A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (5 page)

“Do you know where we are?” she asked. “Stone? Stone? Do you know where we are?”

“Yes,” he grunted, reluctantly showing her the map, so she could see its lines and words.

“Where did you get that from?” she gasped; the only maps she had ever seen had been formed in the dirt with a wooden stick.

“The Map Maker,” said Tomas. “It’s one of his.”

Stone unfolded another section and smoothed out the creased edges.

“He came to our village once. When I was young. My father was afraid of him. He said he was a sinister man.”

“The city,” said Stone, pointing. “No place we'll return to.”

“What’s this part?” she asked, tapping the blank parts of the map.

“More of Gallen,” said Tomas, easing the jeep around a tight bend and over a low hill. “Places the Map Maker never got to. That’s where we’re heading, Emil, north, away from Chett.”

“They don’t like my kind in Chett.”

“That’s why we’re not going there,” said Tomas.

A light smile touched her lips.

“Thank you.”

He glanced at her, and she saw a smile on his face.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

She turned to Stone.

“Why did the Map Maker give you his maps?”

“He didn’t,” said Stone. “I took them.”

Seven

Chancellor Jorann leaned towards his microphone.

“We have beaten hunger,” he said. “No one in our city goes without.”

He paused for a moment before continuing. It was a bright morning with only a gentle breeze and his voice carried easily.

“We have heard the stories of livestock and fertile lands but they are not here, not here in this corner of Gallen, and not here in our city. For hundreds of years our processing plants and our men of intelligence have made sure that no one feels the pangs of hunger.”

Jorann placed his words carefully. He was an experienced public speaker, knowing exactly when and what emotion to induce from his people. He knew how to control them, turn them frenzied or rein them slowly in. He had learned much from his father on making speeches and had honed his skill through years of office and rule. He addressed them from a raised platform in Progress Square, a broad paved area with dirt roads leading in from all directions and apartments buildings all around. Hundreds of faces lined the windows and thousands more gathered before him. A physical barrier of Red Guard soldiers stood between him and his citizens. His men wore full body armour and carried shields and batons. They would not be needed today; the crowd were compliant and responded with nods and low murmurs of approval.

“We have homes,” he said, lifting his eyes from his speech cards. “All of us have a bed that is our own. Some of you are fortunate to have a life partner
.
Some of you are unfortunate enough to have children.”

Laughter rippled through pockets of the crowd and he smiled warmly at them. Shoulder to shoulder, they obediently waited.

“No one is left behind. No one is useless,” said Jorann, beginning to wag his finger from time to time. “You all have a part to play. You are all a vital ingredient in what makes our ordered society work.” He nodded firmly. “Our workers, our merchants. Our stewards, our managers. Our ministers, our military. You all make our city a place of peace, a place of calm, and a place of safety.” He discarded his speech cards, a rehearsed and dramatic gesture. “And you are safe. Every single one of you. Let me assure you. You are safe. You are safe on the streets and you are safe in your homes. We have made Chett a safe place for you to live.” Cries of approval grew louder. “You are safe from the scum beyond our walls. The scavengers, the bandits.” Citizens punched the air in agreement. “Safe from the drifters, the savages.” He had stirred them effortlessly. “Safe from the deformed, the disfigured. Safe from those who would take what you have, what you have worked for and would kill you for it without a care or thought.” Beads of sweat popped onto Jorann’s brow. “We have kept you safe.”

And with that, the crowd roared, a sea of smiling, joyful, relieved faces. A few SOT sympathisers began to heckle but a knot of soldiers moved in, rapidly, and scooped them up, with the crowd hardly aware. It had been three weeks since the last assembly, a dour meeting of information only where the Citizen Parcel had been increased by one eighth instead of one sixth, due to a lack of raw materials from recent Supply Expeditions, and others matters concerning recycled water. Yet, when the bells rang out this morning, formally announcing today’s assembly, it had been a sweet sound for the citizens; rousing words and an unexpected break from the routine of work. In the plants and factories the machinery was still and even the floor stewards were here, absorbing every word. The dirt roads leading into Progress Square were thronged with hundreds more men, women and children, eager to get closer.

“Your fathers kept this city safe. Their fathers kept this city safe. And we will continue to keep this city safe.”

The crowd roared again, but Jorann took off his eye glasses and motioned with his hands for calm and silence.

“However, a bad seed continues to grow. A bad seed that needs to be eliminated once and for all. That needs to be trodden into the dirt and ground into dust. The SOT. Yes, the Seekers of truth. What truth? We offer everyone the truth. There are no lies here. Chett was built on truth! Built on hard work! Built on keeping all of you safe!”

First Minister and General of the Guard, Gozan, smiled and clapped loudly, delighted with the speech he had provided Jorann. He was seated at an angle to the stage, with the eleven other ministers from the House of Leadership, a curved line of Red Guard soldiers offering protection.

“The SOT believe they are above the law. They are not. They believe they can rewrite the law set down by our fathers and their fathers and the men and women who carved out a life here in this city. They cannot. They are very wrong.”

Gozan frowned. This was
not
part of the speech he had prepared. The Chancellor was drifting once again.

“The law I speak of, citizens,” said Jorann. “The law I speak of is, sometimes, a difficult law for us to understand or accept. It is the law that forbids the use of Pure Ones. That forbids us to go into the wastelands and hunt them down and bring them here.”

He shook free a handkerchief, mopped his face and allowed his words to be digested.

“We have all lost loved ones. We have all lost friends. To sickness, disease, violence, old age.”

The crowd became subdued, raucous applause now one of muted reflection.

“It is the greatest mystery of our society. How do we heal? How do we mend a broken body?”

A handful of men and women began to weep, only to be comforted by strangers close by.

“I lost my life partner to the sickness. I watched her die a terrible death. I watched our children die from the same wretched illness. You have all lost loved ones. You have all suffered. But we must be strong and we must resist the temptation to use these creatures. They have been banished into the wasteland to live with their own kind – the kind that want to take what you have and will kill you for it. Pure Ones will not keep you safe. We will keep you safe.”

Theo slapped the palms of his damp hands together as the crowd erupted with wild cheering.

“Chancellor Facundo,” began Jorann, and the mood turned ugly with hissing and booing. “Calm, please. Yes, they were dark days. Facundo repealed our ancient laws and allowed the use of Pure Ones. He fixed a bounty on their heads and we lost hundreds of citizens who went into the wasteland to hunt them down. Production suffered. And what happened once they lived amongst us? What happened? Anarchy. Violence. Blood. Betrayal.”

Theo began to edge closer to the stage, a little nudge here, a gentle push there, threading past men and women, enraptured with their leader.

“Greed,” said Jorann. “At first, Facundo healed everyone. No one was sick. No one died. Chett was a paradise. But then greed was spawned. A price had to be paid. And the price grew higher and higher and greater and greater. And ugly betrayal showed its face as citizens began to trade anything, including the lives of others, to be healed. This is why we have the law. This is why we have to survive without them. This is why you must not allow the SOT to bring these …”

The bang was deafening; a single shot, the gun jolting in his hand, the bullet spiralling towards the platform. Theo saw a man go down. He squeezed the trigger again. The sound roared in his ears. Soldiers swarmed onto the stage and the crowd screamed and backed away. Hundreds began to flee Progress Square but there was no way through, the side roads were heaving with people. A crush ensued and panic began to set in. There was shouting all around. Theo dropped the gun. It clattered loudly against the hard stone underfoot. He felt his energy drain as soldiers ran towards him. He raised his hands and placed them on his head but then a succession of shots rang out.

Nuria, leading the troop of men, lowered her weapon, smoke curling from the muzzle.

Theo’s eyes were open. A pool of blood spread beneath him. She knelt and collected his discarded pistol.

“The Chancellor,” she said. “Quickly.”

The crowds in the side roads had dispersed, horrified at the shootings. With the bottleneck uncorked, citizens were able to flee the square. The Major holstered her sidearm as First Minister Gozan emerged from the cordon of soldiers around the stage.

“The Chancellor is unharmed. His bodyguard, Osborn, is dead.”

“Throwing himself in front of a Chancellor,” remarked Nuria. “A brave man.”

“Not really,” said Gozan, looking down at the body on the ground. “The assassin had a poor aim.”

He crouched and searched the man’s pockets for his papers.

“That was impressive shooting, Major,” he said, not looking up. “You killed the man who attempted to assassinate the Chancellor.”

She rested her hand on the butt of her gun, her other hand balanced against her hip. Her long blonde hair was knotted down her back.

“Is there something you wish to say, Gozan?”

He got to his feet, studying Theo’s papers.

“That would be First Minister Gozan and General of the Red Guard Gozan. Please remember that, Major.”

Eyes met.

“I imagine it would be now quite impossible to investigate a Red Guard Major who has just saved the life of the Chancellor.”

“I’m not sure I understand you, First Minister,” she said, as the square rapidly emptied.

“I think the people have seen enough excitement for one day.”

“I agree,” said Nuria. “And I would recommend that the Chancellor is removed from the House of Leadership and placed into safety at Quinto.”

Gozan patted her arm.

“I would agree with that recommendation, Major.”

Eight

Quinto, considered the finest house in the city, despite what buildings and luxuries Hamble Towers offered.

With its clean white walls, ornately shaped rooftops, tall windows, arched doorways and courtyards of stained coloured stones, it was a masterpiece of architecture, a place of serene beauty, surrounded by an undulating spread of uninspiring structures. The property was ringed by high walls, now topped with spiked iron railings and coils of razor wire. A triple locked black gate covered the driveway. There were two front facing gun towers and a fully armed military detail. The house had been the original town hall of Chett but, as the population had grown and more ministers were required to manage the logistics of feeding, clothing, housing and educating thousands of citizens, the building had eventually become unsuitable.

The House of Leadership, a dour and functional building, had been chosen to host the city’s government.  It had a series of floors that featured many offices and bedchambers and washrooms and basements. It allowed the city officials to work and sleep in the same residence. There had been suggestions that Quinto be transformed into a library, the only one of its kind, but so few books existed in Chett and across Gallen that the idea was promptly abandoned. It was muted that a museum should be housed within, to chronicle stories of the past to future generations, but once again the idea was rejected as so little was truly known and no one really had the spirit or ambition to complete such a project.

Facundo, the most hated of recent Chancellors, had seized the property for his own and the house had become a place of luxury, a den of vice, where only the most important and powerful men of the city were to be entertained. Unwittingly, he had created the blueprint for Hamble Towers, the enclave of luxury apartments on the south side of the city. Hamble had been conceived to offer hope and a goal for the citizens to strive for in a world of burned lands and roads filled with death. Jorann had despised Facundo’s schemes and motives but he admitted to himself that the concept of Quinto was an inventive one. Yet he intended to elevate the plan for all rather than a select few and would, eventually, introduce the pass system. Once Facundo had been shifted from his position and exiled for his many crimes, Jorann had initially abandoned Quinto but, in recent years, he had ordered the property be renovated and used in times of crisis, though he had never foreseen once such as this.

As he passed through the gates, under heavy escort, he watched the sun dip low on the horizon.

Bolted and secured, he was rushed into the main lobby. Servants scattered through the property, lighting lamps, preparing rooms and locking window shutters. There was activity all around him and the attention was making Jorann feel uncomfortable. He was missing her deeply. She would not share his bedchamber here. He pushed her from his thoughts. He was still in shock that someone had tried to kill him. He believed, whether it naïve or not, that the people loved him, most of them, and if not adoration then, at the very least, respect.

“This is the work of the SOT,” he said, bitterly.

Outside, Major Nuria organised her men within the walls, reminding them of the drills they had gone through.

Standing in the open doorway of the building, First Minister Gozan watched her keenly in the dwindling evening light; her long flowing blonde hair, clean and perfectly straight, shaven at the sides of her skull, firmly clasped halfway down her back; her athletic figure, her unwavering authority as she calmly issued orders to the men and women beneath her, pointing at key areas of the wall and the gate and the grounds at the rear of the building.

“Major Nuria,” he called.

She crossed the driveway towards him.

“General Gozan, sir.”

“Is everything organised?”

“The Chancellor will be well protected here. A strong gate. High walls. Enough soldiers.”

“That is good,” he nodded, glancing back into the house, a bustle of noise and activity. “Walk with me for a moment.”

She fell into step alongside him as he began to walk along the side of the building, glancing up at the walls, noting the soldiers on duty.

“Can you feel the chill? The nights are changing. Do you notice how the sky darkens quicker at some points in our lives?”

“Yes,” she answered, hands clasped behind her back. She titled her head towards the twinkle of lights reflecting back at her. “What do you suppose the lights mean?”

“In the sky?” said Gozan. “I have no idea. Those questions are beyond me, I’m afraid.”

“And where do they hide during the day?” she said.

They reached the back of the building. All the rear window shutters were locked. Faint light glowed behind them.

“Some things are adept at hiding in plan view,” said Gozan.

“I thought the Chancellor’s speech was very stirring,” said Nuria. “Despite the outcome.”

“Indeed, he lays the blame for everything at the feet of the SOT and the people hate them.” He lowered his voice. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We have to accelerate everything. Time is against us.”

She reached for him, squeezed his arm.

“I won’t let you down, sir. I haven’t yet.”

“No,” said Gozan. “You haven’t. You’ve been perfect.”

Casual throwaway conversation drifted from the kitchen in the early hours of the morning as several men stopped for a snack and a cold drink. Laying down batons, peeling off helmets and loosening body armour, they sat around a heavy wooden table discussing the chaos of the day. There had not been such fervour in the city for a very long time, in truth. Even the rumblings from the SOT were nothing compared to today’s assassination attempt.

“Do you think the SOT was behind it?” asked one.

“Who else?” said another. “A lot of them were arrested. Gozan claimed we had wiped them all out.”

“Maybe we didn’t.”

“How can you know either way? They don’t walk around with a sign on their head.”

“But they’ve never tried to kill a Chancellor before. The worst crime they do is petty vandalism.”

“You sound like you’re sticking up for them. Are you one of them?”

Sudden laughter, the perfect tonic for a long shift as the hours dragged.

“That’s rubbish, but some of what they say makes sense to …”

“What was that?”

“What?”

“I thought I heard…”

The bullet hit him square in the forehead and he fell backwards towards the table. The other men began to reach for discarded weapons as two figures emerged from nowhere, black clothes, black masks, automatic weapons fixed with silencers. In seconds, the men lined the floor, bleeding and twitching from multiple gunshot wounds.

Nuria closed the trap door as Gozan took point in the kitchen doorway. Two soldiers had heard the disturbance and were jogging along the corridor to investigate. Both were brandishing batons. Dropping to his knees, Gozan swung round and fired upwards, bullets slamming into both men. Nuria moved quickly past him into the dark lobby, dropping to a crouch. Courtyard lights at the front of the building offered enough patches of illumination through the heavy iron door and window shutters to see there were no more guards here. She fanned out into the room, sweeping her pistol towards the open stairwells and broad landing. A bobbing flashlight revealed another guard. She crept up towards him, went low, aimed, fired, took him down instantly. Gozan was combing the ground floor rooms. She heard bodies tumble as he shot four sleeping servants.

None of the guards inside the house were carrying firearms. She had been specific with this instruction and no one had questioned it. Only the men in the grounds were armed and, with the property locked down and no alarm, they were oblivious to what was unfolding inside. Osborn, Chancellor Jorann’s bodyguard would have remained armed but Theo had removed that threat earlier today. Osborn was not from Chett, a drifter, a sharp shooter who had arrived in the city five years before and had been employed by Jorann for his exceptional skills with a gun. It had always been her intention to have him shot by Theo. There had never been any reason to execute Jorann at the assembly. The citizens now saw her as a hero. She had killed the Chancellor’s would be assassin. Any suspicions would be safely deflected. Her reputation would remain untarnished. The plan was to have the Chancellor moved here, to a place no killer or group of killers could penetrate, unless they knew of the underground tunnels. It would be a massacre that would send ripples of fear through the city.

Gozan joined her on the upper floor and they both moved swiftly along a corridor towards the Chancellor’s chambers.

Two guards rounded the corner. Gozan fired, hitting one in the leg, dropping him to the floor. Nuria shot at the other one, clipping his shoulder, flesh and blood showering from the gaping wound. The impact spun him around and he stumbled back out of sight, almost losing his footing. She cursed and rushed along the corridor, planting a bullet in the skull of the other guard as she passed him. As she rounded the corner he threw himself at her, swinging his baton. She ducked and it slammed against the wall. She fired at his leg. He yelled with pain and recoiled from her, swinging wildly. The baton struck her hip and she grimaced, momentarily losing her balance. Gozan burst around the corner and emptied two bullets into the guard and he slumped dead on the floor.

They could hear voices now, calling from other rooms. They ran the length of the corridor and found the Chancellor’s door locked.

Nuria shot through it as Gozan slotted a fresh magazine into his pistol.

“Watch the corridor,” he said.

The door creaked as it opened and the room beyond was in darkness. Gozan could feel the sweat on his face, beneath the mask. His heart was beating loudly as he edged forward, the pistol held in both hands.

Jorann swung at his masked intruder with a baton and Gozan was hit. He howled, and then punched back using the butt of his pistol. Despite his age, Jorann reacted quickly and Gozan hit nothing but air. He had not been able to sleep and the noise outside had drawn him from his bed. Gripping the baton with both hands he swung at Gozan and smashed into his hand, knocking the gun to the floor.

Outside the room, a guard emerged at the end of the corridor and Nuria opened fire on him.

She could hear the front door being unlocked.

“Gozan,” she yelled. “Finish it.”

She reloaded her pistol and ran down the corridor, back onto the landing, firing off a shot to her left as one of the last guards inside the property loomed into view. The bullet hit him in the neck and sent him crashing back down the stairwell. Throwing herself onto her stomach, she lined up the shot at the guard attempting to unlock the front door.

Calmly, she squeezed the trigger and drilled the bullet through the back of his neck. He staggered and fell to the floor.

Jorann stared at the masked man in his room. He had heard the name.

“Gozan?”

His First Minster rolled up his face mask and revealed the dark eyes and heavily lined skin.

“Why?”

Gozan snatched the gun from the floor and pointed it at Jorann.

“I … you would have been the next Chancellor … why, Gozan?”

“Time’s running out, Jorann. A new man is needed. New laws. Or do I mean old laws?”

“After all we’ve been …”

Gozan squeezed the trigger once and the Chancellor stumbled backwards. Blood bubbled over his shaking lips.

“You … were … always …”

Gozan fired twice more.