by Wilson, Mark
Laughing as loudly as he’d sworn minutes before, he clicked the fingers of his right hand, mentally snapping his attention back. Taking a seat at his computer array, he pressed his back deep into the luxurious leather, appreciating the quality.
The Brits knew how to do a big comfortable, leather chair. Bull’s leather, that’s the key. Bull’s, not cow’s. The Brits, they knew that cow’s leather was covered in bloody stretch marks.
Fraser made a gesture and a holo-screen popped up in front of him. He hadn’t spoken to that moron Paterson for a few hours. He couldn’t stand the man, but he was surprisingly discreet and kept Fraser appraised of events in the quarantined city when he couldn’t reach a holo-screen of his own. The last word he’d had on the pair of teens was that they were camped on a cycle path en route to the Royal Infirmary. It was a problem and one that he’d had to move swiftly to deal with.
Issuing orders for the teams at the Infirmary to clear out and that all duties be suspended, Fraser was currently juggling one too many balls for his liking. The official reason he’d given his superiors and the team on-site was that fences had been damaged by the infected and several of the creatures were roaming the hospital grounds. Several of the senior employees had complained that they’d be leaving assignments, important projects behind, some of which couldn’t be recovered. Some worried about equipment.
All of the cameras placed by The Corporation throughout the plague-ridden city to monitor the survivors fed into the Royal Infirmary and were then bounced out via satellite to the outside world; to Corporation Headquarters. The outpost had been run on a skeleton crew for years. Discretion was the key. For that discretion and for the risk they took in entering the quarantined zone, the men and women who manned the Infirmary station were paid handsomely. Fraser Donnelly reminded them who they worked for and how fortunate they were to be paid such a lucrative salary. He also enquired as to whether they’d be happy to be devoured by the infected. They left without further complaint.
It was another necessary lie with Joseph MacLeod and his friend making their way towards the hospital, and one that had been difficult to sell to his superiors. Difficult, but not impossible. The Corporation had a blanket policy: no resident of Edinburgh could be permitted to discover the outpost on the hospital grounds or its purpose. Anyone who had stumbled into the grounds in the past had been permanently taken care of. When his superiors had discovered that the teens were headed towards the outpost, the order to eliminate was given immediately. Thanks to Paterson’s vigil, Donnelly had gotten word of their path slightly ahead of them and had had time to prepare.
Donnelly had asked that the teens be allowed to enter the grounds, but only after the staff had been evacuated, suggesting that they’d find an empty compound with no trace of the cure they sought. After that, they’d simply go home. It was the humane way to deal with the situation and an opportunity to have the kids spread word that the area was dead. The compound would have to be closed temporarily and the infected cleared out anyway. They might as well allow the teens the time to explore, conclude that there was no cure and that the compound was as abandoned as the rest of their city.
It had been a close vote, but the board trusted his judgement. Fraser had worked for thirty years to become CEO and had proven his worth and commitment many times over. Now all he had to do was ensure that those kids didn’t discover anything they shouldn’t and cleared the hell out by morning.
Swiping again at the air, the holo-screen changed at his command to an image from earlier in the day. Fraser watched Joseph and the girl fight their way through an impossible number of infected. He was mesmerised by them both. Neither would leave the other, neither would fall. It was an incredible sight to behold. Eventually, they made their way under the fence to the hospital and had stumbled across an office block, fully-lit, and the generator chugging away.
“Goddammit!” Fraser threw his empty tumbler across the room.
He glanced at his wristwatch, formerly his father’s. Coverage was normally twenty-four hours, but with the evacuation of the outpost and the loss of power to the site, the feed had been terminated for a twelve-hour period. Only the private feed to the individual board members’ computers remained active. Generally he was likely to be the only one watching at this late hour. He said a silent prayer that this would hold true, but there was nothing he could do. Either someone else on the board was watching or they weren’t, it was out of his control.
What bloody fool left that one, single generator whirring away, and all those bloody lights on?
It didn’t matter. The teens had seen the generator and the lights. His only option was to get them out of the compound somehow, destroy any footage and hope that no one else was watching a private feed before the main generators kicked back into life in the morning.
Returning his eyes to the holo-screen, he made a very slow clockwise motion with his index finger and watched in fast-forward as the pair walked around the generator for some moments and then locked themselves into a supply shed for the night.
Fraser pulled the finger sharply back, pausing the image on the screen. He examined the boy’s face. He was a handsome kid, determined beyond reason and so very… so very… Fraser reclined back into his chair, pushed the thought from his mind and drank a large mouthful from his new glass as he took in the familiar face which was now filling his holo-screen.
Noticing something, a shadow perhaps at the bottom of the paused screen, he rotated his finger clockwise again, slowly moving frame by frame until a man came into focus. Sitting with his back pressed up against the shed door, smiling, listening to every word from inside, Bracha sat, stroking his golf club.
Fraser left his bull’s leather chair whirling and tore out of his apartment, headed for the corporation’s headquarters at 30 St Mary Axe, The Gherkin, London.
Chapter 22
Alys
“I think we should search the building in the morning, especially those lighted areas.” Alys felt her heart race a little when she mentioned the lights they’d seen. It was like a miracle. Electricity. But one that dripped with threat and confusion rather than wonder.
Joey didn’t answer right away. He was clearly not keen at all on going anywhere near the lit building, having insisted on them holing up for the night to plan their next move and tend to his wounded foot. He was also clearly choosing his words very carefully.
“I have a bad feeling about this place, Alys.” He subconsciously cracked each of his knuckles in sequence as he spoke. “How can they be running a generator? There hasn’t been any usable fuel for years. Why is the place empty of humans and of Ringed? Obviously most of the herd we fought through in Hawkshill Wood came from here. It’s so well-fenced, it’s obviously been set up to keep a large group of people in and any number of Zoms out. So where the hell is everyone?”
Alys shrugged.
“The only way to answer any of those questions is to search the place, Joey.”
He harrumphed to himself and sat in the corner of the tool shed, arms wrapped around bent knees.
Alys mirrored his pose against the opposite wall.
“Look, we came all this way, it’d be insane to leave without seeing what’s here.” Joey rested his head on his lap, avoiding eye contact. She picked up a little stone from the ground at threw it at the top of his head.
“Ow,” he complained, rubbing the spot she’d hit.
Alys ignored his protest and continued.
“Whether Bracha is really here or not, whether there’s really a cure in that building or just dusty old desks, beds and chairs, we’ll only find out by going in there first thing in the morning. Four hours or so, we’ll go slowly, carefully. There’s nothing we can’t handle in that hospital. Look at what we overcame on the way here.”
“Bracha’s more dangerous than any group of Zoms, Alys. You know that.”
“I agree,” she said. “Which is why we’ll take him on together. As a unit. He can’t handle both of us at once
, no matter how skilled he is. If we come across him…”
Joey’s eyes went hard suddenly and bored into her. ”We’ll find him. There’s no way I’m leaving here now without finishing it with him.”
Alys swallowed.
“When we come across him, you have to trust me to go in and engage him at close-quarters.” She expected an argument but received a curt nod in agreement instead. Alys suppressed a smile and continued. “You hang back and take a position where you can pepper him with arrows every time a clean shot appears. That’s how we play this.”
“Only one problem, Alys.” Joey tipped his empty quiver upside-down, bringing a colourful remark from Alys.
“We either have to go back and retrieve some arrows or risk getting in each other’s way by both engaging him at close quarters,” Alys said. She didn’t look pleased with either option.
“I say we both go in for him. We’re a good enough team,” Joey replied.
“No. We’re not,” Alys said bluntly. “When we play to our strengths and work together, we’re good enough. Your bow and my hand to hand skills are how we work effectively... I’m sorry Joey, but as good as you’ve gotten, you just aren’t good enough to go up against a guy like Bracha. Especially with that foot injury. I’ve trained my whole life and even I’m not one hundred percent certain that I can take this guy alone.”
Joey accepted her assessment despite looking a little miffed. Alys rose to her feet and walked over to where Joey still crouched. Coming down to his eye level, she told him, “Joey, I’m scared of Bracha. I reckon he’d give my mum a run for her money.”
Joey’s eyebrows rose in response. He clearly didn’t think anyone was capable of giving Jennifer much trouble. He was wrong in this instance.
Bracha knew what he was doing; he was lethally clever, infinitely patient and supremely confident in his own skills. With his blades, Bracha used the simplest of weapons. Weapons that meant close-up action, and that he used with finesse. The golfer’s outfit and the silly club-twirling were all just a ridiculous act, contrived to make people underestimate him.
Even his accent was faked, designed to elicit trust in or disdain for him. Anything that would make his target drop their guard. He didn’t fight or kill to survive; he didn’t act to assert supremacy or dominance over individuals. He did it for the sport, to test himself.
Bracha lived for the kill. That he’d killed Jock whilst Joey slept beside him, doing so silently, skilfully enough that he hadn’t woken someone with Joey’s senses, told Alys everything about the man’s motives and his skillset. The act of keeping Joey alive so that he might pursue him to avenge his mentor told Alys that Bracha was an arrogant bastard who treated death like a game. That was his weakness.
Alys stood once more offering Joey her hand. Joey rose, bringing his face closer to hers than he intended. She was still marginally taller than him and looked down at his eyes as he stood less than an inch from her. He looked concerned, but resolved.
“Let’s get some sleep and make our way over to the edge of Hawkshill Wood in the morning. See if we can get you a dozen or so arrows back from where we fought today. With any luck The Ringed will have wandered off, or followed something else away from the ones we silenced.”
A resigned look fell over Joey’s face.
“All right, Alys. Let’s do it your way.”
Ten minutes later they were spooned against the bitter cold.
“Alys? You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve never told me what happened to your dad. Why did he leave The Gardens with all the other men?”
Alys stayed silent for a few minutes, trying to form an explanation. Finally she told him the truth.
“I’ve no idea. One day he was there, the next he was gone. And he never came back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, s’just the way it is. Go to sleep, Joey.”
“If we do find a cure, what can we do with it?” he asked.
Having spent her time focused on getting to the hospital, finding the cure, if it existed, and dealing with Bracha, she hadn’t really considered that outcome.
“I don’t have a bloody clue.” She laughed. “But, it would be a good problem to have, eh?”
Joey pulled himself closer into her back, arm over her side, hand resting on her abdomen. She could feel him smelling her hair.
“Aye, a good problem. G’night, Alys.”
Ten minutes after he’d replied, despite the discomfort of the stone floor and the cold, despite what lay ahead of them, they were both fast asleep.
Curled together in a warm unit they were unaware of the movement of shadows passing across the light breaking through the gap at the bottom of the locked shed door. The round handle turned clockwise then anti-clockwise, without a sound, and then stayed still until morning light sneaked under the door.
Chapter 23
James Kelly
Sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, James swore for perhaps the fifteenth time as he checked his watch once again. Four a.m. Despite the thermals he wore and two layers on top, the cold was creeping into his bones, sending nerve pain through the joints of his knees and stiffening his vertebrae. Bracha was two hours later than his message had stated. The sun would rise soon. James would give him another half an hour, then he was leaving.
James stood and began marching to and fro along the trail that had led him to the secluded clearing at the edge of Drum Wood in an effort to get his blood flowing. He’d slipped out from his little bungalow in the cul-de-sac that formed The Exalted’s camp after Somna had retired for the night, deciding that he’d rather not explain his trip unless he had to. Somna wasn’t exactly Bracha’s biggest fan. The meeting place Bracha had selected was far too close to The Exalted’s base for James’ liking, but Bracha’s message had insisted that it was urgent.
When he’d first arrived in the clearing he’d had to deal with a pair of Zoms. One male and one female. He’d crashed the end of his Bo-staff through each of their skulls, not bothering to perform the ritual expected of him by The Exalted’s dogma. The thought of Bracha catching him in the process of performing the ritual was unbearable.
He hadn’t seen Bracha for almost two years and would have preferred to keep it that way, considering the circumstances in which the bushy-haired madman had departed their community. They had been friends at one time, best friends actually, despite Bracha being perhaps the most dangerous killer (after Somna) amongst a community of killers, rapists and lunatics. James owed him his life and as such couldn’t ignore Bracha when he sent word that help was required, no matter the danger to him. If he didn’t appear soon, though, James would have to get back into Drum Woods before there were any questions, or worse, waiting for him.
Suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone, James reached for the Bo-staff he’d left by the fallen tree and spun around to face a grinning Bracha who’d slipped into the clearing.
“Never could sneak up on you, old boy,” Bracha grinned at him.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Bracha cocked an eyebrow.
“I do apologise for my tardiness, James. I’ve had a spot of trouble.”
James looked his former friend over. Taking in the relative stiffness of the movement of his right arm and the missing eye, he smiled and asked, “Finally met someone better with a blade than yourself?”
Bracha raised his nose into the air, giving a derisory snort.
“I hardly think so, James.”
He pointed at his lower and then upper arm.
“This was the result of a teenager from The Gardens’ skilled use of Sai.”
Bracha scanned his face for a reaction before poking a finger at his missing eye, the socket now filled with a brightly-coloured marble painted with a yellow smiling face.
“This, by a teenaged boy from The Brotherhood with a bow.”
This time James did allow his reaction to show.
“One of The Brotherhood? He le
ft The Close and lives on the surface?” His surprise was genuine.
“Oh yes. And he’s quite skilled.” Bracha squeaked a finger across surface of his right-eye-cum-smiley-faced-marble.
Have you visited the city-centre?” James asked.
Bracha gave a non-committal shrug.
“Not really… but I plan to get acquainted with the lovely ladies of The Gardens in the near future.” Bracha pulled his stiletto blade and began picking at his nails with the tip. “You’ve been there, haven’t you?” Bracha said.
James shrugged. “Not really.” He was trying to antagonise Bracha, but didn’t really expect his ex-friend to rise to his attempt.
“And your master, Somna? So convinced that the city-centre communities were no longer there. Wasn’t it you who gave him that intelligence?”
James didn’t bother shrugging this time, rather he spent his concentration on keeping his facial expression indifferent.
Bracha picked away at the nails of his right hand, giving James a clear view of an arrow-tip-shaped scar through his palm.
Bracha caught him glancing at it.
“Oh yes, our archer. Quite skilled, as I said.”
He must be, to have injured you twice, James thought. But not as skilled as the girl, she had to have gotten in close to break those bones.
Relaxing his posture, James resumed his seated position once more on the fallen tree.
Bracha strolled over to where the pair of Zoms lay, one toppled on top of the other.
“These are very fresh-looking, James. Recent additions to the Tribe, perhaps?”
James ignored his questions.
“What do you want, Bracha?”
“As blunt as ever, I see. I suppose that’s why you succeeded me as his number two. Not much cunning about you, is there, James?” Bracha placed his stiletto back into whatever concealed place it had been drawn from. His injuries hadn’t dampened his speed… much.
