by T. C. Edge
I knock on the door, and hear no response. I knock again, before opening the door to make sure they’re not inside, just sleeping.
The room is empty. They must be down in the common room.
Unusual for Drum. He doesn’t like crowds, let alone one filled with the nastier youngsters who comprise Brandon’s posse.
Much as I’d like to catch up with him, however, I’m not willing to enter into that particular den of piranhas.
Instead, I speed my way downstairs and back towards the front door. Pulling the hood of my jacket over my head to place my face in shadow, I move back out onto the street with a mind to taking a walk. Remaining anonymous is crucial.
I start by wandering towards the large intersection to the south, where the neon advertising boards are larger and brighter, and the screens more prominently displayed.
Even before I get there, the feel of a carnival atmosphere spreads through the air, hundreds of souls loitering around across the large square as the news of the ceremony plays on loops. It’s a common thing to see whenever there’s any major news, people gathering here from the nearby districts to catch up and gossip.
Seeing as owning a personal television, even an old archaic set like we have at the academy, is a rarity around here, this is the easiest and best place to keep abreast of all major citywide developments.
When I reach the square, I’m greeted by the sight of my enormous face, and cringe within the shadows of my hood. Fixed to high pylons and the sides of buildings, various screens show various angles, displaying the moment the video feed was hijacked in real time.
I stand and watch, squashed among the masses, forced to endure my awkward interview again before the mystery man appears.
I look ridiculous as I muddle my way through the interview, sucking up to the residents of Inner Haven as I tell them what an honour it is to be there.
Around me, the crowd appear to agree with me.
“She’s lying, just telling them what they want to hear,” one murmers grumpily.
“Sell-out,” grunts another.
“Well good on her,” says a woman in my defence. “I think she holds herself well. And looks beautiful.”
I blush at the comment, and allow myself a little smile. A few more harsh words, however, have me moving off to a different section of the throng.
By the time I stop again, the crowd have gone silent. I watch as the screen crackles and distorts, and the mystery man appears, his ominous words once more booming out across the square.
There’s a nervous energy around. Everyone listens intently. When his words begin to fade, and he’s cut off, a short period of contemplation follows, before that chattering of debate once more ensues.
I listen for a while, hoping for some nugget of insight, but all I hear are wild theories and conjectures. Mostly, though, the theme is of agreement with Deputy Burns: that it was merely the work of pranksters, and nothing more.
I move off, squeezing my way past bodies and keeping my face low. One or two appear to notice me beneath my hood, but have the nous to realise I’m trying to remain incognito, and are polite enough to leave me be.
Soon, I’m leaving the square behind and stepping down quieter side roads and alleys. It’s dim, the light fixings here unreliable, and yet I feel no fear or nerves.
Crime in this quarter isn’t so common, especially when the streets are so busy, and only second in its safety records to the southern quarter (although, after the attack at Culture Corner, those particular stats will have been skewed). Were I to be strolling at night through the alleys of the northern quarter, I wouldn’t be quite so at ease.
Still, as I wander into more idle parts, seeking the comfort of my own solitude down deserted roads, I get a sense that someone is watching me.
It’s that strange sensation that people often talk about, a sort of sixth sense. An ancient instinct to avoid danger, perhaps, that emanates from our long deceased ancestors from eons ago.
It has me turning around as I walk, searching the dim passages behind me for the shape of silhouettes and glowing eyes. The few remaining people on the streets wander past, and I spy them closely, turning an accusing eye to anyone who glances in my direction.
Not one of them appears interested in my presence.
I pass it off as mere paranoia, and return to my stroll, moving off once more at a slightly brisker pace and with narrower eyes beneath my cloak. With my heart beginning to throb just a little harder in my chest, I lose my desire for solitude and work my way back towards the light.
Cutting through an alley, I see another burgeoning square await me at the end, the bustling crowd beyond a suddenly welcome sight. I move swiftly along, my stroll turning to a jog. I hear a sound behind me, and twist my neck back.
A shadow looms, right at the end of the alley, hovering under a broken light. A shiver darts up my spine, and my eyes turn back.
Too late.
I crash straight into a large garbage bin, appearing as if from nowhere. My forehead connects with its metal surface, sending my brain rocking inside my skull.
I stumble back, and slip, dropping to the floor. Scrambling in the dirt, my eyes return to the figure in the distance. He’s not in the distance anymore.
He’s closer now, moving towards me, hidden within a large black jacket that obscures his frame and features. I blink, and feel the first drop of rain tap on the top of my hood.
Then, building from a low wail, the sound of an alarm spreads from the square beyond. I turn my eyes back to the crowd and see them beginning to rush and disperse. Jackets are tightened up and hoods are drawn over heads, and anti-toxic umbrellas opened up as the rain begins to fall.
I swing my gaze back to the darkness, and blink as the air fills with precipitation.
The man is gone.
I let out a breath, and then, right next to me, hear a voice.
“Are you OK there?”
It makes me jump. I turn my eyes up to see an elderly man looking down at me. He holds a wide umbrella in his hand, protecting him from the rain.
“You need to get under cover,” he says. “Come on, take my hand.”
I nervously reach out and grab it, and he helps me to my feet.
Over in the square, I see one of the large toxic sensors changing colour from amber to red. This rain will burn skin in an instant.
The man clicks a button on his umbrella handle, and the canopy above spreads a little wider, stopping any errant drops from landing on me.
I turn back again down the alley, and see once more that it’s empty. No shadow looms. No figure hovers in the darkness.
Did I just imagine it all? It has been a long day…
“Are you alright,” asks the old man again. His eyes scan my forehead, and for the first time I feel the trickle of blood dribbling down the side of my nose. “That needs seeing to. What happened?”
“I slipped,” I say. “It’s nothing, I’m OK.”
I wipe my forehead, smearing the blood, but feel only a glimmer of pain. Adrenaline can have the effect of suppressing such discomfort. Sliding my index finger over the cut, I feel that it’s only small, and not deep. It probably looks worse than it is.
“Are you sure,” asks the man. “It’s not good to be out in this weather. Where do you live? I can help you home if you want.”
“No,” I say abruptly, still bubbling with suspicion. “Thank you for the offer…but it’s OK. My skin’s covered.”
The man doesn’t seem so sure.
“Really, it’s no trouble. My umbrella will protect us. There’s no need to damage your clothes…”
“Um…they’re damaged enough as it is,” I say. “Thank you anyway.”
With my head still a little woozy, I step away from the stranger and head towards the square. It’s deserted now, protective awnings and blinds quickly extending out from buildings, offering cover for the large screens and shop windows and anything else that might be under threat from the poisonous rain.
&
nbsp; Many spread over the pavement, providing shelter for pedestrians caught with nowhere to go. They huddle there, looking to the skies, dark and brooding and rumbling with thunder.
Nearby, a shelter awaits for such situations, dug into the ground beneath the city streets. They litter the city, providing temporary refuge for when the acid rain falls. Down the street, I see a few people rushing towards the nearest one, disappearing through the entrance and into the shadows.
I have no interest in joining them.
Covered as I am in a thick jacket and hood, and not far from the academy, I turn on my heels and run, thrusting my exposed hands in my pockets as I go to shield my skin.
I splash through quickly forming puddles of poison, and see more people frantically search for sanctuary. Most are fully protected. Some aren’t, foolish enough to leave their homes without sufficient clothing, the rain assaulting any bare areas of skin and flesh as they sprint for the nearest shelter.
I aim my sight on home, though, only a block or two away, running as fast as I can manage without falling.
And as I do, a long way away, right on the other side of the city, I hear a booming sound. Heavy, deep, shaking the concrete beneath my feet.
It’s not the alarm warning of the deluge. And it’s not a crack of thunder from the stormy skies.
It’s something else entirely. A sound I recognise from only days before.
It can only be one thing…
The Fanatics have struck again.
15
When I arrive back at the academy, my jacket is sizzling.
I rush through the door, the night now growing late, to find the main reception hall deserted and dark, only the soft glow of a security light on the ceiling providing any illumination.
I shed my jacket and give it a quick shake, shifting any remaining droplets of acid rain. As I do, a couple make contact with the backs of my hands, bringing about an immediate sensation of pain. I’m quick to rub them dry, but the acidity of the rain is enough to leave a mark.
I make a mental note to add a fresh coating of anti-toxic wax to the coat. I haven’t done so in a while – hence the smell of burning that rises from the fabric.
It was, however, sufficient enough to prevent any water from penetrating through to my under layers of clothing. I hang the jacket over on a hook in the communal closet, and note that a couple of other jackets appear to be shining wet.
I recognise them both.
One, made of black leather and capable of repelling the most lethal of downpours, is owned by Mrs Carmichael. The other, less durable and yet with enough fabric to be made into a sizeable tent, can only belong to Drum.
Cleary, both were caught out in the rain, and both have returned recently. Perhaps they were out together? Maybe she’d escorted him to a job interview of some kind?
My mind, however, has no space for such queries right now. Not with everything that’s gone on today. To say it’s been the busiest and most intriguing of my life is quite the understatement. And now, a fresh new concern is bubbling…
Have the Fanatics set off another bomb?
With the ground floor now cleared of youngsters, I hurry towards the back of the hall and enter down a short corridor. Through a door on the left are the canteen and kitchen. To the right is the common room.
I turn right, opening the door to find the room dark and deserted. I flick on the light and move towards the old television set in the corner. It’s about as old a model as you’ll find in the city, nothing like the larger screens and holographic projectors the wealthier residents can afford.
I tap it on and set it to the only televised channel, which broadcasts noteworthy news and that’s about all. It’s more of a public service tool than anything to be used for entertainment, updating the citizens on important notices that the Council of the Unenhanced need us to hear, or notifying us of any doctrinal alterations the Consortium wish to pass down from on high.
When I tap it on, it’s more in hope than expectation that there will be news about any latest attack, if that is in fact what it was. Mostly, news will filter down several hours after it occurs, with broadcasts and announcements only made when they’re worthy of being seen by the masses.
My hope is slim, and quickly dashed. The screen is currently filled with nothing but re-runs of the ceremony earlier, something that I’m beginning to grow sick of already.
Once more, I have to suffer the sight of my face plastered across the enormous screens. I’m quick to turn it off, unwilling to witness my embarrassing interview all over again.
If there was an attack, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.
Returning to the reception hall, I begin wearily traipsing up the spiral staircase, my head still aching from my encounter in the alley.
When I reach the second floor, I step into the vacant bathroom and take a look in the mirror. My forehead is covered in dried red blood. I look utterly grim.
I wash the blood away, before conducting a closer inspection of the cut. I’m no doctor, but it doesn’t look like it needs stitches. Just a bit of medical tape should do the trick, something my guardian is sure to have.
Returning to the corridor, I set my sights towards the end. Beneath Mrs Carmichael’s door, a thin sliver of light cuts through the darkness.
She’s still up.
I move towards her room, passing my own on the left, and the sound of muffled voices reaches my ears.
Curious. For all her eccentricities, Mrs Carmichael hasn’t been known to talk to herself. Not yet at least.
The idea of her receiving a night-time visitor is equally dubious.
I consider leaving it for now – the cut, I’m sure, will be fine if left overnight – but am drawn in by the familiar tones of the second voice in the room.
Drum?
I inch forward now, my curiosity piqued, and carefully set my ear to the door. The voices grow a little clearer, just about audible as my patron’s gravelly tones creep through the wood.
“Now, Drum,” I hear her say, “are we all clear? You’re not to speak about what you saw to anyone.”
“Yes, Mrs Carmichael.”
“And particularly Brie,” she adds.
My chest tightens as I hear my name.
Silence.
“Drum…promise me.”
“Yes, Mrs Carmichael. I…I promise, Mrs Carmichael.”
Another delay. I little puff of smoke spreads from beneath the door, wafting up my nose.
“Good boy. Now, off you go to bed…it’s getting late…”
My body reacts like a bolt.
I step back from the door, retreating as quickly and quietly as I can manage. My hand feels in the dim light for my door handle, just to the left, and I open up and slip inside.
I’m just in time. Shutting the door tight, I hear a few more muffled words beyond, growing louder as the door to Mrs Carmichael’s room opens. Then, the plodding sound that always precedes Drum’s presence, his heavy footfall slowly drifting by along the corridor outside the room.
I don’t breathe until his footsteps have faded, descending down the staircase to the floor below.
What was that all about? I wonder. What did Drum see?
A coughing, spluttering sound breaks my thoughts and makes me jump for the second time that night. Behind me, over in her bed, Tess murmurs drunkenly in her sleep, her stomach still bubbling and grumbling. She groans and turns over in the pitch black, but doesn’t wake.
I stand for a moment by the door, working out what to do next. My weary body and mind are now fully awake again, the mention of my name blazing my curiosity to life.
I pace towards my bed and take a seat, the wooden frame creaking a little under my weight. Snatching up my glowstick from the bedside table, I twist its end and it begins to glow, growing brighter the more I rotate.
I stop when there’s enough light to see Tess from across the room, her face twitching and contorted in discomfort as she sleeps. It serves her right, real
ly, guzzling down that wine like she did and ogling Rycard in plain sight of his wife.
Tess has a lot to learn about tact, that’s for sure.
As I sit there, another waft of smoke filters up my nose. Mrs Carmichael must be on one of her chain smoking sessions in there, puffing away like it’s going out of fashion. I stand and move back towards the door, leaving the glowstick on the bed, and peek my head back out into the corridor.
Her light is still on, a tobacco infused mist hanging around at the bottom of her door. Inside, I hear the faint sound of music playing, soothing tones aimed at guiding her towards her bed.
But not yet.
I make the decision, and move into the corridor and towards her room. I knock lightly, and hear the mixed confusion and concern in her voice as she answers. Anyone coming to her at this time can only be a bad thing…
“Yes, who is it?”
I answer by way of opening the door. She sits within a cloud of smoke at her desk, her fading blue eyes frowning at my interruption.
“Brie? I thought you were sleeping?”
She examines my body, and notes that I’m not wearing my nightclothes.
“Have you been out somewhere?” she questions. Then she notices the cut on my head, which she presumes must be the reason for my midnight intrusion. “What happened to you?”
The worry in her voice is immediately clear.
I instinctively raise my fingers to where her eyes sit, touching the cut. It appears to be dribbling blood again.
“Oh…it’s nothing really. I just knocked my head.”
“Well, that much is obvious, Brie,” she says, standing from her chair. “Come in, let’s take a look at that.”
I move in and shut the door behind me, coughing as I do. She darts to a little window on the wall and opens it up, before tapping on an extractor fan to help suck away the smoke.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company at this time.”
That’s not strictly true. Drum was just in here…
Opening up a drawer, she extracts a little pot of antiseptic cream and some medical tape.
“Sit down here, lets get you sorted out.”
