Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (34 page)

“Who was he?” Norman said. He blinked, surprised that he’d spoken. He’d been caught in Charlie’s words. His breathing had grown shallow.

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “I didn’t see his face. He wore a cloth over his head the whole time, like a mask.”

Norman felt a chill run up his spine as the man with the neckerchief appeared in his mind’s eye. He could feel Alexander and Lucian’s eyes move over him, but tried to ignore them.

“They took my dad,” Charlie was saying. “They didn’t want me, said I was too weak, or wasn’t motivated…or something. I don’t remember. But they took Dad. While he was away with them I was kept with the others.”

“Others?”

“Women and children, mostly. They kept us under guard and made sure that we didn’t leave.”

“Where?”

“A building, not far from here.”

“
Where?
”

“Never saw it before then. I think it had been a tower block once, but the top half had fallen away.”

Heather turned to him with a pan of water, a dripping sponge in hand. “Why would they guard you?” she said, dabbing at his face, smearing blood across his chin.

“Insurance. To make sure nobody who went with them ran away.” He swallowed. “They were making people do some pretty bad things. Sick things.”

They exchanged looks.

“Who are they, really?” Norman said.

Charlie shrugged. “It’s like I said: They just found us and took my dad for some mission.”

“Mission?”

“That’s what they called it.”

“What kind of mission?”

“They wouldn’t tell me, but they’ve got it in for you. Everything that they said was about you.” Charlie looked around. “What did you do to them?”

“Nothing,” Lucian said. “We did nothing.” Then, almost too abruptly, “How many of them are there?”

Heather finished wiping away the blood and set the bowl aside, observing Charlie’s face critically. After a few moments of poking and prodding, she disappeared from the room.

“From what I saw, two dozen or so.”

“From what you saw?”

Charlie nodded darkly. “I don’t think they were on their own.”

Heather returned to the bedside holding a small black box in her hands. She thumbed the lid open and took out a long silver needle. “You’ll need stitches,” she said.

Charlie looked revolted. “You’re going to knit my face closed?”

Heather paused, her brow set. “If you’d prefer, I could just leave it to rot from infection.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’m a doctor.” Her lip had curled. “But don’t tempt me.”

“Charlie, focus,” Alex said. “How do you know that there are more?”

“It was the way they talked. That man—the one with the mask—spoke with too much…what’s the word? Conviction?”

He grimaced, his face bunching up as Heather applied the needle to his face. He gave a stifled whine of discomfort as the needle punctured his cheek.

“What happened to your father?” Norman said.

Charlie took longer to answer than before, growing pale. He spoke stiffly, keeping his cheeks and jaw still as Heather worked, moving only his lips. “I don’t know. That’s why I was here. I convinced them to let me on one of their missions. I was hoping that maybe I’d run into him.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t know where he was! He hadn’t shown up for three days.”

Norman stiffened. “And you came into the city through the sewers?”

Charlie nodded.

“To attack me? You were with Jason?”

There was a pause.

“They didn’t tell me that they were going to hurt you,” Charlie muttered, his eyes downcast. “They were just talking about sending a message.”

“But like you said: They’ve made people do some pretty bad things,” said Lucian. “So you knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.”

Charlie said nothing.

Norman felt a surge of nausea at the thought of Jason. Yet, behind the churning in his gut, that prickling sensation was still pulling at his attention. The way in which Charlie angled his head, and the manner of his speech, were somehow familiar.

“If all you wanted was to find your father, then why did I find you crawling in our sewers two days later?” Lucian asked, leaning close to his face.

Charlie cowered, clutching the sheets, apparently having forgotten about the needle imbedded in his face. “I fell,” he squeaked, his eyes pleading.

Norman released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. The longer he watched Lucian, the more certain he became of an impending breaking point. The bloodlust in his eyes was unmistakable, but at the last moment Lucian seemed to regain control and straightened back into a standing position, folding his arms once more. “You fell?”

Charlie nodded, grunting as Heather cut into his cheek once more. “I was supposed to guard the manhole: our escape route. I was at the top of the ladder, and I heard somebody shouting from the other side of the street.”

Norman looked to Allie, who nodded.

“Just after I found you,” she said.

Charlie waved his hands in embarrassment. “I panicked, and it was raining. The ladder was wet. I fell down the chute, landed on top of my leg.”

Lucian cleared his throat. “And what did they do when they found you?” he said.

Charlie lowered his head, his eyes growing red and his voice weak. “They left me. I begged them. I begged. But that man,” he said, looking up at Norman, “the one with the mask. He took one look at me and led the others away.” He swallowed, lowered himself onto his pillow, and closed his eyes.

Heather pulled the thread taut, closing the wound on his cheek. Crafting a neat knot, she cut the line deftly.

Alexander stood amidst fresh silence, his eyes glazed. “I believe you,” he said. “We’ll fix your leg. Then you can decide where you want to go.”

Charlie barely responded, his face red as a plum and swelling.

Alexander turned to the others. “Does anybody else have anything to say?”

Silence stretched out as they looked around at each other.

Heather excused herself. “I’ll check on you in an hour or so,” she said over her shoulder.

Charlie nodded glumly.

“You too, Norman,” she called as she left the room.

Norman barely heard her. The odd sensation that had been tugging at his bowels had finally sharpened into focus. It took him by such surprise that he swore aloud.

Charlie bore a striking resemblance to one of the men they’d hunted down after Ray’s murder: the emaciated man who had been so unwilling to fire on them, whom Lucian had shot dead, whose body they had left to decay in the forest, unmarked.

They had killed Charlie’s father. Not a misguided fool who’d taken the wrong men for company, but a hostage. An innocent man.

Norman straightened gingerly, and fresh pain tore across his chest. His legs throbbed. He let the hoe in his hands fall to the ground and sucked a deep breath, turning away from the half-dug furrow at his feet.

The film of putrescent slush in the fields had finally been cleared away. Their pace had slackened of late, but at Alexander’s return, people had been all too ready to burst into action. With startling vigour, people had leapt to work, filled with new life.

Norman stood a small distance apart from the main body of activity, working in small bursts whenever he could manage it. Heather had repeatedly insisted that he stay in the clinic, but merely being near Charlie had been enough to unsettle his stomach.

The sun was half-obscured by the distant forest, but it was still sweltering out in the open. Any stray breeze was lacklustre, claggy.

The others on shift didn’t seem bothered. Their bodies arched amidst shortening shadows, turning the soil with shovels or tearing at remaining weed stalks with blunted scythes, fervent, possessed by common will.

A guard patrolled fifty yards away, an automatic rifle slung over his back. Farther away, another figure paced amidst the spreading furrows. Though he saw no others, Norman sensed that a great many more surrounded him.

He couldn’t get used to all the guns being thrown around. They’d kept the armoury locked up tight for years, guarded at all times. Now, it seemed that every second person brandished a rifle.

He bent over with a grunt and struck at the ground. He looked at the pitiful track that he’d dug in the ground and sighed. He wiped away the band of sweat on his brow after a further minute, cursing under his breath. His arms felt like blocks of lead. His chest was on fire.

“You should go back,” Robert said, brushing past. His huge arms were making light work of the weed-ridden ground, carving vast furrows with each stroke. Sweat glistened on his dark skin, accentuating his bulging biceps.

Norman felt a pang of jealousy at the sight of his powerful movements, wishing that he could just take a breath without feeling as though he were at death’s door. “I’m fine,” he said.

Robert straightened, towering over him. “You look like the Reaper,” he said. “It could take you a while to get back to being yourself, so don’t push it.”

“I’m fine,” Norman repeated, stabbing ineffectively at the ground. “How’s Sarah?”

Robert nodded. His clipped hair sprayed droplets of sweat onto the newly exposed earth. “She’s good.” He wiped his top lip with a free hand, not quite hiding a frown.

Norman waited for him to elaborate, allowing a courteous silence to stretch out.

“I mean, she’s not doing too well with the siege,” Robert blurted, his eyes slanting as he turned away. “She’s a trooper, though.”

“You’re getting along well?”

“Sure. She usually spends her time with her books in the warehouse, but she stays at home with me now.” He paused for a moment, looking skywards. “It’s nice,” he said. “A nice change. So long as I’ve got her, all this is just a bump on the road.”

Norman tried to smile, to congratulate, but in the next moment he found himself doubled over, gagging and spitting in the dirt.

“Go back,” Robert said firmly, hacking away. “I think I can cover your load.” He cast a wry grin at the thin tract at Norman’s feet.

Norman sighed, trying to hold onto his lunch. “Alright,” he gasped. “You win.” He dragged the hoe in his wake, retreating to the city. “I can hear my brain frying.”

Robert called after him, “Rest up. Just make sure you’re ready by nightfall.”

“You just have to give it time,” said Heather, prodding Norman’s bare chest.

“You’re sure?” He tried to keep the pain from showing on his face. “I’ve been walking around nonstop and it’s exactly the same.”

Heather snapped off her gloves. “It’s not going to heal in a day, and definitely not in a few hours. I told you: broken ribs take weeks, sometimes months. And I can’t be sure that you don’t have other injuries. Especially your head. You need to watch it, and make sure you tell me if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

She swung the overhead lamp out of the way and stood, heading towards her desk on the other side of the room. She rifled through the various detritus upon it, returning a short time later with a small plastic bag containing shrunken bark.

“White willow?”

She nodded. “Painkiller. It’s all we’ve got. Don’t overdo it. It can cause gastric problems if you take too much, but you’re not going to be much use to anybody like this.” She handed him the bag. “Chew it up, one piece at a time, every six hours or so. Too much and it’ll kill you.”

“Comforting.” He took the bag and peered at its desiccated contents. It didn’t look inviting, more like dried mouse droppings. He didn’t relish the thought of putting the stringy, dried pulp anywhere near his mouth, but thanked her nonetheless.

She gave a loose salute. “I have to get back to work,” she said. “I have to have the caskets ready before…” She left with a sigh.

Only a moment of silence endured before a voice rang out from the gloom.

“I’m a dead man,” Charlie said. He was sitting up in his bunk, his cheek knitted closed by Heather’s stitches, and his injured leg stuck out at an odd angle. His face was catatonic, unblinking.

Norman pulled a string of dried willow into the light, grimacing. “You don’t look dead to me,” he said.

The lights flickered overhead, momentarily casting Charlie’s face in dull shadow. He looked to Norman. “I’m going to die, and you’re making jokes?” he said, his voice quivering.