Retribution - Book three of Beyond These Walls
A Post-apocalyptic survival thriller
Michael Robertson
Contents
Edited and Cover by …
Reader Group
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
The Alpha Plague - Chapter One
About the Author
Also by Michael Robertson
Email: [email protected]
Edited by:
Terri King - http://terri-king.wix.com/editing
And
Pauline Nolet - http://www.paulinenolet.com
Cover Design by Dusty Crosley
Retribution - Book three of Beyond These Walls
Michael Robertson
© 2019 Michael Robertson
Retribution - Book three of Beyond These Walls is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, situations, and all dialogue are entirely a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not in any way representative of real people, places or things.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Chapter 1
As Spike stood in front of the tall wooden gates, he shook his head. “I didn’t think we’d see this side of the gates again. When the coach arrives, we’ll be going home. At times, I wondered if this day would ever come. So much has changed in such a short time.”
Matilda nodded and exhaled hard. “I was a kid when we started our national service. I now see why so few people talk about it when they return.”
Maybe Spike would get used to the feel of it, but at present, the weight of the large medal tugged on his neck. A metal disc of brushed steel, three inches in diameter and half an inch thick on a necklace of ribbon, it had no inscription or finishing, but everyone knew what it meant: one of the lucky few cadets chosen to be in the trials with the chance of being the next apprentice. It also told the guards that he still had the freedom of the city. Although, it was more for show; the guards always knew the handful of rookies due to return for the trials. It both removed the need to show them the medal and, more importantly, prevented anyone else posing as a winner to blag free movement through the districts.
While feeling the weight of his prize, the cold metal in the palm of his hand, Spike nodded. “Everything’s going to be okay. One thing this experience has taught me is if I work hard enough and act with integrity, everything works out. Even if I can’t always predict it will.”
Matilda dragged a sharp breath through her clenched teeth and quickly adjusted her stance. Her ankle clearly still caused her pain. She smiled, but her deep brown eyes didn’t. “I hope you’re right.”
“Are you pleased to be going home?”
A usually olive complexion, Matilda looked paler than Spike had ever seen her. It would take some time to recover from what they’d been through. She smiled. “I miss Artan. It’ll be great to see him again.”
“I’m going to miss you.” Heat flushed Spike’s cheeks.
“We have a month together. Let’s make the most of that, and then it’s only going to be five more months. Like you said, all you can do is put everything you have into the trials. Do that and we’ll be fine.”
“Yeah. I’m going to take a day or two off and then get training again.”
The sound of horses’ hooves and cartwheels clattered against the cobbled streets. When Spike looked up at their ride out of there, he smirked, speaking so only Matilda heard him. “Well, if it isn’t the friendly neighbourhood coach driver.”
“Just be nice.”
“But he’s a dick.”
“And you’re not. When this journey’s over, you can walk away from it. He has to live with himself.”
As the coach drew closer—the walls closing in on either side of it—the barrelling roll of the wooden wheels turned to thunder in the tightening space. The driver glared at them as he rode past and turned the cart around in front of the gates. He halted the carriage next to them. His skin redder than before, as if just the sight of them brought him out in hives, the driver lifted his top lip in a sneer, showing his brown teeth. “I would have bet everything I owned on you two falling on day one.”
Although Spike opened his mouth to reply, Matilda reached across, grabbed his hand, and squeezed it.
The driver’s eyes widened when he looked at the medal around Spike’s neck. “Who’d ya steal that from?”
Maybe the driver heard her, but Matilda didn’t seem to care when she said, “He’s not worth it. Just ignore him.”
Were it not for Matilda, he would have reacted. She had a point though: he had far more important things to deal with than the angry man.
When the driver spat on the ground, the globule landing a few feet from Matilda, Spike pulled a breath in through his nose and let it go with a hard exhale. Matilda interrupted his fury by dragging him into the coach.
The inside of the carriage could have been a million miles away from the man. Now he didn’t have to look at his face, Spike could ignore him. After putting his bag next to Matilda’s at their feet, he took his seat on the hard wooden bench beside her. The rich scent of wood surrounded them. He let some of the tension from his frame and reached over to hold his love’s hand.
As they set off, Spike watched Matilda, who watched the national service gates until they were out of sight before she returned her attention to the inside of the carriage and said, “After everything that’s happened over the last six months, it feels a bit …”
“Anticlimactic?” Spike suggested.
“Right.”
The carriage picked up speed, drawing the chilly October air in through the windows. The loud rattling of their forward momentum meant Spike would have to shout to be heard, so he opted for silence. If Matilda felt anything like he did—his muscles
heavy with fatigue, his heart a cold, dead weight in his chest—she needed the time to just be.
The carriage had poor suspension, every bump sending a spine-shattering shudder up through the seat. It didn’t serve Spike to wonder if the driver took the path of most resistance, but that didn’t prevent him from thinking it. Let him. Like Matilda had said: the man had to live with being an arsehole; Spike and Matilda could walk away from it at the end of their journey.
Matilda shifted closer on the hard bench, leaning her weight against Spike. He put an arm around her, pulling her in with a tight hug as she shook in his grip. Certain she was crying, he continued to hold her.
While watching Edin flash past outside the window, Spike thought about when they were kids. They used to spend hours in each other’s company, sitting on walls and rooftops without speaking. They’d watch complete sunsets, listen to the birdsong, observe the citizens going about their day. A shared meditation, it told him what he already knew … they could—and would—grow old together.
After six months of not hearing the wind chimes in the ceramics district, Spike now heard them as if for the first time. Where they’d been a background noise, a soundtrack to his childhood, their harmonies now sang like a choir, calling through the streets, easing the citizens’ anxieties about the lives they lived.
They came to a stop, and from the look on Matilda’s face—her eyes still glazed, her mouth hanging slightly open—she also heard the chimes anew.
“You’re home,” Spike said before falling silent again to listen to the orchestral tones conducted by nature. The national service area had been a place designed for function. They had no room for art. If the leaders had their way, there would have been no room for love either. But it took a lot more than utter exhaustion, a brutal regime, and repeated trauma to beat love. Maybe more hardships would come in the future, but in the time they’d been away for, Spike had found the human spirit to be indomitable. Nothing could diminish what he felt for Matilda.
A loud bang crashed against the roof of the carriage, making them both jump. The gravelled voice of the driver, phlegmy and coarse as he said, “Are you going to get out or what? This ain’t a tour of the city, you know?”
Neither replied to the man, but Matilda looked at Spike through her watery gaze, her skin blotchy from crying for most of the journey. “Wanna come back to mine?”
A lump caught in his throat. After swallowing, Spike nodded. He threw the coach’s door open with such force it banged against the other side of the carriage. Although the driver shouted something, he chose to ignore him, picking up both of their bags with one hand before he stepped out into the street. Like the sounds, the sight of the place reminded him of the district’s vibrancy. Small mosaic tiles covered everything from walls to windowsills to plant pots. Many were colour coded—green for flowers, blue for water jugs—but some areas and objects were a technicolour explosion as if the children of the house had been tasked with the decoration.
With his free hand, Spike helped Matilda hobble out and step into the street. Either of them could have closed the carriage door, but neither of them did. Instead, they turned their backs on the driver and walked towards the alley leading into the ceramics district.
Again, Spike took in the mosaics and listened to the song of the wind chimes mixing with the tittering of children’s laughter. Edin took many things from its citizens, but at least it didn’t take away their childhood.
When Matilda tried to get her bag from Spike, he moved it out of her reach. As she tried to grab it a second time, he said, “You need to rest your ankle. Let me carry it.”
Despite the determined twist to her features, she let her tense shoulders settle and reached across to hold his hand instead.
A quick glance at the three guards by the entrance to ceramics, Spike spoke from the side of his mouth. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t care who knows about us or what they think. You’re going to be the next protector, so they’d best get used to seeing us together.”
The tightening of Matilda’s grip sent a surge of warmth rushing through Spike. He nodded to himself as they continued forward.
The three guards blocked the way, staring in disgust at Spike and Matilda. They looked like they wanted to say something, but Spike wore the medal around his neck. As he made eye contact with each one, he saw all three of them clock the symbol of the trials resting against his chest. They probably already knew who he was, but the medal meant they couldn’t pretend not to. They wore their disdain on their sleeves, but they parted without comment and allowed the two of them into ceramics. Matilda was right: they’d best get used to seeing them as a couple.
As they closed in on Matilda’s front door, Spike felt her grip tighten. “You sure you want me to come in? I don’t want to get in the way of your reunion with Artan.”
It looked like the words didn’t come easily, the skin around Matilda’s eyes tightening as she looked at her door. “I need you to come in. Besides, Artan has to get used to you being around too.”
“And your dad? Do you think the medal will stress him out?”
“A lot of things stress him out. I can’t live my life trying to appease the unappeasable.”
Spike let Matilda lead the way while he fought against a rising energy that threatened to turn into panic in his tight chest. They’d been away for a long time, and it took until that moment for him to realise reintegration might not be so simple. He stepped into their front room in time to see Artan rush towards Matilda and wrap her in a tight hug. He looked taller than Spike remembered. The boys made eye contact and Artan nodded. Spike returned the gesture while putting Matilda’s bag to one side in the tatty room.
When Matilda pulled away from her brother, her cheeks were sodden with tears. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Although Artan smiled, it looked to cause him discomfort.
“What’s happened?” Matilda said.
Before Artan could reply, Matilda’s mum entered the room. If he’d had a moment longer to think about it, Spike would have held his gasp in, but to see her—her face swollen beyond recognition, both of her eyes reduced to angry puckered slits—he couldn’t contain his initial response. As a boy, he used to be petrified of wasps. One of the neighbourhood kids had been stung, and it made her face swell like a balloon. He never knew the girl’s name and never thought to ask. To know it would somehow make the experience all the more real, but he’d never forget her face when she heaved her last breath. A caricature of what she’d looked like just minutes before, at least her death brought an end to the writhing panic that had taken her over. Matilda’s mum looked like a living version of that girl.
The gasp still the only sound since Matilda’s mum had entered, Artan finally said, “Dad lost it last night.”
Although Matilda’s eyes still watered, the tears now shook as if vibrating with her fury. She clenched her jaw and fists. “Where is he?”
Right on cue, Matilda’s dad entered the room. His presence thickened the atmosphere as if he charged it with an electrical current. It felt like a thunderstorm waiting to break. Many things had changed in six months. Matilda’s dad hadn’t; he was the same short and squat man, with bushy eyebrows and a slightly canted stance on account of his bad knee.
Not Spike’s place to do anything, but he couldn’t fight his tightening muscles. He had to be ready should Matilda need him.
After a few seconds of the two of them staring at one another, Matilda’s dad looked across at Spike, his eyes dropping and lingering on the medal around his neck. The air damn near hummed.
Spike flinched when Matilda touched his arm. “I think you should go.”
A look from his love to her dad, Spike kept his glare on her dad. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve got this. I won’t take his shit anymore.”
Where Matilda’s dad looked like he had a fight in him, his taut frame loosened. Deflated by his daughter’s confidence, Spike saw the fire leave his eyes.
The patriarchy had been dwindling for years. It had now finally been overthrown.
“I need you to trust me, Spike.”
Spike finally took his eyes off her dad and looked back at Matilda. “Do you need me to hang around in the district?”
“No. We’ll be fine. I’ll see you later, yeah?”
It took all Spike’s effort to walk away, but he needed to let her deal with it however she saw fit. The determination in her deep brown eyes showed she had this covered. She had Artan to back her up. He nodded, turned his back on Matilda and her family, and walked out her front door.
Chapter 2
Before Hugh entered his family home, he took the medal from around his neck. He should never have been given the damned thing. He’d won the prize for the best worst choice left in team Minotaur. It felt strange coming here after everything that had happened—especially as he hadn’t called this place home for years. He filled his lungs with the fresh winter air, puffing up his chest before he opened the door.
Retribution - Book three of Beyond These Walls: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Page 1
