Gaslit Revolution

by Jason Gilbert

  “Okay, so what you suggest?”

  Kane was about to answer with “run like Hell,” but he stopped himself. That’s what he’d done already. Run. And what happened? They followed him South. They killed his friends. They destroyed a city, killed God knows how many innocent people.

  “You’ve declared war on the Oligarchy,” Chris said before Kane could come up with a response. “Whether you wanted to or not is irrelevant at this point. We’re at open war now.” Chris motioned to the paper again. “It’s us versus them.”

  Kane remembered his conversation with Antonia.

  “What about the press conference coming up?” he asked.

  “Oh, that?” Chris snorted. “Yeah, ‘rally’ is a better word for it. It’s to talk about the redevelopment they have planned for Hidden Valley.”

  Kane broke out in gooseflesh, his mind spinning.

  “Oh, shit…” he breathed, letting it trail off.

  “Redevelopment?” Tabitha asked, sitting down on the couch next to Chris, her own coffee cup in her hands. “Oh, how exciting! This place could use some touching up!”

  Kane looked at her.

  “You and I both know that isn’t the case,” he said to her. “They’re planning on wiping Hidden Valley off the map.”

  “That’s why we plan on showing up at the conference and making noise,” Chris said. “They’re looking for an excuse to wipe the place out and expand. And they figure they’ll take you out along with any other possible Magicians. They see the place as a blight, and the murders happening lately aren’t helping.”

  “Any idea who it is?” Kane asked.

  Chris shook his head.

  “Not a clue. Nobody around here is talking. Between the airships, the raids, and the murders, people are keeping their doors, windows, and mouths shut.” Chris handed his cup to Tabitha. “Thanks for the coffee. I’d better get going if I’m gonna get my story in the paper before deadline.”

  Kane stood, staring him down as the kid stood up to leave.

  “Can’t let you leave,” he said.

  Chris looked up at him.

  “I can’t tell anyone you’re here,” he said. “I’d be in just as much trouble as you. They shoot the messenger nowadays. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  Kane glanced at Tabitha. She glared at Chris as she held her hand up. A ball of ice swirled with blue energy as it spun an inch over her palm.

  “Popsicle,” she said, her glare turning into a sweet smile.

  Chris swallowed hard and nodded.

  “We’ll talk again.”

  Kane stood in the shadows, searching the streets with his Ethereal Sight as a police airship lumbered overhead, its light shining down, looking to find vagrants and criminals who dared break curfew. He’d found a spot just inside the front archway of a building near Tabitha’s. He could see Ralphie’s place down the street, the lights low as Bette and Ralphie moved about cleaning up from the day’s shift. A mother urged her two small children to hurry along to keep from being seen. Kane heard the telltale tick-tock of clockwork horses and the squeaking and groaning of the carriage they pulled.

  He’d talked Tabitha into staying behind and trying to go through Jones’s Grimoire. She’d known him a little longer than Kane had, and felt like she’d be better at deciphering at least some of his spells.

  “There are a lot of curse words in here, Kane,” she said, leafing through the book.

  Kane raised an eyebrow.

  “Jones cursing during a spell? And you’re surprised?”

  Tabitha shook her head.

  “No, it’s just in the notes. He taught me a few words years ago.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Well, not so much taught me. I kind of figured them out in context!”

  His trip to Antonia’s would have to be slow on foot, ducking in and out of the shadows wherever he could. He couldn’t risk being seen by too many people. It was already uncomfortable to him how many people knew that he and Tabitha had come back to Hidden Valley.

  The streets were eerily quiet. Kane couldn’t even hear the homeless muttering conversation or groaning from hunger pains. He wasn’t particularly surprised at their silence. With a murderer on the loose, they were probably more focused on hiding than finding something to eat.

  Why kill homeless people? What was the endgame? Who benefits?

  No one would miss a homeless man or woman if they went missing or turned up dead. It wasn’t typical to find identification or someone who could identify a homeless victim, either. Family often went on unaware that their long-lost loved one had disappeared or died, and most would have given up hope long ago, anyway.

  As far as Kane could tell, he was dealing with a psychopath. He smirked at the thought. Like he hadn’t seen his fair share of lunatics and maniacs the past few weeks.

  What was one more? Or two?

  Chesterfield was unhinged.

  No. No he wasn’t.

  The man Kane saw kill Captain Bill’s first mate was calculating and strong. He was a leader, authoritative and assertive. He had an agenda. Kane had to admit to himself that Chesterfield bothered him far more than Sarah Broussard. The Mors Rebrum had been obsessed with murder, consumed with her hatred for Kane. Chesterfield seemed to live under a sense of duty. He was doing his job. He wasn’t unhinged. He wasn’t psychotic. He was far, far worse. He’d killed Carlton without hesitation, taken Captain Bill into custody just as easily. It wasn’t a game to him.

  It was war.

  Kane thought back to when he’d first learned that Gentry was the Magician on the payroll. The Oligarchs and the papers didn’t differentiate between magic users. They didn’t know the difference. A magic user was a Magician, period. Chesterfield openly used his power in front of his men. It meant that he was the one that they knew about.

  Kane’s heart sped up a little.

  Oh, shit, he thought to himself, the realization hitting him. They don’t know about Gentry.

  It was an opportunity, a card he had in his hand now.

  A shout echoed from an abandoned apartment building across the street. Police tape crossed off the doors and windows. Kane focused his Sight, past the doors and walls. A few seeking shelter were stirring, getting up and running for the nearest exit.

  Snap!

  One man’s head whipped back, his knees gave, dropping him to the floor in a heap. A figure emerged, looked around. He wasn’t clear. Nothing was clear. All just shapes. Too far away.

  Damn.

  More people scattered as the sound came again, a woman this time. Kane stepped from his hiding spot, made for the building as he muttered his spells.

  “Visus Mortalis. Aethereum Ignus.”

  His vision went to normal in an instant, the blood in his hands heating up, ready for him to sling fireballs. This was his chance to catch the guy, bring him down.

  Kill him if necessary.

  Kane heard shouts and running. He focused towards them. They were towards the back of the building.

  He stopped, conjured a fireball as he tensed his arm, urging more power into it. The ball of flame condensed to a fiery sphere. Kane hurled it at the doors, held up an arm to shield his face as the door exploded, splinters of burning wood raining down on the street and inside the building. Kane saw at least a dozen people taking cover as the last of the debris fell around them. Their clothes were layered rags, their faces dirty. Kane recognized a few of them, remembered seeing those familiar begging for change or sleeping on benches.

  Homeless.

  They stirred, looked up as Kane started walking toward the building again.

  “Get out,” he shouted, waving his arm at them. “Now! Go!”

  The homeless began to move, helping each other up as they made their way quickly through the remains of the front doors. Kane’s hearing picked up something else. A click. Something locking into place.

  Snap!

  A man in the middle of the group dropped to the ground, his forehead blown open, the people in front of him pe
ppered with blood and brain matter. A woman cried out, her shoulder bleeding where the bullet had lodged after its trip through the dead man’s skull. Another screamed, fell to her knees as she wept over the dead man. Kane ran to the weeping woman, pulled her to her feet as hysterics began to set in. He got the attention of another man, passed her off to him as the group went by.

  Kane heard another round chamber in.

  “Down!” he shouted.

  Everyone dropped as another bullet zipped by. A window blew out, raining glass into the street.

  Kane stood and turned to see the shooter standing at the other end of the hall, the gun in his hand smoking. The barrel looked strange, longer than it should. Kane was able to see him more clearly. He wore a worn, brown top hat, collared shirt, and a leather plague mask over his face, the beak long and pointed, the eyes goggled and soulless. His vest was red with gold stitching, and he wore brown trousers that ended in tall airship crewman’s boots.

  “Who are you?” Kane shouted, facing the man.

  The man leveled his gun at Kane, cocking his head to the side slightly.

  Yeah, Kane thought. Crazy. Great.

  Kane conjured a fireball and hurled it at the shooter before the gun could go off again. The shooter dove to the side. The fireball hit the doorframe where the shooter had been standing, blew out the trim and shattering plaster and lathe. He fired wild, the soft snapping sound lost in the noise of Kane hurling another fireball, his aim thrown off as he dodged the bullet. The fireball blew out the wall, the barrier giving way to an abandoned apartment.

  Kane rushed the gunman as he tried to get up. The gunman was quick, sidestepping Kane and sticking his foot out. Kane went flying into the wall, shoved himself off and spun with his elbow out. He caught the man in the face, the grunt through his mask satisfying. The man recouped quickly and swung, the butt of his gun connecting with Kane’s face. The pain made Kane’s knees weaken, his temple throbbed. Another blow. Kane slumped against the wall, slid down onto his rump. His world spun, some filling the air.

  The telltale cold of steel pressed against his forehead, vibrating from the round being chambered. He opened his eyes, stared up at the gunman.

  “That supposed…to scare me?” he said, hearing his own speech slur.

  The gunman leaned in close, the mask’s beak inches from Kane’s face.

  “Not yet,” the man said, his voice deep and muffled. “But soon.”

  “What do you want?” Kane said.

  The gunman chuckled, the sound harsh and ugly behind the mask.

  “Pain.”

  He pulled the gun away from Kane’s forehead, spun on his heel, and walked away casually. Kane tried to get up, but the vertigo hit him again. He looked around, saw the fire envelop the walls and ceiling. He forced his legs to move as the gunman walked through a doorway into a room. Kane pushed himself up the wall, staggered forward to chase the man. He made it to the doorway. Another apartment.

  Fire billowed out from the door, the heat forcing Kane back. His held his arm up to shield his bruised face, staggering backwards. He made his way toward the front where he’d come in as pieces of ceiling fell from above, the heat burning his skin under his soaked clothing, the acrid smell filling his nostrils. He fell forward, hit the floor on his shoulder. The impact jarred his spine. That blow to the temple. Couldn’t think.

  Hands grabbed him, pulled at him, made him get up. His arms were slung over shoulders, his feet dragging the floor, his legs trying to walk as his saviors dragged him out into the cool air.

  “Get him across the street!”

  “Oh, God! Look at him! He’s hurt!”

  “Water! Get water!”

  Kane tried to breathe in the night air, his lungs heavy with smoke. The group of homeless he’d seen inside before his fight stared down at him as his vision began to blur. He tried to speak. Only one word worked. He said it again. Again. Tried to use it to stay lucid as the black caved in around him, took him away from the faces calling out to him.

  “Stay with us! Stay awake, buddy!”

  One word.

  One.

  Chapter Five

  Kane opened his eyes slowly, his vision hazy as if he’d been asleep after a long night of drinking. The area reeked of body odor, trash, urine, and shit. Kane coughed a little at the stench, held his hand to his nose until he acclimated to the smell.

  He looked up at the small child standing over him, staring down at him, her face dark with grime and soot, her large blue eyes shining in the light of a nearby fire. Her eyes were wide, apprehensive, and curious all at once. Her mouth opened just enough to let out a small, mumbled “Hello.”

  Kane made to sit up, startling the little girl. She backed away, her lower lip trembling as she gasped. Kane held his hand out to her.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He pulled his hand back and put it against his eyes as the pain it him. “Ugh. God, that hurts.”

  He pulled his hand away and looked up. Girders. Bracing. The Walking Bridge. He was underneath the Walking Bridge.

  Early New Chicago had been a booming place of opportunity to the working class. Hidden Valley was the residential area of the city for thousands who would commute to work either by foot or airship to daily jobs ranging from office work to trades and everything in between. As the corporations grew, more jobs opened, and the idea came to the community to build a large foot bridge they aptly named “The Walking Bridge.” It’d been a shining star to the small community and was often used for local events or just a romantic place for people to stroll in the evening. It spanned the width of a city street, stretching a half mile in length. It was off limits to carriages. Horses were welcome for a time, but the decline of live horses in favor of clockworks changed things.

  Then the corporations began to grow larger.

  As the poorest neighborhoods began to form Hell’s Kitchen, the Walking Bridge came to disrepair and abandonment.

  And shelter to a homeless community.

  Kane looked around the area. There were three steel drums, each one with fires going and homeless lounging around them or clustering in groups. Some slept, others sat up and stared off blankly, looking defeated and lost. Many of them stared at him, glared at him as an outsider.

  The little girl spoke to Kane, her voice small. He gave her eight years of age. Or younger.

  “Who’s Tabitha?”

  “My friend,” Kane said.

  “You kept saying her name.”

  “I need to get back to her,” Kane said. “I’ve never been here before. Can you point me toward Ralphie’s? Or Madam Boudreaux’s?”

  Another voice broke out in the dark, the thick, familiar Gullah accent catching Kane off-guard.

  “Why don’t you rest instead, Kane Shepherd? My people save your worthless ass, and all you think on is your stomach and your dick.”

  Kane spun, his heart skipping a beat. He didn’t like surprises, and seeing Wilhelmina emerge from the dark caught him by complete surprise. The flames danced in the steel drum in front of her, the shadows giving her a supernatural look. Her dreadlocks framed her face, shells and bones woven in the locks clicking together as she shook her head to the side slightly. Her chocolate-colored skin had an orangish hue from the fire in front of her, the flames hissing as she dropped a sprig of dried herb into them.

  “This an interesting place you come from, Kane Shepherd,” she said. “Rule by rich white men, smell like shit boilin’ in the sun. Remind me of home a little. Just bigger buildin’s.”

  “Wil?” Kane stepped closer to her, putting his hand in his pocket and finding his amulet. He drew his rune. She’d walked away from him in the South, walked away from the Revolution after she and Nicodemus had helped him save them from a horde of voodoo zombies. “What the hell are you doing in New Chicago?”

  Wil grunted, gave him a terse look as she casually reached down, picked up a long wooden stick, and poked the fire with it.

  “Me and
Nicodemus didn’t have much choice, comin’ out of the South.” She grunted again. “Then again, don’t know where Chicken-Fucker ended up. We got separated. I went one way, him went another.”

  “Why?”

  She pulled the stick out of the fire and pointed the smoldering end at him as she spoke.

  “Because your friends from up here done turned all of Charleston into a scorch wasteland of ash and shit. Then, them sons of whores gonna come stormin’ my marsh, gonna burn my home. Nicodemus come over after we left, was gonna work with me on buildin’ a barrier.” She chuckled. “Hoodoo and Voodoo workin’ together. Who would’ve thought?” She lowered the stick, her eyes still fixed on Kane. “They turned that fire-breathin’ leviathan away from the city after. Done come back this way while they troops level all of my marshlands.”

  Kane felt the familiar guilt come back to him. The Special Forces would’ve left the South alone had he and Tabitha not gone down there. Or would they have? The Revolution was going on before he’d ever gotten involved. Anderson had been leading it for a while. But, even though the Revolution was in full swing, Anderson had grossly underestimated the sheer firepower of the North.

  Wil waved her hand dismissively as she shook her head.

  “Don’t matter, now,” she said. “I’m here, you here, and I damn-well know your girl here. As for Nick, who the hell know? Him take care of himself.”

  “You walked away,” Kane said. “Why come back?”

  “Walked away because it’s not my fight,” Wil said, shrugging. “I did you a favor. Then it became my fight.” She raised her arms and motioned to the homeless sitting around the place, tucked into their makeshift shelters or hiding under blankets. “Look around, Kane Shepherd. This what your world done to her people. This how they repaid for bein’ here. Workin’ to make them rich white boys richer. Why? So they can run the place.” She lowered her arms and spat into the fire. The blaze barked as if she’d tossed a pinch of gunpowder into the barrel, then died back down to normal. “That’s what I say to them rich white men runnin’ things to pig shit.”