Feral Empires: Fanning Flames

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Feral Empires: Fanning Flames Page 12

by Stephen L. Hadley


  As it turned out, the door Kathryn had passed through led to the depot’s main room. Only three men occupied it, though that number had been reduced to zero by the time he reached her side. The men slumped around the remains of a minuscule cooking fire, little more than an oddly shaped candle, and an unsteady table laden with cards.

  Kathryn crouched above the bodies, her forearms stained with blood and a wild, animalistic gleam in her eyes. She swayed, snarling under her breath as her head snapped violently about in search of additional adversaries.

  “Good job, Kat,” Liam said.

  Her eyes snapped to him, body going rigid for a split-second, then slowly relaxing. Straightening up, Kathryn seemed to notice the blood dripping from her hands for the first time. Lifting one to her lips, she began to lick her fingers clean.

  “I’m Kathryn,” she announced. “Kat is Kathryn.”

  Liam nodded and accidentally dropped his gaze to one of the slaughtered men at Kathryn’s feet. The man’s chest shuddered slightly and Liam quickly averted his eyes. Fortunately, there was an abundance of things to look at.

  The depot was dark but gradually lightened as Woods and the other militiamen filed in. One of them had retrieved the first man’s lantern and the others began to use it to light candles of their own. It was only once the men began to spread out, carrying their lights with them, that Liam realized the true scale of what the depot contained.

  Rack after rack filled every corner of the building, each one laden with dozens of rifles, pistols, and magazines. Interspersed among the racks were caches of ammunition, crates of spent brass, and bags of what Liam could only surmise to be gunpowder, based on how the men nervously held their lights at arm’s length.

  Liam straightened as Woods approached. The man was smiling, though the angle and fluttering of his candle make it appear terribly grim.

  “Who fired?” the man asked.

  Liam froze, momentarily confused by the question, and glanced at Kathryn to confirm she had not picked up a gun of some kind. She hadn’t, and the sight of her continuing to clean her hands proved enough to kickstart Liam’s brain.

  “They did,” he said, pulling his shirt away from his chest to display both the holes and the fresh bloodstains. “Caught me by surprise.”

  “It happens,” Woods said. “At least it was over quick. If they’d gotten off more shots, folks might’ve come poking around.”

  Nodding, Liam returned his attention to the rows of weapons.

  “There’s so much here,” he said. “How are we going to move it all?”

  “We’re not,” Woods said. “Our job is just to clear the place of the Mayor’s men. The Colonel has others in the city, collaborators and the like. Folks without any sort of official role in the militia. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Someone rapped on one of the depot’s doublewide, steel outer doors. The sound echoed disproportionately loud throughout the depot and the militiamen collectively held their breath.

  Grinning, Woods clapped Liam on the arm.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said. Aiming a playful salute in Kathryn’s direction, he turned and trotted off to help his men with the heavy, weighted door.

  Liam watched as the men struggled with the weight of it. It seemed to have been built with security in mind, since it did not open like any door he’d seen before. Instead of swinging open on hinges, the door opened vertically, apparently held in place by some sort of wooden brace. It took three men to force it upward and a fourth to hastily slide the locking mechanism into place.

  The second he had, those on the other side of the doors struck. Pistols and revolvers emerged from beneath clothes, filling the air with gunfire before anyone, even Kathryn, had a chance to react. The four men nearest the door were cut down in an instant, whatever groans they might have voiced falling silent before the echo of the firearms.

  Sergeant Woods shouted something, but his words were cut off as both factions began to open fire. Those in the doorway hurried into cover on either side, leaving only a single casualty behind, while the militiamen cursed and scurried into more defensible positions.

  Liam stood, unperturbed by the non-danger. Turning to Kathryn, he waved her down.

  “Stay out of sight,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

  Kathryn nodded contentedly, seating herself atop one of her kills as she continued to lick her hands clean. She’d already finished one and had just begun the second.

  Turning back to the depot’s open door, Liam clutched his rifle and walked calmly toward it. He paused alongside one of the surviving militiamen and tapped him on the shoulder. The man looked up, visibly surprised despite the mask covering most of his features. Liam gestured at the side door they’d emerged from, waited for the man to reorient himself to defend against an ambush from the side, then pressed onward.

  The nearer he came to the open door, the more serene Liam felt. He couldn’t have explained it. And, if he was being honest, it made little sense on any sort of intellectual level. But the facts couldn’t be denied; the more stares and astonished whispers aimed his way, the more secure he felt in his decision.

  Liam stepped through the open door and felt something strike low in his chest, painlessly and with the force of a hammer blow. Glancing down, he saw the length of steel that had impaled him and immediately felt his stomach sink.

  Not literally, of course, since the javelin had made sure his stomach could not go anywhere.

  The steel rod had buried itself several inches in the ground. As such, Liam could not easily pull it, or himself, free. Instead, he wriggled about, managing after a few seconds to raise his rifle into a usable position.

  The Mayor’s men did not wear their typical uniforms, but the weapons they carried were too polished and new to belong to anyone else. They hugged the edge of the depot, taking cover against its large, steel doors as if waiting for the opportune moment to swarm inward and finish off the militiamen inside.

  Gritting his teeth, Liam opened fire.

  The men seemed to take an absurdly long time to realize he was the one firing. Perhaps they’d simply assumed him dead after the javelin impaled him or perhaps it was his own perception of time that was unnatural. In any case, Liam emptied his magazine before the first retaliatory rounds caught him in the neck. He shuddered, choking on the blood that flooded his throat before the hole in his neck managed to heal.

  Perhaps that was why Jenn failed to recognize him. A second javelin hurtled his way, burying itself in his chest, just below his collarbone. Gritting his teeth, Liam ignored the new injury and clumsily began to reload his rifle.

  He had almost managed it when the militiamen came to his defense. Several of them emerged, roaring, from the side door they’d entered through. A half-dozen of the Mayor’s men fell before the remainder realized they were under attack. A few attempted to return fire but the rest quickly realized they were fighting a losing battle. A dozen or so reservists scattered, abandoning their casualties—or even their weapons—and fleeing down a number of side-streets. The militiamen pursued them a few steps, then immediately turned around and took up defensive positions in the shadow of the depot’s open doorway.

  Woods staggered out through the open door, wincing as he held a blood-soaked bandage around his wrist.

  “Liam?” the man called out. He paled as he approached. “You… are you…?”

  “I’ll live,” Liam said. He glanced down at the steel rods sprouting from his chest, then followed their approximate angle with his eyes. Unless Jenn had been extraordinarily clever, she’d sent them from the opposite rooftop.

  There was no longer any sign of her there.

  “Do… you need help?” Woods asked. From his wide-eyed expression, he seemed to have forgotten all about the pain of his own injuries.

  Liam tried to chuckle, but discovered the best he could manage was a quacking wheeze. Reaching up with weak, shaky fingers, he pulled the mask from his face. The
cool air was refreshing compared to the burning ache in his chest.

  “Yes, please,” he said. “There’s something I need to do.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It had taken a great deal of convincing for Woods and the others to allow him to wander off. And, in their defense, they hadn’t actually given Liam permission. Instead, he had waited just long enough to assure them that he was really, truly healed from his injuries. Then, when his assigned babysitter had gotten distracted by one of the collaborators who’d arrived to ferry a wheelbarrow full of guns and ammunition away, Liam had grabbed Kathryn’s hand, ducked into the shadows, and slipped away.

  The second he was alone with Kathryn, Liam let his reassuring smile vanish. He growled through gritted teeth, releasing her wrist as his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  How dare Jenn do this to him! It was one thing to refuse to help rescue Scott, but what she had done was quite another. She had attacked him, fought alongside men who wanted him dead, and killed good men to protect the Mayor of all people!

  It wasn’t like her. It was unthinkable!

  He stalked down street after street, fury burning his chest. Soon, even Kathryn had to hurry to keep up with him as he turned at random. A part of him hoped, desperately, that someone would try to rob him. There was nothing that would satisfy him more than to feel bones crack beneath his fists.

  “Liam,” Kathryn called.

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t even bother turning around.

  “Liam!” she repeated, more insistently.

  “What?” he roared. Anger flaring, he spun on his heel. “What do—”

  Jenn stood at the far end of the alley, vines extended upward and outward from her slender frame like a spider’s legs. They did not cling to either side of the building, but rather lightly dragged against the crumbling brick as one might with fingers. Liam watched her approach in silence, fighting down one burst of emotion after another.

  Jenn stopped short, easily a dozen paces away. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

  “Did you know it was me?” Liam asked, at last.

  Jenn shook her head.

  “Would it have stopped you?” he asked.

  It took far longer for Jenn to answer. When at last she did, it was in a quiet voice.

  “The Militia is dangerous, Liam,” she said. “Maybe not the ordinary members, but the leaders definitely are. The Mayor knows they want to overthrow him. If those weapons wind up in the wrong hands…”

  “Whose hands?” Liam snapped. “The Militia already has guns. So do the Occs. The only ones who don’t are the people who live here. Those guns will help protect them from the Occs!”

  “They don’t need them yet. They don’t even know the Occs are coming.”

  “Because of him!”

  “He had to.” Jenn’s voice had taken on a hard, almost steely tone. But, behind her, her extended vines had begun to writhe agitatedly. “If the people thought the Occs were coming, it would cause panic. The Militia thinks the people would fight, but they’re wrong! The people would riot and flee and die. That’s what the Militia wants—so they can take over! The Mayor is doing what he’s doing to protect them, Liam!”

  “Bullshit,” Liam said. “He’s lying to them. He’s making Hunters. He’s taking away their ability to protect themselves. That’s exactly what the Occs do.”

  “And?” Jenn said. Her eyes were narrow as she glared at Liam. “He’s doing what he has to. And if that’s what it takes to defeat the Occs when they come, you ought to thank him.”

  “Why don’t you thank him for me?” Liam spat, putting just enough inflection on the word to make his meaning clear.

  Jenn froze, her eyes going wide as if he’d slapped her. For a moment, she looked ready to attack him. Then, without a word or glance, she whirled and sprinted away. After a dozen or so steps, her outstretched vines managed to reach a few small outcroppings on the adjacent buildings and carried her swiftly aloft.

  Liam watched her go, breathing heavily. Intellectually, he knew he ought to worry and regret his words. He and Jenn had never spoken to one another in such a fashion, even during their worst moments. But even so, he could not seem to displace the tidal wave of anger burning a hole in his chest. The implicit betrayal in what Jenn had done stung too much to deal with at the moment.

  He couldn’t go back. Not right now. He doubted Jenn would return to the barracks, but the possibility was too painful to consider. If she attempted to climb into bed alongside him, he didn’t know what he’d do. And, if she didn’t, he had even less of a notion how he’d feel.

  Plus, the very last thing he wanted to do at the moment was face Woods and Natasha and have to explain that his lover, the woman who’d cause so much strife at the gate, had turned against the Militia and decided to aid the Mayor.

  He was tired. There would be time tomorrow.

  Liam exhaled slowly, then turned back to Kathryn. She stood silently in his shadow, watching him and wearing a thin-lipped, appropriately sympathetic smile.

  “Let’s go, Kat,” he said. “Are you tired?”

  Kathryn shook her head. “Not tired,” she said, softly.

  “Me neither,” he admitted. Glancing up at the cloudy sky, he began the work of orienting himself in the unfamiliar city. Even if he managed to do so properly, he knew it would be a long time until he managed to locate his destination. Hopefully, the walk would tire him out.

  And if not, well, there were other ways.

  “Come on,” he said, finally. “I know a place.”

  ***

  The Militia safehouse was exactly as cold, musty, and filthy as Liam expected from a brothel basement. Nevertheless, at the moment, there was no place he would rather have been.

  The madam had eyed him skeptically when he announced the reason for his visit. No doubt, given his age, sex, and traveling companion, she’d expected him to be visiting for an entirely different reason. Still, after a close inspection of his ripped and bloodstained shirt, she’d led him to a back room, and from there onto a well-hidden set of stairs beneath a closet full of foul-smelling linens.

  The room below was dark and stale, with little more than a broken bed, a chamber pot, and a small table with a candle. The woman had reluctantly lit the candle before asking Liam how long he expected to remain. She seemed relieved, if suspicious, to hear that he expected only the one night, but wished him a prompt farewell and advised him not to go prowling through the brothel unless he wanted a knife between his ribs.

  To his relief, Liam soon discovered that the safehouse door latched from the inside and was the correct height to be further barred by his unloaded rifle. Unfortunately, during his return trip down the poorly lit staircase, he also discovered that the room was not entirely soundproofed. The moans from the whore and patrons above were not loud, thankfully, but they were audible enough to bring a blush to his cheeks.

  Pacing, more to distract himself from the noise than anything else, he quickly discovered it was almost disconcertingly easy to fall back into his earlier anger. Memories of Jenn’s words, of the javelins she’d driven into his chest, and of the cries of the men who’d been gunned down by the Mayor’s men filled his head. And with them, just as powerfully, came the inevitable regrets.

  If only Liam had gone to help open the depot door…. He’d been the first one into the place for obvious reasons, why hadn’t he thought to be the first one out? It would have cost him nothing. And, if not for his simple laziness, a man would now be alive. Why in the hell hadn’t he—

  “Liam?” came Kathryn’s voice, surprisingly quiet. She sat on the broken bed, legs folded beneath her and hands on her knees. In the candlelight, she appeared almost angelic. “Food?”

  As if on cue, Liam’s stomach growled in reply. He grimaced, then did so a second time at the memory of the fruit he’d left in his pack at the barracks. In all the excitement of preparation and exploring the city, he realized he’d eat
en virtually nothing since morning.

  “Sorry, Kat,” he said. “I don’t have anything.”

  This time, it was Kathryn’s stomach that growled. She doubled over slightly, wrapping her arms around her stomach. To Liam’s relief, her shy smile made it clear that embarrassment, not discomfort was the reason. Not that it made him feel any less guilty when she pointed up at the ceiling and asked again, “Food?”

  “I don’t have any bits,” Liam said. Making his way to the bed, he sat beside Kathryn and tried unsuccessfully to position his legs identically to hers. “Unless you mean you want to eat the madam? Either way, no. Sorry.”

  “Is okay,” Kathryn assured him. Scooting closer, she rested her head on his shoulder. “Not big hunger. Small hunger only.”

  “That’s good.”

  For a long moment, the two of them sat in silence, Kathryn’s head resting on his shoulder. Slowly, as if trying to pet a skittish animal, she slipped her arm around Liam’s.

  “Liam fight Jenn,” Kathryn murmured. “Jenn fight Liam. Liam feel bad, sad, angry. Big angry. Kat sorry.”

  Liam sighed. He’d hoped that the nuances of his fight with Jenn might be too obscure for Kathryn to discern, but she’d obviously deduced the basics. It was an unwelcome complication. It was far easier to think of her as a child or, if he was being honest, a sort of feral, half-sentient animal. To be suddenly reminded that Kathryn was a person capable of sympathy brought a lump to his throat.

  “Thanks,” he whispered. “I just… don’t get it. How could she do this? Without even talking to me?”

  Kathryn nodded, but Liam no longer cared if she understood him or not. Speaking aloud had flared the coals of anger in his chest and each passing second fanned them further.

  “I mean, who knows what she might have told him?” he raged through gritted teeth. “If she’d go this far, how do we know she hasn’t told him about us? About the Militia’s plans? She heard plenty on the way into the city.”

 

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