Ansell shuffled through the crowd of rebels. They worked frantically, assembling a barricade on the tramlines leading out of The Gardens towards the Black Barracks. Dust bins rusted and battered. A small skip piled tall with debris. Trevor’s hot plate, jutting out of the rubble, broken and sorry. All could be found in the makeshift barricade.
Two City Guard riot vans were the bulk of the blockage, their tyres slashed and windows smashed. One of them was still fizzing and crackling, doused by the murky water hastily tossed over it to kill the inferno after the skirmish had ended. The dying embers lit up the inside with a burnt orange glow. Wounded rebels scurried back and forth from the skeletal remains of the shacks and stalls that had lined The Gardens not one month ago. They carried wooden boards and old scaffolding like a column of busy ants. A team of burly men waited impatiently, snatching the materials and lumping them into the barricade directed by their huge leader. Ansell knew he recognised him – Mighty Mick, the big weapons vendor from the Station Market.
He slipped past the preoccupied men and women and opened his stride. Empty cans rattled along the gutter in the wind, disturbing the eerie quiet hanging in the road. He crossed the street swiftly and ducked into the back alleys and entries, much safer than taking the main streets. City Guard patrols were everywhere, and despite being preoccupied by groups of rebels engaging them in guerilla warfare, he knew they’d still be desperate to apprehend him and deliver him to their captain.
Perhaps he should let them. That would be one way to get at him, and in terms of plans or options, he wasn’t blessed with an abundance of ideas. But it wasn’t enough to just kill Brunner. A shot in the dark might do the trick, sure, but he needed him alive. Brunner had the answers. All of the answers.
Why unleash this drug on your own people? Who is the next level above him? What do they seek to do when they’ve culled the Crocheads to their liking? Would they ever be culled to their liking? Because as far as Ansell could tell, there were more than ever, and they seemed to be living longer. He sighed. He sped up into a jog and sprang onto a scrap car, bouncing straight back off and over a high wall into the next alleyway. He passed the time on the remainder of his route pondering the boy.
Something had happened to him, he could sense it. He had developed feelings. He cared about Jude, and he felt compelled to help him, to protect him. He chided himself for allowing this to happen. On the barge, he’d even hugged him and called him ‘son.’ He cursed himself and spat. “He’ll be the death of me,” he muttered as he rounded the corner and reached his destination.
Town Hall stood proud as always, the gothic spires and turrets jutting into the deep red of the afternoon sky, snatching the eye from the desolate slums below. The poverty sprawled out from its belly into the square around its feet. Packs of Crocheads hissed and plotted, anticipating their next hit. A cart pulled by a man, bent and wizened, carried his wares that were of no interest to them. Just rubbish, litter, scraps. It was loud and busy, the sounds of chattering and shouting and begging all around. Many were drinking, the bottoms of their moonshine cans flashing up on repeat as they slugged back one after another. It seemed to Ansell that, with every return to his place of refuge, it was busier than the last. With more Crocheads, vagrants, and afflicted, the largest slum in the city got larger and larger.
He limped into the main hall, his heavy blanket around his shoulders and his head down. He kept his eyes to the floor, lifting them to the brim of his cap only when necessary to navigate some Crochead sprawled in his path. There were no calls for money, food, or Croc as he passed through, hidden in plain sight.
Only when he was on the roof did he allow his guise to fall. He loosened his shoulders and loped across the tiles, hugging the balustrade until he arrived at his ladder, which, with the ease of familiarity, he tossed up to the window above. The hooks clanged home and he ascended eagerly, excited to empty the huge rucksack of supplies burdening his lower back. Arriving at his front door, he exhaled and rested his forehead on the cool metal, then pushed the key into the padlock and clicked it open.
He didn’t have long. He tipped the contents of the rucksack onto the bed, clinks of glass sounding as assorted bottles of alcohol landed on the mattress. Among the rest of the contents, there was a first aid bag, candles, and lighters. An old wash bag had been packed with straw, eggs nestled safely in the softness. Tinned food and cuts of meat landed amongst them. They could stay there for now, he’d put them away later. The same for the bundle of stakes, apart from three, which he selected and slotted into the leather holsters hanging under his armpits. He took a fistful of shotgun shells and dumped them into the deep pocket of his coat, followed by two motorcycle chains that he looped around his waist.
“You know that personal weapons aren’t permitted in the Trials, don’t you?”
“Damn woman, must you creep up on me! How did you get in here?”
“I go where you need me, sweetheart.”
“I’m aware I can’t use my weapons in the Trials, yes. But I’ve got to cross the city first. It’s a warzone.” He crossed the room as he spoke and reached for the top shelf of a tall metal locker. He fumbled around above until, at last, he brought down a large tin box adorned with a dagger embossed on the lid. Under it was a motto carved into the tin: By strength and guile. He ran his finger over the words. Lost in thought.
“I was right about the boy, wasn’t I?”
“He’s a good kid.”
“You’re starting to see him as a friend. Perhaps as a son.”
Ansell tutted and rolled his eyes. “I’ve known him a month. I’m growing fond of him, and that is all. I had a son, a son who won’t be replaced.”
“You’re closer than ever to your end. The second part of your revenge is within reach. But you're risking your life to help a boy you hardly know.”
“That was your idea. You pushed me to help him, and now you scold me!”
“It was my idea and I stand by it. I’m merely pointing out what you don’t see before your own eyes. You’ve placed the boy’s needs over your own. Ahead of your hunger for revenge, for blood. Perhaps there’s hope for you to become the man I fell in love with once more.”
“You speak as though I was any different before.”
“No, you were always dark. But before, there was a flicker of light, growing stronger all the while. Until it extinguished to black. Now, you have that little light again, flickering to life once more. The boy is your light. He could be your salvation.”
Ansell waved her away. He prised open the tin box and ignored the stack of polaroids he only looked at whenever drinking scotch. He picked up the grenade and carefully released the chain of small silver balls that had become attached to the pin. Holding the chain up to the light, he read his father’s name on the attached dog tags before he dropped them back to the tin and replaced it in the locker. He secured the grenade in a deep pocket with a zip and turned for the door.
“When you kill Captain Brunner, what then?”
“Damn, woman. You know what next. I won’t stop until I've rid the country of black scales. Croc killed my son. I won't rest until it’s gone.”
“I killed our son, sweetheart.”
“I fucking know that! How many times do I need to say this? You had your part in it, and you’ve paid in kind. But someone sold you the shit. Someone saw you with your massive bump, knew you were with child, and they sold it to you regardless. But someone also gave it to them to sell. Someone cooked it. Someone created it. The chain goes on and on.”
“Do what you need to do. I only hope, somewhere along the way, you see what I see. For your own sake. I hope you realise what you could have, what you could be. You were born to be a father. I saw that in you from the start. It's what made me fall for you so hard. Sweetheart, that boy needs a father, and you need a son.”
“Fuck you,” Ansell spat with malice. “He’s not my son. You robbed me of my son, and now you push this boy on me? Leave me be. Now.” He threw his blanket around his shoulders and violently tugged his hood up over his cap. He hovered his shaking hand over the door handle, his teeth grinding his jaw to an ache.
“I’m going. Love you.” There was no reply. He burst through the door and slammed it behind him. He secured the padlock, then began his descent.
He reached the window on the far side of the roof, which overlooked the tents and cardboard lean-to’s sprawling out of the front doors of the great hall. He was prising open the window to continue his descent when he heard panicked shouts from below. Sheathing his knife, he ducked and crept to the ledge. He peaked over cautiously and saw pandemonium below.
Crocheads were fighting for position in a bulging queue at the massive doors, seeking the refuge of the inside. Watching their plight through sanctimonious eyes, a City Guard platoon of fifty stood shoulder to shoulder in a semicircle, each jabbing the barrel of an automatic rifle at the doors. Vagrants and beggars outside, perched on cardboard sheets or battered sleeping bags, were not willing to give up their real estate, resigning that death was as bleak as losing their makeshift home. Either that, or they were naive enough to believe the guards wouldn’t open fire.
Sergeant Kramer stood at the front of the platoon. Dishevelled and peaky, he drove the knuckles of his good hand into his temples. The hand Ansell had lopped off, replaced with what looked like a bayonet. One of his men huddled in close, listening to orders, his face awash with concern, fear even. He clutched a silver canister with two shaking hands.
Sergeant Kramer removed his knuckles from his head and drew his pistol. He strode towards the clamouring crowd and halted in the clearing between his men and the Town Hall’s steps. He raised his pistol to the air and fired off a shot. Screams chased after the bang, followed by eerie silence. He let the stillness hang in the air for a few moments.
“Innocent people of the slums. I have a warrant issued by the Captain of the Guard. The Town Hall is hereby declared a rebel stronghold.” He allowed his words to ring out and echo across the square, his beady eyes scanning the faces of those left outside the doors. A crow’s caw sounded. A rumble in the clouds followed.
“The captain regrets his recent actions here and sends his condolences. He was driven by grief. The death of his brother at the hands of the murdering Grey Man made him…unreasonable...”
Ansell’s eye locked to movement in the dark shadows of the building line on the far side of the square. First, there were a few, then more, and then the alleyways and walls were lined with rebels, huddled in hushed groups watching the scene in front of the Town Hall. Ansell shook his head. The square was moments away from becoming a war zone, and he didn’t have time for this. He looked back down at Sergeant Kramer, whose monologue continued.
“…which is why he has implored me to give you every chance to vacate the hall peacefully. Leaving behind only those who admit to code violations in relation to rebel conspiracy, guerilla warfare, and disruption of City Guard duties.” The silence was breathless.
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“Very well.” He turned sharply and paced back to the man with the canister, sliding his head in close to the man’s ear as he began whispering instructions.
Ansell scratched his beard. He needed to get away from here and fast. He simply didn’t have the time to wait out the battle that was about to break out. He’d miss the Trials. He’d let Jude down. His head ached as he ran scenarios through. He could go as normal, down into the hall, and hope to slip out in the chaos. But it was too risky. Kramer could recognise him, they could all be executed upon leaving, and he wouldn't put that past the City Guard. Not anymore.
“You have been given fair warning, and I am left with no choice,” called Sergeant Kramer, his words smarmy and grandiose. “My officer will be approaching the doors momentarily. He will release a tear gas canister. When my guards enter, those surrendering will be apprehended and treated humanely. Any resistance will be squashed.” He punctuated his speech with a whoosh of his bayonet.
The nervous guard shuffled back and forth on his heels. He trotted across the square on unsteady legs and ascended the steps to the open doors, where Ansell lost sight of him behind the building line.
Momentarily, they were enveloped in silence, until chaos erupted below. Screams, howls, and shrieks rang out like otherworldly noises, the voices guttural and aggressive. The guard sprinted back towards the rest of the platoon, with droves of feral bodies chomping at his heels. Rattling pops and cracks of gunfire joined the frightening howls blaring from inside the hall. Bullets whizzed over the shoulders of the fleeing guard, dropping vagrants and addicts and halting their chase.
They were like animals launching themselves into the bullets. Wave after wave of delirious people carried on like this until they were plastered with holes and drenched in blood. Unable to continue, they sank to the floor, crawling and writhing, until they finally stopped.
Fear spread through the City Guard ranks. With wide eyes and dropped jaws, they turned to run, to retreat, but there was no salvation. The rebels had broken out of the shadows, and they charged towards the unsuspecting guards. They'd been lulled into the belief that the slums were rising, rebelling. They weren’t. Mighty Mick, leading his men and women, smashed into the platoon, swinging a double-handed woodcutting axe, its blade glittering in a vicious arc as it slashed through the bone and sinew. The rebels followed his lead, and within seconds, the square was a spine-chilling riot of blood and death.
Now was Ansell’s chance. He could slip away in the commotion. He pushed himself up and hurdled through the open window, resuming his descent. When he reached the door to the landing, where he would normally watch and wait, there was no one.
As the echoing cries of war cannoned about the great hall, he pushed through, hatchet in hand, knife in the other. The point of the knife's blade faced the floor, stabbing out from the bottom of his clenched fist. He rounded the corner to the stairs. The hall was empty now, save a bulging crowd at the main doors, clawing and scrabbling at each other. A huge swell of bodies piled up, and rabid people climbed this mound of death, breaking through to the outside to join the chaos. They were wildly unaware and completely out of control, consumed by some blood-lusting delirium.
Ansell stopped still. He watched from the top stair. A white haze hung low, hugging the grimy floor of the hall. Swirls of silver, fizzes of grey – it was like the foam of a lapping tide meeting the beach. Above, the haze dissipated through smashed windows and wafted away on the wind. The huge fire in the truck bed at the centre of the hall had toppled, flaming timbers scattered in the mess of burning tents. Red embers crackled in the heat, and ash floated away in the mist.
Whatever was in that silver canister wasn’t any tear gas he had seen before. It had caused this – made the people of the Town Hall slums tear each other apart, tear apart any who entered their sight. The remaining swirls of gas were low and thin enough to pass through. He tugged his thick snood up about his nose and mouth. If he was going to make it to Jude in time, he had to fight his way out.
He breathed deep and tore away, taking two steps at a time. At the death pile bulging at the doors, three of the delirious contorted back on themselves at the sound of his thumping boots. A young teenage girl – not a Crochead, just a girl – launched at him, and he cracked her in the jaw with the pommel of his knife. Her jaw dislodged and swung slack. She staggered and righted herself, launching upon him once more. He pivoted away from her clawed fingers and buckled her at the knee with the heel of his boot. The snap was frightful, but no scream of pain followed it, no fear in her eyes. He backed away from her as she crawled towards him, dragging herself by her filthy nails.
A man, foaming at the mouth, came next. His grey teeth were recessed in the depths of his black beard, snapping and snarling. He charged at Ansell, madness in his eyes. Ansell raised his forearm and thrust it into the man’s neck, launching him away. The man staggered back and collapsed over the crawling girl. But he sprang back up, directly into the blunt end of Ansell’s axe head, the impact creating a thundering crunch. He spiralled back to the ground.
Another man limped slowly towards him, with his ankle snapped at an impossible angle and his head on fire. A black scalp with dusky orange embers seared his skin, tanning it like leather. The whites of his eyes were red, angry and violent. Scales of black tracked down his neck. His clothes burnt away, the scales stacked on his chest were visible in an angry cluster, leaking yellow bile. Ansell swung his hatchet behind him, and with a flick of his wrist, he rifled it into the Crochead’s burning skull, splitting it like a round of sizzling firewood. The body dropped and writhed until motionless. The other two continued towards him – the girl crawling, the man staggering.
He’d tried to not kill these people. He didn’t want to. The girl was a girl, not a Crochead. She had no black scales. The man was a beggar. He was probably a shithead, but he wasn’t a Crochead. He didn’t meet Ansell’s murderous criteria. But he knew now, after seeing the punishment they had taken and seeing they were still coming at him, that he would have no choice.
The girl was now up and limping. She shrieked and clawed at him as he ducked her arms, then rammed the knife down into the soft skin behind her collar bone. The knife wrenched free, followed by a fountain of red.
The man was on him with impossible speed, his hands on each of Ansell’s wrists, driving him back towards the stairs. His snapping teeth closed in closer and closer on his throat. His strength was unfathomable, but how? He was a vagrant, a beggar. He was nothing but skin and bone, malnourished.
Ansell panicked. He never panicked. His strength was waning, and the teeth were closer than ever. The man’s putrid hot breath burned the skin on his throat, singeing the stubble. Ansell’s heels hit the bottom step, and he tumbled back. The man fell with him, landing hard, his ferocious face crunching into the marble stair. Ansell rolled free and retreated on his backside, scrabbling at the holster on his thigh as the man closed in on him. A shotgun blast sounded, followed by bone and blood splattering across the hall. The man’s body, devoid of its head, continued a few steps before falling to rest upon Ansell.
He pushed it clear, and drenched in blood and sweat, he staggered to his feet. He split his shotgun at the hinge and thumbed two shells into place. He looked up at the pile of bodies at the door and made towards them, skirting burning bodies cooking in the white mist.
At the pile, the noise was loud. He was afraid. He was never afraid, not anymore. But he was now. He crested the pile of bodies and scrambled down the other side to be met by madness. It brought to mind a mediaeval skirmish, like the ones he had seen on television and read about in books. A rich smell of gunsmoke hung over the battlefield. The grey sky, splashed with splatters of blood-red, flashed to life as the cracks and rattles of gunfire sounded over the screams.
The delirious were now attacking both sides – guard or rebel, there was no differentiation. They attacked each other, attacked anything that moved within their grasp. Sergeant Kramer was in the centre, ringed by the twenty or so guards left from the platoon of fifty. His bayonet stabbed and thrusted at a circle of dead rebels and delirious about his feet, his pistol flashing and banging at a steady pace. Mighty Mick was topless now. His shirt had been ripped from his hulking torso, and his skin was awash with claw marks and toothy punctures. Carving a path back out of the cluster, he and his rebels tried to cut a hole in the crowd to break free to the building line. His axe relentlessly orbited his giant frame, leaving bodies in its wake.
As Ansell loped down the steps, two delirious swung at him. Two shells exploded into them. The first man splayed into the air, while the second man took the shot high on the shoulder, spinning him on the spot. Still, he continued forward. Ansell dropped his shotgun into its sheath and, with both hands on his hatchet, ripped it through the man’s neck, launching his head into the sky.
Suddenly, Ansell’s brow burst open as a woman thundered a fist into him, knocking him to his knees. She was upon him with speed, clawing at his eyes. A crowbar pitched through her eye socket, a rebel woman delivering the blow. She didn’t halt her stride as she continued past, back up the stairs.
Ansell pushed on at an unsteady canter through the madness, rain driving at his face and washing blood from his forehead into his eyes. He hacked and slashed with ferocious determination, carving a path through the carnage. Bodies left strewn about behind him. His hatchet and knife worked in unison as extensions of his arms, his mastery of his weapons keeping the delirious at bay.
“Grey Man!”
He thumped his knife into a man’s chest and shouldered him off the blade, spinning to the cry of his name.
“Grey Man! This is the end, Grey Man!”
Sergeant Kramer levelled his pistol and curled the trigger. The flash was bright and the hot stab of pain was instant. The bullet ripped into Ansell’s forearm as he raised it to cover his face. It rifled through and out the other side, skewering a rebel through the face. Ansell’s arm was numb. It dropped to his side. He could feel his pulse thundering in his wrist. He somehow managed to keep his fingers locked around the handle of his knife, though it swung redundantly at his waist. The sergeant levelled the pistol again. He curled the trigger again and smirked, raising an eyebrow when it clicked instead of banged. He sheathed it.
“Fuck you, Kramer!” He spat out clotted blood from his cheeks. “What have you done?” shouted Ansell.
“I know you killed Marcus,” he shouted over the chaos. “We found him strapped to the bow of a barge, gutted and staked. Floating through the canal at Sackville Pile.”
A delirious boy burst through two rebels and thrust at Ansell. He booted him in the chest, cannoning him into a guard, and the two toppled to the ground, clawing at each other.
“Then you know what I have learnt, bastard.”
“You know nothing, Grey Man!”
“I know enough. You’re dead. Brunner’s dead. I’ll get to him. I swear it.”
Sergeant Kramer charged, eyes wide, teeth bared. Ansell swayed, then dropped to one knee under the arc of the bayonet and drove himself up from the ground. His shoulder lifted Kramer from his feet and tossed him to the bloody pavement behind. Kramer came up in a roll, a vein bulging through his temple. His face was red, so red it could burst. He bellowed and lurched the bayonet forward.
Ansell parried it with the flat of his hatchet blade and reversed it back so swiftly Kramer didn’t see it. But when he felt it touch his cheek, his eyes went wide as he felt blood gushing from a flapping sheet of skin dangling from his face. One of the delirious smashed into Ansell and toppled him from his feet. He rolled over to avoid the stomping boot of a guard, then smashed his hatchet into the guard’s kneecap. The agonising wails drew a handful of delirious, who began clubbing at the guard with fists and feet.
Ansell rose up in time to drop back down under the swing of Kramer’s blade, but the sergeant followed up with a jab that pitched him back. He was tired now. Bone-weary. He pushed himself up with the handle of the hatchet and waited on his advancing advisory.
His throat prickled with dryness. He coughed blood into his mouth and spat it out. Blood ran down his face, cutting a serpentine line through the dried ash. The hatchet felt heavy in his hand.
Kramer circled like a hungry vulture. Ansell breathed deep. On the exhale, he exploded. His wrist snapped, and the hatchet departed his fingers, spinning in the air. The black blade whooshed until it thudded into Kramer’s shoulder, the shoulder of his only hand. He screamed and staggered, scrabbling at the handle. When he wrenched it free, he was awash with blood. He tripped over a body, staggering again, and hurled the hatchet back at Ansell, but it clanged pitifully at his feet.
A huge fist blasted the sergeant in the temple, and he poleaxed to the floor. Mighty Mick appeared over him and was ready to relieve him of his head, when a delirious leapt on his back and sank her teeth into his ear.
Ansell glanced to his right and saw a path to safety carved out by the big rebel – a clear run to the buildings and alleyways and back streets, a path out of the madness. Mick was on his knees now, the delirious woman riding him like a cowboy breaking a wild mustang. Ansell huffed his frustration and ran over, thumping the hatchet into her spine at her lower back. She spasmed and fell, snarled a bloody snarl until Mick’s thick boot silenced her. He nodded his head at Ansell and moved to speak, but the killer was already off, hacking his way through the path in the crowd and out of the affray.
He shouldered his way through a group of retreating rebels on the perimeter and bolted across the clearing towards the building line, disappearing into the darkness of an alleyway. He looked up to the sky for the sun, already knowing it wasn’t there. It had dropped behind some tall building in retreat, and the last of its light had gone and been replaced by a blood-red moon, surrounded by a spattering of stars.
In the distance, an explosion sounded, so loud the walls shook and the floor vibrated. He tipped his chin to the sky, gulped some air, and pulled over his hood. Then he moved off at a lope, his shot arm dangling at his side. Towards the Trials of Arnero.