Rise

by Victoria Powell

  The next alleyway opened up. Toby curled around the building into the path of two policemen. With only a moment’s hesitation, Toby continued down the alley. He needed to get out. The two policemen, both nervously holding portable scanners, stood their ground and called him over.

  “Can I go by, officer?” Toby asked impatiently.

  A policeman lazily played with the scanner then noticed a gang of teenagers turning the corner into the alley. “Line up over there quick. Hurry up so we can turf you off down the street. This place is gonna get manic when the lunch shift comes in.” He turned to his colleague, pointing him off towards the teens, and muttered, “The queues are gonna be rough.”

  Loping idly to the policeman, Toby allowed him to set up the scanner. It could be hours before his face was added to the database… or these two coppers would get the easiest catch yet. He watched the tap, tap, tap of the policeman’s fingers on the scanner’s touchscreen. The scanner was raised to his eye level, it clicked to confirm a completed scan and there was a pause as they waited for the machine to process a result.

  The alarm squealed, waking the sleep from the policeman’s eyes. Toby’s fist knocked him off his feet. His legs reacting instinctively, spurring him forwards. The screaming teenagers echoed behind him. The first bullet flew wide as he spun the corner.

  Toby twisted through the side streets, keeping close to a six-lane speedway between the large housing skyscrapers of Middle Meadston. The cops weren’t far behind him. Around this next corner there was no avoiding the speedway - he had to cross the six-lane smog-ridden death trap.

  Without pause for the traffic Toby scrambled across five lanes before he smashed into the bonnet of a saloon car and rolled over onto the curb. Desperately pushing back the intense pain along his left side, he forced himself to his feet. Another four cops were thirty feet away on this side of the road.

  The street he spun into was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass. These streets were alien to him. Any turn from here could slam him straight into a wall. He swerved left and right, feeling the heat of the chase. His body would not take another punishment like the collision with the car. Running parallel to another speedway, sirens and shouts of police were just one turn behind him.

  The sirens passed as Toby turned onto the speedway and sprinted to the central divide. He skidded to a stop, feeling the backwash of a passing people carrier. Sprinting into the next alley, bullets flew across the street. Women screamed off to his left.

  A police car swerved into the street behind him. The whip of a bullet passed by his ear and smashed into the wall in front of him, taking the brick with it. Flecks of glass rained across his back. Another bullet cuffed his arm, tugging him sideways.

  The car revved angrily, aiming at him like a dart, not slowing for impact. Toby threw himself out of the way. The car tyres squealed as it was thrown into reverse. Toby scuttled into a narrow opening. The car thrust itself into the tight space and compacted against the corners of the buildings. The screech of metal ripping against the concrete mixed with cracking glass as the windscreen crinkled and distorted.

  Toby tripped as he looked back. Already a cop was climbing up the back of the car with a pistol in his hand. Panting hard, Toby pushed his legs to keep running. This straight corridor led directly to another speedway after a sixty-foot sprint. The bullets were getting thicker and Toby dived behind a large metal waste disposal unit. He pushed the wheeled container, which was taller than he was, into the centre of the street with the cops nearly upon him. The container was moving again by the time he reached the speedway.

  Toby passed quickly over the open railway bridge. The neighbourhood slipped into the dismal ruin of Falisans, giving hope for more hiding places. The bullets sounded wrong, they were higher pitched and faster paced, they were coming from above. At the curved lip of the next alley Toby paused to look up at the shooters. The shots were raining down on the police. He turned and sprinted to the next junction.

  Rough hands grabbed him, pulled him to his left and dragged him through a doorway out of sight from the thoroughfare. His breath was driven out of him as his chest thumped down onto a table. Had he been saved or captured?

  Toby was completely at the will of his attacker. Firm hands held his heaving chest in place. All he could see was the cracked plaster peeling away from a brick wall. The smells of mould and dust were smothered by the press of cannabis smoke on the clothes of the man holding him down.

  “Are they gone?” Hissed the man.

  Something moved near the door. “They’re still running around in circles.” The door clicked to.

  Pressure eased on Toby’s back and he tried to stand upright. He felt a pull and a painful tightness on his arm, tugging on the nip made by a passing bullet. The wall of muscle skilfully manoeuvred Toby into a chair and held him in place by his hair. The two figures came into focus.

  Standing next to him, holding his hair, was a battle-scarred forty-something. He wasn’t a copper, but this guy looked dangerous and very experienced at applying pain.

  The woman by the door was a mousey thing. Petite, wrinkled lady with short grey hair, she must have been in her late sixties. This grandma stood with a semi-automatic in her arms waiting for a thousand cops to burst into the room.

  A tug to his hair and Toby’s attention was back with the man. “Who are you and why are the cops chasing you?”

  Toby lifted his arm to separate the hand from his hair, but the man pulled a knife and held it to his throat.

  The sharp voice said, “Don’t mess with us.”

  “You’re illegals, right?” Toby asked. There was no answer. “I’m nobody to you. Why grab me?”

  “Huh.” The man chortled. “We just saved your life.”

  “I was still running.”

  “You were in pieces.” Pulling the knife away a little, he said, “What’s your name, friend?”

  Toby, still expecting the worst, said, “Which group are you in?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Which group are you in?”

  The man shook Toby’s head. “We don’t have time for this. We need to move. You’re in the Ackersons, if you weren’t then you wouldn’t be running straight after the big Ackerson reveal.”

  From the door, the old woman said, “If we meant to kill you we’d just do it and check your face against the news reports after you’re dead.”

  The knife disappeared and the man continued, “You’re a scout, yes?”

  “I’m not telling you anything. If you’re not gonna kill me then just let me go,” Toby said.

  “We can’t do that.” He pulled the hair until Toby’s head was tilted full back. “One last chance. Who are you?”

  The room fell silent.

  “Then we’ll take you to see Rex. He’ll get the information out of you.” There was almost a smile in his voice.

  Toby felt a deep pit opening in his stomach. “Rex Jacobi? You’re Erikssens.”

  The man hissed into Toby’s ear before whispering closely, “Yeah, you’re in trouble now, aren’t you?”

  12 - The Daughter

  What’s that? Screaming? Who was that? Alex couldn’t see.

  The screams faded, but she could feel. Pain?

  Sounds started making sense. The voices were comforting, calm deep voices. There was a gruff voice repeating the same chants. She knew that voice. It wasn’t friendly.

  Shivers ran down her arms. A sharp, ammonia smell.

  The voices became clearer. She could understand words. She heard her name.

  Light. Her eyes fluttered open. Focus. She turned her head towards the crack of light. Defoe was there, standing in a doorway with a guard. He had a tranquilliser rifle. Defoe was smiling. She’d never seen him smile like that.

  Nobody was watching her.

  Defoe disappeared from view.

  Alex flexed her rusty fingers and toes. Her arms were free. Her legs were free. Every joint and muscle was heavy and sore. An emp
ty ache called from her stomach and her lips were paper dry. Her hair stuck to her greasy face. Every aspect of her disguise was gone, even the cheek putty. Glancing down, they’d dressed her in a short-sleeved orange convict suit, just like the one her mother wore the day she died.

  Time to go. Take down the guard, then escape.

  The guard entered the room. Keep still. Alex kept her eyes barely open. The guard propped the rifle against the wall. His putrid breath was on her face as he bent down over her.

  Alex twisted her knee into his gut. A wretched groan escaped him as he collapsed. Her muscles burned as she scrambled over him, crawling to the rifle. His hand snatched at her leg, but her fingers were already on the butt of the rifle. The tranquilliser shot into him with a yelp.

  Not stopping to check for more police, she fumbled to her feet and into the corridor. Her bare feet were cold on the concrete floor, pattering towards the stairs Defoe had brought her down. It wasn’t far ahead of her. She could see the unmanned guard station just there.

  The alarm blared. Someone was running behind her. A grill slid down over the entrance to the stairs. She kept running.

  Cell doors banged as she passed, people crying out for her to release them. Running feet were at her back.

  There had to be another exit. Or a room with a stash of police uniforms? The twists of the corridor only brought the sound of running faster and closer. The next turn opened up a long corridor. She sprinted for the opposite end, racing for cover. A door stood ajar. A kitchen. Kitchens needed vents to the outside, didn’t they? Or knifes. It was a slim chance, but she had to take it.

  “Stop! Stand still or we’ll shoot!”

  Someone cocked a rifle. The noise woke her poisoned muscles and she spurred her legs on. She was only five metres away from the door when the rifle fired. Then the tranquilliser hit her shoulder, pushing her through the open doorway.

  Panting and cursing at her own heart for pumping the toxin into her, she slammed the door and wedged it with a chair. Table, chairs, sink, kettle, door. There was another door. She slid around a large kitchen table. The pine door rattled in her hand but didn’t move. It must lead to a supply shaft.

  She searched across her shoulder for the dart embedded in her back. Her fingers caressed its barbed edge and ripped it from her skin. She felt woozy from the half empty dart, but the pain sharpened her senses.

  The drawers held a few forks and spoons, and the random assortment of cutlery that staff deposit in an office kitchen. The door handle cracking meant she was out of time. She threw some of the drawers on the floor. The key wasn’t there.

  Thuds and threats came through the door. Her pulse betrayed her, pumping harder to help the tranquilliser. Shots! They were trying to shoot the handle off the door.

  A fondue fork fitted cleanly in the second door’s lock. It clicked! She raised a prayer of thanks to God and ran straight into the room beyond.

  “Arrghh!” She clutched her bleeding head where she’d made contact with something. The darkness opened to reveal an old pantry. “Fucking bastards! Fuck-wits!”

  She looked at the shelves, desperate for it to become a secret staircase or a hidden vent. The tinned soup and teabags didn’t change into semi-automatic weapons or an invisibility cloak. The shelves covered the entire space, floor to ceiling.

  The chair by the door began to shudder under the pressure. She pushed the hefty kitchen table as hard as she could and pressed it against the chair. Here she was, maybe fifty metres below the ground. There was no way out.

  Crack. The chair back bent as the door shifted forwards. Alex flopped herself onto the table, both to hold it in place and to hold herself steady. The table shunted into her stomach. Again. Again. The chair compacted into shards of matchwood and the first policeman squeezed through the wreckage.

  Sobs burst from Alex’s chest as she let a policeman pin her in her place on the table. He twisted one of her arms behind her back to keep her still. It wasn’t necessary. The toxin was taking effect. Someone else grabbed the table and pulled it away from the door.

  Defoe caught her eye as he scrambled into the room. He wasn’t smiling any more. She stared at the table, into the grain of the veneer, coaxing herself to regain control. She was strong, she was better than this. There was still a chance she would find a way out.

  “Where’s the doctor?” Defoe said.

  Alex looked around lazily. Defoe was pacing, casting irritated glances at her. Cops milled around the open doorway.

  “Get Doctor Probert in here now,” Defoe said.

  The cops at the door pushed someone in a white surgeon’s coat inside.

  “Inspector, what’s going on?” The doctor was in her early thirties with a prim blond bun knotted on top of her head. She seemed too light-hearted to be a prison doctor. How many torture victims had she treated?

  “Doc, you told me she was out for the count. You told me there was some weird side effect from the drugs and you couldn’t wake her up.” Defoe grabbed Alex’s hair and pulled her head up. “Well look at this - she’s awake!”

  The young doctor stepped back. “What I said was we had to wait and see if she would wake up.”

  Defoe flung his hands in the air. “So, she just went from full coma to running sprint.”

  The alarm stopped. Peace returned.

  The doctor shrugged. “I didn’t say she was in a long-term coma.”

  “Long-term.” Defoe spat at her. “You’re completely useless.”

  “She didn’t die. That’s my job done,” she said. The doctor looked critically at Alex. “Do you want me to treat the cut to her head?”

  Defoe looked sceptical. “It’s not serious, is it?”

  “No....” The doctor said tentatively.

  “Then get out.”

  Alex could feel Defoe burrowing into her back. He took a radio off his belt. First he called for her manacles to be put back on. Then he turned away to talk into the radio. Alex heard everything.

  Defoe said, “Base-one-seven, this is Defoe. How long until arrival? Over.”

  The radio burst a quick crackle and beep. Then a husky voice replied. “Defoe, this is base-one-seven. Fifteen minutes until departure. Should be with you in thirty minutes. Over.”

  “Understood. Out.”

  Alex stumbled as Defoe hoisted her upright. The tranquilliser had numbed her. Nothing mattered now. She slumped into Defoe and groaned.

  “Ruddy hell,” Defoe said, cursing at a nearby guard. “You two, open the doors and get us to the secure lift. Looks like I need to carry the doped-up bitch.”

  Alex pulled herself upright and pushed away. “Don’t touch me.”

  He scoffed and pulled her along by her elbow, supporting her as she tripped. “You’re trouble. Always trouble. I think I’ve got you cornered at a train station and you run off. I think I’ve got you dying in a secure hospital wing and you resurrect.”

  The two cops led Defoe and Alex down the same long corridor. They turned away from the cells and the stair. Alex let Defoe buffet her through the corridors until they reached the doors of a secure lift.

  “It needs your fingerprint, Inspector,” a cop said, stepping aside.

  Pulling Alex along with him, Defoe stepped forwards and pressed his palm to the scanner. The doors slid open.

  “Come on, you.” Defoe pulled her inside. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He threw Alex inside and the two extra policemen crowded in. Slouched in the far corner of the lift, she was exposed and vulnerable. The way he looked at her. She forced her sleepy limps upwards.

  “Where are we going?” She asked.

  He pushed her back down to the ground. “Stay there.”

  “Are you taking me to the other prison, by the wall?” She asked.

  “Shut up.” He dismissed her and turned to the cops. “When we get up there, you’ll both do as I say. No matter what.”

  “Of course, sir,” A cop replied.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He
art thumping, eyes fluttering closed, limbs shaking. Alex leant around the cop’s legs. Level 3. They were already above ground level and travelling higher.

  “Where are we going?” Panic crept in. She forced herself back to her feet. “Aren’t we going to a road transit? Are you taking me to someone in the tower?”

  “I said, shut up!”

  She leant forward and saw Level 12 flash by. A cop held her back in the corner.

  Level 20.

  Level 30.

  “We’re heading for the roof?” She asked.

  Defoe ignored her. The lift slowed and cool evening chills swept in. Defoe was first onto the flat roof. Without hesitation he strode to the edge and stared at the distant red horizon. Alex was pulled out of the lift and the doors closed with a ping.

  Gravel cut into her bare feet. Standing ten foot from the edge, the abyss called to her. The wind battered her from every direction. She was shaken by the utter silence that never touched her in the metropolitan squeeze. The unimpeded blue-green horizon was so far away. How could anything be that far away, beyond that impossibly vast expanse of land, greater than anything Alex had ever seen.

  “You two, stay by the lift. Stay there no matter what.” Defoe pointed at Alex. “You. Come here.”

  He was standing on the brink of abyss, commanding her to join him. Her heart froze. She forbade her legs to move.

  “Miss Jenkins. Come here now.” His jaw hardened. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  She took a step forward. “Why are we here?”

  “I’m trying to teach you something. Come here now. Look there.” He pointed out towards the horizon.

  Alex gently stepped across the prickly gravel. “Where?”

  Was the city really this big? There were the Middle Meadston towers, somehow now just foothills below them. The business district was just off to the right so Falisans must around that side of the roof. The police compounds would be on the hill to the left. There were birds flying down there.