Chapter One
Rayne woke with a start, as one who sleeps lightly does. Sitting up, she rubbed her face and glanced around, then yawned, squinting at the red, bloated sun on the horizon. Thick, sooty clouds almost obscured it, dimming its glory to a weak gleam beyond the polluted atmosphere. The distant muttering and shuffling of thousands of human beings and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies and excrement wafted to her on the chill morning breeze.
Throwing off her ragged blanket, she stood up and stretched, ridding herself of the kinks acquired from sleeping curled up. She scanned the countryside, on the lookout for roving police patrols or the furtive movement of a fellow raider. Ruined buildings huddled in groups, surrounded by the rubble of those the tanks that had rumbled through here in the days of the rebellion had destroyed. Only the hardiest weeds struggled to grow in the debris, their yellow leaves blotched with brown. Most of the remaining trees were dead, but a few bore sickly, withered foliage. Rusted and burnt-out cars clogged ditches and cluttered kerbs.
Rayne’s gaze drifted to the feeding station housed in an ugly building at the bottom of the valley. Thousands of thin, filthy people stood around it in a never-ending fight for survival. Their only ambition was to reach the food dispenser and push their battered tin plate under it to receive a meagre helping of sludge-like food. Then the crowd pushed them to the back, sometimes stealing their share along the way. More often, they gulped it down, growling at would-be thieves. They would then find a warm hollow or deserted building to sleep in, curled up in the tatty blankets they carried. Those who failed to reach the front often enough grew too weak to ever make it, and died where they stood.
Only a few women remained in the throng, so it was an old feeding station where the weaklings had already succumbed. Once a day, a meat wagon came to collect the dead and deliver the next food supply. The police, using shock sticks and batons, cleared a path and dragged out the dead and dying, loaded them onto refrigerated trucks and left. Some bodies remained to add to the stench, however. The people at the feeding stations ate the ones who died. There was nothing else they could eat. All the animals, wild and domestic, had long since been slaughtered to feed the starving billions, or eradicated by pollution or deforestation; the rest had been judged expendable and wiped out.
Rayne and her brother were raiders, and took whatever they could from whoever was vulnerable, mainly the autocrats’ stores. The autocrats, remnants of the political and social elite, had retained their power and prosperity by taking control of the massive food stores the government and army had hoarded over the decades.
Raiders were too proud to work for the autocrats. Those who did were virtually slaves, paid only in food and shelter. They served as police and store guards, but for more unpleasant jobs the autocrats had real slaves. Rayne and Rawn preferred to live by the gun and die by it, if necessary. Many years ago, Rawn had taken an old .45 semi-automatic pistol from a dead man, and it had given them the means to become raiders. Without it, their destiny might have been quite different. Rawn had taken care of her since their parents had been killed in a riot when he was twelve and Rayne eight. She was twenty-two now, and the last fourteen years had been tough.
A fallen tree’s roots formed the dry hollow in which they had slept. Rawn had dug it deeper and filled it with dead bracken and leaves. The canopy of roots had protected them from most of the stinging, acidic dew that fell each morning.
Rayne looked around at the sound of footsteps, relaxing when she recognised her brother’s familiar figure approaching. Evidently he had answered a call of nature. She stood up and brushed leaves from her fawn shirt and brown leather jacket. Like her ragged suede mini skirt and stretch leggings, they had been scavenged from abandoned shops. Leather afforded protection from injury and rain, making it the material of choice, although difficult to find. Rawn’s black leather trousers bore the scars of many violent encounters, as did the suede jacket he wore over a grey shirt. Their pseudo plastic boots would last for years, unless the pollution ate through them.
At six foot four, Rawn was unusual in a world where most were stunted and malnourished. Exercise and hunger had honed his lean, muscular physique, but his size and strength allowed him to stave off malnutrition. His strong jaw, straight nose, piercing tawny eyes and dark gold hair streaked with silver made him handsome, she thought.
She said, “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
“That’s because you don’t feed me enough.”
“Bullshit! You eat as much as you want. You’re just a gannet.”
“You’re always hungry too,” she shot back.
Rawn pulled a face and shrugged. Hunger was the driving force of their struggle for survival in a world gone mad. They had grown up in it, and knew its dangers well, which was perhaps the reason they had succeeded where so many had failed. They were a remnant of the last generation to survive, old enough to fend for themselves when they had been orphaned, but young enough to adapt.
“Come on. Let’s go,” he said.
Rawn led her down the hill past the sludge-eaters, secure in his advantage of youth and comparative health. The people watched them pass with envious eyes, some finding the energy to throw of few stones in their direction, all of which fell short. Rawn set the pace at a steady lope across the expanse of desolate, ruined suburbs towards the city.
Rayne hated the city, but they had to go into it for food. They always left as soon as they had supplies for a few days. They paused on the crest of a hill, but when Rawn started down it, Rayne stayed behind, forcing him to stop and look back.
“Couldn’t we raid the country store again?” she asked.
“We raided that last week. It’ll be crawling with guards.”
“I have a bad feeling today.”
“It’ll be all right. Come on.”
Rayne glared at the distant cluster of shining towers that sprouted from the tumbled ruins of lesser buildings, crushed in the rebellion or fallen foul of pollution later. The decaying buildings formed a complex concrete jungle whose dangers included collapsing walls and crumbling sewers. Broken glass and twisted, rusted reinforcing littered the streets, where bands of hostile vagrants roamed, preying on anything that could not defend itself or run. Packs of giant rats infested the sewers in an army of disease-riddled vermin, providing food for the vagabonds, who counted themselves better than the sludge-eaters and might have become raiders if not for their lack of weapons. She caught a glimpse of herself in a piece of broken glass as she passed it, looking away quickly.
The harsh life and lack of food had taken its toll, giving her a gaunt, elfin look. Her blue-green eyes burnt with hunger, and soot smudged her creamy skin. Her mane of silver-streaked blonde hair, which she had hacked off in a thick fringe, was a little grubby. Her unusual beauty made her a target for raiders and autocrats. Rawn was too, not so much for the autocrats, but the mistresses, their female counterparts.
Only the autocrats’ towers, which their slaves maintained with cannibalised parts from unused skyscrapers, remained intact. They clustered at the city centre, known as the Inner City. A leaden grey sky hung above it like a dirty shroud, and black smoke belched from the power plants that provided electricity to the towers, fuelling its filth. To Rayne, who preferred the country, barren and dead though it was, the glittering buildings represented all that was evil in the world.
She said, “We’ve been lucky until now, but one day our luck’s going to run out.”
“Do you want to starve? We have no choice. Come on, let’s get on with it.”
At the city’s outskirts, they grew more cautious, dodging from building to building to avoid the police patrols that were meant to keep raiders out. Dawdling guards outside a red-brick building gave away the site of a food store. The ruined top floors sprouted twisted girders, and rotting planks covered the windows. Crouched behind a crumbling wall, they watched the bored guards pace up and down with measured strides.
“That’s the place,” Raw
n whispered. “Only two guards, and they’re bored stiff. That place hasn’t been raided for a while. It’s perfect. Time to do your stuff, Ray.”
Years of fleeing store guards had given Rayne an unusual turn of speed. She could out-sprint the fastest guard, creating an effective diversion while Rawn stole food. The guards, knowing their boss would reward them for catching her, always vied for the prize. She had to keep them interested long enough for her brother to do his part, then escape. Afterwards, she would meet him outside the city. Rawn patted her shoulder, and she rose to her feet and strolled towards the store.
The guards shouted and drew their guns, and Rayne sprinted down the street, the men in pursuit. She hoped Rawn found some ammunition in the store; their supply was running low. She ran across a junction and into the road beyond, her panting pursuers flagging after just three blocks. Slowing, she faked a limp to encourage them, and their yells of triumph rewarded her. Their occasional wild shots did not faze her, since she knew they wanted her alive and preferably unharmed. They probably hoped to frighten her into stopping, if she thought they would shoot her if she continued to flee. She loped on for another block before crossing a vacant lot into the next street. By the time the guards walked back to the store, Rawn would be long gone. She entered a more rundown area inhabited by a few thin, dirty people so scared they even hid from each other.
The guards followed, shouting in frustration, and she glanced back as she rounded a corner. Something slammed into her midriff, and she rebounded and sprawled. Gasping, she struggled to rise, staring at the sleek grey hover car that blocked her path. The airtight door seal broke with a faint wheeze, and a gush of conditioned coolness washed over her, scented with strange perfume. An autocrat stepped out, his shiny black robe covering all but his face. Rayne scrambled to her knees, shaking her head to clear the spots from her eyes, broken glass slicing into her shins. She climbed to her feet and backed away just before he came close enough to grab her.
He raised a hand. “Wait! Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” Rayne retreated, and he followed, his hand extended in a parody of friendship, his tone soothing. “It’s okay. I only want to help you. You’re hurt.”
Rayne knew an autocrat would never help her. His beady brown eyes, set close together in a thin face with a bony nose and a rat-trap mouth, roved over her in a way that made her skin crawl.
Spinning on her heel, she raced down the street, hoping to put a good distance between herself and the autocrat before he gave chase. He cursed, then the car’s soft whine pursued her, catching up fast. She could not outrun a hover car, and there was nowhere to hide. She dodged burnt-out car wrecks and avoided twisted girders and rubble. The shock of her fall had sapped her strength; her lungs laboured and her legs grew weaker with every stride. The autocrat followed, waiting for her to tire while he called his men.
A doorway ahead yawned dark and forbidding, but she ran through it and stopped. The autocrat would not dare to follow her into such a dangerous area, even though he was armed, since it was a perfect place for an ambush.
Rayne listened to the hover car’s whine, gasping in the damp, smelly gloom. The autocrat could wait all day, and would send his men in after her when they arrived. Walking further in, she stumbled over garbage, startling a few rats. The building stank of urine, faeces and decay, and pollution ate away at its crumbling walls. Icy fingers of fear marched up and down her spine, but she forced herself to go on. An oblong of light beckoned ahead, and she quickened her pace.
The door led into an empty lot surrounded by apartment blocks, some of which had partially collapsed, filling the area with broken bricks, twisted girders and glass. Loping across it, she entered the building on the far side and rested in the musty darkness, contemplating the dangers that still faced her. To reach the meeting place, she would have to run the gauntlet of hazards with which this ruined world was rife. At least she knew what they were, and how to avoid them.
Going to the next doorway, she scanned the street. A group of vagrants huddled around a fire, cooking a rat, but they were far away. Further up the street, a manhole cover flew off with a clang and a ragged figure wriggled out and sprinted for a doorway. Seconds later, three more scruffy men emerged and surveyed the street before setting off down an alley. The group that had been cooking the rat had vanished, leaving their little fire.
Rayne waited for the men to return. They had to be raiders or desperate drifters banded together to hunt others. After several minutes, the hoboes re-emerged and fought over who would eat the rat. Still she waited, all her senses alert. A movement at the end of the street caught her eye, as four police hover cars entered it and moved towards her. The vagrants retreated into the building behind them.
The autocrat must have ordered the police to patrol this block in search of her. She found a room with a single dirty window and settled down to wait, piling damp cardboard boxes into a makeshift seat. Periodically, she rose to peer out of the door, but the police still patrolled. Her stomach rumbled, and she thought of Rawn, by now enjoying a meal.
Rayne piled up the rubbish on the floor as darkness oozed into the city in a tide of shadow, and set it alight with her precious lighter, which Rawn insisted she carry. He had one too, but made her carry her own, so if they were separated she could at least light a fire. As the night chill settled on the city and a corrosive mist filled the street outside, she longed for her brother’s warm, comforting presence. They had not been apart for a night before, and she toyed with the idea of trying to sneak past the police in the dark. There were too many dangers at night, however. This was when the mutants usually hunted. Safety lay in numbers or concealment, and she huddled close to the little fire, hoping no one would find her.
Slave Empire - Prophecy Page 2
