Marcus dashed his cigarette to the wet ground and twisted the heel of his trainer into it. He shifted a glance left and right, spat, and stepped out of the sanctuary of the doorway into the street.
It was far too busy. Yes, he could blend into the crowds, but so could the Grey Man. So could the kid with the arrows. There were countless places he could shoot him from. He looked back over his shoulder wearily and scanned the low rooftops. He pushed his way through a crowd surrounding a burly City Guard sergeant handing out a brutal beating to a vagrant. Three more guards kept the baying crowd back, either with their venomous commands or with the pistols they had drawn. Marcus couldn’t tell.
The city was in chaos. It was as if that night in The Gardens was the catalyst for everything.
Yes, he’d been stupid to ask Lloyd to deliver the Croc drop for The Gardens. But how was he to know the Grey Man would abduct him and torture him to death? He cursed himself. He should never have trusted Lloyd. The man was inept, always had been. Too arrogant and too sloppy. Yes, it was Lloyd’s fault, not his. It was Lloyd who had left him at the mercy of a hundred addicts in furious withdrawal and left him with no choice but to go for big Trevor.
He stopped still and spun his head to the left, a flash of movement in his peripheral vision startling him. He scanned the rooftops and alleyways, seeing nothing but Crocheads and vagrants shuffling about their sorry lives. Cursing to himself, he pushed on. How could this have gone so wrong? All he needed to do was collect the Croc and dish it out between the Shanty Lords and slum leaders in the Northern Quarter and down to the Apollo Fighting Pits.
When he was approached, he’d been delighted. To be that involved with the distribution of Croc was a dream come true for an addict. But if he’d known there was a relentless murderer killing every man, woman, or child involved, he’d have declined.
No you wouldn’t. He smiled. Of course he wouldn’t. Croc was his life. Without it, he’d welcome death.
He yanked his collar up around his chin, the biting wind causing him to shiver. Or perhaps it was nerves. Dropping his head, he glared through his eyebrows at the madness ahead. The Gardens was a war zone. Towering flames grasped at the rumbling black clouds, burning shacks under them, crumbling them to ash. Screams and shouts of battle rang out as rows of City Guards with clear round shields held ground against waves of advancing rebels. They were being forced back into the muddy swamp in the centre, falling over each other and being trampled to death, suffocated under the feet of their allies.
A huge rebel with a dagger tattooed on his forehead caught Marcus’ eye. The giant wrenched a guard from the defensive line and hefted him above his head, tossing him over his shoulder into the mud. Rebels set upon him like rats to scraps, and their bats and shivs rose and fell into him. The huge rebel charged the line, shields bouncing off him, guards toppling under his massive frame. More rebels rushed the gap, splitting the City Guard line in two, and the pushing back and forth descended into a bloody and brutal brawl.
Marcus was too close for comfort. He picked up his pace and skirted the action as the dull ache in his shoulder throbbed into a searing pain. It hadn’t fully healed since the boy had shot him. That same night, Captain Brunner had put bounties on the Grey Man and the archer. No problem there, Marcus had thought at the time. But then the Grey Man killed fat Frederick.
Captain Brunner erupted, lost his cunning, his composure, and had embarked on a rage-fuelled offensive. Under his order, the City Guard had torn slums and shanties apart in the weeks after. They killed countless innocents in search of information on the boy and the murderer of legend. Brunner personally killed twelve women at the Town Hall slums; the act had been the final straw, uniting rebels, vagrants, and the poor. War had consumed the city ever since. Thankfully, Marcus had been able to spend the last three weeks at Arnero’s in relative safety, housed in a modest caravan on Arnero’s residential level.
He reached the tramlines on the far side of The Gardens, leaving the madness in his wake. He shuddered as he realised how distracted he’d been. His mind had wandered, and the chaos of the fighting had captured his eye. He hadn’t been checking his back.
Paranoia whirring, he spun on the spot, half expecting to meet the cold blue eyes he had seen only once but would remember forever. Nothing. He exhaled deeply and became aware that he was sweating but cold. His stomach turned as he raised his hand to his eyes, palm facing the ground. He stared at it as it shook in the air. He cursed. His withdrawals were getting stronger. He tried to gulp some cold air but wretched and vomited at his feet.
The ear-splitting screech of an overladen tram shook him as it rattled past. Clutching his stomach, he dashed after it, drawing closer with every step. The windows on the left side smashed, he drew alongside and reached for the jagged glass lodged in the frame. His fingers stretched, while his stomach urged him to stop. At last, he closed his fingers on the glass. The blind fear of being hunted, coupled with the dizzying sickness of withdrawal, numbed him to the pain. He pulled up his legs and rested his feet on the narrow step under the doors.
With a sigh, he tucked his chin to his chest to defy the cold and turned his face into the tram. He peered inside. Passengers were crammed shoulder to shoulder, grimacing against the squeeze. Shit! He recoiled and let go of the glass as his eyes met with a cold blue stare. He almost fell back to the tramlines as he scrambled for the safety of the window. His hands, wet with blood, slipped as they grasped the rubber frame. When they finally latched on, he snapped his head up and scanned the cart desperately, but the man was nowhere. He cursed himself again. His paranoia was fizzing around him, amplified by anxiety and stabbing pangs of withdrawal.
Streets whizzed past as he drew closer and closer to his destination. The Black Barracks – The Northern Quarter’s main City Guard garrison. If he could jump off near there, he’d be safe – for a while at least.
A fuel truck in the centre of a City Guard escort chugged past him. The swoosh of air from the passing convoy threatened to dislodge him from his footing, but he bit down and held on. As the tram rattled towards a bend in the road, Marcus leapt away from its relative safety. He landed on unsteady legs and tumbled to the tracks, crawling himself back to his feet. He looked left and right as he staggered to a doorway and backed into it for a moment of tormented respite.
A cigarette appeared in his shaking hand, though he had no memory of it getting there. He sparked it and scanned the street. He’d been doing this for a long time now, way before he was being hunted by the Grey Man. It was important no one followed him. Execution was certain if he gave up the Conduit’s identity. Whether he meant to or not was trivial, he knew that. He sucked greedily at his cigarette, finishing it and flicking it out to the road.
Satisfied he wasn’t being watched or tailed, he ambled on towards the Black Barracks. As he reached the approach to the foreboding garrison, he noticed extra defences in place. The building was old and grand, three stories high with double-height windows. It sat strong on the corner of a crossroad, following the curve of the road. In front of the building, low metal barriers and sandbags comprised a makeshift barricade, far enough from the windows to prevent missiles causing damage. City Guards stood wearily in the clearing, leaning on their trucks, pacing back and forth, and pointing their pistols at any getting too close to the barriers.
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Not breaking his stride, he skirted the barricades, eyes to the ground and collar popped high about his cheeks. He kept his chin dipped and pushed on as it began to rain. Clearing the eyes of the guards, he followed the building line along the adjoining road, periodically glancing back over his shoulder. He exhaled in relief as he darted left into the street that ran behind the Black Barracks, knowing he was in relative safety. He passed eight grizzly looking men, all holding automatic rifles, standing watch over a door to an old terraced house. He had reached the pick-up point, alive.
He knocked. The door cracked open no more than a few inches, and the contemptuous face of Sergeant Kramer occupied the gap. He wasn’t in his uniform, instead dressed fully in black, with a scarf covering his face and a hood over his head.
“About fucking time. Get inside, shithead,” he spat as Marcus squeezed himself through.
The door opened straight into an old living room. The remnants of a family remained, though the space was desolate and in disrepair. With pictures and toys strewn about, it was now a sad reminder of a family long since dead or gone. Mould and damp lingered in the small room, and a steady drip plopped continuously from the ceiling to a puddle on the rotten carpet.
Sergeant Kramer glared at the wet patch on the roof, as though he thought his fury was enough to will the dripping into submission. When he finally dragged himself away from the drip, he was red-faced and had that dead look in his eyes that Marcus knew all too well. He had one of his headaches.
“Brunner’s still pissed with you for that mess in The Gardens. He won’t leave the Stadium until the Grey Man’s in chains. Were you followed?”
Marcus licked his lips and flicked a bead of sweat from the corner of his eye. “No. I’m alone.”
“Why does he insist we conduct business in this shithole?” Sergeant Kramer snapped, swinging a vicious bayonet that protruded from where his hand should have been, pointing it about the room.
Marcus hesitated. He knew the answer. This was close enough to the Barracks without him needing to go inside and risk linking himself to the City Guard. But Sergeant Kramer knew that, too. He wasn’t looking for a literal response.
“I don’t know, Sergeant. He could get somewhere more…pleasant.”
“I’ll let you tell him that,” Sergeant Kramer replied as he tossed Marcus a small rucksack. “Drops are there for Arnero, Dawson, Archway Squats, Station Markets…”
“Station Markets? I thought Arthur was dead?”
“Don’t you dare interrupt me,” Sergeant Kramer hissed as he pressed his knuckles into his temple. He turned his back and raised the bayonet to his chin. For a second, it seemed he would drive the blade up through his skull, but he exhaled and turned back to Marcus. “He is dead. There’s a new dealer there, a girl called Flo. She’ll be at the usual place.”
“Right. Okay.”
“Where was I…? Fuck it, you know the drops. Same as usual, down to the Apollo Fighting Pits.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Here’s last month's notes.” Marcus passed his bag to the sergeant, who slung it over his shoulder.
“Very good. One more thing. There’s a new drug.”
Marcus’ dark eyes flashed to life.
“We’ve recruited another runner. You’re doing the Croc. The new shithead is running the Nileodil.”
“Nileodil? What’s Nileodil?” He began picking at the black scales on his neck.
“Remember crack cocaine, from before The Panic? Of course you do, just look at you, scummy bastard. You’ve been smoking crack since you stopped shitting in nappies, haven’t you?”
Marcus ignored the insults. He didn’t care. He needed to know what this new drug was and how he could get it. He hadn’t smoked crack in...what? Eight years?
“It’s more addictive than Croc. It’s an upper.”
“How do I get it?”
“Shit, Marcus, you're pathetic. The runner is dropping it in the same places as you. Won’t be until tonight. Now, get out of my sight before my headache returns.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Marcus backed away and swung around to the door.
“And Marcus” – Sergeant Kramer called after him, his voice stern and cold – “you’re on thin ice. No more fuck-ups. Deliver the drops personally. There’s another lined up to replace you if you let us down again. You know that, don’t you?”
“I won’t fuck it up. I need this,” he replied, then slipped out into the driving rain. He staggered, and his stomach wretched again as he stumbled away. Aggressively scratching at his neck, he rushed off to undertake his task.
He plodded on with a route in mind. He altered it every month to keep his movements random, unpredictable. Sure, he was a Crochead, but he was also sharp and cunning. He knew this. Before he fell to addiction, he had been a successful solicitor, revered in his community and trusted by the criminals he served. Now the addicts and vagrants of the Archway Squats respected him, listened to him, and were malleable to his manipulation. Though, his people's respect did little to sway his conscience. Yes, he was delivering Croc to them, a poison destined to end their lives, but he would readily convince himself he was spreading good.
If I didn’t run it, someone else would. They want it. Who am I to deny them? I use it myself, we know what this is. That’s what he thought.
He reached a fork in the main road and slunk off to the left, taking a route longer than he needed. He hadn’t used it before, so if he was being stalked, there was less chance of someone lying in wait this way. It was a good plan – clever. The Grey Man was a stalker, that’s what people said. He was always lying in wait, like a snake coiled in the dark, ready to strike.
Yes, he should be safe this way. At worst, he was being stalked now, and next time he used this route, he’d be snatched into a dark corner and bundled away, but that was a problem for another day. Marcus chided himself, I'd like to see him try. He’s just a man. He glanced nervously over his shoulder, not sure what he expected to see. He hoped if he was being followed, it would be obvious. From what he could tell, there was nothing of note.
Two Crocheads huddled in a doorway behind him, drinking moonshine, and a boy pushed a cripple in a wheelchair, their heads down against the driving rain. He touched his neck with his cold, wet fingers, tutting to himself when he pulled them away covered in blood. Damn scabs and scales, plaguing his body. Only the cosy, warm feeling of Croc coursing through his veins would dull the searing itch.
He reached a narrow alleyway, which led to a quiet old cycle path he could follow back to the tramlines. The invaluable bag on his back weighed him down, his legs were heavy, and his stomach growled angrily at him.
Out of nowhere, a flash of pain soared through his leg. His calf cramped and locked, the tight burning causing him to gasp for air as he dropped to his knees. He fell forward, crawled a few yards on his hands, and dropped to his stomach. His cheek felt the cold of the floor, though it did nothing to cool the fire in his leg. Twisting his upper body, he looked down, and like a deer at the end of a hunt, panic and realisation overwhelmed him.
A black arrow was now buried in his calf.
“Shit, shit, no, no, no…” He dragged himself forward agonisingly slowly, his fingers grasping at the cracks in the pavement.
A powerful forearm ripped into his throat as he was thrust up and pulled into a deathly tight grip. He tried to pull and claw at the arm but to no avail. His eyes were heavy, he couldn’t catch his breath. If he could just get to his bag, he knew a pin of Croc would help him. Yes, just a quick hit that would stop the pain. He reached over his shoulder, but his arm was numb. It dropped to his side, and he drifted away.