As she navigated the clamouring hoards of beggars and Crocheads, hand in hand with Jude, Zuri felt totally at ease. They left Dawson’s Shanty without delay and were now walking along Sackville Street towards the canal and Sackville Pile – a colossal pile of waste where a large contingent of the city’s pigeons nested. It was here she first laid eyes on Jude.
She idly searched for his hand at her waist as they walked, linking his fingers. “Your hands are cold,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. He nudged her back, then released her hand and slid his arm around her shoulders.
Zuri was happy. She’d been happy ever since the day they met. Jude was an enigma like nothing she had seen before. He had caused her heart to quicken and her intrigue to rise.
She was collecting her father’s favourite moonshine from the bar opposite Sackville Pile when she first saw a young man sprinting through the street at unfathomable speed. She watched, captivated. Without breaking stride, he vaulted the wall cordoning the waste ground and came up in a roll. She gasped as he drew back on a curious weapon and unleashed an arrow through the air. A fraction of a second later, a pigeon plummeted out of the sky, and the young man, who still hadn’t broken stride, skidded to a stop underneath and snatched the falling bird from the air.
As she came to her senses, she realised she was staring at the young man, who was looking back at her with a sheepish grin. He was tall and slender, with a flash of slicked-back blond hair and striking deep green eyes, his face angular and his smile full of impish trouble. Wound tightly about his neck, he wore a mustard-coloured scarf tucked tightly into the collar of a green denim jacket. A long knife in a leather sheath hung from a belt over his jeans, tucked securely into boots. He looked more like a fashion model from the old advertising boards hanging around the city than a hunter.
“How did you learn to do that?” asked Zuri as she walked towards him and rested her elbows on the wall.
“Ah, just practice, really. I’ve tried that a hundred times and only pulled it off once or twice,” he replied. “Yesterday I messed up my landing and ended up face down in a dog turd.”
Zuri laughed harder than she had in a long time. When she finally composed herself, she replied, “You’re lying! I’ve never seen a weapon like that before. What is it?”
“This is a bow,” he replied, holding it up, supported by a beaming grin. “It’s a hunting tool more than a weapon, I guess. You can watch me shoot another if you like. I can't go back home until I’ve got five birds, or I'm out of arrows,” said the young man as he walked towards Zuri and hopped onto the wall. Yanking the zip on his backpack open, he took out a plastic bag and carefully wrapped the pigeon inside. Zuri noticed he was missing the smallest finger on his right hand, but curious as she was, she was careful not to stare.
“Zuri! Come now, gyal!” A man’s voice boomed, shattering the moment.
“That’ll be Jenko,” Zuri said with a roll of her amber eyes. She felt her cheeks flush. “He’s my escort. My father doesn’t let me out alone. Treats me like a prisoner, has his men follow me everywhere. My mumma died, so I think he worries, or maybe he’s scared I’ll run off. I don’t like it where we live.” She stopped, realising she was oversharing, then cleared her throat and brushed dirt from Jude’s jacket.
The silence was awkward and comfortable. He was easy. Not like the other young men from the shanty who tried so obviously and desperately to hold her attention. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Jude,” the young man answered with a smile. With that, Zuri spun on her heel and strode towards Jenko. “Hey!” she heard Jude shout. “I’m here this time every day! What was your name?”
“Zuri,” she called back without turning around, in order to not show him the cheek-splitting smile on her face.
That had been the beginning of a wonderful friendship between the two. Zuri returned the next day and the day after that, and before long, Jude had somehow bypassed shanty security and shown up at her front door. Her father was furious. It had taken weeks for him to even entertain the idea that this young man could escort her about the city without Jenko. But the Shanty Genna had convinced him somehow. Why Jenko wanted Jude to be allowed to take her on his own, she had never quite worked out, though she had landed on the most likely reason being that the Genna was tired of playing childminder and wanted to do his actual job: shooting Croc, smoking Ganji-Bud, and killing people.
“Stay close past here,” commanded Jude as they walked past Arnero’s Shanty.
“You’ve said that every single time we’ve ever passed here, Jude. I know.”
“Yeah, well, can’t be too careful. I’ve never been in, but Trev reckons that’s the worst shanty there is,” stressed Jude, quickening the pace.
“Urgh, you’ve told me that as well! You’re not my guard, despite what my father thinks,” she snapped.
“I’m not guarding you for him, I'm guarding you for me,” he replied, pulling her in close and kissing her on the forehead.
“Soppy git,” laughed Zuri as she looked over at the shanty. Arnero’s is certainly disconcerting, she thought as she looked on at a huge multi-storey car park, built above gutted shops, that housed hundreds of Crocheads. The putrid smell from inside polluted the street as they walked by.
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“Jenko told me about Dawson’s feud with Arnero. He said it’s lucky they’re still in a truce, or he wouldn’t let you out at all.”
“They’ve been in a truce for a year. It's just Jenko trying to scare you away, pay it no mind,” replied Zuri, the lie rolling off her tongue easier than she thought.
They walked on, Arnero’s Shanty looming over them. She stared up at it. It was a wild gnarly black building, jagged and angry. Ominous. The type of place that chills your bones. Each level of the car park was more dangerous than the last. The shacks and tents were visible from outside, crude and uninviting and lit by the fiery red glow of cookfires and heat drums. The second top level was Arnero’s stronghold. Several men with rifles stood guard at lookout points, mean looking and rugged, watching the streets and rooftops for signs of threat.
Zuri shuddered and pulled Jude’s arm close to her. The limp bodies of two men and a woman hung by the neck over the side of the top floor. The woman had been there for some time. One of her legs had rotted off at the knee and dropped to the floor. A huge black crow was playfully tugging at the eyeball of one of the men. It crooked its neck, looked down at Zuri, and cawed.
On the lowest level, cut off from the street by a tall metal fence topped with nasty rings of barbed wire, motocross bikes blared around at dangerous speed. The raucous whoops and jeers of onlooking Crocheads were drowned out by the thundering engines, their noise cannoning off the high ceiling of the vast space. Zuri watched as the bikes zipped up off-ramps fashioned over the old carcasses of vehicles. Engines rattled and spluttered, and dust kicked up and swirled as the tyres bumped down. Periodic booming echoes of gunshot were followed by unsettling shrieks of agony.
“Why do they do that?” she yelled over the noise.
“That’s the Trials,” Jude shouted back. “Once a month, addicts enter them and fight to the death. The last one living wins an eighth of Croc. There’s a champion's ceremony after it, which goes on through the night on the second floor. They get out of their minds on moonshine and Croc and it spills out onto the streets. Always ends in riots.”
“An eighth!”
“I know. I’d bet most of the winners are dead by the next day. Arnero and her gang get entertained, and the winner gets an unimaginable prize. Trev reckons they most likely overdose with their winnings, and Arnero takes what’s left straight back.”
“Why do they enter if they’ll likely die?”
“Trev says it’s like the lottery. Some competition everyone did before The Panic. He said he used to enter twice a week without fail, even though he knew he’d never win.”
“But they won’t just lose, they'll die.”
“Look at them, Zu. They’ve got nothing to live for. I guess, to an addict, death is worth the risk.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She pursed her lips in thought, then a playful smile flashed over her. “I suppose the Trials are a quicker death than being caught by the Grey Man, though, eh?”
“You shouldn’t joke about the Grey Man, Zu,” he said with an uncomfortable glance around, as though someone would burst from the crowd and attack.
“You’re such a worrier. It’s just a ghost story to scare kids. Keeps them safe in their beds after dark and not sneaking out adventuring. You don’t believe there’s an actual man torturing and murdering people, do you?”
“Of course I do. Look around. A serial killer is way more plausible than half the shit that’s going on in this city. What about Darren Partington? I told you about him, didn’t I?”
Zuri rolled her eyes. “Yes. He went missing. People go missing all the time. Or overdose. Or get taken by the Guard.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t told you this,” he said, halting his stride and turning to her with wide eyes. “He turned up two nights ago, strapped upside down to a lamppost out near Jutland Hill. Guts spilled, staked through the heart, eyes missing.”
“Eurgh! Disgusting. Did you see it?”
“Well no, but Hoggo was there collecting batteries from the scrap cart, and he saw the body. He told Trevor and Trevor told me.”
“Sounds like a load of nonsense to me.”
Jude shook his head. “It’s alright for you, Zuri, safe in your shanty, guarded by Jenko and his men. You don’t hear the whispers in the slums. Or see the orphans, stray on the street. They stop you and ask for a penny, tell you their dad was gutted and staked. The Grey Man is real, I know it.”
“Maybe,” Zuri sighed. “Anyway, the story goes he only kills Crocheads, so unless you’re hiding some black scales under that jacket, you’ll be fine.”
She laughed, jabbed him in the ribs, and scrabbled at his zip. He crossed his arms and nudged her off. Unable to hide his smile, he broke into a reluctant chuckle. He pressed his head into hers and pecked her on the cheek. She felt her cheeks go red.
“We should move from here. It turns wild around Arnero’s after the Trials,” said Jude.
A gunshot sounded, followed by the wild blasts of a motorcycle. They walked alongside Arnero’s at a quick pace, skirting groups of Crocheads and beggars and street vendors. Every few seconds, gunshots and cheers. The air smelt bloody.
A bike skidded and slammed into the metal fence a few yards from where they were walking. The rider had been pinned underneath its weight, eyes wide with terror as a second rider ground to a halt in front of him. “No, please!” he screamed, raising a hand in front of his face as the second rider levelled a pistol at his head. With a toothless and manic laugh, he executed him, splattering bone and brains through the fence onto the road outside.
Zuri clutched Jude by the forearm and rushed him away. She daren’t look back, not until they were far enough that the deafening noise of battle was a distant murmur.
“That was grim,” muttered Jude, head down to the floor.
“One less Crochead polluting the city,” replied Zuri with a shrug of her shoulders.
“Why are you like that? They’re human beings,” Jude snapped. “And why do you have to call them that?”
“Crocheads? That's what they are. What else would I call them?”
“Dunno. What about addicts, afflicted, unfortunate? What about people?”
“Look at you, so soft for such a ferocious hunter,” Zuri said. Then seeing the sadness in his eyes, she reached for his hand and clasped it tightly. “I’m sorry Jude.”
Jude didn’t reply. He released his hand from hers and looped his bow over his head, drawing an arrow. They had arrived at Sackville Pile.