by T. C. Edge
Could I climb it? Sneak through some sewage pipe? Creep through one of the gates when no one’s looking?
Having never been close enough to properly inspect the boundary wall, particularly down here outside the southern quarter, I won’t really know until I get close enough. All I do know is that there are four gates – one for each quarter – that lead into Outer Haven, and that all are heavily and perpetually guarded.
The same most likely goes for the entire perimeter wall. Even if it’s climbable – which it most probably isn’t – then I suspect it’s constantly watched and patrolled by the servants of the Consortium.
None of that will matter, however, unless I can get my body in gear. Slowly but surely, as the sun continues its climb, I feel my aching muscles start to relax just a little. It’s enough for me to be able to stand up, at least, and stretch out my arms and legs in an attempt to improve my current range of motion.
Yet with the good comes the bad. The brightening light is only serving to intensify the ache in my head, my eyes feeling sensitive again as they did when my abilities first started to manifest.
This, however, doesn’t appear to be related to my evolving eyes, or even my advancing mental capabilities. Instead, it’s merely a reaction to having my head smacked hard against a rock wall, the gash on my cranium still leaking a little blood.
With a wince of pain, I step back down to the water’s edge and cup some cooling liquid into my palm. Down on my knees, I begin washing my hair of the dried blood and coating of mud, turning the water around me an unpleasant shade of dark crimson.
Once I’m satisfied, I remove my jacket and tear off a bit of fabric from the sleeve of the sweater underneath. It takes some doing, my strength still drained, but eventually I’m left with a strip large enough to wrap around my head.
Washing the rag clean, I tighten it around my skull before creeping back into my jacket, and pulling the hood up over my head for extra protection from the green fog, lurking nearby along the treeline.
I look at it with a sense of dread. I’ve tasted the mist before, but only in diluted doses. Here it looks all the more potent, a putrid smog that has taken plenty of lives in the past.
Clearly, this particular area has been deemed unfit for decontamination. That, I’d imagine, is probably due to the sticky marshlands in the area. If the lands can’t be cultivated or built upon, then I suppose there’s little point in trying to cleanse them.
Elsewhere, large swathes of the outerlands beyond the city have seen very different treatment. The Consortium are constantly trying to detoxify the lands and soils to allow us to expand our reach.
If what Adryan said is true, and their population is growing as rapidly as he suggests, then space is going to be at a premium soon. And with Inner Haven locked within the centre of the city, and with no way of expanding, I’m sure they have designs of developing other settlements and cities way off beyond our current borders.
But, here I am, stuck in this little refuge in the middle of the marshes, cold and alone and with no idea how to get back into the city. All I wanted to do was save Drum…and now I might just get myself killed in the process.
The thought brings the fate of my allies back into my head. I’ve been so concerned with getting warm and figuring out a way out of here that I’d all but forgotten about them.
Now, however, my body blares with a fresh concern. The last I saw of Zander and Drum, they were charging off down some tunnel in the underlands, a whole squad of Con-Cops in hot pursuit.
Did they make it to safety? Were they caught?
A host of worries flutter in my aching head as I stand in my open-air cell, surrounded by green poison. I try to douse them, to calm my mind. Then, focusing, I picture Zander’s face, and bring forth a question to the forefront of my mind.
Are you safe?
My brain squeezes against my inner skull, feeling like it’s about to explode out of my ears. I ask the question over and over, but get no response. I try again, concentrating hard on Zander’s face and the words I want to ask him, but fail to keep the image in my head, to clarify it for him to see.
It’s too painful. My mind is too muddled, too weak.
I won’t be able to communicate with him.
I’m on my own out here…
54
Before I venture off into the unnerving and silent woods, I double and triple check my gas mask. Removing it, I inspect its outer surface to ensure there are no cracks or breaches.
Satisfied that it’ll do its job, I then make sure to cover every inch of me to keep the noxious mist from burning my skin. My clothes should be enough to protect most of me, and the extra coating of dried mud will surely be of aid as well.
My face, however, while largely protected by my cloak, is still exposed. And my hands, although I can hide them in tight pockets, will also be under threat.
I take inspiration from my muddy clothes and decide to paint my skin in the stuff as well. Scooping up handfuls of soggy dirt, I spread the paste across any bare skin until I’m happy with the shield. Then I wait for a few minutes, letting the wet mud bake in the sun and solidify on my flesh.
With my body now suitably warm and feeling a little more lively, I turn my eyes back to the cliffs and determine which way to go. By the looks of things, the High Tower is slightly off to the right beyond the rock wall, suggesting that that might be the best route to take.
Either way, my vision through the woods is severely compromised, and I won’t really know if I’m right until I try.
So, turning to the right, I move along the shore of the lake until I’m close to the base of the low cliffs. Ahead of me, the woods begin only a few metres back from the shore, the mist swirling about on the breeze and inviting me in.
It’s strangely mesmerising, and beautiful in a deadly kind of way, a Venus flytrap luring me into its lethal snare. Taking a deep breath to settle my raging pulse, I take my first step towards it, wincing anxiously as I enter into the fog.
Immediately, it begins to churn and dance around me, creeping up my legs and towards my waist. It’s thicker at the bottom, so heavy it hangs low to the ground, diluting a little as it rises and clears.
It allows me to see where I’m going as I move across the sodden earth, sludge squelching beneath my feet. Only a few metres in and already I’m feeling a bit more confident about my protective suit of clothing and mud.
I suck in a deep breath through my mask and feel no burning down my throat or in my nostrils. Tentatively, I creep my hands out of my pockets and drop them into the mire. The green gas surrounds them, desperate to penetrate through my filthy armour.
For the most part, it fails, only the lightest tingling nibbling at my fingers. I make a mental note to try not to move them too much for fear of the dried up mud breaking off.
The woods remain thick and difficult to see through as I go, keeping close to the rock wall on my left. Immediately, however, any view of the High Tower is extinguished, the cliff my only point of reference.
Soon, it begins to curve a little to the right, which I know must be guiding me further south and away from the city. The jagged rock walls, however, appear to be growing smaller, receding a little as I work to the southeast.
Up near the rock the ground remains steady, if a little soft, the roots of the cliffs doing enough to hold back the marshlands. I cast my eyes into the woods away from the wall and note that it’s far boggier only a little further in, the trees giving way in places to swampy pools of acidic water that I’d rather not fall into.
I doubt even my suit of mud would keep me safe in there…
As I venture deeper into the unknown, the light of the sun finds it increasingly difficult to pierce the slithering, knotted canopy of branches above. A gloominess descends around me, one that calls my nightvision into service.
Far enough away from the thundering waterfall, it’s almost totally silent now. Only the cracking of twigs beneath my feet, or the occasional chirp of a bird, som
ewhere high in the foliage above, does anything to disturb the spooky calm.
With the morning still so young, I keep my eyes on the deep woods, stories from the city streets echoing around in my head.
Over in Outer Haven, the people speak of odd creatures, mutated over the centuries by the toxic air. Adapted to live within it, they stalk the outerlands beyond the city walls, hunting the workers sent out to clear the lands of the poison.
So rarely are they seen that few consistent descriptions have surfaced. Some have returned from work beyond the wall, speaking of flashes of bear-like beasts. Others have told of wolves or cougars and other jungle cats, migrating up here from the southern lands to seek out their prey.
Mostly, however, it’s just shadows the people tell of. Shadows that come from nowhere, swooping from the trees or climbing from the murky marshes, silently snaring unsuspecting victims and dragging them to their deaths.
The Shadows of the outerlands. That’s what people call them. Some form of mutated human, perhaps, scraping a living from the dirt.
I’ve skipped from one side of the fence to the other over the years, sometimes believing such stories, and at other times considering them nonsense. Yet right now, as I creep quietly through the swamp, I can’t help but feel a rising fear that something might be out there.
Whether some strange, mutant human, or raging wild beast, I’d rather not be here too long to find out if the rumours are true.
I hasten my step, keeping the receding wall to my left as I go, until it begins to crumble and break up. Soon, craggy formations of rock appear, with little pathways through that might just be climbable.
I reach the first and begin working my way in, making decent progress until I reach a dead end. Around me, several overhanging crags grind up from the earth, all of them out of reach of my fingers as I attempt to jump and climb up.
I turn back, re-entering the murky woodland with my eyes once more growing keen. Any time a bird suddenly calls out, or a rustle shakes in the leaves, I feel my heart hammering suddenly in my chest, a swell of adrenaline suddenly pulsing through me.
And, each time, my head pounds harder with the sudden force of blood, my temples throbbing under the bandage that tightly binds them.
I continue moving towards the next pathway, this one appearing more promising. Up boulders and large tables of stone I climb, moving up and away from the festering marshlands. With a little effort, I work through the small maze of rocks and reach the summit, appearing in another area of woodland above.
It remains densely populated with a variety of trees, the toxic fumes still spreading as far as my eyes can see. Yet through the canopy above, yellow lights hover amid the blue of the sky that fill the gaps between the green leaves.
It’s not the sun. No, that’s behind me, still low as it continues its climb into the sky. Instead, it’s the beacon that calls me home, visible from so far and wide, the glowing outer visage of the High Tower an ever-present sight in the city and beyond.
I’ve always marvelled at the place, always wanted to see the view from the top. Now, in a strange twist, it’s right to the top that I need to go. Up there, right now, Director Cromwell will be looking down on us all, gradually unfolding his master plan that’s been long in the making.
A plan that only his death can stop.
I glare through the lofty branches at the glinting, metal façade, wondering if he’s looking out on the outerlands right now. Perhaps he’s looking right down at these woods, his eyes taking in the beautiful lands that spread off in all directions to the far horizon.
I hope he is. I hope he’s looking right at these woods, right at this very collection of trees that cover me.
Because he won’t see me, slipping unseen towards the city, my mind now filling with purpose. With the mission I promised Zander I’d fulfil.
Take a life to save a life.
If my brother’s kept to his bargain, if he’s saved Drum’s life, and gotten him safely to the northern quarter, then I’ll keep to my word too.
I’ll go to Inner Haven. I’ll marry Adryan. I’ll train my powers all day and all night until the opportunity arises to strike Cromwell down.
And when it does, I’ll do what needs to be done.
That is my purpose now.
But first, I need to find a way in. If I can’t do that, then nothing else matters. I grind on, working through the woodlands, climbing over thick roots and through dense foliage that litters the forest floor.
The leaves scrape at me as I go, and my fingers begin to work harder, gripping to roots and trees to steady myself on the unstable ground beneath my feet.
Before long, the dried mud protecting my hands is starting to crack and peel, opening up little slits through which my soft skin is visible. Immediately, as I lower my hands back into the green mist to lift myself over the trunk of a tree, I feel the caustic burning of the acid on my flesh.
It sizzles and burns worse than any acid rain I’ve ever had to contend with. I flinch in pain and heave my hand out of the swampy fog, the exposed skin already red and starting to blister.
I thrust my hands into my pockets to defend them, working slower now to carefully climb my way onwards along the uneven woodland floor. When a new obstacle comes my way - a collection of stringy branches that writhe and coil across the path ahead – I have no choice but to either find a way round or use my hands.
My initial attempts to step through with only my feet prove fruitless. And with my hands locked in my pockets, I’m only likely to topple over and descend right down into the burning green cloud hovering below my waist.
So I withdraw my hands, and struggle through, accepting the pain whenever a freshly exposed portion of skin gets attacked. Gritting my teeth, I try not to gasp too loudly at the sudden stabs of pain, still concerned that I might attract one of the many strange beasts that the rumours speak of.
After an agonising few minutes, I’ve managed to work my way through. I look to my hands and grimace at the litter of burning blisters that cover them. They sizzle and sting, calling for the relief of cold water, or one of the palliative healing lotions Mrs Carmichael keeps in her quarters.
The best I can manage is to reach out to the overhanging leaves, still cool and damp in the morning air, and press them to the sores to try to soothe them. They have little impact, but do serve to stick to the mud and lesions on my skin, offering a little extra protection from the gas.
Turning the pain from my mind, I carefully place my hands back into my pockets and work my way on. The trees begin to grow a little thinner, the way ahead stretching out before me. Peering forward more intently now, I hurry my step, the proximity to the High Tower suggesting that the perimeter wall must be close.
Then, through the trees, I see a clearing. My step quickens, the pain across my hands subsiding as the adrenaline starts to pump. Cantering forward now, I hurdle over roots and branches, the light at the edge of the forest growing brighter.
I reach the final trunks and come to a stop, keeping myself hidden behind the largest tree I can find. From its back, I peer around the side and set my eyes on the open ground ahead, the mist hovering around it lighter than here in the woods.
Standing on the edge of the forest, the boundary wall comes into view ahead, just to the left. Tall and built from grey stone, it looks impenetrable, and too high to climb. I arch my neck a little further from cover and the gate appears; the southern gate giving passage to the outer districts of the southern quarter.
I look closer and see guards on top of it. They stand inside little watchtowers on either side, pulse rifles fixed to their shoulders as they gaze out.
I wonder: why the need for such security? Who exactly are they protecting the city from? The beasts in the woods? The Shadows of the outerlands? If they even exist…
Right now, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the gate isn’t going to give me a way in. And by the looks of things, neither is the wall. Not here, at least, where there are to
o many eyes.
I creep back a little, melting into the darkness, musing on my next move.
I could move west a little, search the external wall in some hope of finding a weak point? Either that or try to dash across the clearing and into the woods on the other side, and hope that the wall further east is less heavily guarded.
Either way, I’m not sure it matters. One way or another, I have to find a spot where I can get back into Outer Haven unseen…
A sudden noise grips at me, tearing my mind right back into the woods.
I go suddenly still, and listen closely. It came from the left, a little way into the woods closer to the city. I set my eyes to the source, my breath caught in my lungs. And then, it comes again.
A voice.
No, voices.
Quiet, whispering, slightly distorted. And the creeping of feet, crunching gently over twigs.
I immediately react, stepping backwards, going deeper. They’re close, hidden by the foliage, but drawing near.
I move more quickly. I have no choice. Turning, I duck low and grimace hard as I enter the putrid smog, creeping along amid the shroud.
Working my way back to where I came from, I hear the voices again. They talk quietly, but casually, one raspy and the other deep, clear enough through the gas masks they wear.
“This is a waste of time,” says the croaky voice. It’s close, only a dozen metres away, moving towards me.
I duck lower, disappearing to my hands and knees. Once more, the poison begins to nip at my exposed skin, the already tender blisters being besieged. I bite down hard on my bottom lip to keep from making a sound, every fibre of my body tensing.
The next voice speaks.
“It’s just procedure. You know what they’re like…they don’t enjoy loose ends.”
“Well, loose ends don’t stay loose for long out here,” scratches the raspy voice again. “There are loads of ways that they get tied. If that girl got out here alive, she’s not anymore. You can be sure of that.”
They’re looking for someone. For me…
