Ansell pulled his thick woollen blanket about his shoulders tightly as he scanned the open ground in front of the Station Market. He sat on the frosty concrete, a thin scrap of card under him, unconcerned by cold. In front of him, a metal tin was standing idle. A beggar's tool. Part of the illusion. It was more full of the falling snow than coins. Keen eyes peered out from under his hood, a dead stare piercing the air. He eyed the front of the Station Market closely and allowed his thoughts to drift.
The Station Market was a bustling train station in the old times. Tourists, business people, locals getting to work – all manner of people descended on it before The Panic. Now it was a slum in parts and a huge indoor market in others. To the right of the tall glass frontage, pillars of iron grey stood tall. They held up the old train tracks, which jutted out over the ground below, providing a long and deep shelter. It was dark under there. Flickering firelights of stoves and campfires, spattered amongst the masses of people crammed in, pulsed defiant against the cold. The usual smell of death and decay wafted from there.
Crocheads, lying in bliss, were frozen on the wet concrete. They’d likely wake up frostbitten if they woke up at all. But their next fix would numb the pain. Beggars occupied every wall and open space. They provided Ansell with his camouflage. His target had yet to reveal himself, and Ansell had waited for most of the morning. Normally, this would be of no concern, but today, time was critical. He needed to get away from the cold grey prison of the city. He was longing for fresh air, green grass, and quiet nights under the stars.
With a sigh, his thoughts turned to Jude. He was still trying to work out why he had taken him back to the clock tower. Of course, it was partly to prevent him from killing Marcus. But he couldn't help liking the boy. He had a gut feeling that their paths were interwoven.
Perhaps he had been alone for too long and simply needed some human companionship. Perhaps he felt he could have saved the boy’s friends and was trying to make amends. Why he cared was beyond him. He’d seen countless injustices in the last decade and none of them had moved him. This kid had steel, though. Raw, naïve steel, which he found refreshing.
You're getting soft, he chided himself as his eyes locked on to a shifty, ratty-looking man.
He shuffled fast towards the entrance of the Station Market, his head down under a pink bobble hat, eyes fixed forward, burning a hole in the front door. Ansell’s pulse quickened. Bloodlust rising. He pushed himself to his feet, and head down against the snow, he trudged after his target. He had watched this man more than once over the last few weeks – a Crochead from the squats under the iron pillars. More than that, he was a runner.
Last week, Ansell watched him collect a parcel of Croc from another Crochead near the Apollo Fighting Pits. He followed him and saw him deal it in the squats and slums around the markets. That sealed his fate. He seemed connected enough to know where Marcus could be bedding down, and if he didn’t, he would be a worthy kill regardless.
The Croc runner barged through the front doors to the market as Ansell picked up his pace to keep him in sight. The pink hat would be a big help in the market, which was packed wall to wall with people.
Ansell pushed open the doors. A waft of damp heat took his breath. The sheer amount of people crammed inside provided the warmth, along with the burning fires of several food shacks. The commotion was thunderous as vendors shouted and peddled their wares, calling out deals and prices to passersby. Children zipped through the crowds, laughing and chasing each other in groups. Ansell knew by now they would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. He idly fingered the drawstring pouch of coins in his pocket.
The smell of fire smoke and cooking meat cloyed the air, merging with the sweat and decay of the slums on the upper levels. On the floor, below a series of massive screens long since turned off, two Crocheads were rolling about, tearing at each other. Ansell edged closer. They were fighting over a wrap of Croc. The baying crowd watched on, mesmerised by the brutality. Whoops and jeers echoed around the market.
Ansell scanned the heads in front of him. The lower floor of the Station Market was long and narrow. Market shacks lined each side, crowds of people bustling about their fronts. Through the middle, people pushed to reach the stairs to the squats on the upper level. The pink hat was bobbing about in front of a stall, a board of wood hanging on chains from the roof. Scribed with red paint, it read: “Mighty Mick’s.”
Ansell approached the stall. Quietly, head down, blanket pulled about him, he perused the vendor’s wares. All manner of weapons lay on the wooden boards. Closest to the front were kitchen knives, shivs, hammers, crowbars. Standing guard over them, Mighty Mick was everything his name would suggest.
A towering man, with a thick red beard and a tattoo of a dagger in the centre of his forehead, his stern eyes peered out from under thick bronze brows and scrutinised every passerby. A cigarette hung from his mouth, downturned and sour. Behind him mounted on the walls were an array of crossbows, bolts, hatchets, and machetes.
Ansell noted him sliding shut a box cleverly concealed under the counter. It hid revolvers and pistols, with accompanying ammunition. Pink Hat was closest to Mick, talking quickly, his features animated. Ansell edged into ear shot and listened carefully.
“I need a gun,” he said, ripping the hat from his head and wiping the sweat from his filthy brow.
“You can’t afford a gun, Arthur,” Mick replied, flicking cigarette ash over his shoulder.
“Fuck! I know. Stupid of me to think you might help out of goodwill.”
The big man laughed a grumbling chuckle and scratched his gruff chin.
“A good knife, then? Not a kitchen one, a proper one – or a machete or something. One that’s going to scare people to look at.” Clearly panicked, thought Ansell. Though I’m sure the little bastard isn’t aware I’ve been stalking him.
“Good knives cost good coin, Arthur,” replied Mick. “Go on, what’s got you shitting yourself this time?”
“The Ghost, that's what. Surely you’ve heard? Few nights ago. Another body strung up above The Gardens, gutted and staked through the heart.”
“The Ghost,” laughed Mick. “That’s what we’re calling him now, as if he’s not human. You’re wasting your time carrying a knife to kill a ghost, aren’t you?”
“You didn’t see it,” responded Arthur. “He killed four men in the blink of an eye, like they were nothing. Then he pointed the body out. It was hanging above in the sky. It was Lloyd, you know, Marcus’ brother.”
Ansell smiled. He was right about Arthur; he knew Marcus.
“Yep. Lloyd was in last week, thought he was being followed, and bought a shiv,” said Mick with a wry smile. “Not the best advert for business, eh? Didn’t do him much good!” Mick’s booming laughter filled the air, and the look on Arthur’s face nearly caused the faintest snigger from under Ansell’s snood.
“Ah, but I see you’re clearly concerned. I’ve got a lovely Bowie here, but it’s going to cost you.”
“Let me see,” snapped Arthur as Mick turned and selected a vicious-looking knife from a shelf.
An impressive weapon. The blade was wide and as long as Arthur's face. Light glinted off the curve. An expert had honed it. The edge swept up beautifully into a perfect point. Looks to be hardened steel, thought Ansell. Some kind of antler comprised the handle, which was separated from the blade by a shining bronze hilt.
“Perfect!” Arthur exclaimed as the shine of the blade glittered in his hungry eyes. “How much?”
“It’ll cost you a note, my friend,” responded Mick with a raise of his eyebrow.
The colour drained from Arthur’s face. “Mick! A note? Come on, you’re killing me, that's a full morning's work.”
“You could always take one of these shivs. Just like poor old Lloyd had, see there.” Mick thrust his fat weathered finger at a lame-looking piece of metal sharpened into a point. “Of course, The Ghost won’t bat an eyelid at that. I’m sure you’ll agree,” he said with a snarky grin.
Arthur sighed and dug into his pocket. His hand came out, and he waved a note under Mick’s nose. “Here! If it doesn’t serve its purpose, I’ll be bringing it back.”
“If it doesn’t serve its purpose, I don’t think you’ll be bringing it anywhere!” Mick’s laughter once again filled the air as he secured the knife into a well-made black leather sheath and slid it across the counter to Arthur.
Arthur snatched it up and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans, which were holding on to his hips for dear life, aided by a frayed length of blue rope. With a murmur of dissent, he spun away from Mighty Mick’s and pushed himself through the crowd, followed swiftly by Ansell.
Ansell brushed his way through the masses with ease. Shuffling and limping, hunched over, blending in. To any but a trained eye, he was a vagrant trudging through the market to his begging spot. One of countless many, deceit working its black magic. He was leagues away from a shuffling beggar. His every movement served purpose, each step assured and intentional. Fluid, like water carving its way through a valley. Fast yet steady, and careful not to make up too much ground on Arthur, who was bumping and knocking his way through like a drunkard navigating a dance floor.
He watched as Arthur pushed off to the right through the swell in the crowd, everyone vying for priority over the stairs. Ansell saw him break free and take a sigh of relief, as though convinced he might have taken a knife in the back from every person he passed by.
He darted across the open ground, occupied only by beggars sitting in groups on the floor around feeble fires and Crocheads strewn here and there, needles in veins. Heads nodding. Scales black and burning.
Tall glass double doors flung open ahead, inviting a freezing blast of air into the market. Groans and expletives sounded out. Unperturbed, Arthur continued through them into an enormous room with majestic, arched ceilings.
The room completely dwarfed the other parts of the Station Market. Ansell had been here before, arriving on a train. He wore a uniform then, and he had a family. The Panic was just a hushed murmur of dissent.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He took position about a small fire, just prior to the glass doors Arthur had passed through. From here, he could survey the route his target was taking without being too obvious, now that the cover of the crowd was gone. He dropped to the ground with his blanket draped over his shoulders, and he jabbed his hands out above the fire. The vagrants at the fire accepted his gruff nod as they weighed him up as one of their own.
“Got any burn, lad?” said the nearest vagrant, a haggard old man with black teeth and dead eyes.
Ansell grunted back. He pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear. He flicked it to the vagrant, who caught it like it was a ticket out of the country. “Any Guard patrols been through?”
The vagrant inhaled half the cigarette in one drag. He gagged and coughed and hawked blood into the fire. “Yes, lad. On the track before. Lookin’ fer the Grey Man and a sprog with a bow ‘n’ arrows.”
Ansell nodded. He looked through to the massive room. Several platforms stood over long recesses in the ground where train tracks lead off to the cold grey of the outside. A few of the tracks were home to old disused trains, which were now doubling as dens for far too many Crocheads.
Steam and a yellow-brown layer of muck from a mixture of sweat, breath, and burning Croc fumes covered every inch of every train window. Ansell shuddered as he considered just how foul the smell would be inside. Delighted, he saw Arthur continue past them, yanking his collars up as he pressed on towards the swirling, blustering winds outside.
Ansell slowly climbed to his feet and bade farewell to the vagrants with another grunt. He slipped through the double doors, being careful not to allow another vicious blast of cold air to pour in. He quickened his pace across the platforms until he saw four City Guard patrolmen descending a set of wide steps. Keen to avoid them, he dropped gracefully to the track below. To his left, a train door flung open, and he fell to his knee in the shadowed darkness of the platform’s high walls.
“Five minutes. I’m meeting him now! At the embankment, babe, five minutes,” sounded the shrill voice of a woman as the door slammed.
A thud and a crunch rang out when her feet hit the stones and picked up a fast pace away from his position. The woman would be a dealer for the train squats, collecting all the coin from the resident users and dealing with Arthur before returning and dishing out. Arthur would make a large drop to her. It was a more efficient way of dealing, where in the past, he would have done every deal hand-to-hand in small amounts. Ansell had seen this many times before.
Being careful to keep his distance and his feet light, he crept along the track, standing on the metal runs to avoid crunching the gravel. Ahead, the woman reached the open air, where the arched ceilings ended, but the tracks continued off towards the horizon. She swung right, hopping off the track and up onto a small concrete path running parallel to it. Then she passed through piles of rubble and debris and disappeared down a steep grassy embankment littered with dead nettles.
Ansell followed cautiously. Stopping at the crest of the embankment, he lowered himself to his chest, next to a battered grey maintenance box. He tugged his blanket up over his head. He was all but invisible. Only his eyes peering out at the scene below could give his position away.
Arthur stood with his back to a tall red brick wall, his eyes darting left to right nervously, his hand clutching the hilt of his new weapon. The woman joined him, and Ansell was close enough to hear their exchange.
“Hurry up.”
“I left the train as soon as ya went past ya dick ’ed!” the woman replied, her voice slurred and phlegmy. Horrible, thought Ansell. She’s clearly missing several teeth and even more brain cells. “Why have ya dragged me out here for? What's wrong with the fuckin’ platform where ya normally serve up?”
“Shut up. This killer is scaring me to death. No point in killing me. I'm tortured as it is. Constantly looking over my shoulder…I feel like I’m being watched. I’m shitting myself.”
The woman laughed, harsh and raspy. She raised her hood over her head and swooshed around him like a floating ghoul. “Woo…is the Ghost haunting you, Arthur? Does he know ya get yer bits from Marcus? No wonder you’re shitting it, you’re next!” Her laugh continued, full of genuine amusement at Arthur’s plight.
“Keep the bastard noise down!” Arthur hissed. “If he does know, then I will be next. The last three dead were all close to Marcus. The runner down near the Apollo Fighting Pits, Dunny the runner at Sackville. We thought it was a coincidence until Lloyd. I asked Marcus if I could keep my head down with him in Arnero’s Shanty, but he’s got me out here doing drops!”
Ansell now had the information he needed, although he was mightily disappointed. The torture was his favourite part of killing Croc dealers, and ordinarily, he’d have indulged himself regardless. But today, time was of the essence.
He sprung to his feet with blistering speed, the blanket about his shoulders thrown to the air, billowing behind him in the wind. With a rapid flick of his wrist, his hatchet was in his hand. His arm whipped back and forth, releasing it through the air in a deadly arc. With a sickening crack, the blade buried itself in between the woman’s terrified eyes. A spurt of crimson erupted through the air as she poleaxed to the ground below.
Ansell advanced down the embankment one slow, intimidating step at a time. Frozen to the spot in complete fear, Arthur’s bottom lip trembled, and his wide eyes dared not blink.
“I’ll do anything. I’ve got Croc, money – a-anything,” he stammered as a dark stain appeared on the crotch of his blue jeans. “Marcus! You want Marcus, don’t you? He’s at Arnero’s…s-s-she’s protecting him. I don't know why, I swear.”
Ansell continued walking him down, his dead gaze fixed on his face as he stepped into range. Arthur, sensing the end was upon him, drew the knife from his waistband and brandished it.
“You can’t kill a ghost with a knife.”
With a petrified scream, Arthur swung the knife, the motion slow, telegraphed and steeped in desperate fear. Ansell sidestepped the blade and thundered a left hook into Arthur’s body, feeling the crunch of ribs under his fist. Arthur cried out and doubled over as the wind billowed from his lungs. In beautiful synchronisation, as though performing a dance, Ansell’s feet shifted, and he followed up with a right cross to the temple. It sent Arthur sprawling to the ground. The knife spun from his hand and pierced the grass. He groaned and pushed himself up onto his forearms, crawling away as he sobbed.
Suddenly, he felt a weight on his back stop him in his tracks, and a firm hand pulled against his forehead, yanking his chin up to the sky. The cold steel blade of his own knife chilled his throat as it glided across, opening him up and ending his torment.
Ansell stepped back and wiped the knife clean on Arthur’s coat. He pulled the sheath from his waistband and fastened it sideways to his own leather belt at the base of his back. Sliding the blade into its sheath, he set about the two bodies.
Approaching the woman, he swiftly and unceremoniously removed his hatchet from her sorry corpse, stomping his boot on her chest as he yanked the handle. Her face was a sea of blood as the blade pulled clear. Rummaging through her pockets, he found the coin she was to pay Arthur with, which he kept. He then retrieved the small package wrapped in plastic from Arthur’s breast pocket and dropped it into his rucksack.
He stood back and reviewed the scene. It was a bloodbath, but he was unsatisfied. Crocheads died in this city every hour of every day. These kills needed to be attributed to his cause. His seeds of fear needed planting if they were to grow. The boy can wait.
Ansell strode forward, kicking the woman’s limp body before dropping to his haunches and drawing the knife. Placing his left hand on the woman's jaw, he worked the knife intently, carving on her forehead two letters on either side of the gaping gash caused by his hatchet.
W-E-A-K.
He slipped his hand into his jacket and drew his final rail stake from its harness, and with a grunt, he drove it through her lifeless heart.
He stood and stepped the short distance to Arthur’s body, rolling it to its front with a push of his boot. Drawing the knife once more, he carved jagged letters into his forehead, ignoring the terror frozen upon his face for eternity.
G-U-T-L-E-S-S.
He ripped open Arthur’s coat and sliced his jumper from neck to waist with the blade before returning it to his sheath to replace it with his hatchet. Holding the hilt close to the head of the axe, he slashed it across his gut, releasing his sloppy black entrails.
One by one, he dragged the bodies up the embankment and placed them on a train track each, running parallel to each other. Their carved foreheads faced back towards the filth and degradation of the Station Market. Finally, he placed a single coin in the woman's palm, leaving it face up on her knee, repeating the process for Arthur. This time, a single wrap of Croc sat innocently in his hand. He stepped back and took in the scene with a dark smile. Satisfied with his work, he spun on his heel and loped back along the tracks.
He retraced his steps through the crowded market, less intentional with his route back now that he was relieved of a target to hunt. He passed four more City Guard patrol, led by a sergeant walking with a condescending air of arrogance. The crowd was parting about him, avoiding his cold stare. Ansell recognised Sergeant Kramer, the man in charge of identifying and capturing him, though he’d never gotten close enough to cause him any concern.
Soldier or police? Ansell wondered. The City Guard was made up of the remains of them both after each failed to harness the uprising during The Panic.
Police, Ansell concluded as he watched the sergeant push a woman out of his way. Ansell had known soldiers, known them well in another life. They were crass and sporting and loyal by large, not like this Kramer. There was no soldier in him. He wagered he was a former policeman. Aloof and condescending. Vindictive. Consumed by power and his own sense of self-importance. The smarmy sneer needed wiping from his bastard face.
His time will come. He continued past the guards and drifted through the crowd, blended and unseen until he finally reached Mighty Mick’s stall.
“You have arrows,” he stated, more an observation than a question.
“I do,” replied Mick, his dark eyes peering inquisitively from under his thick brows. “Crossbow bolts of different weights, homemade from river cane, or I've got carbon fibre and fibreglass shafts. The latter will cost considerably more, as you’d expect.”
“I need arrows for a recurve bow.”
“A recurve bow,” Mick repeated back with a raise of his eyebrow. “Not much cause to stock long hunting arrows, very few around with the skills to fire them. In the early days, there were a few who went hunting deer outside the city, but you know…the cannibals put a stop to that.”
Silence hung in the air until, eventually, Mick continued, “As it happens, I do have them.” He ducked behind his counter and re-emerged with a bundle of cloth, silver barbs pointing from one end. He opened the cloth on the counter, revealing twenty black arrows. “Thirty-one inches, carbon fibre shaft, rubber flights. I’ll cut to the chase as they’re not cheap – a small silver coin per arrow.”
“I’ll take them all,” replied Ansell. He clinked a small drawstring bag on the counter-top. “There’s sixteen small silvers in there. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to offer the discount seeing as they're so hard to sell.”
Mick chuckled and snatched the bag from the counter, tossing it into the air and catching it before counting the pieces out. “It’s been a fine morning for business. You have a deal.”
Ansell rewrapped the arrows in the cloth and slotted them into his backpack, the ends jutting out from a gap in the zip. He turned to leave, when Mick’s gruff voice spoke again.
“One more thing, my friend,” he said as he rested his burly arms on the counter, peering closely at Ansell’s eyes. “City Guard came by my stall not five minutes ago. Asking if I sell arrows for a recurve or compound bow.”
“Curious,” replied Ansell. “It appears there are more archers in the city than you suggest.”
Mick didn’t laugh. His eyes narrowed. “They offered a very large reward for informing on anyone buying arrows, or for information leading to the arrest of any archers for questioning. Perhaps you’d like to better their reward for my silence? I'd wager they’re but a shout away from us as we speak, and as much as I despise the Guard, times are hard friend. You know that.”
“Is that so?” Ansell said, stepping in closer to Mick. “I would not like to better their reward, you worm. So I suggest you run along and inform them. Though, if you do, you may live to regret it.” As he spoke, he drew back the blanket from his shoulders to reveal Arthur’s blood-stained knife in his hand.
The colour drained from Mick’s ruddy cheeks. Fear and uncertainty invaded his face as he mouthed to speak, but mustered only a stammer. His eyes locked on the knife until, in the distance, screams and wails erupted in the air and took his attention.
“Guards! Bodies on the tracks!”
He swung his eyes back towards Ansell in disbelief, but he'd disappeared with blistering speed towards the exit doors.