by J. C. Staudt
Crouching, she woke the sand and sent it crawling across the factory yard to gather in a beige staircase against the machine shop, shifting and seething in place. Shotgun in hand, she raced for the steps, heartbeat thumping. Toler fired another shot from above, this time toward one of the blast furnace catwalks. Weaver heard the shot strike metal.
She hit the stairs and darted to the roof, holding the shotgun at her hip. The moment her boots left the stairs, the sand followed her, swirling around her feet in a great skittering maelstrom. She found Lally behind the HVAC unit, applying pressure to Dockerel’s chest with both hands as his blood pumped out around her fingers.
Lally looked up to find Weaver’s gun barrel in her face. “We give up,” she said, her tone pleading. “We surrender. Please, help him. He’s gonna die, you don’t do nothing.”
Weaver wanted nothing more than to squeeze that trigger and watch another one of Fink’s posse fade into memory. But she’d told Toler the truth earlier—she’d never had much use for guns. The sand was her weapon. “Dock’s beyond my help now,” she said. “Any cipher I put on him is only gonna delay what’s bound to happen.”
Lally flushed red. When she let up on Dock’s chest and sat back against the unit, tears were rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t do this no more, Jal. End it for me. End it all now, will you?”
“I ain’t gonna end nothing,” Weaver said, lowering the shotgun. She let the swirling sand spiral to rest across the rooftop expanse. “And neither are you. Fink’s dead. Call your folks off and let’s make peace. Ain’t none of you got a bone to pick with me and Will can’t be solved with some hardware and a handshake. Let’s quit playing this game and go our separate ways as friends. Maybe not friends, but better’n enemies.”
Another gunshot, this one from the furnace towers above them. A wounded Guy Ulrich limped along a high catwalk while Toler chased him down.
“Toler, leave off,” Weaver screamed.
The shepherd stopped to frown down at her. “What do you mean? I’ve got him.”
“The fight’s over. We’re calling the whole thing off.”
Lally McNally stood and hollered to her cohorts, advising them to do the same. Then she pointed at the shotgun Weaver was holding and said, “Ain’t but one shell in that thing, you know. Freckles wasn’t even sure it was good.” She touched her own weapon, a black handgun she’d shoved into her waistband. “We all down to our last couple. Fink was the only one with a full load. Once y’all got his gun, we knew we was in for it.”
“How’s that, exactly?” Weaver asked. “Y’all know where to find good ammo at.”
“We’s dead broke, Jal. Have been for weeks. That’s how come Fink was so testy ‘bout the money you owed him. Coffing jackass pushed his luck too far. Always told him that. I said, ‘One of these days, Fink, you gonna push your luck too far.’ Well, there you have it. Today was that day. He figured he’d got the upper hand, no reason to give it up so easy. See what else he could squeeze out of you ‘fore he was done.”
Weaver exhaled, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “That black-hearted bastard almost got away with it, too. If I’d have known you all was down to your last dregs… or shit, if Will had known… you dways would be resting with the fates about now.”
“Shit, yeah,” Lally said. “That was a lucky-ass shot Keeton took. Second-to-last round in his carbine. Hit him at long range, too.”
“Listen, Lal. Will’s back there bleeding. I gotta get to him. What say we agree to put all this behind us? Will hears Fink pulled one over on us, he’ll shit a brick, so let’s keep that between you and me. You and your folks head on out of here, leave us in peace, and we’ll do you the same kindness. Shake on it?”
Lally spat into her palm. Weaver reciprocated, and they shook. She gave Lally the pouch of hardware and assured her it was all there, every bit the gang was owed.
“I always knew you was a good apple, Jal. Don’t figure you got your head on straight, running around with a fella like Will Lokes.”
“I’ve heard that more than once,” Weaver said.
Lally shrugged. “Heart wants what it wants. Reckon you know that better’n anybody.”
“Reckon I do. Be good, Lal. Give your folks our highest regards.”
“Will do. Can’t promise they’ll take ‘em, though.”
“Just give ‘em the money, then. That’ll help.”
Lally nodded. “Take care of yourself, Jal.”
As Weaver and Toler headed back to the railcar where Lokes was waiting for them, she relayed Lally’s revelation to the shepherd and advised him to keep quiet about it. They’d tell Lokes the rest of the gang lost their nerve and ran off after Fink died. It would be best for everyone involved, she decided, if they left it at that.
CHAPTER 43
Through the Breach
The tattooed gangers of the Kilnhurst Klick made better bullies than teachers. They treated outsiders with distaste, mistrust, and a latent superiority which often resulted in violence. Merrick’s followers needed toughening up, so the introduction of gang culture into their daily lives had come as a necessary shock. Training injuries became commonplace, as did the mass exoduses which ensued. While the fainthearted fled, an influx of new followers exceeded their number twofold.
Merrick knew not everyone was cut out for war; any test of mettle was bound to turn some away while strengthening the resolve of others. The Klick taught practical skills, such as in the creation and use of weapons in combat. But they were also giving the masses something far more valuable, in Merrick’s opinion: a sense of what it felt like to face a more powerful foe, and the ability to stand stalwart in the face of fear. The Klick were priming them for what was to come. Once the weak had been eliminated, those who remained would form the core of a more formidable force. A force better-equipped to help Merrick accomplish his dream.
Before long, the size of Merrick’s following had grown so large that keeping everyone fed and sheltered became a chore of mounting difficulty. The arrival of so many immigrants from other towns and cities began to put a strain on an already-strained food supply. The savages, though wealthy in the wake of their successful campaign against the trade caravans, had refused to trade with Merrick’s followers. He needed to invade soon—not only because it was time, but because people would starve if he didn’t.
Merrick hadn’t moved the flock in several days; it was becoming too great an ordeal. They’d finally found an interior space big enough to hold everyone, an event venue called the Lariat Center. Music concerts and sporting events had once taken place there, but now it was just a big, hollow room with birds in the rafters, surrounded by a two-level concourse.
In a private room along the concourse, Merrick called a meeting with his gang leaders, who now included the heads of the Tribe and the Rowdies. The former were bedecked in bone ornamentation, while the latter preferred ripped denim and spiked leather. Peraluu Zalva and the heads of her Klick were present as well, gathered around the conference table at the center of the room.
“We’re going to invade tonight,” Merrick said. “We can’t wait any longer.”
“You think we ready?” Peri asked.
“The wonder-man say so, but he don’t know,” said a man in black-feathered shoulder pads and a bone helmet, one of the Tribe leaders called Trucho.
Merrick ignored the protest. “There’s a Scarred blockade at every intersection along the Row, and several more heading down the flanks at either end. We could circle around and attack from the north, but their scouts would see us coming across the desert. We could smuggle ourselves in on a fake trade caravan, except we don’t have a bunch of extra flatbeds, crates or horses lying around. So I think our best option is to find the weakest blockade on the Row and concentrate our full strength on it.”
“What the Scarred got for weak spots?” said Peri. “They got guns.”
“And bullets,” added Joam, as though it needed to be said.
Merrick knew each sentry along the
row only carried two magazines. He also knew, thanks to his one-time shift at the barricade on Olney Street, that the sorry excuses for soldiers who manned the gatehouse there would rather play cards and smoke cigarettes and narcotic wraps than perform any meaningful lookout duty. He wanted to reassure the gang leaders that they could break through, but he didn’t want to reveal how he’d come by the information. The second they found out he’d once been a Scarred man, they would probably skin him alive.
“I’ve done a little scouting,” he lied. “I found a barrier that looks like a shoddy mess, pretty far gone into disrepair. A couple of ladders and some firebombs should get us through. It’s not getting in we have to worry about. It’s what happens after. From there, we need to split up and wreak havoc across the city. If we disperse, it’ll be harder for the Scarred to hem us in somewhere.”
“How do we win?” asked Frezwick, a stocky, leather-clad Rowdy with a split graying beard and grease stains on his gilled jeans.
“I have to get to the Hull Tower,” Merrick said. “I know the way. I’ll need a group to stay with me as protection.”
Peri lifted a casual salute to show him she had it covered.
He looked at Mird, a Triber in a scrap-metal facemask and a spiked horsehair wig. “Are the ladders ready to go?”
“They ready,” Mird said.
“And the firebombs?”
Hurol, a goateed Rowdy in a ringed leather vest, stepped forward. “We got enough fuel to make eleven of ‘em.”
“That’s fine, as long as you give them to dways who can throw.”
“They’ll throw,” Hurol said.
“Good. Then all that’s left is to get the word out. Tell everyone to tell everyone. People want to join us at the last minute, I’m not going to turn them away.”
“What about spies?” Boke chimed in. “Aren’t you worried about the Scarred finding out?”
Merrick considered this. “I don’t think we need to be worried about spies. There aren’t too many northern sympathizers around here. Just to be safe, spread the word that we’re attacking tonight, but don’t say where. Tell them anyone who wants to come along is welcome, but they’ve got to meet up with us here first, at the Lariat Center. We’ll lead them to the breach point after everyone’s assembled and ready. With a crowd as big as the one we’ve got, anyone who wants the Scarred to know is going to let them know one way or the other. I’d rather get those few extra bodies on our side than try to keep a secret we can’t.”
Merrick’s leaders dispersed to make ready for the night’s attack. He wasn’t feeling particularly confident about it, but there was no putting it off. If the attack failed, there was no reason he couldn’t try again down the road. It might be harder next time, but as long as he was alive there would always be another chance.
I’ll bet they’re all wondering why I don’t shred the barricade and walk into the city north alone, he thought. After all, he’d suffered horrific physical brutality and nothing had killed him yet. The answer was that although the wounds were gone, the scars remained, and they were liable to catch up with him sooner or later. Getting shot still felt like getting shot. It hurt, and not a little.
Merrick couldn’t wait for nightfall. He spent the day pacing the little room on the concourse, too preoccupied to eat or heal anyone or have sex. When dusk arrived, he emerged onto a high platform in the arena and waved his hands for silence. It took his gangers and aides several minutes to quiet the swollen crowd. When he spoke, he had to shout at the top of his lungs to be heard.
“Tonight, we make a change,” he said. “We unite a city long-divided. We are about to become the bearers of history, my friends. There are better days ahead, if only we’re willing to fight for them. Come with me; follow me to war and death and chaos, and I’ll show you a future bright with hope. Full of prosperity for all. We strike at the heart. We strike now.” He raised a hand, two-fingered.
“I speak,” came the echo of a thousand men and women raising their hands in agreement.
The sentiment dissolved into a cheer which rippled through the stands and sent a shiver up Merrick’s spine. He was finally here. They were finally listening. He didn’t mind that it was only because he possessed something they wanted. As long as they were behind him, the reasons were moot.
The crowd shuffled to the exits and left the Lariat Center to begin its noisy trek toward Bucket Row. Merrick led the way, flanked by a unit of gangers armed with incendiary bottles and portable staircases. At an intersection a few blocks down, they found a few familiar faces waiting for them. There was a sanddragon; a wind gargant; an amarpid; a cotterphage; a deldrake; a brengen; and of course, an emaciated green ghoul with empty black eyes.
“Swy,” Merrick said, breaking into a smile.
“Sh-h-h,” said Swydiger Porter from behind his painted filtermask. “No names. We’re here to help you open up the north. Just tell us what to do.”
“This is incredible,” Merrick said. “I wasn’t expecting you dways to show up. Almost thought I’d never see you again.”
“Why?” Swydiger asked. “Once the north is open, we’ll be able to visit you all the time.”
“Right,” Merrick said. “Well, you’re going to make this a lot easier for us. I want you on overwatch. Find the intersection of Olney and Tripplehorn and put men on every rooftop this side of the Row. When we rush the barricade, find yourself a Scarred target and start shooting.”
“Got it,” said Swy. “Let’s move out, dways.”
The Revenants vanished into the night. Merrick was feeling better already. This was going to be easier than he’d expected; they were going to walk in and seize the north before the city was awake to hear about it.
Several minutes later, Merrick found himself peering around the corner of a dilapidated skyscraper, squinting down the long avenue of Olney Street toward the barricade across Bucket Row. No sign of gate guards in either of the two lookout posts he knew were attached to the barricade’s rear. Either the guards were sleeping—slouched below viewing level—or the lookout posts were empty. He could neither see nor hear the Gray Revenants, but blending in was what they did best.
Merrick pointed out the locations of the two high observation platforms so the ladder carriers would know where to place them. The trip down the other side would be unpleasant unless they had something to step on when they went over. The true rampage couldn’t begin until someone made it to the other side and unlocked the gate.
“Everyone ready?” he said in a loud whisper.
“Got us a city to steal, miracle-man,” said Peri.
“Let’s do it.” And may the fates guide us all, Merrick thought.
The ladder carriers slipped around the corners, two sets on each sidewalk, and broke into a sprint toward the barricade. They’re moving so fast they’ll be halfway across Bucket Row before the sentries can pick up their rifles, Merrick thought. Half the sentries in the birdhouses were probably asleep by now. They’re in for a lousy wakeup.
After the ladder carriers, the firebombers trickled out to follow them single-file down either sidewalk. Merrick heard boots thudding on the pavement behind him. He tossed a glance over his shoulder to see Eldridge Porter reach the rear of the waiting crowd and begin shoving his way through.
“Let me by. Excuse me. I need to get past. Merrick. Merrick.”
Eldridge was wearing his filtermask, but Merrick recognized him by the cotterphage painted on it. He motioned for everyone to get out of the Revenant’s way.
Eldridge came forward, panting. “Merrick. You’ve got to stop the attack. They know we’re coming. There’s like ten guys in each building across the row. Way more than we brought. We’re asking for a real firefight if we engage—”
Eldridge’s words were interrupted by a burst of machine-gun fire.
Across the eight travel lanes of Tripplehorn Highway, the ladder carriers and firebombers began to fall.
“It’s too late now,” Merrick said. “We’re all in.”
“Your people are going to get slaughtered,” Eldridge said. “They’re walking right into a trap.”
Merrick set his jaw. “Then so am I.” And he lifted his voice to shout: “This is it. This is what we came for. Don’t let their guns scare you. They’ll run out of bullets long before we lose our will to fight. The Scarred can’t get away with shutting us out because of who we are, or how we look, or what they think we’re worth. We’re done being the outcasts. It’s time to let ourselves in. They’ve got the life we deserve. Now let’s go take it.”
Merrick turned and broke into a charge, hoping someone would follow. That was when the two hidden soldiers stood from behind the barricade’s lookout perches to take aim at the oncoming mob. They were there all along. And they weren’t sleeping.
A firebomber lurched as a bullet struck him in the chest. A second round punctured the bottle grenade on his belt, and a plume of fire engulfed him. Merrick watched the bomber go down in a writhing, burning mass, but he didn’t slow his pace. The bomb in the man’s hand caught fire and detonated as a trio of gangers ran by, knocking them sideways.
As he left the sidewalk and emerged onto the open highway, Merrick glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to find the crowd rushing after him. They were going to take that barricade, no matter how many gave their lives in the effort.
Gunfire erupted from what seemed like every window and rooftop along the northern edge of the highway, but still Merrick ran. How could they have known we were coming? he wondered as his followers fell around him. He came upon a wounded team of ladder carriers and hefted their ladder in his arms, dragging it behind him until two fresh dways came to lift the back end. It was a rickety thing, and heavy. The weight slowed him to a jog. He knew he’d draw enemy fire by carrying it, but they’d never get over the barricade without at least one ladder.
As they lugged their burden off the median to cross the westbound lanes of the highway, a bullet tore through Merrick’s shin. He tumbled forward, tripped over the ladder, and rolled to a stop on the pavement, feeling the resonarc scrape loose from behind his ear. The crowd stampeded over him in a mad dash toward the barricade. Someone picked up the ladder and carried it onward.
