Legacy

by Travis Brett

  Roman looked for the source of the screaming. What was happening? The screaming escalated as more voices joined in. Roman’s eyes narrowed on the bleachers to his left. The crowd was parting, scrambling to get away from—

  A woman. Her chest shone blue. A bloody, mangled body lay at her feet, its arm completely torn off. The Adrenalite began to run down the bleachers, jumping the steps in giant strides. She charged straight towards the fighting pit.

  The thugs holding Roman cursed, loosening their grip. He used the opportunity to pull himself free and lunge at Gavin. He tackled him at the waist and they both toppled to the ground. Roman fought to stay on top, grabbing Gavin by the wrist with one hand while punching him with the other. Gavin’s blood splattered across the floor. Roman reached into Gavin’s jacket, searching. His fingers found the familiar grip of his pistol.

  “I’ll be taking this back.” Roman hit Gavin again — this time with the butt of the gun. The gangster howled in rage, his free hand trying to close around Roman’s neck.

  Roman pushed Gavin’s hand away and looked up. Shit. Another Adrenalite. The monster fought against two of Gavin’s men. As Roman watched, the Adrenalite picked up a thug with one hand and threw him halfway across the hall.

  A hand grabbed Roman by the shoulder, pulling him off Gavin. “Boss, we need to leave. Now.”

  The lights died.

  Roman stumbled to his feet, clinging to Tan for balance. “Oh, it’s about damn time.”

  “Patience is a virtue, Boss.”

  “Virtue isn’t going to help us now.”

  “In that case, I suggest we resort to good, old-fashioned violence.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Roman regained his bearings. The only light came from a half dozen glowing blue forms scattered around the room. Was Candle one of them? Cracks of gunfire cut through the screams. Chaos ruled throughout the hall.

  “We need to get Spencer.” Roman pulled Tan in what he hoped was the direction of the gate which led to Gavin’s cells.

  “Honestly, I’d rather we get the hell out of here.”

  “No. This is our chance.”

  Tan pulled against him. “Stupid, stupid idea. We need to go.”

  “I’m not leaving without Spencer.” Roman pushed Tan away and ran. He collided with someone, stumbled, and nearly slid over. Was that blood on the floor? He pushed on, barging past another unseen person.

  “It’s this way.” Tan grabbed Roman and steered him in a different direction.

  Roman felt a rush of gratitude that Tan had followed him. “Thanks.”

  “If you’re going to die, at least you’re going to die with me beside you to say: I told you so.”

  Roman spared a quick glance behind. An Adrenalite crouched five paces away, the light from its chest illumined the bloody corpse beneath it. Roman spun around and fired. Two shots.

  There was no time to check if he had been hit. Ears ringing and eyes blinded by the flashes of light, he turned and fled.

  “Over here!” Tan’s voice. Roman followed it.

  He ran face first into the wall. The impact made the dozen aches in his body burst back into life. He grabbed his nose, more pain flared — definitely broken. With a grunt, he pushed it back into place.

  A hand grabbed his coat and pulled him sideways. “Not there, idiot,” Tan said. “Here.”

  Tan pulled him through the gate. The darkness was absolute. Roman ran his hand along the wall as they ran, feeling for side doors. The screams began to fade.

  Tan stumbled. “Ugh. Stairs,” he muttered.

  They carefully descended. The air grew stale and cold. Roman anxiously thought of Ruby. Hopefully, she had left the Haven before Candle’s Adrenalites had attacked. Surely she wouldn’t have tried to stay, would she? If anything had happened to her . . .

  Below them, the wall was dimly lit.

  With blue light.

  Roman raised his gun as they pulled to a halt. He slowly stepped forward, brushing past Tan. The light grew brighter. Hurried footsteps echoed against the walls, getting steadily louder. Roman’s pulse hammered in his ears.

  “Maybe it’s a friendly, kind, helpful Adrenalite,” Tan whispered.

  “I’m not going to take the time to find out.” Roman closed one eye, holding his gun steady.

  The Adrenalite sprinted the corner, springing into view just three yards in front of them. Roman aimed into the centre of the light and fired.

  The Adrenalite screamed, harsh and guttural. Still he came on. Roman fired again, catching his target in the shoulder. The Adrenalite stumbled, tripped on a stair and collided into Roman. They fell back onto the stairs. Roman’s head hit a step, hard. His vision flashed blinding white. He tried to raise his gun, but a hand grabbed his wrist and held it down.

  There was a glint of steel. Warm blood splashed onto Roman’s face. The Adrenalite went still.

  “Bloody hell,” Tan muttered. “It takes a bit to kill these bastards sometimes.”

  Roman blinked, trying to recover his composure. In the dying blue light, he could just make out the image of Tan wiping blood off one of his knives and onto his pants. Grunting, Roman pushed the limp body off and read the four letters tattooed upon its neck — BX56. It wasn’t Candle. This was just a boy. Roughly Sparks’ age. Dark blood spilled from his neck where Tan had sliced it open.

  “Let’s keep going,” Roman said, using the wall for support as he stood.

  Tan let out an exaggerated sigh. “I hate to point this out, but there was already one of the devils down here, so there’s probably more. And they’ve probably already released Gaven’s fighters.”

  “So we have to hurry.” Roman grabbed Tan by the arm and climbed down the stairs, turning the corner the Adrenalite had come around. No sign of anybody else. Everything was pitch black and silent. He kept one hand holding Tan and the other outstretched ahead of him, feeling his way forward. How deep did this place go?

  “Hey, Boss,” Tan whispered, “do you remember when I said that I liked the fact you tried stuff?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, I take it back. You need to stop trying shit. It’s dangerous. I got my hair cut off!”

  Despite their situation, Roman chuckled. “Sorry about that.”

  “You owe me a drink for this. A dozen bloody drinks.”

  “Wait.” Roman stopped, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Do you see that?”

  There was light ahead.

  Warm, orange, flickering light.

  16

  Sparks opened his eyes. His breath came in heavy gasps, lungs burning with each gulp of air. The pounding in his chest resonated throughout his entire body. With each pulse, his pains were brought into sharper focus; the piercing shrieks from the bullet wound in his side; the throbbing in his shoulder; the ache in his left leg.

  How long had he been lying here? He remembered the tower falling, but after that, it was all a blur.

  Looking down at himself, he had to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the light. His entire body was covered with rivers of it. One of his boots was missing entirely and the light reached the end of his toes. It lit up the wreckage around him with a deep blue aura. He ran his hand down his chest, scraping through the rain, dust, and blood.

  He gazed at the destruction. The ground rose and fell in hills of rubble. The steel tower had landed half a dozen yards away, twisted in wires. Sparks noticed one wire inches from his bare foot. He jerked away.

  Everything outside his circle of light was lost in darkness. Sparks crawled forward on his hands and knees, hunting for the militia who had shot him. There was no movement, or sound, in the shadows. He felt horribly exposed, lit up like a beacon, waiting to be shot again. Was the militia watching him right now, lining up a shot?

  Oh. Sparks stopped when he saw the militia. No, he's definitely dead. The corpse was tangled in fallen wires, mouth wide in a soundless scream, eyes open and staring at the sky. Sparks pulled a rude gesture at him — it hurt to lift his ar
m, but it felt worth it.

  Slowly, Sparks pulled himself to his feet. One step. Two steps. Which way should he go? The only thing around was rubble. Choosing a direction at random, he set off, struggling not to slip on the wet ground.

  He slowed his breathing, calming the thumping in his chest to a steady rhythm. He ran a hand over the bullet hole, grimacing. The pain flared at even the slightest touch, but the bleeding had stopped. Being activated meant he would be healing inhumanly fast.

  He heard yelling coming from somewhere to his right. A deep, gravelly voice. Caleb?

  He thought about calling back but realized he didn’t need to make himself any more obvious — was literally the only source of light for miles. So he sat, lent against one of the steel cubes that had fallen over, and waited.

  His fingers closed over a small chunk of concrete, clutching it tightly. If that voice wasn't Caleb . . .

  Movement in the shadows slowly began to form the shape of a man, and there was only one man in Legacy that size. Caleb stepped into the light. "You really outdid yourself this time, kid," he said, frowning.

  "I knocked down one wall! Honestly. The rest of it just . . . um . . ."

  "Fell over in the rain?"

  "It was unstable to begin with, I swear. Anyway, I turned the power off, didn't I?"

  "I reckon you did." Caleb shrugged, kneeling beside Sparks and shuffling through his satchel. He pulled out a defoxican needle.

  Sparks pushed the needle away. "Get rid of that shit."

  "You need to—"

  "What are you afraid of? I've already destroyed the whole compound," Spark said. "And besides, look at me: I'm shot. I'm not about to go murder half the city. So just relax, okay?"

  Caleb slowly returned the needle to his bag. "I guess I could use the light," he muttered as he pulled out a needle and thread.

  Sparks crawled backwards. "I don't need that. Just leave me activated. It'll heal, okay?"

  "It's a gun wound. You'll bleed out."

  "I'm not bleeding anymore."

  "It’ll open up again as soon as you try to move too much, believe me."

  Reluctantly, Sparks lowered his arm and let Caleb examine the hole in his side. He flinched as Caleb prodded it. "How bad is it?" he asked.

  "You'll live. Doesn't look like the bullet pierced your lung."

  "I figured that," Sparks said sarcastically between clenched teeth, "because, you know, I'm still breathing!"

  Caleb probed the wound more forcefully, a smile curling on the edges of his mouth.

  "Ah! I take it back!" Sparks gasped. "Your medical judgment is genius, and I will never question it again. Just stop fucking touching it!"

  Caleb reached back into his satchel, this time pulling out a small bottle. He unscrewed the lid and Sparks smelt the distinctive aroma of whiskey.

  "Perfect." Sparks moved to grab the bottle. "I could use a drink."

  Caleb shoved his hand away, then promptly upturned the bottle and poured its contents onto Sparks' wound. It stung. A lot. He locked his jaw shut, fighting the urge to scream. His squirming hand closed around a hunk of metal. The steel slowly bent as his grip tightened.

  After what felt like an hour, but was probably seconds, the pain subsided enough for him to talk. "What the fuck was that for?"

  "Had to wash the wound."

  "That's what the rain was doing, you moron."

  Caleb just grunted. He poured the last of the whiskey over his own hands, then picked up the needle and thread. Hunched over Sparks, he used his bulk to shelter the wound from the rain while he worked. Sparks grimaced as the needle bit into his tender skin. For once, he almost regretted being activated — being so alert made each stab of pain so much more piercing, more real. He checked the stitches in his arm, groaning when he realized they had pulled out. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against a slab of concrete, trying and failing to find a comfortable way to sit while he waited.

  "Don't you have to pull the bullet out?" Sparks asked.

  "Stupid idea. Most of the time, it does more damage than good. We'll remove it later, once we have the proper tools."

  "Oh." Sparks shuddered at the thought of having to go through all this again.

  "Hurry up," he said as Caleb finished with the bullet hole and moved onto the gash in his arm. "If you rush this, we can still make it to the Haven."

  Caleb shook his head. "We're not going. We'll meet the others back at the Mutt's Tail."

  "No. I can do this. It'll take more than a bullet to stop me."

  "I said we're not going."

  "But we—" Sparks stopped himself, deflated. Realization hit him. "We were never going to go there, were we? Roman didn't want me near the Haven."

  Caleb kept silent.

  “Damn it!” Sparks threw the hunk of metal he had been holding, as hard as he could, into the darkness. "You're still a crap liar."

  Caleb shrugged. "Never really practiced it."

  "Well, I hope the old man dies," Sparks spat. "He deserves it."

  He swore he was going to punch Roman in his ugly face when he saw him again. What had he ever done to make Roman hate him so much? Nothing! And now, he had even got shot while helping Roman. Once the old man gave Sparks his own adrenaline needle, he was going to—

  Something sharp jabbed him in the arm.

  "Ah!" He flinched. "Shit, be careful, Caleb. That was—"

  He looked down to see Caleb withdrawing a defoxican needle.

  "What the hell did you do that for!" Sparks shouted, scrambling to his feet. Caleb backed off. The hammering in Sparks’ chest quickly faded, leaving him feeling hollow, numb, dead. His light dimmed, then vanished completely, sending the world around him to darkness. "Activate me again!” he demanded. “Give me the needle, I'll do it myself! You can't say no, Roman promised that if I—"

  “I’m sorry, kid. But not yet.”

  Sparks went still. "Roman lied to me, didn't he?" he said slowly, quietly, the truth of the words sinking into him as he said them. “He tricked me into this."

  "Listen, Sparks. I trust you," Caleb said, voice coming from the darkness in front of Sparks. "You're a good kid. You’ll get your own needle, I made Roman promise. But not yet, you’ve just got—"

  "Shut up!" Sparks' hands balled into fists. Even deactivated, he felt his heart beginning to pound again. "You don't trust me, no one does."

  "I do. But Roman—"

  "I don't give a fuck about Roman!" Sparks yelled, stepping forward. The wound in his side ached, stitches threatening to pull apart with each step, but he kept advancing.

  "He ordered me to—"

  "Shut up. You own me, not him. He can't order you to do shit. Why did you let him lie to me? Why do you even follow him in the first place?"

  "He's a good man. Better than most."

  Sparks eyes began to adjust to the darkness and he saw the form of Caleb backing away, arms raised defensively. He knew he couldn't overpower Caleb. Not wounded, deactivated, and missing this much blood. Still, he moved forward, fists raised, not caring about the outcome. "You agree with him!" he roared. "You think I'm a monster too? I've done everything you've told me to. What did I do wrong?"

  "Calm down, kid. I don't think that—"

  "For the last fucking time, I'm not a kid."

  Decision made, Sparks turned and bolted away, limping as fast as he could over the rubble. He tried to retrace his steps. Slipping on a stone, he splashed into a puddle and grazed his knee. Caleb followed him, but his heavy footsteps weren't rushed — he obviously didn't think Sparks had a chance of getting away.

  "Don't make me do this," Caleb called out.

  Sparks ignored him, regaining his feet and moving on. The outline of the fallen tower loomed just ahead. He dashed for it.

  "Shit," he muttered, realizing this wasn't the spot. Careful not to step on any of the fallen wires, he moved down the length of the tower, searching. Caleb's footsteps grew louder.

  "Come on, Sparks. Stop now and I won't tell—"


  Sparks picked up a loose chunk of broken concrete and hurled it over his shoulder. It hit Caleb with a heavy thump.

  "You little bastard!" Caleb's footsteps sped up.

  Desperate, Sparks moved closer to the tower. There! The corpse of the militia who had shot him, one wire wrapped over his chest, another around his leg. Sparks dropped onto his hands and knees, crawling forward. A large hand grabbed his ankle.

  "Let go of me!" Sparks kicked and squirmed, but Caleb's grip held him like a manacle.

  "What are you trying—"

  Sparks pulled himself forward, fighting against Caleb's grip. He reached out, arm protesting as he stretched it as far as he could. His fingers curled around the gun lying at the dead militia's side.

  He spun around, aimed the pistol in the air, and fired.

  The gun jolted in his hand, sending a fresh wave of pain down his arm. His ears were ringing. Caleb's hand released his ankle and he slowly backed away.

  Sparks took a deep breath. He had done it. But what now?

  "Don't do this," Caleb said. If he was scared, his voice didn't show it. "Once you go rogue, you'll never be safe."

  "You don’t understand: I’ve never been safe. And I’ve never wanted to be." Sparks' breath came in shallow gasps. The shock of what he had done quickly caught up with him. It felt surreal. "Go find your bag, get every needle you have, and give them to me."

  "Sparks—"

  "Now."

  Caleb raised his arms, turned around, and walked back to where they had left his satchel. Sparks followed five paces behind. His mind raced. What the hell am I doing? This is insane! I can't really shoot Caleb, can I?

  "This is wrong, Sparks," Caleb said as if he could read Sparks' mind. “You won't survive two months by yourself." He didn't sound angry. Instead, Sparks' almost believed Caleb was upset. Almost.

  He's trying to trick me into giving up.

  "I don't have any choice," Sparks said. "I can't stay with Roman anymore. I'm sick of being a traitor."

  Caleb tossed his satchel to Sparks. "You're not a traitor," he said. "And you don't owe the other Adrenalites a damn thing."

  "I don't owe you anything either."

  "Maybe not, but we had a deal, didn’t we? I watch your back, and you were meant to watch mine."