by Jay Posey
“Gamble,” Cass said. “Whatever happens, I don’t want Asher to get my son. I can’t let him take my son.”
“I understand,” Gamble said. “Wick can take you to the tunnel. We’ll do our best to hold them here as long as we can.”
“No,” Cass said, “I’m not leaving these people behind. I want you to take Wren to Greenstone.”
“Nope. Out of the question, Cass,” she said. “These people won’t last long without us. Take your son. None of us will blame you.”
“I can lead them,” Cass said, looking at the other Awakened gathered with them. “And we may be able to cross the Strand without you.”
“If you survive the night.” She looked over Cass’s shoulder. “Wick, take Able, get Miss Cass and Wren to the tunnel. Make sure they get to Greenstone.”
“Wait, what now?” Wick said.
“No, Gamble,” Cass said.
“It’s an order, Wick.”
“Alright, check.”
“Gamble–” Cass said.
“Cass, Wren needs his mother. Only you can be that. Go.”
“If we’re gonna do it, we gotta go now,” Wick said.
“I will aid you,” Chapel said from behind Cass. “Come.” He took her arm and pulled her towards the back entrance.
And somehow again, Cass found herself following Wick. There was sporadic gunfire behind them, but they didn’t come into contact with any Weir themselves. In about six minutes, they reached the station. The train, of course, wasn’t there. It belonged to the Bonefolder, back in Greenstone, and she controlled it jealously. But she couldn’t do much to control the tunnel.
“You can take it from here,” Wick said. “Straight on down the tunnel,” Wick said.
“What about you?” Cass said.
“I can’t leave my brother back there. Able can take you.”
You’re my brother, too, Able signed.
Wick reached behind Able’s neck and pulled the man’s forehead to his own in a show of affection. Able patted his face before they separated.
“Go on. Godspeed.”
Wick turned and started back towards where the others were holed up. Cass felt like her heart was about to break. She was Wren’s mother, and she loved him more than she loved herself. But deep in her heart, she knew that she would rather die fighting alongside those people back there than live with herself knowing she’d left them behind.
“I will take the child,” Chapel said.
Somehow he had perceived her thoughts.
“Wick, wait,” she called.
It was the most terrible decision Cass had ever made, and her heart seemed to tear within her chest as she handed Wren’s unconscious form over to the blindfolded old man. But he had cared for her son before, when she had been unable. And though Cass did not know Chapel well, she knew she could trust his word. Chapel laid him on his shoulder. Cass kissed Wren on the forehead as he lay there, as if he’d been asleep, and she was kissing him goodnight. He had once been forced to say goodbye to her. Now it was her turn to bear that pain.
“Bye, baby,” she said.
She took Three’s pistol from its holster on her thigh, and handed it to Chapel.
He shook his head. “I have no need.”
“It’s for Wren. I want him to have it.”
He nodded, then, and took it and tucked it away inside his coat.
“Careful, it’s loaded,” she said.
“Go,” Chapel said.
Cass brushed Wren’s hair with her fingers, and kissed him one last time. And then she turned back, and she and Able together caught up with Wick.
When he first woke, Wren couldn’t tell he had opened his eyes. But he could tell he was lying on a hard surface, with something squishy under his head, and he blinked his eyes several times. His next thought was that he had gone blind. He called out. “Mama!”
A hand pressed into his shoulder, firm, with strong fingers. Not his mother.
“Shhh, child,” Chapel said. “She is not here, but you are safe.”
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Away.”
“What happened, Chapel? Where are we?”
Chapel explained in his patient way, gentle in truth, but hiding nothing. Wren wept then, deeply and bitterly, and Chapel comforted him, not with words, but with his presence.
After a time they resumed their journey. He rode on Chapel’s back through the long darkness, sometimes sleeping, sometimes wakeful, and often unable to distinguish the two. His sorrow was heavier than any he had known. And now he understood something of Painter’s agony. The uncertainty of the loss. Unable to grieve fully because weak hope continued to cling whether bidden or no.
But it was indeed a weak hope, too frail to support the belief that Wren would see his mother again. And so he felt trapped between the two thoughts: that his mother was dead, or that she was alive but never to be seen again. He had grieved for her once in his lifetime. It was even harder the second time.
And all those others. Gamble, and Sky, and Able; Wick, Finn, Mouse, and Swoop. Swoop alone among them could be mourned.
And Painter. Wren had no words to describe the pain that thoughts of Painter caused. He too was dead, in a way. Wren didn’t understand it exactly, but he knew that somehow Asher had reached Painter, had changed him. Or that Painter had allowed himself to be changed, which was even more tragic.
And then there was Asher. He’d had his vengeance on Morningside. It was probably too much to hope that Asher believed Wren to be dead. How long would it be before he came to claim his little brother? Or would he be content to have destroyed everything that Wren had loved?
Wren lost all sense of time during that journey. He still had his pack with him, which had a little food and some water. Enough to get them through, though Chapel never ate. When they finally reached the end, dawn was breaking over the city.
And together they walked towards Greenstone, the last known survivors of the once great city in the east.
EPILOGUE
“A blind old man and a kid, huh?” the Greenman said. “Might be kinder of me just to put you both down myself. I’m not sure I’d feel right letting you walk around alone in there.”
“I have friends inside,” Wren said.
“Oh yeah? Who’s that, little man?”
“jCharles. He runs the Samurai McGann. He gave me a book once.”
The Greenman let out a low whistle. “Well, alright then. It might not stop anyone from messing with you, but I guess they’d be sorry enough after the fact. You know your way?”
Wren nodded.
“Alright. I suggest you go straight there, quick as you can. And watch your step.”
Nimble, the bartender, recognized Wren as soon as he came in the door. Nimble called up to jCharles, who practically sprinted down the stairs to see them. Of course jCharles knew immediately something was wrong, and he took them both up to the apartment where Mol was.
Wren was amazed to see her holding a sweet baby girl, maybe six months old. When Mol saw him, she handed the baby off to jCharles, and she held Wren for a long, long time.
They did everything they could to care for Wren, and though Chapel declined their hospitality, he remained nearby, and spent a great deal of his time sitting in the bar downstairs.
One night, jCharles took them both up onto the roof of the Samurai McGann, and they sat there staring out over the wildness of the city. Wren opened up then, about all that had happened. He told jCharles all about Morningside, and what had become of Three, and Swoop, and Gamble, and her team. And about his mama.
“They sound like they were great people,” jCharles said.
“I wish I could be that kind of person,” Wren said.
“You cannot be that kind of person,” Chapel said. The words stung Wren, and jCharles looked over at the old man with an ugly expression. But Chapel was nothing if not honest.
But then he turned his face towards Wren and lifted the boy’s chin. “You cannot be that kind
of person, Wren, because you are the kind of person for whom such men and women willingly lay down their lives.”
Wren’s chest tightened, and a lump caught in his throat.
“But why?” he said, voice thick with tears.
Chapel turned his face back towards the city.
“That is the question your life must answer.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A lot of people deserve thanks for the many kindnesses they showed me while I was working on this novel. Hopefully I already delivered those in person, though, so here’s just a quick list of folks I’d like to appreciate in print. Many doubly extra-special thanks to:
…Jesus, for your constant faithfulness and ever-present help.
…my wife and children, for your continual support and love, for being so generous, and for being the very best thing ever.
…Marc Gascoigne, Lee Harris, Mike Underwood, Caroline Lambe, and everyone else at Angry Robot for all their patience, hard work, and tireless devotion to global domination.
…all the friends and family who picked up my first novel and said things like “Wow, I can’t believe you wrote this!” or “This is, like, actually a real book!”. These comments were all far better than “Yeah, it seems like something you’d write.”
…all of the readers out there who took the time to send me kind words of encouragement, which I often re-read in the wee hours of the morning to keep me going. Feel free to send more. Frequently.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jay is a narrative designer, author, and screenwriter by trade. He started working in the video game industry in 1998, and has been writing professionally for over a decade. Currently employed as Senior Narrative Designer at Red Storm Entertainment, he’s spent around eight years writing and designing for Tom Clancy’s award-winning Ghost Recon and Rainbow Six franchises.
A contributing author to the book Professional Techniques for Video Game Writing, Jay has lectured at conferences, colleges, and universities, on topics ranging from basic creative writing skills to advanced material specific to the video game industry.
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