Rommond shook his own. “You were supposed to look after her.”
“That wasn't my mission,” Leadman replied. “She made it clear that the last leg of the journey was her own. I'm surprised any of them got out of that cavern.” He turned to Mudro.
“She finished what she started,” he said. “It wasn't for nothing.”
“Her body?” Rommond asked.
“It's … she's in the Silver Ghost.”
Rommond looked at the silver warwagon, with its lanterns still burning brightly. She had spent so much time operating out of it that it was essentially her portable home. He remembered unveiling it. It was a gift for her. Now it was her mausoleum.
The general sighed. “Will there be any of us left?” He knew they could not answer. Maybe he was just asking himself. Maybe he was asking the gods. Either way, no one replied.
Rommond looked at them with grim determination. “Don't tell the boy.”
“He has a right to know,” Mudro said.
“It doesn't matter if he has the right. He's a sensitive one. He has no family left.”
“What about the smuggler?”
“He's not family.”
“No, I mean, what if he tells the boy?”
“Does Jacob know?”
“Not yet.”
“Then don't tell him either.”
* * *
Life was getting back to normal in Blackout, but many were still restless, as if there was still a Dreamdevil up above, still a bomb left to drop. In the Olive Inn, Whistler found it difficult to sleep. He considered knocking in at Jacob's room to see if he was up, but felt it was unfair to wake him.
He sat on the wooden chair by the window, gazing out at the night sky, musing about its vastness, wondering if there were other worlds out there, and other peoples, and thinking that maybe on one of them there was another boy looking out and wondering the same.
For a moment, he thought he heard his mother's voice. He turned around, but there was no one there. He thought he must have been imaging it. It would not have been the first time. She had been gone a while now. That was not the first time either.
He turned back to the sights of nature. There were parts of Blackout where the smog was not so thick, and the sounds were not so industrial. Nature had a way of creeping into everything, growing through the cracks in bricks, adapting to the iron.
He was so enraptured by the sound of the crickets and the owls that he did not hear the creaking of the floorboard behind him. He was so enamoured by the sight of the sky that he did not see the reflection of a figure in the window. His bare arms rested on the sill, his head bobbed to one side, exposing his neck, which his reddish-brown curls tried to hide. Then he felt a strong arm around his neck, and a strong hand around his mouth, and he tried to scream as he was dragged off into the darkness, where the only witnesses were the crickets and the owls.
40 – INSTINCT
Jacob's sleep was as restless as ever, and he could not think why. With the greatest threat to Altadas disarmed, he should have finally gotten a much-deserved good night's sleep. He tossed and turned, pushing the bedsheets off, and pulling them back over him when it got cold again. When he eventually dozed off, he awoke from a swiftly forgotten nightmare. He sat up, sweating, watching the shifting darkness in the room. He thought he heard a sound, like a muffled cry, but presumed he was imagining things. The moments after a nightmare always seemed ripe for the imagination.
Jacob lay back down, but something told him he had to investigate the noise. He put on a night coat and slippers, and peeked his head out into the corridor. There was no one there. The moon cast a faint glow through an open window at the end, and the wind gently caressed the curtains.
You're going mad, Jacob thought. Guess Cala's had an effect on you after all.
He decided to go back to bed, but as he was closing his door he heard a thump. He darted out into the corridor and halted there, realising he probably should have brought a weapon. He could not explain why. Blackout was under Resistance control now, and the Baroness had worked hard on improving security. Hell, Rommond slept in that same inn. That was the definition of safe. Yet something did not feel right. Jacob's mind told him he was overreacting, but his heart told him he was not doing enough.
He listened again for the noise. It was lower this time, a weaker thump, as if it came from further away. Yet it sounded close enough that Jacob was certain that it came from somewhere in the building. He raced back into his room, grabbed the gun from his bedside locker, and rushed back into the corridor to investigate. As he did, he realised how things had changed. Only a year before, he would have dismissed this as someone else's problem.
He walked slowly through the corridor, straining his hearing. It was silent now. He headed towards the stairs to the next level, in case the sound was coming from downstairs. Everything seemed quiet there. He waited for a moment, keeping one hand on the bannister, the other on the trigger.
Another thump, fainter than before. It seemed to be coming from the direction of Whistler's room, back down the hall from where he had come. Part of him thought that there was likely a logical explanation, that the boy could not sleep either. Another part, the part that made him get his gun, told him it was something more.
He reached the door of Whistler's room and placed his ear against the wood. He worried if this was an invasion of privacy. Hell, he would not have wanted anyone listening in on him for half the nights he stayed in the Olive Inn, with a telltale coat hanger on the doorknob. The landlord should have charged him double rent.
Jacob gently rapped his knuckles on the door. “Everything okay in there?”
There was another thump, very weak now. It seemed the closer Jacob got, the fainter it became.
He tried the handle of the door, but it was locked. Whistler did not usually lock his door. He was always eager for company.
“Whistler?” Jacob said, knocking on the door again. “You okay, kid?”
There was no sound now.
Hell, Jacob thought. Something told him he had to break in, and he had to do it now.
He pushed against the door with his shoulder. It would not budge. He shoved again, harder, and the hinges strained. He got a bit of a run up to it next, denting the wood, but it still held strong.
Then he fired two rounds at the lock, blasting it apart. He shoved the door open, and dropped the gun to the floor.
In the centre of the room, near a fallen chair, Whistler hung from the lamp shade of the oil lamp attached to the ceiling, a thick rope around his neck, his head bobbed to the side, his eyes closed, his mouth open, his arms limp, and his legs dangling.
41 – WAKE
Jacob darted forward, grabbing the boy's legs and pushing him upward, trying to release the tugging on his neck. There was no reaction from the child, not a twitch, nor a sound of choking, nor a hint of wheezing.
“Help!” the smuggler shouted. He had to get the boy down, but also had to hold him up. If he let go now, that could be the end of it. He tried to smother the thought that none of it mattered, that he was already too late.
“Help!” he repeated, more forcefully and more desperately. Everything seemed to be passing slowly. Even his own cries seemed drawn out.
He struggled to hold up the child and free him from his noose, and could not help but think of the boy's own struggle, of all the thumps he made as the rope grew tighter, and the air grew less.
Why did you delay? Jacob berated himself.
He stretched his foot towards the chair lying on its side, which Whistler must have leapt from. It was just an inch out of reach. Jacob tried to stretch a little further, painfully aware that he had to release the boy a little to do it. He finally reached it, and tugged it closer with his toes.
“Help!” he cried again, but no one was helping. No one was coming. This moment of desperation was for him alo
ne. He had to hold Whistler up. He had to get Whistler down. He had to cope with the constant realisation that all those thumping sounds were for him to listen to, and him to act on.
Why did you delay?
He wrestled the fallen chair with his foot, trying to nudge it up. Whistler's body swayed in his arms, and the rope swayed, and the lampshade swayed. He tried again to pull the chair up, and managed to get it upright. He used his knees to move it into place beneath Whistler's dangling feet. Even then it was not enough. The boy was too short to stand on the chair and reach the noose. He must have stood on the back of the seat instead.
Jacob shuffled around, still clutching Whistler's legs, and ushered him up higher, taking a step of his own onto the chair. He tried to rest the boy's feet on the back, but they slipped off. There was no strength in him. Jacob was frightfully aware that if he lost his grip on the boy, he would slip again, and the force of the fall could snap his neck.
He held him tight in one arm, resting the boy's weight against his chest and shoulder, while he reached up with the other hand to try to loosen the knot. He could not see where he was stretching. Whistler's body slumped down on him, blocking his view. It was a scramble of seconds, each finger reaching for the rope, fumbling for the knot, feeling the warmth of the boy's body, and fearing it was going cold.
Finally, he seized the knot and pulled. It resisted. Instead of pulling it loose, he thought he might have just pulled it a little tighter. He was glad then that the boy was thin, that he could still fit his thumb between the rope and Whistler's neck. He was glad that the boy was light, that he could still haul him up in one hand while he desperately tried to free him with the other.
The knot came loose, and he tumbled backwards off the chair, the boy falling with him. His back slammed against the floor, knocking the breath from him, and though pain raced through his body, his sole focus was Whistler, and the breath he was not taking.
He rolled over, placing Whistler on his back. The boy did not budge. Not a twitch of an eyelid. Not the spasm of a muscle. His reddish-brown hair was wet from sweat, and there was what appeared to be a fresh cut across his temple, like the mark of a fingernail. Jacob could only imagine it was from the desperate last-minute thrashing he made as his instinct for survival kicked in.
Jacob did not feel for a pulse. He feared he might not find one. He tried to remember what to do in situations like this. He had not received the basic medical training that soldiers do. He recalled snippets of what he saw others do with those who collapsed or almost drowned. He hoped the snippets were enough.
He pressed his hands on the boy's chest, trying to get his lungs pumping. He heard sounds from downstairs, and rushing footsteps growing closer. Rommond appeared in the hallway, pistol in hand.
“God,” he blurted.
“Get the nurse!” Jacob cried.
Rommond rushed back outside. The sound of his boots thundering down the stairs echoed through the corridor.
Jacob pumped Whistler's chest again, and placed his ear close to the boy's mouth, listening for a breath. Nothing came. He pinched the boy's nose and breathed into his mouth. Then he pressed on Whistler's chest once more.
“Stay with me, kid,” he pleaded, running his hand through his own sweat-laden hair in exasperation.
He thought he felt a slight shudder in the boy's body, but he was not sure if that was just a reflex from everything Jacob was doing to try to get him breathing again. He knelt beside him, cradling his neck, unsure of what else he could do.
Stay with me.
He heard a clamour of doors slamming, feet stomping, and raised voices downstairs. Before he knew it, he looked up to see Lorelai crouching down beside them, emptying out her bag of medical supplies on the floor.
“Get his shirt off,” she ordered. Her voice seemed a little distant, even though she was right there beside him. It took a moment for her words to register.
He tore Whistler's patched shirt open. The buttons flew off in all directions, spinning and sliding across the floor. One rolled towards the window, spun on its side for what seemed like a lifetime, then fell flat with a thud.
The boy looked so frail beneath his clothes, even though he was so much worse when Jacob first met him, all those months ago in the Hold. The colour was fading from him, highlighting the thick red marks around his neck.
Lorelai prepped an innovative electrical device known as a heart-hopper. It was a collection of exposed wires, nestled into a box with a large battery. One of the wires had a rubber pad on the end. She adjusted many knobs and dials. It was almost like a radio. Jacob could not help but think that maybe she was listening for the frequency of his heart.
Rommond stood in the threshold of the door, stopping a throng of people behind him from entering. He seemed to be scanning the room with his eyes, and they finally settled on the discarded rope.
“Who told him?” he barked to those behind him. “Who?”
There was a flurry of defensive remarks, and the tumult of voices faded into one another, until it all sounded like background noise to Jacob, until it all sounded like radio static.
Jacob's focus was stolen by the sudden jerk of Whistler's body as Lorelai pressed the wire and rubber pad against his chest. The boy convulsed, then fell flat, his head falling back into Jacob's hand.
Jacob bit his lip to stop it from trembling.
Stay with me.
The nurse repeated the procedure, and the result was the same. For a fraction of a second, it almost seemed like the boy came to life again. His limbs flayed, and his head rose. Then, just as quickly, he fell still again.
She tried once more, and the chatter of those at the door grew silent.
Lorelai gave an audible sigh. Her shoulders drooped, and the electrical device slid from her hand. She looked at Jacob, and he looked at her. He held his breath, and she shook her head.
42 – WHY?
Whistler suddenly gasped for breath. His body spasmed, and his eyes blinked open. He took several sharp lungfuls of air, coughing and sputtering. He squinted his eyes as the light attacked them, and he looked about at everyone present with confusion etched as clearly as the rope marks.
Jacob could not hold back his smile, or the tear that rolled down his cheek and leapt to the floor. He wanted to say everything, but found he could say nothing. The unshed tears clogged his throat. As the boy regained his breath, Jacob barely breathed at all.
Rommond ushered the other people outside, while Lorelai started to tidy up her tools.
“He needs rest,” she said as she worked.
Whistler groaned as Jacob picked him up and placed him gently on the bed. The smuggler fluffed the pillows and propped up the boy's head. He had never been so gentle in his life.
“Why?” Jacob asked, lightly touching the back of his index and middle fingers to the red blotches on the boy's neck.
Whistler grimaced, closing his eyes tight. It took a moment for the boy to focus on him.
“You have so much to live for,” Jacob said.
Whistler's words were a struggle. “I didn't ...”
“It's okay,” Jacob said. “It doesn't matter why.”
“I … didn't ... do it,” the boy gasped.
“I don't understand.”
“I didn't,” the boy began, swallowing hard, “want to die.”
Jacob shook his head. Then why? he thought.
“It was him,” Whistler said.
Jacob took the half-filled glass of water from the bedside locker and handed it to the boy. Whistler took it with a quivering hand and gulped down a mouthful.
“It was who?” Jacob asked. He brushed an auburn curl from Whistler's eye.
“One of … Leadman's guys.”
“Gregan?”
“Yeah.”
“He … he tied you up there?”
Whistler nodded. The
fear was still in his eyes.
Jacob looked towards the door. Lorelai was still there, clutching her medical supplies to her chest, watching them with worried eyes.
“I'll let the general know,” she said, then left the room.
Jacob turned back to Whistler. The boy grabbed his hand and held it as tight as his strength would allow.
“You're safe now,” Jacob reassured him. It seemed like an empty statement, but he felt he had to say something. Whistler should have been safe before. This was Resistance territory. These were Resistance men. They should have been able to depend on them.
The fear never left Whistler's eyes.
“Why do people hate?” the boy asked. “I don't understand it.”
“It doesn't make any more sense when you get older,” Jacob said.
“They hate me because I'm a demon.”
“But you're not, not even half. We have to stop using that word. You're part-human and part-maran. And there's nothing wrong with that. But him. He's all demon. It was the demon in him that made him do this.”
“The demons don't scare me,” Whistler sobbed. “The humans do.”
“I know. It's all wrong. Some of the people we're fighting against are better than we are, and some of the people fighting on our side are the worst I've seen. There's no black and white in war, even though people try to make us think there is. It brings out the best in some, and the worst in others. I hate that we can't depend on people.”
“I don't want to hate him.”
“I do,” Jacob said.
“Don't,” Whistler pleaded, squeezing his hand tighter. “I don't want hate to come from me, or because of me. It doesn't make any of it better. It just makes everything worse.”
Jacob sighed. “Yeah. I guess you're right.”
* * *
Rommond made no delay in storming the building where Leadman and his men resided. He made sure it was surrounded before breaking down the door.
Worldwaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 5) Page 17
