by T. C. Edge
As his stark eyes weaken, his lips quiver, spilling the secrets that Zander is looking for.
I watch on as the knife hovers across his neck, expecting it to cut suddenly through is jugular and empty his body of blood. But Zander doesn’t do so. Instead, he turns the man to him and stares right into his eyes for a few moments.
And then he lets him go.
Less than a minute later, he’s whooshing through the dusty streets and emerging right in front of me. The guard, meanwhile, merely finishes off his cigarette, before wandering back around the wall and through a small door beside the gate.
“What the hell, Zander! The guard’s gonna say something…”
“No, he won’t. I erased his memory. He won’t know I was ever there.”
“You can do that? Erase people’s memory?”
“Sure. And you’ll be able to as well. In fact, it’ll be crucial for your mission.”
My mission…I’d rather not think about that now.
“And Drum? Do you know where he is?”
He nods, and as he does so, the sound of engines begins to rumble once more, quiet but audible beyond the gate. We both send our eyes to the source of the sound.
“He’s being transported tonight,” he tells me. “There will be two trucks. We just have to figure out which one he’s in.”
“So, now what? Sounds like they’re about to leave…”
“Yeah, and we need to be ready. Come on, sis, it’s time we laid a trap.”
With a little smirk that suggests he’s enjoying himself, he turns and fades back into the shadows, moving south through the western quarter.
And I follow right behind.
49
Zander’s knowledge of the city, as much as his substantial powers, is a godsend. Leading me southwards, we dash down side-streets and narrow alleys, quickly escaping district 10 and moving straight through 9.
Around the city’s perimeter, it’s quiet and lonely, the place – even though we’re in the western quarter – carrying a similar feel to the far reaches of the northern quarter. Here, so near to the boundary wall, the threat of the toxic mist has grown sufficient in recent years to drive people away.
The concern enters my mind as we rush through the streets, going as straight as we can in the direction of the western border gate that sits right between districts 8 and 9. We don’t move towards it, though, but begin moving back up into the district in the opposite direction as we near, readying ourselves to cut off the convoy before it can reach it.
“The trucks will have to take a longer route,” Zander tells me. “They’ll keep to the main roads a little deeper into district 9, and will have to circle around before hitting the western exit road that leads to the gate.”
Thankfully, we have no such restrictions, and use the narrow cut-throughs to make quick progress. Our Dasher powers – which we have to use sparingly due to my lack of endurance and practice – also helps us to arrive at a suitable ambush point before the trucks come into view.
Stopping behind a low wall outside of a tower block, just off a straight wide road, we crouch down and set out eyes to the distance. Swigging in some long breaths, I note the scent of the acidic mist that so often seeps into these rough edges of town.
I cough and splutter, and Zander quickly reaches into his coat and pulls out a gas mask. It’s just like the one he gave me when he took me beyond the city walls to meet Lady Orlando.
“If you’re having trouble with the air, put this on,” he says, handing it to me.
“What about you?” I ask, my nostrils and throat feeling like they’re on fire.
“I’ll be fine. I’m more used to it than you. This isn’t lethal, not around here. You’d have to go way outside of the city for that. Go ahead, put it on.”
I take his advice and place the mask over my nose and mouth, pulling the elastic straps around the back of my head. The sensation of relief is immediate and welcome.
“So, how are we going to stop these trucks exactly?” I ask, my voice now slightly muffled and distorted.
Zander answers by pulling another trick from his coat. This time it’s a pulse rifle, craftily folded up and hidden away. With the push of a button on its side, the handle extends, allowing him to fix the weapon to his shoulder to provide better stability for aiming.
I watch him work to fully unpack the weapon, pressing his thumb to a small scanner on its underside. A second later it hums to life, the barrel of the weapon glowing blue. It appears as though it activates to his thumbprint only, a useful security measure to ensure no one else can use it.
“And what are you going to do with that?” I ask, wondering just what he’s got in mind.
“Don’t look so worried,” he says. “This thing’s got an EMP setting. I’ll be able to disable the trucks. And like I said before, leave this to me, Brie. You just stay here and keep your head down. I can handle it.”
With time against us, I don’t argue. Instead, I turn my eyes to where his are, down to the end of the street a couple of hundred metres away. As the moon continues to creep across the sky, the darkening clouds ahead bring with them a growing mist, tinged with green and causing little tingles to dance across the exposed skin on my face.
“They’re coming from there?” I ask.
Zander nods, just staring. In the silence, I hear the distant hum of engines, and see a pale yellow light beginning to glow in the fog.
“They’re here,” whispers Zander. “Stay down, and don’t move. As soon as I’ve taken out the security, we run. Got it?”
“OK,” I whisper, watching the fog grow brighter.
It continues to do so, until from around the corner the first truck appears, little more than a shadow in the haze. Then, another joins it, right up behind, the two heavy vehicles grinding along the worn down streets.
They grow in clarity as they come, thickly armoured and devoid of windows, their metal extremities stained and rusted and eaten away by the toxic mist they so regularly have to contend with. They’re so unlike the vehicles from Inner haven, sleek and smooth and clean, operating under voice command.
The trucks aren’t run by a computer. Behind their windscreens, blacked out and covered in iron bars, an actual person will be driving, manually shifting these hulking metal husks in and out of the city. Ferrying people to the REEF to be returned as little more than shades of their old selves, if they return at all.
I stare at the two trucks and note that the one at the front is riding a little lower on the rear axle. It could just be filled with more criminals. It could just be in need of repair. Or, it might just be that Drum is sat there in the back, weighing the rear of the vehicle down.
“I think he’s in the front vehicle,” I whisper to Zander.
“How do you know?”
“It’s riding low.”
He seems to understand what I’m saying.
“OK, I’ll check that one first when I’ve disabled the guards.”
I appreciate his confidence. There’s nothing in his voice to suggest he’s concerned about what he’s about to face. I suspect he’s faced off against far greater foes across the years than this.
My throat feels like it’s turning to ash as I watch the trucks trundle on, my heart thundering so hard I feel it pulsing in my neck. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself, and hear Zander growling through a whisper as his eyes fix to the front vehicle.
“Stay down,” he warns. “And be ready to move. It will all be over quick.”
I duck as low as I can, but can’t help but keep my eyes above the low wall, the trucks only about 50 metres from us now. Zander begins counting himself in.
“Three,” he whispers, his fingers gripping tight to the handle of his rifle. “Two…”
I brace for the fight, even though I’m a non-combatant, my entire body tensing and turning rigid as Zander says: “One.”
Immediately, his finger clicks the trigger and a little burst of blue spits out of the end of the barrel. Fizzing
and swirling, it leaves a trail of sapphire light in its wake as it zeroes straight in on the first truck, hitting it square on the front.
The blue ball bursts, engulfing the entire truck in a coating of crackling sparks that quickly fade. The vehicle comes to a screeching stop, just as Zander sends a second round at the truck behind. It too is quickly immobilised, the wide road turning suddenly silent.
The eerie calm only lasts a second.
Bursting from the front doors of both vehicles, several armed men come. From my hidden vantage, I count three from the front truck and two from the rear.
They lift their weapons and point them in various directions, trying to find the source of the attack. Then their eyes discover the fading blue trails and turn towards the wall where we hide.
I look to Zander, and see him smile.
“Time to play,” he says.
Then, with a blast of air, he explodes from cover and storms at the men. None are able to see him coming or react before he reaches them. The first two don’t even have a chance to get off a shot, so quickly are they taken out and disabled.
Like lightning my brother moves, leaving his own trail of swirling mist as he surges from one man to the next, using the butt of his rifle to knock the men out. Once he’s taken out the first two, the third from the lead vehicle fires, lighting up the street with his own pulse rifle.
The rounds blaze from the tip, fizzing in my direction and burning holes in the tarmac and the sides of buildings. One comes right at me, hitting a portion of wall just to my left and leaving it with a black crater.
I thank my lucky stars that it didn’t come at me, yet find myself unable to tear my eyes from the scene. The rounds have no impact on Zander, his speed too great and eyesight too fierce to let himself be hit.
The guard’s brief attack ends abruptly, his lightshow brought to a swift conclusion by Zander’s rushing fist. By the time he’s been dealt with, the other two guards are storming around the truck and looking to engage.
The tenacity with which they do so makes it clear to me that they’re Con-Cops. No normal man would approach such a dangerous foe in this way, their fear holding them back and forcing a different response.
In most cases, that might be to surrender or flee. Only the bravest and most foolhardy would attack.
In such a way, fear can be both a hindrance and a help. Some men will be paralysed by it. But others will use it to their benefit, seeking out a course of action that will let them defeat their enemies without personal harm.
The Con-Cops have no such advantage, their ability to feel fear stripped away. So they rush in without thinking, without fearing what might become of them, without seeking a smarter way to take their opponent down.
Their failure is total. Zander sends them to the dirt in moments, leaving them unconscious but alive.
The sound of combat dies. The streets grow quiet again. And then, suddenly, I hear my brother call.
“Sis, it’s time! Let’s go!”
I stand without a second thought and pounce towards the trucks.
I find Zander at the rear one, fiddling with the settings on his rifle. He reduces the intensity of the pulse rounds and sets the gun to the door, shooting out the lock. It cracks and burns, and he reaches out to pull open the door.
Before he does, however, he turns to me with a tight frown.
“Step to the side and out of sight.” His voice is low now, a speedy whisper. “No one can see your face.”
“But the gas mask…”
“Will hide you to most, but not all. These people will be interrogated to find out who attacked the truck. If someone says your name your entire mission is bust before it even begins.”
“Not if we let them go…”
“There’s no time. And most will be caught anyway.”
His eyes force me to obey. I move around to the side of the truck, next to one of the knocked out Con-Cops. His body is slumped awkwardly, his jaw broken and nose running with blood. But he’s breathing.
Zander saw no need to kill these men.
As I stand to the side, I hear him opening the back of the truck. A sound of whimpering immediately drifts to my ears, men and women cowering in dark corners. They begin to cough and wheeze too, the green-tinged mist immediately pouring into the back of their mobile prison cell.
Zander’s voice whispers harshly.
“I’m looking for a boy named Drum.”
My breathing halts and my ears open wide. Time seems to stand still for a second. There’s no response. Then, after asking for a second time, a low but soft voice detonates from the truck’s interior.
“Who are you?”
I recognise it immediately. He sounds frightened. I want to rush around the side but hold my form.
Zander speaks again.
“I’m someone who’s here to help. Step out of the truck. We don’t have much time…”
I hear a stamping sound, and the truck rocks, and the clinking of chains rattles. Then, a light blast from Zander’s pulse rifle fills the air with a colouring of blue. The chains are discarded, thrown to one side.
“What’s going on?!” asks Drum again. “I don’t understand…”
“It’ll become clear soon. I’m the friend of a friend.”
As Drum asks: “What friend,” Zander appears around the side of the vehicle. Drum trails behind him, his clothes tattered and torn and skin dirty. His face carries a haunted look, a cocktail of confusion and fear etched across it.
Yet mine flows with a smile, hidden behind my mask, and I feel a slight dampening in my eyes as I see his gigantic frame stomp into view. When he sees me, his confusion momentarily grows, and then his bountiful lips bursts open as I slide the gas mask up to my forehead to reveal my face,
“Br…” he starts
He’s cut off immediately by Zander, whose hand rises quickly to his mouth.
“Shhhh. Don’t speak. We need to go, right NOW!”
I can see the intensity in him growing by the second. Someone will surely have seen and heard the brief firefight. Soon, they’ll be coming for us.
As Zander’s hand slips from Drum’s lips, I immediately rush in and take his hand, whispering: “We’re getting you out of here,” as I do.
Zander starts moving east, the sprawling expanse of the western quarter spread out before us. I drag Drum along, but then feel myself stop, the whimpering calls of ‘help us’ leaking from the back of the truck.
“What about the others?” I ask.
My brother turns.
A terrible fate awaits all of them. Some may deserve it, but I’d imagine most will not. What sort of person would I be, would Zander be, to leave them chained up like beasts?
“We can’t just leave them,” I say. “We have to set them free…”
“We don’t have time,” rumbles Zander. “Back-up will be here any second.”
“We have to. I won’t leave them to be taken to the REEF!”
I turn and begin moving back, forcing Zander to follow.
“Come back,” he growls. “We can’t risk it!”
I don’t listen.
Pulling the hood of my jacket right over my head to shield my eyes, and my gas mask back down to cover the rest of my face, I quickly rush towards the rear of the truck.
I peer inside, and see a mess of cowering bodies, some bowed in fear, others attempting to tear away the chains that bind them to their cell. I take one look and know it will take a while to free them all.
Zander appears beside me.
“Get the other truck open,” I tell him.
“We have to go!” he barks, grabbing my arm.
I pull it away, and repeat my order.
He knows I won’t budge.
He shakes his head violently and lets out a grunt of frustration, before moving quickly to the rear truck.
As he works to unlock it, I move between the downed guards, quickly checking their belts and jacket and pockets for keys. I have no luck with the first t
wo. The third, however, yields what I’m looking for.
As Drum hovers nearby, looking slightly dazed and confused and holding his hand to his mouth to shield it from the septic mist, I rush back to the truck and throw the keys inside. The nearest man, working feverishly and yet fruitlessly to free himself, grabs them.
He looks up at me.
“Who are you?” he coughs, peering through bloodshot eyes.
“I’m no one,” I tell him. “Now get yourselves out of here. And don’t go home or they’ll catch you. You’re on your own now.”
I rush to the rear vehicle, and find Zander inside, coaxing people out. Using his pulse rifle, he begins shooting out chains and roaring at the prisoners to run as soon as they’re released.
It’s taking too long, a couple dozen of them all chained up in the darkness. I rush over to the remaining guards – those that had been transporting the second truck – and search for another set of keys.
I reach one of them, and rifle through his clothes, pulling aside his jacket to reveal his belt. The keys hang off it. I snatch them away and prepare to turn back to the truck.
But something draws my eye.
The man’s inner forearm, face down in the dirt, exudes a flashing red glow around its border. I grab his limp wrist and pull his arm up, and a dart of alarm surges through me.
On the interface of his inner arm, I see a map, displaying the streets around the outer rim of the western quarter. The streets we’re on.
Above it, two words flash red.
BACKUP REQUESTED.
He must have called for help before Zander attacked…
I look back to the truck, and then to Drum, standing nearby and watching silently. And when my eyes turn back down to the interface, the words suddenly begin to blink and change, and I stand immediately to my feet.
BACKUP INCOMING. ETA: ONE MINUTE.
I charge to the truck, chuck the keys inside, and find Zander turning to me.
“They’re coming! Right now!” I call. “We have to go!”
They’re the words he’s wanted to hear.
Springing from the truck, he begins shooting off into the night, waving his hand for us to follow. And with my fingers gripped again to Drum’s hand, we disappear from the street in a flash, leaving a host of several dozen prisoners to fend for themselves.