The close heat of the Station Market was a comfort to Jacob Kramer as he stepped through the doors into the upper-level slums. He removed his black military flat cap and brushed snow from its peak, the flakes fluttering through the air and disappearing in the heat. His leather-gloved hand wiped his face before moving to clear his pristine uniform of further flecks of snow.
A stickler for the uniform, he held all of his patrol to the same standards Captain Brunner expected of him. He adjusted his belt, ensuring his radio was dry and clear of snow, before fixing his hat to a clip at his side. He removed a black short-barreled pistol from its holster about his waist and flicked the safety off, then back on. A habit rather than a necessity. He slotted it back at his waist.
He took a few assured strides to his right and turned to face the mirrored windows. The man looking back at him was stern. His clear pale skin emphasised his piercing eyes. Working alongside his easy arrogant sneer, they masked the constant tension headache behind them expertly. Combed blond hair in a sharp side part sat above a smooth forehead, though wrinkles at the sides of his eyes had appeared recently, a mark of his increased stress. His mouth was tight and downturned, his jawline strong and perfectly clean-shaven. There was a smile in there somewhere, one that he had received many a compliment on over the years, though these days it was a rare occasion that it graced his face.
He held his shoulders back and thrust his chin up high to ensure that the peasants about the market knew he was above their stink. And with a sharp turn, he strode on towards the squats, followed by his patrol of four City Guards.
“Sergeant Kramer?” chimed the voice of the newest member of his patrol, Frederick, a portly man with frightened eyes. He looked totally out of sorts in his uniform, and to Jacob’s annoyance, he seemed forever unable to wear his flat cap straight.
The fat little misfit takes the shine off of my patrol, he thought. If he wasn’t Captain Brunner’s brother, I'd execute him in the street for offending my eyes. The dull pain in his head grew into a sharp pulse.
Anyone looking at them would agree. Frederick Brunner was indeed a misfit when compared to the other three guards. They at least cut domineering and intimidating figures, with sharp features and broad shoulders. They marched confidently behind their sergeant, shooting disdainful looks at any who dared make eye contact with them. Frederick moved with more of a trot than a march, bobbing along like a pudgy schoolchild late for class. His short stride worked twice as hard as his fellow guards to match the sergeant's speed.
The blundering fool had landed on Jacob’s first of two personal patrols, comprised of four men. He replaced the most experienced guard, which caused Jacob much displeasure. Though he knew better than to complain to Captain Brunner. Just accept it, he’ll mess something up sooner or later and get himself posted back to admin duties, he thought, although he knew the captain was expecting him to make a success out of his brother.
Jacob had thought it over at length. The posting wasn’t random. When it had landed on his desk, it was merely days after Captain Brunner had called him in for a congratulatory handshake. He smiled to himself. It was one of his proudest moments. He'd captured and tortured the wife of a prominent rebel agitator, responsible for a car bomb that killed three guards last month.
For two long hours, he had her strung up whilst he had lashed her back and flayed her skin, until finally she screamed an address and begged for the end. Though, instead of a reward and a raise, he’d gotten lumbered with this imbecile on his most important deployment yet. He was trying hard not to take it as a punishment. No, the captain must want his most professional sergeant to make a guard out of his useless kin, Jacob decided.
“Sergeant K-Kramer?” Frederick stammered once more.
“Yes, Frederick,” he replied, shooting daggers at the little man.
“Has there b-been a s-sighting of the archer h-here?” stuttered Frederick.
“There has not. Though the Station Market is a hive of filth and disorder. If there is information to be had, we will find it here.”
“Of course, Sergeant Kramer. M-m-might I ask, Sergeant, why do we seek the archer?”
“You reek of fear, Frederick,” snapped Jacob. “We seek the archer because that is our job. You’re welcome to protest to the captain if you don’t wish to be here.”
“Yes, Sergeant Kramer. It’s just, he only shot a Crochead. I don't understand why we hunt him so hard…and yes, I am afraid, but no, I won’t protest. As I’m sure you’ve deduced, my brother forced this posting on me. And as I’m sure you can imagine, he is…embarrassed by me.”
“Then for now, you are here, and you will perform your duties appropriately. We believe the archer we seek is kin to a couple who we executed in The Gardens by order of the captain. He does not wish a man with a grudge against him, who happens to be deadly at fifty yards, seeking revenge from the shadows.”
“Understandable,” muttered Frederick, nervously shuffling from side to side. “I have to speak plainly, Sergeant. It’s the Grey Man, not the archer, that I fear.”
“The Grey Man doesn’t kill guards,” replied Jacob with a sharp look, a warning that his patience was wearing thin.
“They say he protected the archer, that he appeared from nowhere like a ghost and slew four men as though it were nothing. Then he vanished into thin air.”
“That is quite enough!” snarled Jacob, the pain in his head blazing behind his eyes. He spun to Frederick, baring his teeth. “You will cease with your incessant questions”.
“Yes, Sergeant Kramer,” replied Frederick, his eyes dropping to the floor.
Jacob’s head was on fire. The tension had been building all morning. The Grey Man, the Ghost, the Croc Hunter were just some of the many absurd names whispered about the city. Captain Brunner had assigned him to capture the elusive killer plaguing the city, and he’d been working tirelessly on the case for almost a year.
Until the brutal murders of two Shanty Lords in quick succession, Captain Brunner had been happy to allow the killer to continue. Just thinning the scum out, he would say with a hint of admiration. But his stance on the Grey Man changed instantly one night last year. Jacob had been first on scene at the Apollo Fighting Pits to see Big Caesar suspended by motorcycle chains from his ankles, with his guts spilled down over his face and a stake through his heart. The same night, the Governor, a Shanty Lord in the prison district, suffered the same fate.
The captain was furious, smashing bottles and tearing his office apart. Jacob had wondered at the time what had made him so angry. They were just two gang leaders. What was so important about them? He knew now why they were required, and the serial killer case had consumed him ever since that day. It was the only case he hadn’t successfully solved, and he was nowhere nearer today than he was over a year ago.
But after the incident in The Gardens a few nights ago, he had witness accounts and physical descriptions for the first time, although they were as much a hindrance as a help. Each description as bland and vague as the last – tall, grey, fast, with a hood and a face covering. The only point of note was that each of the seven willing to provide an account attested he left in the direction of Town Hall.
The hushed voice of one of his guards jolted him from his thoughts. “Not so many questions, and don’t push him when his head is concerning him, Brunner. He’s likely to execute you on the spot if the mood takes him. Captain’s brother or not.”
Coming to a stop at the top of a staircase leading to the market below, he looked down and considered his next move. His headaches had plagued him since childhood. They irritated him beyond reason and made him quick-tempered, cruel, and violent. The only remedies he had discovered were self-inflicted unconsciousness and Croc-aine, supplied to him by Doctor Bayer.
He breathed deep. Taking his thumb and forefinger, he squeezed his temples for a moment, allowing the pressure to drain. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. He removed a small glass vial and tapped the white powdery contents into the crook of his thumb and forefinger. Raising it to his eager nostrils, he snorted it with a shake of his head and a shudder in his shoulders. The thumping behind his eyes subsided.
“Good advice. You’ll do well to listen to it, Frederick. The headaches plague me, and I'm not a reasonable man under their influence. Thankfully, the latest one seems to have passed,” he said as he unfastened his hat from his belt and placed it on his head. “My second guard of four is on the platforms questioning the train squatters. We will be speaking to that big man with the orange beard.”
“Yes, Sergeant Kramer,” the guards replied in unison, and they began their descent on the stairs.
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The crowds parted swiftly as Jacob and his guards made their way towards Mighty Mick’s stall, eyes down. None dared meet his stare. None dared give him reason to break his stride. His reputation for cruelty preceded him in most places he attended. He had killed hundreds post-Panic. Hundreds of innocents, many of them on a whim, a few of them rebels to draw out their kin.
A child running and playing with his friends tripped into Jacob’s path, interrupting his stride, only to be swatted to the floor with a vicious backhand. A gasp from the crowd almost became a murmur of dissent, until he raised his chin and looked around, waiting for a challenge. None came. He pressed on towards the shack, behind which stood a giant man with a sour face and a dagger tattooed between his eyes.
“How can I help, Sergeant Kramer?”
“Good morning, Mick. My time is valuable, so I will cut to the chase. You will answer plainly and swiftly.”
“Of course,” replied Mick.
“I’m looking for an archer. Are you aware of any who use a bow?”
“I know of several who use crossbows. Security in the dive bars opposite Sackville Pile buy bolts from me, as do a few of Arnero’s men.”
“Not crossbows,” snapped Jacob. “The archer uses a recurve or compound style bow. Crossbows are of no importance.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you, Sergeant. I do stock arrows for those types of bows, but I've never sold any. They’re a hard weapon to master.”
“You will seek me out and report to me immediately if any attend here for arrows that would fire from a recurve or compound bow. You will do the same should you even hear a whisper of an archer. The reward is five notes for information leading to the capture of the man we want.”
“Understood,” replied Mick with a nod of his head. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sergeant, is the man you seek a danger to me?”
“He’s less of a danger to you than I will be if you don’t do as you’re told,” replied Jacob, the words hanging in the air. He waited a few seconds longer than was comfortable, then spun on his heel and marched away through the crowd. Frederick remained behind.
“The archer may or may not be a danger. However, the man protecting him is the Ghost, and he will chill you to your bones. He’s a grey man, with the speed of a wolf and the strength of a bear. Devilish blue eyes that chill you to the core by day and turn red as hell’s bowels after dark. They say he’s a cannibal. Kin to the flesh-eating broods of the outlands. Be wary.” With that, he rushed off into the crowd after his sergeant, leaving the bemused vendor scratching his beard.
“Where next, Sergeant Kramer?”
“To the platforms. We’ll meet with our second patrol and see if they’ve turned up any leads on the trains.”
Jacob strode on through the parting crowd towards tall glass doors. As he laid his hand upon it and pushed it open, a blast of cold air blew through the gap, followed by the manic screams of a woman. “Guards! Bodies on the tracks!” The platforms erupted with people clamouring and running towards the tracks.
He saw his second guard of four sprinting towards the commotion. He swung to his first guard – “With me” – but as he spoke, a second alarm sounded.
“Sergeant Kramer! The archer!” Mick’s booming voice called through the chaos.
Jacob’s eyes widened in surprise and excitement as he scanned his men’s faces. Frederick looked positively terrified. Jacob barged through his men and dashed through the market towards Mick’s stall. As he drew closer, the giant man was waving his massive arms above the heads of the swelling crowd.
“There, him in the blanket. He robbed me of arrows, he has a knife!” He pointed desperately towards a man nearing the exit. He was moving impossibly fast through the crowd, a blanket billowing about his shoulders like a cape. Jacob knew he'd never catch up. The crowd was wild and frightened at hearing the screams of death from the platforms.
He pushed and shouted his way through a few, but wedged himself into a squeeze. Grasping at his belt, he managed to claw his fingers around the butt of his pistol and rip it clear. Thrusting his arm out of the crowd towards the sky, he fired off two rounds, and they cracked through the commotion. Screams sounded around the market again as he bellowed, “Everyone down! On the ground, do it now!”
All about him, bodies dropped to the dust, hands holding their heads, eyes to the floor. All except the fleeing man, who had reached the doors. Jacob accelerated across the market floor, followed by his men, leaping over bodies and closing ground on his suspect. Without breaking stride, he smashed through the doors to the outside to be met with gusts and swirls of snow, and the breathless cold socked him to the gut. He squinted his eyes, scanning for the man, until he heard a shout from behind him.
“There he is,” sounded Frederick’s voice as he burst past. “In the road.”
Sure enough, Jacob looked ahead of Frederick and saw the man zig-zagging between traffic. After being momentarily taken back by Frederick’s commitment, he sprinted after him, overtaking him in a few strides. He leapt the bonnet of a battered old car, landed in a run, and spun out of the way of a motorcycle, the rider swerving into a pile of slush and flipping over the handlebars into the road.
The man was still going, his pace unchanged, his stamina seemingly unlimited. He swung left into an alleyway and out of Jacob’s sight. Not breaking stride, he pulled at the radio attached to his belt, raised it to his mouth, and between ragged breaths, he barked, “This is Kramer. Foot chase in progress. All units to the area of Station Market. Suspect is male, tall, athletic build, dressed in grey. Suspect armed. Last seen heading in direction of Town Hall.”
Seconds later, the wailing of sirens filled the air as Jacob arrived at the alleyway. He skidded to a halt and hastily replaced his radio with his pistol. His headache was back. It gnawed at his brain. The alley was eerily quiet and dark, the tall buildings on either side shielding the daylight. It was cold. His hot breaths hung in front of his face, and wisps of steam permeated from his forehead. The floor was littered with rubbish and rotting bin bags. A wet mist lingered in the air, mingling with the smog and thick flecks of snow, obscuring vision to a few metres. To his rear, he heard the sound of his guards racking their extendable batons as they shuffled into the alley behind him, warily scanning the mist.
“I know this alleyway, Sergeant. We made an arrest here last month,” stated one of his guards. “It's a dead end.”
Jacob nodded, and raising his pistol in front of him, he walked on slowly through the mist. “Stay sharp, Frederick. No passengers here. When we find him, you’ll do your duty. Is that understood?”
“Y-y-yes, Sergeant Kramer. You can count on me,” he mumbled.
Jacob was cold and wet. The mist was settling on his face and stinging his eyes, though he was unperturbed, his pistol arm keeping strong and level in front of him as he swept along the alleyway. Deafening silence enveloped them. The sirens and traffic in the distance seemed further away now as he reached the middle. The bleak darkness was heavy. He suddenly felt strange, like he was being watched, hunted. A slight pang of doubt tugged at his gut as he stepped level with a recessed doorway.
All of a sudden, searing pain exploded through his arm. Pulsing fire erupted in his wrist, and his eyes widened in shock as his hand toppled to the ground. The clang of his pistol rattling the concrete echoed through the alley. His blood spat and sputtered from his wrist, splashing the snow red, as the man cloaked in grey stepped from the doorway, a blood-soaked hatchet in his hand. His stare was born in hell.
“Sergeant Kramer!” cried Frederick as he dove to his aid. He ripped and clawed at his jacket clumsily, trying to remove it as he lowered the sergeant to the ground. Jacob’s head was thundering, the pressure unbearable. Frederick finally threw off his jacket and began squeezing it around Jacob’s wrist, compressing the wound.
A guttural voice cut through the panic. “Step aside and go free. I don’t kill guards. Unless forced.”
“Seize him! Take him now!” screamed Jacob in agony.
His three guards charged at the Grey Man as one, and what Jacob witnessed next was as shocking as the severing of his hand. The Grey Man spun and danced his way through the guards like liquid, hacking and slashing with brutal efficiency.
The first fell to a sharp backhand to the throat, hatchet ripping through skin and bone as the guard slammed to the floor, gurgling on his own blood. The black and bloody hatchet flicked free of the Grey Man’s hand, spinning through the air until it thumped blade first into the second guard’s chest. He fell to one knee, and the Grey Man was upon him immediately. He wrenched the hatchet free and smashed the blade through his cheek. The last guard swung his baton with all his might towards the Grey Man’s head. He nonchalantly ducked under its arc, and his arm snaked out and plunged a knife into the guard's stomach. With a grunt, he pulled it free, taking a step back as the guard toppled unceremoniously to the snow.
The Grey Man advanced towards Jacob. His head blistered. Death was upon him. Though a part of him made a quick peace with it. At least death would eternally cure his cursed headaches. He decided he would close his eyes. Better to not give this murderous bastard the satisfaction that he himself found so much pleasure in – watching a life extinguish.
Just then, Frederick stood up in front of him, thrust out his chest, and planted his feet, and when he spoke, his voice was unwavering.
“Drop your weapons, by order of the guard. Do it now!”
Jacob staggered to his feet and limped backwards towards the open street. The sirens grew louder with each step. They were closing in on his position.
He watched in disbelief as Frederick dove to the ground by the Grey Man’s feet, his hand snatching out for Jacob’s pistol. His pudgy fingers grasped the butt, and he rolled to his back. Time seemed to slow as the sound of a gunshot rang off the walls of the alleyway. Frederick pulled the trigger as the hatchet simultaneously left the Grey Man’s hand once more. It swung down towards Frederick’s face. The Grey Man’s shoulder recoiled as the bullet punched through it, sending him staggering back. A split second later, the hatchet buried itself into Frederick’s forehead with a horrendous crack. A dark torrent of blood escaped his skull and melted the snow around his lifeless body.
Jacob was still backing away as the Grey Man removed the hatchet. He was nearly out of the alleyway. If he could stagger a few more metres, he’d be in the open where more guards could find him.
Through gritted teeth, he snarled at the Grey Man with venom, “You fool! Do you know what you’ve done?” Laughing maniacally, he continued, “That brave little bastard was Captain Brunner’s own brother! You’ll have every guard in the city hunting you!”
He spat blood through the air and staggered back a final few steps. Turning on his heel, he fell to the ground in the street. He could hear boots thundering behind him as he clambered on his one hand and knees along the street towards flashing orange lights and wailing sirens.
“Help!” he screamed as he dropped to his stomach, his one hand soaked with blood, trying desperately to release his radio from his belt. Finally pulling it free, he raised it towards his face, but he couldn’t muster the strength to press down the talk button. His pounding head gave up the fight to keep him awake. His eyes dropped heavily into a long blink as a City Guard car skidded to a stop in the slush next to him. He felt hands lifting him up.
Turning his head back towards the dark of the alleyway, he saw a grey shape disappear into the snow. “There, after him,” he tried to order, but his words were less than a whisper as he fell into a deep sleep.