War at the Wall (The Watchers Trilogy, Book Three)

by T. C. Edge

  “What?! What's going on?”

  Drake takes a breath, a grimace on his face.

  “The Master...” he grunts. “He's dead.”

  As he speaks, everyone begins piling into the cars as the engines start. I follow my father into the back of the rear jeep as dust is kicked up ahead of us by the forward cars. Immediately, ours rumbles off in pursuit.

  “What the hell happened,” I shout as the car rocks and rolls over the ground. “How did he die?!”

  “I don't know yet,” says Drake. “Stein didn't say. He's come straight from Petram with the news...”

  “What about Leeta?! Professor Lane. Everyone else?”

  “I don't know,” he calls. “I just don't know...”

  My mind rushes as we cover the short distance back to the base. As we approach, I see Stein's ship positioned on the small designated landing area within the military camp. We park outside the wall of the camp, and find a soldier waiting to direct us.

  “Where is Aeneas Stein?” asks General Sharpe hastily.

  “He's gone into Knight's Wall, sir. To the weapons control room, I think.”

  Together, the negotiation party rush towards the wall, now with Markus and Jackson in tow, in through the entrance, up the stairs, and down the corridor to the control room. Inside, we find Stein, sitting forlornly, his face no longer carrying his signature yellow smile.

  “Aeneas!” says Drake. “Tell us, what's happening?!”

  We gather round, and he stands ahead of us on frail, old legs. His first words send a shiver down my spine.

  “The Manson triplet,” he says, grimacing. “The Watcher...he escaped from the cells.”

  “How!” asks General Sharpe quickly.

  Stein shakes his head.

  “I don't know. He must have had help. He murdered Julius in his bed chamber. Others...many others were killed.”

  “Leeta?” I ask.

  His eyes raise to me, broken.

  “No, she's OK. Most of the dead are guards. They tried to stop him, but were outmatched. They had no chance against a man like that.”

  “And Professor Lane?” adds General Richter.

  “She's alive,” says Stein.

  “Where is Manson now?” asks Drake, eyes narrowing to slits.

  “He disappeared somewhere in the mountain. The people are terrified. They've all moved out onto the plateau and have blocked the entrance.”

  Drake looks straight at Troy.

  “We have to go back, right now. Hunt this man down.”

  Troy nods.

  “Aeneas,” says Drake, “are you OK to fly?”

  Stein nods after a brief pause.

  “Yes. I can fly.”

  “Good. We leave immediately. We have thousands of refugees en route to Petram. We have to make the mountain safe for them.”

  “You'll need help,” says Markus, “to search the mountain.”

  “I agree,” says Troy. “We'll take as many soldiers as the plane can carry. But no one can engage him except for a Watcher.”

  “He's strong,” grunts Drake. “I fought him before. We'll need at least two to take him.”

  “Best make it three,” I say. “I'll come too.”

  “No,” says Drake. “We need you to stay here. We'll take Athena.”

  “But...”

  “No time to argue. Jackson, go and find Athena and bring her to the ship.”

  “Sir, I can come too, help you search...”

  “No, you stay here, we will use Markus' strike force.”

  “Yes, sir,” says Jackson, before darting off.

  “Go get the son of bitch, Drake,” says General Richter.”

  Drake smiles.

  “My pleasure,” he says, before marching off with Troy, Stein, and Markus.

  I follow behind and, after briefly saying goodbye to my father, watch them leave from the top of the wall, feeling more vulnerable than ever as the ship disappears towards the distant horizon. Drake, Troy, Athena, and Link...all of them gone. Now, I'm the only fully fledged Watcher left here.

  With information so sparse, I speculate with Jackson as to what could have happened, how Manson could have escaped.

  All he can suggest is that, like here, some Eden spies managed to get inside, disguised as refugees.

  “This doesn't feel right, Jack,” I say. “I feel like we're being separated on purpose.”

  “Divide and conquer,” murmurs Jackson.

  “What?” I ask.

  “It's a classic military tactic,” he says. “Split up your enemy, weaken then, and then take them all down, one by one.”

  My heart skips a beat.

  “You think that's what's happening? You think this is a set up?”

  He offers me the only answer he can.

  “They'll be fine together,” he says. “Manson has no chance against three powerful Watchers. Don't worry, Cy.”

  Unfortunately, telling me not to worry is like telling someone not to breathe. It's impossible, and is my default setting. Already, I have Ellie and Link to worry about, and Jackson when he goes out on missions, and my brother and sister out in the camp. Now, my dad and Athena have both gone off hunting a powerful Watcher in the deep dark of the mountain.

  Frankly, I hardly have any space for anything but worry now, my mind torn in so many different directions I think I may crack.

  Jackson, knowing me better than anyone, spends as much time as he can with me as the day rolls by, trying to comfort me and settle me down. I become a bag of nerves, spending half my time up on the wall watching the horizon and the other half down in the control room, desperate to find out if there's been any word.

  I'm told the not so comforting fact from General Sharpe that it 'could take days' to find him in the mountain, with so many hundreds of tunnels and caves to explore. The thought fills me with dread, but worse, I fear that my father or Athena might find themselves face to face with Manson alone, a man who's just lost his twin brother and sister and who, from what I know, is already a little unhinged. There could be few more dangerous enemies out there, and I'd feel so much happier if Link was with them.

  When the darkness of night descends, the worry in me grows further. I go to the trainee Watchers and, as I often do, ask them if they have anything to report. I get the same as I always do from them: visions of people killed as they cross the country on their way here. All except Ray, the only one of them capable of seeing just slightly into the Void.

  “I see shadows in the night sky,” he says. “I see burning, fire.” He shuts his eyes, trying to recall more. “It's blurred. I...can't tell where it is, what it is.”

  His description is nothing to go on, but it sends a cold tingle down my spine.

  Shadows in the night sky...

  What could that mean?

  Alone in my room, I find it hard to sleep. All I think of is my father, and Athena, in the dark mountain. Ellie, Link, somewhere out there, maybe captured, maybe dead. The worst thing about it all is the not knowing. Not being able to help. Not having any control.

  All I can do is sit here and wait. Wait for news of their return, news of their capture, news of their death. My mind skips between each option, from the relief of seeing them again, to the devastation of knowing that I've already said goodbye for the final time. And with the case of Ellie, and Link, I didn't even get that.

  As the hours drag on, slower than ever, I know I won't sleep. I leave the confines of my small room and climb once more to the top of the wall. I find a perch to watch the stars, dots on the black canvas above, and the glowing moon, so bright tonight, so beautiful.

  And as I sit and stare into the sky, I see movement far in the distance. Coming from the depths of the mainland, black against the giant moon, small shapes drifting closer. And then Ray's words come back to me again.

  Shadows in the night sky...

  My eyes open wide at the realisation of what's coming. And just as I realise, I hear the grinding of gears and the scraping of metal an
d the mechanical whir of machinery moving. I turn left and right and, from several ports built into the wall, guns appear, folding out from within.

  But they're not artillery guns, not machine guns. They're anti aircraft guns, and they begin firing immediately.

  They don't boom like the artillery, firing giant shells. They whoosh and let fly missiles, cutting into the sky at speeds I can't fathom. I watch in awe as the guns around me send out wave after wave of deadly projectiles, and at the same time, the whining, piercing sound of an alarm screeches into the air.

  I quickly cup my hands to my ears and squint as the sound penetrates my skull, moving quickly towards the exit to descent down inside the wall. I drop down one floor and rush along to the control room. Generals Richter and Sharpe are already there, speedily woken by the imminent raid above.

  “Bombers incoming,” shouts one of the technicians.

  Several others sit in front of monitors and controls for the anti air guns above. I know from previous meetings what our capabilities are. These guns are able to fire from miles out, taking out aircraft at great speed before they reach us. The threat of an air raid was never considered a serious one. But still, here they come...

  Above, the sound of the missiles being shot continues, and the incessant wailing of the alarm blares in my ears. I rush towards a monitor showing the base below, and see people scurrying from inside their dorms, soldiers already coordinating the evacuation. They pour out and towards the wall, the thousand soldiers on the mainland side also seeking refuge within the fortress.

  On the other side, the thousands of reserve forces and refugees also begin to rush from their assorted camps. Many stay where they are, far removed and well back from the wall. Others, closer, charge in and follow the rest, hiding inside the massive, impenetrable barricade.

  Other monitors show all angles of the base, the surrounding area, and the night sky. One offers a view of the fleet of bombers coming from the distance, large and clearer now, still yet to be hit. Then, moments later, I see several of them explode in flames, still a way out from the wall. But only a few go down, and there are others, dozens of them, like a swarm of birds in the sky, flocking our way.

  “There are too many!” a technician shouts. “They're going to hit.”

  I watch in fear, nothing I can do, as the first of the bombers nears us, close enough to begin dropping their loads. Then, moments later, as they're shot down by our missiles, their own payloads hit their mark. I look again at the military base below as it once more explodes into flame, the remaining buildings reduced to rubble.

  I pray that the alarm gave us enough warning. That my brother and sister were able to get out and into the safety of the wall. Then, a heavy shaking rumbles up through my feet, and dust begins dropping from above as several bombs hit nearer.

  Lights flicker, tremors flow beneath me, and I watch in horror as the site outside the base is hit again and again.

  The Generals bark orders. The technicians shout with updates.

  “Another three down.”

  “Four more hit.”

  “Store rooms outside have been destroyed, sir.”

  I listen but hardly take anything in. I'm just an observer here, with the power to do nothing, help no one. No one takes any notice of me as I move around, looking at the monitors, trying to work out just what's being hit outside, just how many planes have been brought down, how many remain.

  The entire raid is such a blur, passing by so quickly. It seems like only minutes before the rumbling stops, the lights stop flickering, and the frantic calls of the technicians and Generals calm. Everyone takes a collective breath, and outside all I see is dust and fire.

  “Damage report,” calls General Sharpe.

  “Most of the base on the mainland side looks shot, sir,” says a man. “Deadlands side unharmed.”

  “Personnel?”

  “I don't know, sir. Most seemed to escape into the wall.”

  “What about our weapons systems?”

  “Fully functioning, General,” says another technician. “Except one artillery gun.”

  The two Generals look to each other, and breathe out a sigh of relief.

  “I can live with that,” says General Richter.

  Another voice comes from the other end of the room.

  “Sir, we have bodies outside...”

  We all rush over to look at the monitor. Through the clearing dust, the sight of scattered lumps litter the mainland side.

  I feel a tension grip my insides.

  “Send soldiers out to check them,” commands General Richter.

  I look at the monitor and three names enter my head.

  Carson. Cassie...Jackson

  I spring from the room and down the corridor. People fill the spaces, hiding against walls, under strong supports. I rush down the steps, three at a time, and see more souls clogging up the inside of the wall. At some points, debris has fallen, ceilings and walls and doorways cracked and splintered.

  When I reach the bottom I find it almost impossible to move for the number of people squashed into the space.

  I squeeze through, shouting as I go.

  “The raid is over! You're safe now.”

  Some follow me out, wanting to help.

  “It's the Golden Girl,” they say.

  I use my name, my title, my growing legend.

  “The people outside need help! Check for survivors,” I shout.

  I'm followed into the storm of dust and fire by a platoon of brave souls, soldiers and refugees together as one. Through the suffocating cloud I see the carnage of death all around me. Bodies, some intact, some exploded into little bits, lie here and there. Vehicles sit in ruins, flaming. Store buildings, many used for holding food or ammunition or clothing or weapons, are reduced to heaps in the burnt earth.

  A wind rushes through and the fog starts to clear, and spread far from the base of the wall I see more little mounds in the dirt. I rush from body to body and look upon their faces, check their pulses. Here and there, I hear calls of 'he's alive', as more people rush out to help.

  Five, ten, fifteen people I check. All dead.

  I reach the sixteenth, a large frame obscured by dust, lying face down in the dirt, and stick my fingers quickly to the side of his neck. And as I do, I notice the military fatigues. I see the back of the golden head. And I see the blood, pouring from the stump of an arm, blown off at the elbow.

  I roll the body over, and see my fear come true.

  Jackson's face stares up at me.

  And in that moment, my world threatens to end, the blackness closing in. I hold his neck, my fingers shaking, my voice screaming out his name.

  He doesn't reply, but his heart does.

  On the tips of my fingers I feel a pulse.

  30 - The Coming Knight

  “MEDIC!”

  I shout the word over and over again until I feel the presence of someone at my side. They slide through the dirt onto their knees and quickly begin checking Jackson for wounds. His jacket is removed, revealing deep cuts across his chest and a large shard of shrapnel embedded into his abdomen. His left arm, reduced to a stump, is quickly wrapped to prevent the further flow of blood.

  “I need help over here,” calls the medic.

  Immediately, another three men come over to join him.

  They lift him from the sand and begin carrying him, two holding his legs, two more at his shoulders, out through the smoke and towards the gate. I follow, half in a daze, staring at his face as I stumble along behind them through the thick cloud.

  “Is he going to be all right?” I ask, my voice shaking.

  The medic looks at me for the first time, and I see recognition in his eyes.

  “We'll do everything we can...Miss Drayton. Everything. I promise.”

  It's all he can offer me, all he can say. We pass through the gate and into the Deadlands, the smog clearing at the side untouched by the raid. Ahead, thousands of tents and shelters spread out into the dist
ance. Off the near right, the field hospital begins to fill with the injured, a stream of men and women carrying their fallen brothers and sisters into its midst.

  When we reach it, we find a spare stretcher laid out on the floor and Jackson is gently placed down. The medic immediately begins his work, calling over a nurse to help him as the three who helped carry him rush off once more towards the gate. I kneel to the floor by Jackson's side but am told to move.

  “Stand back, Miss,” says the nurse as she comes forward.

  I'm quickly shoved to the side as the nurse unwraps Jackson's arm to take a look.

  “His arm's been lost at the elbow,” reports the medic. “He also has some deep lacerations to the chest and a puncture wound in his abdomen. I need to remove the shrapnel immediately.”

  I watch in horror as they go to work. The nurse immediately starts to tightly bind and dress his arm. The medic, with some force, pulls out the piece of shrapnel and is greeted with a spurt of blood to the face. He wipes the crimson spray away and explores the wound in greater detail.

  I stare at the scene, my feet planted to the earth, and feel tears warm my cheeks. Around me, the hospital continues to fill, more bodies being carried inside, some with more minor injuries, others with little hope of seeing out the night.

  I pray that Jackson isn't part of the latter. Hopelessly, I stand and pray, my hands shaking, my heart pacing, watching now as the medic suddenly rushes off and returns with a small contraption that he uses to close, sew, and sear the wound shut. He does the same to the larger cuts across his chest, before standing and facing me.

  “He got lucky,” he says. “A little deeper and he might have punctured a vital organ. Thankfully, he's a big boy and has plenty of muscle tissue. It saved him.”

  I feel a flood of relief pour out of me.

  “His...arm?” I ask.

  The medic shakes his head.

  “Nothing we can do there. It's been seared and bandaged, but he'll live.”

  I spontaneously wrap my arms tight around the man's neck.

  “Thank you...thank you so much,” I say.

  He stands motionless for a moment before actively untangling himself from my grip. His eyes show of a man whose night has only just begun.