size, with giant bay doors to one side. Opposite them, a mezzanine level reached by metal staircases on either side connected the loading area to the rest of the factory. Below this raised platform were smaller versions of the giant doors facing them. To each side of the room were rows of pallets, ten rows of them, five deep. Each pallet was loaded with boxes of clothing, the garments made by people who would never get to wear them. A door clanged open and Oscar looked up to see Mias walking down the steps from the mezzanine.
‘Bollocks,’ he exclaimed. Things were worse than he’d imagined if the underlord was involved. After his humiliation at Jonah’s hands, he would be even more dangerous than usual.
The fur-covered demon loped along, his simian body taut with muscle. With him were a couple of patrollers, already drooling viscous yellow saliva; they towered over Wilson, the factory manager. They reached the soldiers and stood facing Oscar and the others. Raj shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling apprehensive. The skin around Marko’s left eye convulsed involuntarily.
Wilson addressed them. ‘All of you have either missed days or shown up late,’ he said. ‘Lord Mias, therefore, would like to question you. As long as you comply with his demands, no harm will befall you. You have my word.’
Oscar hated Wilson’s weasel tone, his often high-pitched words. The man was a disgrace, a worthless piece of crap.
‘So listen up and tell the truth,’ Wilson added. ‘I urge you.’
Mias began to walk up and down the line, eyeing each of them in turn. When it came to Oscar’s turn, he held the demon’s gaze, unflinching, even though his heart was hammering against his ribcage. The demon repeated his inspection twice more before sidling to a stop in front of a wiry young man called Patrick, who drew back, his eyes wild with fear.
‘You seem uneasy,’ Mias sneered. ‘Why are you so nervous, human?’
Oscar shook with silent rage as Patrick began to shake his head, his hands trembling. ‘N-n-no reason,’ the young man stammered in reply.
Mias nodded and turned to the only woman, Emily. She was a little older than Oscar, around twenty, with wide blue eyes and a pale, freckled face. Her flame-coloured hair was knotted on top of her head. She was Raj’s girlfriend and Oscar knew that his tall friend was seething. Unlike Patrick, Emily didn’t shy away, keeping her gaze steady.
‘Tell me about the Resistance,’ ordered Mias.
Emily shook her head. ‘Can’t tell you anything,’ she lied. ‘All I do is work here, sir.’
‘Then why have you missed so many days?’ asked the demon.
‘Children,’ said Emily, thinking fast, trying to invent a family in her mind. She settled on her own childhood, reimagining her now-deceased siblings as her own brood.
‘You have young?’ probed Mias, unconvinced.
Both Oscar and Raj took deep breaths, praying that Emily’s deflection would work. ‘If that hairy bastard touches her . . .’ Raj whispered to Oscar.
‘Silence!’ screamed the tattooed mercenary, causing Mias to spring round.
‘Who speaks?’ he demanded. The soldier pointed to Raj, and Mias strode over at once. ‘You dare to interrupt me?’ he spat.
Raj kept his eyes forward, looking at some spot several centimetres above the demon’s head. Oscar clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘No, sir,’ replied Raj. ‘I merely wish to back my woman’s assertion.’
Mias looked back to Emily, then returned to Raj. ‘She is your woman?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Raj.
‘And you have young?’
‘We do, my lord,’ he replied, backing Emily’s story. ‘There are two of them, very young, and both have suffered sickness.’
Mias stepped back a touch, and considered Raj’s answer. He turned to Wilson. ‘Is this the truth?’
‘I don’t know,’ Wilson admitted. ‘I have no idea what these people do outside this factory and I don’t care.’
Mias picked a bug from his fur and ate it. His eyes were the colour of strawberry skin and held a fair share of intelligence. However, that acumen was wrapped in a blanket of homicidal intent. ‘I seek a stranger,’ he shouted, now addressing the entire room. ‘A man who arrived in your city recently. You may have seen him outside the hotel, engaged in battle with me. You may have heard whispers of his whereabouts. I want this man.’
When no one replied, Mias casually sauntered back towards Emily. He stood before her, barely an inch separating their faces. His breath was fetid, like stagnant pond water. Emily fought back a wave of nausea, her cheeks taking on colour. Mias sneered at her discomfort and stepped back.
‘I shall return in two days,’ the demon said. ‘And then you shall tell me the truth. I do not care about your Resistance activities. Your rebellion is no worse than the fleas that live on my fur. I tolerate them because I can remove them at will. You are the same. I seek only this stranger.’
&
nbsp; Again there was silence. Oscar exchanged alarmed glances with Raj as Mias sighed and took another backward step. His left arm arced through the air, fingers grabbing Patrick’s thin neck. Emily gasped as the demon threw Patrick across the room with ease. A loud crack sickened them all as Patrick’s back smacked against one of the pallets, his spine snapping. He hit the floor, and lay unmoving, his eyes still wide with terror.
Mias leaped across to him, straddled his torso. Emily and Oscar turned away, aware of what was coming. The demon clenched his hands together, raised them above his head and then brought them crashing down into Patrick’s face, over and over, his arms just a blur. Skin, then layers of subcutaneous fat, and finally bone, split, ripped and cracked apart. Blood pooled underneath the human. Mias’ fur grew slick with it, his eyes narrow as he howled in lust.
Next to Raj, an older man puked chunks of bread and nettle soup. Another collapsed, clutching his chest. A third ran for the doors, until a single bullet stopped him dead. Raj darted over to Emily and took her in his arms, shielding her from potential harm.
Oscar glanced over at Wilson. A dark stain had appeared across the manager’s trousers, and a puddle of urine surrounded his feet. His face was raspberry-coloured. The soldiers stood impassively, however, as though such incidents meant nothing to them. Oscar felt enraged, and longed to fight, but a survival instinct, honed during countless Hunts, kicked in.
Mias, once sated, rose to his feet and wiped his mouth free of flesh and bone fragments. He roared, gathering the attention of everyone in the warehouse. His eyes had turned from strawberry to a deep ruby.
‘Two days,’ he warned again. ‘If no one speaks of this stranger, I will obliterate five more of you. I will not rest until I have my quarry – or your entire workforce has perished. You have my word . . .’
34
JONAH DROVE THE jeep round a collapsed road bridge, the big, heavy tyres crunching effortlessly over the concrete debris. He’d taken over the driving half an hour earlier, as dawn had turned to morning and tiredness hit Mace full on. The road had widened a few kilometres earlier into a dual carriageway, complete with a wide central reservation.