A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (15 page)

Twenty

The pickup spluttered and ground to a stop, its supply of black energy exhausted.

Stone abandoned the truck and continued on foot. He was only a few miles from the mountains. In the dark, he trudged off the highway, a solitary figure in the night. He was utterly alone. The wind was his only companion as he followed a slowly winding dirt road, dotted with stone and rock. He could have remained on the highway, it led straight to the city, but he would have been visible, exposed. He would use the mountain range to cover his approach. Walking for another hour, his calves began to ache as the road gradually ascended. He stopped and set his pack down. Despite the chill air, he was sweating. He took off his hat and goggles and tipped water over his face. He shook his head, his long, dirty hair swinging wildly. He had pulled it back and tied it with a short length of rope. Pushing his goggles across his eyes, his hat back over his scalp, he lifted his pack and walked on. He came across a narrow path, much steeper than the road, which now seemed to be falling away back to the flat lands below. He chose to follow it.

His legs stretched long as he pushed his body to its limits. The crags loomed around him as the path wound deeper into the mountains. He turned, glanced back, held his gaze for a moment. The ground below was grey, featureless, the highway a black line; Gallen stretched to the horizon, a land that filled him with nothing but despair. He felt every grain of sand, every block of dirt, every piece of road, ruthlessly combined to weight upon his shoulders. He had lived for more than forty years. He was old compared to many. Few lived long years in this world. He titled his head to the sky, seeking solace, and watched the clouds for a moment, marvelling at how they shifted in the wind, the white lights hiding behind them and then revealing themselves.

Stone lowered his head and headed on, further and further, the path forking many times. He took out his torch, thankful it was still working. He left his revolver in his belt and armed himself with a pistol he had taken from one of the Blood Sun warriors. The weapon was black and the magazine held nineteen bullets. He had used a similar firearm before. He shone the torch onto the path, keeping the beam low. The path was stony and uneven and, despite torchlight, he managed to lose his footing from time to time. The moon peeked around the clouds, illuminating the way ahead. He switched off the torch as he approached a wall of dead trees, branches black and lifeless, like a host of evil creatures escaped from a nightmare, waiting to ambush him.

He stopped and sniffed the air. He crouched, waited, listened, kept the pistol out in front.

His eyes scanned the surrounding darkness, peering through the trees, across sloping rock faces.

He saw the opening, faint wisps of smoke trailing from it. He looked around but couldn’t see anyone watching him. He waited longer. Wind whistled through the black trees. He rose, began walking, aware of the noise his boots made across beds of fallen branches and loose stone; it didn’t matter, the fire had been quickly extinguished, his presence was already known. Stone kept one eye on the cave opening, his pistol fanning left to right as he came closer. The path split again, one branch heading further into the mountains, cutting away to his right, another running down to his left, perhaps dropping all the way back to the barren scrubland.

He passed the cave opening and swiftly pressed his back against the craggy rock surrounding it.

He could no longer smell anything or see the wood smoke. He edged along, pistol ready, torch in hand, but switched off.

He took a deep breathe and swung around the entrance, dropping down, snapping on the torch and aiming his pistol.

Wide eyes looked back at him. Bushy grey eyebrows and blackened teeth. A thickly lined and sun burned complexion. He was crumpled in the corner of the cave, skinny and ragged, his fire now only dying embers. He had a knife but Stone ignored it. Ducking, he entered the cave, finding it much larger than he had anticipated. He looked around. There was no one else here and no other way out. He set down his pack, snatched the knife from the old man and hurled it into the shadows.

“What do you want?”

Stone shook his head, crouched and began working on the fire. The old man watched him and grinned as it sparked back to life. Stone found himself a spot and sank down. He removed his goggles and tossed them onto the ground. He pushed out his legs, crossed them and enjoyed the warmth of the fire seeping into his bones. The old man leaned forward and added more wood. The fire spat and crackled. Stone took a half bottle of water from his pack, drank some, screwed the cap back on and tossed it to the old man. He caught it and emptied it within seconds.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m Timmy. You got a name, friend?”

Stone watched the flames, said nothing. The old man began to speak but Stone held up both hands and placed them to the side of his head.
Go to sleep, old man.
He made a second attempt at conversation but realised Stone wasn’t much of a talker. He glanced through the cave opening, at the dead trees and paths in darkness. He then looked back at Stone. He shrugged. If he was going to get killed in his sleep at least it would be next to a warm fire. He settled down, drew a miserable blanket across his body and closed his eyes. He tossed and turned but finally began to lightly snore.

Stone stared into the flames. It would soon all be over. All these years. All his life. Waiting for this moment. He took out the ancient photograph and uncurled it. He stared at the people. A loving family. He wanted them to be his family but they were strangers. They had been
someone’s
family but not his. He closed his eyes. He wanted to remember them. Their voices. Their laughter. Their smell. The colour of his sister’s hair.
I kept the name, why can’t I remember anything now?

He opened his eyes and thought of Tomas and the girl. He wondered if they had reached Ford yet. He could see Tomas now, standing on the outskirts of the town, questioning the woman called Marge, the one who had wanted him to stay and live a life there. Doing what? Fighting and protecting a town? There were worse things a man could do, he supposed. Perhaps he would go back there afterwards and enjoy a breakfast of ollish eggs. Maybe Tomas was tucking into a plate of them right now. He smiled fondly. He knew it was all nonsense. He would never see any of them again.

He hoped Tomas would remember everything he had taught him, everything he had learned from Tomas’s father. Take the girl far from this terrible land, thought Stone, out of reach of the corrupt rulers of Chett and away from the lunatic that was the Cleric. Take her beyond the dead cities and the bike gangs. Take her to a land where you will both be safe and you will no longer sleep with your crossbow and pistol and knife.

Soon, Gozan would be dead, his vengeance would be satisfied, and it would all be over.

Tossing the photograph onto the fire, Stone closed his eyes and waited for morning to come.

“How dare you question me?” said Gozan.

He was still drinking, he had been for hours, and the office air was stale.

“I am your superior. I am Chancellor of this city and you will obey my rules.”

Arms folded behind her back, Nuria remained silent.

“I told that idiot what he needed to hear. He has the potential to make a good First Minister, once he can get his brain around how Chett really works.”

“And when he realises you have lied?” she said, breaking her silence. “Will he be executed? Like the rest?”

Gozan poured more drink.

“You are bordering on treason, Nuria, please be very careful.”

“General Nuria,” she corrected. “Chancellor Gozan.”

He rose from behind his desk and hurled the glass against the wall. She never flinched. She had witnessed his black moods before.

“I care about this city. I will keep this city alive. The Pure One will heal the sick and the dying. What is wrong with that?”

His booming voice echoed around the room.

“Is that really why you are doing this?” She relaxed her stance, approached him, reached for him. “We killed the Chancellor. We gunned him down in cold blood together. We are murderers. All because he wouldn’t change a law? How have I been so blind to you?”

He shook free her grip.

“You don’t care about the people, do you? I mean, not really. It’s the power. It has always been about the power.”

“Silence,” he said.

“You controlled your life partner until she died. You control and bully everyone around you. Shape decisions and lives.”

“And your point is?” said Gozan.

“It means I don’t believe in you anymore, Chancellor,” said Nuria. “Your time is coming to an end.”

In the grey light of morning, Stone left the cave. He gave the old man the last of his food and trudged on into the mountains. The old man waved at him but Stone never looked back, never saw the sequence of shapes burned into the old man’s forearm. The sun was pale and insipid and now and then he felt spots of rain from the clouds above. He kept walking. Along winding paths and sloping tracks. Slowly ascending, and then descending until, after several hours, he found a spot behind a low ridge and took out his binoculars. He raised his goggles and looked through them.

There stood Chett. The first city. The only city. The grand city. High walls and black gates, guard towers and flat rooftops.

Stone drew his gaze a mile along the road, to a scattering of ruined buildings, the size of a hamlet.

Nodding to himself, he put away the binoculars.

“Stone?”

He froze at the sound of his name.

“Tomas?”

“We drove all night to find you. Saw the wrecked vehicles. Took the jeep and followed your tracks. We planned this together.”

“You’re wounded,” said Emil. “You’re bleeding. Let me help you.”

He turned around. There was no one there. He saw the blood trickling onto his hand.

Wincing as he stripped off his long coat and shirt, he looked at his bleeding arm and hip and knew he wasn’t going anywhere soon.

Gozan woke to a sharp knock.

“Chancellor? Chancellor Gozan? Sir? Are you awake, sir?”

He opened his eyes and lifted his aching head from his pillow. It was long past dawn. Daylight flooded through the drawn curtains in his private bedchamber. He rose quickly, too quickly. His head pounded and he rubbed his temples gently to try and ease the pain.

There was a knock again.

Fuming, he jerked open the door to greeted by his Tenth Minister, Pondly, with two more men whom he recognised as stewards from the Worker Zone.

“Sir, the most terrible thing has happened,” said Pondly, breathlessly. “It’s the workers, sir.”

The Chancellor washed his hands over his face and coughed. His early morning guests winced at the stale smell of drink.

“Half of them have refused to turn up,” said one of the stewards. “We’re running on half a workforce.”

Gozan blinked.

“What?”

“The people,” said Pondly. “Thousands have gathered in Progress Square, demanding the answers.”

Under the cloak of night, he slipped into the ruined hamlet.

Stitched up once more, Stone began to search for the entrance detailed on the Map Maker’s maps. He had memorised its location but now, in the dark, reluctant to use his torch, he wished he had held onto the maps. He supposed it would be easier to wait until morning but he was only a mile from the city walls and had no desire to be seen. He searched for an hour, shifting rubble, finding nothing. He searched for a second hour, moving from building to building, keeping low. For a moment, he thought he caught the sound of an engine, droning in the wind. He stopped, looked around, but saw nothing. The gates of the city were closed and the highway was deserted. A third hour passed but still nothing. He looked back towards the mountains and saw figures moving down a dark path. He
had
heard a vehicle, at least one, possibly more.

The Cleric had not given up. Once his raiding party had failed to return he must have decided to send more vehicles in pursuit.

Stone took out the pistol and fixed the silencer to it. It was a strange device, one he had kept for a long time now. He had used it in practice, with Tomas’s pistol, and was impressed by how it would render a weapon silent when fired. This would be ideal if he was about to be set upon by Blood Sun warriors. He took up position in the dirt and rubble of a small building and waited. The air was cold. The city of Chett was behind him, watching on. He could see only two warriors. He glanced around the flat land but no shadows moved anywhere else. He saw them break from the path and begin to pick their way across the hard baked terrain. As they got closer, a look of anger flared in his eyes and he lowered the pistol.

He flashed his torch once in their direction.

Twenty One

“Let me help you,” said Emil

Stone refused, convinced he would mend. He was strong enough to slip into Chett and kill Gozan and that was all that mattered. She told him his hip wound was infected. Her hands felt light on his bare skin. He shivered at her touch. The dark night was cold. The wind whistled through the ruined buildings. Her warm hands continued to press against his skin. No one touched him. No one held him. He gritted his teeth, became dizzy.

Tomas kept watch, patrolling, barely able to look at Stone. His anger was impossible to hide. He wanted answers. He wanted the truth. He stared across a pile of rubble at Chett, under whelmed by what he saw. He wasn’t sure what he had expected but he had heard so much about the place. The first city, the only city - he had hoped for something more than crumbling walls and dirty looking buildings. He had sought a vision that would glitter and sparkle and dazzle in the sand, a sign of inspiration for all in Gallen, a sanctuary for the wanderers and the weary, a beacon, something more than this ramshackle sprawl. He felt nothing but disappointment and disinterest.

“Do you understand?” asked Stone.

He was standing behind him, his wounds healed. Emil was keeping her distance, allowing them time to talk.

“No,” said Tomas.

“You can keep her safe,” he said. “Once this is done.”

The younger man turned to face Stone.

“I don’t want it to be that way. We can go back to the original plan. It will work.”

Stone shook his head.

“And then what? My whole life, Tomas,” he said, nodding at the city. “I kept his name for this.”

“And you can have a whole life after this,” said Tomas. “Go back to the original plan.”

Tomas punched him.

“I should put a few bolts in you,” he said, brandishing his crossbow. “Get Emil to patch you up. Then shoot you again.”

“Help me find the tunnel,” said Stone. “Before dawn.”

“We do this together,” said Tomas.

“All three of us,” said Emil.

“And we get out of this dump together,” said Tomas.

“Okay,” said Stone.

With the three of them searching, it still took a further hour until Tomas finally uncovered a flight of ancient steps, buried beneath the rubble, leading down into darkness. This was what they had first seen on the Map Maker’s maps. They had known of the wandering man for many years, thought him a curiosity, nothing more, until they had heard the name Gozan, and learned that he lived, and then the Map Maker had become a man they desperately needed to hunt down. Stone snapped on his torch and they followed him underground. The air was stale and moist. The steps reached a landing. Stone fanned the torch over walls of dirty cracked tiles. Another flight led further down into a long room with a high, arched ceiling. Corridors ran off to his left but they were blocked with rubble. They realised they stood on the edge of a platform. A tunnel filled with two rusted lines of iron stretched into blackness.

“What is this place?” whispered Emil.

Tomas shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

Stone swept the torch around. He saw cracks in the walls and roof, dirt and grime, but no apparent threat.

He dropped down from the platform. His boots echoed on the iron lines. He angled the torch down and saw they were secured to heavy wooden beams. The lines were far apart, impossible to stand on both at the same time. He wondered what purpose they had served. He flashed his torch behind him and saw the tunnel had caved in. He swept his torch in the other direction, towards Chett.

“Clear,” he said.

Tomas jumped down into the tunnel and offered his arms up for Emil. She smiled at his gesture, but climbed down by herself.

“I need a gun,” she said. “I’m not going in there without one.”

“We’re not trying to trick you, Emil,” said Tomas. “Do you think we still plan to trade you?”

“Crossed my mind,” she answered.

“Are you serious? After everything?”

Stone reached into his pack and pulled out one of several handguns he had taken from the Blood Sun warriors.

Emil held in her right hand.

“Better?” asked Tomas.

She nodded.

“Stone?”

He looked at her.

“They told us in the town you faced the Cleric?”

Stone nodded.

“We saw the cars, the men you killed back on the highway, was he one of them?”

“No.”

Stone led the way along the tunnel, carrying the silenced automatic pistol in one hand, torch in the other. The ground was dotted with broken roof tiles and loose rocks and human bones. The tunnel curved left and then back right again. The air was horrible. Now and then small things moved in the darkness. Stone would snap his torch at them but they were far too agile. They kept walking until they reached another platform, similar to the one before. Ahead, the iron lines stretched on into blackness. The three of them scrambled onto the platform and looked for a way out. Stone pointed at a flight of stairs and they followed them onto a square shaped landing where a corridor with a curved ceiling led away.

Torch beam sweeping out of in front, they soon reached another flights of stairs. Up they went, onto another small landing where an iron gate blocked the way forward. It was secured with a long chain and padlock, thick with rust. The padlock was on the other side of the gate. Tomas opened his pouch of picklock tools but as he reached through the bars and took hold of the padlock the chain crumbled. The gate whined as it opened. There was the sound of movement somewhere above. Stone and Tomas exchanged looks. They realised they had breached the city walls and were under the House of Leadership. If the maps were correct, they would soon be entering the lower levels of the building.

Beyond the gate a corridor in darkness ended at a heavy grey shutter. They listened but could hear only muffled sounds.

“The air is different,” said Emil.

Stone nodded and shone the torch at the lock. Tomas retrieved his pouch of tools once again and began to work on it. Within a moment he heard the lock click. The Map Maker had told them that the Ministers had shown no interest when he had revealed that a network of underground tunnels existed beneath the House and other buildings within the city. He had been ensured they were sealed off. The belonged to the Before. It was nothing to become agitated or flustered about. Only one man had shown any curiosity. And for the second time, Stone had heard his name – Gozan.

Gingerly, they rolled the shutter sideways. A white haired man with a clipboard was peering into a wooden crate. He lifted his head, shocked to see the three of them emerge. Stone pointed his pistol and fired once, the gun making no sound. The man slumped to the ground and the three of them spread into the room. It was cavernous, piled with crates and boxes, stacks of metal chairs and folding tables and a long row of bicycles.

Voices came from a side room; two men in grubby overalls appeared, swapping animated conversation.

Stone brought up his pistol and fired; Tomas shot the second with his crossbow.

“What have you been stirring up?” asked Gozan.

Nuria was tired of his ranting. Since the protests yesterday, he had become even more irritable.

“I had to stand in front of the mob and plead for them to return to work. How did these rumours get out? Did you start them?”

She stood before his desk. It was becoming all too familiar now. She was a child once again. He simply could not understand what had happened. For years, the
fake SOT
had spread dissent and unrest, had undertaken minor crimes only for them to be squashed and innocents punished. Had he never thought, or even reasoned, that the officers employed to perpetuate the lie, to manufacture resentment, to weave an illusion of discontent, might begin to actually believe in the lie, might begin to see the truth in the lie, to see the reality of what Chett was, what it had become, who
they
had become. She had pulled at tiny strands and formed the
real SOT
several years ago, on the poorest side of the city, on the eastern side, her cover perfect.

“Plead?” she said. “I heard no pleading, sir. Only threats.”

“What of it?” he said, slamming his palm on the desk. “Have you seen the reports this morning? Stewards are in and out of here every minute. We have a thirty percent workforce.”

Nuria glanced over her shoulder at the chaos unravelling in the House. A faint smile touched her lips.

“This is not acceptable. I will not allow this.”

“Then carry out your threats, sir. Withdraw citizen parcels, cancel all Hamble Tower passes.”

She rounded on him.

“Why not open the armoury and arm the Red Guard? We can have martial law once again.”

“Do not mock, Nuria.”

“I don’t say this lightly. This is what you have always wanted. Punish them. Punish them …”

His hand struck her hard, across the face. She reeled back. He hit her again and this time she reached for her holster, hesitating at the last moment. She looked into his eyes and saw only rage, no remorse. There never would be. There never had been.

“You are demoted,” he said. “Reduced in rank to Corporal. You will be assigned to bridge duty at Hamble Towers.”

He nodded.

“Dismissed, Corporal.”

“The SOT are real, Gozan, and you have lost control. Truth is what the citizens deserve. Truth about your rank administration. You have hundreds of workers slaving away to produce luxury items for Hamble Towers and what do they see? A paltry Citizen Parcel? I know what we salvage in the wasteland. People deserve more.”

He stared fiercely at her.

“We have been real for a very long time, Gozan. You never once questioned it, did you? Your reign is ending. There will be elections and freedom and …”

“And you?” said Gozan. “You’re a traitorous, poisonous …”

There was a scream in the corridor. Concern flashed across the Chancellor’s face. Nuria ran to the doorway and saw two men, both armed, moving along the corridor, firing into the side offices. Already there were bodies slumped on the floor. She pulled out her sidearm but they spotted her and rolled out of view. She spied a third infiltrator, a scruffy girl wearing a patch over one eye.

“What is it?” barked Gozan.

She ignored him as he rushed to a cabinet on the wall. Throwing open the door revealed a square shaped box inside with a glass lid. He slid open the lid and pressed a button inside. At that moment, a siren began to wail beyond the walls of the building. She had heard it only once before, as a child, when Chancellor Facundo had been cited for arrest.

Crouching in the doorway, gun trained on the corridor, she knew the guards in the nearby barracks would be mustering, taking weapons and live ammunition from the armoury and heading here immediately. She wondered how these men had gained access into the building and what had happened to the company of guards on the ground floor.

“Is there another way in?” she said, as a bearded man sprayed bullets at her, forcing her back, allowing the second man to move forward into another office. “Gozan, the tunnels at Quinto, are there more? Beneath us?”

He seemed dumbstruck by the question. There was another scream as Stone fired across the corridor, his bullet hitting Tenth Minister Pondly, tossing him back into his chair.

“I’m Nuria,” she called out. “If you’re mercenaries for the SOT then hold your fire.”

Tomas drew a blood smeared crossbow bolt from a body, frowning.

“Who?” he mouthed.

Emil was hiding near the stairwell, pistol in her hand.

“Stone,” she shouted, suddenly, and dashed into the corridor, throwing herself into the nearest office.

Two men lay staring at the ceiling, a bullet hole in each one. She gasped at the sight of them.

Was this really what Stone wanted?

“I can hear them downstairs,” she said. “Stone, they’re coming up behind us.”

Nuria held her nerve. She had little ammunition and no other weapons. Finger on the trigger, she waited.

“We want Gozan,” said Stone. “No one else needs to die.”

The siren continued to wail. Tomas jogged back towards the stairwell. He drew his pistol.

“Step out and you can live.”

Gingerly, one by one, trembling hands first, the surviving members of the House of Leadership began to emerge from the last few offices ahead of Stone. He counted four men and one woman. Stumbling, they shuffled past the long haired, bearded man and the ragged girl with one eye and the man with the crossbow. Tomas ordered them down the stairs. Nervously, shakily, forming a straight line, the five people went down the steps, towards the noise from the lower floors.

Stone switching the silenced pistol to his left hand, drew his revolver with his right, and came forward into the corridor, pointing both at Nuria.

“Put it down.”

She lowered her weapon and placed it on the floor.

“Are you the mercenaries?”

Getting to her feet, she backed away, raising her hands.