New World Inferno

by Jennifer Wilson

  Nos’ grey hair glinted blue.

  “NO!!!” I screamed, but it was too late.

  Nos’ arms shot out and with a neck whipping force, he shoved Otto from the ledge. Several others screamed around me, but the crackle of blue electricity devoured their cries. For one glorious second, Nos was illuminated in blue light. His hair glowed brilliantly, then he was gone. Otto fell past three others clinging in shock to their ropes, eyes tracking his fall, barely blinking before he whipped past. For a second Otto looked resigned to his fate. His arms rose as if to embrace death, then suddenly a thick limb shot out.

  Grenald’s bellow thundered over our heads as his hand slapped onto Otto’s raised arm and with a jerk, Otto slammed back against his boyfriend’s side with terrifying force. Both men’s grips slid, barely keeping hold and leaving angry trails of nail marks on their forearms before catching again at the wrists. The weight of Otto’s body dragged Grenald down the rope several feet causing the ex-Wraith to scream through gnashed teeth as he fought to maintain his grip. Every muscle in Grenald’s body flexed and the strained arm holding Otto now hung at an odd angle, but he never let go.

  Otto was quick to move, winding his legs around the rope to relieve the weight from Grenald’s dislocated arm, but the damage was done. Their descent was slow as the men grunted their way down to us. Triven was the first to their side.

  Both Otto and Grenald were shaking from head to toe and the second Grenald was grounded, Triven grabbed the huge man’s arm. Otto was quick to brace the other side, his face twisted, overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions. A collective wince stirred the onlookers as Triven slammed Grenald’s shoulder back into place. The big man barely made a sound, then gingerly working his shoulder, muttered something that sounded like “good enough”.

  Cortez grabbed his other hand and began smearing a foul-smelling cream over the blistered skin. The friction from catching Otto had torn through his glove. “It will help.” She said.

  It was easy to recognize the smell of The Healer’s salve and the pain in Grenald’s face lessened slightly. The old bat was good—was being the operative word. I hoped her death had been a quick one. She deserved that at least.

  As the last foot touched down, Archer barked, “We got company!”

  I could hear them now too, marching feet in the distance accompanied by gunfire.

  “MOVE!” I screamed.

  30. COLLIDE

  I SURGED TO the front of the line, nearly knocking over Archer. No one else had moved, still rattled by The Wall’s violent return to power.

  “Move, NOW!” One hand raised, prepared to fire—though I knew it would offer us little more than cover—while the other hand grabbed a handful of Archer’s jacket. With a shove, I forced her in the direction I wanted.

  Toward the gunfire.

  Toward the marching feet.

  After all, it was better to be the hunter than the prey. You only get the element of surprise once.

  Rows—mazes—of identical homes stood blandly to our right. It wasn’t ideal cover, and if we had to break a few doors down for shelter then we would break down some freaking doors and take hostages if necessary. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  I spared one last glance for the Tribes, but they were already gone, the unlucky lifeless bodies the left behind. The message was clear, everyone for themselves.

  The dome above snapped and popped back to life, and I couldn’t repress the feeling of once again being trapped in Fandrin’s cage. The air swelled with electricity, both from the sky and from our nerves.

  I could practically taste the war and its coppery tang was bitter.

  Our pack moved deliberately, quickly matching the pace I set as we would be no match for the Sanctuary’s long-range guns. Taking them by surprise was our best option, possibly our only option. We blundered toward the protection of the vacant-looking residences. The surface beneath my feet changed as we left green space and found pavement. It was then the smell of charred flesh overwhelmed me and I narrowly missed stepping on a smoldering body. Though his grey hair was sizzled black and the face was contorted, I knew it was Nos. Unexpectedly, my throat clinched as a different kind of heat burned behind my eyes. I had to remind myself he was not the first and wouldn’t be the last to die—probably not even tonight.

  Hushed sounds of mourning trailed out behind me as the others passed our dead companion. But it was the sob, louder than the rest, that told me Otto had seen him. I knew Nos’ face would haunt him, just as Maddox’s did mine. When a person gives his life for another, it leaves a mark. There was a shuffle of feet as Grenald forced Otto to keep moving, to leave the body. It seemed heartless, but that wasn’t Nos anymore. Just a corpse that would slow us down.

  The homes loomed closer as two people flanked me. I didn’t have to look to know who they were.

  Triven and Archer had barely taken point when my hand flew up again, flashing a quick gesture. What seconds ago had appeared as one chaotic fleeing mass was suddenly organized and fluid. On cue, our pack split neatly into three smaller groups. Dividing into orderly rows, we fragmented off from each other with the precision of a well-trained militia. I would have to thank The Master for that, if I ever saw him again.

  Hands full of weapons, Triven’s arm brushed mine and for the length of one heartbeat, I pressed back. Then he was gone. I didn’t watch his or Archer’s departure. I couldn’t. I needed my thoughts here with me, not worrying after them. Those assigned to their parties followed suit and those left to me, stayed the line.

  The labored breathing of those close behind seemed to press down the back of my neck. My eyes darted between the buildings.

  Gunfire.

  It was closer this time. The random percussions hammered against my chest. My legs began to stretch, unconsciously forcing bigger strides. We had strategized the plan of attack carefully, gone over it what felt like a thousand times and it suddenly didn’t seem like enough.

  Fandrin’s army was trained for tactical warfare and though they were skilled in a variety of combat styles, these soldiers had never actually faced a Tribe—or much resistance at all for that matter. The Wall, their weapons, and the people’s compliance had made Fandrin and his army brash. Still, we wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. It didn’t matter if we had the element of surprise, they still out-armed us.

  Our weapons took precision and skill to use. Despite the rigorous and often brutal training, their weapons were designed to simply point and shoot. Well, if you had the properly calibrated chip that is. And even a nervous, shaking hand wouldn’t prevent a Sanctuary bullet from finding its mark. If we came at them head-on, we would just be lining up to be mowed down one-by-one. A single line of attack was easy to defend against, but three—that would help even our odds. Not even the Sanctuary weapons were that good yet. They hadn’t needed to be. Our goal was to disarm and incapacitate. Without their weapons, the fight would be on equal ground. Their child-turned-soldiers could fight, but so could we. I had broken arms before, hurt to keep from killing and I had hated myself for it every day since. The thought of attacking children—even those armed to kill—still turned my stomach. Triven knew this. I had even confided in Archer that I would not go after the kids. They would have to take lead. I only hoped Fandrin had not unleashed his child army yet. I wasn’t ready for them, not now. Maybe not ever.

  We dodged through the narrow breaks between grey homes, the sound of sporadic gunfire calling us along the most direct path. We ran the straightest line, knowing Triven and Archer would be leading their teams around in a swooping trail. Soon they would be darting sideways and looping back towards us. Encircle, ensnare—that was the plan.

  I tried to slow my feet, to pace myself. After all, this method of attack was most efficient if all three parties arrived at the same time. But it wasn’t in my nature to slow down. Especially not if there was a chance Triven or Archer would beat me to our goal. I pushed away the haunting visions of the bullet-riddled body I had seen on these sam
e streets. The body I had once thought was Triven’s. It wasn’t him, not then, but if his team beat us… it could be. My pace increased. Despite our vow to keep a steady pace, I couldn’t risk the chance he or Archer might run into Fandrin’s army first.

  If anyone was going to draw the first gunfire, it was going to be me. Tension pulsed from the Subversive members behind me, growing with each step—especially from Baxter whose toes were close on my heels—but not a word was said to slow me down. Maybe we were all thinking the same thing. We had to beat the others there.

  Every instinct began tingling as we darted out into the third empty street.

  Lights in the homes were flickering on and off. Doors were left wide open and streams of light leaked out, illuminating the vacant pavement in sporadic patches. The insides were empty, shells with no occupants. Once I thought I glimpsed the swirls of a matted Scavenger cloak whip past a door, but it was gone before I could even think to care.

  I slipped on something and glanced quickly down to see what had broken my strides. In the streaks of light from the open doors I could see them.

  Footprints tracked from a puddle behind us to my boots. To our boots.

  Red prints.

  Bloody prints.

  There were fading with each step we took, worn away by the pavement. At least we couldn’t be tracked far.

  “Where the hell is everyone?” Baxter asked, winded but pulling even with me. His rifle sat butt against his shoulder, muzzle down but ready. His eyes were tracing the same bloody tracks mine had.

  I shook my head with a half shrug, not wasting the breath to answer.

  I didn’t know. But he was right. It felt wrong.

  It was far past the Sanctuary’s mandatory curfew. If people weren’t in their homes then where the hell were they? What the hell had happened since we left?

  I hadn’t given much thought to what we would find when The Wall came down, but it certainly wasn’t this ghost town. People in bunkers yes. But abandoned homes? Bloody streets? No.

  Baxter’s gun twitched as a fresh round of gunfire echoed around us and my breath caught. Lights danced against the buildings’ roofs in front us. Red dots bounced off walls and shouts suddenly began to form words.

  We were here.

  One particularly narrow alley was the only thing separating us from Sanctuary soldiers now. A spark of pride welled in my chest as those following didn’t falter, but instead drew more weapons. Single file we pinched between two homes, the space barely wide enough for my shoulders, but it was broadening. A reverse funnel opening to the streets before us. It was the perfect point of entry.

  Silver clothing darted past the mouth and Baxter’s rifle jammed into my shoulder as I slowed.

  My feet had faltered as a red light danced down the alley sweeping over my chest. Fear clenched my stomach, but as quickly as it appeared, the glowing dot darted away. Sweeping lazily over the darkness covering us. At first I thought we were lucky they hadn’t seen us, but in the two seconds that my feet had hesitated, I noticed something had changed.

  The night became a vacuum. All sound disappeared. The lights seemed to freeze mid-sweep and the soldiers’ faces twisted away from us, their focus pulled somewhere else. To something they could see in the darkness.

  It was then the screaming began, but it wasn’t the sporadic cries we had heard earlier—the tiny bursts, moments of fear. These sounds were different, sounds the Sanctuary had never heard.

  These were battle cries. But they weren’t those of the Wraiths, the Scavengers or even the Taciturns. They were our battle cries. Which meant only one thing. Either Triven or Archer, or both, had beaten us here.

  The soldiers standing at the entrance of our alley raised their guns, but their movements were too slow, their muscles hindered by shock.

  Fingers inched toward their triggers, but the soldiers wouldn’t get a shot off, we would see to that. Quickly holstering my own guns, I had to remind myself we were to incapacitate first and kill only if necessary. The rebels had been firm on this, not all the Sanctuary soldiers were against us, they just didn’t know that they had sides to choose from. I would try to abide by their rules, but if it came to my life or one of Fandrin’s soldier’s, the choice would be easy.

  My voice rose, joining the others in the street, not with pride, but as a distraction. Baxter was quick to understand, his voice calling out after mine. A cry rippled out behind us as the rest of our team made themselves heard. Ten voices sounded like a hundred as they boomed off the plaster walls of the alley. The effect was exactly what I had hoped for.

  The soldiers standing in our path whipped around in surprise, but had little time to do much else before we collided with them.

  I took the man in the middle, knowing my squad could handle the other two soldiers with ease.

  As the soldier’s gun swung upward, my hands were there. Ready. Waiting. My fingertips curled over the cool metal and I shoved the weapon upwards toward his unsuspecting face. A flash of disbelief flickered in his eyes before I smashed both the gun and my fist into his nose. Using my shoulder, I sent the man sprawling backward into the street. For a second he held tight to his gun and I lunged forward with him. The man slammed down hard onto the pavement, his head whipping back with a crunch. He blinked dazed as I rolled myself over him, yanking the gun away and summersaulting back to my feet. He let go this time and I rose into a well-lit street of chaos.

  It had been Archer’s team who had arrived first. Silver soldiers fired sporadic startled shots as her team overtook a small group farther down the street. Another pack of armed guards was fanning out to our right, preparing to fire, but their attention was briefly drawn by our unexpected arrival. I lifted my stolen gun to fire first, but immediately lowered it.

  A sandy head materialized from an alley behind the distracted soldiers, followed by a dozen more. Triven was quick to engage, his expert hands gentle but commanding as he disarmed and incapacitated two solders before they could react. Silver soldiers were sprawled on the ground unconscious, a few dead, while others were holding up their hands in defeat. Some still fought, but we out-numbered them. I estimated thirty guards to our fifty. No… forty-nine. Still, the gunfire was ceasing, and the wailing screams were fading to whimpers.

  It was then I noticed them.

  In the midst of it all, a cluster of nearly thirty citizens cowered in the center of the street. Men, women and children. Their white nightwear stark in the darkness. The flickering lights of their homes illuminating the terror on their faces. Next to them was a pile of bodies, a red pool leaking out from beneath white tunics. Dead citizens lay crumpled on top of each other, each corpse showing the signs of an execution style murder.

  Most of the people refused to look up at us, their frightened gazes cast downward as if trying to disappear into the concrete. A small girl at the front huddled closer to her mother, inching away from the trickle of blood creeping toward her bare toes. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. But it was one younger man at the front that caught my attention. Unlike the others, his head was not bowed and he was not cowering. Hate burned in the man’s glare, but he didn’t look at us. He was watching the only seven soldiers still standing in the center of the street. Several were battered and bruised, most already stripped of their rifles and handguns, but each was prepared to fight. We now held most of their weapons, but the soldiers looked at ease assuming their guns would do little in our hands. The small group parted slightly as our three packs converged on them and a smaller figure came forward.

  The female soldier stepped in front of me, gun in hand, though it hung loosely at her side. She wasn’t wearing silver like the others, but the white uniform of Fandrin’s higher ranking officers. The other soldiers may have had the excuse of blindly following a tyrant, but not this woman. She would know who the man she followed was. She would know my grandfather was a monster. It was clear she was the one in charge. The woman’s thin face was all angles and harsh lines. I would have placed her in h
er forties, but age was so much harder to guess here. Pure hatred twisted her features and I had to wonder if she recognized me. Ryker’s “face of the rebellion”, Fandrin’s betraying bloodline. Or perhaps she saw nothing more than a savage girl.

  One thing was clear. She wouldn’t be surrendering and she definitely would not be siding with the rebels. I pointed my stolen gun at her chest—at the Sanctuary emblem glinting on the perfectly maintained uniform.

  She smiled lazily at the firearm in my hand, then slowly her own rifle rose as she aimed at my heart.

  “Stupid heathen.” She smirked, looking at the Sanctuary gun in my Tartarus hands.

  I pulled the trigger and the gun fired, my implanted chips were still working. The woman’s chest exploded red, but not before a look of shock rattled her smug glare.

  “Arrogant bitch.” I retorted.

  The few remaining soldiers in the street had stopped fighting. The citizens were looking up from their crouched positions in shock. Eyes were jumping from me, to the gun that had just fired, to the dead commander.

  They had never seen anyone but a soldier fire a weapon here. No one but a soldier should have been able to make a gun fire. What they didn’t know was that two universal chips had been implanted in my wrists. The same had been done to Triven and the other rebels. Every gun here would fire for us. The rest of the Subversive members, not so much, but the soldiers didn’t know that and that fact was clearly written all over their faces.

  I repressed a smug smile. Ryker had been right, they were not expecting us and they had not been prepared for us to fight back with their own weapons.