by Emma Pullar
‘Down here.’
Sib flicks her head towards a dead end. I take a deep breath and follow her into the darkness. There’s a scraping noise of heavy metal and then a small light appears in time for me to see Sib’s body disappear down a hole in the ground.
21
Bullet
There’s a rotten smell down here, it suggests a buffet of cold cuts for the rats of this city, but the rising water keeps them away. I had no time to think, Sib was down the rungs and splashing through the water without a moment’s hesitation and if I didn’t want to be lost and alone in the sewers, I had to keep up. I wade through the murky water, following the ring of light around Sib. A small lamp strapped to her shoulder throws light out in front of her.
A lone rat, its fur spiked by the wet, swims for its life, holding its twitchy nose above the littered, underground water. There are no other rats down here, which isn’t a good sign. We’re either brave or foolish. Probably both, except I’m not feeling brave. Was it foolish to follow Sib? Is she leading me into a trap? Leading me not to meet Bullet but to the Dark Angel of death?
Something brushes past my thigh and catches on my pants pocket. I hesitantly reach down to pull the white floater from me.
‘Ugh!’
I throw the slimy skeleton hand as far from me as possible.
SPLASH!
Fuck knows what else I’m walking through? Probably the same sludge that burst up through that toilet, it must have come from this river of death flowing beneath this rancid city. The water rises as we wade further down the tunnel, it laps at my crotch. Oh please, don’t let it reach my knickers.
‘Would you stop fucking around back there!’ Sib shouts, her voice bouncing off the rounded walls.
She wades through the sewage and slurry of human remains without so much as a downward glance. I slosh quickly after her, contorting my body to avoid suspicious-looking floating objects.
It isn’t long before we reach a junction. Sib turns left and climbs up a small ladder which disappears into a hole in the ceiling. I wait, not wanting to be rained on by her dripping clothes. When her boots disappear, I grip the wet rungs, my hands and soles of my boots slip as I climb. I hoist myself into the hole and water from my pants and bootlaces drips over the crawlspace. It’s a dusty scrimmage. My shirt rides up and the rusting metal scratches my back. Sib drops down on the other side, her boots making a dull thud. There’s light up ahead.
‘You’re late.’
A male voice beyond the tunnel.
‘Ran into some spooks, sir. That’s why I took the sewer entrance. No one saw us.’
‘Us?’ The voice, which must belong to the weapon’s master, sounds surprised.
The tunnel widens and I pull my legs round beside me and slide down into the chamber. My boots squelch as I hit the floor.
‘This Skel wanted to meet you.’ Sib says.
I take two steps towards a circle of light in the middle of the room. My legs drip with the last remnants of sewer water, and around my boots a wet stain grows dark on the concrete. Intrusive stares move over my body, I recognise one person; Coppertop, purple bruise swelling on her cheek. She’s the only one not looking at me. Beyond the spotlight, in the shadows, a figure sits on a throne of bones. The top of the bone throne is in darkness, the bottom is a pile of skulls, Bullet’s knee-high, leather boot rests on a large skull near the centre, his other leg is bent across his lap, boot resting on his knee.
‘A Skel who dares to step out of line … way out of line. I’m intrigued,’ says his slithering voice from the shadows. ‘Are you hungry, little mouse?’
I stay out of the spotlight, more comfortable in the darkness.
‘Yes, sir,’ I say in a small voice.
‘Then please, eat with us,’ the voice says, soothingly. Long fingers emerge from the shadow, the light cuts off at the wrist, the floating hand points, ‘it’s not often we entertain guests. Never, in fact.’
I cautiously move in the direction the slender hand is pointing, towards a table lit with tall, cream candles. It looks like a sacrificial altar. A bounty of fruit graces its fine red tablecloth and golden goblets have been placed between each platter. Gang members push past me and take their seats. I hesitate, not frightened by the thought of breaking bread with these hardened criminals, free food is free food, and the throne of bones is unnerving but still, that isn’t filling me with dread. What stops me in my tracks is thick, green and brown, and weaved between the platters, as if it slithered onto the table of its own accord. In one piece lies a huge baked snake, its body reaching from one end of the table to the other. I’ve never seen a snake so big. The clash of cutlery stops. Are they waiting for me?
I take a seat next to Sib. Not thinking, the first thing I do is poke the dead snake. My finger makes a depression in the soft, warm skin.
‘Didn’t ya mama teach you not to play with ya food?’ Sib hisses.
Even though she brought me here, my presence seems to aggravate her.
‘No. She was too busy being dead,’ I hiss back.
Sib snorts and turns her back on me. Once the gang begin to eat, I grab great handfuls of grapes and berries and take huge bites from apples and bread. After a few minutes of gorging, letting the sweet juices run down my chin, I grab a goblet and chug back fresh water until I think my sides will split. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and repress a belch. I get the feeling someone is watching me and they are. Sib looks at me in semi-disgust, neon-green eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight. I pick up a napkin and dab the corners of my mouth, and Sib goes back to chewing her food politely. A Runner with more manners than me. Great.
I search the table to see if anyone else is stuffing their face like a ravenous dog. They aren’t. Big men, the size of small mountains eat slowly and in silence. Many are carving great chunks from the snake, my stomach turns. Then something else causes me unease. From the head of the table, red laser eyes lock onto me. Bullet’s eyes are not green like Sib’s. The other diners’ eyes aren’t all green either. Two hard-faced men to my right, one with a long scar across his cheek, have blue eyes, there’s one green like Sib and the rest are red. Huh? Gangs don’t mix with each other like this. Sib was fighting the blues and now she’s having dinner with them? I’m the only one whose eyes do not glow in the dark. A scraping of chair legs across the floor and the others are back where they were standing when I entered the room. I stand and walk back towards the central light.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ I say to the shadows, in my sweetest voice.
‘It’s my pleasure, or at least … you will be,’ the sly voice purrs. ‘Come closer, little mouse.’
Now that my basic needs are met, the desire to meet my other needs is overwhelming. When hungry or thirsty, fear doesn’t really penetrate. The mind and body work like a heat-seeker; stay alive, keep breathing but once this target has been met other emotions come into play. I reluctantly step into the light, standing inches from the most dangerous man in Gale City. This was a bad idea. Bunce was right.
The tall shadow stands and takes two steps towards me. Out of the darkness a broad nose appears, the light slowly sneaks over the contours of Bullet’s soft bone structure, his oval face framed by long, black hair. He wears a tight jacket, no sleeves, muscular arms exposed. His high cheekbones and pointed chin offer a strange sort of handsome, almost pretty, smooth skin on one side of his face, the other riddled with scars. Sharp lines are etched in clusters on his eyebrows, cheeks, and trailing from his lips. Bullet licks the corner of his mouth, tongue darting over two fresh cuts on his plump upper lip, red pools to the surface of his malt complexion.
‘Skin like dark honey …’ he sighs, trailing a thin finger down my forearm as if he is brushing me with a feather. I try not to flinch at his touch. His tongue darts out to lick the same corner of his mouth, tasting the blood.
‘Hair like golden sand …’
His knee-high boots click against the concrete as he slinks around me. His fing
ers sweep through my hair. It tingles. I shudder.
‘And brown eyes as deep as tree roots, connected but with a need to break free …?’
I’m not sure whether to answer him or if that was a rhetorical question. I stare into the blood red, which should be white and his pupils burn through me. He steps back, vanishing behind the darkness surrounding the spotlight.
‘Perhaps your place is with us?’
I blink and Bullet faces me again. I flinch. He moves quick, hardly a sound. It’s no wonder he’s evaded capture all these years. His tongue darts back out, a peculiar tic; like a seductive serpent with an unquenchable thirst for blood.
‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘She’s here for some weapons, sir,’ Sib’s voice sounds in the left corner. ‘Says she wants to kill the fucker that slashed Dutch’s ankles. Not sure I trust her.’
‘What is trust, if not something to lull your prey into a false sense of security?’ replies Bullet, smiling sweetly. ‘You are not her prey. You need not give her your trust.’
He gives his attention to me. His eyes drink me in, he looks upon me like I’m the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen. I don’t like it.
‘Tell me, little mouse. What’s your birth name?’
I clear my throat and keep my voice steady.
‘Skyla.’
I don’t give him my first name. I never give anyone my first name. It was my mother’s and mine to keep. Central knows my real name, but most other people don’t and I intend it to stay that way.
‘Skyla. Pretty. Too pretty a name for such a dirty little girl,’ Bullet whispers.
‘About the weapons,’ I say, in an attempt to keep things professional. ‘I can’t pay you but …’
‘Hush, you’re too twitchy, in too much of a hurry,’ Bullet whispers, his fingers finding my topmost shirt button. The button drops to the floor and my shirt pops open.
I glance down to see two small knives on his fore and index fingers. I work to control my trembling, I must ignore the frightened little girl inside me.
‘You can relax. You’re not required to pay me now.’
He flicks off another button, exposing the top of my breasts, which are squashed into Cara’s bra. The butt of the handgun is visible. Bullet doesn’t look concerned. Fearless man. He runs a sharp finger knife down my bare skin and between the soft flesh of my breasts and drops his gaze down my shirt. I retain my composure. The sharp point doesn’t break my skin. He tilts his face up towards mine and his almond-shaped, lustful eyes once again bore into me.
‘For you are not ripe.’ He coos.
I keep my face stern, I mustn’t look as if his craziness is disturbing me, but it is. What does he mean I’m not ripe? I’m not growing a pair of melons in my bra. I don’t ask. I honestly don’t want to know. I want to get out of here alive and in one piece.
‘So, I’ll pay you later, then?’ I say, sheepishly.
‘Oh yes,’ he says, grabbing my chin and turning my head. I feel wet on my jaw. Bullet licks the length of my face and then moans into my ear like the taste of my skin has caused him to climax. He whispers, ‘I name the price and the price is high. When I call on you, you’ll come …’ he releases his grasp on my face, ‘or die.’
I will my arms still, they don’t listen and tremble uncontrollably. Unnerved by his words, yet seduced by his scent. I breathe in his skin, sweet spices. I want to lick him back. The urge ebbs when Bullet sits back on his skull throne, the bones are probably of his enemies, I wonder how many skeletal thrones he has hidden around the city, how many people has he killed? I clasp the top of my shirt, never taking my eyes off this strange man. This man who agreed to give me weapons in return for I don’t know what and I don’t know when, but I don’t have a choice. I need his help.
‘Bring her what she wants,’ Bullet orders.
There’s movement around me, footsteps, everyone leaves except Sib and Coppertop. Metal hinges squeal and a rusty door clatters. I don’t look to the sound, I watch Bullet’s dark outline. His knife hand at his face, he slowly drags the finger blades through an unscarred inch, slicing it open, drawing deep lines on his skin. He sucks in air through his teeth and groans it out as he cuts himself. I swallow hard. I try not to look at the bloody-faced king of Gale City’s underworld in case he flips and decides to bang me raw, as Sib put it.
Strange urges rise in my chest. I frighten myself. I’m fearful I might want him to touch me – want him to run those knives across my bare skin. I stare at the door, draped in darkness at the back of the room where the gang exited, sweat beading my top lip. Ambiguous feelings fight with each other, crippling anxiety and curious arousal, like eating something new for the first time. It could be poisonous or leave a bitter taste, but I’m hungry and maybe it is delicious and filling and maybe … no! It’s the devil’s fruit! Take a bite. I dare you. A moan of pleasure leaves Bullet’s lips. I’m sure he licked his finger blades. My nipples harden. Control yourself, Skyla! This guy is sick! Maybe I am too? No. He’ll fuck you and kill you. Fuck you with those finger knives!
‘Choose.’
A tall, muscular woman with neon-blue tattooed eyes and a face full of piercings holds open an oversized, leather briefcase in front of me. I snap out of my trance, fold my arms over the top of my exposed breasts and peer into the black case. A revolver – lame. A mace – weird. Who uses those? A miniature pickaxe – I don’t want that. The blade is too thin and swinging it would leave my body open to attack. I know he has better weapons than this. Is this all I’m worth? Wait, a silver shape catches my eye. Knuckledusters. I could use those, I guess. I reach in and pull them from their foam bed. They’re heavier than I expect. I slip them onto my fingers, a snug fit, it’s as if they were made for me. I curl my fingers around the moulded metal. A trigger clicks. I flinch and jump back from my own hand as two shiny metal blades extend from either side of my knuckles, one facing up and one down. Not just dusters, a type of knuckle-knife. I twist my wrist, admiring the craftsmanship.
‘You like blades.’
Bullet’s seductive voice travels straight to me and I’m suddenly aware that I’m smiling. I salivate. I do like blades. Yes.
‘It’s all I know,’ I shrug. Opening my fingers, the knives retract and I stow the weapon into my pants pocket. Then something else catches my eye. ‘What’s that?’
The woman holding the case doesn’t reply. I step around the case full of weapons and run my fingers down the smooth, cold black of what looks like a semi-automatic rifle, slung over the woman’s shoulder. I’ve seen something similar, on a touchpad my grandfather used for work but he also kept digital books on there about all sorts of things, there was one about the land wars my grandfather would to pour over, trying to make sense of the carnage. I glance back to ask the weapons master if the rifle is up for grabs. Bullet’s boots have disappeared from the throne. He’s gone. Sib steps into the light next to me.
‘Haven’t you seen a Galva before?’
I shake my head. She unclips the rifle from the shoulder strap and points it towards the woman holding the case. She doesn’t move, or even look at the Runner pointing a gun at her face. Sib backs up, arm pushing me to move back with her.
‘Galvanic rapid fire 12-gauge launcher,’ she says, as if reading from a list. ‘Electronic projectile ammunition. Accuracy up to one hundred feet.’
A rattling burst of gunfire echoes around the chamber.
Burning breath draws sharp to the back of my throat as I witness the woman’s head explode like a watermelon. The briefcase hits the ground with a clatter, followed by the woman’s body, the case spills its contents as she spills her blood. The headless body convulses, current running through it. All too soon the body is still. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Sib’s face is emotionless, as if demonstrating a Galva by killing an associate is a regular occurrence. Maybe she did it not as a demonstration, but as revenge for the fight and losing the giant’s life to the blue-eyed gang. Coppertop is polish
ing her fist of bones with a blood-stained rag, she doesn’t look over, face like stone, not a twitch. Skels don’t kill each other. We see as much death as anyone, it’s an unavoidable part of life, but we would only ever kill someone in self-defence, usually Mutil and we would definitely not take a life as freely as Glory Runners, Eremites, and Mutil do.
‘Feel the weight,’ she says, dumping the gun on me. ‘You can fire one bullet or many. Just flip this switch.’
I grasp the cold metal with both hands and turn the gun on its side. I flick the switch to single fire. My hands jitter. I think them calm, close one eye, and look through the scope. I squeeze the trigger. A bullet explodes from the barrel with a push to my shoulder. It penetrates the belly of the dead body sprawled across the floor. The meat twitches, giving it jolting false life. A smoky smell ascends. I exhale.
‘We done?’ Sib asks.
‘We’re done,’ I reply, bending to scoop up a small oblong case on the floor, which I hope holds extra bullets.
I throw the gun strap over my head and follow Sib and the red-headed Runner to the back of the room. Sib pushes open the door then blocks me when I try to pass.
‘Down here we don’t pay debts with labour. You better kill that Morb.’
I tug at the shoulder strap until the gun is central to my back.
‘I will.’
‘Good.’
22
She’s Missing
I fall asleep in the open air, holding the Galva, cradling it like a new-born baby. The security of my new weapon allows my tired body to peacefully slumber. Birds call to each other – not the crows – the smaller ones that stay away from bigger birds; their song rouses me. I’ve slept later than I wanted. A Sky Train shelter is not a safe place to sleep. I lick my dry lips, stale taste in my mouth, tongue furry. The sun taps on my eyelids with its golden fingers and when I finally lift them, I’m met with an orangey-pink sunrise. I peel my throbbing back from the bench, indentations of wooden slats aching in lines across it, I squint up at the sky. Candyfloss clouds ripple through the blue. One looks like a hover-chair. I hope Bunce, Tess, and Cara got away safely.