A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (10 page)

“Where’s Jenny?” remarked one parent.

“Having a quick nap, if she has any sense.”

It was a remark that brought a few chuckles. Marge, standing duty at the front of the town, next to the concrete filled drums, turned at the sound. She saw the children in the yard and their parents milling around, waiting for Jenny to come out and welcome the little ones inside. She sighed and looked past the school, along the road, into town, seeing the faces she had seen all night. She cast her gaze further towards the northeast corner, over the blasted and cratered land, a maze of fallen buildings and ruined roads, up towards the mountains, up to where the Cleric’s tribe were camped and she shook her head at her over confidence - and then her vision swept down and followed the road on the east side of Ford and something was terribly wrong.

Grabbing her binoculars she ran for a better view and saw the gouged road surface and the holes where the explosives had once been.

A sick sensation poured into her soul and her stomach turned to water. There was still no sign of Jenny as she ran towards the school, clutching her shotgun and yelling. One of the parents, Frank, pulled open the front door and ushered the children inside, calling out for Jenny and Dorran. As the last one disappeared from view there was the shocking blast of a gun and Frank was hurled backwards from the school door. The children screamed as the doors were slammed shut behind them. Parents turned chalky white and ran across the yard towards the building. Their children were in there and nothing else mattered. They could hear Marge yelling but her words were nothing more than a distorted noise. The front door was thrown open and a score of weapons pointed out and the group of parents stopped in their tracks, standing shaking as Frank lay dead on the ground.

A woman spearheaded the warriors. She was short, but broad, with thick, muscular arms and hair the colour of night. Brown studded gloves gripped a loaded crossbow and a scarf covered her face.

“Back into the street,” she ordered.

Parents screeched and pleaded with her, begged for their children to be returned.

“Back, back, now, move, move, get back.”

A dozen warriors spilled into the school yard, led by Bann and Ramon, pointing weapons at the snipers on the nearby rooftops.

“Where is he?” barked Marge, aiming her shotgun at Bann. “Get that piece of trash out here.”

The parents were herded back through the gate, sobbing, pleading and angry. The men and women of Ford had heard the gunshot and were rushing from their homes and shops. Apprehensively, they headed towards the school. The children wailed. The Cleric stepped from the building and locked them in with Jenny’s bunch of keys. Tiny fists banged on the glass, eyes red with tears, faces wrought with terror. Bann formed her warriors into a loose circle, facing out. The people could barely watch. A woman fainted. A man threw up his breakfast. Fists were clenched. Heads shook with disgust and bewilderment.

Marge hadn’t moved from the gate.

“Harm them little ones and you get it first,” she said.

“No, no, no,” said the Cleric, pacing slowly across the school yard. “The last thing I want is bloodshed.”

He stopped and looked out at the growing crowd.

“There will be no bloodshed by us today. I give you my word. We will not harm any of you.”

Voices began to shout at him, demanding the children be released, yelling insults and threats.

“Last night,” he said, his voice loud, unwavering. “Whilst you lay traps and showed us the way into your town, we chose a different route and dug up plenty of your explosives. Those bombs are inside the school. With your children. Your bombs and your children. Together.” A cacophony of dissent almost drowned out his voice. “These children are innocent. They are your future. I do not want to trample on your future but you have two things I need and you will surrender them to me now without discussion.”

He held up a detonator.

“Or they will perish.”

Marge knew that, to the day she died, she would never forget the terrible screaming the parents had made as that detonator was held up for all to see. Darkness filled her and she had no words.

“Please don’t hurt the children,” shouted Geoff. “Tell us what you want and let them go.”

“Got no trade with you, Cleric,” said Marge.

He walked towards her, stepping through his protective line of warriors, sniper rifles trained on him.

“I want the Map Maker,” he said, calmly pushing aside the twin barrels of her shotgun. “And him, this thing you shelter.”

For a moment, no one had a clue who the Cleric was talking about. They knew the Map Maker; the bald headed man had lived among them for a few weeks. Some claimed to have met him the
first
time he passed through Ford, drawing the town on his map of Gallen, a beacon in the desert. But they were confused who the
thing
was supposed to be. They looked around and whispered to the person nearest and then they saw where the Cleric was pointing and they realised he meant Dorran and, for the first time, they saw that Dorran
was
different; he carried marks on his skin and his body had shapes they did not have. The Cleric smiled and watched as fear of the explosives and the thought of dead children beneath a pile of rubble moved them away from Dorran. He had brought them clarity. He had pointed to them what they had always known; Gallen was beautiful and Gallen was not for his kind.

“What, what are you doing?” said Dorran, nervously. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Look, I work at the school, I work hard. The kids love me. What’s wrong with you?”

The Map Maker stepped from a knot of men.

“Let the children go,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

“Now we are getting somewhere,” said the Cleric. Still the children banged at the locked school door, faces streaming with tears. “Now, you people will fetch a length of rope and hang the vermin you allowed into your town. Do not stand around waiting to be told again. You men get some rope and hang him.” He hefted the detonator aloft, drawing cries and pleas from the parents frozen at the school gates. “Do I need to tell you again?”

“No one gets hung,” said Marge.

“It’s our children in there,” yelled Kim, Sadie’s closest friend in town. “Not yours. And Frank’s dead, you couldn’t stop that could you?”

She charged at Dorran, her fists clenched. He swerved the blow and tried to calm her but another man sprang at him and pain shot through his skull as he was clubbed around the head. He curled his arms around the man’s waist and pinned him to the ground.

“Derek, Derek it’s me Dorran, why are …?”

He was dragged off Derek by several more men and blows rained down upon on him.

“Stop it, please stop hitting me. Why are you doing this? Please, please don’t do this. Marge, Marge help me. Somebody help me.”

His arms were pulled behind his back and thick rope tied his wrists. He tried to wrestle free and there were protests around him but they became muted as the mob swelled to nearly a dozen men and women intent on following the Cleric’s orders. Dorran was bleeding, sweating heavily and his head spun. He saw the town he had been born into. Where his father had worked. Where his mother had worked. Buildings he knew. Streets he had played on. Friends he had made.

The rooftop snipers were becoming restless, disgusted with what was unfolding down below, convinced a single shot to the Cleric’s head would end this, but the Cleric sensed their agitation and waved the detonator at them. He patted Bann on the shoulder and she flashed a smile. He put his arm around the Map Maker who glared back at him. He was showing them there are many ways to get the things that you want. Ramon laughed and made a pistol shape with his hand. He aimed at Dorran and fired. A sound suddenly caught his attention.

“Cleric,” he said, lowering his hand.

“Gallen is not for you,” said the Cleric, his eyes fixed on Dorran.

“You can’t let them do this,” pleaded Dorran, as they dragged him towards a high post.

Boots crunched along the road, one foot after the other, the long coat swishing back and forth.

“Cleric,” repeated Ramon.

“I’m sorry,” sobbed a woman, as one end of the rope was thrown over the post. “The children, Dorran.”

He blinked tears and could see the innocents inside the school lobby, despairingly hugging each other on the floor.

“Hang him,” said the Cleric.

Dorran closed his eyes.

“You,” hissed the Map Maker, pointing.

“Cleric,” persisted Ramon. “Look.”

The Cleric turned and the sun blazed into his eyes.

He raised a cupped hand and saw a long haired, bearded man, striding towards them.

He wore a long coat and heavy boots. A rifle was strapped to his back, an ammunition belt across his chest, a long barrelled revolver tucked into his belt.

Fourteen

Stone stood at the edge of town.

The rope slipped down from the post as heads turned to see who the newcomer was. Dorran, crumpled in the dirt, flicked open his eyes, the noose hanging around his neck.

“I am the Cleric. Do you have a name stranger?”

“I can tell you who he is,” said the Map Maker. “They call him the Tongueless Man. He’s the one who stole my maps.”

Marge turned to look at Stone and a raft of whispers travelled though the people. With the lynch mob distracted, a woman reached down to untie Dorran’s wrists.

“He has our children,” shouted a voice, as Ramon slowly reached for his pistol. “Locked them in the school with a handful of bombs.”

Stone drew, lightning fast, the revolver suddenly in his gloved hand, his finger squeezing the trigger, the hammer slamming down, the chamber turning, the bullet hitting Ramon square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Horrified, the Cleric ran to his second in command and knelt down beside him, lifting his head from the ground. Stone moved, keeping low. He fired off two more shots, one bullet stinging the ground, the second clipping the thigh of a warrior. The Blood Sun warriors looked for cover as a rifle cracked from above and the Cleric saw another of his brave warriors struck down. There were screams and people scattered in every direction, everyone running except the parents, who dropped to the road, hands covering their heads. Bann fired her crossbow at Stone and the bolt whistled past his head.

“The signal,” shouted the Cleric, as Ramon died in his hands. “Now.”

She drew a large pistol from her furs and fired into the sky. A projectile shot into the air, exploding in a shower of sparks.

Crouched behind a slew of debris, Stone kept firing until his revolver was empty. Marge raised her shotgun and emptied both barrels at Bann, blasting her into the air like a rag doll.

“No,” screamed the Cleric. He looked at the detonator in his hand and then ran for the school building.

On one knee, Stone looked down the barrel of his rifle and drilled a bullet into another warrior as an arrow sailed over his head. There was rapid gunfire all around and the swish of arrows and crossbow bolts. The ground around Stone erupted with bullets and he raced for cover down the side of the school building. He spotted the Cleric unlocking the door and rolled around the corner of the wall to open fire but a volley of bullets forced him back. A scream from above saw a man plunge from one of the rooftops.

Stone hurriedly reloaded his revolver, eyes scanning the street and school yard. Again bullets sprayed from behind a low wall. He waited and as the warrior came into view to fire again he shot him through the eye. He lowered his revolver as the children suddenly ran into the yard and parents scooped them up and fled. Marge cracked open her shotgun and shoved two shells in. As she snapped it shut she heard the roar of engines and saw a number of vehicles moving down from the tribe’s camp. She raised her shotgun and fired again, hitting a fleeing warrior in the back.

Stone took down the last one. He reached the front of the school. The doors were open. Marge was at his side and two other men with handguns were with her. He offered cover and the two men went inside, fanning out, sweeping the room. Stone and Marge followed, taking a door each. She burst into the classroom. Saw the explosives abandoned on a desk. Saw the open windows. The Cleric and a few surviving warriors were fleeing across the brush, towards the vehicles driving down from the camp. He was still holding the detonator.

“Out,” yelled Marge.

Leaping into his armoured car, the Cleric twisted the detonator and watched the building erupt in a fireball. It blew apart the building next to it. A shower of bricks and metal rained back down and the air filled with thick smoke.

“Fire on them,” he ordered.

The heavy cannon mounted on the flatbed of the Cleric’s began to punch holes in the surrounding buildings and tear chunks from the road. Bricks exploded into dust as the gunner peppered the town with heavy fire.

Face down in the dirt of the street, coated with dust and chunks of masonry, Stone shook his head, groggy from the explosion. He felt blood trickling from his scalp. He saw Marge, dazed looking, stumbling to her feet. There was no sign of the two men. His ears were ringing but he could still hear the gunfire from the rooftop snipers. He couldn’t see any warriors in the street as he pushed himself to his feet and wondered who they were firing at.

Crouching, he ran, fleeing from the smoking ruins of the school, zigzagging across the road, glimpsing an armoured car spewing shells from a fearsome weapon. The sound was deafening. He saw more vehicles, bristling with armed warriors, firing handguns and shooting arrows into the town. He sprinted towards the nearest building and burst through the front door. Stone found himself in a cramped room with several large chairs and mirrors on the wall. An older man and a woman were lying on the floor, shielding each other. They saw his scuffed boots and gripped each other tighter. Shells hammered through the brickwork and shattered the mirrors. The couple screamed and Stone crawled towards a back door as he was sprayed with glass.

Yanking down the handle, he pushed open the door and went into a smaller room, cramped with boxes, crates, shelves and a bench. There was a rectangle shaped grilled window and a back door led outside. Stone drew his revolver and went through it. A car was across from him, the engine idling. A huge sun with blood spots was painted on the roof and the wheels were covered with wire mesh and dozens of razor sharp spikes. A broad steel plate with narrow slits was fitted across the windshield. Stone spotted a warrior but was too late to stop him shooting a crossbow at a fleeing man. The young man cried out and stumbled to his knees, trying to claw at the bolt lodged between his shoulder blades. His body slumped against the road. Shells exploded all around them, sending up clouds of dust. The crossbowman saw Stone and quickly tried to reload but Stone raised his right arm and fired twice. There was movement inside the car and he fired at it, splintering the side window, killing the driver as he reached for a pistol.

Stone pulled open the door and dragged the body out. The man’s long white shirt was smeared with blood. In the distance, the heavy cannon had stopped, hopefully out of ammunition, but then a rattling sound began and bullets flew everywhere as a second pickup truck sped into the town and began firing at anyone foolish enough to be on the street. Bullets raked houses and shops, shattered windows and peppered walls. A warrior came out of nowhere, running at Stone with a meat cleaver. Stone raised his revolver and it clicked empty. The warrior hacked and swept at him but Stone was more nimble and agile than his frame suggested. All around were screams and raking gunfire, buildings were burning, thick plumes of smoke coiled into the air. Another vehicle roared past and an explosion flipped it over. The man swung again with the meat cleaver and Stone went low, taking him off balance and slamming him to the ground. He wrestled for the weapon, sweat pouring down his face. He rolled in the dirt and dust, punching the man, trying to prise the weapon free but a studded fist drove across Stone’s face. He recoiled, spitting blood and a tooth. The man came at him again. Stone feinted right, then went left and struck him with the butt of his revolver, breaking the warrior’s nose. He hit him a second time and kept hitting him until the man went limp.

“Call them back,” ordered the Cleric.

It would be difficult to get word to the raiders loose in the town but the driver of the Cleric’s armoured car turned the ignition and the engine gunned into life. The other vehicles followed slowly, back towards the camp over the hill, still firing off rounds into the town. The Cleric stared at what was left of Ford. The buildings were heavily pitted, many in ruins, shrouded in smoke. Dozens of bodies lay in streets but many belonged to his tribesmen.

Stone drove the car back towards the demolished school, nothing more than a huge crater of rubble. He turned off the engine. Spattered with blood, filmed with dust, he looked around as gunfire erupted in the distance, on the far side of town, more sporadic now. He had seen the tribe drive away and wondered how long it would be before they regrouped and attacked again. He saw the woman with the shotgun, limping towards him, bleeding from her arm and leg.

“All the children survived,” she said. “Need to thank you for that, mister.”

Stone said nothing.

“I reckon it won’t be long and that trash will be back again. This time no clever plans.”

She saw Geoff, covered in blood, none of it his own.

“This time we’ll do it your way, Geoff,” said Marge. “Make for that maze in the craters.”

He nodded, but said nothing to her. Turning to Stone, he said, “Thank you, you saved a lot of people we care about.”

“Don’t say much, do you?” said Marge, taking off her jacket to examine her wounded arm. “That why they call you the Tongueless Man?”

“They call him that because he’s too stupid for conversation,” said the Map Maker, stepping from the swirling dust clouds.

Stone punched him in the jaw, and put him on the ground. The Map Maker scrambled to his feet, rubbing his chin, as Dorran approached and offered Stone his hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

Stone shook it but didn’t respond. Dorran turned to look at Marge and Geoff.

“You all just watched.”

A small knot of people began to wander towards them, looking dazed, deeply shocked, some elated.

“I thought you were leaving with them?” called Derek.

“I am leaving,” said the Map Maker. “Don’t worry about that. Leaving my own way.”

Dorran spun round at the sound of Derek’s voice. The two men stared at each other. Stone began to walk away, reloading his weapons, as buildings burned all around him.

“Saved a lot of people today,” called Marge. “Fancy pitching some food into your belly before you go?”

He stopped, nodded, and said, “Yeah.”

Tomas forced himself to concentrate. They had walked for miles but there was no sign of Stone.

As the hours dragged by, he grew more sullen, a cold sensation in his stomach. He had woken to the most beautiful moment of his young life, his eyes finding Emil, holding him, her scent, her warmth, but now Stone’s decision, his desertion, had wiped all of that out.

Tomas felt empty, lost, betrayed. Gallen had become a very large place and he had shrunk to the size of a child.

They trudged a never ending road, without food or water, but craving neither.

“Would you ever stay somewhere, Tomas?”

“What do you mean?”

His voice sounded very dejected.

“Like what I had with my kin?” persisted Emil. “A village?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

“With more people, a community, you could have a different life, Tomas.”

“Maybe.”

“I’d stay with you. Where else could I go?”

“Hmmm.”

She fell quiet. The road stretched ahead, deserted, the sky dull, the sun hot, the land brown and dry. Her father had devoted his life to preparing her for the world of Gallen, a world that did not always accept
different
and would attempt to hurt her and abuse her ability. She argued it was a curse, not an ability or a gift or a blessing, but a twisted punishment. She wished he was here so she could argue with him some more. She sighed. Tomas didn’t seem to notice her sadness. The old women of the village, with pinched faces and watery eyes, would tell her stories of the good she would bring to others with her gift. She would argue with them, too, that it was not a gift, as they scrubbed clothes and wrung them out. Then she looked at Tomas, five, ten years older than her, walking ahead, crossbow in his hand, pack on his back, leading her deeper into this barren region and without her curse, her twisted punishment, she would be alone now and would never have felt the warmth of his skin.

“Look,” said Tomas, pointing.

On the horizon, the sky was filled with billowing smoke. His pace quickened and she had to jog to keep up with him. They cleared the crest of a hill and saw the road begin to angle downwards. Rocky hills rose up around them and for a moment Emil slowed as she thought a pair of eyes had looked back at her. Tomas was calling her again. There was a body on the rocky verge and Tomas was holding a bicycle. Setting down his crossbow, he titled the bike onto its back wheel and spun the front one.

“What happened?”

Tomas had barely glanced at the young man’s body. Emil studied him and saw heavy bruising around the throat. She glanced up at the rocks, convinced now she had heard something.

“Tomas?”

He began pedalling in circles, delighted they would no longer be on foot.

“Let’s go and see what’s on fire,” he said. “I bet I can …”

“What’d you do to my boy?” said a harsh voice.

She stepped from the rocks, gloved hands pointing a submachine gun, a scarf tied around her face, black goggles covering her eyes, long black hair flowing from beneath a scratched helmet. Tomas had left his crossbow on the ground but an automatic pistol was tucked into his pocket and his hand began to move. The woman slowly shook her head. Emil glimpsed movement in the rocks and two young men in rumpled clothes emerged, both holding rifles. Long haired, skin dusky and lumpy, they stepped towards Tomas and dragged him from the bicycle. One of them searched him, taking his pistol and knife and pack, whilst the other kept his rifle pointed at him. The woman crouched down beside the body on the ground.