Rise

by Victoria Powell

  The city was calm. There were no fires in the suburbs or blockades in the streets. No activist attacks or police raids ravaging the city. Not even car horns drifted up this high.

  “The city wall. What do you see?” Defoe said, coaxing her to see what he saw.

  The wall: a large breeze block obstruction with reinforced facia all tangled in razor-wire. The twenty-metre-high construction was in place before the city repopulated, a long time before living memory. The buildings on the edge were the smallest in the city, all only two or three floors high. Alex had never seen a view like this before.

  “It’s unbreakable. Nobody gets past. Unless you’re sent to work in the fields,” Alex said.

  “No. Don’t look at the wall - look beyond it.”

  Alex peered off into the distance. “Over it?”

  “Yes! There are only two places in this damn city you can see over the bloody wall. What do you see?” Defoe asked.

  The Sun melded with the reddening horizon, pulling the colour from the rugged landscape. Out there, that should be a nuclear wasteland. That’s what the cops said. Not this pure, natural unruliness that littered the floor beyond the wall. So much green. There were bright clumps of colour down there. Alex had seen trees and patches of grass dotted around Drayton, pocking the paths outside cafes, but never anything this wild. How could so many trees and bushes populate the uncontrolled world beyond the city gates?

  “Green. It’s so... insane.”

  Defoe rushed her, grabbed her arm and skipped her bare feet to the edge. She clung to his jacket, anchoring herself near the immense depth.

  “Look again. Can’t you see what that means? What’s actually there, beyond that wall?”

  Alex stared down into the abyss. The red sunlight was slowly being swallowed by blackness in the city’s roots. So far down. So close to her feet.

  “Look, damn you.” Defoe forced her head up. “Underneath those trees, that green you see, is rubble. Only rubble. Left behind after this city was bombed by people like you.”

  She squinted out to the far distance, beyond the glistening snake of a stream. “So that’s why the fields are so far away. They can’t plant anything near the walls.”

  “Forget about the damn plants. What about the thousands of lives lost? Your freedom fighters did that,” Defoe said.

  Alex shook off the hand holding her chin, but Defoe held her hovering at the roof edge. “I get it, but I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t volunteer.”

  “You’re playing that card? My daddy took me to live with them.” Defoe said, mocking her.

  “What?”

  “Why are activists activists? Because they believe in the cause? Because the police are chasing them? Or are they sadistic? Masochistic?” Defoe said.

  “Don’t be so disgusting.”

  Defoe tightened his grip on her arm and angled her chest out over the edge. Only her pincer grip on his jacket kept her on top of that tower.

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she begged.

  “Technically, the fall would hurt you.”

  “Defoe!” Her voice cracked.

  “We’re not that different really.”

  She scoffed nervously.

  “I grew up in police barracks. I saw that view every day of my life. Every day me and my sis looked over that wall and knew, we knew, that you guys did that,” Defoe said.

  “You were bred to be a cop?” She said.

  “I wanted to be a cop. I knew I had to stop that - that - happening to my city.”

  Alex struggled to see anything beyond the walls except the lush green chaos. How many bodies crumbled below that darkening canopy?

  Defoe sighed. “I want to be a cop... and you want to be an activist. Why?”

  “To survive. I just want a normal life,” Alex said.

  “Same as us.”

  Alex nodded. “We can’t stop until the police do. Some of the stuff you do is completely evil and nobody cares. Nobody!”

  Defoe’s pulled her back from the edge. “We’re just defending people from you.”

  “And they get hurt in the crossfire?” Alex took a gulp of air, curling gravel into her toes to feel the ground beneath them. “We should all just stop.”

  He let go of her arm and she skittered back away from the edge. “You really are a child. I forget that. The world still has rose tinting for you.”

  “I’m not stupid.” She turned away from his pity.

  He shook his head. “Can’t you see. Neither side can be the first to stop. Something big has to happen for both sides to stop at the same time. My prediction... it’ll be a nuke. Someone will kill the Ambassador and the Tamerians will drop a bomb on us. Problem solved.”

  “Nobody wants to fight.”

  “Not you Ackersons, no.” He chided her. “But the Erikssens, the Monmouths and the others, who knows what they want. Your words mean nothing to them.”

  The built-up tension dissipated as the rift between them was accepted. Defoe pulled the radio off his belt again and held it tentatively near his lips.

  Defoe spoke. “Base-one-seven, this is Defoe. What’s your location? Over.”

  The radio crackled, beeped and was silent.

  “What are you doing?” Alex said.

  “Shh,” Defoe said, cutting across the radio as it came to life.

  “Defoe, this is Base-one-seven. We have a delay on take-off by at least thirty minutes. Technical problems are delaying flight checks. Over.”

  “A helicopter? You are taking me on a copper chopper?” She asked, feeling the thrill and terror of expectation.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he said, then spoke back into the radio. “Base-one-seven, I can’t wait that long. We’ll find alternative transport. Out.”

  She barely had seconds to regret the lost chance to fly. Defoe grabbed her arm and she was pushed back into the lift. Defoe switched the radio channel and stood between the lift doors.

  “Central-nine-nine, this is Defoe. Over.”

  The radio responded in a fruity female voice. “Defoe, this is Central-nine-nine reading. Over.”

  “Central-nine-nine, I need two response cars and a freight transport at the rear entrance to Central in five minutes. Priority.” Defoe said.

  “All resource requests are restricted to emergency only calls. Central resources are still engaged on crowd management after the stampede earlier. Over.” The radio respondent answered nervously.

  “This is an emergency. The stampede is ancient history now. Get my men and vehicles ready. We’re on route. Out.” Defoe slung the radio back onto his belt.

  “Trouble downstairs?” Alex asked, smirking.

  Defoe pulled his pistol from his holster. Alex pressed back into the wall. “Defoe, I’m your prisoner.”

  Defoe smirked back. “It’s a tranq gun. We’ve got a tricky route to take. I think you’d be better sleeping through it.”

  “Don’t.”

  The tranquilliser hit her in her upper thigh. The toxins mixed with those already pumping through her veins. Sleep took her quickly.

  13 - The Guard

  Opening the door only made the room darker. A black hole sucking light down inside its four corners. Dripping down the steps. One. By. One.

  “Olive, just get down the stairs.”

  The mousey old woman disappeared down the cellar stairs, carrying a lit purple torch and her semi-automatic across her back. Darkness was her friend.

  Toby’s hands were strapped together in front of him, a zip tie digging into his wrists. The edgy Erikssen held on tight to Toby’s upper arm.

  “Tim, are you coming?”

  “Right behind you,” Toby’s guard said, raising an eyebrow at Toby, “aren’t we?”

  Toby shrugged. “Do you know your way through those tunnels?”

  “There’s no other choice. Our van is parked in West Street car park and thanks to you there are hundreds of cops in our way.”

  “If you don’t know the tunnels it’d be safe
r to risk the police.”

  Tim tugged Toby upright, leading him to the cellar door. “Just do what you’re told. It’s not far.”

  “You know what’s down there, right?”

  A sharp shove in the back had Toby skipping steps down the stairs, yanking his shoulder as he caught his balance on the railing, quickly tripping down to the muddy cellar floor. The trap door swung shut, trapping out the dirty daylight. Flicks of whitewash flowered fluorescent on the walls, pinging like locator beams at the room boundaries. Purple glared off the bricked-up window and crackled PVC door in front of them. The old waffle-pattern carpet squelched underfoot, peeking up through the mud.

  Tim pinched onto Toby’s arm.

  “Come on.” Olive peeled open the cellar door.

  “Give me the light,” Toby said, watching the old woman balance the lamp beneath the rifle.

  “Clip it to your belt.” Tim pushed Toby into a slimy wall, the mud slippery beneath his feet.

  “Sorry, Tim.”

  “Just head down that way towards the old traffic light. The road should change from Tarmac to cobbles there.” Tim kept an eye on the path behind him.

  “This is Tarmac?”

  Tim scratched deep into the gloop. “If you dig deep enough. When we get to the cobbles watch out for missing stones and don’t disturb the scaffolding. That old road is wide. The scaffolding holds up a lot of weight.”

  “So, you know this part of the tunnels.”

  Tim shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “I heard there were all sorts living down here.”

  Water dripped onto Toby’s head.

  Olive laughed. “Rumours.”

  “Probably spread around by the swamp people down here to keep us out,” Tim said.

  Toby could see the junction more clearly now. The rusted redundant traffic light had twisted down to the right like the head of a curious dog, staring at them with its lifeless tri-coloured eyes. Was it right to call the surface above them a ceiling? A roof? A cap. Whatever it was it would be a lot closer to their heads on the cobble road.

  “What was that?”

  Toby held his breath, straining to hear the ghost of whatever spooked his captor.

  Drip.

  Something scuttled, scratching in the distance.

  The light quavered as Olive swung around, sweeping the space with her gun. “Rats?”

  “No,” Tim said, but moved forwards. “Keep your eyes open.”

  Toby held his arms slightly forward, poised to catch himself if he fell in the ripening mud. The solidity of the floor was not guaranteed. The cobbles under the mud had twisted, split or lifted, hidden under a non-Newtonian muddy layer, deceptively holding a foot afloat before sucking it down like a cornflour, custard gloop poured over ankle-breaking rocks.

  The buildings on this side of the junction were of more modern construction. Pitted concrete walls stood behind crinkled aluminium cladding that oozed a fluffy white interior. The roof of the tunnel was made of ancient cracking concrete slabs, supported by hundreds of ageing scaffold poles. Toby gave them a wide berth.

  The road twisted slowly to the right until a T-junction appeared up ahead. It was still far off, but Toby could see that the scaffold poles stopped and the mud slipped into a pool of still, dark water. A persistent trickle of water dripping on something metal was getting louder. Purple light flicked around as Olive searched the distance.

  Subtly, they slowed. Feeling carefully for footholds in the mulch. They fanned out to the edges of the road, approaching the junction with caution.

  Then Toby saw it. A ripple in the water. Something new moving just around the corner. He watched Tim and Olive step into the water, their ripples overlapping and submerging the first.

  Two grey-skinned shadows leapt into view. Olive was downed first. A shadow kicked her into the green-grey liquid, swinging the purple light skyward. A flick of light exposed a woman, probably weighing less than Olive. The rifle skidded away.

  The other sickly-looking attacker jumped onto Tim’s back. Tim staggered, but braced himself, grabbing at the man’s knife as it inched towards his neck.

  “Toby!”

  That pulled Toby back to his senses. In one word he heard the meaning: you’re lost down here and these nut jobs will kill you when they’re done with us.

  Toby broke loose an old lead gutter that was hanging above a mouldering doorway. Screaming as he ran, he thwacked the woman holding Olive’s head in a puddle. She screamed and wriggled away. The man was still oblivious to everything except gutting Tim with his short knife. Toby came up behind him and brought the pipe down on the guy’s back, aiming away from his head. Both the attacker and Tim tripped forward. The shadow guy lay still.

  “Bloody hell!” Tim said. “You could’ve warned me, the guy cut the side of my neck on the way down.”

  “It’s just a paper cut.”

  The girl had run for it.

  Tim turned the guy over with his foot. Now Toby would see the anaemic skin and protruding bones washed semi-clean of the grimy camouflage.

  “Do you think he’s ever seen daylight?” Toby asked.

  Tim pulled Olive to her feet, wiping her stringy hair away from her eyes. “You Ok?”

  Olive spat on a wall. “She got away.”

  “And she’ll be back with friends soon enough.” Tim took a zip tie out of his pocket. The new guy was coming around, but was still groggy enough for Tim to tie his hands behind his back.

  “What’ll you do with him?”

  Tim dabbed at the cut on his neck. “He’ll come with us.”

  “Why?” Olive asked. “We’ve got our hands full with this one.”

  Tim grabbed at Toby, pushing him at the other captive. “Help him up.”

  Olive shook water out of the rifle’s muzzle. “I can still beat you over the head with this.”

  Toby reached down, hands still bound, gently taking the guy by his arm. The skinny guy yelped, thrashing out, kicking Toby’s legs, failing to trip him into the water.

  “Oi!” Tim bounced him off the wall. “We don’t have to hurt you, toad.”

  “Fuck off.” He sounded like a toad. Deep, sharp, a bit hoarse. “You won’t get me to the surface. I’ll kill you all.”

  “The surface doesn’t want you,” Tim said, wrinkling his nose at the close contact with the tunnel dweller. “Just get us past your frisky friends and we’ll let you go.”

  “Fuck you. I’m going nowhere.”

  “Just tell us where West Street is.”

  Toby rolled his eyes.

  “We’re lost already?” Olive groaned.

  “Just shut up, Ol. See this,” Tim gestured at the wall in front of them, “this should be that cut-through alley from Kerry Lane to Malbec Street.”

  Toby snorted. “You thought the streets down here were the same as the ones up there?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Tim, let’s just go back.”

  “Have you forgotten about the cops?” Tim shook the new guy. “I’m betting you have.”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  Tim punched him hard in his kidney.

  “Hey.” Toby lunged forward, keeping out of reach of Olive’s swinging rifle. “He thinks you’re a cop.”

  Olive cackled.

  Tim turned him around. “You think I’m a cop?”

  “It’s obvs,” he said. “You’re a fisher. Throwing your junk around the old streets, trying to hook my friends.”

  “Then why are the cops chasing us?”

  “I don’t fucking care.”

  “Listen.” Toby pried Tim off the new guy. “We just want to get to West Street. It’s not far.”

  The guy laughed. “Maybe not on the surface, but you’ll never find it down here.”

  “That’s why we need your help,” Toby said.

  “Want. Want your help,” Tim said.

  “Well fuck that.”

  “We’re not cops,” Tim growled.

  “You’ve fucking got tha
t guy tied up!”

  Toby’s zip tie was digging into his wrists. “It’s complicated.”

  “See,” Tim said, “he’s defending us.”

  “They’re Erikssens and I’m an Ackerson. We don’t get on.”

  The guy quirked a smile. “I’ve heard of Erikssens. Kamikaze fighters.”

  “You think you hate cops. Join us and kill a few on the surface.”

  The new guy’s smirk disappeared. “That’s not happening... but I’ll lead you out.”

  Slowly he turned, choosing the path his comrade had run down. Tim shared a knowing look with Olive. The rifle cut across the purple light.

  Tim splashed to the front of the group. “Toad, tell me how to get to West Street.”

  A rifle butt in his back told Toby to follow on behind, trudging out of the swash along a green-tinged alley. There must be Tarmac below the mud. Toby walked faster to listen to the new guy.

  “The fucking name is Jack.” He took a natural skip over a hump on the floor. Toby copied him. “I’ll give you directions if you cut me loose.”

  Toby looked back; Olive skipped the step too. What was under there? A hidden drop? A trigger wire? A bomb?

  Turning back, Toby nearly walked into the new guy, now standing still. Jack’s arms were free, Tim was putting a knife away.

  “Don’t you get any ideas,” Tim said, marching off.

  Jack gave a quick, wicked grin before jogging after Tim, arms swinging theatrically.

  “You’re actually only three turns from West Street.” Jack pointed up ahead. “Right at the second junction. Then right and left at the third.”

  “We’re doubling back on ourselves.”

  Jack swaggered. “Yeah, well you said it’s just getting around that wall.”

  Jack drifted over towards the left wall. Toby and Olive copied him.

  “Tim!”

  He jumped over to the left, hearing Olive’s shout and movement under his foot.

  Jack sniggered, keeping his pace.

  “Why’re you down here, Jack?” Toby asked, wanting to stop Tim from strangling the guy.

  Jack shrugged. “That’s my shitting business. Am I asking you what shit you’re in? No.”