Authors: Kerry Wilkinson
Our walk becomes a run and then a sprint. Knave is at the front, catapulting himself over a stile and hurdling a hedge. Somehow, I’m quicker than Opie, even though I haven’t eaten in
two days and am so short of energy that my head is spinning as I run. The grass and mud blurs past me until I reach the edge of the village.
The church had collapsed anyway but the rubble has been disturbed. The spire that was leaning to the side has now completely crumbled. The slabs that lined the street in familiar positions are
now buried under even more piles of concrete, wood and tile. It is almost the same but not quite.
Knave is scrabbling through the debris, trying to get to the entrance hatch, Hart and Opie dashing to help him. I move to join in but am drawn to a spot towards the arch of what was once a
church window. There is a cross in the brickwork similar to the one Faith spotted when we first came here.
My feet crunch across the ground as I look for a clue as to what might have happened. The ground is uneven and, as I steady myself, the feeling of needing to vomit bubbles through my stomach. My
foot is resting against a dust-covered arm that hangs limply through a gap in the wreckage.
I want to call for the others but the words stick in my throat. The single painted fingernail is a bright, unscratched silver, reflecting the afternoon sun. I crouch, taking the cold hand in
mine and tracing the arm until I reach a plank of wood. I close my eyes, lifting and tossing the wood to one side, before taking a deep breath. I open one eye at a time, staring disbelievingly at
the body in front of me, begging for it to be someone else.
But it’s not.
Vez’s dead, lifeless eyes stare into mine. I will him to blink, to cough, to do anything, but he is gone. I reach forward and close his eyelids as Jela screams behind me.
I turn slowly, the knot in my stomach tied so tightly that I can barely breathe, let alone speak. She is on the ground holding the limp body of one of the Offerings. It is a boy who looks eleven or
twelve.
I don’t even know his name.
Knave is digging frantically, pushing, throwing and shoving pieces of concrete aside until he finally reaches the hatch. He wrenches it open with a huge roar. For a second, it looks as if he is
going to drop inside, but a cloud of dark smoke powers through the hole, rising quickly into the air.
Hart calls my name and I somehow find the strength to stand, easing along the crumbling remains of the church to find him at the bottom of the debris. He points to a spot where a dead Kingsman
is lying, a dagger sticking out of his neck. Opie’s eyes meet mine, wide with fear and confusion. I remember the scavenging party returning, saying they had seen Kingsmen. Knave asked if they
were followed. We might never know what happened for sure but I assume this is the answer. I was the one who asked them to go hunting: more blood on my hands.
Smoke continues to billow from the hatch as Knave stands, head bowed, watching it seep into the air around him.
I don’t want to be the strong one. I want to pound the ground, to cry, to grieve, and to pick through the wreckage until my hands are raw with flesh and blood. Instead, it is as if someone
takes me over. I hear myself saying the words and yet I feel empty inside.
‘Where are the vents?’ I ask.
Knave turns but stares through me. ‘This is everyone I know . . .’
‘I know that, Knave, but where are the vents? There was air below ground; it must have come from somewhere.’
He says nothing so I turn and pick out the smaller jets of smoke. The bulk of the poison is pouring from the hatch but there are three smaller chimneys dotted around the area.
‘Opie, Hart,’ I say, making sure I use their names as forcibly as I can. They spring to attention and I point towards the three spots. ‘See if there’s a way
in.’
I dash towards the graveyard, pushing over a stack of tiles and using my feet to slide away pieces of broken glass. Underneath is a grate, from which thin wisps of smoke drift aimlessly into the
sky. I wedge a knife through the rungs and lean back, pushing downwards as hard as I can until a corner bends and pops up. The smoke smells of flesh and destruction, filling my nose, making me
cough.
‘Come on,’ I whisper to myself, turning to take a breath of clean air, before returning to lever the other three corners out until the grate is free. I call for help and Hart arrives
to lift it away, uncovering a black hole that drops vertically down. There are no steps, simply a fall into the unknown. Hart is too wide to fit but he grabs my wrist before I jump down, calling
the others over.
The plume has narrowed to a thin wisp and I am all for leaping straight in, but he and Opie lie flat on the ground, holding my hands and lowering me steadily into the hole as I hold my breath.
My head is still above ground when my feet hit crumbling pieces of plaster and brick. I have to tell Opie to let me go because he is clinging on so hard. Slowly I slide myself along the slope of
wreckage until I am engulfed by darkness. The air is thicker but breathable. I fumble along the walls, trying to get my bearings. Soon, my hands close around soft blankets and I assume I am in one
of the bedrooms.
‘Hello?’ I call.
There is hardly any echo and every movement sends more small stones tumbling.
As my eyes start to adjust, I realise there is a small passage of light ahead of me. It looks like one of the overhead white strip lights that were powered by the generator flickering on and
off. I make my way slowly towards it, half-crawling, half-sliding on my backside. The further I go, the harder it becomes to breathe. My mother once told me something about fire, smoke and staying
low – but it makes little difference.
The light is coming from the doorway. Much of the frame is still intact but there are shards of wood and plaster blocking most of it. The smoke has almost cleared, with just a gentle draught
creeping under the doorframe. I slide onto my front and start pushing the wreckage away from the door.
Opie calls down to tell me smoke has stopped coming from the main hatch and that he is heading down with Knave and Hart. I shout back to him that I am fine here and continue working until there
is a gap big enough for me to fit through.
I twist around and push through feet first, finding myself standing in a corridor covered with a dusting of plaster but otherwise relatively debris-free. One end is blocked but I can hear noise
at the other.
‘Opie?’
There is a few seconds’ delay. ‘Yes?’ He must have made it through the main hatch at the other end.
‘There’s no one in the main bedroom and only a small blockage if you can work your way towards me here.’
‘Okay.’
Coughing echoes through the tunnels as Opie, Knave and Hart get to work. I have been trying not to think of Imrin specifically, and know I won’t be able to get to the medical area until
the path has been cleared back to the main hatch.
The room where Frank worked on his weapons is a short distance along the tunnel from the bedroom. The route isn’t blocked completely but the crumbling walls, fallen wooden beams and piles
of brick make it hard work to reach.
‘Frank?’
He doesn’t answer.
The others are working behind me to clear the path so I can get back to them. In front, the doorway to the workroom is blocked by more rubble but much of it is loose. My arms feel useless,
aching with the strain of lifting brick after brick, so I sit and kick away at the shards, almost enjoying the satisfying sound as the pile slowly diminishes. Within a few minutes, the space is big
enough for me to slide through.
‘Frank?’
The flickering flashes of light are starting to feel disorientating as I push into the room, a sharp corner of a brick scratching along my back, making me yelp in pain. I expect there to be more
debris inside, but there is a drop to the floor that hurts more because of the surprise than the height. On the wall is Frank’s shopping list, shimmering in and out of view as the light from
the corridor continues to fizz on and off. I take a second to catch my breath and then turn to face the rest of the room.
The workbench at the back has collapsed, with two of the legs splintering to create a pyramid that is shielded by pieces of wood. Around my feet are scattered weapons and tools. I cross to the
table and try to lift it but the legs that are still connected are wedged firmly into other pieces of wood.
Crouching, I try to see if I can slide my fingers underneath for leverage but stop as I see the arm hanging out – another silver fingernail glittering in the half-light, a taunting
reminder that its owner believed in me.
I close my eyes, breathing deeply, and then heave upwards as hard as I can, lifting the table in one shoulder-wrenching movement and tossing it to the side with a scream of effort and pain. I am
so surprised I have managed to do this that I feel like standing over it and saying ‘take that’.
Instead, I turn to see Frank, eyes closed, motionless, dead. In his left hand is a piece of piping that looks like the material we used for my fake bomb. The colour of his skin is transfixing,
powdered with dust and loose stone. I cannot see how he died; there are no obvious wounds on his body and I don’t know what death by smoke might look like. His trouser leg is rolled up,
showing the pattern of the teeth from the animal trap scissored into his flesh.
This is no way to leave him but it dawns on me there may actually be people still alive somewhere in the rubble. I whisper a quiet goodbye, thanking him for what he did for us, and then pick up
a few of the tools and weapons that look useful. I toss them through the gap out of the room before I slide through and push myself back out into the corridor.
Opie’s voice reverberates along the passageway. ‘Silver?’
‘I’m here.’
I pick up as much as I can and move towards the blockage where three pairs of hands are pulling and pushing at the bricks from the other side. I know I should help but my body is ready to give
up, my eyes hurting from the endless flashing light, chest heavy from the smoke, arms and legs flopping uselessly from exertion.
I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes. There is scratching and scrambling as Knave, Opie and Hart continue to pick through the barricade, but there is something else too. Something
low.
‘Shush,’ I say loudly.
Their hands stop moving. ‘What?’ Opie calls.
‘Be quiet for a minute.’
At first there is silence but then the noise is there again, a whimpering sob of pain.
‘Hello?’ I call.
The reply is low but a female voice replies with a barely audible ‘Help.’
‘There’s someone here,’ I shout, turning to the pile of bricks behind me.
The others start to dig more quickly and suddenly I am re-energised too. I push, pull, kick, scrabble and scratch as if possessed. I don’t know half of the things I am tugging at but
everything is thrown to one side, my fragility forgotten. Within minutes, Opie, Hart and Knave are by my side, the four of us working as one until we uncover a young woman sheltering underneath a
shattered cabinet.
Opie takes my hand as Knave reaches in and tries to pull her to safety. I don’t know her name, recognising her only as one of the faces from around the hideout. Her once-dark hair is
covered with dust.
‘Gwen,’ Knave says. I expect him to tug her clear but he turns and looks to me, shaking his head. There is blood on his hand and a splinter of wood sticking out of her chest. I can
hear the huskiness in her voice as she whispers my name, making me more ashamed that I didn’t know hers.
I tug on Hart’s sleeve. ‘Tell me about the syringe again.’
‘What about it?’
‘When Xyalis first told me about it, he said it would only cure diseases, but when I injected you it made a difference straight away, even though you were cut and bruised. Imrin was the
same. He was cut to pieces but feeling fine within a day.’
He nods. ‘It’s too hard to describe. If you could remember the day you were born, those first moments, I bet that’s what life feels like.’
I shoo Knave out of the way and tell Opie to give me his shirt. ‘Hold her down,’ I say, taking a syringe out of the pouch on my belt.
Knave pins one of her shoulders to the floor, Hart holding the other. ‘Are you ready?’ I ask Opie.
I count to three and pull the splinter out in one quick movement. Gwen tries to scream but it sticks in her throat, a liquid gurgle of anguish. Opie presses his shirt hard into the wound as I
squeeze the contents of the syringe into her arm. She shrieks again and tries to sit up but Hart and Knave hold firm as I press on her legs. Two more cries and then she goes limp.
‘Keep pushing,’ I tell Opie gruffly.
Her face twitches, eyes rolling into her head. I lean forward and grab her hand. ‘Come on, Gwen, come on.’
There is no pressure in her hand but I squeeze her, pumping her fingers with mine. ‘What’s my name, Gwen? Come on . . .’
Hart relaxes his grip but quickly presses down again when I shout at him.
‘Say something, Gwen . . .’
Her head flops to one side and I push Knave aside, ordering Opie to keep pressure on the wound. I lean over, listening to her mouth for any sign of life. I will there to be a breath, even a
shallow one, anything.
There is nothing.
I rock back onto my heels and lock eyes with Opie, who relaxes his grip.
‘Is she . . . ?’
I start to nod and then Gwen’s body bucks upwards dramatically, blood spluttering from her mouth in a deep, vicious cough. She is gasping for each breath. Opie presses the shirt back to
her chest as I support her from behind, sitting and pushing my chest into her back.
Another vicious cough erupts but then, somehow, she calms. I can feel the breaths going in through her nose and out through her mouth. The husky, gurgling sound is gone.
‘Silver?’
‘I’m here.’
‘You saved me.’
‘These guys saved you.’
Gwen reaches forward slowly, taking the shirt from Opie and holding it to her own chest where the wound is. It doesn’t seem to be affecting her. ‘I feel . . . fantastic.’