Retribution - Book three of Beyond These Walls: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller

by Michael Robertson

  “He can’t be there all the time, but they fought a lot. Like I said, Artan got involved last night. And a good job too.”

  “Because of your ankle?”

  “Yeah.” After a pause, she said, “Something’s changed in Dad. Me going on national service seems to have tipped him over the edge. You getting a medal has made him worse.”

  “I’ll take it off when I’m around him.”

  “He has to deal with it. I won’t take his bullshit anymore.”

  Because he’d been talking to Matilda, Spike hadn’t given much thought to where they were walking. It took for him to see Mr. P’s before he realised they’d been heading for it all along. He stopped dead.

  “What are you doing?” Matilda said.

  “I think we should go somewhere else.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t been dreaming about a meal at Mr. P’s.”

  Spike didn’t move, standing in the middle of the busy plaza in front of what used to be Mr. P’s.

  “Well, I’m going in,” Matilda said.

  As she stepped away, Spike said, “Mr. P’s dead.”

  Matilda spun around to face him, wincing from what must have been a pain in her ankle from the sudden movement. “What?”

  “I watched him die.”

  “When?”

  “Six months ago. Before we went on national service.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dad and I saw him get evicted.”

  “When were you going to tell me about this?”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t feel right when we were on national service. We already had so much to deal with.”

  The hummingbird clip holding most of her hair in place, Matilda pulled the loose strands from in front of her eyes, the start of tears building in them.

  “I suppose a part of me didn’t want to believe it.”

  “You think it was something to do with the Robert Mack act?”

  “I’d guess so. That homophobic nonsense has spread through our politicians like a poison. I’m trying to keep faith in the system for when I go on the trials, but in a city where they persecute people for their sexuality, it makes me wonder whose whim the decision for the next apprenticeship rests on. They hardly seem like a rational bunch, and I am competing against Magma’s son.”

  “But we can’t worry about what might happen. Besides, Magma had your back when it came to getting you into the trials.”

  “You think they’ll give me a fair crack at the apprenticeship?”

  “I don’t think anything’s fair in this city, but we have to hope, right?”

  A chill suddenly snapped through Spike, forcing him to look behind them.

  “What?” Matilda said.

  While searching the busy square, looking as far into each alley as he could see, he said, “I’m probably being paranoid because of what we’re talking about, but I feel like we’re being watched.”

  “With that huge medal around your neck, I wouldn’t be surprised if we are. But if it makes you feel better, let’s keep moving.”

  Like she’d done when they’d returned home the previous day, Matilda held Spike’s hand, and they moved off, heading away from the main square into some of the quieter alleys.

  In a low voice, Spike said, “Do you think someone from the government is following us? To see if we’re sympathetic to Mr. P?”

  Matilda didn’t reply, quickening their pace as she led them through a series of tight turns. From the way she marched, Spike wondered who was the more paranoid. If she hadn’t been moving with a limp, it felt like she would have taken off by now.

  Left, right, and then left again, Spike looked behind, seeing a figure just too far back to make them out. “We’re definitely being followed.”

  The next turn brought them out onto the main street, taking them back in the direction of Matilda’s house. She looked at where they’d just emerged from. “I don’t think today’s a good day.”

  “We can’t afford to have bad days. We only have a month.”

  When Matilda looked behind them again, Spike followed her line of sight. For the first time, he saw who followed them. “What’s he doing?”

  Her eyes on her dad about fifty feet away, Matilda said, “I told you he’s lost the plot.”

  “Let me do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Talk to him. I dunno. Let him know I know.”

  “Like he gives a shit.”

  “We could tell the guards?”

  “You know what this city is, right? It’s a place that sacrifices kids for the sake of building a wall. Somewhere that kills you for loving the wrong person. A place where at least half the residents have been permanently damaged from their time on national service, and after they’ve given the best of themselves, they’re then forced to live in a district they hate, doing a job they hate, most likely with a husband or wife they hate. It’s the kind of place that turns a blind eye when a woman leaves her house covered in bruises. A place that ignores children who flinch every time someone moves too quickly around them.” Tears now stood in Matilda’s eyes, her face reddening as she looked from her dad to Spike. “It’s a place that blames the woman for answering back. Like she’s making the man’s life harder. Like we haven’t been on national service too. So tell me, Spike, what good will going to the guards do?”

  After a moment’s pause, Spike said, “Is Artan home?”

  “It’s Artan I’m worried about. He’s about to lose it. He’s a boy turning into a young man. There’s a lot of testosterone in that growing frame. Look, Spike, I think you should go home. I need to deal with this family business, and I don’t want you getting caught up in the crossfire. Will you come back tomorrow?”

  The words stung. Rejection from his love and the harsh reality that the system he so desperately wanted to trust let most people down. The system that would decide if he’d be the next protector or not.

  Matilda reached across and held his hands. “Everything’s okay. I’ve been dealing with that arsehole for years.”

  It didn’t feel okay. It felt very far from it. Still, Spike nodded.

  Just before Spike set off, Matilda grabbed his arm. “Please go another way home. Don’t tempt him or yourself by walking past him.”

  As much as Spike didn’t want to give in to the man, he loved Matilda. He’d go whatever way she wanted him to. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Be careful and look after yourself.”

  “Always.”

  If he’d felt anxious leaving her on the first night, her dad’s bizarre behaviour had now taken it to a whole new level.

  Chapter 6

  The rain fell diagonally, flaying Hugh as if in an attempt to remove his skin. As he took the weaving path through the tight alleys, he hugged his coat to himself and tried to ignore the feeling of being watched from the shadows. He had no evidence to back up his paranoia, but he didn’t need it. From what he’d learned about the place, no one passed through the woodwork district without the eyes of sentries on them, and if they chose to remain invisible, what could he do other than keep going? Where he’d walked with a hunch in the face of nature’s wrath, he now drew a deep breath, lifted his chest, and focused on his destination just a few feet away.

  Number eight. That was what she’d told him. The streets were so dark he didn’t see the number until he stood directly in front of the door. Hugh knocked. Despite his confident stance, his legs felt his fear and they urged him to run. He remembered the game many of the neighbourhood children played. That game, however, rarely amused the ones answering the doors, and in a place like this, it would only serve to heighten what must be a daily anxiety for many residents.

  Before Hugh could think on it any further, the door opened. Any fear he’d gone to the wrong house vanished as he stared at the woman. The same mousy brown locks, the same sticking-out ears that created a silhouette no haircut could hide, the same slight frame. The younger wo
man she’d once been stared from her slightly wrinkled and tired face. A life in the woodwork district and a mother of three, a parenting journey that had started eighteen years ago, had clearly taken its toll.

  The woman looked Hugh up and down. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh, sorry.” Hugh held his hand in her direction. “I’m Hugh.”

  The woman stared at the hand and then poked her head from her door to look out into the dark street. The night-time belonged to the gangs.

  “I knew Elizabeth.”

  Her face changed for the briefest moment. It moved as a ripple across otherwise still water. After looking up and down the dark street again as if checking for more gang members, she stood aside. “Come in.”

  A slightly larger house than Hugh’s on account of them having three kids—or rather, having had three kids—Hugh followed Elizabeth’s mum into the front room. The family were sat around their table eating dinner. Her dad at the head of the table, her younger brother and sister opposite one another, and a chair sat beside her sister as if they were waiting for Elizabeth to come home. He’d clearly stared at it for a little bit too long, because when he looked up again, he found the entire family watching him, their mouths open as they waited for him to speak. “Um … sorry to interrupt you.”

  Elizabeth’s dad looked at Hugh first and then his wife. Before he could say anything, Elizabeth’s brother—who looked like the youngest of the two siblings—said, “Who are you?”

  Impossible to hide the warble in his words, Hugh’s voice shook when he said, “My name’s Hugh. I’m a friend of Elizabeth’s.”

  “Was,” her dad said. “Or are you such a good friend that you didn’t know that?”

  The directness of his question took on a physicality that shoved Hugh back a step. He cleared his throat and looked into her dad’s eyes. Images of his love flashed through his mind and he heard her scream. He saw her twitching as she turned. Returning to the moment, he dipped a nod of concession. “Was. We were on national service together.” Maybe he shouldn’t have said it, but in an attempt to validate him being there, he added, “I was there the day it happened.”

  The chink of his cutlery against his plate as he put it down, her dad shrugged. “So? What do you want?”

  Elizabeth’s mum straightened her posture. “Doug!”

  “No, Jude, I mean it. What do you want? Have you been sent here by one of your gang leaders to claim some sort of debt she owes?”

  “I’m not from the woodwork district.”

  “Then how are you here? No one walks through this place uninvited, especially not a kid at night—and a boy at that. That’s as good as declaring war.”

  Because he hadn’t wanted to appear with it on display, Hugh pulled the medal from his pocket. Elizabeth’s brother and sister gasped, both of them getting to their feet to look at it, but they froze at Elizabeth’s dad’s instruction. “Sit down!” Even Hugh jumped.

  The kids followed his orders. From the way they both looked at him—their eyes wide, their faces pale—he didn’t usually speak to them in that way.

  The next words to come from Elizabeth’s dad had a measured calm that made Hugh squirm. “Medal or not, coming here from another district isn’t a wise move. This place has no respect for Edin’s laws.” He sighed. “Anyway, you’re here now. Why?”

  “I wanted to tell you how wonderful your daughter was.”

  “We know that; she was our daughter.”

  “That I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Why should we care if you’re sorry? We don’t know you, and that doesn’t bring our little girl back. It doesn’t mean these two won’t have to go on national service in the future either.” The end of his sentence faded and his eyes glazed. When he blinked, it sent tears streaming down each cheek, but he still watched Hugh, comfortable with his grief. His voice remained calm. “I think you’ve come here for you—and I get that, son, I really do—but you need to find a way to help yourself that doesn’t involve us. Find someone to talk to. Someone that cares about you.”

  Although Hugh opened his mouth to reply, Elizabeth’s dad cut him short. “Now I suggest you leave. If you knew Elizabeth well, then you know what this district’s like—especially after dark.”

  Hugh gulped and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. But please don’t come back. We can’t help you. We have enough to deal with on our own.”

  Ranger, Lance, the diseased, Elizabeth, blood, twisting limbs, the diseased. If Hugh said goodbye, he didn’t remember it, the gentle press of Elizabeth’s mum’s hand on his back as she ushered him from their front room and back out into the cold, dark, and wet street.

  The winter evening bit into Hugh with renewed vigour. His eyes burned with the need to cry as the icy rain threw nails against his face. His love’s scream rang through his mind, and he shook his head as if he could somehow banish the sound, as if he could forget the memory. Why had he gone there? They couldn’t help him deal with his loss. He had to find it in himself. They say forgiveness is the best path to healing, but scores needed to be settled. No way could he leave things as they were. Elizabeth had lived in fear in the woodwork district, and many more would feel that same daily anxiety. She’d been knocked down by Lance and Ranger and left to die. If there was a chance anyone else could go through the same thing, he had to do what he could to stand in the way of that. He had to be the justice she never received while alive.

  Other than the dark silhouette of the tall warehouse between the tailoring district and woodwork, Hugh had nothing else to guide him back home. With that in his sights, he tracked a mazy path back through the tight streets.

  Although he’d been allowed access on the way in, he still felt watched as he left. Elizabeth’s dad was right; he’d been a fool to come here. The shadows continued to monitor him as he turned through the rat run of alleys.

  The sound of shuffling feet behind him, Hugh spun around but saw only darkness. Even the shadows had shadows in this place. Where most districts had torches in the streets, in woodwork they had none. The night didn’t belong to everyday folk, and the gangs liked it dark.

  As the strong and bitter wind crashed into Hugh, he heard more movement down an alley on his left and then movement on a nearby roof. Suddenly, he heard a whistle and looked in the direction of the sound. No doubt whoever made that noise stared straight at him, but he still saw nothing.

  The diseased, their pale skin, bleeding eyes, gnashing jaws—the images flicked through his mind.

  More sounds from the darkness. They were tracking him. Whistles then ran from one rooftop to another.

  When Hugh walked around the next corner, he stopped. Six or seven silhouettes up ahead, many of them holding some sort of weapon. They looked to be mostly bats and clubs. Probably all carved from wood. Then he caught the glint of a blade. Although he hadn’t seen the angry scars on Elizabeth’s stomach, his pulse quickened to think about them. A look back where he came from showed him more than double the number of silhouettes had gathered behind him, forcing him towards those in front.

  Hugh continued forward. If he showed them his medal, they’d move aside … yeah, right.

  “Who are you?” one of the silhouettes ahead of him said.

  Other than it being a male voice, Hugh gleaned nothing from the dark figures. He looked at the gang. It could have been any one of them who’d spoken. “I’m a cadet on the trials. I was just cutting through here to get back to my district.” Had the one who’d addressed him been one of the gang members who’d violated her?

  “Then you’ve made a big mistake, my friend. The woodwork district isn’t a shortcut.”

  How many of them had hurt her? Chaos rang as a shrill and diseased call through the inside of his skull. Hugh listened to it and said nothing. He continued towards the silhouettes. He saw the flash of a blade again as the moonlight caught it.

  “I think we need to leave you with a small memento of your shortcut, a little reminder of who these s
treets belong to.”

  Those behind Hugh laughed as they closed in, the cackle of their sadistic mirth beating against his back in time with the hard rain.

  Hugh stopped and clenched his fists. He wouldn’t be forced any farther forward. Let them come to him.

  Chapter 7

  Spike found his rhythm, matching his breathing to his steps as he jogged along the main street through Edin. The medal afforded him freedom, so he might as well make the most of it. His route had taken him through the political district, leaving behind the imposing grey buildings that stood taller than many in the city. He passed the arena and listened to the excitement of the people inside, but he didn’t slow down to ascertain for which protector they cheered. Then the square, last night’s heads stuck on spikes in the middle of the cage. He even caught a glimpse of the bench Mr. P and his lover had sat on the night he’d seen them together.

  The sun shone, but it did little to raise the temperature, the early winter air biting into Spike’s throat as he inhaled. Not that it prevented him exercising. He felt fitter and more energised than he had in months. His own bed, a few good nights’ rest, and his mum’s cooking all helped.

  The people of Edin watched Spike pass by, his heavy medal slapping against his chest with his bouncing run.

  The same guards often stood between the same areas, so when Spike ran towards ceramics, the three women and the short man were there like always. The women all smiled at him, and the man glared.

  Large clouds of condensation billowed in front of Spike with his hard exhales. The slap of his feet bounced off the single-storey walls on either side of the narrow road. Just over three weeks left until the trials, and he’d make sure he went into them as fit as he’d ever been. He had to win every task. There could be no room for judgement on who should be the next apprentice.

  Where Spike expected to be welcomed into ceramics to the sound of wind chimes, his blood turned cold when he heard something very different. A woman screamed, her voice unrestrained with panic. “It was self-defence! It was self-defence!”