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Authors: Susan Jane Bigelow

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Broken (10 page)

BOOK: Broken
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Off in the distance, they could hear shouting. Had the mob come already?

"We have to go
now
," Michael said urgently.

But guilt held him in place. He had to try.

"Help me," he said. He banged on Lydia’s door. "Wake up! Mob! Get out, now! Now!"

Broken caught on. They ran around the circle of the house, banging on doors. "Wake up! Mob!"

People stumbled out into the hallway, rubbing their eyes.

"What is this?" Andrew said. "Mike, what’s happening?"
"A mob is coming," Michael said. "They will burn the house down."

"Of all the nonsense," Lydia said. "This house is fireproof. Isn’t it, Andrew?"

Andrew turned red. "Sure. Sure, it is. I built it that way."

Michael seethed.
Cheap bastard. He didn’t and he can’t admit it.

"They’re coming tonight," he said. "You have to go."

"Nothing on the screens about it," deep-voiced Shawn growled. "No mob near here. We’re safe. Go back to bed."

"I looked outside," Jane added. "Nothing. Michael, are you all right?"

"You’re all in danger!" Michael said, getting hysterical. "Please, listen! I can see the future, I know it’s going to happen
tonight!
Please!"

To his shock, Andrew laughed. "Oh, Mike, it’s been a hard day. And we’re all worried about Janeane. But we’re safe! I promise."

Michael scanned each of their faces in turn.

 

—Flames, flames…fire...

 

Unavoidable. There were no other endings for any of them.

"Burn, then," he spat, scared and disgusted, and turned his back on them. Broken followed without saying a word.

Monica met them at the back door. He spun away, not wanting to see her future set aflame.

"Take me with you," she said softly. Her jet-black hair was a mess, and she looked like she'd been crying. She wore a pack on her back,. "Please. I believe you. Janeane left me a note, explaining. She... she knew things, too. So I figure you must be right. Please?"

He had three tickets.

One for him. One for Ian. One for Broken.

One for Monica? There weren’t enough. Still.
Still
.

He nodded. "All right. Come on."

The four of them set off into the harsh winter night.

* * *

They struck north, away from the riots. Half an hour later, as they crested a hill by the bank of the frozen Hudson, Monica dared to look back.

The neighborhood where they had lived was a sea of flame.

Broken put her arm around the young woman and led her away, as tears ran down both of their cheeks.

Michael glanced at Monica. Her future was bound to theirs now. They walked down the hill as Ian moaned softly in the cold. The moon, silvery and uncaring, shone overhead.

 

 

 

 

[CHAPTER 10]

 

 

 

T
he streets north of New York were mobbed with people fleeing the carnage in the city.

"What’s happening?" Michael asked a man with three children and a pack full of belongings slung on his back.

"Black Bands are torching entire neighborhoods," he gasped, struggling under his heavy load. "Anyone with a UNP registration is getting hauled in."

"Is anyone fighting back?" Monica asked.

The man sighed. "Yeah. They’re getting killed. Black Bands were ready for ‘em."

"I saw six cops turn on the Black Bands," a younger man said. "They got shot, too. But
cops
are fightin’ ‘em."

"Good," a woman whispered viciously. "I hope they all die."

"Which?" someone asked her. "Cops or Black Bands?"

"
All
of them."

Michael nodded. He’d seen this sort of day in some people’s futures. Many of them had been police or Black Bands.

They blended in with the crowd, just four more refugees heading north. Several times along the way, they saw squads of Black Bands keeping watch over the road. Vehicles carrying more Black Bands and even some Army troops passed through the crowds, heading south towards the fighting. They could hear, from time to time, the roar of aircraft overhead.

Morning dawned, cold and miserable. Michael felt like he had been walking for most of his life. Ian had stopped crying, but Michael could tell his diaper was wet, and he was probably badly chafed. There was nothing he could do. If he stopped, what would happen? Better to keep moving.

There was an empty lot where refugees camped, warmed by fires started in old metal trash barrels. Michael, Monica, and Broken sat together, as close to one of the barrels as they could get. Michael put a fresh diaper on Ian, leaving the old one where it fell.

Someone had brought a portable media screen, and set it up near where they were huddled. Almost all of the refugees turned to watch. A stunningly beautiful woman, wearing a serious expression, sat at a desk, reading the latest news.

"...Continuing coverage of the terrorist uprising in New York, where it is reported that traitorous police, loyal to the now-banned UNP, have been engaging the Civil Guard"—apparently they were calling the Black Bands the Civil Guard now—"and the military in sporadic fighting in the city’s residential areas. It is believed that the terrorists are attempting to use the population as human shields. We urge citizens to do everything they can to cooperate with government forces, or just to remain as safe as possible." Pictures of fighting flashed on the screen. "Military sources say that our government has reclaimed most of the city from the terrorists, and that the last few nests should be wiped out shortly." More pictures of heroic-looking soldiers and Black Bands appeared.

Broken gasped. There was a flying man wearing the uniform of the Black Bands.

"Extrahuman Union leader Sky Ranger, who recently added his organization to the long list of Civil Guard Reserves, helped to contain the terrorist threat," the gorgeous woman said.

Sky Ranger looked directly into the camera. "Any sort of violence against the lawfully elected government is illegal, and morally wrong. I urge anyone who is still fighting to put down your weapons. You will be treated well."

The announcer nodded. "Thank you, Sky Ranger. Now here is a look at today’s weather—"

Michael turned away. Not a word about the Black Bands torching neighborhoods. Nothing about UNP members being arrested. Or murdered.

Broken was sitting quietly. "How
could
he?" she asked no one in particular.

"That son of a bitch Sky Ranger," someone nearby growled. "I saw him blasting away at a position manned by old men and boys. Some fucking hero."

A murmur of tired agreement rippled through the crowd, then subsided.

Broken shook her head. "He’s a good man," she muttered. "A good man. A good man." She patted her cloak. "Where’s my bottle? Where’s my booze? Did I leave it?" She kept muttering and swearing to herself for a while. No one responded.

* * *

Gossip and rumor started to spread through the camp.

"Peltan’s dead," one person insisted. "My brother in Australia told me."

"Lin is still alive," said another. "She’s fighting with the rebels now."

Others were more realistic. "The UNP is fighting in Western Australia. Supposedly they have control of Perth."

"No, they’re basing themselves out of Sydney."

"I heard there’s a war up in space."

"Half the colonies have seceded! My father says so."

"The Rätons have invaded," another said. This caused a hush. "They have Mantillies and Quela, and are heading for Earth now."

"Says who?"

"My friend says he heard it from a Black Band."

A heated argument followed. Was it better to live under Peltan, or the Rätons? Humans had been allies with the Rätons before, during the long Rogarian War. That was twenty-five years in the past, though. What would the Rätons be like now? No one could agree.

Everyone was starting to get hungry. "Where’s the government?" cried more than one person. "Why don’t they feed their people?"

"Maybe they really are gone," a few whispered. "Maybe the government fell, and we’re on our own."

 Michael knew that none of the rumors were true.

An oldtimer sighed. "It was like this during the Last War, too," he told Michael and anyone else who would listen. "I was a boy then, but things don’t change."

Michael saw Monica reach into her pack.

"What are you doing?" He was next to her in a flash.

"Getting some food," she said. A few heads turned her way.

"Not here. You want to start another riot? Come on. We should keep moving."

"Why? Look, I’m hungry. Ian’s hungry, too. I bet you didn’t bring any formula."

"Just trust me," Michael said. "Let’s go. Quietly. This place isn’t safe."

"
Why
should I trust you?
Fuck
you!" She buried her head in her arms. "My family is
dead
. They’re all dead. Jane, Andrew, Lydia, Fred, Shawn—Oh, God! They can’t be—" She sobbed uncontrollably. Michael, not knowing what else to do, put an arm around her.

"We should go," Broken said.

"I know," Michael said helplessly. "But we can wait a few minutes."

* * *

A phalanx of Black Bands showed up about half an hour later. They had bread and water, which they tossed in huge packages down to the crowd. People scrambled to get what they could.

Michael tried to restrain Broken from leaping into the fray, but couldn’t stop her. She returned a few minutes later with six loaves of bread, a split lip, a black eye, and a huge grin on her face. Monica watched in horrified fascination as Broken’s lip repaired itself.

"Jesus," she said.

"It’s something she can do," Michael explained lamely.

"I wish I could do that," Monica said.

"Me, too," agreed Michael. Ian started crying. "Can he eat bread?"

"Does he have any teeth?" Monica asked.

"No."

"Then probably not."

They ate some of the bread, staying put despite Broken’s repeated demands to leave. Michael wanted to press onward, too, but he was so tired…

"What are
they
doing?" Monica wanted to know. Soldiers, along with a few Black Bands, had taken up positions around the perimeter of the camp and were now simply standing there, watching the crowd.

Michael looked at them. Their possibilities came in vague flashes; nothing specific or useful came to him. "No idea. Maybe we
should
go."

"Yeah," said Monica.

"Right," Broken agreed. "Time to go."

At the edge of the camp, an armed Black Band stopped them. "Where are you going? Do you have identification?"

"ID was lost when the house was set on fire," Michael said. "Sorry. We’re going to go to her sister’s place in, uh, Danbury."

The Black Band did a quick search of their packs. He took some of the food they’d been carrying and passed it out to his friends. He examined the pack of thin diapers closely, and decided he didn’t want it. Michael tried not to think about about the money and tickets from Janeane he had strapped to his leg. "Go ahead," the Black Band said at last.

They went without complaint. What else was there to do?

* * *

They joined a stream of refugees heading further north. A few had vehicles, now, and were carrying people anywhere they could fit them. Men, women, and children clung to the sides, roof, trunk, and even underneath any vehicle that passed by, if just to get momentary relief from walking.

Michael asked everyone he could about the latest news. New York was mostly back in the government's hands, but the riots and arrests hadn’t stopped. Anyone who had ever been associated with the UNP was leaving, quickly.

But where was there for them to go? Refugee camps had sprouted all over Westchester, but most of these were being guarded by Black Bands and the Army. What would happen when the Black Bands decided to see who was who? Michael didn’t want to be around for it. No more refugee camps, he informed Monica and Broken. They didn’t object.

* * *

They weren't entirely certain where they were going. Michael's prescience didn't help one bit. He was blind to the future, for now, driven only by the need to go southwest to Delmarva. Media screens, usually plastered to the sides of buildings, spewed news at them. New York was still unsafe. Fighting still raged, but the government was winning. The government had mopped up all but the worst of the cells. The streets were still too dangerous; citizens had been told in no uncertain terms to stay inside.

There was very little news from the rest of the planet, or from the twenty or so other worlds that made up the Confederation.

BOOK: Broken
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