by wildbow
A clean, tidy finish. My disposal of the last guy hadn’t been very successful, but this had to succeed.
The soldiers were blocking the gaps between civilians. The civilians were running with a mindlessness that suggested they’d run straight over me if I got in their way. It was a wall of people twice or thrice my size charging at me.
I picked up speed. My legs were sore from a more-than-usual amount of running, but I gave my all, gave my last to charge forward, straight for the nearest civilian.
Toward the Shepherd, toward Lacey.
To Gordon.
Just when it looked like the guy was going to run into me, I ducked. I slid on wet grass. The man half-jumped, half stumbled over me.
I found my feet, but just as I’d slid on grass, the soles of my shoes did too. I’d meant to dart forward. Instead, I stumbled a little.
If I’d been an inch further ahead, I might have avoided the reaching hands. Instead, one caught me. I twisted to avoid the other. Twisted again to make the wet cloth of my cloak twist until the man’s grip on it broke.
I made it another couple of steps. But just as I’d reoriented myself, so had my pursuers. The captain seized me. Firmly this time.
I hurled the container. I hurled the scalpel.
They landed in arm’s reach of Gordon, who had also been caught.
He stared down at both.
He met my gaze.
One deep breath.
“Stop fighting!” Gordon howled the words. “Everyone, stop fighting!”
He had a great lung capacity. Then again, he had a great everything. Powerful vocal chords.
Heads turned. He had attention.
The soldier grabbed him, tried to shut him up. Gordon leveraged all the strength he’d held back up until now, bullying his way free.
“Stop fighting! Please!” he screamed.
He had the attention of most of the crowd, now.
“Relax,” the Shepherd called out. “Calm down! There’s nothing to worry about.”
“He,” Gordon pointed at the Shepherd, “He did this to me!”
His hand went to his face, touched the deep cuts the ‘monster’ had supposedly inflicted.
“He cut me so he could scare you! The monsters are made up!” Gordon cried out.
The silence was so real it could have been cut with a knife.
“He’s crazy! He did this!” Gordon cried out. He scrambled forward, away from the soldier who’d been holding him. grabbing the scalpel and jar. “Look at this, taste the slime! It’s soap! My teacher didn’t do anything at all! He blamed her to take attention off him!”
The soldiers who’d been after me headed toward Gordon now.
The captain turned, too, but I grabbed onto him, fought him every step of the way.
He hit me. Not a big blow, but a heavy enough one to knock me free.
“He’s… he’s not right in the head!” Gordon cried out. “Please! Don’t listen to him! He wanted this! All of it! Before it all started he called us into his office and told us what we were supposed to do, and threatened us. The man who read out the names! He was working with Reverend Mauer too!”
Poor Cecil.
“The boy is deluded,” the Shepherd spoke, and his voice carried. “It’s easier to imagine a monster here than to recognize the monsters that the Academy created.”
The stitched that had been plowing through the crowd were on the approach now. The crowd backed away, and wound up moving toward the Shepherd.
A woman reached Gordon, taking his less bloody hand. She bent down and, after a dubious look, touched her mouth to his knuckle.
“Soap,” she said.
“Soap,” Gordon echoed her, pushing the things into her hands. “Soap and a knife. Please don’t let Reverend Mauer hurt me anymore.”
He turned toward the Shepherd, giving the man a wounded, accusatory look.
She embraced him, arms around his shoulders, wrists crossing over his collarbone.
Outraged shouts rose from the crowd.
The Shepherd was still, taking it all in, looking at his crowd.
Do you have any magic words, Shepherd? I thought.
He looked at me.
Goal three completed.
He let the look linger, then broke away, staring over at the row of stitched and the one or two handlers that were still pressing in. Only one or two stitched had properly died in this assault.
The Shepherd gave a hand signal.
The captain blew his horn. Two sharp blows.
With that, the soldiers turned.
The retreat was planned. The direction was already known.
They’d known they would lose this fight, I realized.
They’d planned it, even. The retreat was part of it all.
Did they have a waiting vehicle?
The soldiers, including the captain and the ones who’d been after me and Mary, raised their weapons, warding off the handful of people who looked like they were going to start rioting against the Shepherd. They retreated as fast as they were able. People were caught between avoiding the stitched and the threat of the guns.
They stopped, going still. They dropped to their knees and raised hands. The wall of stitched came to a halt.
The Shepherd started to make his retreat. He turned to look, and in that instant, Helen appeared, emerging from the shrubbery in front of the church. She’d been within a few paces of him for the better part of the skirmish.
Striding forward, right through a collective blind spot. The soldiers and Shepherd were all focused on the crowd behind.
She threw her arms around the Shepherd’s waist.
He stumbled.
“Let go,” I could hear him from a distance.
She held firm, face pressed against his side.
“Let go!” he raised his voice.
He tugged at her arm. She didn’t release him.
The stitched were drawing closer. The crowd was staring.
He pushed her, so that she no longer had her feet under her, then tugged again.
Nice, Helen.
She held firm, a six and a half stone weight, tying him down.
The Shepherd reached into his coat and withdrew a pistol. He pressed it to the girl’s head.
I could hear a collective intake of breath from the crowd.
He was done. He would never again have the people of Radham.
She looked up, staring him in the eyes. She didn’t let go.
I felt a chill. A premonition.
Prey instinct at work? Putting together all the little context clues, the hints in his body language, demeanor, the clues he’d given me all night, adding up to my estimation of who he was?
He was going to shoot.
“Helen!” I called out.
She glanced over her shoulder. The look she gave me was cold. Probably the same look she’d given the man.
“Let him go,” I said.
She did, without a moment’s hesitation.
The man backed away, holding the pistol up and out.
The captain caught up with him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. The two of them turned, marching forward. The soldiers were just behind, weapons pointed at the mob.
I walked up to Lacey. She looked hollowed-out. Haunted. It was almost scary to see.
I’d asked too much of her tonight.
“I’m sorry,” I told her.
The shocked look on her face looked more dramatic than any emotion she’d shown us while being taken hostage or accused.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, to drive the point home. “I’m sorry to ask for more, but… the Academy needs to win over the crowd. Get the permission slip from Gordon. Take it to one of the Academy people on the other side. Tell them to blame things on the Shepherd. Someone says they knew he was bad, he was manipulating people, drugging them, let’s say. Take the blame away from people, just—”
“Sylvester,” she said.
“You can call me Sy,” I offered, as a conciliatory measure.
“They need to offer medical attention. They have to be kind. The stitched need to go, fast.”
She nodded. She stood.
“Send Gordon into the church, when he’s given you the thing,” I said. “Get Jamie, send him.”
“The church?”
I nodded. “Gotta go after the Shepherd, if we can.”
She frowned.
I didn’t press any further. I looked at Helen and beckoned her. I found Gordon, saw him looking at me, and pointed at Lacey.
Then I ran to the church. Mary and Lillian stepped out of cover by the altar.
It took only two minutes to regroup. Lillian daubed powder on Helen’s injuries, then Gordon’s.
When Jamie arrived, I pointed at the side door. The side door in the Shepherd’s office.
As a group, we headed through the side door, then broke into a run as we headed in the direction the Shepherd had gone.
He wasn’t moving at a fast pace. He couldn’t, given his arm, the balance and the weight of it. He’d made a good distance, but we did too, even with our shorter legs.
He had a gun in one hand, but something glinted in his mouth as he turned his head. His cheeks puffed.
He turned further, and we collectively ducked into cover of shadow.
More soldiers were joining him. The flanking groups, the ones who’d firebombed the stitched. Others, maybe scouting parties.
A small army, and there he was in the center of it, with the captain and a shorter man.
He puffed his cheeks again.
A large shape moved.
It looked like a headless cat, the neck inflated in size, or a lion with a massive mane, the head removed, all drawn out in spines that were too white to seem real. Easily the size of an automobile, a bit larger.
It prowled on a rooftop, hopped down, and paced around the perimeter of the group.
The Shepherd said something, the group parted, and the Shepherd blew again on his tiny, silent whistle.
The thing, Whiskers, approached. It got close enough that the Shepherd could reach out with his meaty, mutated hand, and touch it. He dropped his hand, the fingers bleeding from the tips.
The group moved, and Whiskers retreated as quickly as it had come, darting onto the top of a shed, then a garage.
The Shepherd periodically blew, to keep it close enough, a constant retreat from Whiskers and a compelling call from the Shepherd.
I moved to follow. Gordon reached out to stop me.
“We have to,” I said.
“It’s good enough as is,” Gordon said.
“But he—I want to catch him,” I said, watching the man’s back.
“We won’t. Not with that many people guarding him.”
“I want it as much as I’ve wanted anything,” I admitted.
“Yeah,” Gordon said. “And I’m bleeding, Helen’s bleeding, you’re bruised. Let’s call it a night, report to Hayle so he can send some other projects after them, then go home. There’ll be another try.”
I made a whiny sound, deep in my throat.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s hurry, see if we can’t get Mary settled.”
It was a good thing to say to change my focus. I allowed myself a nod.
We headed toward the Academy.
“Good work,” I said, to nobody in particular.
“Yeah?” Gordon asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Was fun!” Mary said, suddenly lively.
“It really was,” I said, quiet.
“Glad it was fun for you,” Gordon said.
“What?” I asked. “Huh?”
“That was awful. Hated it, the acting, the playing the lame duck, trying to sway the crowd, doing nothing.”
We walked a few more steps.
“I hate you so much,” I told him.
Previous Next
Cat out of the Bag 2.11
“You should really put your hood up,” Jamie told me, as we got out of the coach. Lacey and Cecil were just behind us. We’d been picked up on our way back.
I frowned.
“I know Rick got on your case about it earlier, but it’s cold out. I worry about you.”
“If I get sick, the Academy will make me better.”
Jamie pointed at the Hedge, which we were just now approaching. “And if you have to come here or somewhere to get a few shots, then they’ll keep you and set you up for an appointment, just like they did when you burned yourself with flesh-dissolving spittle.”
“Technically, the Snake Charmer burned me.”
“I don’t know why you insist on correcting me on the details,” Jamie said. “I know the details. I don’t forget the details. I have the details in writing, even.”
“I do it to annoy you when you’re being annoying. Quid pro quo.”
“That’s not what quid—you’re doing it again.”
I grinned.
He was too tired to hit me, so I threw an arm around his shoulder instead.
We stopped as a group in front of the four guards by the Hedge’s doors. We remained silent as Lacey and Cecil approached the guards. Lacey handed over the paper that Briggs had given us.
A moment later, the doors were open, the paper returned to us, and we were free to enter the Academy’s most public area. A hospital for the people of Radham. The Hedge was, perhaps for the first time in a year or two, staffed by a skeleton crew. Empty benches filled the lobby, with a student sleeping on one, a book left open across his chest, a few doctors in gray coats stood by with some students in their white lab coats, attending to papers and doing what they could to get organized.
“Travis,” Cecil greeted one.
“Cecil. You came in through the front door?”
“Things are mostly resolved, I think. Wouldn’t be surprised if those doors open soon, with word from the higher-ups.”
The doctor Cecil was talking to, an older man, looked fairly annoyed by that. “I was hoping this would go on for a bit longer.”
“People were dying and getting hurt,” Jamie said, quiet.
Doctor Travis blinked. “Good to know. Becca, would you go wake up some of the other doctors? With the backlog and these injured parties coming in, we’ll be busy tonight.”
“Actually,” Cecil said. He took the slip of paper from Lacey, then showed it to Travis. “We need to talk to Professor Briggs first. As soon as possible.”
Travis frowned, looking at the note. “Why do you have this?”
“Can’t say. I do need it back, though.”
“Nick, then,” Doctor Travis said, returning the paper. “You’re a fast runner. Go find Professor Briggs. On your way back, wake up the other Hedge Doctors.”
A young man that wasn’t much older than eighteen sprinted from the room.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” Jamie said. “About people dying and getting hurt.”
“I know what you meant, son. It might seem callous, but the work comes first, feelings second.”
“I like to think they mingle,” Cecil said.
You’re a prat, I thought.
“They can,” Doctor Travis allowed. “But when you work in the Hedge, you can’t tie your emotions to every piece of work that comes through those doors. Half the time they’re mostly gone by the time they make it here. When you know you could save everyone, but the money and resources aren’t so plentiful, and you have to make choices. Even when it’s a child, or someone’s mother.”
“There’s a good reason I don’t work in the Hedge,” Cecil said.
“Do those children behind you need some attention?” Travis asked.
“It’s why we’re here,” Cecil said.
He was talking about Gordon and Helen, who were cut up, though they’d received preliminary treatment in the coach with Lillian, Lacey and Cecil tending to them. I was bruised, scraped, and filthy, while Mary had scuffed up hands, though I wasn’t sure the Doctor could see that.
&n
bsp; We were taken to benches, where we put our feet on the seats and sat on the backs, the doctors and students looking after us.
The student who was looking after me informed me that, “This bruise will turn a very fun orange color later tonight. It will be gone by the morning.”
“Fun?” I asked.
“Isn’t it interesting?” he asked me.
“No,” I said.
“Don’t be a dick, Sy,” Gordon said.
I shut my mouth, frowning.
The student wheeled over a cart, where a dozen implements were laid out on top, wires with insulation coils running down to the covered box on the cart’s lower half. He picked up a woodpecker,screwed on three vials, each with a stylish, flourishing letter printed on it, the contents colored for further clarity, then flicked a switch to start the needle to its back and forth motion.
Urgh. I hated needles. Even motorized ones.
My mind started running through scenarios, much as it had at several points earlier in the night. Possibilities, where things were, where people were, tracking details, plotting.
Jamie’s hand settled on mine.
I let the train of thoughts unspool, each idea running off course until they collectively dissolved into a general air of negativity and resentment. I flinched as the woodpecker started stabbing me, then grit my teeth. There was a painkiller in there, making the pain of the needle’s stab a fleeting one. He covered what would have been the full breadth of the bruising thus far.
“I take it this is your stitching work, Cecil?” Travis asked. He was removing the stitches in Gordon’s face.
“It is. Miss Lacey did most of the work on Helen over there.”
The female doctor who was working with Helen commented, “Who did the collarbone and upper chest?”
“I did,” Lillian said, quiet.
“Really? Well applied binding emulsion with minimal stitching. Applied outside of a hospital environment? Mix? Antibacterial base, I imagine.”
“No need,” Lillian said.
We weren’t so clumsy to actually turn our heads and give her shocked looks, but I could sense the reaction from the others. Jamie’s hand tightened up a bit where it was holding mine down against the top of the bench.
“She was already on a regimen,” Lillian said. “P base, A, D, E mixes.”
“Mmm. Overall, very nearly perfect. The kind of work I’d expect from a year ten student. A year twelve might not do this kind of work out in the rain,” the doctor said. Travis looked over to investigate and murmured approvingly.
