by Bali Rai
The building sat in a wide square, surrounded on all sides by narrow lanes and deserted blocks that had once held shops and offices. Nothing remained of the market stalls, save a few pieces of rusting iron. Poisonous hog-weed, intertwined with ragwort and nettles, had grown all around the square. In turn, these were dwarfed by knotweed that in places was almost three metres high. Thick brambles added to the density, alongside the occasional tree and overgrown shrub. A single pathway had been cleared round the entrance, and Mias limped down it, having been summoned by the demon lord.
Although his heart still burned with fury, Mias would follow Valefor’s orders. There was a natural order to the world, one that he had to accept regardless of his feelings. The human pests were necessary to that order, and Mias had never disobeyed his masters. Several patrollers stood guard at the entrance, and he ignored them as he entered. These canine demons weren’t worthy of the name; they were inferior beings, lacking both the breeding and the powers of true ancients. Many patrollers had flanked him on the night he’d been humiliated yet not one had come to his aid. He would never again trust their competence.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of decay. Mias welcomed the warm and inviting aroma. His master was waiting in a cavern down a narrow set of steps, its low ceiling strung with entrails and gleaming white bones.
‘Welcome, my brother,’ rasped Valefor, sitting on a throne-like chair flanked by his guards, his giant wings flapping.
‘Master,’ replied Mias, kneeling before his lord.
Valefor told him to rise, and stood himself. ‘Are you recovered, brother?’ asked the demon lord.
Mias nodded. ‘Almost.’
‘What news is there?’ Valefor enquired.
Mias shook his simian head. ‘None of the stranger,’ he confessed.
‘You’ve searched for him?’
‘Yes, master, and he is nowhere to be found,’ replied Mias. ‘I will resume my search immediately.’
‘And you?’ continued Valefor. ‘Can I trust that you are willing to forget your rage? The factories must run – the council demands it.’
Mias looked away momentarily. When his gaze returned to Valefor’s he nodded. ‘It is forgotten, master.’
Valefor extended an arm, resting a clawed hand on Mias’ shoulder. ‘To forget your anger is not to forget your honour,’ he said. ‘You are a true ancient and this stranger will pay for his actions.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘When we catch him, I will tear his soul to pieces, brother, and I will leave the last morsel for you.’
Mias howled and began to stamp his feet in excitement.
‘Patience, brother,’ demanded Valefor. ‘Is the city back to normal?’
‘Almost,’ replied the underlord. ‘The workers have returned, the factories are open. By this evening, it shall be as it was.’
Valefor removed his arm and walked towards his throne, thinking about his meeting with the ruling council. ‘How many humans died?’ he asked.
‘Two or three hundred, my lord,’ offered Mias, bowing his head.
Valefor saw this act of contrition and told Mias to stand tall. ‘There is no shame in this!’ he declared. ‘The council is aware of the situation. You and I have its blessing.’
‘I am grateful,’ replied the underlord. ‘I did not mean any disloyalty.’
‘A few hundred vermin mean nothing – no more than three nights of hunting. And we shall suspend the next Hunt to make amends.’
‘But—’
‘Silence, brother,’ Valefor admonished. ‘It is the ruling I was given and it shall come to pass.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘And before long, we shall feast on the bones of this stranger.’
Mias howled once more, causing the patroller guards to follow suit. Valefor waited a while before silencing them all.
‘Do you have any further orders?’ asked the underlord.
Valefor shook his head. ‘Nothing more than I have already asked,’ he added.
As he watched Mias leave, Valefor considered the events of the past few days. A stranger, a human, had humiliated his second-in-command, the most powerful of Valefor’s entire legion. He wondered how it was possible, and whether Mias would fare much better in any return encounter. It mattered little anyway. If Mias failed, then Valefor would take matters into his own hands. There was not a human alive who could challenge his power.
‘Summon the Mayor!’ he barked as he retook his throne.
Stone skirted the square’s edge, mindful that his actions might look suspicious. He was heading a patrol on the Mayor’s orders, rounding up any remaining reluctant workers. After abdicating his role for nearly two days, the wrinkly old bastard had finally reappeared, flabbier and more nervous than before. Stone hated to take orders from such a weak man, his subservience being a mere façade. The citadels, the social structure, the entire world had been rebuilt on the principle of survival of the fittest and best, yet everywhere such pathetic humans remained. The Mayor belonged with the Unwanted, and once Stone had finished with Fire City . . .
A vibrating pocket curtailed his thoughts. Stone told the two men with him to continue as he ducked into a small square once named after dolphins.
‘News, Stone?’ demanded the caller.
‘Nothing to report,’ admitted the mercenary. ‘Valefor has returned and the Mayor is back on his high horse.’
‘And your plan?’
‘Moving slowly, sir,’ replied Stone. ‘The city is getting back to normal so it’s only a matter of time.’
‘Excellent. I know that his council has admonished Valefor. The needs of the economy must always be paramount.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell me, Stone, how much do you understand of the bargain between ourselves and the Hell-kin?’
Stone moved down the alley, towards the point where it opened out into a new street. Ahead of him, across another, bigger square also overgrown with weeds, was a waterless granite fountain. The boy, Aron, sat leaning against it, talking to himself. Stone raised an eyebrow. He recognized him as one of the young men who hung around the hotel bar.
‘Only what I see,’ he replied, wondering what Aron was doing alone.
‘I was part of the original approach, my friend. It was a marriage of convenience, based on a decade-long strategy, worked out by like-minded souls from across the world, all of it done in secret . . . a miraculous coup d’état.’
‘Er . . .’
‘You sound distracted, Stone.’
‘I am,’ Stone admitted.
‘Should I take your lack of interest personally?’ the caller chuckled.
‘Not at all, sir,’ Stone replied. ‘I need to learn more of what happened before the War. Only I’ve spotted one of the people I told you about.’
‘The plan?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll stop my rambling and hang up. Perhaps we can resume later?’
‘Sir?’
‘When you’ve talked to your quarry, Stone.’
‘Oh,’ said Stone. ‘Yes, I’ll keep you informed.’
‘Make sure you do, friend. Good day.’
Stone replaced the phone, turned and caught up with his patrol.
‘Go on ahead,’ he told them. ‘There’s someone I need to speak to.’
Moments later he approached Aron, who seemed oblivious to his surroundings. ‘I told them, Mama,’ he heard the boy mumbling. ‘I told them and they didn’t listen and now I ain’t happy.’
‘Aron?’ said Stone, thinking that the boy had flipped.
He saw it all the time, an endless procession of people who lost their minds. They ended up wandering the streets in a daze, until they were rounded up for the Hunt. Part of him understood why it happened too, and he was surprised that any of the Unwanted remained sane.
Stone proceeded cautiously. Cannibalism worked rapidly. Losing a finger was the last thing he needed. That would upset him.
<
br /> ‘Aron?’ he repeated.
The boy looked up at him and smiled. ‘Collaborator scum,’ he said. ‘Welcome . . .’
‘Who were you talking to?’ asked Stone.
Aron shook his head. ‘You think I’ve lost it,’ he said. ‘I haven’t. I always come here and talk to my mum.’
‘You been drinking?’
Aron glanced at the flask in his right hand. ‘S’pose . . .’
Stone looked around the square. The old town hall sat on the eastern side, most of it destroyed by bombs. The rest was overgrown and Stone could hear rodents shrieking and scurrying through the weeds. The fountain itself was intact. Four cast-iron, winged lions stood at each corner of a crossed plinth, with a two-tiered column rising in the middle, bisected by two platters, the lower one twice the diameter of the one above. The whole structure stood in a granite bowl perhaps three metres across. Little of the bronze that had gilded the ironwork remained yet it was still impressive. The water pump had long since perished.
‘Why this place?’ enquired Stone.
Aron snorted. ‘This is where they killed my mum,’ he revealed. ‘Smashed her skull in.’
Stone watched as angry tears streamed down Aron’s face and he felt like smiling. His controller had mentioned the variables in his plan, the little things that might send it awry. Yet here was a variable that would work in its favour, completely unexpected. Anger, Stone had been taught, was an emotion that could be controlled, used to mould people. He sat down beside the boy and asked where his friends were.
‘What friends?’ Aron replied.
Stone pulled some weeds from the earth and worked the stems in his fingers, thinking hard about how to proceed. Something had caused a rift between Aron and the others, a crack that might be of use.
‘I don’t need her anyway,’ the boy added.
‘Who?’ Stone asked him.
‘Martha . . .’ he replied. ‘She can . . .’
Stone sat silently as Aron began to wail, his head in his hands. Sometimes, he thought, life made your choices for you.
26
JONAH, MACE AND Tyrell left the following evening, heading northwest. They moved cautiously for the first five kilometres, grateful for the cover that darkness provided. Random demon patrols outside the protected zone were not unheard of, and Valefor and the Mayor were searching for Jonah, which made for slow going.
Jonah took his companions back along his original route into Fire City, retracing his steps easily.
‘You have a good memory,’ Mace had said as Jonah pointed to an abandoned bus.
‘What’s a bus anyway?’ asked Tyrell, eyeing the double-decker vehicle rusting in the middle of a wide cross-junction. To the north lay open land, and bomb-damaged buildings lined the roads on each side.
Mace grinned at the young man. ‘You’re joking, right?’ he asked. ‘There are derelict buses all over Fire City.’
‘I know that, old man,’ Tyrell retaliated. ‘I just don’t know what they were for. You never taught me about them.’
‘They were passenger vehicles,’ Mace explained. ‘Back when ordinary people had places to go. When we were allowed to travel freely, many people took buses . . .’
‘They must have them in the citadels,’ replied Tyrell. ‘Do you think?’
Jonah shook his head. ‘Not in the north,’ he revealed. ‘There are cars and people use trams, but mostly they walk.’
‘Trams?’
Jonah waited for Mace to add another explanation. ‘Carriages on tracks,’ he said when Mace failed to reply. ‘So that people can move from one part of the citadel to another. In the south, some of the carriages travel along tunnels underground.’
‘No way,’ Tyrell blurted. ‘Underground?’
‘I’ve never been there,’ Jonah admitted, ‘but I’ve heard it said.’
‘I haven’t been out this way since just after the War,’ Mace reminisced. ‘This area was known as Abbey Field. The crossroads used to be packed with vehicles and people.’ He pointed to the southern corner, at the remains of a glass structure. ‘Used to sell cars there,’ he said wistfully. ‘Big shiny ones. I collected toy versions of them as a boy.’
‘Long time ago, then,’ joked Tyrell.
‘A better time, son,’ Mace replied, his eyes glazing over with memories of a half-forgotten past.
‘We should keep moving,’ Jonah cautioned.
‘I reckon we’re safe now,’ Tyrell told him. ‘From Valefor at least.’
Jonah pointed towards the north. ‘That way,’ he told them, setting off once more.
‘We’re far from safe,’ Mace said to Tyrell, ‘even out here. Keep your wits about you.’
They trekked for another three hours, following the main arterial road but never openly. Jonah had warned them about wild animals, and even wilder humans, not to mention the army. Venturing into the wastelands was officially forbidden and the penalty for breaking the law was death. Regular government patrols searched the main routes for escapees, so the only safe way to travel was off road.
Yet, even then, danger was everywhere. In the time since the War had ended, most of the countryside had returned to the wild. Dense forests covered the land and many fields had disappeared under thick, overgrown vegetation. The only remaining agricultural land was used to grow food for the Wanted, but much of this had been placed under giant glass domes, protected day and night by the army.
Escaped zoo animals had proliferated, meaning that non-native species such as lions, tigers, gorillas and even elephants had taken hold. Wolves, foxes and rodents were also a major problem, as were some of the feral human tribes that were scattered about. The only currency that mattered in the wild was strength, and there were creatures far more powerful than humans out hunting for a meal.
Around midnight, Jonah told them to take a rest, sensing that his companions were tired. Tyrell sat down on a stone wall and blew out his breath.
‘Knackered,’ he said, reaching down to massage his calves.
‘How far have we come?’ asked Mace, taking a swig of water from a flask they’d brought with them.
‘Dunno,’ said Jonah. ‘About seventeen or eighteen kilometres maybe.’
They were outside an abandoned village. All around them houses sat in darkness, their windows and doors destroyed, gardens grown wild.
‘There’s a cellar in the village,’ Jonah revealed. ‘I used it on my journey to the city.’ He led them down the deserted main street, past a stone monument shaped like a needle, and the remains of several cottages.
To the left stood three walls of a larger building, the rest destroyed. Tyrell was reminded of the Haven, even though it was several times the size of this place. However, the Haven held the promise of sanctuary whereas the heap of stone before them seemed dark and forbidding.
‘Round the back,’ Jonah told them, climbing over a mound of rubble. ‘Come on.’
A few moments later, they found themselves staring at a hastily arranged pile of spherical rocks, each about the size of a man’s head. Jonah wore a puzzled expression, his brow furrowed as he studied them.
‘What’s up?’ quizzed Mace.
‘They weren’t there when I left,’ Jonah explained, before looking around. Mace’s eyesight, like Tyrell’s, had adjusted to the darkness quickly but Jonah could see further. He searched for heat signatures, present as green and orange shapes in his eyes, but found nothing save for a few blurred forms which were too small to indicate any real danger.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he said.
‘It is dark,’ Tyrell pointed out.
Jonah ignored him, crouched and moved two of the grey stones. He rapped the ground with his knuckles and the resulting noise, part wooden, part metallic, indicated a hollow beneath the ground. One by one, he shifted the other stones too. Brushing aside the dirt with his hands, he revealed a timber hatch, remarkably well preserved.
‘Are we sure about this?’ asked Mace. ‘Maybe someone has been here since last
week?’
Jonah nodded. ‘They have,’ he replied. ‘The stones didn’t arrange themselves.’
Mace took no offence, already used to Jonah’s matter-of-fact responses. Instead, he stood watch as the hatch was lifted slowly and a set of stone steps exposed. A sour and fusty smell greeted them.
‘Have you got a match?’ asked Jonah.
Mace pulled a box from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said.
‘Wait here whilst I check it out,’ Jonah ordered. ‘I left a lamp down there. Keep an eye out for any movement.’
Both Mace and Tyrell stiffened, wary of any threat. Jonah pocketed the matches and drew a short blade from his belt. He took the steps quickly and without caution. If something or someone were below, the sound of the hatch being lifted would have alerted them anyway. At the bottom, he knew that there were two rooms, one on each side. He went right, into the larger chamber, and sensing no presence, human or otherwise, found the lamp he’d hidden behind some old beer kegs and lit it. Slowly, as the flame danced into life, the rest of the basement came into view. Three rows of barrels, some wooden, others steel, led to the old pump system, some of the clear plastic pipes still connected. The remnants of liquid inside had turned black with bacteria, and the same was probably true of the contents of the wooden casks. Jonah had wondered, though, whether the steel casks had preserved their wares. Without a working pump system, it was hard to know.
On the stone floor, a five-centimetre layer of dust had settled. Insects of all kinds crawled through the gloom and huge cobwebs hung in each corner, overloaded with cocoons, some fresh, silken and gleaming, others petrified. A squeak told Jonah that rodents were still using the walls for shelter – he’d eaten two of their number a fortnight earlier. Their resilience continually amazed Jonah. No matter what the circumstances, rats, mice and their other cousins survived and flourished.
He turned to the stairs, broken glass crunching underfoot, and explored the left side of the cellar; once again, he saw nothing out of place. An old generator sat in the far corner, the green paint flaking from its sides. He studied it, wondering again whether it could be resuscitated. He could think of many situations in which a liquid pumping system might prove useful. A few more rusting beer kegs stood next to the machine, some banded with green and red stripes and others stamped with unfamiliar logos. A makeshift tent made of weather-beaten faded canvas, and held up on thick wooden poles, sat to the right. Jonah approached and found that the only scent was his own – a faint, lingering trail that he’d left during his last visit. Other than that, nothing and no one had been there.
