by Frankie Rose
I take another bite of my apple, glaring at him. I can’t tell from the smile on his face whether he’s mocking me or if he’s being serious. I decide physical pain is probably the best response either way, and I sucker-punch him straight in the stomach. He doubles over, clutching his belly.
“Ugghhh! What was that?”
“Just getting started on the gut beating.” I curl an eyebrow at him. I want to smile so badly. It probably shows. “What, weren’t you ready?”
******
“They’re planning a scouting party. I want to go.” Luke is defiant, hands on hips. “We need more food and supplies, and I’m just as capable as anyone else. Ry said I had to get you to say yes before I can go with them.”
I don’t know whether he knows it or not, but Ryka turns me into the bad guy when he says stuff like that. I wish Luke was older so I wouldn’t feel so responsible for him. I’d probably feel responsible for him regardless of his age, actually. I just wouldn’t be able to veto any of his half-cocked ideas. Gods.
“It’s dark, Luke. Why are they going now? Why not in the morning?”
“Because we don’t have to be so careful at night. We’re harder to see.”
I rub my hands over my face. I’m going to regret this. “Alright. You can go. But—”
“Thank you!”
“But I’ll come with you.” Luke knows better than to argue. He accepts the compromise gracefully and he’s still bouncing around when we arrive down on the ground floor ten minutes later. I’m spinning my Balisong over and over in my hands when I lock eyes with Ryka. Callum, Lettin and Foster also look up as we arrive. Callum grins at Luke, while Lettin and Foster give me polite nods.
“I can take care of him, y’know,” Ryka whispers. His words surprise me.
“I…I know that. I trust you. I just…I can’t help it.” It’s true. I trust Ryka implicitly, but there are some things chance likes to take out of our hands, and I’m not willing to be absent should my brother need me.
“Let’s move!” Lettin booms. “I want to be in my bed by midnight.”
We move out. This is the first time I’ve stepped foot outside the building since we arrived here a week ago, and I’m unprepared for how eerie the deserted place is. Faded-out papers, peeling paint, concrete and rubble everywhere. Tattered cloth and twisted metal. Nothing resembles what it once was, which is kind of sad. We’ll never know how this place once looked when it was new and shining and so full of people.
“What do you think happened?” Luke whispers. He’s nowhere near as subtle as he thinks he is, though, because everyone hears him.
“I don’t know,” I tell him, kicking at blocks of rubble as we walk. “I have no idea.”
“There was a giant wave,” Lettin tells us. “Started by a huge explosion far off the coast of a country far from here. The wave travelled a long way, wiped out a lot of people. Destroyed their homes. War followed afterwards.”
“Why?” Luke asks, jogging up besides Lettin. My little brother is dwarfed by the huge outline of the older man. He is stacked muscle, heavy, whereas Luke is lean and light. Ryka is somewhere in between the two.
“Who knows? A small disagreement can quickly escalate into something much bigger. I doubt much has changed over the years. Human nature is still human nature. Just look at the place you were born.”
Callum sets out ahead, which leaves Ryka moving silently beside me. We’re close enough to hold hands, not that I’m holding my breath, waiting for that to happen.
“How’s Jack?”
“Okay,” he says stiffly.
Okay? Okay? I chew on the inside of my cheek so I don’t say anything I’ll regret later. “You realise he was the only one who understood what I was going through and didn’t treat me like a monster when I first arrived in Freetown, right? You realise I consider him family?”
Ryka looks startled. “Yeah, well, I guess...”
“And it didn’t occur to you that I might like to know he’s safe. Hell, that he’s alive?”
In the twilight, Ryka has the decency to blush. He fiddles with the leather strap of the bag he carries, watching his feet. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”
“That’s ironic, Ryka, since you seem to have been doing a lot of thinking about other things. Ridiculous things that make no sense and hurt everyone around you.”
“You’re not being fair.”
“No, you’re not being fair.”
“I saw you, you know.”
I don’t need to ask what he saw. I knew it was him the moment I caught sight of his blond hair. “So what. Caius and I were fighting. Training. We used to do it every single day. It means nothing.”
“Up ahead!” Callum calls. We have to stop because the other three members of our group have, but I can tell this conversation is far from over. It’ll have to be over for now, though. Callum has found something. A long, straight road unravels in front of us, bisected by another great swathe of cracked and crumbling tarmac. At the intersection, a huge building, the same size as the Colosseum, rises into the night sky. Instead of being tall and thin, this building is boxy, only four storeys high. Thin lines of paint—red, blue, green—stain the outer walls. Marks and swirls, no words. Great stacks of metal wire baskets, rusted and twisted together like tangled limbs, barricade the entire ground floor and halfway up the second. Lettin takes one look at it and raises his eyebrows.
“It’s been marked out. Recently, too.”
“Yeah,” Ryka agrees. “And it looks like whoever marked it out didn’t want people getting in any time soon, either.”
Luke eyes the building suspiciously. “Why would they do that?”
“Most of these places have been stripped bare already. If people have been scavenging around and found something worth protecting, this is probably the only way they can do it.”
Callum screws his face up, peering into the fading light. “Someone’s got to go up.”
Luke’s already trying to pick out a pathway up the wire blockade, I can see him mapping out a route. I put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere until I know it’s safe.”
“Kit!”
“No. I’ll do it. I’m the lightest, anyway. It doesn’t exactly look stable.” It really doesn’t. No one objects as I make my way forward and pull myself up the first cart. Not that I’m expecting them to. I’ve hoisted my body up the first three feet when I realise I’m not alone. Ryka is right behind me, a firm look on his face.
“Don’t even think about it. Just get moving.”
Okay, so he knows I was going to protest. I roll my eyes and start heaving myself upwards. If he wants to come with me, that’s just fine. So long as Luke has both feet on the ground I’m all good. Or I am until the tower of interwoven metal starts to groan under our body weight.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Nope. It really doesn’t. Maybe you ought to get a move on.”
Another stiff groan, and the stacks upon stacks of metal cages tilts ever so slight away from the building. My stomach lurches.
“Kit!” Luke calls from below.
“It’s okay. We’re nearly halfway.” Halfway is only five metres from the ground but I still break out in a nervous sweat as I climb up another handhold. Fifteen feet is enough to kill both me and Ryka if all this sharp, rusted metal topples on top of us.
I look up, focusing on our goal: a window with the glass still intact. Moonlight glints off a small section of the pane where the dirt and grime has been rubbed off. It looks like a handprint. I reach up and step, each time gingerly transferring my body weight until I feel confident I’m not going to fall. Ryka grunts as he follows. Three more feet and we’ll have made it. I’m close enough to see that the smudged, clear mark on the window is in fact a handprint, when a metallic grinding noise grates through the hushed night air. My legs go weak instantly. I’m moving. Moving backward.
“Hurry, Kit! Hurry!”
I scramble, hand over hand, not paying any attention to where my f
eet are going. I almost make it to the sill of the window before the rocking mound of metal slips out from underneath me. I don’t have time to pull the window open, don’t have time to climb to safety. Neither does Ryka. I catch a flash out of the corner of my eye and I know he’s right beside me. We both lunge for the window lintel at the same time.
“KIT!” My brother’s voice is gripped in terror. Sharp brick bites into my fingertips as I grapple hold of the small four-inch ledge. I didn’t fall. I’m not falling. My heart is relentless, thunder in my chest.
“Nice reflexes,” Ryka breathes beside me. He hangs from the window ledge as precariously as I do.
“What…what the hell are we supposed to do!” My right arm isn’t exactly healed from where I was shot. I have no idea how long I can hold on for. I grit my teeth, trying to see past the thumping pain shooting around my body.
“Don’t worry, little Kit,” Ryka says. He’s smiling softly, his face only a few inches from mine. Smiling hardly seems like an appropriate response to our situation, which makes me think he’s not taking this very seriously. I chance a look below us to see just how serious he should be taking our predicament, and immediately wish I hadn’t. Lengths of rusted steel point upwards toward the sky, just begging us to fall so they can skewer us like Freetown’s roast pork.
“It’s probably for the best if you don’t do that,” Ryka says. He takes a deep breath and proceeds to pull himself up by his fingertips. When he gets high enough, he wedges his elbow against the lintel and locks his arm, and for one frightening moment he lets go with the other hand so he can lift the window open. The window squeaks, grinds, but doesn’t open. Ryka’s arm, carrying his weight, begins to tremble.
“Damn it! It won’t—”
The window flies upwards, smashing into the rotten wooden casement. Instincts kick in and I flinch, waiting for a thousands shards of glass to rain down on my head, but it doesn’t happen. The window doesn’t smash. Ryka’s body moves up beside me, boots scraping at the brickwork as he pulls himself inside. My hands are locked and shooting pain all the way to my shoulders by the time he reaches back through the window and grabs hold of my wrists.
“Ready?”
I nod, but he’s already pulling me upwards. It’s a matter of moments before I’m tumbling gracelessly through the opening and landing in a heap of arms and legs in the room beyond.
Ryka sinks to his knees beside me, breathing a little too fast. “Well that was fun.”
“Your definition of fun is a little warped.”
Ryka crouches beside me in the dark, the moonlight hitting the side of his face. For a split second neither of us moves. We just stare at each other. A scratching sound over Ryka’s shoulder puts a stop to that. Our heads whip around in unison, zeroing in on the sound, our hands full of sharpened steel.
“I think both your definitions of the word are probably off.” The cold flash of metal slices through the shadows, and the sound of boots on concrete fills the air. “Besides…the fun is only just getting started.”
Steel meets skin. A low growl echoes off the tight walls of the musty-smelling room. Hands, feet, twisting bodies. The space is too small to tell how many people are attacking, bleeding, fighting. I feel hands on a body next to me and I lash out, trying to keep the other person back. The attacker growls but keeps his distance. More boots scuffle. I hedge out of the way, and suddenly hands are shoving me backward. My back slams into something, a metal bar of some kind, and the air hisses from my lungs. That really hurt.
“Kit, get downstairs! Get the others!” Ryka shouts. His voice tells me he’s on the other side of the room. Goodness knows who I was just defending, but it wasn’t him. I reach out, palms first, searching for the wall. I need to find the doorway. This inky black environment is hardly ideal, makes it impossible to see, but thankfully my senses are alive and screaming. Screaming at me to duck. I do it, and the sound of metal hitting stone clatters right by head. Damn it! That would have hit me square in the face. These people are really starting to piss me off.
My palms eventually hit two separate walls; they meet at a ninety-degree angle—a corner. I crouch down and close my eyes, covering my face with my hands. I’m not freaking out. I’m making the dark even darker. When I open my eyes they have adjusted somewhat, the room made up of deep greys and silvers now, and I can see the three men who have attacked us.
Two of them are wrestling with Ryka on the floor, while the other one stalks from one side of the room to the other, searching for me. The exit is on the other side of the room. I’m not going for the exit; it’s only a matter of seconds before the other guy finds me, anyway, so I wait. I hold my breath when he gets close.
We have a sixth sense, most of us, I’ve learned, and no matter whether or not you can see someone watching you, often you can sense it. This guy is no exception. He knows I’m watching him; he knows I’m still in the room.
“Get over here, Seth!” a voice calls out. The other two are struggling and failing to overpower Ryka, which makes me smile on the inside. On the outside, I’m expressionless as I wait.
The guy in front of me tilts his head toward me and I know it’s coming. I know it’s seconds away. I know—
A knife sings through the air, slashing toward me. He misses, and I don’t let him pull back his arm. I snap my hand out, wrap my fingers around his wrist, and I rotate. His whole arm twists and he gasps out in pain. I ignore it—it’s his own fault. So is what comes next. I reach down and pluck the first knife I find out of my belt. The Balisong. Okay, it’s not perfect, but still…I flick it open, minus the usual theatrics, and clench my fist around the joined handles. I swing as hard as I can, a right hook motion, and an agonised cry cuts through me as the Balisong blade slices straight through the guy’s palm and imbeds three inches deep into the wall. He’s pinned.
The other two are next. By the time I reach Ryka, though, one of the other men is out cold on the floor, and the other is desperately trying to prise Ryka’s arm from around his throat. He makes a wet gurgling sound, his fingers incapable of doing much more than fluttering at his neck as his body is robbed of oxygen. The clouds part, moonlight illuminating Ryka for the briefest of moments—where was it when we needed it?—and his face is a study in determination. Calm. Cool Collected. The man finally goes limp in his arms.
Ryka is on his feet in a heartbeat. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“No. No, I’m fine.”
“What happened to the other one?” A stifled whimper of pain tips Ryka off. He storms over to the man I pinned to the wall and drives his thumb down into the pressure point just behind his clavicle. The man howls. “How many more?” Ryka snaps. The man, Seth, doesn’t say anything. Ryka pushes a little harder. That little extra pain has the desired effect.
“None. There are no more,” he gasps. Ryka takes hold of my Balisong in his hand, glaring at Seth in the muted moonlight. Seth’s eyes go wide.
“No! No, no, no! Please!”
Ryka yanks the blade out of the wall, which means he yanks it out of Seth’s hand at the same time. His screaming fills the room and echoes down halls and stairways we haven’t even seen yet. Seth presses his hand to his chest, holding the other one delicately over it. “You’ve killed me,” he moans. “You’ve destroyed my hand.”
“And what were you going to do to me with that hand if I hadn’t acted?” I snap. I don’t like being accused of killing people when they’re obstinately living and breathing right in front of me. It’s just rude.
“It wasn’t my fault, okay! I didn’t have a choice. Rudy calls the shots round here. You don’t do what he says, you’re out!” He points a bloody finger at the largest body, a dark shape lying crookedly on the floor. “You didn’t even kill him! You really should.”
It’s not often that an enemy advises you to kill one of their companions. I raise my eyebrows. “Why?”
“He’s not right in the head! He’s unbalanced. He’ll hunt you. Track you down until he finds you, w
herever you are.” Seth’s eyes go wide. With a little moonlight filtering through the clouds now, I can finally see that he’s just a boy—a bloody, crying boy. Great. He sniffs, flinching as he nudges his hand. “Rudy’ll slit your throats for this, for sure.”
Ryka draws up his shoulders, inhaling deep. “If Rudy wants to slit either of our throats, he’s welcome to come try it again any time. Now, why were you all sitting up here in the dark?”
Seth chews on his lip. He’s weighing his options—this much is clear from the torn look on his face. One small step from Ryka is enough to apparently tip the scales. “Downstairs!” he blurts out. “Downstairs. Rudy and the others wanted what’s downstairs. We were waiting for morning before we walked home.”
I accept the Balisong that Ryka holds out to me, unflinching when Seth’s blood stains my skin. I wipe the blade off on my pants and sheath it. “What’s down there?”
The sight of my knife doesn’t seem to do wonders for Seth’s confidence. He shrinks back in on himself, looking down at the ground. Ryka sighs.
“Okay, well I guess we’ll just have to go down there and look, won’t we? You show us the way.”
Seth doesn’t say a word. He skirts around the bodies on the floor, like they’re going to jump up and stab him themselves at any second, and leads us out into the pitch-black corridor. I follow at the rear, listening to the soft sounds of Seth’s pained breathing and three pairs of boots. He guides us down two wide corridors before we come to a staircase, where he hesitates. He fumbles for a second, and then the world is bathed in a dull amber light. My eyes burn as they adjust, which doesn’t take long. The light comes from strings of countless tiny bulbs, tacked to the walls leading down the stairway. White, gold, flickering amber—the wires bearing the lights wrap around one another, tangled in places creating a fusion of twenty different variations of white.
“How are you powering that?” Ryka asks. Seth glumly points to a small plastic box sitting on the top step of the stairs. Metal connectors on the very top of the box bear copper contacts wrapped around and around them, and a gentle humming noise emanates from it.
