Rebel Song (15 page)

“Rogan, we have to stop. We can’t do this,” she breathed heavily through swollen red lips. It felt like someone had punched him in the stomach, but he knew she was right.

“You sure?” He asked half-heartedly.

“Yes,” she pushed him a little further. “We both know where this road goes. I can’t…I’m not…”

He took her hand and nodded.

“You don’t have to explain. You’re right. We can’t get involved.” This wasn’t the time to be irrational. They had to keep their heads clear. Rogan backed away from her and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to shake off the nerves piled up inside him.

Elyra sat up and tucked her knees up into her chest. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was sticking up in all directions. He couldn’t help but grin as he reached over and plucked a few blades of grass from her locks, fighting the urge to ignore common sense and bring her body back to his.

“I’m sorry I got angry,” she said.

“It’s okay. You’re kind of cute when you’re upset.”

“So now what?” Defeat echoed in her voice.

“Back to business, I guess.” He half-smiled.

“What do you want me to do? I mean really, what can I do?”

“Please promise me you’ll keep your eyes and ears open. I won’t ask you to betray yourself or those you love, but I can ask you to protect the weak. Be a force the people can trust.” He squeezed her hand gently. Her eyes were red and she looked as though she was holding back a river of tears.

“I will. But only if you promise me something.”

He nodded.

“Anything.”

“Stay alive.”

“I will.”

Easier said than done.

CHAPTER 17

“We will not stand idly by!” Cable’s voice resonated through the crowd. He stood tall and poised—his characteristic somber demeanor present even amidst the chaos. His chin length brown hair was styled neatly to rest behind his ears and his beard was trimmed but not enough to lose his rugged exterior. He wore a black leather jacket and dark pants over worn- out black boots.

“They say we have freedom here. Liberty. But what good are rights if you can’t afford to exercise them?”

The crowd roared in agreement. 

“Who here served in the Northern war?” He continued. A segment of the older crowd proudly pumped their fists into the air. “And who here has a father or brother or uncle who did?” Again, people thrust their arms toward the sky. “And who has served in His Grace’s great army since then in any form?” Another cluster of arms flung to the sky with an accompanying roar.

“And of you all, who received a coin of veteran’s benefits?” As if on cue, the crowd fell dead silent. Cable nodded.

“That’s what I thought. You might say to me ‘Cable, it’s been nearly two decades since the Northern war ended. Can’t we let that go?’ I would love to. But it’s hard to forget a wound that still bleeds. And here we are again, being called upon to rally to his war cry in the East when we can barely support our families, can barely pay our rents, our medical bills.”

The supporters hooted and hollered at his words. Rogan watched the crowd intently, Donal by his side. Some people huddled in the back of the crowd, juggling emotions that ranged from passionate to terrified. He didn’t blame them. It
was
terrifying. So far, Pantone and Ballantyne were playing nice in the school yard, but only because they didn’t give their cause any merit. All they really knew was that Cable Hall was an ex-soldier turned fisherman moonlighting as a harmless, outspoken, peace seeker. Deep down, that’s probably all he wanted to be. But he had risen to the Cause when no one else would or could. Growing up, Rogan had always admired him. He was seven years older and had been to hell and back under the King’s banner. While the rest of Valley squirmed with unrest and resentment in the aftermath of the Northern War, Cable had stayed a loyal believer. At age seventeen, he faithfully enlisted in His Majesty’s service and followed his battalion into the depths of the demon’s lair as they battled evil forces rising up in the eastern Empire of Suell. After three years of service rousting out treachery for his king and country, Cable was captured by Suelli forces. For a year he rotted in a hole, surviving on yellowed water and scraps of rat meat lowered to him in a bucket. His only daylight came during his interrogations, during which he was whipped, burned and broken, and left to roast under the blistering desert sun. He finally returned to Arelanda after his captain led a rescue mission into the deep and pulled him out. By then he was a shadow of a man—starved, mutilated and delusional. But they brought him home anyway; their hero of war. He received a medal of honor, a firm handshake and a bus ticket home. He spent the next year in fits of fever from infected wounds and malnutrition, followed by delusions and deep depression. Like all the others, there was no aid from the state and he survived on the generosity of neighbors alone. He recovered into something stronger than he was when he went into that hole, but not without deep scars on the inside and out. Rogan wanted to believe that his strength would be enough to lead them through this alive, but it could all change in a heartbeat. All it was going to take was one poisoned word from Cable, one swing at the wrong person, and they’d all be done for.

Rogan noted the way Iris gazed dreamily at Cable from where she stood by the podium. Dressed in black pants that fit like a second skin tucked into knee-high black boots and a snug, pale blue button-up shirt, she looked mature and poised among her fellow rebels, but her smitten eyes gave away that she was still a  young girl infatuated by a man with power. He knew it was good that she had moved on but he worried about her getting involved with Cable. It was a dangerous road and she was so young—and Cable was a deeply damaged soul.

“…And to add salt to our wounds,”

Rogan turned his attention back to Cable as he rallied.

“They ask us to march into battle, while asking
us
to fund it through increased wine tax! We should pay with our meager livelihood as well as our lives? Will we starve for his vanity?”

“Never!” Someone in the crowd shouted.

“We won’t!” A woman squealed.

“End this!”

The bellows and shouts continued until it was a clamor of blurred noise. Cable absorbed his concerto proudly.

A ripping echo of gunshots silenced the crowd. Rogan stiffened with sudden fear as the scenes around him began moving in slowed motion. A group of city rangers, with rifles and protective masks marched into the center of the crowd, stopping in front of the podium. Cable considered them, then offered a polite nod.

“Can I help you?” Cable asked, nice and calm.

“This convention is to cease and desist at once,” the authoritative ranger in the front spoke up.

“By what order? This is a legal gathering,” Cable protested.

“By order of the law, what else?”

“We are doing nothing wrong here. This is a convention to share ideas— ”

“This is a gathering to share fodder for treason,” the ranger interrupted. “I will say it once more. Disband your people now before there are consequences.”

Cable didn’t respond, simply stared the ranger in the eyes. There was a long stretch of uncomfortable silence. Then, a voice shouted from the crowd:

“Fuck you, ranger scum!”

The rangers rotated in the direction of the voice and raised their rifles.

“Lower your weapons!” Cable shouted immediately. “This is a peaceful gathering.”

The lead ranger turned back to him.

“If you’d like to keep it so, then desist immediately. I won’t repeat myself. This is a direct order from Captain Demos himself.”

Cable turned his attention back to the crowd.

“How nice of Captain Demos to take an interest in us. Although it would seem he would now take away our right to opinion as well.”

The crowd roared in protest; the rangers shifted anxiously.

A low whistling broke through the noise. Before it could be identified, a small bottle bomb shot through the crowd. It landed at the foot of the rangers, knocking two of them to the ground. Instantly, the rest had their rifles at their shoulders, aimed and ready to open fire. It all unfolded like a crude flip book. Cable’s eyes widened as he registered the affront. The assailant asserted himself proudly in the crowd—a boy of maybe thirteen. The front ranger’s aim found him and his gloved finger closed in on the trigger.

“No!” Cable shouted.

Gunfire broke through the crowd and the boy crumpled in the dust.  Screams rang out—each decibel isolated in a slow-moving series. Rogan snapped back to consciousness. In an instant, people were running, screaming and stumbling as rangers descended on the crowd, shooting and swinging their clubs at random. The butt of a rifle buried itself into a boy’s gut as he tried to push through. A shrill scream punctured the air. Rogan jerked his head to see a ranger grabbing a girl by her blonde hair and forcing her to the ground.
This is not how it’s supposed to be
.

“Sants,” Donal said under his breath, trying to comprehend the scene. Then, he too snapped into realization. “Iris. Where is Iris?” He scanned the crowd frantically.

Rogan glanced to wear Iris had been standing moments before.

“I just saw her by the podium,” he said. For the first time in his life, Rogan saw genuine fear creep into Donal’s eyes. “We’ll find her,” Rogan assured, scanning the crowd. Donal showed no sign of comprehending. Rogan grabbed his shoulders forcefully. “We
will
find her. Keep your wits, Donal.”

Donal turned to him, his expression hollow.             

“Yes, I saw her hanging in the wings I think. She’s been tailing Cable all morning.”

Rogan nodded.              

“Most likely she took cover the moment the first shot was fired. Cable wouldn’t let any harm come to her. You go back toward the plaza. I’ll search the crowd.”             

Rogan ran into the thick of the riot, dodging fists and stray bullets. The resistance supporters were not taking the affront lying down. It was a full-fledged battlefield—knives flailing and homemade bottle bombs tearing up the rangers’ faces as they fired into the crowd. Rogan pushed his way through the mob.

“Iris!” He couldn’t find Cable, Alec or Benton either. He scrambled over toppled crates and frenzied people as he made his way into the melee. A fiery sting rippled through his arm; a shard of green glass, likely from a bottle bomb, hung from his right bicep. He plucked it out and kept moving, his adrenaline racing too fast to register pain. He finally spotted Iris crouched to the side of the platform. He bolted toward her, flinging his arms around her shaking frame.

“Iris! Are you hurt?” She shook her head slowly, an unfocused, baffled expression on her pallid face.

“No,” she said finally looking him in the eye. “I don’t think so.”

Rogan moved her head back and forth to examine her. When he pulled his hands from her abdomen, they were dripping red.

“Iris, you’re bleeding. Were you shot?”

She stared down at the blood in confusion, as though she couldn’t feel the  bullet lodged in her gut. Rogan grasped her chin and stared into her big brown eyes. “Iris, look at me. Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

She stared at him blankly, but finally shook her head.

“I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

“You’re in shock. C’mon. We have to get somewhere safe. Can you walk?” She nodded. Carefully, he slid his arms under her shoulders and hoisted her up. “Good. We have to move. Where did Cable go, did you see?”

“I don’t know. The moment that boy was shot he shoved me down here and told me not to move. He ran off into the crowd. I never saw him again. I…I don’t even know when this happened.” She clutched her bloody side. 

“What about Alec? Mikkel? Or Ben?”

Iris shook her head.

“No, they all just disappeared.”

“Okay, don’t worry. We’ll find everyone. Likely they’re all just hiding out. C’mon, let’s keep to the back. We can sneak behind those buildings.”

Crouching down, arm-in-arm, they crawled to the back of the crowd and made their way toward a line of industrial sheds. Iris never made a sound that hinted at pain. A shrill scream erupted from the crowd, followed by a series of rapid shots. They both dropped to the ground, but the spectacle was all around them.

“Run!” he commanded, pulling Iris along. Leaping over garbage, haphazard debris and the occasional body, they made it through the cocktail of flying glass and bullets to the back door of an old shipping shed. Rogan pushed Iris inside and slammed the door. He wedged a metal bar into the latch to secure it, then slumped down against the dank wall, sighing with relief.

After a few moments of catching their breath in silence, Rogan turned to her. Her face was pale and damp and she was clutching her side, pressing back the blood, now gushing profusely from the wound. He shot up at once and moved toward her.

“Move your hand, let me see.”

Straining for breath, she moved her hand, wincing, and revealed a round gash in her right side. He examined it and was relieved to find that the wound was, although painful and bloody, mostly superficial.

“The good news is the bullet just grazed your abdomen and exited. But we still need to stop the bleeding.”

She nodded and sat up. She started to unbutton her shirt.

“Here, tear this up to make a bandage.” Rogan hesitated. “Oh c’mon, it’s no time to be shy. I have an under-tank on.” She handed him the shirt and he proceeded to tear strips of blue fabric with his knife, trying not to notice the way her full breasts tested the thin fabric of her bloody camisole. He retrieved a small flask of whiskey from his pocket and soaked one of the fabric strips.

“Bite down on something,” he warned. She rolled up a ball of fabric from her ripped shirt and wedged it between her teeth. Iris nodded and he pressed the alcohol to the wound. She winced through the pain but kept quiet. Once the bullet hole was clean, he pressed a patch of cloth to the hole and wrapped the fabric strips around her as tightly as he could. She was shaking and sweating profusely but powered through it like a soldier. She reached out and swiped the flask from Rogan and took a long sip, then fell back against a crate and sighed.

They sat in the shed for nearly an hour until the shouts and gunfire had quieted to a low hum and finally silence.

“What were you doing here, Iris?” Rogan asked peering out a crack in the wall to examine the scene.

“What? Don’t go getting all macho on me now, Elwood. I’m entitled to attend a protest just like everyone else. And need I remind you I’m knee deep in this shit, along with the rest of you.” Even shot, her stubbornness couldn’t be stifled.

“I suppose that’s true. You scared Donal to near death out there. He’s probably still hysterical looking for you.”

“Oh, the old man will be fine. When you didn’t come back I’m sure he figured you’d come to my desperate rescue,” she said with a little dramatic flair.