Arthur Quinn and Hell's Keeper

by Alan Early

  He was astounded by how quickly swarms of people squeezed into the corner where the guards would allocate the breakfast. It was anything but an orderly line; it was just a mob thrusting forward. Only the very old and very young stayed away, probably hoping that their friends and relatives would bring some food back to them. As he moved forward himself, he looked at their faces, their eyes hungry and their bellies rumbling. Arthur made a mental note to get enough food for himself and some of these weaker, famished folk.

  A group of guards without helmets was coming out of one of the doors at the top of the lowest tier. One of them was wearing a tall chef’s hat and matching apron, both stained liberally with food spillages. He was carrying a large pot with some indeterminable green-brown sludge sloshing over the rim as he walked. The others had black bin-bags or plastic crates full of half-eaten breakfast rolls, mouldy pizza slices and dried-up pieces of meat. The crowd surged forward frantically, waving tin bowls that Arthur recognised from the many camping trips he’d gone on with Joe. He was hustled along by the heaving horde, shoved to and fro as people jostled past him, so eager were they to get their ration of leftovers.

  His legs collapsed unexpectedly. He couldn’t tell whether he’d slipped or his limbs were still weak or – worse still – if someone had tripped him up. Either way, he got his hands out in front of him just in time to cushion his fall. He expected people would stop and help, but instead their feet pummelled the ground by his face as they ran around him, rushing forward impatiently. He attempted to stand up, but every time he got to his knees someone would knock him to the ground once more. Eventually he gave up, wrapping his arms around his head in the hopes of protecting his skull. Just then, someone grabbed the back of his mud-encrusted T-shirt and wrenched him backwards out of the flocking mob. He didn’t even see who had pulled him out as he landed on the ground a few feet away with a thud; his saviour had disappeared into the crowd.

  Arthur stepped away from the throng, relieved to be out of it, and watched as the chef guard poured the brown slop into a steel trough at the edge of the pitch, similar to one pigs would eat from. The mob grew more violent, jostling each other out of the way to get at the vile-looking ‘food’. He was shocked to see that a couple of people had fainted and were being trampled underfoot; he’d been lucky to get away unhurt. Arthur turned away in distaste, but he could still hear the appalling sounds: pleading, screaming, sobbing.

  The feeding frenzy lasted for almost an hour. The Wolfsguard amused themselves by flinging food high over the crowd and cackling as the starving prisoners rolled around in the mud, fighting for any scraps they could find. By the end, guards from all around the stadium had moved around to where the chef was standing, to watch the throng and join in the fun. When all the leftovers had been distributed, the crowd dispersed. Some of them were hobbling on injured limbs and some were still chewing what little food they’d caught. But none of them looked satisfied.

  Arthur returned to his spot by the advertisement and sat down in the mud; he didn’t bother with the sheeting this time, feeling too discouraged to care about this basic comfort. A woman was walking from person to person, handing out rations of the food she’d managed to catch. Arthur recognised her though it took him a moment to recall where from: it was Ann the nurse. She spotted him and squeezed through the crowds to him.

  ‘There you are again, pet,’ she said. The faint sun shining behind her head forced Arthur to squint up at her. ‘Did you get anything?’

  ‘No. I fell.’

  ‘Well, in that case, here you go,’ said Ann, picking a half-chewed crust from a slice of pizza out of the tin and offering it to Arthur. Mould was peppering one end of it and it felt hard and stale in Arthur’s hand, but he was still grateful for it.

  ‘Thanks.’ He rolled it around in his palm. ‘I’ll save it for later.’

  ‘Good idea. How’d you sleep, pet?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’ His eyes strayed to where the mob had been, to the ground that had been churned up by hundreds of feet. Ann caught his anxious expression and rested a hand on the side of his face.

  ‘Listen, pet,’ she said, ‘don’t let that scare you.’ She nodded at the aftermath of the riot. ‘People are starving and they’re desperate to get what little food there is. But most of us share. All we have is each other.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The nurse peered at the darkening sky above.

  ‘Looks like it’s going to rain today.’ She turned back to Arthur. ‘Take care of yourself and, like I said before, pet, if you need anything I’m usually in our little makeshift hospital.’ And with that, she was gone.

  Nurse Ann was right. It did rain later that day. It began suddenly; there was a roll of thunder directly overhead, followed straight away by the torrent.

  It wasn’t just any drizzle or any shower; it was a supernatural rain that Arthur had only seen once before. Arthur was surprised that, as soon as it began, the wolves actually permitted the prisoners to stand among the tiered seating. This was one dispensation he supposed the Wolfsguard had to give them. Drops the size of basketballs fell from the emerald clouds, which shot out bolts of lightning with them. Within minutes, the pitch was flooded and the water was seeping halfway up the tier towards the huddled crowds.

  Now would be a good time to escape, Arthur thought, looking around him. Except that there were at least two guards at every exit.

  The shower only lasted twenty minutes or so and, though the clouds didn’t disperse as normal, they were certainly a shade lighter than they’d been during the storm. What happens now, Arthur wondered, staring at the flooded sports pitch. He got his answer almost immediately as members of the Wolfsguard marched through the prisoners, handing out buckets and waterproof sacks. One of them thrust a rusty coffee tin into Arthur’s hands.

  ‘You know what to do,’ he barked before moving on. Arthur opened his mouth to say that actually he didn’t have a clue what he was supposed to do since he’d only been here a day, but then wisely shut up when he noticed that the other prisoners were already following orders. He watched as they dipped their buckets or water-carriers into the edge of the flood, filling them up. Then they carried them back up to the top of the tier and poured the water down drainage holes he hadn’t noticed previously, before going back for more. By the sound the water made drizzling down the pipes, Arthur could tell they went very deep, probably leading outside the stadium.

  ‘We can’t possibly drain this whole pitch,’ he murmured to himself, looking at the flood. It easily reached halfway up the bottom tier, which made it about ten feet deep. And yet people kept filling their buckets and pouring them out.

  ‘Of course we can,’ muttered an elderly woman who was passing to refill her own sack. ‘We’ve done it before, we’ll do it again.’

  Arthur stood there for a moment, watching the work. So that was why the pitch wasn’t flooded like outside. The prisoners had to drain it every time it rained. He let the realisation sink in for a moment before walking down to the edge of the flood and joining in with the other detainees.

  They worked right through the day and through most of the night without a break. If any of the prisoners did risk sitting down to rest, the guards would shout a warning to get back to work. If that didn’t encourage them enough, they’d take out their batons. One swift clout around the ear was usually enough to remind the prisoner of their work ethic.

  As exhausted as Arthur’s legs had been the day before while swimming down Henry Street, his upper arms and shoulders were twice as fatigued now. Yet his coffee can was tiny compared to some of the water carriers others had been left to deal with, so he couldn’t imagine how worn out those poor souls were. As the day grew darker, he was tempted to take the pizza crust out of his pocket and devour it whole. Two things stopped him. First, he knew he’d be gladder to have it when the work was finished and, second, he was worried that if he did take it out the guards would simply confiscate it.

  He didn’t think they
were making much progress on the flood, but after the first few hours of work he started to see a notable difference. Three rows of seats had been reclaimed. One thought circled through his mind as he worked. One single, solid thought. Ellie was right. The Norns were right. Loki’s third child did, indeed, unleash Hell on Earth.

  He didn’t know what time it was when they finally finished. His watch had stopped when he had been in the water. But, judging by the level of the moon and the faint glow of a new day’s light in the east, he guessed it was some time between six and seven in the morning. Close to dawn, anyway.

  Everyone went back to their spot on the pitch, which was now muddier and slicker than ever. He lay down by the advertisement board and munched on the pizza crust. It was, as he’d expected, very stale and tough. But it was delicious nonetheless. He ate half of it and put the remainder back in his pocket for safekeeping.

  Despite his exhaustion, he swore to himself he wouldn’t go to sleep. He couldn’t spend much longer in this hell-hole. It was time to escape and he needed a plan.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morning came. But before the breakfast rush could start, Arthur rose and hurried in the direction of the first-aid area. He found Nurse Ann without much trouble; she was already up and tending to an elderly man who was in the middle of a violent fit of coughing. When he could breathe again, Ann turned to Arthur with a quizzical expression.

  ‘Morning, pet. Is everything OK? Do you need help with something?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Arthur led her out of the patient’s earshot. ‘I need help to get out.’

  She shook her head dejectedly. ‘It’s impossible, pet, so don’t–’

  ‘It’s not. You said it yourself. A few hundred people could never hope to escape, especially in this weakened state. But one person, on their own …’

  ‘People have tried it before, pet. People on their own or in groups. Some of them made it through the stand but they were all caught. Caught and punished. You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I am serious. I have a certain experience in things like this so trust me. I’ve been thinking about it for hours. Listen …’

  Arthur had, indeed, mulled over his options thoroughly. There were exits at pitch level but he couldn’t escape through those because they’d been sealed up against the flood with thick steel doors. And even if he did somehow manage to open one of the doors as much as an inch, the water would rush in before he’d have a chance to rush out. It was impossible to get through.

  The only option would be to go back the way he’d come: up through the seating and back down the outer stairwell. This was fraught with its own problems. First, lots of guards were always milling around the stands, keeping watch or relaxing on their breaks. Second, if he did somehow manage to get to the top of the tier, the outside stairs were even busier, with guards coming to and from the jet-ski landing area. But it was his only chance. He explained his plan to Ann.

  ‘You need some sort of distraction,’ she noted. ‘So that you can reach the stairwell without being seen, I mean. Something to take the guards’ attention away from the stands for a few minutes.’

  ‘The morning feeding should serve that purpose. But I will need your help – to keep a watch for me in case the breakfast isn’t distracting enough and let me know if a guard is coming my way. Please, Ann!’

  ‘What happens if you do manage to reach the stairwell?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘I have something that will help me get out,’ said Arthur, thinking of the hammer. ‘And I saw where they put it. Anyway,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘I’ve been in worse jams than this.’

  ‘Something about you makes me think that’s true, pet.’

  The nurse looked doubtfully into the stands around them, at the dozens of guards stalking over and back. Her eyes fell to the patients around her – all the people who were dying purely as a result of being put in this horrific situation. Finally she looked at the boy with the eye-patch.

  ‘All right,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ll help you. But first tell me your name.’

  ‘Arthur. Arthur Quinn.’

  Arthur and Nurse Ann waited at the edge of the pitch and watched the doors to the stadium back-rooms in silence. Finally the chef and his two assistants stepped out onto the stands and walked around to the serving trough. Throngs of people were already swarming forward and a few stragglers were chasing after them, hoping they weren’t already too late to get a good spot. The only people left on the pitch were the sick, weak, very young and very old, as had been the case the previous day. Many of those nearest Arthur watched him, no doubt wondering why such a fit young man wouldn’t take his place in the mob. However, he doubted they’d rat him out to the Wolfsguard. They might not help him but at least they wouldn’t hinder him.

  He watched as the chef chucked more of the unappetising goop into the trough while his deputies tossed scraps out among the crowd. From Arthur’s position today, the mob seemed even more fevered, more frantic to get the food. They were probably extra aggressive after the previous day’s hard labour. When more of the Wolfsguard left their sentry positions to join in the fun, Arthur knew his moment was coming. He kept a close eye on them as they hurled the dregs of the breakfast over the heads of the prisoners. One guard on the tier nearest Arthur still hadn’t joined in, but he was on his tip-toes, narrowing his eyes to get a better look. Eventually, he decided that he was missing out on too much amusement and went to join the others.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Ann murmured under her breath, keeping her own eyes on the breakfast riot.

  Instead of answering – and before either of them could change their minds – Arthur crept onto the first step of the tier, taking care that no other guard was nearby or watching. Then, keeping low, he quickly took cover between the first two rows of seats. He peered between two plastic chairs at Ann’s anxious expression. She smiled helplessly and gave him a thumbs-up. As soon as he got the sign, he grabbed on to the back of the seat above him and vaulted over to the next row. He looked back at the nurse again, who turned her head from left to right, surveying the whole arena and especially the hungry throng. Seeing that the coast was clear, she gave him another nod and Arthur leapt up to the next row.

  They continued like this for the next few minutes. Arthur would vault or climb over a row, then the nurse back on the pitch would give him the OK to move to the next row and so on. But then, just past the half-way mark, she was about to give the thumbs-up when she stopped suddenly and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Arthur followed her gaze and saw that one of the guards who’d been watching the mob had had enough and was moving back to his post. He was swinging a baton and humming tunelessly to himself.

  Arthur had few options. He could retreat to the pitch and try another time or he could stay here and hope the guard wouldn’t see him. But judging by the route the wolf-man was taking, he’d end up passing right by Arthur. He’d never be able to stay hidden. There was, however, one other possibility and, before sense could overrule his nerve, Arthur took it.

  He ran down the row of seating away from the approaching guard, keeping hunched over and his footsteps light so he wouldn’t be heard. When he reached the end of the row, he found himself on the staircase leading to the door he’d come through originally. The steps were wide and the incline was low, so running up while staying hidden was exceedingly difficult.

  His heart was pounding by the time he reached the top. He threw all caution to the wind, swung it open and leapt through to the stairwell. He leaned back against the door and took a second to catch his breath. There wasn’t as much sound from the landing area below as there had been the day he’d arrived. Arthur assumed many of the on-duty wolves were still watching the feeding frenzy.

  He looked at the door to his left. It led to the room where he’d seen the guard go with his backpack. He didn’t care about the bag: it had been a cheap and flimsy freebie he’d gotten at a summer camp a couple of years ago. All he really wanted was the hammer in
side.

  Arthur pushed the door open and went through. It was nearly pitch black in the room, aside from a pale-blue emergency light directly over the door. This illuminated the space enough for him to take in his surroundings. It was more of a warehouse than a room and piles of confiscated belongings were stacked along the four concrete walls. He walked through the aisles, passing a heap of children’s toys – dolls and teddy bears gazing up at him with glassy eyes – and another with nothing but electronics – mobile phones, laptops, cameras and so on. He noticed a box on the floor full of car keys and wondered why the wolves had bothered taking those. Surely no car could be useful after the flood. There were books and photographs and flashlights and medical supplies and clothes. Finally he found a mound built of every type of bag, from purses to sports bags. His own backpack had been thrown onto the top. He pulled it down and, holding his breath, ripped it open. He gave a gasp of relief when he saw that the hammer was still inside, lying next to the food he had stolen from the toy store. Smiling, he slung the bag over his shoulder then headed back towards the exit.

  As he neared the door, he heard voices beyond it. He pressed his ear to the small gap between the door and the frame, keeping his breathing calm so he could hear clearly. There were guards outside, rushing down the stairs.

  ‘Tell me again what he looked like,’ one of the guards was saying.

  ‘About yay high, brown hair, wearing a T-shirt and jeans,’ said another one. ‘He had an eye-patch, for Loki’s sake! Shouldn’t be that hard to find.’

  Arthur put his back to the wall. They were talking about him! The guard must have seen him burst through the stairwell door.

  ‘OK, OK,’ the first Wolfsguard was saying. ‘You check downstairs with the others. I’ll have a look in here.’ As the door to the room started to open, Arthur ducked behind a stack of unmarked boxes. He held his breath and peeked through a gap as the guard entered the room, shining a flashlight around the mounds of loot. The guard walked forward, his heavy black boots clicking on the concrete floor as he moved the beam of light ahead of him. Any minute now, he’d turn around and start searching in Arthur’s direction and then there’d be no hiding. Arthur would be sent back to the stadium or worse. He couldn’t even imagine what would happen if the wolf discovered the hammer.