by Travis Brett
He spared a glance backwards for Ruby. There was a flash of her auburn hair, scurrying between two men, then she was gone. Good. When Roman looked back in front of him, Tan had also disappeared. Roman reached the top step and jumped down into the narrow gap between the rubble-made bleachers and the wall. Pain shot up his legs as he landed on the concrete floor.
The gap was barely a yard wide, and he sprinted down it. He was out of sight, but he would be stuck down here until he made his way around to the other end of the wall. He had to get there before—
An arrow clanged into the floor in front of him.
Roman skidded to a halt, looking up. There were three of them, scowling down at him from the top of the bleachers, all armed with crossbows.
“Fuck my luck,” Roman whispered to himself, then raised his hands in surrender.
Gavin’s mutated face appeared, grinning madly. “Good evening, my good man,” he called down.
Roman’s hand twitched, every muscle screaming at him to pull out his gun and nail the bastard between the eyes. Fortunately, his better judgment prevailed.
“Evening Gavin,” he replied. “It’s bad for business to treat your guests like this. I just came to watch a good fight.” It was a long shot to expect Gavin to let him walk out. But, truth be told, there weren’t many other options.
Gavin shook his head. His mutie eye rolled with the movement. “I don’t believe that’s why you’re here. I think you’re here for Spencer. So let me help you out: I’ll send you to Spencer. I’ll even let you share a cell.”
Roman slowly nodded. Please, if there really is a god of luck, he prayed, now would be a really good time for a power cut.
The lights stubbornly remained on.
What the hell were Sparks and Caleb doing?
14
Sparks beamed at the overcast sky. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, tasting the rain. Cold. Crisp. Rubbing his hands together excitedly, he turned his gaze to the power relay station below them. He had never seen anything like it. Hundreds of thick black cables hung between giant steel-framed towers. Sparks swore he could hear them humming. Beneath them were hundreds of huge metal cubes, forming a maze of alleyways. He wondered what they were for. Could you store electricity inside one of those?
He scratched his head. What did electricity even look like? He had always imagined little balls of light traveling through wires. But thinking about it now, that seemed foolish. Whatever. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was about to be activated.
Beside him, Caleb said, “I could use a smoke.”
“What you really need is a bath. You reek.”
They were standing on the roof of a neighbouring building, three stories high. From here they had a perfect view of the entire station. It was lit by four huge spotlights, one on each corner. Sparks spied a large building in the centre of the station; that had to be the control room. An obvious target. But how was he meant to know how to switch off an entire power station? That sounded technical. He wished Caleb had approved of Sparks’ plan to just tear the entire place down.
“Security’s a bit tighter than usual, I reckon,” Caleb said. “I don’t like it.”
Sparks had counted over two dozen militia so far, patrolling in pairs, most of them armed with axes. At least two had crossbows, and Sparks hated bows — where was the thrill in fighting from a safe distance? At least none of the guards had guns, as far as he had seen.
“Who cares how many there are?” he said. “There’s one of me. They’re totally outmatched.”
Caleb ignored him. “It’s just strange. There’s four of these stations around the city. Why have so many men at this station? Why do they expect Candle to target the power stations at all?”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Electricity is important. Gotta defend it.”
“Yes. But, at the very least, Candle’s obvious target would be the wind farms themselves, or the relay station in district 12.”
“Why is that one important?”
“That station connects directly to the wind farms,” Caleb explained. “If Candle destroyed that one, it would cut the power to the entire city.”
“How do you know so much about this anyway?”
“I’m not just a pretty face.”
“You and I have very different definitions of pretty.”
The rain was falling harder now. Sparks shook his head and sent drops spraying from his hair. His excitement was quickly growing. He couldn’t believe his luck — Roman was letting him attack a whole squad of militia! Then he would rush to the Haven to help Roman capture Spencer. Sparks grinned at the idea of fighting in the Haven. There would be plenty of good competition there. It would be like old times.
“Okay, kid.” Caleb pulled an adrenaline needle out of his satchel. “I reckon it’s about time to get started.”
Sparks held out his arm, and Caleb plunged the needle into the skin. Heat exploded inside Sparks’ chest and spread through his body. The familiar, pleasurable pulsing of his second heart begun. It beat an impatient rhythm.
He was alive again.
With his enhanced sensitivity, he grew aware just how much his right arm still hurt, but he felt too good right now to let pain ruin his mood. He pulled his shirt off and threw it away. His skin felt so warm he wanted to feel the cold rain against it. The drops falling around him reflected his blue glow.
“You know,” Caleb said, “I’m not sure you understand the meaning of stealth.”
Sparks laughed. “If you looked as good as me, why would you try hide?”
A barbed wire fence surrounded the station. Two militia were standing just inside it, facing each other. Their angry, raised voices were just audible. Sparks gave them imaginary names: Ugly and Weak.
He retreated ten paces from the edge of the roof, feeling the pulse inside him quicken. In a blinding flash, the sky lit up with lightning. Thunder roared in its wake. Sparks grinned.
“Hey kid,” Caleb called.
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, okay?”
“Whatever.” Sparks took off at a sprint, winking at Caleb as he passed, then leapt into the air.
The wind skimmed across his bare skin and blew through his hair. Rain splattered against his chest. His second heart pounded as he soared over the fence. The guard on the left — the one he named Weak — looked up. His jaw dropped open.
And Sparks landed, feet first, on Weak’s head.
The militia crumbled under the impact. Sparks threw himself forward, transferring his momentum into a forward roll as he hit the ground. The collision jarred every bone in his body. Spikes of pain lanced up his injured arm. He slid to a stop and checked the cut on his bicep — the stitches hadn’t pulled out. Good. He leapt to his feet.
Ugly stood, dumbstruck, staring at Weak’s unconscious form. He hadn’t even raised his axe in defence.
“Hey!” Sparks waved a hand. “Are we going to duel or what?”
Ugly looked down at his axe.
Fuck this. Sparks kicked the weapon out of Ugly’s hand, then stepped forward, lifted Ugly up by the shoulder, and slammed him against the ground. There was a satisfying crunching sound.
Sparks bent over him. “You’re meant to scream.”
Ugly made a pathetic gurgling sound.
Sparks grabbed his nose and twisted until it was upside down. Again, the crunching sound.
Ugly screamed.
“That’s better.” Sparks stood. Panicked shouts came from elsewhere in the compound. He hoped the rest of the militia put up more of a resistance. He took off at a sprint into the maze of giant steel cubes.
“Attack!” Someone was yelling on Sparks left. “We’re under attack!”
“Damn right you are!” Sparks shouted back. He jumped — activated muscles effortlessly propelling him far above his own height — and landed on one of the steel cells. He looked around, searching for the yelling militia. There. Two of them. Ten yards away, running down the alley parallel t
o the one Sparks had come down. One had a crossbow, the other held twin daggers.
“I’m over here!” Sparks waved his arms.
The crossbow-armed militia fired. The bolt whistled through the air past Sparks as he jumped out of the way and into the alley. The guard with the daggers charged, yelling. Spittle caught in his overgrown beard.
Sparks ducked under a swinging knife. The other blade flashed as it thrust at his chest. Sparks grabbed the guard’s wrist, stopping the blade an inch from his skin. He squeezed tight, and bones shattered in his grip.
Sparks seized the man’s beard with his other hand, yanked down, sending him face-first to the ground.
The other militia dropped his crossbow and ran. Sparks set chase.
Typical archer, Sparks thought as he quickly caught up, always the first to flee. Fucking cowards, the lot of them.
He leapt forward and tackled the militia by the waist, sending them both toppling into a puddle. Sparks caught a mouthful of foul water. The man tried to crawl away, but Sparks climbed on top and punched him in the back of the head. Face down in the puddle, his squirming stopped.
Sparks spat, rinsing his mouth of the bitter taste.
The rain was quickly becoming a heavy torrent. Lightning arced across the sky for the second time. Sparks stopped and looked up, hoping for another display. The sky rewarded him; another flash of light danced through the clouds.
Sparks laughed — honest, joyful laughter. This was how life was meant to be lived. In the rain. Both hearts beating. Enemies trying to kill him. The excitement, the thrill, and the panic all molded together in the untamed pulse beating in his chest.
An arrow flew past his head.
He spun to find its sender facing him, a dozen yards away. The militia hastily retreated backwards, fumbling to load a second bolt. Sparks charged. As he ran, he grabbed one of the knives dropped by the bearded militia.
His new opponent pushed the bolt into place and pointed the crossbow at Sparks’ chest. Mid-step, Sparks threw himself backwards. The bolt passed over him as he hit the ground, momentum propelling him forward. He slid over the wet, slippery concrete and collided with the militia’s legs. The man collapsed on top of him and Sparks thrust the knife into his chest.
The militia spewed metallic-tasting blood onto Sparks’ face.
Sparks pushed the body off. His shoulder throbbed with pain as he scrambled to his feet. He tried to shake the pain out, but that only intensified it.
Footsteps to his left. He twisted to see another militia running at him, holding an axe above his head.
Sparks grinned. “Gorgeous night, isn’t it?”
If the militia heard him, he didn’t react. The axe whistled as it split the air, coming down towards Spark’s head. Sparks reached out, grabbed it by the handle, ripped it out of the militia’s grip and threw it away. The man’s uneven, pockmarked face widened with shock.
Sparks grabbed him by the chest-plate of his armour and hurled him into the sky. He hit the wires above. There was a sudden flash.
Sparks swore the corpse was smoking when it hit the ground.
He gingerly stepped over the body and moved on. He called out, searching for more challengers, but no one responded. Disappointing. He leapt onto the nearest cell and looked for the central building. It was close. He sprinted towards it, leaping from cell to cell. Shouting came from the far side of the compound, but it gradually faded — the cowards were fleeing.
Rain mixed with his opponents’ blood, running down Sparks’ skin in little rivers. By now the veins of light extending from his chest were half-way down his forearms. He knew that if he could see his face, it would be covered in dark blue streaks.
Sparks climbed to the ground when he reached the central building. It looked horribly unstable. Its stone wall had cracks running up its entire height, and Sparks wondered if it would collapse if the rain got any heavier. But where was the door? He moved around to the next wall. Just as fractured, and, just like the last, missing a door.
A gunshot rang out.
Pain flared in Sparks’ side. Hot, searing pain. He staggered forward. A second shot echoed his ears, coming from somewhere behind him. The bullet skimmed the side of his neck.
Sparks ran. A third shot hit the wall just beside him, spraying concrete. He darted around the side of the building, breathing in desperate, frantic gasps. But he could breathe properly; hopefully, that meant the bullet hadn’t punctured his lungs.
He stumbled on, following the wall. The pulse in his chest beat so hard he thought it might shatter his rib cage. He looked down at the blood gushing out of the wound. He pressed his hand against it, hoping to stem the flow. Sticky redness ran through his fingers, quickly washed away by the rain.
“Stop!”
Sparks didn’t know why he obeyed, but he pulled to a halt. He rested his free hand against the wall and turned to face the shooter. The militia looked as disbelieving as Sparks felt, the gun shook in his hands as he aimed it at Sparks. He was young, maybe even younger than Sparks. His blond hair lay flat, plastered against his head.
Sparks retreated a step backwards. I get killed by a fucker like him? Please no.
“You . . .” the militia stammered. “Are you Candle?”
Despite the pain, Sparks wanted to laugh. How typical. The bastard wanted to be the hero who killed the Ministry’s biggest enemy. But what kind of hero would use a gun to shoot someone in the back?
“I’m sorry . . .” Sparks leaned against the wall, both hands now clutching it for support. He managed one slow, deep breath, focusing the pounding in his chest to regular, hammering thumps. The light from his heart lit up the wall, revealing every fracture. “. . . to disappoint you.”
He pushed.
The wall gave way.
A gunshot rang.
Sparks dropped to the ground and rolled, scrambling to get away from the falling stone. The ground groaned beneath him, shaking. Something heavy slammed down on his leg. Roaring with pain, he tore free and dragged himself along the ground. A crack split the concrete in front of him.
There was a terrible, piercing shriek of metal.
Sparks looked up, raining stinging in his eyes. One of the steel towers began to tip. The wires hanging from it swayed violently as they dropped lower. He recalled what those wires had done to the militia earlier.
The tower fell, its huge steel frame heading straight for Sparks.
15
Gavin punched Roman in the face, and the crowd roared their approval. Roman reeled back, head spinning. He would have fallen if not for the two thugs holding him by his shoulders. At least the fresh pain in his face distracted him from his aching ribs and gut – the last two places to receive Gavin’s punches.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Gavin said.
Roman didn’t dignify him with a response.
They had dragged him to the middle of the fighting pit. Roman wasn’t sure what he hated more: the pain, or being used for entertainment. He looked around at the spectators with loathing. After everything he had done for this city, all the Adrenalites he had captured, they applauded his suffering.
To hell with them. Fuck this city.
The blow struck Roman in the nose. Tears stung in his eyes, blurring his vision. The crowd’s cheering rang in his ears.
“This is all a bonus for me, my good man,” Gavin said. “I was only expecting to capture Candle tonight. Imagine my excitement when I got you as well.”
Again, Roman kept his mouth shut.
“Do you know why I hate you?” Gavin asked, then kicked him in the groin. Nausea washed over Roman. “It’s because you’ve always been a self-righteous prick who looked down on everyone else, thinking you were somehow better. Well guess what? You’re not.”
“Go to hell.”
Gavin grinned. “Don’t you get it? This is hell. Humanity died a hundred years ago, along with the world. This is our purgatory.”
The sound of struggling came from
behind Roman. He twisted his head to see Tan being pushed into the pit, a thug kicked him in the back of the legs and he stumbled to his knees. Despite his black eye and blood leaking from a cut in his cheek, he was grinning.
He looked up at Roman and winked. “We’ve got them right where we want them, right?”
Gavin strode forward and kicked Tan in the face.
“Don’t touch him!” Roman yelled, fighting to break free of the thugs holding him. It was no use.
Tan pushed himself back to his knees. “It’s okay, Boss,” he sputtered. “I’ve had more aggressive lovers than this.”
Gavin planted a boot on Tan’s back and forced him to the ground. He pulled out a knife. There were bloodstains on its handle.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” Roman struggled harder, desperate. He couldn’t let Tan die. No way. “If you kill him, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Gavin chuckled. “I hold all the power here. If I want to turn him into a skinless puppet, that’s my right. My choice.”
“I’m your enemy, not him. Let Tan go and hurt me instead.”
“I could do that . . .” Gavin cocked his head, scratching his chin as if considering Roman’s suggestion. “But I understand men like you: the best way to hurt you is through hurting him.”
“You’re an evil bastard!”
“That’s what my mother used to say.”
The spectators chanted their approval as Gavin bent over Tan, bringing the knife down. Tan writhed frantically, but two thugs came alongside him and held his arms. Roman’s heart hammered in his chest.
In the end, Gavin ran the blade through Tan’s hair, cutting a chunk out from afro. He tossed the hair aside and took another swipe. Another chunk of hair fell away. Gavin laughed. Roman went limp, overcome with relief.
“Mother-fucking-piece-of-shit,” Tan was shouting, “damn-cocky-bastard!”
Someone else was screaming, high-pitched and full of terror. Someone in the crowd.
