by T. C. Edge
But, we’re also aware that we can’t take our foot off the gas. We have weakened our enemy, perhaps severely, but until every last one of them is dead we cannot rest. The plan, now, will be to return, gather our full strength, and stage our final assaults against each of their battalions in the four quarters of Outer Haven. With our numbers once more equalised, and perhaps even turned to our benefit, it’s time to conduct the finishing blow.
To that end, Zander also makes a final call to the HQ before we set off. Commander Burns picks up.
“Oh, Zander. Fantastic to hear from you,” comes his crackly voice down the line. It’s slightly distorted, a few syllables drowned by static, but just about decipherable. “I’m on the line wi…Lady Orlando. She wants to know…Brie’s OK.”
“Yes, I’m fine, Commander,” I say. “I’m right here.”
“And you’re…both unhurt?” comes Lady Orlando’s voice.
“Yes, we’re fine. Minor scrapes, that’s all,” says Zander. “The strike was highly successful. We’re moving back now. Have you heard from the western team? We know things went well in the east and north, but haven’t heard from the…”
“Yes,” says Burns. “The west…successful.” A bout of static hisses. “We’re gather…intel. Looks positive…get back…as…can….”
“Commander, you’re breaking up,” says Zander. “We’re coming now. Hold the lines…”
“Z…can…hear…”
“Commander? You’re breaking up.”
Burn’s voice turns into nothing but static. Zander shuts off the radio, and fixes it back to his belt.
“That’s some interference,” I say. “What’s causing it?”
“Who knows. Could be lots of reasons. OK, it sounds like they have things in order back there. Let’s go join them.”
Encouraged by the news, we move off again. Our pace isn’t as fast as before, the journey still requiring a careful and tentative step. Easing down quiet passages, we first move away from the main street, before directing our path a little northwards and back to the shelter of our own lines.
We haven’t gone too far when I feel a presence in the shadows. I stop, tensing up and turning to the murky cobblestones of a dirty alley. Within the darkness, a figure takes shape, huddled tight and blanketed in lightless fabric.
I see Zander about to lift his gun, but stop him.
“No…look, it’s one of ours.”
The figure now lifts his head, and his hood falls away, revealing the pale face of one of our Stalker allies. His lips are red from coughed up blood, and I see that his cloak is matted red along his abdomen. I step close to him.
“Where’s your partner?” I ask.
“Gone,” he grunts. “I couldn’t keep up.”
I recoil. “So he just left you here to die?”
The man stares at me, emotionless. Yet I feel a pang of pity for him in that moment. Perhaps it’s just me, anthropomorphising some humanity into this inanimate figure. Really, I doubt he cares his partner left him here alone to die. I doubt he cares about death itself, or fears its cold tendrils as they creep around his body. I doubt he cares about anything, forced into this life as a vessel of destruction and little more.
But, I do care. If only just a little. I look in his eyes now and, behind that detached stare, see something remaining. Some semblance of life that coerces me to help.
I turn to Zander.
“Help me with him,” I say. “We have to take him with us.”
Zander frowns, looking at the Stalker’s pitiful frame.
“He probably won’t make it, Brie,” he says, not lowering his voice to hide his words from the man. There’s no need for tact around such people.
“But he might,” I say softly. “He deserves to live. We should try at least.”
Zander fills his lungs slowly, assessing things. I know what he’s thinking. That he’ll only slow us down at best, and put us in danger at worst. Yet he seems to be of the same mind as me, perhaps due to our growing connection. He nods, and steps forward, shifting his weight beneath one of the Stalker’s arms.
I do the same, and we lift the man to his feet. He’s able to stand, but looks unsteady, his arms wrapped over his midsection to try to stem the flow of blood.
“Here, let me help,” I say, reaching to his collar and trying to remove his cloak.
At first, he shrugs me away. Then, with some more coaxing, he relents, and I pull away the fabric, draw my knife, and fashion a large bandage from the material to wrap around his abdomen.
I’ve never seen a Stalker unsheathed like this. Beneath, he’s wearing a single garment; a tightly fitted black leotard that covers him from ankle to neck. It shows off his frame well, tall and rangy and less muscled than I’d have thought. There’s a serious tear to his right flank that looks to me to have been inflicted by a knife. And below, a deep wound that seeps blood right down to the dirt, trickling off into the gutter.
I hastily cut the bandage from his cloak and wrap it around him tight. Then, discarding the rest, we begin moving northwards once more, helping him along where needed. The going is certainly slow, and the man must be in terrible pain. Yet he doesn’t make a sound, his face ashen and withdrawn, the light slowly leaving his eyes as his blood drains away.
Like a metronome, he keeps on going, though, each step becoming more of a struggle. This isn’t some pride within him, some need to show strength. No, this is merely a product of his programming. He, like all his brethren, has been conditioned to operate like this, condemned to operate like this, forced to go on and on until his body gives out.
He’d probably been doing that before we found him. He’d probably just collapsed there from weakness and exhaustion. We’ve roused him for one final surge, but the further we go, the more it becomes clear that we’re just wasting our time.
He begins to stumble and fall, but gets straight back up. I rush to help him to his feet when he can no longer do so himself. The length of his paces shorten. Soon, he’s barely shuffling along more than a foot at a time.
But still he goes, on and on, cutting a sad figure. The effort is so extreme that I see tears gathering in his eyes. They’re not tears of emotion, but merely a reaction of his body as it works to its upper limits. A man like him would never cry. A man like him could never cry.
Yet the sight sets a rhythm of pity to my heart. This Stalker has never had a life. He’s never had a choice. He’s been a hunter, a killer, and nothing more. An agent for the use of evil, yet not evil himself.
Eventually, Zander shakes his head.
“We have to go, Brie. He’s not going to make it.”
The Stalker now lifts his eyes a final time, and sends them right at Zander. It’s as if, in his final moments, he’s been imbued with something he’s never had before. As if his impending death has cast off the chains of his programming, dismissed all the functions in his mind. His eyes, fading, take on a new design. I see a human there, and not a robot. And those tears, drawn up through the effort of his programmed determination, suddenly become real.
His face crinkles in grief. Two tears swell and drop, one after another, down his cheeks. He falls to his knees, blood drenching them, his eyes still on Zander, never leaving, never moving.
I see his lips quiver and open, drooling crimson.
“I’m…sorry,” he croaks. “For everything I’ve done to your people.”
I look at him, stark-eyed, as I watch this killing machine come to life, right at the moment of his death. It’s like a final curse for his people to endure. To see the world through the eyes of the living, before having it snatched immediately away.
And there, right there, broken and on his knees, his lips flatten out, and his eyes evanesce. Kneeling like a statue, the Stalker dies.
I stare at him, forgetting everything else around me, thinking of the horrible life this man was forced to lead. I hate it. The thought that, right at his death, he saw himself from afar, saw what he was, what he’d done. The pain tha
t filled his face, the grief in his eyes. It’s as though he woke up to find he was the monster of the story, only just realising it at the end.
As I stare, Zander appears at my side, gently coaxing me on.
“Come on, sis…we have to go,” he says softly, as if we’ve just witnessed the loss of a loved one.
We haven’t. We’ve merely seen an enemy die. But for some strange reason, it still hurts.
I take a final look at the man, locked in place and staring forward, dead of eye, before stepping away. I shut my eyes, take a breath, and turn my mind from the dead, and right back to the living.
“OK,” I say, nodding. “Let’s go.”
Freed of the burden, we begin moving faster. As our pace quickens, so the sounds of battle pick up. Once again, the drums start to beat louder, the Cure reorganising after our combined strikes, pressing forward once more.
But something doesn’t quite add up. There’s a heavy beat to the air, but it seems to be emanating from the west. The southern blockade, not too far from where we are, appears subdued as it was when we left it. Yet beyond, further towards the northwest, there’s a growing swell of noise spreading through the city.
We share slightly confused looks, before we’re stopped right in our tracks by a hissing at Zander’s hip. We pull up, and he quickly snatches the radio from his belt as the hiss turns to broken static, and the broken static to broken words.
We listen closely, holding the radio to our ears.
“…the…soldie…from….est…”
My frown deepens.
“What the hell? Who is that?”
Zander shakes his head, fiddling furiously with the dial. The static continues, and so do the broken words. I try to make sense of them, but can’t. What the hell is this guy saying?
Then, suddenly, one word becomes clear as Zander has some success tuning in.
Retreat…
I stare at him, my breath stolen away.
“Retreat,” I say. “He said retreat!”
My brother’s fiddling grows fierce, and slowly the static subsides. Then, the pieces come together, and the man’s voice flows straight down the line, clean as water from a mountain spring.
“The soldiers are coming from the west!” he cries. “Retreat to Inner Haven now! Does anyone copy? Can anyone hear me?!”
Zander clicks the switch.
“Yes, yes! I hear you. It’s Zander. Who is this? Calm down, soldier, explain yourself.”
“Zander!” bellows the man. “It’s Wilson. I was sent west by Lady Orlando…”
The scout. It’s the scout.
“Wilson. What are you saying? More soldiers are coming?!”
“Yes, sir…from…west,” comes the scout’s voice, breaking up once more. “Retreat…Inner Hav…they’re coming!”
The sound of his voice cuts off, overtaken by an unpleasant hissing.
“Wilson! Can you hear me?! Wilson, do you copy?!” shouts Zander.
The radio doesn’t respond.
“Damn it! What was…”
“Cromwell,” I say.
Zander lifts his eyes, unblinking.
“More soldiers coming from the west,” I say, suddenly calm. “It must be Cromwell’s secret army. The Cure are done. Now…he’s coming to finish the job.”
We turn our eyes north, and we run.
280
We have no time for subterfuge now. No time to sneak and hide, and work through these streets so carefully. We run hard, Zander with his radio back in hand as he dials into the City Guard HQ.
It takes him a few times, but soon he’s on the line with Commander Burns, telling him to spread the word.
“A force is coming!” pants Zander as we zip down alleys, hurdling bits of debris and the occasional stray cat. “We think it might be Cromwell. Warn our men. Warn them all. We need to get them behind the walls immediately!”
“Zander…sa…again…” comes the response. “Repeat…”
Zander comes to a quick stop, roaring with frustration, his breath heaving.
“Commander Burns, do you copy?!” he bellows. “Order all our men to retreat to Inner Haven. If you’re hearing this, order the retreat now! Do you copy?!”
More gritty static fizzes down the line. Zander repeats himself again several times, Commander Burns’ responses always broken by interference.
“Order the retreat!” Zander roars. “Order the retreat now!”
He gives up, and turns to me.
“Do you think he heard?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” pants Zander. “Something’s screwing with the connection. We’re going to have to warn them ourselves.”
We rush even faster now, Zander’s radio hooked back into place and out of commission. Running just behind him, I see the blood now spreading a little further down his leg, the medic’s temporary stitching coming apart. Each long stride and twist of his abdomen does further damage, and the occasional grimace of pain rips through his face as we hurtle through narrow lanes.
We don’t slow until we’re pressing close to our lines, the sentry guns still inactive on the specific path we ventured forth from not too long ago. One wrong turn down one wrong alley, and we’ll be assaulted by the fixed weapons. Yet Zander’s memory is sufficient to recall the route, and in no time at all, we’re charging right towards our soldiers.
They lift their weapons from behind their barriers, ready to fire. But unlike Titus’ men over in the west, they refrain from the urge, knowing to expect us. The commander steps forward immediately as we pass through, lungs heaving and begging for air.
“Zander, what happened?” he asks.
The question is too vague, and therefore ignored.
“Have…any of our…men passed?” asks Zander, filling his lungs with a great intensity.
“Yes,” says the City Guard. “Most are accounted for.”
“Where are they?”
“Gathered down the street, awaiting you, sir.”
“OK. Have you…heard from HQ?”
“No, sir. Is something the matter?”
“We need to retreat,” Zander nods. “Order all your men back to Inner Haven immediately.”
“But, sir, the strikes went well, did they not? The Cure are weakened…”
A heavy explosion fills the air, a long way off, but loud enough to rattle the foundations of the streets.
“You hear that,” gasps Zander. “More men are coming. We think it’s Cromwell…”
The commander’s eyes grow tense.
“So, it’s true? They’re turning against us?” he asks, now turning his gaze towards his men. Some, I know, will be those loyal to Cromwell. They can no longer be counted as our friends.
“Just order the retreat immediately. Only our own loyalists, Commander,” says Zander. “And try the HQ again. I’m having trouble with my radio…”
“Oh, it’s not just you, sir. We’ve been having problems too.”
“Interference,” I say. “It’s gotta be Cromwell.”
Zander nods.
“Maybe. Come on, Brie.”
We hurry straight off, surging down the street in search of our team. We find them together again, minus the Stalker we saw die, and no one else. It appears the mission was doubly successful in both taking life and avoiding heavy losses.
Yet, after seeing the Stalker seem to repent in his final moments, and feeling great pity for him, I now look upon the remaining five with a surging distrust. Will they turn? Is their programming deep enough to cause them to attack? Is anything our grandfather told us true?
The four Nameless soldiers appear delighted to see us as we arrive, my brother in particular. They share a quick greeting, before Zander updates them. He has to be careful in the presence of the Stalkers. As yet, none seem to be acting suspiciously.
Still, he tests whether he still has command of them, and whether they’ll still follow his orders.
“You five,” he says. “I need you to head back out and check the lanes sout
h of here.”
He doesn’t offer explanation. The lead Stalker offers a general query.
“Why?”
“We were pursued by some of the Cure soldiers,” says Zander. “They need to be taken care of. I’d go, but my injury needs tending.”
The Stalker considers it for a second, and then asks, “Where?”
“The route we took out,” says Zander. “Go immediately. We need to protect the flanks.”
A moment later, to my great surprise, the Stalkers are zipping off again, weaving into the network of alleys beyond our lines. The Nameless, staying silent, seem to know what Zander’s doing in getting rid of them.
“OK, they’re gone,” says my brother. “Now, all of you, help get our soldiers to Inner Haven. No questions now, just listen. I heard from our scout in the west. He said a new force is incoming. Hear that?” he asks, referencing the growing beat of war in the west. “We think Cromwell’s putting his plan into action. We need to retreat immediately, but radio contact is being hindered. How much energy do you have left?”
The Nameless soldiers all show their bravado, telling us they’re fine and ready to work.
“Good. We need you manually taking orders to the other quarters. Whoever’s quickest, go north. The other three head to the western, eastern and southern blockades. Pass on the retreat order. If they receive word before you arrive, help as many of our men behind the walls as possible. We act now, and we act fast. Now go!”
The four hybrids confer for a moment, before rushing straight off in different directions. Those heading to the more distant parts of the city will need to drain their powers, making them vulnerable. But unlike the Stalkers, forced to follow orders via their programming, the Nameless do it via their free will. They do it because they trust my brother, and they will lay down their lives for this cause if they have to.
As they move off, I’m preoccupied by a query.
“How come the Stalkers followed your orders?” I ask. “They’re still under your command.”
“Probably because they haven’t been ordered otherwise yet. Maybe Cromwell was bullshitting about their programming. They might know nothing of his attack.”
