by Aaron Hodges
“No,” Liz cut her off, “If the Chead hadn’t come, we would have found a way to save you.”
Jasmine snorted, but she didn’t reply. Liz sighed as the silence stretched out between them. Glancing down, she watched Mira sleeping, thinking idly that at least one of them was enjoying the ride. She reached out and stroked the girl’s soft grey hair, wondering again at the mystery surrounding her.
“Whatever you think, we are family, Jasmine,” she said at last. “Maybe this is just about survival for you, our little group. But it’s not for me, and it’s not for Chris.”
“I guess we’ll see,” Jasmine replied.
Liz nodded. Her gaze turned back to the aisle, where Chris stood with his head leaning against a steel pole. His eyes were closed, though she doubted he was sleeping.
“I’m worried about him,” she said suddenly, not caring whether Jasmine listened or not. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when we reach San Francisco, what he’ll do.”
“Probably something stupid,” Jasmine said wryly.
“I’m serious,” Liz growled. “I’m afraid he’ll do something reckless, something that will get him killed. I’m afraid I’m going to lose him.”
“Maybe,” Jasmine’s breath whispered on the air, “and maybe he’d be right to do it. I mean, what’s our alternative? Our parents are dead. We’re wanted fugitives. And you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with ideas to bring down the government. Maybe reckless is what we need,” she paused. “Besides, I’d rather go down fighting, than go back to being a slave.”
Jasmine’s hand drifted to her throat, to the soft flesh where her collar had once rested. Liz found herself shivering as she remembered the awful devices, the agony as electricity lit every nerve in her body on fire. Even so, she shook her head.
“It doesn’t need to come to that,” she argued. “Not if we’re smart, if we lay low. Our parents wouldn’t have wanted us to throw away our lives.”
Soft laughter came from the darkness. “Lay low? We’re heading into the very heart of the government’s power,” her eyes flashed as she looked at Liz. “No, Liz. If we did what our parents wanted, we would have never left those mountains.”
Liz fell silent at that, unable to find an answer to Jasmine’s words. Closing her eyes, she turned them over in her mind, wondering if they were true, what her parents would have thought of her now. What would they want her to do now?
She smiled as she recalled a time when she was young, when bandits had come to their lands and started stealing livestock. Her mother and father had gathered up the farm hands and started handing out rifles. They had ridden off at dawn, and returned by dusk, the missing livestock in tow.
“You’re wrong, Jasmine,” she said at last. “They would want us to fight back.”
19
Chris staggered as he stepped off the bus, his legs almost giving way beneath him. The trip had passed by in a blur of anger and grief, the long hours trickling away with every lurching mile. The journey had extended through the night and most of the next day. Now, almost twenty-four hours after they’d first stepped aboard the steel contraption, they had finally reached San Francisco.
Blinking in the fading light, Chris looked around at his surroundings. They were on the edge of downtown San Francisco, somewhere amidst the cramped jumble of buildings that was the National Bus Station. People crowded the footpaths and asphalt, racing between the lumbering buses, struggling to find their way through the packed space.
Since the end of the American War, the population of San Francisco had exploded, and available land had quickly dried up. With expansion in their downtown location all but impossible, the National Bus Service had been forced to cram the last twenty years of growth into the eighty-year-old station. Now the facility was bursting at the seams. Their bus had taken an hour just to manoeuvre its way through the queues of buses waiting outside.
Chris sucked in a breath as he watched the crowd, unable to summon the energy to care about the bodies pressing in around him. Without checking to see whether the others followed, he moved off through the station. A dull emptiness swelled within him, a lonely gulf that sucked away all emotion, leaving him alone, stranded amidst his sorrow.
Threading his way through the garbage littering the footpath, Chris scanned the crowds, searching for an exit. Concrete walls surrounded the boarding area in a U shape, with a narrow entranceway for the buses on the opposite side of the station. But there were numerous doorways through which passengers could enter and exit. Spotting one nearby, Chris headed for it, wrinkling his nose as he stepped over a puddle of liquid that smelled distinctly of urine.
The doorway led him indoors, where the press of people was even denser. Without fans or air conditioning, the heat inside was stifling, even compared to hellish nightmare that had been the bus ride. His frustration building, Chris shoved his way through the crowd and made his way towards a glowing blue sign that read ‘exit’.
Outside, the crowds thinned a little, though the sidewalks were still a mess of human refuse. But before he could go further, a hand grabbed him by the arm, and a voice called his name.
“Chris…” Liz looked up at him as he turned, pain shining from her crystal blue eyes.
Chris paused for a moment, looking down at the girl, searching for the emotions she’d had once ignited within him. The pit in his chest twisted, and something flickered inside him. Then it was gone. He shuddered as the sense of loss spread. In its place was a desire to run, to escape.
Shrugging off Liz, Chris turned away from her. He heard her call out, but through the noise of the crowd, her words were unrecognisable. His feet carried him quickly down the sidewalk, away from the others, away from his grief.
Around the station, a host of makeshift market stalls had been erected on the sidewalk, though many were beginning to pack away their wares for the night. Steel braziers burned on the street corners, hotdogs and hamburger patties charring on the blackened grills. Beggars sat beneath their piles of rags, squeezing in between the host of humanity around them. Some held out their hands in silent beseechment, but most just sat staring into space, their eyes devoid of hope, of life.
Chris moved on in silence, head down, refusing to meet the eyes of those he encountered. A woman tried to step into his path, pushing some jewelled necklaces at him, but he quickly shoved his way past. The woman staggered backwards into an overflowing garbage can. Her screams of abuse carried after him, but Chris was too consumed to hear her rage.
His own anger was far greater.
As he made his way through the tangled streets, darkness slowly fell over the city. He left behind the bustling marketplace, moving onto quieter sidewalks, and darker streets. The only pedestrians around now went quickly about their business, eager to be home. This was not a safe neighbourhood, and with nightfall only the boldest of citizens would dare to be out.
Footsteps came from behind Chris as the others struggled to keep pace with him. Soft voices called after him, but still he did not turn back. Overhead, the streetlights flickered on, but with half of their bulbs broken, they did little to illuminate the darkness.
“Chris!” Liz’s voice was insistent now. “Chris stop! We need to get off the streets before–”
Liz broke off as a scream echoed down the road. Chris paused midstride, the high-pitched shriek cutting through his thoughts, lifting him momentarily from his spiral of despair. He looked up as it came again, recognisably female now.
A need rose in Chris’s chest – a need to act, to fight, to do something. His mother was dead, publicly executed as part of some sick New Year’s celebration, and he had been powerless to stop it.
But he was powerless no longer.
Fists clenched, Chris began to run.
He leapt over a pile of garbage, his keen eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead, picking a path through the refuge. Ahead, he glimpsed the dark shadow of an alleyway. The scream came again, echoing out from the darkness of the alley, and he turned tow
ards it.
As he came around the corner, he took in the scene without breaking stride. In the shadows, a young girl lay sprawled on the ground, her eyes wide with terror, staring at the two men standing over her. A gash marked her forehead, and her long brown hair lay in tangles across her face. Her coat was torn, its copper buttons lying scattered on the concrete around her.
Her eyes looked up as Chris appeared, her mouth opening to scream again. Before she could speak, one of the men stepped forward and slammed a boot into her stomach. She crumpled beneath the blow, gasping against the filthy concrete.
A low growl rose from Chris’ chest as he stepped towards the men. His boot brushed against a can as he moved, sending it rattling across the ground. The men spun at the sound, their eyes finding Chris in the shadows.
Chris hesitated as he saw the police badges shining on their chest, and the blue uniform stretched over their muscular frames. One held a baton casually in his hand, and both wore guns holstered on their belts.
The one who had kicked the girl rested a hand on his gun and growled. “You’d best turn around, kid.”
The other moved towards the girl as the speaker stared Chris down. Chris bit his lip, weighing up the distance between himself and the man. Less than ten feet separated them – he could cross that distance in a second. He looked back at the man, and smiled.
The policeman’s eyes widened as Chris leapt. His hand tensed, hesitating just a second, before he began to pull the weapon from its holster. But to Chris, the man could have been moving in slow motion. By the time the gun slid free, Chris had already closed the distance. With casual ease, he reached out and caught the man by the wrist.
His foes’ eyes widened as he struggled to break Chris’s hold, his teeth flashing in the light of a distant streetlamp. But he quickly found he was no match for Chris’s mutated strength. Grinning, Chris started to squeeze. A satisfying crack came from the man’s wrist, and the gun dropped uselessly to the ground.
A flicker of movement came from the corner of Chris’s eyes, and turning he saw the other policemen drawing his gun. Tensing, Chris grasped the first man by the collar, lifted him over his head, and hurled him at the other officer. The man flew through the air, his arms wind-milling, and landed on his colleague with an audible thud.
Chris strode towards them, watching as they tripped over themselves trying to get back to their feet. He grinned as he saw the terror in their eyes. Gone were his days of running away, of hiding and sulking while his tormentors enjoyed their privileged lives. The President was right about one thing – he had nothing left to lose now. He would act, would watch the government and all its members burn if he could.
The second man still had his gun, and he pointed it at Chris from the ground. Chris sprang to the side as the barrel flashed, and heard the crack as lead struck the brick wall behind him. He scowled as the man fired again, leaping to the side, then dove forward and kicked out at the gun. It flashed one last time before his boot sent it flying sideways into the wall.
A sharp pain came from Chris’s arm and for a second he reeled back. Then a flash of red passed across his eyes, and the pain faded. A boiling rage rose inside him as his breath came in ragged gasps. The man whose wrist he’d broken was on his feet again, swinging his baton with his good arm.
Snarling, Chris reached up and caught the baton mid-swing. The man’s face paled, but Chris gave him no time to retreat. Grabbing his arm in an iron grip, Chris dragged him forward into a crunching headbutt. The man staggered beneath the blow, but Chris wasn’t finished with him. Grasping his arm, he swung the man around, and hurled him head first into the wall.
A sickening crunch came from the man’s skull on impact. Sliding down the wall, he lay unmoving on the ground, a dark stain marking the bricks where he’d struck.
Ecstasy swept through Chris as he turned on the remaining policeman. Rage boiled through his veins, numbing the pain in his arm. He took a step forward, watching with satisfaction as sheer terror lit his victim’s face. Then he leapt.
The policeman raised his hands in front of his face in a desperate effort to fend him off. But he was like grass before the wind to Chris, and he crumpled beneath Chris’s fist. As he fell, Chris landed on his chest, his weight driving the breath from the man’s lungs. His mouth gaped wide, desperate for air, as Chris threw back his head and laughed.
A wild joy swept through Chris as he slammed another blow into the policeman’s face. The cop’s head snapped back from the force of the impact, bouncing into the concrete. His eyes rolled into his skull and a low groan rattled in his chest, but Chris no longer cared. He lashed out again, his knuckles cracking as they slammed into flesh, the sound of blows echoing down the alleyway.
By the time Liz and Richard pulled Chris away, he was covered in blood. Red rage drowned his thoughts, and hissed as they grabbed him, struggling to break free. Twisting, he lashed out at the others, but Richard and Liz held him tight, their strength more than a match for his own, and finally the fight began to drain from him. The red faded from his vision and his heart-beat slowed.
Chris slumped in their arms, gasping as the pain returned. Agony shot from his arm, pins and needles radiating down to his hand. But it was still nothing to the ache in his heart, the agony of his loss.
A sob built in his chest, persistent, undeniable. It tore from his lips as the first hot tears spilled down his face. He cried out as Liz pulled him to her, burying his head in her shoulder, holding her tight, as though his life depended on it. A fear rose inside him, that if she let him go, he would slip away, would lose himself in the depths of his despair.
“What are we doing, Liz?” the words rose from somewhere inside of him, “It’s all out of control.”
He felt a shiver go through her as she pulled him closer. But she did not answer, and they stood together in silence, amidst the long shadows of the alleyway.
Closing his eyes, Chris gave in to his grief. He let it wash through him, to ebb and flow with the pain of his body. He embraced it, accepted it. Slowly, the tension went from him, the mad chaos that had taken hold falling away. And through it, he sent up an offering, a thought, a final farewell to the woman who had raised him.
Mum, I love you.
20
Sam ducked as Paul’s fist flashed for his face, then backpedalled as the smaller boy chased after him, giving Francesca time to regain her feet. He shook his head as the boy stumbled. Paul recovered quickly, but the second it took allowed Sam to leap clear, his copper wings beating slightly to carry him across the hall.
He watched as Paul and Francesca gathered themselves and came after him. They moved with more confidence now, already growing used to the alien weight of their wings, though they were still far from perfect. Unlike Sam and the others, they were taking longer to adjust. Their wing movements were still stiff and robotic, their responses delayed, as though the connection between mind and wing was not quite complete.
They stalked towards Sam now, faces grim as they watched for a hint of his next attack. Grinning, Sam let them come. It had been days since their first meeting, but the two had proven slow learners. He had been wondering whether the lack of immediate danger might be slowing their progress. After all, it had been the rush of adrenaline, the desperate need to escape, that had driven Sam and the others to leap from the cliffs and fly.
So Sam had decided a change of tack was needed.
As Paul stepped into range, Sam tensed and sprang at the younger boy. Paul’s eyes widened, but Sam was on him in an instant, his wingtip swinging out to catch the boy in the face. He felt a satisfying thud and grinned as Paul stumbled back clutching his nose.
Growling, Francesca stepped in to take Paul’s place. Her sudden charge caught Sam by surprise, and he staggered sideways as her fist crashed into his ribs. Wincing, he retreated a step, silently admiring her strength. Whatever problems they had with their wings, there was nothing wrong with their other enhancements.
Sam scowled as the gir
l came at him again. Twisting sideways, he reached out and caught her by the wrist. Francesca yelped as he used her momentum to fling her over his shoulder and across the room.
He grinned as the girl hurtled through the air, arms raised to break her fall. Then her black wings shot outwards, catching in the air and slowing her descent. Francesca yelped in surprise, then dropped lightly to the ground. Blinking, wings still half-spread, she turned to stare at Sam, eyes wide.
“Very good,” Sam grunted, “Now show me what you’ve got.”
Ignoring her still gaping face, Sam leapt high into the air, his wings snapping out as he moved. With one powerful stroke he crossed the hall, and drove his booted foot into the girl’s midriff. The blow sent her bouncing across the wooden floor until she came to rest near the far wall. Wheezing, she tried to right herself, her mouth wide and gasping.
An angry growl came from behind Sam, and he spun in time to block a savage blow from Paul. His fist crashed into Sam’s wrist and sent a shock juddering down his arm. Grimacing, Sam retreated, twisting to avoid another wild swing from Paul. Then his knee flashed up and caught the other boy in the stomach, stopping him in his tracks.
They drew back a step then, pausing to weigh each other up. Sam had to admit, the two were good fighters, but that was no surprise. They had to be, to have survived this long. If not for his own skill and greater experience with his wings and strength, Sam doubted he could have taken them both. As it was, he was enjoying the chance to vent his frustration.
As Paul came at him again, Sam tensed, readying himself for the next attack. It came in a rush of flashing fists and elbows, but Sam blocked each of them calmly, and then leapt forward and grasped Paul by the shirt. Pivoting on his hip, Sam turned and hurled the boy across the room in the same manner he had Francesca.
Unfortunately, Paul’s wings did not come to his rescue. He rose in an arc, and then crashed down into the wooden floor with a hard thud. Shaking his head, Sam watched the boy stagger to his feet, his lips drawn back with rage.
