A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (19 page)

Twenty Six

The early morning wind whipped through Progress Square, stirring nearly a thousand citizens.

Men, women and children woke bleary eyed to a new world. Bodies ached from sleeping rough on the ground. Stomachs rumbled. Food bars were handed around. Muted conversation began. Another Chancellor had been murdered. The members of the House of Leadership had been slaughtered. The world had been turned upside down, shaken and put back askew. First Minister Mason’s stumbling and nervous address last night had instilled little confidence. SOT members were more vocal than ever, demanding an election, demanding the right to choose who ruled. Nervous faces wondered where this was all going to end. The marketplaces had been wrecked and burned. There was nowhere left to trade. The plants and factories and warehouses were silent. There was nowhere left to work. Shame fell upon many. This wasn’t what they had wanted. Fury had gripped them, had needed to be unleashed.

As the sun penetrated the grey clouds, fresh fires were lit and soldiers joined to warm themselves. Talk grew louder, more animated, and there were even moments of sporadic laughter. A convoy of three wheeled bicycles sailed by, another delivery for Hamble Towers, some things never change, and the children waved at the riders, who wore standard blue caps with dark red overalls and black boots. Litter blew across the dirt road as the convoy continued to thread its way past apartment buildings with broken windows. The cyclists had red faces from the sharp morning air. The lead rider continued to pedal hard and the others followed.

“No,” said Mason. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand why you want to help two cold blooded killers.”

“Because they did what we only ever dreamed of doing, Mason. They tore it all down and now you have to start again.”

He stared at her, stunned by the outburst.

“I can make you the most loved Chancellor in our city’s history,” she said.

“How can you say that? I might not be Chancellor. If we follow the SOT and give the citizens an election they might not choose me.”

“Let them have an election,” she said. “Insist on it. But I can still promise you a victory, no matter who stands against you.”

Mason was silent for a moment.

“How?”

The cap was pulled down over his shaven head. His face was blank, his eyes betrayed nothing. The overalls covered his bruises and scars. Wind rustled the boxes strapped to the back of his three wheeled bicycle. He was the sixth in a convoy of ten. He observed Hamble Towers for the first time in his life with little interest. It was only bricks, windows and doors. There was no life. There was no breath. He knew only the wasteland, the burnt soil, the bandits and the quick draw of his revolver. This world meant nothing to him. He would continue to tear it down.

Ahead, a curved bridge spanned a narrow waterway. There was a checkpoint with a lowered barrier at each end. The convoy slowed and the lead rider handed across paperwork. The riders took a moment to arch their backs and blow air from their lungs as the soldier on duty yawned and studied it. He looked along the convoy, counted ten riders, handed back the paperwork, and then waved them through as the barrier was raised. One by one, they cycled over the bridge, the water beneath grey and unsettled. The guard at the second checkpoint had already lifted his barrier and motioned them through without making any further checks.

“That’s a lie,” said Mason. “You’re trying to trick me.”

He reached for the bottle, looked for a glass. Unable to spot one, he wiped the palm of his hand across it before swallowing a mouthful. He grimaced, revolted by the taste, and shook his head as the foul liquid burned down his throat.

“That’s my offer,” said Nuria. “Ex-Chancellor Facundo, convicted of hundreds of crimes, for the lives of the two assassins.”

“The people will be in outrage,” he said, gesturing furiously.

“The people will not care,” she said. “You need to wake up, Mason. Give the people the most wretched criminal this city has ever known. Worse than any desert raider that has knocked at our gates. Worse than the killers you want to hang.”

“And he’s here?”

“He never left.”

“Where is he?”

Across the bridge was a squat white walled building with a flat roof. A watch tower had been constructed in the centre and was ringed with sandbags. Coils of razor wire covered the front and sides of the roof. A neat footpath led to double doors but the lead rider turned left onto a path of packed dirt that ran along the front of the building. The path took a sharp right turn and the stream of bicycles reached a broad iron door set in the wall of another building. This was easily three or four times the size of the first building. There was a door to the right with a bank of glass windows. The lead rider dismounted and went through it. Two armed men stood on duty and a woman was hunched at a desk, wearing a knitted jumper. She looked up and smiled at him as he handed over his paperwork. She fiddled absentmindedly with her hair as she studied it. The lead rider made a comment and they both shared a joke. The two armed men remained stony faced. Happy with the paperwork, she filed the document and kept her eyes on the lead rider as he went back to his tricycle. There was a dull buzzing sound and the iron door began to slide open.

“
I need a guarantee first,” she said. “All three of us; clothes, weapons, provisions.”

“Go on,” said Mason.

“You also need to release them tonight.”

“Why don’t I march over to Hamble Towers right now?” he said, attempting to call her bluff. “Take Captain Andozini and a detail of men and flush him out?”

“The unit who guard Hamble are elite security. They were all recruited by Gozan when he held the rank of General.”

“Loyal to Facundo?” said Mason. “What kind of a man was Gozan? I am so … frustrated by all this. Bodies everywhere and now I have to let the killers go?”

“If you present Facundo to the people,” said Nuria. “They will follow you. No matter what the SOT want.”

“So your true colours are shinning through. You don’t really care about the SOT, do you? You just want to run.”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “I want you to listen to them, and bring them into the House of Leadership … but someone has to lead, Mason.”

Stone pedalled into a huge warehouse. Despite the early hour it was a hive of activity. Nuria had told him that once in here he would be able to slip away and he realised it would be fairly straightforward with this many people around. He saw towering racks of wooden shelves lined with pallets of boxes. Men and women in matching caps, overalls and boots worked at tables, unsealing boxes and transferring the contents into smaller, more decorative containers. Each one was marked with a series of numbers. Stone saw they were periodically referring back to clipboards bristling with notes as they unpacked and repacked the items that had been produced in the plants and factories.

The convoy turned left into an area reserved for transportation and he followed, easing himself from the saddle.

“Can you believe it?” complained Grant, his front tyre flat. “The rubbish they send you out on. I mean, how can you reach your targets? I’m going to be stuck here again.”

No one seemed particularly interested; concern was focused on hurriedly removing the straps on their baskets.

“Go find a mechanic,” suggested one of them, finally. “You must know them all by name.”

The comment bought a few chuckles. Shaking his head, Grant stamped away to look for a bike mechanic. A couple of riders rolled their eyes. They began carrying the boxes into the central sorting and repacking area. Stone lifted his first box and mingled with the other delivery cyclists. A young man accepted the box from him and opened it. Stone glimpsed an assortment of brightly coloured clothing, neatly folded. He returned to fetch the second and third box. There was the buzz of conversation all around. A number of stewards were overseeing the work, seemingly happy with the speed and efficiency. One glanced at Stone’s bruised face but made no comment. He had seen a few bruised heads already this morning after last night’s trouble. He was simply glad to have a full workforce, unlike at the Worker Zone.

As Stone reached into the basket for his final box, he hesitated and took a look from the corner of his eye. He waited a few seconds, taking in the positions of the stewards. He walked more slowly this time and, at the right moment, veered away from the main area of the warehouse and disappeared into the aisles of palletised boxes. He immediately quickened his pace. Kept in a straight line. Eyes forward. The racking reached to the ceiling. Several men went by him wheeling boxes on trolleys. They nodded a greeting but Stone ignored them. Unfazed, they continued on their way. He stopped at a gap in the pallets but then a man confronted him.

“Hey, have you seen … oh, it’s you,” said Grant. “Can you believe I’m still trying to find a mechanic. I could spend half a morning in here looking for one. Did you hear me back there? I got a flat. That drives me mad. They never check the tyres properly at the factory. I mean, they give you targets but …”

Tomas flashed before his eyes, the Cleric standing over him, grinning and laughing with a bloody knife in his hand.

“Are you okay? I mean, you look a bit roughed up. Were you out smashing everything up last night? You know, I’ve never seen you before. I know all the riders. Maybe I should go and get …”

Grant’s words tailed away. He had seen the coldness in Stone’s eyes, devoid of any emotion, his face a mask of nothing. He wanted to walk away very quickly and fetch a steward or security or both because something was very wrong with this man and now, as he studied him further, he was certain that he had never seen him before on any of the replenishment runs to the Towers. He opened his mouth to say something but Stone lunged at him, fast, dropping the box he was carrying, and effortlessly snapped Grant’s neck without hesitation. He caught the man’s body and dragged it into the gap he had spotted moments before. He folded the body over and then drew boxes from a nearby pallet to conceal it. He picked up the box he had been carrying and walked briskly forward.

The racking on the left ended abruptly at several doors. He heard one of them unlock and saw a man emerge from what he guessed was a washroom. The man nodded a greeting and this time Stone nodded back. Carrying the box in front of him, Stone pushed through the door and slid across the lock.

“Here,” she said, offering him clean boots, a pair of overalls and a blue cap through the cell gate. “Get dressed.”

Back against the cell wall, his cold eyes glared at her.

“Stone, you have to get dressed. Stone. Stone.”

It was the first time she had spoken his name.

“Quickly,” she told him.

He had dressed slowly. His body ached. He had no interest in what she wanted from him. Mason had sent her with written orders that the prisoners were to be moved under her command. The jailer had refused the written notification and sent a runner to locate the First Minister. She had waited for him to return, irritated and edgy. Even then the Jailer had been wary at freeing both prisoners. Nuria had assured him that Mason had provided an escort. Restrained, Stone and Emil were led past the cells, up through the lobby, out of the barracks and taken to a nearby apartment.

“What do you want?” said Emil, her arms folded. Behind her, Stone was silent, dressed in his uniform.

“You both hang in the morning. I’ve made a deal so that you can leave the city instead, as exiles. I’ll be exiled as well. We all have to leave together.”

“What deal?” said Stone.

Mason walked amongst his people in Progress Square. Last night they had protested and rioted. This morning, tired, they wanted to talk and they wanted to be heard. He had been overcome with nerves last night, processing everything he had learned from Nuria, agreeing to her deal, but this morning, after a few hours sleep, he felt renewed. It felt a new beginning for Chett. He had to make this work. The mercenaries who attacked the House of Leadership would hunt down Facundo and he would stand trial, again, winning Mason his victory. He had no intention of honouring any bargain. The killers would be executed and Nuria would be expelled from the military and give the choice of exile or becoming his life partner. His desire for her had grown stronger now that the shadow of Chancellor Gozan had evaporated. Today would be a memorable day, a day of many victories.

Nuria had directed him towards the main speakers within the SOT, men who would want to have his ear and offer ideas of how life here should proceed. As he continued to show a fresh and radical side to a House of Leadership Minister, Nuria waited in the small apartment several miles away. Standing by the window, she watched Hamble Towers.

“He must be inside now,” she said.

Emil sat in a large chair, knees drawn up to her chest. Her face looked tired. She couldn’t stop thinking of Tomas.

Only once did she glance at Nuria, wanting to say something, but unable to construct the words, to knit them together, her thoughts a tangled mess, her head ready to explode. She wanted to shout and scream. Nothing in her life was fair. Nothing. Everything was horrible. Everything was pain. She understood Stone more than ever now. This was why he said nothing. How could you even begin to express how wretched you felt inside? Tomas was dead. Her family was dead. Her village was dead.

“Bring him out of there alive. That’s the deal.”