A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (2 page)

Two

“Hey,” said Adam.

Hugo raised his rifle and swung it towards the stranger. He didn’t have a clear shot but he could fire off a warning round.

“You need to get out of here,” continued Adam. “No business here for you.”

The girl heard the snarl in his voice and shivered. Adam’s eyes had turned ice cold and she watched him slowly draw his sword. Her single eye pierced the darkness. The bearded man had looked derelict and crumpled a moment earlier but now, as he eased from the patchy gloom, he seemed to unfold into a much taller man than she had assumed. He wore a narrow brimmed hat, his hair long and unkempt, streaked with grey. His beard was thick and ragged, his skin leathery. A long battered coat covered his rumpled clothes. A rifle was across his back, an ammunition belt across his chest, a long barrelled revolver tucked into his belt.

She shrank further away and noticed that the three men had also taken several paces back.

Adam opened his mouth but never uttered another word. The bearded man’s hand moved with incredible speed. His fingers curled around the revolver and there was a roar as the hammer powered a bullet along the barrel. Adam choked as blood erupted in his throat. He coughed, spluttered, his grip loosened on the sword. His face turned ashen, his knees buckled; he tried to speak, tried to cry for help, but he was falling, eyes wide, arms flailing.

Hugo was about to squeeze off a volley when he cried out in sudden agony. He toppled over, a crossbow bolt embedded in the back of his skull. The one eyed girl screamed and scurried into the corner of the room as she saw a second man appear, this time from behind the men who had chased her. Only Rafa remained and he hurled his weighted net but it was a useless attack and the bearded man swerved it easily. He stomped forward, swinging his meaty clenched fists, ready to unleash a barrage of punches, but the bearded man calmly fired once and drilled a bullet into his heart.

The one-eyed girl coughed from the dust. She was angry for allowing herself to have been trapped in such a dead end building. She lifted her eyes towards the second man, the one with the crossbow. He was much younger than the bearded man. His skin was dusky, hair shorter, and he had no beard. His clothing was filmed with dirt from scavenging in the city but these men were no ordinary scavengers. She had realised that very quickly. These were two very different men and as her heart beat faster confusion trickled into her thoughts; it was impossible to separate fear and relief, and maybe something else. It was then she realised they were paying no attention to her and seemed more intent on ransacking the bodies of the three men they had quickly slain. Both men worked in silence as they pocketed wrapped food bars, ammunition, weapons and personal items.

“I’m Tomas,” called the younger man, strapping his crossbow to his back. “You hungry?”

Not waiting for an answer, he tossed one of the bars in her direction.

“All the way from the best place in the world.”

Her stomach rumbled but she bit her lip and left it in the dirt.

“Your loss,” he shrugged. “Anything else?”

The question was for his bearded partner who was pulling a battered leather wallet from Adam’s inside coat pocket. Gingerly, he opened it and his lined forehead creased deep at the papers inside. Wordlessly, he handed them to Tomas, shaking his head slowly as he did so. Tomas gripped them tightly, the thin paper rippling between his fingers. His eyes scanned the words and his lips moved as he tried to sound them out. A look of concern filled his eyes and he screwed the papers into a ball.

“This can’t be right,” he said, looking at the dead bodies. “Doesn’t make any sense. Look at them. I mean, look at them.”

The bearded man stared in silence.

“What doesn’t make sense?” asked the girl, stumbling to her feet, the food bar in her hand.

“We need to get out of here,” he said. “All of us. You, you need to come with us. You can’t stay here.”

She stopped in mid bite and looked at the two men who dwarfed her. How were these any different to the three they had killed?

“I’ve got a kit,” said Tomas, nodding at the blood stained scarf. “Do you want me to fix your hand?”

“Do you know what I am?”

Her words were tiny but the question was not and the two men knew what she was asking and why she was asking it.

“We don’t care what you are,” said Tomas, his tone even. “Come with us or stay here.”

The bearded man picked up Hugo’s rifle and headed deeper into the gloom, past where he had first been concealed. He clambered across shifting piles of rubble, not looking back, knowing that Tomas would soon be following.

“Your choice,” said Tomas.

The girl looked into his face; his eyes were dark, brooding, but she also saw warmth there, too. In the few minutes she had known him he had shown her more kindness and mercy than she had experienced in all her days and nights of being alone. She nodded and removed the bloodied scarf, discarding it. Tomas glimpsed her slender hand and frowned at the clean, unbroken skin. He lightly shook his head, unsure, and then motioned for her to follow the bearded man – he would take up the rear.

“Got a name?” he called out.

She ignored him, at first, and followed the older man through the dusty gloom, keeping pace with him, putting her feet where he put his. The question was still ringing in her ears. At sixteen years of age only her kin had demonstrated love. They had taught her how the land of Gallen was made and how the people in it were shaped, bent with power and greed. Her father would tell her how a thousand years ago, during the Before, billions of souls lived on Gallen, the Ancients, he had called them, yet they were gone now, and through all those centuries little had truly changed. Picking through the dirt and debris with these two drifters, none of it seemed important, but her father’s words would always echo in her thoughts when she felt her defences lowering. She had trusted no one but her kin and now they were all gone there was no one left to trust or care for or love. She didn’t want to answer his question. She didn’t want him to know anything more about her. Though he already knew too much. Would one more piece really matter?

They reached a wide corridor that angled downwards, sunlight pouring in through gaping holes in the ceiling.

“Emil,” she said, not looking back.

“Tomas.”

“I know.”

They found an opening in the wall ahead, but the bearded man held up his hand and dropped to a crouch.

“Who’s he?”

“Call him Stone,” shrugged Tomas. “Like, you can’t get anything out of him. He has few words.”

Emil suddenly pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her temples. A headache was unfurling in her skull.

“Those men,” she asked. “Why did we have to run?”

Stone waved them on.
All clear
.

“Are you okay?” asked Tomas, reaching out his hand to her.

She flinched, and pulled away from him.

“Headaches,” she said. “Sometimes, I get bad headaches.”

Stone led them out of the building and down a steep bank of rubble, into the driving wind. The street was littered with debris, the road surface buckled and potholed. All around the outline of broken buildings was etched against the sky.

”I’ve seen bandits before,” said Emil. “But those men, they were nothing like real bandits.” She waited but no one answered her. “Bandits don’t talk nice to you. They attack you quickly, kill you, take what they want. Who were they?”

“Soldiers,” said Tomas, and Stone halted and looked back at them both. “Soldiers of the Red Guard. From Chett. The City of Chett. You know it? The first, only, mighty, great City in the whole miserable world of Gallen. The man with the sword had papers. He was a Captain.”

Stone began walking once more, cradling the rifle he had taken from Hugo, his eyes roaming across every building ahead.

“Soldiers dressed as bandits,” said Tomas. “Hunting a Pure One. Like I said, it doesn’t make sense. They outlawed hunting and using your kind a long time ago.”

Emil felt a coldness seep through her clothes and flesh, a chill brought on by more than the wind.

“A Pure One,” she snorted. “You have stupid names.”

Above, darkening clouds had drifted across the reddish-blue sky and tiny spots of rain began to fall.

“I don’t care about names,” said Tomas, grabbing her arm firmly. “Names and things. What do they mean out here? Nothing. They mean nothing. You understand? All that matters is keeping up with each other. That’s what matters. Do you get me? Stone knows. They have a name for him as well. They call him the Tongueless Man. A sick joke because he doesn’t talk much. Names mean nothing. Where you are when you need to stay alive and put someone else in the dirt is all that matters.”

“Let go of my arm,” said Emil, her single eye narrowing. “You need to let go.”

“I don’t know why soldiers are hunting you. I don’t know why they dressed as bandits. The law says they shouldn’t but who cares about the law out here.”

Tomas let go of her arm.

“And if there are more of them then we need to move fast. They hang you for killing Red Guard soldiers.”

Three

Chancellor Jorann sipped his tea and watched from his office window as thousands of citizens on bicycles streamed through the city streets. Men and women, of all ages and abilities, would soon begin the day shift at the production factories, the workshops, the recycling plants and the warehouses.

At sixty one years of age, now in his fifteenth year as Chett’s ruler, he allowed himself a content and reflective smile. In all the years that had passed, enduring heart breaking personal loss and making tremendous sacrifices, the pride in leading this great urban community had never dimmed and he knew that it never would. He saw Chett as the leader of Gallen, its central city, a shinning beacon of hope. One day the boundaries would expand and new cities would emerge and the desert tribes would cease the bloodshed and unite. There was much to be optimistic for but he felt apprehension instead. He wasn’t fearful of change, he felt he encouraged it, but he had sensed for a period of time now that something was awry in his beloved city. It was only a feeling, intangible, but it troubled him.

He finished his processed tea and set the cup down on a table wedged beneath the window. Tea was a much sought after commodity and only available to government officials and residents of Hamble Towers. He was fully aware it was traded on the black market. Operations had been shut down and criminals exiled into the wastelands but he knew it was impossible to completely stamp out. However, the black market was a low priority at this moment. Returning to his desk, he once more began to study the file that was of much greater importance. It had kept him awake through the night. It hadn’t only been the file. And, if he was truthful, the smile he had enjoyed a moment earlier, watching his citizens head into the Worker Zone, was more to do with
her
than any of
them.
She had stayed with him last night once again. She had stayed with him for two weeks now. So many years his junior.
Too many years, he mused.
The Chancellor knew she had touched his life in a way that only his life partner had before the sickness had taken her.

Gingerly, he opened the file, a sheaf of untidy papers inside.

His office door was wide open, the corridor beyond lined with smaller offices where a core of ministers and administrators and clerks worked. There was a knock and he looked up to see his First Minister and General of the Red Guard, Gozan, standing respectfully in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged and invited inside.

“It’s good to see you,” said Jorann, rising and warmly greeting the man

Gozan closed the door.

“It has been a week since we spoke,” said Jorann, tapping the file. “What can you tell me?”

Gozan was silent for a moment, his narrow face betraying little. A long scar ran down his left cheek and over his jaw. His grey streaked black hair was worn to the shoulders, neatly clipped. His clothes were immaculately pressed, though of less quality than his senior companion. Thoughts gathered, he sat, and leaned forward in his chair, crossing one leg as he did so.

“The SOT has no connection with our missing men,” he began, his voice low, almost hushed. “I have questioned the troublemakers and core members we recently arrested. Their network of traitors and liars is exposed now and we have rounded up the final numbers of their organisation. I believe no respectable citizen was ever truly interested in their rhetoric. They are figures of hate, Jorann. I also believe they were never a threat to our society, more an annoyance. The men and women we arrested are guilty of minor offences – vandalism, defamation, theft of citizen parcels - and all will be executed, naturally, but they had no involvement in this matter.”

“Then this is all a little disconcerting,” said Jorann. “Would you care for a drink? I have tea.”

“Er, no, thank you,” said Gozan, seeking a more enlightened response to his opening statement.

“It’s delightful, Gozan.”

“Later, perhaps.”

Beyond the office windows, the dull sky erupted with rain. Giant plops spattered against the glass.

“Did you question the SOT prisoners yourself?”

“I was present,” answered Gozan, easing back in his chair.

“I see. A little too old to be getting your hands bloody?”

A smile from Gozan.

“I think we both are,” he said.

“It wasn’t always that was for us,” said Jorann. “Vassaron, Sandon.”

“Indeed,” said Gozan, hoping to steer his Chancellor back onto the more pressing situation of disappearing soldiers and not to relive, once again, a discussion on Chett and Gallen’s history. He was about to say something else, a more direct question, when he saw that Jorann wished to explore the past - so he smiled politely and nodded and issued bland responses to his old and dear friend as Jorann recounted the days the two men had wore military uniforms, not ministerial ones, leading soldiers into many skirmishes against the bandit settlements at Vassaron and Sandon. Outsiders who had threatened to destroy the city and return Gallen to the anarchy that had riven its lands during the early centuries. There was little known of this period, merely fragments, no records, only stories passed through generations. Even less was known of the Before, when the Ancients ruled Gallen in vast numbers. It was all speculation. All they knew, all that mattered was Gallen. Who the Ancients were, whatever they might have achieved, whatever they might have accomplished, was ashes now.

Oh, you silly fool, thought Gozan, you silly old fool.
Oh, this
woman
has made you wistful and lovesick. It was the worst kept secret within the offices and corridors and bedchambers of the House of Leadership.

“So we are safe from the SOT?” asked Jorann, finally.

“For the time being, yes. I am sure they will manifest once more. I have no doubt of it.”

“That’s a pity.”

“More importantly, our missing soldiers are not being kidnapped and held by them,” said Gozan. “Of that, I can assure you.”

“Then what is the answer here? We are losing officers as well. Is this mass desertion?”

“No,” said Gozan. “I don’t believe so.”

“Since we last spoke,” said Jorann. “I have uncovered something quite interesting about the men. I believe the count is over fifty now. At first, we both thought there was nothing to link them but I have been digging through the duty rosters and …”

“The duty rosters?” said Gozan.

“Yes, and all of these men, before going missing, or deserting, have recently returned from a Supply Expedition.”

“What conclusion do you draw from that?”

“Well,” said Jorann. “These men have experience of the wastelands. Perhaps something beyond these walls is luring them back out there. Something is making them turn their backs on us.”

The two men fell silent to digest the information. Jorann rose from his chair and strode across to the window. The bicycles were gone and the street was slick with rain. A patrol went through. Four men of the Red Guard. Soldiers brandishing batons and round shields. He watched them head towards the Trader Zone where the market stalls would be open for business. Beyond the haggling and bartering he saw row upon row of identical apartment buildings spread for miles. His citizens had simple, basic lives; the daily work, the payment of a Citizen Parcel, food and supplies, the dream of a night or even a life at Hamble Towers, a necessary place of luxury, providing them incentive, hope. The SOT wanted to destroy his ordered society, dismantle and unravel what they had spent years fighting and working towards. He was the 27
th
ruler of Chett. He was the Chancellor. He was responsible for them all. He wasn’t blind. He knew the grinding routine and strict laws strangled independence but the walls and towers, the gates, the patrols, and the laws was what had kept them alive for hundreds of years. And he feared change was coming.

“Which officer is in charge of selecting men for the Supply Expeditions?” asked Jorann. “The rosters did not tell me.”

Gozan sighed, his mouth turned down.

“Major Nuria.”

“Oh,” said Jorann.

“Yes.”

“You have mentored her from an early age.”

“Yes.”

“She will have to be taken in for questioning.”

“I know,” said Gozan. “I am disappointed. If she has betrayed us, I am very disappointed.”

“There are rumours and whispers,” said Jorann. “That these men are in the wasteland hunting Pure Ones.”

Gozan joined his Chancellor at the window as the rain began to loosen its grip on the day.

“I will need to question the Major first before I believe gossip.”

Jorann clamped a hand on his First Minister’s shoulder.

“I agree,” he said. “Find the truth, Gozan.”