by Emma Pullar
‘What you doing down ‘ere?’ she yells, and grabs both my wrists.
I struggle, but as I do I size her up. Female guards are picked only if they can challenge a male guard to a fist-fight and win. This guard and I are the same height, the difference is, she’s extremely muscular. I’m not sure I can take her, but then looks can be deceiving.
I force my wrists free and grab hold of her, driving my knee upwards. It connects with her hard-pelvic bone. She shouts in pain, folds over and staggers backwards, her baton clatters to the ground. I grab it. Thwack! Blood spits from her nose, she falls forward and her skull thuds against the floor. I don’t hesitate. I ditch the baton and start unlacing her boots, all the while wondering where the fuck Bunce is. I knew this was a step too far for him; he’s chickened out, typical Morb.
I pull on the freshly polished boots. They fit. I step over the body then double-back. I can’t go outside without a weapon. There’s a dagger in her belt. I snatch it and shove it into my right boot. I instantly feel secure. I’ve always carried a knife and the euphoria I feel that I might actually walk out of the Morb complex and into the open air is intoxicating. Excitement mixed with apprehension carries my body towards a far tube. I note there are no apartment doors on this level, only the stairwell, and further down there are shaft doors, only one set, for hover-chairs. Kian is at the tube entrance waiting for me. He knew I wouldn’t do as he told me.
‘What took you so long?’ He smiles, amused at how predictable I am.
‘Bumped into a guard,’ I pant and move past him.
‘Who?’ Kian grabs my arm. The one he bruised earlier. I wish he would stop doing that. I tug away.
‘I don’t know! She’s unconscious on the floor back there.’
I glance down and wiggle my toes in my new boots. The floor down here is grubby, not in keeping with the rest of the complex at all.
‘Great, more of your mess to clean up.’
He reaches over and rubs something from my temple – blood. That guard’s blood.
‘Oh, and I do nothing for you?’
I wipe my cheek with my palm, transferring blood mixed with remnants of glitter to it.
‘Name one thing you’ve done to help me in the last month.’
I clean my palm down the front of my cargo pants and try to think of something but he’s right, every time he’s asked for my help I’ve said no. Mental note, be a better friend to Kian.
‘Bunce didn’t show, then?’
I peer round Kian, over his right shoulder then left.
‘Don’t change the subject.’
He folds his arms over his chest.
‘I knew he wouldn’t come.’ I say.
‘Actually, he did.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ Kian says with a grin.
‘Where is he, then?’
I peer around Kian once more and squint into the dark tube.
‘I sent him on ahead.’
‘You what?’
I glare at him, of all the stupid things to do.
‘I told him to meet you at Rock Vault.’
I slap my hand to my forehead.
‘He’ll be dead before I get there!’
‘No, he won’t. I told him to hide until you arrive.’
‘Hide? His skin is as white as the clouds.’
Kian pushes me towards the tube entrance.
‘Better go then! You won’t have long before they realise you’re gone and I better go figure out what to do with that guard you beat up.’
He jogs away from me and I sprint in the opposite direction, down the dark tube, each step echoing off the long cylinder. My concern for Bunce’s safety drops away as I dash for my freedom, almost giddy. I run and run and soon my legs tire, muscles shaky, when is this tube going to end? I slow down and a stuffy smell hits me, like old socks. The glass is dark, unlike the other tubes, I can’t see the outside. I don’t know where I am and that unnerves me. I pick up speed, sprinting faster than I did before despite my protesting muscles. A stitch pinches my side, I hold on to it.
My cheeks go from warm and puffy to cold. I start to shiver. The temperature has changed, this end of the tube is an ice tunnel. Ancient air-con units clatter to life and shush out more cold air. I can’t think who would use this tube. Guards only, I imagine, so why run the air-con at all? After I’ve walked for what seems like an hour, the end of the tunnel is in sight. How did Bunce manage this trek? I was half expecting to find him keeled over a few miles back.
There’s movement to my left, a rat? I stand still, now the air-con has quietened down to a low shushing, a faint clicking coming from the floor can be heard – a travelator rolls along. Bunce must have used it to travel all the way to the end. I shoot the track a look of contempt; my legs ache and it’s your fault. When I reach the end of the tunnel I’m faced with double doors with a palm-pad and a side exit without one. I take the side exit, and as the door swings open the cool ‘real’ air strikes my lungs. I drink deep, breathing in the stench-ridden air. Above me, the star-speckled sky stretches over the city; no glass, real sky. I might be free from the complex but I’m still not free from the system. I stroll up to Rock Vault and crouch down by the dirty water. I’m thirsty, but there’s no way I would drink trench water, with rotting flesh floating in it. The euphoria of escaping my cage quickly evaporates. In the blink of an eye my emotions have changed from elated to anxious. I’ve swapped one cage for another. The journey has only just begun.
10
Blood Block
There’s a scuffing noise behind me, probably a rat. I ignore it, my eyes locked onto the faraway stare of the centremost rotting head on the line.
‘Skyla?’
I turn around at the sound of my name. Shoulders hunched, worry carved into his pale face, Bunce trembles like a child afraid of the monsters under his bed, or rather, the monsters hiding in the many filth-ridden cracks and crevices of Gale City. I’m thankful he can’t see what’s lying in wait; if he saw a Mutil or met a Runner, he’d probably shit his pants. I’m sure he knows about them, the fear twisting his face is enough to tell me that. Perhaps he’s heard stories of the streets. The real Gale City. I wonder what he’s been taught about my world. I’d guess not much, otherwise he wouldn’t have come. I’m shocked he didn’t back out. Actually, I’m surprised he’s not dead already. He’s got guts, I’ll give him that.
‘You look a little green,’ I say, standing to face my accomplice. ‘Sure you want to do this?’
‘I have to,’ he says, squaring his broad shoulders and pressing his thin lips together until all trace of pink disappears from them. He doesn’t have to come but he wants to believe he does. I attempt a reassuring smile but only manage to twitch my cheeks.
‘I can get Kian to take you back, there’s still time …’
He shakes his head like a defiant child.
‘No! I’m perfectly fine. It’s a little overwhelming and it smells funky out here,’ he wrinkles his nose, ‘that’s all … I can’t believe I’m actually outside.’
He tilts his head to the sky. He’s seen it so many times but always through glass. It must be weird for him. I join him in watching the twinkling stars.
‘It’s pretty amazing out here,’ he sighs. ‘Don’t you think?’
I look at the dirty ground and then up at the crows sailing down like burnt leaves falling from a lightning-scorched tree, they land on the tips of the black building before us, and blend. No, I don’t think it’s amazing out here, it’s dangerous but a damn sight better than being held prisoner in the Morb complex.
Bunce’s wanderlust turns to unease when he notices the black castle that is Rock Vault. It blocks the moonlight, giving the sharp, mountain-like edges an eerie glow and an ominous feel, as if the place is cursed. The only other source of light comes from the single lamp, which shines down on the bolted entrance. The lamp was not placed there so people can see where they’re going; it’s there so Skels can
see where they’re going. Half the streetlamps on our side of the city are dull or broken but not this one. Central makes sure the prison light is always on and at its brightest. It’s there as a reminder, it’s there to highlight the heavy doors from which there is no escape, it’s a statement. ‘Don’t step out of line. You don’t want to end up here.’
‘Are we going in there?’ Bunce asks, voice muffled, he has his nose buried in the crook of his arm, the stench from the trenches is obviously getting to him.
What a ridiculous question. No Skel would ever willingly enter Rock Vault; dragged in kicking and screaming, for sure, but willingly walk through the front doors, NEVER. Oh hell, I hope Kian doesn’t get into trouble. If Central finds out he allowed us to leave, he’ll be thrown head first into a cell.
Bunce waits wide-eyed for an answer, nose still buried behind his elbow.
‘Relax, we’re not breaking into the city prison,’ I say, amused at his naivety. ‘Rock Vault is a one-way ticket, people don’t come back out, at least, not the same as they went in.’
‘Do you think Cara’s in there?’
‘She might be,’ I shrug, ‘if she got caught.’
‘Do you think she’s been caught?’ Bunce says, worry driving lines across his forehead.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ I say. ‘Our first stop is a guy who knows everything that goes on in this city. It’s the only thing that rat-faced, glory gorger is good for and it’s what keeps him from being stabbed in the face, by me anyway. He’ll know where Cara is. He knows where everyone is.’
‘He doesn’t know where I am,’ Bunce says raising an eyebrow.
‘No,’ I say, smiling at this oversight, ‘he doesn’t.’
Bunce coughs and holds his throat as he retches and splutters, struggling to breathe, not used to the natural air, not used to the foul city smells. I hold my hand up to pat him on the back but he’s choking on air so there’s no use in slapping him, no matter how strong the urge is to belt him about a bit. I withdraw my hand. It’s as if he is learning to use his lungs all over again. I hope he doesn’t get sick. I hope he can keep up.
Our plan to find the serum was foolhardy at best, suicidal at worst and now I think about it, leaving the complex and taking Bunce with me was downright idiotic, but what else could I do? Bunce, to my knowledge, is the first of his race to ever venture outside. The Morbihan never breathe unfiltered air and I’m not sure what prolonged exposure to the elements might do to his lungs. I need him healthy. I can’t be dragging him along. Time is short. If Cara does have the serum, I need to get to her before the guards do. I try to think where she might take it and why, but nothing is making any sense. I untangle my thoughts, one at a time; I’ll find out what Tinny knows first and go from there.
Bunce takes a deep breath and again chokes on it. He holds up his right hand, to indicate he’s okay. Like he knows what I’m thinking. He doesn’t know. I don’t want to help him. I want to shut him up. His loud coughing is going to draw attention to us.
‘Give me a minute.’ He says gasping, ‘I’ll be fine in a minute.’
Bent over, hands on his knees, Bunce takes great gulping breaths. I imagine his body exploding into a wobbling mess of meat, which is what will happen if we don’t hurry. Morbihan puberty comes to an end at twenty-one, I didn’t think to ask how close he is to his twenty-first birthday. It could be days away for all I know. He could fat out at any moment. Maybe it’s happening now! I envision his trousers splitting and his shirt tearing at the seams – his blindingly bright shirt …
‘That’s a problem.’ I say pointing to his shirt.
‘What’s a problem?’ Bunce splutters.
Hands on hips, I tip my head to my shoulder.
‘You look like a rainbow puked on you. Not very inconspicuous, is it.’
Bunce straightens up and his quick breaths ease into a natural rhythm. He tugs his multi-coloured t-shirt out in front of him and inspects it, oblivious to the problem his top could pose. Dumb Morb. He might as well paint a bullseye on his face walking around in clothes brighter than the sun.
‘I don’t have any dark clothes,’ he says, hurt. ‘You know that. Morbihan don’t wear …’
‘Shhh … hear that?’
I pull Bunce down into the shadows beside me and concentrate on listening. He opens his mouth to speak and I touch my index finger to my lips, my hands smell of dry dirt and nail polish. Real life and fake life mixed together. Bunce crouches beside me, fretful, listening. A faint sound builds. A mechanical sound. A pumping sound. An artificial organ pumping blood haphazardly around a rotting body.
‘Don’t move,’ I whisper in Bunce’s ear.
I will my mind and body to remain calm; slow my breathing, empty the panic out of my head. It’s no use, anxiety rises in my chest as the pumping sound grows nearer and louder, soon accompanied by heavy robotic stamps. Beside me, the Morb is trembling. Bunce’s fear leaches into the cool air. Can it smell fear? Will it find us? Bare, blistered feet with chipped, yellowing toenails slap down on the concrete, inches from the shadow we hide in. I keep my breaths shallow, but I can’t stop my heart galloping against my rib cage. The horrible wheezing of struggling artificial organs is right above us. The sound reminds me of the factory, when the conveyer belt gets stuck and judders, gears sticking, forcibly grinding together. The Mutil sniffs the air. Fresh meat. What a feast it would have! Bunce would be its best catch ever.
Bunce has no idea how close we are to death. If he did, I’m sure he’d have passed out already, and with little knowledge of the city, out here, alone, he would die within days. Knowledge is a dangerous necessity for me. I could not roam the streets at night without it, and instinct – instinct is survival. Heads full of emptiness don’t survive in this city unless you are a Mutil. Although, they are not so much empty-headed as they are wiring gone wrong. Of all the night crawlers in Gale City the Mutil would seem to be the most dangerous, but I know better. I know my enemy and it doesn’t roam the streets at night. Knowledge equals alive and empty head equals death, unless you have instincts, and Bunce has neither.
I grab him by the arm. His pulse races against my grip. We’re going to have to run. I’ve never seen Bunce run before, I mean really run. I don’t even know if he can, especially with that large backpack he’s carrying, but there’s no choice. Mutil can run if they have to, fast if they’re starved. If only he did own some Air-Soles. They’d come in handy right about now. There’s a bathing block about ten metres away. I think Bunce could make it but it’s not one that I use, I don’t know if it houses squatters or not. Outcasts of the outcasts, they’d slit our throats the moment we opened the door. The drone of the city siren sounds to my left, the Mutil doesn’t move, it’s caught the scent of flesh. The siren means nothing to it.
‘The guards … they know we’re missing.’
Bunce’s whisper is almost silent, his breath falters on my cheek, his fear infecting me. If they already know we’re missing then it’s my fault. The guard that I battered and then stole her boots, has probably reported me. I shuffle into a start position, ready to run. Bunce copies, sort of, chin tucked to his chest, body rolled into a ball shape, he shakes all over.
‘When I say move, move. Got it?’
He doesn’t reply. Did he hear me? I’m not repeating myself. If he didn’t hear me, that’s his problem.
I wait for the siren to get louder; the noise will muffle our steps. I can’t wait too long, if the Mutil doesn’t find us, the guards will. Wait … I tell myself. The Mutil grunts and stamps his slab of a foot closer to us. Wait … Fingers spread, I press my hands down hard against concrete, knees bent, muscles tense, lines creasing across my leather boots, poised on the balls of my feet, heels off the ground. Not yet …
‘Move!’
I grab a handful of Bunce’s chubby arm and yank him up onto his feet and out of the shadows. The Mutil sees us – smells us! I chance a look over my shoulder and my eyes are met with a moulded mess of flesh and machine. Wire
s hang from a gouged eye socket, remnants of a faded, grey shirt which would have once been black, draped over a skin-coloured skeleton. The shirt is stained with blood, pus, and worse. Cracked lips part and the howl of a wounded beast, held together by the thought of a good meal, wails along with the siren. Bunce whimpers at the sound of the Mutil’s cry. Desperate footsteps pound after us, artificial heart pumping harder, faster.
Fist full of Bunce’s rainbow shirt, I drag him to keep up the pace. He clumsily staggers along in my wake. Charging footsteps join the ungainly stomps of the Mutil that hunts us. But the brain-dead creature behind me is now a secondary concern. If the guards find us I don’t know what they’ll do. To my knowledge, Central have never executed a Morb but then no Morb has ever ventured outside before. They could choose to make an example of Bunce, or kill us both on sight. They will, they’ll kill us, they’ll kill us! The mantra beats to the tune of my quickened pulse.
I skid to a halt and throw Bunce through the first door. The effort it takes to propel his large body forwards knocks me off balance, the metal slips through my fingers and the door slams shut. He yells from the other side. I push the tips of my fingers into the gap between the door and the frame and attempt to peel back the metal. It budges then bites back and I snatch back my hand and shake the sting away. No time. I slip inside the door next to it and press my back up against the cold metal. My heart thumps violently against its cage of bones, my chest heaving. I knew he shouldn’t have come. If there are Runners or squatters in that bathing block – he’s dead. If the Mutil gets in – he’s dead. If the guards find him – he’s dead. As much as he drives me insane, I did not bring him along to die.
I press my ear to the cold door. The siren has stopped. I listen for the Mutil. Silence. Thwack! My face is shocked away from the reverberating metal. The Mutil bangs its fists angrily against the door but can’t get in. Angry fists crash against the metal three times. I stare at the door, fists clenched. Ready for a fight I can’t win.