by J. C. Staudt
The pain in his leg swelled to a sickening crest. A wave of exhaustion followed, sweeping over him as he fumbled around in search of the resonarc. He found it, but he wasn’t pleased with its condition. The device was in pieces, crushed to bits in the stampede. Groaning, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, feeling the warmth in his leg as the wound mended itself.
He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to ignite. He had been so nervous he’d been thinking only of the charge. Now it was his only option.
Warmth gathered in his chest. The overwhelming fatigue that swept through him then was like nothing he’d ever felt, a knockout blow. He knew he could stay awake only as long as he remained ignited.
Up ahead, the mob reached the barricade. The two guards in the lookout perches were spraying gunfire down on them, but that didn’t last long. They ran out of ammunition and abandoned their posts while the gates shook with the press of the crowd. The sentries in the buildings above, however, had been thriftier with their ammunition. They’d also managed to drop anyone who picked up a ladder. The seething crowd beat against the wall of wood and plastic and corrugated steel. Without a way to surmount it, they were stuck there like cattle in a pen.
Merrick took off at a lightning clip, shoving his way through the press with hands that burned with power. People moved aside at the euphoria of his touch. When he reached the gate, he pushed everyone back while screaming for them to make room. As soon as he’d cleared a few feet of space around him, he activated his shield.
This is a shitty way to die, he thought, stepping forward. The front edge of the orb made contact with the barrier. Plastic and metal melted away, forming liquid flows around Merrick’s feet. He took another step. White-hot slag splashed on the clothing and skin of the closest bystanders, raising cries of pain.
One more step. The orb flickered, sending a wave of energy through him. He was halfway through the barricade now. He could see the oily red image of the Olney Street Café on the other side, along with the gatehouse awning and the flimsy card table beneath, surrounded by its makeshift seating fashioned from cinder blocks, a wrought-iron café stool, and a movie theater chair.
The barricade’s hard resistance turned to soft, muddy compliance. The orb shrouded him from head to toe, linked to his movements as if physically attached. Wood burst into flame and floated away as ashen specks. Metal and plastic dripped down around him, adding to the pool at his feet.
The barricade shuddered as its supports disintegrated. Merrick braced himself, expecting the whole thing to collapse on him. He might survive the falling debris, but the buildup of molten metal could do plenty of damage. Taking his final step through the barricade, he snuffed his shield and shifted out of the way. The structure held.
A barrage of gunfire struck the wall around him. He dropped to the pavement as soldiers took pot shots from behind blockades further down the street. Molten slag was still melting off the circular hole he’d cut in the barricade, making it unsafe for his followers to come through. That didn’t stop the soldiers from firing on the crowd through the opening, though.
Merrick crawled to the gate, unfastened the lock and swung it open. The people flooded through, passing him on their way toward the soldiers. He joined the crowd, swept up in the current, then ducked around the next corner and burned off the last of his remaining power running full-speed toward an empty-looking building behind the Row.
He got far enough to enter the lobby and climb halfway up the first flight of stairs before everything within him gave way. He dropped to his knees and collapsed on the steps. The unbearable weight of his fatigue kept him from rising again, as if he’d suddenly grown tired enough to drop dead on the spot. He was asleep before he could form another thought.
He woke where he’d fallen, crusted drool on the staircase’s faded pink carpet. Silver starlight filtered through high windows in what he now realized was the lobby of either an old apartment building or an antique mom-and-pop hotel. The memory of the attack began to return to him. He didn’t understand; hadn’t morning come yet? Or, Infernal forbid, had he slept through an entire day?
The scene on the street outside made him suspect the latter. The dead lay all around, souther and Scarred alike. Fires burned on every corner, and the smell of death smoldered beneath an overlay of charred flesh. The streets were empty of the living, friend or foe.
Merrick dragged the first dead soldier he found into the building’s lobby and changed into the man’s shabby urban-camouflage fatigues. Without an angry mob to carry him to the Hull Tower, a disguise was his best ploy. The chances of anyone recognizing him along the way were slim, but they’d be slimmer if they thought he was a soldier.
He found a rifle and gathered enough unspent ammunition to fill three magazines. Then he backtracked to the next corner for a peek at the Olney Street barricade. A crew of soldiers from the Engineering Division were busy at work repairing the structure while a team of Sentries guarded the opening. Medics were tending to the wounded and loading bodies onto a flat horse-drawn wagon. Whatever goals Merrick’s followers had managed to accomplish last night, throwing the city north into anarchy did not appear to be one of them. Still, they’d disturbed the city north’s usual calm atmosphere to some degree.
Merrick doubled back and headed for the Hull Tower. The stench of battle began to fade as he traveled, though it smelled only a little cleaner here than in the south. Walking these streets again after months away felt strange. He soon determined that a full day had passed while he slept, rather than just a few hours. The sleep of the gifted would never have released him so soon.
He saw the first sign of his followers a few blocks north of the Row. A pair of Rowdies emerged from an apartment building, each man carrying a sheet-wrapped bundle over his shoulder. A woman chased them outside, beating them with her fists and shouting for them to give back what they’d stolen. One of the gangers cuffed her across the face, sending her to her knees.
Further down the street, three male Tribers were lugging another north-woman through a doorway by her arms and legs. Further still, a group of southers were kicking an elderly northern man as he lay on the ground. This is what they think we came here for? Merrick thought in disbelief. Looting and raping and killing? They’re only proving why the Scarred wouldn’t let them in to begin with.
Something struck Merrick on the head. His vision flashed white; pain came afterward, sharp and sudden. The offending brick hit the ground at his feet and broke in two. Above him, a ganger drew back and hurled a second brick in his direction. This time Merrick sidestepped the projectile.
He felt faint. Warm blood poured from the wound, but the warmth in his chest was already closing it up. Gangers rounded the corner and sprinted toward him with readied weapons. They think I’m a Scarred man. “Stop, it’s me,” he shouted, holding up his hands and backing away. “It’s Merrick Bouchard. The healer.”
The Klick gangers were too blood-crazed to recognize him or make sense of his words. Merrick kept shouting. They kept running. They didn’t stop until their bodies hit the ground a few seconds later, a mess of blood and severed limbs. Merrick shredded the next brick before snuffing his shield and giving the ganger in the window a profane gesture. “It’s me, dipshit.”
The ganger frowned in confusion, shrugged, and threw another brick. Merrick dodged it and retreated into the shadows along the opposite sidewalk. From then on he made it a point not to be noticed.
In an alcove across the street from the Hull Tower, Merrick stopped to observe the crowd gathered at the entrance. This many northers only assembled here when there were problems. Merrick studied the name tag, branch emblem, and rank insignia on his stolen uniform before he approached.
Merrick made eye contact with one of the door guards as he shoved his way through the crowd, giving the man a casual nod in greeting. “I got a message for Wax from the Row,” he shouted as he came to stand before them.
“Sorry, uh—” the guard studied the name on Merrick’s un
iform, “—Private Wingate. No one’s allowed in right now. Commissar’s orders. Give me the message and I’ll have it sent up to him.”
“Can’t do that,” Merrick said, heart pounding. “Orders from my C.O. No one hears this but Wax.”
The guard shrugged. “You’ll have to wait with the civilians ‘til he opens up.”
“Look, pal. I don’t know either of you dways, but if this message doesn’t get delivered to Wax tonight, I don’t think he’s gonna like you very much when he finds out you’re the reason.”
“Top secret ‘n shit, huh?” said the other one, a shorter, balding man. “Heard that one before. Every civilian who shows up here says they won’t talk ‘til it’s Wax who’s listening. All the other messengers from the Row today have given us their dispatches. What’s your deal? Who’s your C.O.?”
“Captain Robling, man,” Merrick shot back. “Come on, what is this, amateur hour? I told you I got a message. Quit busting my balls and let me in. I’m off shift as soon as I deliver this. I’ve been waiting to get a few drinks in me all day.”
Both guards looked at him strangely. “Off shift? No one’s off shift. Not until this shit with the southers clears up. How’d you get off tonight?”
Merrick thought quickly. “I don’t mean off, off. Just a break, is all. Robling said I could swing by the Boiler Yard and grab a brew after I brought Wax the message. That makes you two dways the only thing standing between me and a cold one.”
“Shit, I could go for a beer right about now. Been a long-ass day.”
Merrick leaned in. “Tell you what. I’ll pick you up a couple and bring them through on my way back.”
The guards looked at each other. The bald one licked his lips. “This better not be some stunt, Private. You screw us over, I’ll find out where you bunk up.”
“Trust me on this one, boys,” Merrick said.
“I’ll have a dark ale, then.”
“Same for me,” said the other.
“You got it.” Merrick shouldered past them and put his hand on the revolving door. The bald guard caught him by the wrist before he could open it. The mark, he thought, glancing toward the bare flesh between his thumb and forefinger. His nailless fingers were supple, the skin newly formed.
The guard wasn’t looking at his hands, though. He eyed Merrick for a long moment, then said, “On second thought, make mine a pale. Imported. None of this local stuff.”
“Imports are expensive these days,” Merrick said, pretending offense.
“You want to go inside, or don’t you?”
Merrick gave him a wink. “Pale it is. Imported.”
“Don’t be long.”
Oh, I plan to be here for a while, Merrick wanted to say. Dodging bird droppings and broken glass on his way through the atrium, he took the stairwell beside the corridor of elevators and climbed to the ninth floor. The guards standing outside the double doors to Wax’s office seemed more expectant than surprised when they saw him coming down the hallway.
“What’s the news?” said a hook-nosed man with whom Merrick wasn’t familiar.
“For the Commissar’s ears only,” Merrick said.
“He isn’t taking visitors,” said the other guard. Merrick did know this man, he realized, but not before the man recognized him. “Bouchard?” he said. “Bouchard, is that you?”
Merrick made to speak, but he wasn’t sure what to say except, “You guessed it. It’s me.”
“What are you doing here? I heard you got banished,” said Seaton Jamerton, the man whose birdhouse shift with the Sentries had come directly after Merrick’s a few times each week. Seaton eyed Merrick’s scarred face with a curious frown.
“Um… no, that was bullshit,” Merrick said. “I just got moved to another unit.”
“Oh yeah, where? You’re in the Sentries again now, I see.” Seaton pointed to the blue shield insignia on Merrick’s uniform. “Oh, this? Yeah, I uh—”
“Who’s Wingate? They demote you to private and change your name, too?”
“Shit, Seaton, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry.” Merrick lifted his rifle and sprayed the two men with a burst of rapid fire. He kicked open the double doors and emptied his magazine on the second pair of guards he knew would be inside the waiting room.
At the desk, Wax’s secretary Cath raised her hands in surrender and wheeled backwards in her rolling chair until she hit the wall behind her. “Don’t shoot me. What do you want? What do you want?”
“Where’s Wax?”
Cath’s breath trembled, button-up blouse tight at her chest. She tossed her head to indicate the left-hand hallway.
“Get on the ground and put your hands behind your head,” Merrick told her. He waited. “You better be there when I get back.”
Jamming a fresh magazine into his rifle, he made his way down the hall and turned the handle of the first door on the right. Inside was a large boat conference table covered in a scale model of what Merrick quickly realized was the entire city of Belmond. Wax was leaning over the table while his captains and advisors sat around him.
The Commissar glanced up as Merrick entered, then straightened. “Well… Bouchard, isn’t it? You look like you’ve been through some shit.” He grimaced at the ugly scars across Merrick’s face.
Merrick laughed wryly. “I really am a scarred man now. Ever since you banished me, I swore I’d make you regret it.”
“You didn’t have to swear,” said Wax. “I’ve regretted it ever since I made the decision not to kill you. The instant they reported back from dropping you in the wasteland, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I remember telling you that back then. I could tell I was still on your shit-list when you tried to have me killed.”
Wax smiled. “So all this business with the southers breaking in… that was your doing?”
“You tell me,” Merrick said. “You’re the one who knew we were coming.”
It was Wax’s turn to laugh. “I’d heard rumors, yes. Didn’t know where or when, though. I quadrupled security along the Row and it still wasn’t enough. Lesson learned.”
“Too late for lessons, Wax. Time to pay up.”
“What is it you want, Mr. Bouchard? Leave my advisors and I unharmed and I’ll give you anything within my power.”
“It just so happens that the thing I want is your power.”
Wax snorted. “You want to be Commissar…”
“Is that such a crazy idea?”
“Since the position has already been filled… yes. It is a little crazy.”
“And why are you the Commissar, Pilot? Why is it you, and not any of these other men, or any of the thousands outside these walls, who rules the city north? What is it that makes a man a ruler? I’ll tell you what. The same thing that makes a gold nugget more than a hunk of worthless metal. Belief. Belief in its value, and the belief of others that it has that same value.”
“It’s more than that,” Wax said. “I’m the Commissar because I built this city into what it is today. I’ve proven I can handle the job. Have you?”
“I will, in time. Of course, your approval will go a long way toward convincing our citizens of that. That’s why I’m not going to take the city north or the Scarred Comrades from you. You’re going to give them to me. We’ll gather everyone together for one of your big announcements. Except this one will be your last big announcement. You’re retiring, and you’re handing off the reins to me, Merrick Bouchard, your more-than-capable replacement. And you’re going to make it believable.”
Wax smirked. “And you’re going to kill me if I don’t.”
“Oh, no. I’ll kill you if you do. If you don’t, I’m going to keep you alive for a very, very long time. I can do that, you know. And I promise you’re not going to enjoy it.”
“So it’s torture or death. Those are my options?”
“What I’m going to put you through goes far beyond torture. Help me and I’ll guarantee you a peaceful death. Don’t, and I’ll tr
y out a few of the tips I picked up while I was a comrade. I learned from the best, after all. And if you think I’m talking about a measly hanging by the ankles from the top of this tower, you haven’t even scratched the surface. I’m way more creative than that.”
One of the captains, a pinch-faced man whose waves of brown hair fell feather-light over a pronounced forehead, stood from his seat. Anatton “Natter” Buckwald, former Lieutenant of the Second Platoon, appeared to have been given command of Mobile Ops. That meant Merrick’s former commanding officer, Malvid Curran, must be dead.
Merrick saw Natter’s hand twitch for the pistol at his side. “Ah-ah-ah. There’s no reason for that. The rest of you are safe as long as you’re willing to pledge me your loyalty. Refuse, and I’ll find someone to take your place.”
Captain Robling stood as well. “I believe I speak for us all when I say we’ll not stand for this. We are prepared to fight tooth and nail, and yes, to lay down our lives if necessary. Lower your weapon, Mr. Bouchard. Enough have died already in this pitiful attempt of yours. Let us arrange some other agreement without descending into further pointless bloodshed.”
“If there’s any more bloodshed, it’ll be yours,” Merrick said. “You can’t kill me. I’m far too powerful to die. Now, I can begin my reign with the existing division commanders in place, or I can wipe the slate clean and start over with new ones. Which is it going to be, Captain Robling?”
Wax drew his sidearm and fired two shots that struck Merrick in the gut.
Merrick stumbled backward, dropping the rifle to let it hang by the shoulder strap.
Wax fired two more times. The first round struck the wall. The second hit Merrick in the face and exploded through the back of his head.
Merrick ignited, burning bright and hot. He felt the life draining out of him; his mind glitched, as if the substance which had just exited his skull had stolen all reason from him. But there was a warmth to follow, to cradle that oncoming death like a flood of saltwater into a fresh wound: painful, yet cleansing. He gasped, slumped against the wall while the heat surged through him. His strength returned, along with a shuffling flicker of memory. When Wax shot again, Merrick’s shield turned the bullets to slag.
