by Stu Jones
“Mila,” Mos interrupts. He waves me to the back, his hand covering his mouth and nose.
Renji steps out of a room, gagging and sputtering. I peer around the edge of the door. There they are, three of them, pinched into the back corner on the opposite wall from the splintered door. The mother’s horrified eyes are locked open, her mouth hanging wide in a silent scream, her arms clutched around her children in a state of frozen rigor. All of their throats have been slashed. Dried blood, black and mottled, clings in congealed rivers down their fronts.
“Sweet Moses.” I gasp and turn from the room. There’s no longer any doubt—Rippers were here. Maybe still here. “Come on, we got to keep moving.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Mos says.
Renji pukes outside the door.
Ghofaun looks to me. “Everything okay?”
“They’ve been dead a while. Definitely the work of Rippers and it looks like they sacked this whole place. Everyone, stay on your guard and don’t take any chances. They’re probably still around.”
“I think that’s a fair bet.” Husniya points to the largest structure closer to the lake. Smoke pours from the chimney of the regal-but-dilapidated abode. Straining my ears, I hear something, like a low chorus of moaning coming from the place.
“What is that?” I step past Husniya.
“I don’t like it,” Ghofaun says, his voice low. “Mila, what are we doing here?”
“Everybody, keep it together. Stay low, weapons ready,” I reply.
In pairs of two, we dart forward from building to building, crossing the false idyllic countryside. We crouch at the edge of the closest building. The moaning and wailing has grown unbearable, the sound of wounded souls seeking escape. The hairs on my arms prickle. What in creation is going on here?
We round the front of the house, but stay low and huddle in the shadow of a few nearby trees and bushes.
“What sort of deviance is this?” Mos says.
Our people cry out in disbelief, exchanging worried glances.
Nailed to the wooden exterior are the body parts of a man. The legs, torso, arms, and head are aligned to form a grotesque jigsaw puzzle, ultimately resembling a whole person. But it’s not just any person. It’s Gil. His eyes are wide, staring blankly into space. A metal stake protrudes from the wooden panel and out through his open mouth.
“Bastards,” I mutter under my breath.
Two Ripper warriors exit the front doors and with howls of rage, sprint off in the direction of the power plant.
“They’ve made this place their home.” My stomach clenches in anticipation of what’s to come. We won’t get another chance at the element of surprise.
I check my weapon, my fingers twitching. “Okay, listen up. We can’t circumvent this. We have to eliminate the Ripper presence here.” All eyes turn to me. I swallow, the saliva sticking in my throat. “We press forward in wedge-formation. Once we have our ambush set, we hold until there’s a threat. Don’t give them the upper hand and don’t hesitate to take them down if they try to secure weapons.”
“Mila.” Ghofaun touches my sleeve. “Look at the body. The parts are sliced too cleanly—”
I pull my arm away. “Is everyone clear?”
My comrades acknowledge, ready their weapons, and secure extra magazines.
One last check of my gear. The stubby old-world sub-machine gun feels heavier than ever. I disconnect the drum magazine, check that it’s full and the rounds are properly seated and reattach it with a snap. “Husniya, get a clear line of sight. Take security with you.”
“Yeah, I got it. I don’t need you to tell me,” she says, tapping her forehead and moving with Zaldov to another simple two-story building off to our right.
With everyone ready, I urge part of my forces to flank the right side of the building. But, before they can get in position, the door swings wide and a Ripper exits. He stands there, face-to-face with us, broken teeth bared in rage. A shot rings out and the creature tumbles back, clutching a mortal chest wound.
“I got ’em,” Jape calls out.
Screams, shrill and terrible, erupt from inside.
A wild stomping of feet fills the air, the sound like the beating of many drums as the Rippers inside surge for the door.
“Get ready!” I shout.
Firebombs made with old glass bottles filled with sloop and stuffed with rags are lit by my anxious fighters.
“Burn them out.” Jape yells out, lighting a bottle.
“Wait!” I cry.
But the fighters are deaf to my call. The flaming bottles fly through the windows, breaking with flashes of fire. The screams inside intensify into a bawling wail of madness as the mass of deranged creatures pours from the house toward us.
I hold my weapon at the ready, but can’t bring myself to fire. Something isn’t right.
A blaze of metallic rattling fills the air as my people fire on the emerging Rippers, the concussion drowning out the death screams of the ragged people. Tumbling and spinning, their bodies fall into piles forward of the threshold.
Oh, Yeos no. “Stop, we have to stop,” I say, though the words are barely audible.
Flames lick from the windows, curling into black fingers of twisting smoke. Faster now, the blazing inferno envelops the large building, tongues of fire gushing from the doors and windows.
“Mos,” I yank on his arm. “Make them stop!”
“Cease fire,” Mos calls. “Cease fire, right now!”
As the cacophony subsides, it is replaced with the sound of terrified screams. A wave of nausea hits me alongside the realization. They are the screams of children.
“What have we done?” Ghofaun shouts.
Oh, Yeos, no. It’s not possible. It can’t be. I scan the warriors on the ground before us, except not a single one of them carries a weapon and ... My stomach clenches and vomit spews from my lips.
“Oh, by the heavens,” Mos says, his eyes full of pain. “These are unarmed women. Their children must be inside. We have to get them out. Ghofaun, help me get them out.”
Our fighters back away, looking to each other for reassurance. But there is none to be found as the last of the child’s screams fades into the crackling flames of the collapsing structure. This can’t be happening. Rippers don’t have children—do they? I vomit again into the grass, littered with shining brass cases. What have we done?
A furious sound born of the depths of hell fills the air. On the peak of a nearby hill stands a pack of Ripper males, screaming and rattling their melee weapons. They hurtle down the hill toward us, crossing the distance with reckless abandon.
Mos seizes my arm. “Mila.”
Can't see. Can’t move. Everything is numb. “Mos, I didn’t know there were children. I didn’t mean to ...”
“Mila, we’ve got to go now or we’re all dead.”
I’m being shoved toward the nearest dwelling, the one where Husniya now leans through an upper window, taking precision shots at stray Rippers as they barrel forward. Through the doorway and into the musty abode I stumble. The door slams shut and the crossbar comes down with a thud. Mos barks commands. Our team opens fire through the windows.
Mos turns to me, gripping my shoulders in his meaty hands. “Go. Find Husniya.”
“O-okay,” I say, swallowing back bile.
“Mila!” Mos yells, inches from my face. “Snap out of it.”
“Yeah ... Yeah, okay.”
Ghofaun, his face covered in shadow, pushes past me with a group of fighters and heads for the stairs.
The rickety door to the house creaks and flexes as the Rippers slam into it again and again. They howl with a lust for blood, hellbent on taking our heads. Resistance fighters shout and clamor as the savages crash through the dusty glass windows of the cottage. My people lock in hand-to-hand combat with the encroaching mob. The entrance door cracks and gives way and, with a wild battle cry, Mos charges into the midst of the invaders.
“Move your ass, Mila
,” Mos calls from somewhere within the scrum.
I jerk to life and make it to the top of the stairs in a few strides. “Husniya.”
“Here,” calls the teenager from a room at the end of the narrow hallway. “Where’s Mos?”
“He’s coming. Mos!” I shout.
The Kahangan reaches the top step, spins and kicks the closest Ripper in the chest. The force sends the brute tumbling into the pack that follows but they keep coming. Mos falls into the room and we slam the door shut, shoving a barricade of furniture against it.
Gasping for breath, Mos leans against the wall. “If they keep at it, they’ll get in. Sooner or later.”
Ghofaun can only nod.
I can feel my dismay turning to anger. My furious gaze rests on Jape, lungs heaving, leaning against a wall across the room.
“What the hell?” I say, squaring off. “I told you to wait.”
“No,” Jape says, his eyes resolute, “you said not to let them get the upper hand. That’s what we did.”
“There were children in there, Jape. Children!” My eyes well and I step forward, separated from Jape by a few fighters who try to hold me back. “You know better. You should have waited for my command.”
“You didn’t seem too eager to stop us, Mila. You knew what had to be done.” Jape looks down and checks his weapon.
“I tried to tell you.” The words fade from my lips and I wipe at my eyes.
The burning building filled with dead Ripper children calls to me through the room’s only window. Innocents, Mila. My lungs tighten and eyes sting with bitter tears. You’re a murderer, Mila.
Thick black smoke billows from the torched building. It snakes out and away on a light breeze, pointing like some terrible, shadowy finger. Directing my attention to something moving on the horizon. A man, exiting the power plant with a large lockable trunk propped on his shoulder.
No, it’s not a man—it’s Vedmak. He twists his head left and right, searching for danger. Apparently satisfied, he lurches from the building and hobbles toward the abandoned quarry beyond.
Before I can reconcile my actions, the butt of the sub-gun crashes through the glass of the window.
“Mila, what are you doing?” Husniya shrieks.
“Listen to me.” I throw the gun to the floor. “Get clear of this place. When you do, come find me in the quarry.”
“Where are you going?” Mos clenches his teeth. “You’re leaving us?”
“I have to, Mos. I have to try and stop him.”
Stepping through the window, I launch myself from the ledge and just barely snag the rim of the place across the lane. Pulling myself up, the brittle clay shingles crack and crunch beneath my boots. A few uneasy strides and I’m at the roof’s apex.
“Mila, wait,” Husniya calls out the window.
Can’t talk now. Vedmak must be stopped. It’s the only thing that matters.
Before she can protest further, I vault from the edge of the roof and land on the lip of the adjoining structure with a crack of disintegrating shingles. A spear whips past, almost causing me to lose balance. Below, a small group of Rippers track my movements. Damnation. From roof-to-roof, I jump, balancing across the narrow peaks of rounded shingles only to jump again. The Rippers howl in pursuit.
An ear-shattering boom erupts from the false sky overhead. Powdered glass floats to the ground in a shower of tiny diamonds. A Creed strike-ship drops through the blasted hole, its engines whining. The vessel banks hard, circling around to land close, on the edge of the quarry. Vedmak hobbles faster.
Sard it all to hell, he’s going to escape.
The Rippers’ attention is newly occupied. The group tracking me now runs screaming toward the deranged Gracile. Vedmak shoves the crate on board through a sliding side door. Then, on his command, six Graciles wearing Creed exo-skeletons exit the ship’s rear loading-ramp and open fire on the Rippers with their plasma rifles. Wicked blue bolts rocket from the sleek metallic weapons. The energy projectiles knife through the air, obliterating the screaming Rippers.
This is my chance.
Another leap and I land on the last roof of this row. Ahead, a spiraling road descends into the dark quarry beyond. Sprinting to the edge, I reach into my satchel, draw out the emergency flare gun, and cock the hammer back. Flying from the roof, I extend my arm, aiming with one eye pinched, the flare firing forth with a popping sound. Landing with a grunt I toss the pistol and roll to my feet, my stride steady. The red flare streaks over the heads of the Gracile combatants, bounces off the loading ramp and flips straight into the cab of the strike ship. The pilot loses his mind, swatting and stamping as Vedmak makes for the door, but he’s not in time. The strike-ship lurches forward, spinning off into the quarry, red-tinged smoke billowing from the open rear gate.
Abandoned, Vedmak spins, his eyes furious. He doesn’t see me until it’s too late. A scream of fury on my lips, I slam into his side, hitting him low in his pelvic axis.
His eyes widen as I drive him back. “There you are, you little bitch!”
“Everything is your fault. I’ll destroy you!” I scream.
Vedmak’s feet slip on the rim of the crater. He grabs a fistful of my hair and tumbles, shrieking, into the mineshaft below. Together we fall suspended in the dark until, with a sickening jolt, my breath is knocked from me.
Chapter Twenty-seven
FARUQ
The Baqirian warlord’s palace holds no comfort. Inside this place, too many dreams of hate and abuse rise from within the depths of my heart. They mingle there, intertwined with images of my mother, the sound of her voice as she soothed the wounds of a troubled boy. But it’s all replaced by the constant driving ache radiating from the center of my chest, a remembrance of other good things now gone—a whispered promise to Husniya as we crouched huddled on the street, the way hope once swelled in my chest at the sight of Mila.
No, damnation. Enough of that.
Silks and silver adorn the walls alongside suits of ancient armor, weapons and other military tokens from the world before. Kapka was a fanatic for everything warfare and by the looks of his palace, it was more lifestyle than political interest. An ancient stationary machine gun, complete with cases of ammunition and a tripod that locks into position, sits in the corner. Does that hateful monstrosity even function?
Two mornings ago, I’d marched with my new army through the gates of my home enclave. We were met with caution and general suspicion, but little resistance. Few people here remember their freedom, or at least, what their lives looked like before Kapka or his forbearers rose to power. When we returned without him, the looks of fear on my people’s faces told me they were preparing for the worst—another, maybe even more despicable, power-hungry despot to fear. It will take time, but I will show them who I am. That our future is one we must claim together.
There is just one problem.
Word travels fast to friends and enemies alike in a place like Etyom, and time is of the essence. With Kapka gone, Baqir will be considered vulnerable. The danger lies not with Kapka’s army or even his elite palace guard. They are more loyal to their bellies than any one ruler. And Kahanga was already sacked, so I’m told. No, Baqir’s sister enclave, Alya, is our biggest threat. There, loyalists under the leadership of Governor Abd Al Jabbar, Kapka’s cousin, are planning a coup. When they will strike is anyone’s guess. We must remain ready.
I sit up from my bedroll on the floor in the main hall, my gaze roving across the sleeping bodies of my men, all but the faithful Baral. The young boy sits nearby, reading some old text on our long and turbulent history. He must have watched over me as I slept.
Baral sets his book aside. “Sheikh Faruq. You are awake. Let me fetch your breakfast.”
There is hope in his eyes, a strange glimmer of something better to come. I’d nearly forgotten what it looked like. “No. I can get my own food, thank you.”
“Nonsense,” he says, already moving toward the kitchen. “The prophet does not fetch his
own food.”
Standing, I rub my hands and arms and follow Baral, using friction to push the early chill from my limbs. Does he believe such a thing? Do the others? How long can I draw out this fantasy before they refuse to follow the bastard son of one of Kapka’s wives? A man who is more ghost than prophet.
“Sheikh.” A well-built man with ribbons of silk sown to the breast of his sand-colored shirt approaches from my left. He was one of those who had first supported me back at the encampment.
“Yes? Captain Kahleit, correct?”
“It is I, Sheikh.” He gives a salute. Do I salute back? Probably not. “Seven of the men deserted overnight.”
“Deserted? To where?”
He opens his hands with a shrug. “To Alya, Sheikh. Abd Al Jabbar is a ruthless tyrant, like his cousin, but he holds the loyalty of many who supported Kapka.”
“Our people are deserting us?”
“A few of them, Sheikh. They’re scared. They don’t believe in our cause. They do believe in the brutality of Al Jabbar.”
“What can we do?”
Captain Kahleit frowns. “We can capture their families. Show them the error of their ways.”
Is this all they know? “No, Captain we do not do that anymore.”
“Then what will you have from us?”
The question is earnest. The support of even those who are behind me is thin. What am I supposed to do now? I’m no warlord.
“We will fill their ranks with those who wish to join us.”
As I answer, Baral rounds the corner, a steaming bowl of baked tajis in hand. When he speaks, he does so around a bulbous lump in his cheek.
“I taste it first, Sheikh. Make sure it is safe.” He winks and hands me the bowl.
The wafting aroma of a spoonful of taji beans and spice rises to my nostrils, the warmth gracing my cold lips. Baral coughs, sending a wad of half-chewed beans onto my tunic. He coughs again. The rest of the beans fall from his tongue as he grasps for his throat.
