by T. C. Edge
I can’t see our own people with such clarity, but can get a good impression of the barriers, blockades, and defences in place. And beyond, the shape of the walls to Inner Haven come into view as well, so sparsely defended now.
Zander checks his clock.
One minute, he says. Gather all grenades. Set them on the wall. We throw right there along the lines. He points out the perfect spots. Create havoc, sis, and then unload with your pulse rifle. Make sure it’s charged. Fifty seconds now…
I set my grenades as ordered, then check my rifle. It’s good to go.
Forty seconds.
All explosives are lined up, six each. My brother has some final advice.
I’ll throw longer, he says, and try to reach further behind their lines. You throw closer, right on the edge. We’ll close them in a fire trap.
Thirty seconds.
I look behind us, and check that the door to the roof is shut and locked. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us from behind. I turn back to the action as the wind picks up. The clouds are starting to gather above.
Twenty seconds.
I wonder now if the others are in position. I turn left and right and try to see the little teams down on the street. I lift my gaze to other rooftops, wondering if they had the same idea as us. Then I see two shapes, and my chest swells. Two of the Nameless are nearby, ready to add their storm to ours.
The others are out of sight, but I know they’ll be ready. The Cure have fallen into our trap. They have no watchers at their rear. They have no concern of such a strike. Hubris, as Lady Orlando said, has made them vulnerable. They have no idea what’s coming.
Ten seconds.
I take hold of a grenade, and grip it tight. My heart pumps, my ears throbbing with blood and noise. I reach back, as my brother does, ready to throw with all my enhanced force and speed.
Five seconds.
I take a breath, Zander whispering the countdown in my head.
Three, two, one.
And in unison, we throw.
19
One after another, we hurl the grenades with all the power we can muster. Snatched from the wall, they fly long and far, mine dropping first, Zander’s second as they spread off into the fog.
We act so fast that all are airborne before the first one hits the ground. Too fast, in fact, as I accidentally knock one off in my haste, the explosive falling off the top of the building before it’s armed. I grunt in anger at such a mistake, not wanting to lose any munitions.
Yet, it doesn’t matter.
One after another, separated by mere moments, the grenades burst into life, and result in great death. I see the fire illuminating the mist, our explosives so well dispersed as to cover great swathes of the enemy positions below in flame.
My eyes dilate at the sight. And as the fire rises below us, so it does to the left and the right, to the many enemy positions targeted by our allies. Across the enemy lines, a devastating series of eruptions cause the very mayhem we desire. Dozens of blasts, all tearing through the streets in unison, eliminate hundreds of Cure soldiers from the fight.
My brother picks up his pulse rifle from the wall, triggering me to do the same. Now we add our blue flame to the mix, firing blind into the cloud of smoke rising from the flames below. Through my periphery, I see the same atop the building nearby, our Nameless allies firing too, their rounds of pulse energy a glorious green. And down below, now I see them. Our Stalker allies, their pulse rifles shooting red, spitting from hidden positions at the enemy below.
The colours all join, gathering with the yellow and orange fire to create a dazzling display. Even over the sounds of battle, I can hear the screaming. Dozens, maybe hundreds of men and women, caught in the fiery snare, their bodies burned or their limbs blown off by the grenades issued from their rear.
We shoot, round after round, our rifles on their highest setting. Each takes a little longer to charge, but the results are dramatic. Like the grenades, the heavy rounds of energy fizz into the smoke, exploding through whatever they find beneath. We fire without mercy and without specific aim, covering as much of the area as we can with our devastating weaponry. Weaponry that the Cure cannot match.
For a short time, we stand there, blasting away without any sign of resistance or opposition. It takes a time for the Cure to realise just what’s going on, the carnage enough to disable their faculties and cause the sort of chaos we’d hoped to inflict.
Yet, it doesn’t last forever.
A few pings of bullets fill the air nearby, and I see little chunks of stone ripped from the wall. The firing grows in intensity, tiny lights flashing below and giving away the enemy positions, just as our pulse rifles are with us.
“Get down!” shouts Zander, crouching behind the wall as the bullets start to close in.
A few becomes several more, before the rattle of gunfire below grows loud, and the wall suffers a terrible battering.
“Move!”
Zander slinks off towards another part of the building. I begin to follow.
“No. Other side!” he tells me, without looking, knowing that I’m right behind him.
I stop and turn back, heading for the far side of the building instead. The Cure continue to attack our last known location, and as we get into position, I see Zander suddenly stand once more, lay his pulse rifle on top of the wall, and send forth a ferocious blue barrage.
The rounds fly quick, one after another, and I realise that Zander’s changed the setting on the rifle. We’re no longer firing blind here. We can see where the Cure are by the flashing barrels of their guns.
I change the setting on mine too, flicking the dial before laying my gun down on the wall and firing. It takes a second for the enemy to notice we’ve moved and separated. They see Zander first, and begin firing, but only after he’s taken out several of their number. As they fire at him, and he takes refuge behind the wall, I take over, sending many men to their graves.
Zander, meanwhile, displaces as the fire now comes at me. By the time I’m ducking, Zander’s firing from another vantage. More men sink to the earth.
We continue to fire and move for a while, the roof of the building large enough to give us plenty of options. Soon, the unit assaulting us has grown thin, their chattering guns little more than a whimper. I spare a look over the wall, and am blinded by a sudden light.
The wall explodes not far from where I am. A huge chunk of it is ripped off as the Cure turn to more powerful weapons to disable us. I’m thrown backwards, a sprinkle of debris hailing down on me. I shake the cobwebs away and look to my brother, the missile striking just where he’d been only moments before.
But he’s moved, just in time, displacing ten metres down the line and out of sight. He comes rushing over to me, blood now seeping more heavily from his side. My look of concern is brushed away as he instead inspects me.
His analysis takes a second as I continue to blink away the shroud in my head. There’s a throb in my ear, grazed as I thrust from the exploding wall. I reach up and feel warm blood.
“It’s OK,” says Zander. “Just a cut.”
He lifts me to my feet. I take a moment to regather my full strength. By the time I do, another chunk of wall is disintegrating, and we’re forced to retreat a little further away.
Zander moves me towards the door, and sets me against it.
“Stay here,” he orders.
Then he skips back to the far end of the roof, moving right for one of the latest breaches. He searches through the smog and begins firing once more, before relocating quickly as more bullets and rocket propelled grenades seek him out. Left and right he goes, moving and firing as the barrage seems to gather some steam. Then several explosions rattle lower, down in the building’s foundations, trembling violently beneath my feet.
Zander turns back to me. He felt that too.
He surges over, giving up the fight. I look to the other rooftops and notice that our Nameless soldiers are no longer there. I can’t tell through
the mist whether they’ve been killed or have retreated back to the streets. I can’t tell either if the other men in our unit are still with us. The plan was to inflict as much carnage as possible before moving back to our lines. That time may well have arrived.
I open the door before Zander gets to me, and we pile straight in and out of sight. Flinging my pulse rifle onto my back, I withdraw a handgun, better suited to tighter spaces like thus.
“They may be in the building. Expect contact,” says my brother, stepping into the lead.
We work straight towards the stairs, moving quickly but carefully down. We cover several floors before Zander stops. He halts and listens, and then I hear them.
Footsteps, coming up the stairwell. It sounds like a fair few.
There’s little cover here, not a good spot for a fight. Zander quickly turns to a door, leading into a corridor, and we rush through. We retreat a little, moving through another door and into an abandoned apartment. We stop, silent and still, and wait for the men to pass.
Behind two doors, however, we can no longer hear them. We wait several moments, enough time for them to reach the roof, but not enough to have realised we’ve already left. Then, just as we’re about to go, we hear the door at the end of the corridor open.
It creaks, and the footfall sounds again. Less this time. Perhaps a soldier or two. We slink back into the shadows, our door the first along the corridor and therefore the first to be checked.
The footsteps stop outside. My brother moves one side of the door. I move to the other. Several seconds pass. Nothing happens.
Then, suddenly, the handle of the door slowly turns. It’s all Zander needs.
Before the door opens, he pulls his handgun and begins shooting right at it. The bullets go right through the wood and whatever lies beyond. He shoots laterally, left and right, covering the door and part of the wall to the side.
Silence again.
Then the sound of two bodies sliding to the floor.
He reaches for the handle and pulls. Tentatively, he looks out and makes sure the men are dead. They are, both shot through their weak armour, unable to repel his fire from this range, even through the door.
My brother looks at me.
“Let’s go. They’ll have heard the shots.”
He hurries straight out and I follow once more. We charge for the door to the stairwell, now opened, and hear rushing footsteps again. This time, they’re coming down. We have to get there first.
We do, just. I can hear the men in pursuit now, several levels up. We reach the stairs and begin dashing down, speeding along at a pace that has me almost falling on several occasions. The men follow, though lose ground, unable to keep up. Within moments we’re nearing the foyer, tumbling down the last set of stairs. My stomach takes a tumble too as we reach the hall and look out to see several more men on guard.
They see us just as quickly as we see them. Guns are lifted and aimed, but as I’m about to shoot, Zander grabs me and hurls me off behind the cover of the reception desk. I slide behind it as he follows, a series of bullets tracing his step and just missing as he finds cover.
We’re quick on the draw now, pistols in hand. Without needing to confer, we know just what to do, our minds so well linked. As I slide left, Zander slides right. We don’t shoot over the top of the desk as the enemy might expect. We shoot low, from the floor, either side of the end of the desk, firing straight for the feet of the men ahead.
We connect with ankles and shins, and the four men on guard begin howling to the heavens. They drop to the floor, their weapons discarded as they begin to grapple with their wounds. It’s an instinctive move that will see them dead. As they reach for their legs, we now stand and fire, aiming at more fatal parts. Heads suffer the brunt, and one heart takes a pummelling. All four men are dead within seconds.
But those seconds are enough, and the men are a distraction themselves.
A distraction for us.
As we take them out, our pursuers from the roof come rushing into the foyer. They come from the right, unseen for just a second, too late for us to turn our weapons on them. We duck instead, hiding back behind the large wooden desk, expecting a barrage of fire to light the thing up.
It doesn’t.
Instead, more footsteps clatter, heavy and fast. Then, cowering, I notice the shapes of four more bodies looming over us, guns drawn and looking for the killing shot.
We have no time to retreat or fire before they can. We both know that the only way is forward.
Jumping from cover, we thrust right at them, our first goal to disarm. Zander, just ahead of me, is able to dislodge one gun with a swinging palm, before moving for the man behind. I’m left with two myself, ducking and weaving like flowing water, my small frame enough to trickle through cracks in their defence.
I don’t, however, try to shift their weapons. Instead, I swing for their heads, drawing a knife from my belt as I go. I slash across one’s neck, the cut grazing the skin but not deep. The blood seeps, but doesn’t flow. The man grimaces in anger and pain, his face thick with black stubble and deeply tanned, eyes widening as he leans back to avoid a second blow.
I miss him entirely this time, and as I do, my second opponent steps in, his own knife now gripped tight between his meaty fingers. I see him in my periphery, my Hawk eyes working well, and am able to avoid the thrust of the blade and skip to safety.
My brother has better luck, disarming both men. I’m aware of what he’s doing, without actually seeing it, knowing full well that he’s knocked one man to the floor, and is drawing his knife to deal with the other.
But first, he has to help me out…
The men before me are fast and strong, and clearly well trained in using knives. What began as a gunfight has become a knife fight, the remaining five combatants vying for blood. I’m besieged by quick thrusts and jabs, their blades jagged and rough, not clean and polished like mine. I dodge the first few but find the assault relentless. One comes close, inching towards my precious flesh, and that’s when Zander steps in.
Seeing what I do, he sweeps across and drags me away, pulling me to one side. We take a step back, lining up beside one another with our three enemies standing ahead. The other lies unconscious on the ground, out of the game.
This is a simple bout, two against three, no guns allowed. Just knives and fists.
A round of glares follow, no one moving. We scout each other out, assessing. I wonder who’s going to make the first move. And then, together, they come.
They rush as a three, all at once, brandishing their ugly blades. Slashing and cutting, their arms move with a tremendous pace, and Zander and I are forced to bend and slip skilfully away. I fill my lungs with a heavy breath and breathe it out as smoothly as I can, deepening my focus. The world slows further, and yet the men still fight at speed, their own Dasher blood evening out the playing field.
We enter into a dance, a brutal ballet, all five of us moving at such speed that a regular person would have trouble keeping up. In my head, I hear Zander telling me to let them tire, to keep dodging. To only attack if I see a gilt-edged chance.
I trust his judgement and continue to dodge, the two of us fighting back to back and mostly attempting to repel their advances. They weave around us, working as a three, keeping us ensnared as if it’s to their benefit.
It isn’t, and that’s something they cannot know. They don’t know that we can communicate telepathically. They don’t know that Zander is talking me through things as we go. They don’t know that we can see what the other does, feel what the other does. Standing as we are, our perception of the world around us is complete. Neither of us can be blindsided. Each and every attack is seen before it’s made.
The sensation is something elemental, something powerful. I feel like more than just myself, as if I’ve been bolstered by my twin’s powers. More than ever, I feel his presence within me, his eyes mine to see through, his emotions mine to feel.
We become a truly impe
netrable force, growing in power as our minds link. And when Zander says, when he finally makes his move, I’m right there alongside him.
We do so as one, our attackers breathing hard. All we needed was one chance, one slip of concentration, one chink in the armour. Here it is, right now. And we send them to their graves.
We slash, needing only three strikes, one per man. I duck and move forward beneath one of their defences, rising up from a crouching position and guiding my knife, as has become my speciality, up through his stubbly jaw and into his brain. Zander deals with the other two at precisely the same moment. I don’t see it, not with my own eyes, but I know just what he’s doing.
One throat is sliced through. Another gets the blade imbedded through his temple. All of them, killing strokes, three more men to add to the count of dead.
As they fall, we stand again, side by side, the hybrid twins of the Nameless.
Our mission is complete, we’ve done our job.
And now it’s time to get back.
20
We quickly move out of the building and send our gaze up the street. The fires still swirl, and the mist continues to pump from the battlefield, obscuring our view. Yet something has become clear. The Cure have been severely depleted.
We can tell that by the noise, the beat of war softening. And we can tell it by the lack of movement ahead, the streets much quieter now. But mostly, we can tell it by the shapes on the ground. Those of bodies, hundreds of them, spread all over the concrete.
Our strike team of only a dozen men have struck a killer blow. I feel a tremendous surge of hope flow through me at the sight, and the growing hush around us. Still, guns fire, and the occasional blast sends a tremor through the air, but it’s less than before. Much less.
