《Black Scales》


 The Wolf

    A drum beat assaulted Lloyd¡¯s head, relentless in its torment, building and climbing into an exploding crescendo. He scrunched his eyes shut. They hid behind their lids, darting around. Colours blurred together, creating red flares amidst the black. Crashing symbols flashed through his body. A high-pitched ringing vibrated through his ears and rattled his brain. He plummeted through darkness, lost in the haze. His head nodded and lolled. Rain pattered on glass somewhere. He was in too much pain to be dreaming. His thoughts were incoherent, just out of reach, making it impossible to concentrate. His limbs were tight. Stretched and torn, his veins bulged at his skin under the tension, threatening to rip tears in his arms and burst out.


    He opened his eyes. The firelight in some corner of the dark room caused him to squint in retreat. Again, he drew them open, slowly this time. Familiarising them with the light. He felt pain everywhere. More than pain ¨C agony. He scoured his body, terrified of what he might see.


    Thick motorcycle chains lashed to a wooden beam above his head secured his wrists, the chains near severing his hands. Their teeth chewed his flesh, and his blood trickled down his arms and through the crags of his black-scaled skin. The beam yawned and groaned as it bowed under the tension. He willed it to snap. It stared back at him defiantly. A third chain bound his feet, nailed into the floorboards with a huge rail stake. He tried to move, to wriggle and writhe. Nothing.


    Maybe he could pull at the beam. Somehow dislodge it. He kicked his feet, contorted his body, flapped through the agony like a fish on the end of a line. No, nothing. As he heaved a deep breath, a sharp jolt flashed him into life and his ribs screamed as he gasped for air. Taking shallow breaths, he decided that his ribs on his right side had to be broken. Purple pooled under his skin, his sharp bones threatening to burst through. Worse than any of this, he was suffering from withdrawal.


    Sweat seeped out of him, his body glistening with a waxy sheen in the firelight. He coughed hard, the rasp of it burning his throat as blood exploded and splattered the glass in front of him. The chains suspended him a few feet from a massive window over twice the length of his body, divided into smaller squares of glass with metal framing.


    It was hot in the room. Heavy air stifled him. Beads of condensation trickled on the windows, but he was cold. He shivered and rattled, desperately scanning the darkness outside for some clue of where he was and why he was there. He was high up. At least on the second floor. He blinked blood from his eyes, looked down, and instantly, he knew where he was.


    Below him, The Gardens loomed, firelight shimmering in the shacks and stalls. Low, glowing flames cast eerie shadows over the swamp and the Archway Squats on the far side. He knew it well. Through the Archway Squats were the tramlines and, beyond that, the Mercure Hotel. He could see its windows in the dark sky opposite, like hundreds of eyes staring back, taunting him, watching his plight.


    The dull trod of boots on floorboards cut through the ringing in his ears. A reflection in the glass chilled him to his bones. A man stood behind him, his empty gaze burning into the back of his skull.


    The man was a wolf, tall and whip-lean, every inch a predator. His movements all assured and intentional, there was nothing clumsy about this man, nothing weak. Not on the surface anyway, thought Lloyd. The man stepped forward out of the shadow, each thud of his boots more unsettling than the last. A weathered baseball cap protruded out from under his large hood, casting a dark shadow over his face. Eyes of angry blue fire, illuminated by the flickering glow, were visible over a thick black snood that covered the rest of his face. His right arm trailed behind him. His hand, wrapped with strips of dark cloth, grasped a black hatchet. The blade edge was a razor, but the flat of the head was gnarly and pitted, covered in mottled blood, hair, and dead skin. His jacket hung open, exposing a rough leather harness strapped to his chest and metal-looped sheaths hanging off to his sides. Long railway stakes with makeshift handles, bound with strips of brown leather, rested in them. From a thick black belt around his waist hung two more stakes. Strapped to his leg, in a leather holster wrapped with silver tape, was a stubby shotgun crudely hacked down to size. A soulless chill emanated from his stare, and when he spoke, his tone was deep and guttural.


    ¡°The Conduit. I want a name. Now.¡±


    Lloyd grimaced, fighting through the searing pain in his head as he tried to think. ¡°I don¡¯t have a name,¡± Lloyd sobbed. ¡°I swear I don¡¯t, please. Am I going to die?¡±


    The man stepped to Lloyd, nose to nose. A grubby hand yanked down the snood. His breath was hot scotch and blood. ¡°You¡¯ll die, you filth,¡± he spat, ¡°whether you die by this, or this, is your choice.¡±


    As he spoke, the man raised his hands. In one, the nasty-looking hatchet, and in the other was heaven itself ¨C a perfectly clean syringe. Inside, a shimmering golden liquid, littered with flecks of bronze dancing like blossoms on a summer breeze. Lloyd¡¯s body spasmed and contorted, lurching towards the syringe. He forgot his pain, and the chains biting his wrists subsided into a tickle.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°The gear, give me the gear,¡± Lloyd begged. His tears evaporated. He salivated from the corners of his mouth. ¡°I don¡¯t know the Conduit, I fucking swear!¡±


    The man raised his fist. The needle pointing towards the floor, he slowly pressed down the plunger. Golden liquid dripped onto the boards below, landing in splotches of shimmering gold solder.


    ¡°Stop, stop, I can help.¡±


    ¡°Then help. Now,¡± the man snarled.


    ¡°Only one man knows the Conduit¡­but you know that, or why else am I hung above The Gardens?¡±


    ¡°Name.¡±


    Lloyd tried to swallow. His throat was like sandpaper, dry and cracked. His eyes had returned to the syringe and locked to it in anticipation.


    ¡°Name,¡± repeated the man as, once more, he pressed the plunger, expelling golden liquid from the syringe.


    ¡°Shit, stop, stop...Marcus,¡± stammered Lloyd. ¡°His name is Marcus!¡±


    ¡°Point him out.¡±


    Lloyd¡¯s head shifted left to right, scanning The Gardens below. A group of drunks staggered near the tramlines, none of them Marcus. He continued his desperate searching. No sign. He glanced at his captor nervously, once, twice; minutes dragged on, but still, no sign.


    He risked another glance. He caught the eye of the man, who glowered at him. Lloyd looked some more. It was dark down there, other than for the dim flickers of orange dancing in the shacks and stalls. The Archway Squats was foreboding, a deep chasm of black presiding over The Gardens. Smoke billowed out of its mouth from the faint cookfires in its belly. One light inside was brighter than the rest, however, growing larger and closer and warmer as it bobbed in the dark.


    ¡°There!¡± exclaimed Lloyd. ¡°The man there with the torch, leading the group. That¡¯s Marcus, that¡¯s the runner!¡±


    Below and across the square, a group of four men were being led out of a dark archway by a man holding a flaming torch above his head. He strode forward with purpose, across a boarded path over a muddy marsh, heading towards a large wooden shack holding the corner of the square. In front of the shack stood a hulking figure, holding a huge cleaver in his hands, defiant against the sheets of rain.


    ¡°What makes you so sure he knows the Conduit?¡±


    A single tear dropped from Lloyd¡¯s eye and rolled down his cheek, carving a line in the dirt on his face. It dropped to the floor and joined the pool of blood at his feet.


    ¡°Speak!¡±


    ¡°Marcus is my brother,¡± Lloyd snapped through gritted teeth. ¡°Now give it to me! I helped you, now give it to me!¡±


    The man¡¯s sapphire eyes tore through Lloyd¡¯s face. He could feel the disgust radiating from them. ¡°Very well,¡± the man replied, the contempt in his eyes replaced by a twinkle. He raised the syringe and hovered the needle over a bulging vein in Lloyd¡¯s neck.


    Excitement pulsed through Lloyd¡¯s body, the eager anticipation too much to hold. He was so close, painstakingly close, to the feeling of a warm soup and a cosy warm blanket on a midwinter''s day. So close to the unparalleled sensation of pure ecstasy tingling through every fibre of his being. He licked his lips and felt his heart racing, pounding and thumping, threatening to burst through his scaled chest.


    He howled in anguish as the man slammed the plunger and emptied the syringe to the floor. The golden liquid joined his blood and tears on the boards below. He furiously spasmed in his chains, growling and snapping his teeth, eyes alight with fire and hatred.


    The man stepped back, pulling the rail stake from the holster under his chest. He held it, sharp end pointing at the floor, his eyes blank and expressionless. He raised his hatchet, and with an explosive snap of his arm, he swung it back-handed across Lloyd¡¯s stomach. His thin yellow skin burst open, and his entrails gushed to the floor.


    Lloyd looked at his disembowelled guts in horrified disbelief.


    In a perfect flow, displaying years of mastery, the man flicked the stake into the air. It spun above Lloyd¡¯s head and hung there for an age, glittering in the firelight before it dropped. The man expertly caught it, level with Lloyd¡¯s chest, the point resting perfectly on his skin. Reversing the hatchet, he hammered the blunt end into the handle of the stake, driving it through Lloyd¡¯s heart. Blood spurted across the room, splashing the man¡¯s face with lashes of crimson.


    Lloyd¡¯s head nodded into his chest. With all his might, summoning the hunger of every cell in his body, he made one last lunge towards the golden liquid pooled on the floor, but it was to no end. His eyes dropped, blinking, locked to the bronze flecks swirling like diesel in a puddle of murky rain. So beautiful, he thought as his eyes closed.


    The man spat on the floor and turned back to the window. His relentless blue stare relaxed into curious thought as Marcus halted before the giant with the cleaver.

 Rebels in the Garden

    Trevor the butcher was a burly bear of a man. Although only standing at about six feet tall, he seemed massive, his shoulders wide, stacked from years of hard graft, and with hands like shovels, rough and weathered. Grim slate-grey eyes tucked under thick brows scanned The Gardens keenly for custom. A strip of cloth was wrapped around his forehead. It worked overtime to prevent the sweat pouring from his bald head from beading on the end of his sharp nose and free-falling onto the hot plate below.


    He stood wide and imposed his wares on The Gardens. He bellowed over the bustle, and his gruff voice rumbled across the square, riding on the fragrant waves of greasy meat and fat sizzling from his hot plate. ¡°Oiled rat skewers, salt ¡®n¡¯ pepper pigeon ¨C two a coin. Fried rations, hot water ¨C a penny.¡±


    The damned rain wasn¡¯t helping his trade, falling in sheets like volleys of arrows across the sky of an ancient battlefield. It was morning, and thick clouds and traffic smog stifled the city''s dwellers, pressing down on them from above. They scurried from the cover of the towering hotel and crossed the tramlines towards the square. Coat collars and hoods yanked up around their faces did little to keep the biting chill at bay.


    Trevor grumbled at the cold. At least his hands were warm. They rested inches above the plate of hot metal. Spats of oil leapt up and touched his skin, but the calluses of years etched into his rough palms were impenetrable. He eyed the bruised sky. The damned weather is monstrous, he scoffed. Over a decade ago, the seasons were a bland, never-ending cycle of mild. Bit chilly today, some stiff in a suit would say as he passed by with an insincere grimace. In these times, it was more than small talk; it was life or death.


    Deep in thought, he idly flipped the pigeon meat on the hot plate below him. This was his penultimate batch, with the last one marinating in the box fridge to the rear of the kitchen. He would send Jude out for more when he got back from the Archway Squats, where he was delivering a salt ¡®n¡¯ pepper pigeon box.


    The loud rattle of the generator powering his salvaged appliances was usually his primary source of headache. Today, it was his saving grace. He thanked it profusely as it chugged away and drowned out his wife''s constant singing. She prattled around behind him, washing pots and pans. Lisa was a good woman, but her undying optimism drained even Trevor on a day like today. It was beyond bleak. He''d barely had enough custom to cover his running costs for weeks on end. Of course, he had money stashed for the rebels, but he wouldn¡¯t dip into it and deprive the cause.


    With a shiver, he urged on the warmth of spring. Seasons were nightmarish now, ten years on from the end of the old world. The city''s infrastructure couldn¡¯t handle winter, decimated and left to rot in the poverty-stricken slums. The gutters ran serpentine from the relentless, hard-driving rain. Angrily cascading torrents flowed between the cracked tarmac and pooled in swirls of murky brown swamp. Swells of plastic syringe shipwrecks floated in great puddles. They jutted out from the silt, and icebergs of putrid wet scrap floated by them, picked at by rabid carrion.


    He rubbed his hands and raised his palms to his cheeks, pressing them down. ¡°Oiled rat skewers, salt ¡®n¡¯ pepper pigeon ¨C two a coin. Fried rations, hot water ¨C a penny.¡±


    A scatty Crochead staggered over and eyed the meat. He offered her a skewer for half-price, but she declined with a druggy mumble and trudged on.


    ¡°Can¡¯t even give them away,¡± he grumbled. He dashed another squirt of oil onto the plate and eyed the crowd, hoping the fizz and hiss would attract custom. Not a sniff.


    ¡°Nobody biting today?¡± said Lisa as she appeared on his shoulder and wiped her wet hands on the back of his neck.


    ¡°Damn woman! I¡¯ll catch a death. Get those hands off me.¡± He snatched the dirty dishcloth draped over her shoulder and furiously rubbed himself dry. Lisa cackled like a witch. ¡°No. No bites. Shame it¡¯s too early to flog some moonshine, eh,¡± he said, with an eager glance at a group of drunks staggering towards The Gardens from the tramlines.


    He grimaced. A tram thundered past, missing most but glancing a straggler on the shoulder. It sent him spiralling into a pond-sized puddle. Lisa cackled again. The tram rattled on towards the Apollo Fighting Pits and the fish yards, screeching and chugging, so overladen with people it seemed to defy physics.


    ¡°Nope, not for me. Wouldn¡¯t get me on one of them rickety fuckers, not for twenty notes.¡±


    ¡°You say that every time one rolls past, love, and that¡¯s the fifth one today.¡±


    It had been years since the trams had seen maintenance. They shook from side to side, threatening to derail at any moment. Past the tramlines, standing guard over the square, was a looming concrete archway, which provided a respite from the elements.


    The Archway Squats was moody. Rank and musty, it stank like death if you warmed it up on a hot plate. Sometimes when Trevor wasn¡¯t cooking, he could smell it even from the other side of The Gardens. He hated going over there. It was dark and miserable. The spotlights in its high ceiling flickered, threatening to give up, and he didn¡¯t like the dark. It was claustrophobic in there, too. People stood under the entrance, shoulder to shoulder, staring out at the cold, waiting for breaks in the barrages of rain.


    In the bowels of the squats, on either side of a path carved through begging vagrants, there had once been glass-fronted shops. A coffee shop on one side, something or other opposite, all hollowed out now and filled with the tents and belongings of squatters, beggars, and addicts. Crocheads, they called them, and the Archway Squats was very much a Croc den.


    ¡°Hey, kid,¡± Trevor shouted. A spindly little boy, with an ashen face and holes in his boots, limped past, kicking a plastic bottle, his black matted hair flapping in the wind. He edged towards the hot plate with apprehension, chin to the sky, ogling at the big butcher.


    ¡°Here, take this,¡± said Trevor, reaching down and waving a fried rat tail in the air. The kid snatched at it with both hands as Trevor yanked it away. ¡°Listen here,¡± he said with a raise of his brow, ¡°you understand me, don¡¯t you? What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°Dylan, mister," he said, nodding profusely.


    ¡°Right, Dylan. Take this tail for yourself. But you¡¯ll do me a favour, won¡¯t you, lad?¡±


    More profuse nodding, his eyes wide as saucers.


    ¡°Run over there,¡± said Trevor, jabbing a giant thumb at the droves of beggars on the perimeter of The Gardens. Shops behind them smashed and gutted, rows of sleeping bags and tents inside, they jostled for position closest to the walkway, waiting for roomers from the Mercure Hotel to pass through on their shortcut to the business district. ¡°Tell them all my food is half-price this lunch time. Go on, then. Off you go, lad.¡±


    He watched as Dylan scuttled off at a fast limp through the swamp in the centre of The Gardens, filthy and brown and stank. He scurried over the broad wooden boards ¨C a makeshift walkway through the mire, unused by the children of the beggars who instead fought and played in the slop.


    The remnants of grass were barely recognisable through the thick mud. In the swamp¡¯s corner, three wooden boards and some tarpaulin sheets crudely assembled shook in the wind and did little to hide the dignity of a woman squatting in the mud, adding her business to the smell.


    ¡°Christ. Would it kill her to use the shit shack?¡± Lisa squawked.


    ¡°Aye, I know, love. I wouldn¡¯t step foot in that marsh, not for twenty notes. I saw Marty Stag and his kids washing their faces in it the other day,¡± he said with a baulk.


    ¡°I¡¯d swim in it¡­for ten notes,¡± she chuckled.


    ¡°Foul!¡± He shook his head and shot her some playful daggers. ¡°Get your skewers, pigeons at two a coin, hot water a penny...¡±


    He looked to the other market stalls encasing The Gardens¡¯ marshy middle. The shit shack took up one whole corner. All the other stalls were ramshackle, standing tall and rickety. Made of thin wooden boards crudely nailed together, they were topped with rusted corrugated sheets salvaged from abandoned industrial buildings. Tarpaulin canopies hung out from the shacks, providing the vendors below little to no protection from the rain. It whipped in hard and slanted from across the square.


    Of all the stalls, Trevor¡¯s sat strongest, on the corner of The Gardens and furthest from the Archway Squats. Where the others shook and swayed in the wind, his stall ¨C at two floors high ¨C was stubborn and unmoving, made with some skill and lots of care. The top floor, which was the living quarters, jutted out over the bottom, housing a crude, but effective enough, kitchen. Heat lamps burnt orange. They flickered and clicked, flies dancing with death around them. An ancient CD player kept sombre country songs on repeat. Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson ¨C all the classics. A wooden plank swung on frayed blue ropes from a scaffold pole, white-painted letters slapped across it: ¡°Trevor¡¯s Kitchen.¡±


    A thick chain hanging from the ceiling clinked in the wind. His defence from the night. It connected to a roll shutter recessed inside the kitchen. The huge black metal hot plate made up the front of the stall, and standing behind it, lit up by its fiery red glow, Trevor stood deep in thought.


    ¡°What you thinking?¡± asked Lisa.


    He was thinking about the food on his hot plate that wasn¡¯t going to sell. And he was wondering if that Dylan kid had passed his message on at all.


    ¡°You seem better today,¡± he said. ¡°How are you feeling?¡±


    ¡°Ah, I¡¯m alright. I¡¯ve not seen Marcus in a few days, so that¡¯s something.¡±


    Trevor grunted his agreement. A few weeks ago, Marcus and his brother Lloyd approached the kitchen, and he could tell from the hunger in their eyes that he might have some trouble. Only their hunger wasn''t for his food; they needed his moonshine to help manage their Croc withdrawals.


    The Croc resupply was monthly, and towards the last week of the month, Crocheads got desperate. His was the only stall that sold moonshine, and the only stall that made any real profits. So the addicts from the Archway Squats tried him from time to time. Tested his good will, shot him a half threat. He had weighed up his options and decided an act of charity would be better for business than two dead Crocheads cleaved apart in front of his stall. And so he offered them a free drink.


    Marcus glared at him, paused as if ready to pounce. The cogs turned. He fought a visible battle with his withdrawal, greedily eyeing the lockbox behind Trevor. Lloyd, a muzzled hound behind him, waited for his master''s order to attack.


    For what seemed like an eternity, Trevor waited to find out if he would need to fight, but with a toothy smile, Marcus snapped from his daze and accepted the gift. The manic look on his face dissipated, and he slunk back to the Archway Squats.


    The entire ordeal left Lisa shaken up. She knew it wasn¡¯t the end of the matter.


    Marcus was the unofficial leader in the Archway Squats, and although a Crochead, he was charismatic, a thin veil hiding his malice. He was the mitigator between the City Guards and the slums of The Gardens, and on ration day, he would keep the Archway Squats in order and prevent chaos. And so they listened to him, did his bidding, aiming to please him.


    ¡°It¡¯s month end around now, Trev. They¡¯ll be rattling in the Archway. I think he¡¯ll come back and I¡¯m scared.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I know. I¡¯d be lying if I said I didn¡¯t feel it. Something in the air, eh? Not just the Crocheads either. Every customer brings more talk of rebel attacks.¡±


    ¡°Did you hear about the ambush on the City Guard patrol down in Ardwick? They lost two patrol pickups and a full squad.¡±


    Trevor smiled. ¡°Improvised grenade, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes! They say the rebels are pushing for another uprising. Now could be our time to join back up, leave The Gardens and Marcus behind?¡±


    He swatted a fly from the countertop with a dishrag and wiped his hands on his apron. Dashing the rag down, he turned to Lisa and clasped her cheeks. ¡°We will. Soon. Mick was here this morning when you were out scavenging. They need our stash money for the cause. I told him we¡¯ll re-enlist.¡±


    ¡°You did? Oh Trev, thank you! I feel better already. When?¡±


    ¡°Two weeks. We¡¯ve surplus to sell. Barrels of moonshine to move. I need to find a buyer for this place.¡±


    ¡°We could be here two years and not sell another skewer, Trev.¡±


    ¡°What am I meant to do? Croc¡¯s cheaper than food. The Crocheads survive off the shit the City Guard dish out on ration day. I¡¯m near redundant.¡±


    ¡°Let''s just go!¡±


    ¡°And what about the boy?¡± Trevor snapped. ¡°We need to talk with him. Where will he go? Who¡¯ll take him in?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll take him with us.¡±


    ¡°Pah! Who are we to make a rebel out of him? You think he¡¯ll come and live with us and the rebels and conscientiously object? You know what he¡¯s like, full of ideas and notions of romance. He¡¯s a dreamer. And I¡¯m telling you now, the second Mick sees how lethal he is with that bow and arrow, he¡¯ll have him assassinating guards that same day.¡±


    Lisa opened her mouth to protest but closed it before she did. She looked doleful at Trevor. He continued with a sigh.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t leave him behind. I just won¡¯t push him into a cause he doesn¡¯t believe in. The City Guard killed our families, not his.¡±You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°So he can come?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk to him. If I sell the kitchen, he might want to stay on here for whoever buys. If he wants to come, we¡¯ll take him. But he has to decide for himself, and he has to know what he¡¯s getting into.¡±


    The lines etched around Lisa¡¯s eyes softened, and she stepped in and rested her head on Trevor¡¯s chest. When she stepped back, she was smiling. He watched her climb the ladder to the upper floor, then stepped to the prep board and began butchering the evening deliveries.


    He thought of The Panic as he worked. Remembered his rebel days of rioting and refusing oppression. Remembered losing his parents and his son to the cursed City Guard.


    Anger pricked him. He thumped his cleaver through the neck of a pigeon and launched the head into the swap. A gang of vagrant children swarmed it, shrieking and fighting.


    A clang from the back of the kitchen jarred him. He spun and wheeled away from the hot plate, cleaver in one hand, bloody pigeon in the other. A shape was huddled over in the dark ¨C a girl, shifty and waif, with pasty skin and a flash of gritty blonde hair. Red raw fingers hovering above the heat of the generator.


    ¡°Little Tilly Martin. How on earth did you get in my kitchen? Speak now and speak the truth!¡±


    Eyes wide with terror, she scrambled to escape, pushing her bony frame through a small crack in the wooden boards. They moaned and creaked in protest. Trevor¡¯s massive hand snagged the hood of her coat, and he hefted her back, setting her down in the kitchen.


    She was shaking, tears rolling and lip wobbling. But then Trevor allowed his sternness to clear into a brilliantly bright smile. It didn¡¯t suit him and had no business adorning his weathered face. But it was sincere, and Tilly could see that.


    ¡°Easy, girl. I won¡¯t harm you.¡± He patted her on the shoulder and fixed her ruffled hood. ¡°That crack needs fixing. If you can squeeze through it, I¡¯ll have rats nibbling at my rations soon enough.¡±


    ¡°My mam says that the rats don¡¯t go near your stall ¡®cause they¡¯re scared of the hot plate.¡±


    ¡°Aye, girl. Many a rat have perished on there, that¡¯s true,¡± chuckled Trevor as he looked towards the ladder in the corner, which led to the second floor. ¡°Lisa!¡± he shouted. ¡°Have Jude close the gap near the generator when he¡¯s back. There''s a spare board and nails next to the fridge.¡±


    There was no reply, but satisfied she had heard, he scooped Tilly up into his massive arms and perched her on the worktop, next to the hot plate. ¡°You sit there, girl. Get warm, then be on your way.¡±


    Tilly stayed for hours, watching Trevor expertly flip and turn the food, periodically splashing the plate with yellow-looking water in a clear plastic bottle. Hot steam leapt up, carrying the sweet scent of meat into the air and toward her eager nostrils. Trade picked up a little by lunch. Customers stopped from time to time to buy a skewer or a plastic tub of salty pigeon. He let Tilly take the coins and drop them into the pouch on the front of his apron. She did it with a smile and a twinkle of the eye.


    In the early afternoon, Tilly slid down from the worktop and bid Trevor farewell. But she had only taken a few reluctant steps towards the swamp when she looked back longingly at Trevor.


    ¡°Here, girl. Take a skewer. The least I can do for my hardworking assistant.¡±


    She bounded back towards the hot plate and threw her hands out in excitement. ¡°Thanks Trev!¡± she said, salivating at the meat dripping with oil and salt. Grubby fingers snatched the skewer from Trevor¡¯s hand, and she darted away towards the archway.


    ¡°Save a bite for your brother!¡± Trevor shouted after her as she raced away across the wooden boards. Whether she heard or not was anyone¡¯s guess.


    Lisa appeared on his shoulder. ¡°You¡¯re a kind man, Trev.¡± She smiled. ¡°Too kind. She¡¯ll be back, and others will come. We can¡¯t afford charity. It leads to expectation.¡±


    Trevor sighed, ¡°Aye, that I know. I¡¯m too soft, but there''s a method in the madness. Tensions are rising. When anger gets the best of the squats, hopefully my kindness will count for something.¡±


    The amber glow of the hot plate illuminated Lisa¡¯s sombre face as she gazed out over The Gardens. The light below exaggerated her tired eyes and etched skin. Years of worry had aged her ruthlessly. With an uncertain smile, she patted Trevor¡¯s giant shoulder.


    ¡°I¡¯m going back up. I¡¯ll sit in the window for a while and read my book, if you don¡¯t mind?¡±


    ¡°Aye. Away with you, woman. You¡¯re scaring away the customers.¡±


    Lisa cackled and swiped at him with a dishrag. He patted her on the backside, his huge palm almost lifting her into the air as she stepped towards the ladder. He chuckled to himself as she climbed.


    Trevor¡¯s thoughts drifted onto Jude. He had been too long. He only went to deliver a pigeon box to Jolly Roger, a shiv maker with a weapons shop tucked into a corner of the Archway. Roger was far from jolly; in fact, he was a wizened old crackpot, but he liked the boy and would look out for him. Still, it was a ten minute job, and he¡¯d been gone all morning.


    The day grew darker. Trevor worried about Marcus and Lloyd and what trouble they might cause if they saw Jude on his way to or from Roger¡¯s. He squinted through the rain at the foreboding stone arch opposite, scanning for signs, seeking out his swaggering stride and flash of blond hair.


    ¡°Daydreaming again, Trev?¡±


    ¡°Damn it, boy!¡± Trevor, jolted from his thoughts, turned to see the boy grinning from ear to ear. ¡°You scared me half to death. I¡¯m not a young man. My heart will give out one of these days, and you won¡¯t be grinning then!¡±


    Jude laughed. ¡°Give over, Trev. You¡¯ll outlast the lot of us.¡± He plonked himself down on the wooden stool in the kitchen and kicked his legs up, bringing his feet to rest on the box fridge. Trevor scowled at the soles of his boots, caked in mud.


    ¡°Clown,¡± muttered Trevor, with a grin and a shake of his head. ¡°How did you get behind me, you sneaky little shit?¡±


    ¡°Climbed the outside of the shack and went in through the window. I¡¯ve been talking to Lisa upstairs for ten minutes. She¡¯s not herself.¡±


    ¡°Aye, that she ain¡¯t, boy. She¡¯s not been herself since Marcus and Lloyd were here a few weeks ago. Marcus was off. He looked desperate. She thinks he¡¯ll be back.¡±


    Trevor washed rat juice from his hands with the bucket of dish water sitting on the worktop by the fridge. The boy passed him a bundle of arrows, which he examined closely, taking a pair of thick-rimmed glasses from the front of his grease-stained apron and resting them on the bridge of his nose.


    ¡°Why is he called Jolly Roger? He¡¯s the least jolly man in The Gardens, and that¡¯s saying something.¡±


    ¡°He looks like the flag.¡±


    ¡°What flag?¡± replied Jude, a quizzical look across his face.


    Trevor chuckled and waved him away. ¡°Christ, you make me feel old, boy.¡±


    The two enjoyed a comfortable silence until Jude pinched a rat skewer from the hot plate and inhaled it loudly.¡°What if Marcus comes back, Trev? He¡¯s no threat to us, is he?¡± he questioned with a mouthful of tail.


    ¡°These arrows get better with every batch. He has real skill, does Roger,¡± mused Trevor, peering over the bundle. ¡°I see he¡¯s given us seven instead of five. What''s that in aid of?¡±


    ¡°He said the last bird I delivered was the best he had tasted, and that you were a master of the hot plate. He¡¯s taken to calling you Colonel Sanders, whatever that means.¡±


    Trevor let out a bellow of hearty laughter and drifted into thought for a few moments, a smile on his face as he seemed lost in memory.


    ¡°What of Marcus, Trev?¡±


    ¡°Heavens above, boy. Marcus will be back. More than once, I imagine. It¡¯s the way of the world. I¡¯ll manage him as best I can without violence. It¡¯s bad for business.¡±


    ¡°If he goes for the lockbox, Trev, what then? We need those takings to keep the power on until spring,¡± said the boy, scanning Trevor¡¯s face for reassurance.


    Trevor sighed. ¡°If they go for the box, they¡¯ll meet the cleaver. There''s no other way. Kindness only works up to a point in this world.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but what if ¨C¡±


    ¡°Boy!¡± Trevor snapped. ¡°That¡¯s enough. It is what it is. Last I knew, this was my kitchen, and your job was to hunt the meat. Let me worry about security, and you concentrate on bringing me food.¡±


    Jude¡¯s face dropped, sullen and pensive. Then, almost instantly, he flashed a grin and bounced up from the chair. ¡°Okay, Trev. You¡¯re right, mate.¡± He buttoned up his jacket and straightened his scarf. Taking a few steps across the kitchen, he examined his face in a murky old mirror hanging from the wall. ¡°I best get going on the pigeon run, then, if I¡¯m to be back before dark.¡±


    Trevor peered over the rim of his glasses. ¡°Aye, that you had, boy. Seven arrows means seven birds. For a crack shot, you¡¯ve been getting sloppy lately.¡±


    ¡°Not too sloppy to sneak up on you, old man,¡± Jude laughed as he snatched the bundle of arrows from Trevor¡¯s hands. He dropped them into his backpack, which he slung over his shoulders, and in a flash, he vaulted the hot plate, coming up in a roll on the ground in front of the stall. Turning on his heel, he sprung off towards the canal.


    ¡°Jude!¡±


    The boy skidded to a stop and swung back to face him.


    ¡°Stay safe and don¡¯t be late.¡±


    The boy nodded with a smile, spun, and ran through the rain, leaping puddles and dodging cars, until he disappeared into the bustling crowd.


    Trevor smiled. He was a good kid, kind and honest and full of na?ve optimism. He didn¡¯t have the heart to tell him they¡¯d be gone from the kitchen well before spring. Not yet anyway.


    ¡°When all else fails, panic. Well met, General.¡±


    A portly man, too portly for The Gardens, halted in front of the hot plate. Not quite tall enough to see into the kitchen, he peered over it with excited nervousness. His face was shrouded in the shadow of a large hood, chubby cheeks dimpled in a wry smile.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take one salt ¡®n¡¯ pepper pigeon, vendor,¡± he said loudly, and with more than a hint of dramatics.


    ¡°Alright, Hursty, calm yourself. You¡¯re a peacock in a mangrove full of crocodiles,¡± Trevor hissed. ¡°Besides, you¡¯re looking far too well. What do they feed you in that City Guard canteen?¡±


    He feigned offence but lacked the skills to hide his impish smile. ¡°If I¡¯m going to redirect City Guard supplies to the rebel cause, I¡¯m going to have to taste them first. You know, check they¡¯re ok.¡±


    ¡°Naturally,¡± replied Trevor with a grin. He rubbed his hands on his apron and scratched his chin. His lips tightened into a frown. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±


    ¡°Mick sent me. Knew I¡¯d be passing through on my way to the Black Barracks. He said he saw you this morning, but there¡¯s been¡­developments,¡± he said with a glance over his shoulder.


    ¡°Spit it out, man.¡±


    ¡°There was a riot in the Station Market about an hour ago. Traders grow wearier of the oppressive taxation by the day. You know Mauro, the fishmonger?¡±


    ¡°Aye, nice fella. Mick¡¯s friend, stalls next to each other?¡±


    ¡°Yes, him. He refused to pay his tax. Sergeant Kramer executed him. Shot him on the spot. In front of his kids.¡±


    Trevor¡¯s chin dropped to his chest. He threw his spatula at the countertop. It landed with a loud clang that made Hursty jump. ¡°Bastards! They patrol all day, taxing, pointing rifles, keeping us docile. Then, after dark, when we need them the most ¡ª during riots, looting, rape, and murder ¡ª they lock themselves away in their fucking barracks. They want us to kill each other, I¡¯m sure of it.¡±


    Hursty nodded profusely. ¡°Sorry, Trev¡­you know I¡¯m just a medic. I hate it as much as you do.¡±


    Trevor sighed, ¡°Damn it, Hursty. I¡¯m not having a pop at you, man. You¡¯ve done as much for the cause as any of us and at more risk. You¡¯re one brave bastard. You¡¯ll hear no bad words from me.¡±


    Hursty¡¯s smile returned, dimpled cheeks rosy in the cold. ¡°Mick wants you to reconsider. He knows you said a few weeks to a month, but he thought this¡­incident¡­might change your mind.¡±


    ¡°Aye,¡± said Trevor. He picked the spatula up and flipped a rat into a swirl of oil. ¡°I reckon it might change my mind. It¡¯s time to act. We need to do enough damage that they might listen to some terms. All we want is for them to allow the good people of the squats and slums a route out of squalor.¡±


    ¡°Mick wanted them to agree on a discount, across the board, on the impossible rent of the hotel rooms. Oh, and to allow people to look for homes in the residential districts, away from the Crocheads.¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t happen,¡± replied Trevor.


    ¡°I know. And, after today, the mood¡¯s changed. Mick wants to go for a complete overthrow. That¡¯s why he wants you back, General. He needs you now.¡±


    ¡°Aye. Alright, Hursty. On you go. I¡¯ll talk to Lisa. I¡¯ll send the boy to Mick tomorrow with my reply.¡±


    ¡°Of course, General. It was good to see you again.¡± He backed away with a sheepish bow and spun away. Head down against the rain, he trotted off towards the tramlines and disappeared into the crowd.


    The afternoon drew on, and the dim grey daylight was fading fast. Flickering street lamps spluttered to life, offering nothing but a weak yellow glow in the grim sky. Here and there around The Gardens, large metal drums were being filled with wood and litter.


    At dark, the drums came to life and provided some heat to those brave enough to roam. Neon signs, spattered amongst the surrounding buildings, indicated bars where moonshine was drunk to excess. In a few hours, gangs and criminals of all creeds would descend on these places and mix with the vagrant men and women with enough coin to fund their drink. Whispers of unrest would grow into chants of vitriol and angst as the alcohol flowed and violence spewed out into the city streets.


    Trevor scanned The Gardens eagerly. The last City Guard patrol of the day rolled through without incident. He cursed them under his breath, and with that, the night was free to descend.


    It was around this time of a late afternoon he would start selling his own moonshine from his stall. The City Guard would tax shine vendors extortionately during the day, meaning there was little point in operating until the sweet spot between late afternoon and early evening. Beggars and vagrants, unable to afford to drink in the bars, would arrive with their own canisters, to be charged an amount based on capacity. This was Trevor¡¯s primary source of income, fronted by his hot plate trade. Most of the other vendors would be over to his stall as they closed up, spending the day''s takings on his shine, renowned as the best outside of the dive bars.


    ¡°Damn it, boy. What¡¯s taking you so long?¡± Trevor muttered to himself as he ladled moonshine into an empty aluminium can. He passed the can to a sodden wet vagrant, who ambled off towards a fire drum near the archway.


    The boy had run towards the canal, so he¡¯d be going to Sackville Pile, where the pigeons nested. Provided he hadn¡¯t gotten delayed with talking or daydreaming, as he was prone to doing, he should have been there an hour ago.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Judy?¡± called Lisa from upstairs, as if she had read his mind.


    ¡°On the bird run. He should be on his way back now. Don''t worry.¡± He tutted as an afterthought irked at him, ¡°And you¡¯ve got to stop calling him that, he¡¯s not a kid anymore. You know it irritates him.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll always be a kid to me, Trevor Evans¡­and anyway, you¡¯re a fine one to talk about irritating him. ¡®Boy¡¯ this and ¡®boy¡¯ that¡­¡± Her voice trailed off as she pottered around with whatever chore she was doing upstairs.


    Trevor sighed. Maybe he¡¯d put too much pressure on the boy. Shooting pigeons wasn¡¯t easy, or everyone would be at it. The boy was a bow master, all The Gardens knew it, but he had been coming back with less and less over the past weeks. Trevor chided himself. The boy would be tarrying, trying to get seven out of seven to prove a point.


    An eerie scream echoed from the archway on the far side of The Gardens, wrenching Trevor from his thoughts. Such sounds were commonplace. The Gardens were dangerous by day and deadly by night.


    He glanced down to his right. On the rusty metal worktop, next to the hot plate, was a vicious-looking cleaver, its handle ¨C longer than to be expected and which could be held two-handed ¨C strapped up with leather. The blade was wide and menacing, and Trevor always made a point to leave the blood upon it after he had completed his morning butchery.


    He smiled as he recalled the vagrant¡¯s face last winter, who had been seconds away from being cleaved into pieces like an unfortunate pigeon. He caught the plucky bastard by surprise as he burst through the door to the side of the hot plate and grasped at the tap protruding from the barrel of moonshine. In a heartbeat, Trevor swept his up cleaver, while simultaneously booting the vagrant back through the door with a kick to the chest.


    He slammed into the mud with a screech, clawing on hands and knees, desperately trying to escape. The onlooking crowd gasped as a second kick from Trevor spun the vagrant onto his back, and in a fierce swoop, the cleaver arched over head and bore down, stopping inches from the vagrant¡¯s nose. Calmly, Trevor stepped back, eyeballing the crowd. A challenge. Does anyone else wish to make an attempt on my wares? Nobody did.


    He hadn¡¯t found the need to boot or butcher anyone since then, not until Marcus¡¯s recent test of his resilience. Calculated kindness had been enough for a long time, but Trevor was wise enough to know it would only work for so long. Maybe another show of strength is in order, he thought as he looked out across The Gardens, towards the intimidating dark of the archway.


    Then, almost as if it had heard him, it spat out a group of five men, armed with clubs of metal, into the flickering streetlight. Trevor¡¯s eyes narrowed and locked on the front man of the group ¨C Marcus. Holding a flaming torch aloft, he led the men across the wooden boards of the marsh, striding with venomous purpose towards Trevor¡¯s Kitchen.


    Trevor snatched his cleaver into his hands and spun towards the metal roll shutter. He yanked it hard and was stunned when it failed to drop.


    ¡°Lisa,¡± he called, ¡°pull up the ladder and hide!¡±

 The Shanty Lord

    ¡°Jude! Stay safe and don¡¯t be late,'''' Trevor shouted.


    Jude nodded and smiled back, then swooped his hand through his hair, spun on his heel, and bolted away. Leaping over sprawled beggars and spinning from cars, he warmed his muscles before slowing into a steady lope. Splashing puddles with every heel strike, he dodged and swerved through rabbles of addicts.


    On he jogged, chin down and smog in his throat. His deep green eyes peered through his brows, blinking away the sheets of rain. Despite the conditions he had become accustomed to in The Gardens, Jude was fit and strong. Trevor fed him well, and he was lucky enough to have a warm dry bedroll in the back kitchen near the heat of the generator. He made this run most days. At seventeen years, he had the vigour only youth could provide, lithe and sharp on his feet.


    Pressing on steadily, he glanced up. The sky lowered by the minute, closing in around the streets below like a thick heavy blanket, only it offered no warmth or comfort. He passed countless beggars huddled together in doorways and bus stops, glaring out greedily at the backpack strapped to his shoulders. Here and there, he accelerated out of his jog and leaped one of the many poor addicts lying on the pavement.


    As he swivelled past an old red phone box, he clattered into a man rushing against the driving wind and rain. ¡°Sorry, mate!¡± Jude called as he lost his footing and staggered.


    He stumbled on, legs unsteady. He kicked a body on the ground. ¡°Shit. So sorry, I bumped into that guy.¡± He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, but the man hadn¡¯t broken stride. ¡°Didn¡¯t¡­see you there¡­,¡± his voice trailed off, as he realised the body on the floor hadn¡¯t even stirred.


    A woman lay face down in a murky grey puddle of rainwater, bile, and vomit. Her jeans bunched about her knees, and a dirty needle once buried in her groin now lay harmlessly between her thighs. The backs of her knees glared at him, gangrenous and thick with black scales, plagued with vile boils and blisters. A shiver trembled his spine.


    With a bow of his head and a pang of guilt, he ran on. His pace eased down as his mind raced away. Every person he saw afflicted by addiction made him uneasy. It wasn¡¯t their horrific black scales or their rotting skin. It was more that he didn¡¯t know how to save them. The best he could do, he had decided, was to view them and treat them as human beings, not a plague of repulsiveness as most others did. He didn¡¯t think they wanted to be slaves to Croc. Prisoners of the scales. No; circumstance, bad luck, the harshness of the unforgiving world ¨C these factors had made them what they are. Besides, who was he to judge them from his warm bed, with his full stomach?


    He sighed, slowing to a walk. Seeing the helpless woman raised thoughts of his father from the recesses of his memory. He was around ten when he had last laid eyes on his dad. A sorry shadow of his former self, he was gaunt and grizzled, with black rings around his lifeless eyes. Hair that had been golden was now dark with grease, falling from his head and sticking to the dried scales and weeping sores on his face. Cowering in the corner of the living room of their old terraced house, like a child in trouble. Through rotten black teeth, he begged mum for help, but she had already given up.


    ¡°Help how?¡± she had cried. ¡°There¡¯s nothing more I can give. You have to help yourself, please! If not for your own sake, then for ours!¡±


    His father looked up, eyes empty of emotion. ¡°Help me¡­just ¨C money. I need money.¡±


    There was no money. His father had used every last penny on Croc, and when the last penny went, he¡¯d sold everything else.


    Tears streamed down Jude¡¯s cheeks as he watched his mother struggle to remove the gold band from her left index finger. Yanking and twisting, anger rising in her eyes, masking sorrow, she eventually wrenched it free and launched it with fury at his father. Jude remembered how he willed his dad to scoop it up and thrust it at his mum, to beg her to put it back on. Scoop it he did and thrust it he did, only not at his wife¡¯s finger but into his own pocket. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but closed it just as quickly, glancing at Jude for a second before staggering to his feet and bustling out the door.


    That was the last time he had ever laid eyes on his father. The man who had been his whole world, his hero, just walked out of his life with nothing more than a glance. No more archery lessons, no more cowboy films on Sunday afternoon, no more bedtime stories. Gone.


    The squarks of an addict¡¯s song wrenched him from his despair. She was a janky bag of bones, with sunken eyes and too much cheap makeup. Two or three teeth rattling around her gums. Hair matted. Tatty red high heels, knobbly knees knocking as she staggered towards him. She brandished a rusty cook pot at him, a few coins jingling in the bottom. ¡°Here¡¯s a story ¡®bout Minnie the Moocher¡­,¡± she sang, coarse and raspy and out of tune.


    ¡°No, thank you, lady. I¡¯ve no money. I¡¯m really sorry,¡± he said. He was sincere. If he had a coin, he¡¯d have given it. Perhaps even just to stop the song. He sidestepped her and pushed on. She followed at a hobble.


    ¡°...She messed around with a bloke named Smokey,


    She loved him though he was cokey,


    He took her down to Chinatown and showed her


    How to kick the gong around¡­¡±


    Jude kicked on into a run, leaving her behind. She called after him with a chorus of abuse. He swung a left, into the shadow of the Britannia Hotel. He spat. The place offended him. One of many hotels in Manchester that permanently housed hundreds of middle-class working people. Roomers.


    He still couldn¡¯t understand it. How they could live there, warm and safe, with a clean conscience, while thousands wallowed in poverty beneath them. Not to mention the City Guard, who only protected the well-off, occupying the bottom floor of each hotel, securing the building from the homeless and addicted.


    The loud thumping of a rhythmic drum filled the air, followed periodically by the clash of symbols. He halted his stride. On his right, he saw what had been a long glass frontage to several shops laying opposite the towering hotel, the glass long since shattered and the shops sat gutted. The only remnant of times gone by was a white sign, hanging loosely from the pillars at the far end: ¡°Dawson¡¯s.¡±


    The inside was a squatter camp. He would pass through on his journey, not through need, but by choice. He pushed his way through a crowd of people watching the drumming street performer, and with a deep breath, he stepped into the camp.


    The foul stench immediately assaulted his nose as he trudged along the path carved into the filth on the floor. Despite his familiarity with the slums of the city, the smell caused him to gag every time. A thick musk lingered, akin to sweat but infinitely stronger. The air was damp. Soiled cloth nappies here and there added to the stink, and the unpleasant metallic tinge of blood was present on the tongue. A cocktail of odours only the city¡¯s myriad of squats and slums could provide.


    The path meandered across the old shop floors and through the rear partition walls, which had collapsed, allowing the tents, bedrolls, and shacks to continue sprawling into the belly of the massive building. The deeper he walked, the warmer it got. He passed drums of fire and crackling camping stoves, the closeness of the masses creating a stuffy heat, which compounded the stench in the air. Jude grimaced as he moved deeper into the dilapidated filth. He tried to decide what was worse, the cold of the open entrance or the hot stink of the depths. He knew the answer. The smell was sickening, but it wasn¡¯t deadly. The cold would snatch you from your dreams in the night, freeze your blood, and steal your soul.


    For those who paid enough mind, the hierarchy of the camp was clear to see. Closest to the freezing open air and relentless rain of the entrance laid blankets and flattened cardboard boxes strewn on the floor. These plots were first come, first served, and they were in high demand. Any who hadn¡¯t squeezed in come night would be out in the cold, and whether they were still breathing come morning would be a matter for fate to decide. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He pressed on. Rows and rows of tents in all shapes and sizes, not an inch of space between them. In a small clearing in between the tents was a makeshift spit, a small dog rotating over the jumping flames of a campfire. It looked as unappetising as the bucket of excrement that was being flung onto the path not ten yards ahead. He leapt over it and continued along the path, each step he took accompanied by a crack or a crunch as he navigated the syringes and broken glass strewn there.


    He neared the rear of the ground floor. He dragged his sleeve over his fist and wiped the sweat from his brow. A heavy metal door on the left wall beckoned him. Above it a green light flickered with a white arrow and the figure of a running man. Next to this sign was another, this one handmade from ply board, the words scribbled in charcoal:


    ¡°Dawson''s Shanty ¨C No Crocheads on Pain of Death.¡±


    Jude bounded up the stairs, excitement and nerves rising until, at last, he cleared the final step and halted in front of the imposing man at the top.


    Jenko was the Shanty Genna, Dawson¡¯s right-hand and head of security. He stood, arms folded, his broad shoulders almost touching both sides of the door frame he leant on. He wore a green vest and a sour frown. On one shoulder and running onto his upper arm was a tattoo of a pensive man who looked just like Jenko did, with dreadlocked hair and a thin moustache running into a chin beard, holding a Ganji-Bud joint. Jude always wondered if it was a portrait of his dad, but he¡¯d never asked.


    To his right, taking up the landing, four large men with muscles and tattoos sat at a metal table, playing a curious game with thin white bricks decorated with black dots. Each man had a machete sheathed at his side, and two pump action shotguns rested on the ground under the table. The sickly sweet smell of Ganji-Bud lingered, and a wispy haze hung above their heads. The low buzz of a generator hummed, the landing lit by the red glow of heat lamps fixed high on the walls.


    ¡°Nah, bro.¡± He drew on a thick Ganji-Bud joint and puffed the smoke at Jude. ¡°Do you never learn?¡±


    ¡°Ah Jenko, he¡¯ll be fine! I gave him two pigeons the other day. I¡¯ve had Trevor on my back for that. He thinks I''ve gotten sloppy.¡±


    Jenko sipped moonshine from a tin hip flask. A black, gold, and green flag adorned the front. ¡°Tsk¡­¡± Looking over to his men at the table, he rolled his eyes and landed them stern on Jude. ¡°In the six months I¡¯ve been Genna, you¡¯ve caused me more shit than anything else in this shanty.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just misunderstood,¡± Jude grinned.


    ¡°Wasteman,¡± he said, taking another puff of his joint. ¡°Wherever ya go, shit follows.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure Dawson promoted you to Genna to protect his Croc and Ganji-Bud, Jenko. Doubt he intended you to use your skills to keep a harmless young pigeon hunter out.¡±


    ¡°In one month, you¡¯ve taken the Lord¡¯s daughter out of the shanty without permission twice, started a fire, and threatened to shoot Winston.¡±


    ¡°Winston bit my arse! He was lucky I didn¡¯t shoot him.¡± He slung his bow from his shoulders and thrust it at the big Genna.


    ¡°He¡¯s a guard dog, bro. You were climbing the outside of the Lord¡¯s house. What did ya expect?


    ¡°Dunno. Thought he might have given me a warning bark. Oh, and the fire had already started. I was putting it out.¡±


    ¡°With petrol?¡± asked Jenko with a raised eyebrow.


    ¡°Who in their right mind keeps petrol in a bucket near to a cookfire?¡±


    Jenko stifled a laugh. The tension hung in the air for a moment before his shoulders relaxed. ¡°You¡¯re lucky the gyal¡¯s smitten with ya. I saw Dawson skin a bredda alive for far less than what you¡¯ve done. Go in, but I¡¯m telling ya, bro, keep ya quick mouth shut.¡± He stepped to Jude and snatched the arrows from his quiver. He docked out the last of his joint on the wall and placed the bow and arrows into a metal chest behind his men.


    ¡°Anything for you, Mr Jenkins,¡± answered Jude with more than a hint of sarcasm, and with a wink, he brushed past Jenko and entered Dawson¡¯s Shanty.


    The place was alive. Children whooped and raced, men smoked, women drank and laughed. An old music system soundtracked the bustle with a jungle baseline, and Jude passed through with a carefree bounce in his step. He whistled along and clicked his fingers to the one-drop drum.


    The huge room was sprawling, packed wall to wall with huts and shacks built with wood and metal, salvaged from abandoned buildings about the city. A far cry from the rooms at the hotel across the road, but infinitely more desirable than the slum below. The ceiling was more than double height, and light bulbs hung like stars in an inkwell sky, dotted here and there, casting circles of light on the walkways below. On the far side, the red glow of heat lamps pulsed, and huge silver fans shifted hot air through the makeshift walkways. Ganji-Bud drifted on the artificial breeze, and its earthy sweetness masked the musky odour of shanty life. A group of old women, crookbacked and wizened, shuffled through the green plants, chopping and dropping buds into canvas sacks. Brooding men clutching machetes eyed him through the leaves. On the walls, many of the windows still had glass in them, or were at least boarded, keeping the heat locked in. The shacks and huts appeared well-made. They were permanent dwellings that housed families, and the conditions were reasonable in comparison to other parts of the city''s slums. They made an effort to keep the walkways clean, and Jude always thought the front porches of the shacks looked quite homely.


    He averted his eyes as he passed some of Dawson¡¯s soldiers. Tattooed, aggressive, and unwelcoming, six of them stood at a metal barrel, dipping tin cups and drinking. They spoke English, but not like Jude knew it. He picked up something about a shoot-out. He risked a glance. The man doing most of the talking was small and wiry, with a braided goatee and piercing eyes. Beads and chains drooped from his neck, a green bandana on his head. Not men he¡¯d want to be in a shoot-out with.


    There were other shanties dotted about the city, though Jude had never been in any of them, only here. Trevor said they were all at war with each other over who sells Croc where. As if there weren¡¯t enough addicts to go around.


    In the furthest point of the room, taking up a whole corner from floor to ceiling, was a large shack. Though Jude always thought it more of a house, as it was big and strong and had many small details of crude elegance that the others were lacking. Someone had taken extra care to paint the boards and scaffolding with black paint. Fire barrels lined the low perimeter fence. Jude passed them. As always, he admired the pink plastic statue of a tall bird standing on one leg, decorating a long strip of dull artificial grass, which acted as a path to the house. He¡¯d searched all over the city for one of these to hunt, but he¡¯d never seen one. The front door was a foreboding barrier, painted a bright red, with two glass rectangles of a variety of colours standing proudly in the top half.


    Jude strode towards the door. With his head high and his shoulders back, he reached towards the large brass lion''s head in the centre. Taking hold of the ring between the lion''s teeth, he tapped it against the door three times.


    The door flung open, and a young woman sporting a face like thunder burst out, knocking him off balance. Not breaking stride, she stormed along the grass, booting the pink bird off into the distance as she went. She came to an abrupt halt by the barrels, with the back of her head towards the house.


    Jude imagined steam shooting out of her ears, and for a split second, he nearly laughed when he saw the enormous head of a wolfhound appear in the doorway. ¡°Fine afternoon, isn¡¯t it, Winston?¡± he asked with a sheepish step back.


    The huge wolfhound snarled and bared its teeth. The powerful head pulling towards Jude was halted only by a thick chain looped around its bulging neck.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a yes¡­¡±


    ¡°Shut your noise, child.¡± The voice was level, but stern and authoritative, the words delivered with hostility by a powerfully squat man who had appeared in the doorway behind Winston.


    ¡°Hello, Dawson,¡± replied Jude, the smile vacating his face. How could such a small man seem so big, he thought. Dawson was no more than five-eight, but his neck and shoulders were impossibly wide. The forearm straining to hold Winston¡¯s chain was as thick as Jude¡¯s own leg. A tattoo of a black panther baring its teeth adorned his bare barrel chest.


    Dawson tugged at his thick black beard with his free hand. Contempt hung in the silence until, at last, he spoke. ¡°Have her back at this door in one hour. A second later, and I''ll feed what¡¯s left of your arse to the hound.¡±


    Jude¡¯s eye twitched as he called upon every shred of restraint and stifled a sarcastic reply. ¡°I¡¯ll bring you a few pigeons.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± He slammed the door, almost tearing it away from its hinges, and the lion head knocker rattled angrily to a stop.


    Jude¡¯s smile instantly reappeared as he spun around and took a running jump over the barrels. ¡°Well, I think that went better than last time,¡± he laughed as he landed at the pink bird, which was now protruding from a fire drum. Luckily, it wasn¡¯t burning. He picked it up and returned it carefully to its home on the grass.


    The young woman turned to face Jude, the tightness in her striking amber eyes relaxed as the thunder in her face rumbled away. The corners of her dark lips upturned, and a brilliant white smile lit up her features. ¡°It could hardly have gone worse, Jude. Last time he gave you half an hour and called you¡­what was it now?¡± She pulled a puzzled face and feigned ignorance.


    ¡°A jumped-up little shit, I think it was.¡±


    ¡°That was it, and he wasn¡¯t far wrong,¡± she laughed.


    Jude chuckled and threw his arm over her shoulder, and with a smile on his face and spring in his step, he led her back towards the stairs.

 Croc Headshot

    As she navigated the clamouring hoards of beggars and Crocheads, hand in hand with Jude, Zuri felt totally at ease. They left Dawson¡¯s Shanty without delay and were now walking along Sackville Street towards the canal and Sackville Pile ¨C a colossal pile of waste where a large contingent of the city¡¯s pigeons nested. It was here she first laid eyes on Jude.


    She idly searched for his hand at her waist as they walked, linking his fingers. ¡°Your hands are cold,¡± she said, nudging him with her shoulder. He nudged her back, then released her hand and slid his arm around her shoulders.


    Zuri was happy. She¡¯d been happy ever since the day they met. Jude was an enigma like nothing she had seen before. He had caused her heart to quicken and her intrigue to rise.


    She was collecting her father¡¯s favourite moonshine from the bar opposite Sackville Pile when she first saw a young man sprinting through the street at unfathomable speed. She watched, captivated. Without breaking stride, he vaulted the wall cordoning the waste ground and came up in a roll. She gasped as he drew back on a curious weapon and unleashed an arrow through the air. A fraction of a second later, a pigeon plummeted out of the sky, and the young man, who still hadn¡¯t broken stride, skidded to a stop underneath and snatched the falling bird from the air.


    As she came to her senses, she realised she was staring at the young man, who was looking back at her with a sheepish grin. He was tall and slender, with a flash of slicked-back blond hair and striking deep green eyes, his face angular and his smile full of impish trouble. Wound tightly about his neck, he wore a mustard-coloured scarf tucked tightly into the collar of a green denim jacket. A long knife in a leather sheath hung from a belt over his jeans, tucked securely into boots. He looked more like a fashion model from the old advertising boards hanging around the city than a hunter.


    ¡°How did you learn to do that?¡± asked Zuri as she walked towards him and rested her elbows on the wall.


    ¡°Ah, just practice, really. I¡¯ve tried that a hundred times and only pulled it off once or twice,¡± he replied. ¡°Yesterday I messed up my landing and ended up face down in a dog turd.¡±


    Zuri laughed harder than she had in a long time. When she finally composed herself, she replied, ¡°You¡¯re lying! I¡¯ve never seen a weapon like that before. What is it?¡±


    ¡°This is a bow,¡± he replied, holding it up, supported by a beaming grin. ¡°It¡¯s a hunting tool more than a weapon, I guess. You can watch me shoot another if you like. I can''t go back home until I¡¯ve got five birds, or I''m out of arrows,¡± said the young man as he walked towards Zuri and hopped onto the wall. Yanking the zip on his backpack open, he took out a plastic bag and carefully wrapped the pigeon inside. Zuri noticed he was missing the smallest finger on his right hand, but curious as she was, she was careful not to stare.


    ¡°Zuri! Come now, gyal!¡± A man¡¯s voice boomed, shattering the moment.


    ¡°That¡¯ll be Jenko,¡± Zuri said with a roll of her amber eyes. She felt her cheeks flush. ¡°He¡¯s my escort. My father doesn¡¯t let me out alone. Treats me like a prisoner, has his men follow me everywhere. My mumma died, so I think he worries, or maybe he¡¯s scared I¡¯ll run off. I don¡¯t like it where we live.¡± She stopped, realising she was oversharing, then cleared her throat and brushed dirt from Jude¡¯s jacket.


    The silence was awkward and comfortable. He was easy. Not like the other young men from the shanty who tried so obviously and desperately to hold her attention. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Jude,¡± the young man answered with a smile. With that, Zuri spun on her heel and strode towards Jenko. ¡°Hey!¡± she heard Jude shout. ¡°I¡¯m here this time every day! What was your name?¡±


    ¡°Zuri,¡± she called back without turning around, in order to not show him the cheek-splitting smile on her face.


    That had been the beginning of a wonderful friendship between the two. Zuri returned the next day and the day after that, and before long, Jude had somehow bypassed shanty security and shown up at her front door. Her father was furious. It had taken weeks for him to even entertain the idea that this young man could escort her about the city without Jenko. But the Shanty Genna had convinced him somehow. Why Jenko wanted Jude to be allowed to take her on his own, she had never quite worked out, though she had landed on the most likely reason being that the Genna was tired of playing childminder and wanted to do his actual job: shooting Croc, smoking Ganji-Bud, and killing people.


    ¡°Stay close past here,¡± commanded Jude as they walked past Arnero¡¯s Shanty.


    ¡°You¡¯ve said that every single time we¡¯ve ever passed here, Jude. I know.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, can¡¯t be too careful. I¡¯ve never been in, but Trev reckons that¡¯s the worst shanty there is,¡± stressed Jude, quickening the pace.


    ¡°Urgh, you¡¯ve told me that as well! You¡¯re not my guard, despite what my father thinks,¡± she snapped.


    ¡°I¡¯m not guarding you for him, I''m guarding you for me,¡± he replied, pulling her in close and kissing her on the forehead.


    ¡°Soppy git,¡± laughed Zuri as she looked over at the shanty. Arnero¡¯s is certainly disconcerting, she thought as she looked on at a huge multi-storey car park, built above gutted shops, that housed hundreds of Crocheads. The putrid smell from inside polluted the street as they walked by. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°Jenko told me about Dawson¡¯s feud with Arnero. He said it¡¯s lucky they¡¯re still in a truce, or he wouldn¡¯t let you out at all.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve been in a truce for a year. It''s just Jenko trying to scare you away, pay it no mind,¡± replied Zuri, the lie rolling off her tongue easier than she thought.


    They walked on, Arnero¡¯s Shanty looming over them. She stared up at it. It was a wild gnarly black building, jagged and angry. Ominous. The type of place that chills your bones. Each level of the car park was more dangerous than the last. The shacks and tents were visible from outside, crude and uninviting and lit by the fiery red glow of cookfires and heat drums. The second top level was Arnero¡¯s stronghold. Several men with rifles stood guard at lookout points, mean looking and rugged, watching the streets and rooftops for signs of threat.


    Zuri shuddered and pulled Jude¡¯s arm close to her. The limp bodies of two men and a woman hung by the neck over the side of the top floor. The woman had been there for some time. One of her legs had rotted off at the knee and dropped to the floor. A huge black crow was playfully tugging at the eyeball of one of the men. It crooked its neck, looked down at Zuri, and cawed.


    On the lowest level, cut off from the street by a tall metal fence topped with nasty rings of barbed wire, motocross bikes blared around at dangerous speed. The raucous whoops and jeers of onlooking Crocheads were drowned out by the thundering engines, their noise cannoning off the high ceiling of the vast space. Zuri watched as the bikes zipped up off-ramps fashioned over the old carcasses of vehicles. Engines rattled and spluttered, and dust kicked up and swirled as the tyres bumped down. Periodic booming echoes of gunshot were followed by unsettling shrieks of agony.


    ¡°Why do they do that?¡± she yelled over the noise.


    ¡°That¡¯s the Trials,¡± Jude shouted back. ¡°Once a month, addicts enter them and fight to the death. The last one living wins an eighth of Croc. There¡¯s a champion''s ceremony after it, which goes on through the night on the second floor. They get out of their minds on moonshine and Croc and it spills out onto the streets. Always ends in riots.¡±


    ¡°An eighth!¡±


    ¡°I know. I¡¯d bet most of the winners are dead by the next day. Arnero and her gang get entertained, and the winner gets an unimaginable prize. Trev reckons they most likely overdose with their winnings, and Arnero takes what¡¯s left straight back.¡±


    ¡°Why do they enter if they¡¯ll likely die?¡±


    ¡°Trev says it¡¯s like the lottery. Some competition everyone did before The Panic. He said he used to enter twice a week without fail, even though he knew he¡¯d never win.¡±


    ¡°But they won¡¯t just lose, they''ll die.¡±


    ¡°Look at them, Zu. They¡¯ve got nothing to live for. I guess, to an addict, death is worth the risk.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I guess so.¡± She pursed her lips in thought, then a playful smile flashed over her. ¡°I suppose the Trials are a quicker death than being caught by the Grey Man, though, eh?¡±


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t joke about the Grey Man, Zu,¡± he said with an uncomfortable glance around, as though someone would burst from the crowd and attack.


    ¡°You¡¯re such a worrier. It¡¯s just a ghost story to scare kids. Keeps them safe in their beds after dark and not sneaking out adventuring. You don¡¯t believe there¡¯s an actual man torturing and murdering people, do you?¡±


    ¡°Of course I do. Look around. A serial killer is way more plausible than half the shit that¡¯s going on in this city. What about Darren Partington? I told you about him, didn¡¯t I?¡±


    Zuri rolled her eyes. ¡°Yes. He went missing. People go missing all the time. Or overdose. Or get taken by the Guard.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but I haven¡¯t told you this,¡± he said, halting his stride and turning to her with wide eyes. ¡°He turned up two nights ago, strapped upside down to a lamppost out near Jutland Hill. Guts spilled, staked through the heart, eyes missing.¡±


    ¡°Eurgh! Disgusting. Did you see it?¡±


    ¡°Well no, but Hoggo was there collecting batteries from the scrap cart, and he saw the body. He told Trevor and Trevor told me.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a load of nonsense to me.¡±


    Jude shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s alright for you, Zuri, safe in your shanty, guarded by Jenko and his men. You don¡¯t hear the whispers in the slums. Or see the orphans, stray on the street. They stop you and ask for a penny, tell you their dad was gutted and staked. The Grey Man is real, I know it.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Zuri sighed. ¡°Anyway, the story goes he only kills Crocheads, so unless you¡¯re hiding some black scales under that jacket, you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    She laughed, jabbed him in the ribs, and scrabbled at his zip. He crossed his arms and nudged her off. Unable to hide his smile, he broke into a reluctant chuckle. He pressed his head into hers and pecked her on the cheek. She felt her cheeks go red.


    ¡°We should move from here. It turns wild around Arnero¡¯s after the Trials,¡± said Jude.


    A gunshot sounded, followed by the wild blasts of a motorcycle. They walked alongside Arnero¡¯s at a quick pace, skirting groups of Crocheads and beggars and street vendors. Every few seconds, gunshots and cheers. The air smelt bloody.


    A bike skidded and slammed into the metal fence a few yards from where they were walking. The rider had been pinned underneath its weight, eyes wide with terror as a second rider ground to a halt in front of him. ¡°No, please!¡± he screamed, raising a hand in front of his face as the second rider levelled a pistol at his head. With a toothless and manic laugh, he executed him, splattering bone and brains through the fence onto the road outside.


    Zuri clutched Jude by the forearm and rushed him away. She daren¡¯t look back, not until they were far enough that the deafening noise of battle was a distant murmur.


    ¡°That was grim,¡± muttered Jude, head down to the floor.


    ¡°One less Crochead polluting the city,¡± replied Zuri with a shrug of her shoulders.


    ¡°Why are you like that? They¡¯re human beings,¡± Jude snapped. ¡°And why do you have to call them that?¡±


    ¡°Crocheads? That''s what they are. What else would I call them?¡±


    ¡°Dunno. What about addicts, afflicted, unfortunate? What about people?¡±


    ¡°Look at you, so soft for such a ferocious hunter,¡± Zuri said. Then seeing the sadness in his eyes, she reached for his hand and clasped it tightly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry Jude.¡±


    Jude didn¡¯t reply. He released his hand from hers and looped his bow over his head, drawing an arrow. They had arrived at Sackville Pile.

 Tales at Sackville Pile

    Jude was tense. He could feel it in his shoulders as he lined up his shot. With a deep breath, he released an arrow. It skewered a pigeon picking at the carcass of a cat, slumped against a toppled bin. He trudged across the masses of rubbish and debris and scooped it up nonchalantly. He wrapped it in plastic and dropped it into his bag.


    He stared vacantly at the spiralling tower of frozen waste that climbed away toward the low clouds. He thought Zuri was different. He remembered their first meeting. She was perfect, and her smile could break a thousand hearts. That day, he shot a pigeon out of the sky and caught it before it hit the ground, a feat he¡¯d attempted countless times but never successfully. His delight that he finally managed it whilst she watched him was immeasurable.


    The following weeks had been a dream. He adored everything about Zuri. Most of all, she was smart and fiery and ferociously witty. They had joked back and forth, laughing the time away. But when she degraded the addicts and treated the unfortunate with contempt, it saddened him to his core. He convinced himself it was Dawson¡¯s ways poisoning her, and he truly believed that she was a good person at heart. He just needed to free her from her father¡¯s control. Help her see the world through less devious and cynical eyes.


    He sighed, releasing the tension that had built up in his chest. He walked back across the waste ground to Zuri, who was sitting on the wall where they had first met.


    ¡°I¡¯m really sorry, Jude,¡± she said with meaning. ¡°It¡¯s just my way. My dad hates Crocheads.¡± She shook her head in frustration. ¡°Sorry, I mean addicts.¡± She pulled Jude into an embrace and kissed him lightly.


    ¡°I know that. Maybe it¡¯s me that¡¯s wrong. After all, I¡¯m in the minority thinking they¡¯re savable, aren¡¯t I?¡± He leaned onto the wall with his forearms. ¡°I¡¯ve never mentioned my dad to you, have I?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No,¡± she replied. It was common courtesy not to ask about family since The Panic. Everyone had lost someone. Everyone had a horror story to tell.


    ¡°My dad, he was a great man. He taught me archery ¨C¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s archery?¡±


    ¡°Sorry. It¡¯s what you call shooting arrows with a bow. We had a target in the back garden. He¡¯d spend hours with me, practising. I didn¡¯t even care about archery, I just loved being with him. He was so kind and patient. He was my hero. At the beginning of The Panic, he fell into a depression. Anyway, one thing led to another, and he ended up addicted to Croc.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Jude. I had no idea,¡± said Zuri, fingers pressing her temples. ¡°I thought Trev and Lisa were your parents?¡±


    ¡°No. My dad walked out on us chasing Croc, and I¡¯ve never seen him since. I''m pretty sure he¡¯s dead. The last day I saw him, he was a walking corpse. My mum was beside herself with grief and anger. After Dad left, she got worse and worse and started drinking herself dumb.¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°What happened to her?¡±


    ¡°About a year after Dad left, the riots were at their worst. One night, she ran out of wine and told me she was going to find more. It was a war zone outside. I begged her not to go.¡±


    ¡°What happened? She never came home?¡±


    ¡°No, she was out all night. The next morning, I took my dad¡¯s bow and a few arrows, and I packed a bag with food and water. Then I went out to look for her. I was out in the riots all day. Reckon I was about eight or ten, and I barely ever left the house on my own. I checked every shop I knew, but no sign of her. When I got back home that night, she was there.¡±


    A tear rolled down Jude¡¯s cheek. ¡°We don¡¯t have to do this, Jude,¡± said Zuri, brushing the tear away and pecking his cheek.


    ¡°It¡¯s ok. I need you to understand.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re sure. So you got home and your mum was back. What did she say?¡±


    Jude swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and composed himself. ¡°Nothing. The front door was open when I got back. I walked in and called her. She wasn¡¯t downstairs. I went up, called her again and again.¡± He gulped and took a deep breath. Zuri took his hand and stroked it. ¡°When I got to the top of the stairs, I found her hanging through the loft hatch.¡±


    Zuri gasped and pulled him in. She squeezed him tight and held him for a minute. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to say. There¡¯s nothing I can say. I understand why the way I¡¯ve been acting has upset you. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Jude nodded. He wanted to speak, but he could feel his lip quivering. He bowed his head.


    ¡°My mumma died last year. I didn¡¯t get to say goodbye. She wasn¡¯t even sick. One day she was there, and the next day¡­gone. My dad walked into my room and told me she was dead. He told me so matter-of-fact, as if he was telling me it was raining outside or he wanted me to fetch him a drink. I hate him for it. But at least the last time I saw her, she was smiling and we hugged. You didn¡¯t get that, and I can only imagine the pain.¡±


    He looked up, locked to her feline eyes, sincere in the dusk light. So beautiful. He smiled at her. He felt a weight lift. She could see him, and he knew she understood him. He felt safe. Not even Lisa knew how his mother died.


    ¡°I¡¯ve thought about it every day since. My best guess is she got back wasted and saw I wasn¡¯t there. There was food missing, and the bow was gone. She must have thought I¡¯d walked out on her like my dad. I was all she had left.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Jude. You can¡¯t blame yourself. No one can ever know what¡¯s going through a person¡¯s mind when they get to that point in their life.¡±


    ¡°Thanks for listening. I do blame myself. Think I always will. I''ll carry the guilt with me forever.¡±


    The two stood in reflective silence for a while until Jude finally spoke. ¡°Shit! It¡¯s getting dark. I¡¯ve only got three birds and we¡¯re late. Your dad¡¯s going to feed me to Winston. We need to go right now,¡± he said, scooping up his bag and slinging his bow over his shoulders.


    Jude scanned the sky. The sun was blood red and angry, only a few slots of it visible, fighting through sprawling clouds of thick iron. ¡°It¡¯s deadly after dark. You know that, don¡¯t you, Zu?¡±


    ¡°I live in a shanty, not under a rock,¡± she replied with a tut. But Jude knew she would never have been out after dark. Her father wouldn¡¯t allow it.


    ¡°We don¡¯t have long. No stopping,¡± he said, moving into a lope and nudging her along.


    ¡°We best move, then, slow boy. See if you can keep up,¡± teased Zuri with a flash of her easy smile. But Jude could see that, behind her smile, she was deeply anxious, as the last of the cold daylight crept away.

 Thieves in the Night

    Jude lept and bounded through the manic streets, jostling with the droves of people making for the sanctuary of shelter before the night closed in. In front of him, Zuri was setting the pace. She ran exquisitely, nimbly navigating through the crowds with relative ease. Everything about her was athletic ¨C her legs long and powerful, her frame lean but strong. As she ran, her braided raven hair billowed behind her in the harsh wind. He caught her up. Neither of them broke stride.


    ¡°We''ll turn right before we get to Arnero¡¯s and go round. It¡¯s too dangerous to pass that way now. I¡¯d rather be back late and alive than not at all.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± panted Zuri, ¡°and we don¡¯t want to deprive Winston of his meal.¡±


    They swung right and ran side by side along the canal. The rain intensified, lashing hard and sideways directly into their faces. The last of the light finally faded, signifying an unspoken decree, a change in the air and the energy about the city.


    Anything goes after dark.


    Their path along the canal was lit now by dim yellow street lights and metal drums filled with flame. Neon signs buzzed outside the dive bars and brothels. The constant hammering of the rain on the ground was joined by the blasting engines of cars and motorcycles tearing around the streets. Gunshots and whoops sounded from howling men on the prowl, hunting like packs of hungry wolves.


    Together, they reached a junction in their path. ¡°Left here,¡± called Jude over the driving rain.


    Zuri hit the left, followed by Jude. As he turned the corner, out of the corner of his eye came a black shape flying at him through the rain. His head flashed and cracked. Stars whizzed around his eyes, and he staggered to his knees. A thick stream of blood gushed from his forehead and over his eyes. He spat red from his mouth to the rain-soaked floor beside him and saw the rock that had clattered him. He felt sick.


    ¡°Jude!¡± screamed Zuri, dropping to her knees next to him, her hands clasping at the crack in his head. It was bad. Wide, deep, and pouring blood.


    ¡°Toss the bag over, girl. Do it now, and you might go on your way unspoiled.¡±


    Zuri looked up at three Crocheads. The man who spoke was standing a foot closer than the others staring at her. More starving dogs than men. The speaker¡¯s face was gaunt and waxy, his single dark eye pouring over her body greedily. The other was just a scaly recess in his skull. Filthy black hair hung down to his shoulders, dripping in the rain.


    ¡°Give them the bag,¡± groaned Jude, dropping out of consciousness. Zuri took the bag from Jude¡¯s back and stepped forward with a thunderous scowl and a simmering fury.


    The second man stepped in to meet her. He was big for a Crochead, with a bald head and a scraggly orange beard. He snatched the bag greedily and tossed it back to One Eye.


    As she turned back, she felt a clammy hand grasp her wrist, and it yanked backwards into the big Crochead¡¯s arms. One Eye jeered and laughed. The third man began walking toward Jude with a flick-knife drawn.


    Fire erupted in her belly. Her head thumped isn¡¯t one with her heart and her jaw ached. She was aware of her grinding teeth. She snapped her head backwards, splattering the big man¡¯s nose across his face. Dropping to a knee, she drove her elbow into his groin. A scream of anguish erupted from his foul face as he hit the floor. Leaping up from her knee, she dove onto the knifeman¡¯s back, sinking her nails into his neck and wrapping her legs around his knife-wielding arm. He writhed and bucked like a panicked horse, unable to throw her off until, desperate to alleviate the searing pain in his neck, he threw himself to the ground.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    She landed on her back. The knifeman landed on top of her but sprang up quickly. She kicked her leg into his ankles, sweeping him from his feet. The knife slipped from his hand as he clattered the concrete. She swept it up instantly and, without hesitation, slammed it into his chest. Her muscles protested. Aching arms and legs and a shaking, nervous tension willed her to collapse in a heap. She pushed herself up from his body. A fist crunched into her jaw, spinning her back down to the floor.


    One Eye stepped over her, malice all over his grim face. He stooped down and gripped her neck. Slowly and firmly, he squeezed. Zuri wretched and gasped for air. She felt herself drifting away, so tired. If she could just close her eyes for a second, she could get the energy to fight back. Her eyelids drooped.


    An arrow suddenly exploded through One Eye¡¯s good eye. The force of it jolted his body back, and he collapsed in a heap on the sodden ground. Zuri sat up.


    Jude staggered towards her, swaying on his legs with bow in hand. He looked straight past her. He tried to speak, words unwilling to form. He slipped and dropped to his knees once more, notching an arrow as he went. Lazily, he raised his bow. His eyes narrowed. His teeth clenched. He searched deep for strength. For focus. Eyes finally locked to Zuri, he found it.


    He ripped an arrow through the air. It zipped past Zuri¡¯s face and thudded into the big man¡¯s neck. With a loud groan, he toppled to the floor like a felled tree.


    Zuri raced over to Jude, clasping her hands over his cheeks. She kissed him and wiped the blood from his eyes. ¡°You saved me,¡± she said, furiously wiping blood from his face, sweat and tears from her own.


    ¡°Are you kidding? You saved yourself! Remind me never to piss you off.¡±


    Zuri laughed through tears. ¡°Tell me you¡¯re ok?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he replied, pushing himself to his feet.


    ¡°Disgusting scum. I hate them, Jude. I¡¯m sorry, but I do,¡± snapped Zuri with feeling as she stomped over to One Eye¡¯s body. As she arrived, she booted it with venom before she retrieved the bag and passed it back to Jude. ¡°I hate them and I hate this city and I hate this life.¡±


    ¡°How can you say that to me after what I told you earlier? You know how I feel. It¡¯s not their fault.¡±


    ¡°Open your eyes, Jude! They¡¯re a plague. They were scum before they were Crocheads, and they¡¯re scum now they are Crocheads,¡± Zuri fumed, amber eyes flashing red in the firelight. ¡°They¡¯ve just nearly killed us both, and you¡¯re defending them.¡±


    ¡°So my dad was scum, then, was he? That¡¯s what you think!¡± Jude¡¯s blood boiled. He could feel it, like fire thumping through his arms. His knuckles throbbed, ready to burst through his skin. He jabbed his bow at her furiously. ¡°And who are you to talk? The daughter of a Shanty Lord! Who shots gear to kids and murders any who cross him?¡±


    ¡°Maybe your dad was scum! Maybe if he was the good man you say he was, he wouldn¡¯t have picked that shit over his own family!¡±


    Her eyes softened. Tears pooling on the lower lid. The fire fizzled out, and her shoulders dropped. Her lips relaxed. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Leave me alone,¡± replied Jude. He turned away from her and walked back the way they had come from. Head down. Staggering. Stumbling on the cobbles.


    ¡°Jude! Come back! You¡¯re hurt. I didn¡¯t mean it,¡± Zuri sobbed after him.


    He swung around, anger pulsing through him, his head pounding. Like a demon, bloody and battered in the rain. ¡°Leave me alone,¡± he snarled through gritted teeth, and with that, he walked away through the wild night.

 Snake in the Grass

    Trevor held eye contact with Marcus as he slithered up to the hot plate. He was slim and swarthy, with a mop of dirty grey hair parted in the middle and slicked back with grease. Deep bags circled his eyes, their giant pupils diesel-black on a backdrop of bloodshot. His thin skin was pasty and yellow, with a wet and waxy sheen. A single bead of sweat made its way cautiously down his sharp cheekbone towards his lips, which formed a thin and malevolent smirk. Dry, cracked black scales, poorly disguised, peeped through the patchy stubble on his wiry neck.


    As he arrived, he thrust out his left hand to his side, halting his men. His right hand clasped around a long wooden torch, the flame hissing in the wind. The men peered over his shoulder, eyeing his lockbox, like a pack of jackals weighing up their next meal. Marcus seemed to ignore the box. His shifty black eyes were more taken by the tramlines, leading away towards the Black Barracks.


    ¡°What can I get for you, Marcus? Got a few rat skewers left. Or will you boys be after some moonshine?¡± Trevor said with a smile.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t personal, butcher,¡± Marcus replied as he staked the long wooden shaft of the torch into the mud and, again, glanced away to the left.


    ¡°So you mean to rob me, then? How has it come to this, people of The Gardens robbing their own? You should be ashamed.¡±


    Marcus scoffed, his black eyes narrowing on Trevor. ¡°Oh please. You stand there behind your hot plate, day after day, in the warm, fed and watered, while the rest of us suffer!¡±


    The four Crocheads behind Marcus jeered in agreement. A crowd gathered, ripples of support rising for Marcus¡¯ poisonous dogma.


    ¡°Handing out the odd rat here and there as if you care about the afflicted! Trevor the High! Trevor the Mighty!¡± he spat. The jeers intensified, the anger mounting. A man hissed and spat, and a woman called for blood. Trevor knew what was happening. Marcus was whipping his minions into a frenzy. ¡°In your kitchen, built on the proceeds of looting and rioting, all in the name of the rebel cause! Trevor Evans! Hero of The Panic, rioting and murdering and overrunning the soldiers! It¡¯s your fault we¡¯re in this mess!¡±


    Trevor stepped to Marcus, who flinched briefly and again looked away to the left as the towering man closed in. ¡°Ok, snake,¡± Trevor growled. ¡°What¡¯s this about? If we¡¯re doing this, then at least have the spine to be straight.¡±


    Marcus licked his thin cracked lips and lowered to a whisper, ¡°Lloyd went missing this morning with The Gardens¡¯ full supply of Croc. The Archway is rattling, Trevor. I need to go back to the Conduit for another drop, or I won¡¯t see the morning. So I''m sure you can understand that my hands are tied. Maybe you can just give us the box as one of your many acts of charity.¡±


    This was bad news. Marcus had nothing to lose. He was the main runner in The Gardens. The addicts would be rattling into hysteria by this time if they¡¯d gone all day without Croc. They¡¯d tear him apart if he didn¡¯t come through with the goods soon.


    ¡°How many of you are prepared to die for his brother¡¯s greed?¡± Trevor snapped as he stared at each man in turn, surveying their courage, looking for a weakness in their wild eyes. He expected to see at least some fear or, failing that, some apprehension, but there was none. He didn¡¯t like his odds. As formidable as he was, he was likely to lose.


    ¡°Aye. Alright, boys. If that¡¯s how it¡¯s going to go. I¡¯ll take at least two of you with me. You know that, eh? Are you ready to die?¡±


    ¡°Ah Trevor, we¡¯d all die if we had to. Happily, we don¡¯t have to. Not today, anyway.¡± As Marcus spoke, his eyes glittered one last time to the left, and he hawked and spat in Trevor¡¯s face.


    Fury erupted in him, his left hand joining his right on the haft of the mighty cleaver. He bellowed in rage and kicked Marcus in the chest with his massive boot, sending him sprawling to the ground. The glittering arc of the cleaver lit the sky as he swung it down. Marcus rolled and scrambled in the mud, escaping the blade.


    As Trevor reset for a second attack, a scream from the balcony above the kitchen jarred him. He staggered back and swung around to his frantic wife. ¡°Trevor! Over there, the Guard!¡±


    The loud blast of an engine cut across The Gardens, breaking the tension. Trevor stepped back and looked over his shoulder to see a City Guard pickup truck speeding toward him. It ground to a stop. Headlamps beamed at him, spotlighted in the darkness. Four guards lept from the back, boots thumping to the ground, their batons drawn, faces calm.


    ¡°That¡¯s him! That¡¯s the bootlegger!¡± screamed Marcus, feigning terror. ¡°He has a blade. He tried to kill me! These men saw it!¡±


    Trevor¡¯s gut churned as realisation set in. He felt sick. This was a setup, a devious plan. Marcus had been looking towards the left of The Gardens, towards the tramlines and the Black Barracks. He knew they were coming.


    ¡°You! Drop the weapon and get on your knees ¨C do it now!¡± ordered a guard. ¡°You have committed code violations relating to moonshine tax evasion.¡±


    Trevor felt the colour drain from his face. His hands slowly opened, and the cleaver dropped to the mud with a heavy slap. Crestfallen, he fell to his knees. As the guards walked towards him, batons in hand, he closed his eyes. A bid to escape the manic glee on Marcus¡¯ face. An almighty crack cannoned into the back of his head, splitting his skull. More blows followed, crashing around his body. Flashes of light danced around his eyes as a high-pitched ringing vibrated between his ears. His hulking frame toppled forward, plummeting to the sodden wet ground with a mighty thud. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    The four guards loomed over him, looking back towards the truck, as a man steeped in vile arrogance jumped down from the front passenger seat. His pristine black bulled boots squelched in the mud as he landed. A look of disdain drew over his face as he sniffed the air. ¡°Guards. Clear the shack,¡± he commanded.


    ¡°Yes, Captain,¡± they replied in unison. The four of them entered the shack and began tearing it apart. Moments later, Lisa¡¯s manic screams cut through The Gardens. Trevor groaned. They dragged her out like a rag doll, past the hot plate, and flung her to the mud.


    ¡°You bastards! Leave us alone,¡± she wailed as she staggered up and over to Trevor¡¯s side and threw her body over his. Captain Brunner stepped towards her and cannoned his boot into her ribs, lifting her through the air with a yelp. He dragged her up, his leather glove clutching a fistful of her hair, wrenching her face up to look at his malevolent glare.


    ¡°You will sit down and shut up, woman, or he will suffer,¡± he hissed as he backhanded her with sickening power, sending her wheeling into the wall of the shack. Lisa sat up and clutched her knees to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.


    Brunner walked back to Marcus and his minions, his shoulders back, his sharp nose lifted to the night sky as he peered down at them. ¡°This had better be worth my time, Marcus, or you¡¯ll be joining this big oaf in the mud.¡± He took Marcus by his bony shoulder and steered him away from the group. ¡°Where the fuck is Lloyd?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Captain, I don¡¯t know. We¡¯ve looked everywhere. I swear we have!¡±


    ¡°When we find him, he¡¯ll hang outside the Black Barracks.¡±


    Marcus nodded profusely.


    ¡°I can¡¯t fathom how you could have fucked this up so badly. If you ever, ever pull me out into the shit to clean up after you again, you¡¯ll hang next to him. How does this look? You fool. Me, in The Gardens over a tax evasion. People will speculate.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain. I¡¯m s-sorry, Captain,¡± he stammered.


    ¡°Info¡¯s good, Captain,¡± a guard called from inside Trevor¡¯s shack. Brunner stepped forward and peered over the hot plate. His guards stood proudly in a crawl space below the kitchen. Wooden boards had been torn back and tossed aside. Inside were four large drums filled with high-quality moonshine. Tucked in a corner was a canvas bag stuffed with notes and coins.


    ¡°Very pleasing,¡± the captain declared. ¡°Load it up.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Captain!¡±


    Marcus could barely contain himself. ¡°See, Captain Brunner! I told you!¡±


    Brunner reached into the inside pocket of his black trench coat and pulled out a package wrapped in silver tape. He handed it over to Marcus, who almost snatched it, perturbed at the last second as he remembered his place. He softly took it and clutched it with two hands.


    ¡°Misplace this one and you¡¯re done. I do not expect to be dragged out into the shit to clean up after you ever again. The smell offends me,¡± he whispered with contempt.


    ¡°N-n-no, Captain. I¡¯m sorry, Captain.¡±


    Trevor opened his eyes, his cheek resting in the cold and wet mud. His head felt as though a hundred horses were galloping inside it. For a second, he was going to force himself up, his rage rising again, until reason took over him. Beaten and well outnumbered, the best he could do was live to fight again.


    He blinked blood from his eyes as a small shape sped towards his face. He couldn¡¯t work out what it was until it got closer to him. His vision focussed, and he heard a familiar voice.


    ¡°Mr Marcus, did I do good? I jammed the roll shutter just like you said!¡± chimed little Tilly Martin with glee.


    ¡°A wonderful job, little Tilly. You run over to the hot plate and help yourself to a nice skewer. Old Trevor won¡¯t mind.¡±


    Tilly looked down at Trevor and smiled as she stepped over his body and scurried over to the hot plate. Lisa¡¯s sobbing intensified as Tilly snatched a skewer and raced away across the boarded swamp.


    ¡°Someone shut that bitch up,¡± demanded Captain Brunner, irritated by Lisa¡¯s relentless sobbing.


    Trevor groaned. Summoning the last of his strength, he pushed himself to all fours and reached for the captain''s leg. His hand, caked in mud, grasped around his knee, staining his pristine trousers.


    ¡°You disgusting filth!¡± snarled Captain Brunner, horrified at the mud on his leg. His face flushed as he placed his boot on Trevor¡¯s back and pushed him down to the ground.


    Trevor had nothing left. Spent, he rolled onto his back in the mud so he could stare up at the night sky. His thoughts drifted to the boy. If there was ever a first time to be late home, this was it. He was glad Jude had been lucky and missed this horror show. He smiled. Lisa had been right. You¡¯re a kind man, Trev. Too kind.


    To think Tilly sabotaged his shutter that same day. So cruel, it was almost comical. He chuckled at his plight. He coughed, and blood spluttered from his mouth into the air, speckling his face.


    ¡°Funny, is it, you filthy pig?¡± Trevor looked towards the voice and saw Captain Brunner appear over him. His blood chilled as his eyes locked to the barrel of a revolver. Lisa¡¯s heart stopped, her face mauled by anguish. Her mouth screamed, but no sound hit the air. Paralyzed.


    With a look of sheer disdain, Captain Brunner slowly levelled his revolver and squeezed the trigger. The crack of gunshot pierced the air as Trevor¡¯s head exploded, and the drizzling rain about his body became occupied by blood in a shimmering red mist.  Captain Brunner turned and walked, unphased, back to the pickup. His guards loaded the barrels and climbed into the back, holding cans of moonshine lifted from Trevor¡¯s kitchen.


    A woman, gaunt and sorry, with two black eyes and a bloody mouth, stepped forward from the crowd. ¡°Guards, please, I need help.¡±


    The nearest guard swigged his shine and rounded on her. ¡°Last patrol was half an hour ago. Report it at the Black Barracks tomorrow¡­but have a wash first. You fucking stink.¡± The other guards sniggered like children.


    Marcus followed Captain Brunner to the side of the truck. The captain gave his orders as he climbed in. ¡°The coin in the lockbox is yours, as agreed. Do what you will with the woman, then burn it down.¡± The pickup thundered away in a cloud of dust and spray, the laughter only just drowned out by the blaring engine.


    ¡°You heard him. Take what you want. I¡¯ll deal with her,¡± ordered Marcus as the four Crocheads descended on the shack. Marcus bent down and ripped a chain from Trevor¡¯s lifeless neck. On the end of it hung a silver key. ¡°You¡¯ll want this,¡± he shouted with a smile as he tossed it to one of his men, and with a lick of his lips, he turned to Lisa.

 Wrath of Man

    A thunderous barrage of rain descended from the night sky, dancing in blustering swells and swirls of wind. In The Gardens, a man sat on the soaking wet floor, leant against a broken wall. A man unmoved by the cold and unconcerned by the events to which he bore witness. There yet totally unseen, he blended into the grey, a mere vagrant begging for scraps. A devious and dangerous guise. Hidden in his cold blue eyes was relentless and murderous intent, resting on one man. Marcus.


    He watched intently as his prey staked a wooden torch of fire into the mud and hissed in low tones to a giant man wielding a meat cleaver. The talking ceased and he spat in the giant¡¯s face. Four Crocheads waving metal bars circled the giant, like agitated snakes ready to strike. The giant sent a ferocious kick into Marcus¡¯ chest and swung his cleaver. As he moved to intervene, he saw Marcus roll free, and the rumble of an engine, followed by a woman¡¯s shrieks, disrupted the giant. Curious for the Captain of the Guard to attend at a low-level moonshine tax violation, he thought. For a brief moment, he forgot himself as he considered helping the giant, who was now face down in the mud. His woman, who Captain Brunner had just slapped and sent spinning into the wall of the shack, clutched her knees and sobbed.


    Under a thick grey woollen blanket wrapped about the man¡¯s shoulders, his concealed hands rested lightly on a sawn-off shotgun sitting in his lap. His fingers yearned for the trigger. He idly stroked the stock. He would love to stride over there and put Marcus out of his misery, and he¡¯d take great pleasure in dealing painful deaths to the pack of jackals baying for blood behind him. Such a shame he needed Marcus alive, and he harboured no grudge toward the City Guard. He¡¯d rather not have to kill them needlessly. He felt a surge of bloodlust pulse through him.


    For seven years, he had been hunting. Now he had lost count of the number he had tortured and killed. It started out with Crocheads. In the beginning, he had set out on a rampage, a killing spree fuelled by boiling anger and hatred. A furious force of relentless brutality. He rode the waves of The Panic, taking advantage of the chaos. He murdered Croc-addicted men and women, without hesitation or remorse. The dead piled up, but his pain never subsided. His murderous desires never satiated.


    He harnessed his once untameable fury in a tentative pact. He became cold and calculating, stalking his prey. A lone wolf, hungry yet patient. His victims once chosen at random now each served a purpose, each one bringing him closer to the end he longed for. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    First addicts, then runners and dealers, vanished in the night by his hand. Ripped away, as though they had evaporated into the smog. But they always surfaced. He made sure of it. For what good was his work if his message went unheard? He glanced up to the huge window in which he had stood not thirty minutes prior. In the dim firelight, a silhouette of a man, strung up in chains.


    Marcus was next.


    He would come up with something special for him. A low-down piece of scum deserved to die as one. He slipped his hand onto his belt and took the handle of the rail stake, which hung there. He would wait until this unjustified oppression was over, and then he¡¯d continue his stalking. He needed Marcus to leave, so he could continue his work and identify the best time and place to snatch him away.


    He shuffled on the crinkly blue tarpaulin laid down beneath him. Relentless rain tipped and tapped on the tarp and tinged on the tin can in front of him ¨C a beggar¡¯s livelihood that held no coins, only rainwater. The falling drops from the peak of his cap periodically dropped and sploshed, joining the rest.


    So cold. It was wet and uneasy. Frightened eyes in the dark, watching the scene, belonged to the people of the nearby slums. He saw them, yet they didn¡¯t see him. He was invisible. Melded into the grey concrete and scrap and lingering sorrow.


    The woman¡¯s sobbing intensified, stirring him from his thoughts. He watched closely as Captain Brunner kicked the giant away from him, back down into the mud. Seconds later, a bloody laugh spluttered from the giant''s mouth that sparked fury on the captain¡¯s face. The loud crack of gunshot sounded. A red mist rose over the giant''s face and danced in the drizzle.


    Uncalled for. Murder didn¡¯t move him. He¡¯d lost count on his death toll years ago. But he only killed when warranted. He didn¡¯t execute civvies in cold blood, only Crochead bastards and those in his way. He felt his anger swell. But he wasn¡¯t here for this. Just another sad story in a city full of them.


    The man watched on as the jackals tore the shack apart, whooping with glee as the lockbox opened. The rattling of coins falling to the ground and their copper clinks chimed through the air. Marcus stepped towards the woman. She rocked back and forth now, humming uncontrollably and staring blankly off to the horizon. Marcus clasped both of his wicked hands to her face, wrenching her to her feet, and his serpent tongue hissed out from his mouth and licked her neck. He pulled back and bared his teeth at her.


    Then an arrow thundered into his shoulder.

 Stakes and Arrows

    Jude swayed and staggered through the streets. The rain seemed to be everywhere in his blurry vision, frozen solid in the air. The crack in his forehead, unbearable, pulsed angrily and expelled rivers of blood. His arms trailed at his side, clutching his bow and his backpack. He stumbled to his knees, then dragged himself up and plodded on. Soaked hands wet with blood and rain. Frozen to the bone.


    His fury rose with every step. He stumbled his way past Arnero¡¯s Shanty, the shrieks and screams from inside barely registering through the piercing thump in his head. On he went. People in the night saw him and moved away. Of course they did. He was a blood-drenched demon, anguished in face, staggering in madness.


    In and out of consciousness, he trudged the streets, yearning for his bed. He passed Dawson¡¯s Shanty. Zuri would be back by now. Dawson would be berating her. He¡¯ll have probably locked her in the hot hole by now. Good, Jude thought as he spat blood on the floor.


    A pang of sadness tugged at him. Dawson would never let him back in now. Not now he¡¯d left Zuri out at night alone. He had all the reason he needed to banish him from the shanty. Jude didn¡¯t care. He didn¡¯t want Zuri, not after what she had said. Only he did want her. His anger dissipated, replaced by the dull weight of sadness and guilt. A voice in his head chipped away at him. She¡¯s out alone, she won¡¯t make it home, she¡¯ll die, or worse. How could you do this to her?


    ¡°What have I done?¡± he screamed. He began to sob uncontrollably. People skirted him, eyes down. He couldn¡¯t go back. He wanted to, but he could barely walk. If he could just get to Trevor. Yes, Trevor would know what to do, and Lisa would stitch him up. It¡¯s going to be ok, he lied to himself.


    Thoughts of Zuri and how he could fix this mess compounded his blistering headache as he trudged into The Gardens. He could see Trevor¡¯s Kitchen. He could see a large shape on the floor in front of it, and a man grasping a woman¡¯s face. He staggered forward. It was Lisa¡¯s face in Marcus¡¯ ghastly hands. His heart stopped as realisation descended through his entire being, and he fell to his knees, blinking blood from his eyes. The shape on the floor was Trevor. He knew from the hulking body and the grease-stained apron, but his face was an unrecognisable mess. He cried hard, but there was no sound. Only silent agonal sobs.


    He vomited, then yanked off his scarf and frantically wiped the blood from his eyes before wrapping it around his cracked head. Looking down, he could see four blurry arrows, but he knew there were only two. He picked one and notched it to the bow. Taking aim for Marcus¡¯ bastard head, he fizzed it through the night sky, but his aim was off and it thudded into his shoulder. A satisfying scream of pain sounded as Marcus released Lisa and spun around, his black eyes glaring at Jude.


    ¡°The boy! Kill the boy!¡±


    Four addicts emerged from the shack, sharp bars of metal in their filthy hands. He notched his last arrow, suspended in thought. A split second felt like a lifetime as he considered his next move. A second shot at Marcus should bring him down, but if he did that, he¡¯d most certainly die. He couldn¡¯t take four armed men, not in the state he was in. He could take down one of the four with the arrow and have an outside chance against three with his hunting knife, but then Marcus was free to harm Lisa.


    Decision made. He had to save Lisa, even if it cost him his own life. He was ready to die. He had nothing left.


    Jude drew back on the bowstring, took aim at Marcus, and taking one final deep breath, he released the arrow. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The accuracy displayed by the boy stunned the man. To hit Marcus high in the shoulder from that distance whilst staggering was a feat to behold. Especially to fire it through wind and rain with eyes obstructed by blood. Truly impressive. He was game for a rug-rat.


    Impressive but problematic, Marcus had to live. He was the key to finding the Conduit. The boy notched another arrow, and the man saw his eyes focus on Marcus. He was going for the kill, sacrificing himself for the woman. The man almost smiled, sighing. There was something he liked about this kid. He had mettle. Except he now had no choice but to intervene.


    A whoosh of cloth billowed through the air as the man leapt to his feet, throwing the grey blanket about his shoulders into the wind. With blistering speed, he tore across The Gardens, eating up the short distance between him and the boy. His shoulder clattered into his chest and sent him sprawling to the mud. The arrow released from the drawstring and whistled away into the night. He turned and stood ground, staring malevolently at the four men advancing on him.


    Jude was stunned. He grumbled and pushed his palms into the sludge, forcing himself up to his knees. What happened next would live in his memory for the rest of his days.


    The man dropped a shoulder and fired a short shotgun. Both shells blasted from his hip. The shot tore through the lead addict''s chest and hurled him back. Screams and gasps erupted around The Gardens. He dropped the gun to the ground and leapt at the second addict. A vicious stomp snapped his knee and buckled him, and as he stumbled to the ground, the man thundered a stake down into the base of his neck above his spine. The remaining two men, visibly terrified, shot glances at each other, telepathically agreeing to their plan.


    They rushed the man together with an unconvincing battle cry. The man flicked up a black hatchet from a loop in his belt, his speed and accuracy unworldly. He reversed the blade across one addict¡¯s throat, spraying blood into the wind. The next addict was dead before the first body hit the ground. The man dropped to his knees under the swing of a silver bar and fired the blunt end of his hatchet into the last addict¡¯s gut. He folded over, grunting in pain. The man rose to his feet over him, and somehow both brutal and nonchalant, he thundered the axe through his neck. The head fell and slapped the mud unceremoniously as his body toppled beside it.


    The man looked up at Marcus, who was watching wide-eyed. Terrified. Grasping at the buttons on his coat, desperately fumbling to open it up. He tore the last button away and panicked as he drew a knife from his waistband. He turned to Lisa, grabbed her shoulder, and pulled her onto the blade. It sank deep into her gut, her face unchanged from the vacant paralysis that rested across it.


    He pushed her off and threw her to the floor between himself and the man. As he backed away, knife raised, he hefted the wooden torch of flame and tossed it into Trevor¡¯s Kitchen. It landed in the oil the guards left spilled across the floor. Within seconds, Jude¡¯s home was an inferno, towering over him and glaring manically at him, licking his face with searing whips of flame. His tears were hot. His face contorted in anguish, black from blood and wood smoke, and his eyes burned deep red in the firelight.


    His tears flowed. He watched on, numb and broken. The man¡¯s eyes shifted from Marcus and looked back over his shoulder to the tramlines. Two sets of headlights closed in on the bloodbath. Something had alerted the Guard. The gunshots or the screams ¨C they were equally distressing.


    The man¡¯s guttural snarls sounded out from under the thick black snood covering his mouth. ¡°Your time will come, Marcus. You¡¯ll die like your brother. Hung, gutted, and staked!¡±


    He drew a rail stake from his belt as he spoke and jabbed his arm to the windows above. Marcus¡¯ frightened eyes followed the vector of the stake, and his yellow waxy face drained to ash as he saw his brother¡¯s lifeless body dangling in the night sky.


    The Gardens erupted. The packed crowd that had gathered during the affray screamed and clamoured, and they swallowed Marcus as they scrambled away from the murderous madman with the stake. City Guard pickups were temporarily disabled by the swarming madness.


    The man spun on his heel and raced towards Jude. He shuddered at the speed of him. His knees felt cold in the mud. His head split further apart with every passing moment, the pain masked by grief. The man closed on him. Jude summoned some strength from somewhere and feebly swung his knife. The man swayed from its reach and cracked a vicious right cross into his jaw. Jude toppled forward, and the man scooped him up onto his shoulders, disappearing through the smoke and rain.

 Captive

    Jude groaned. His mouth was a dust bowl, lips cracked. He tried to speak, but he mustered only the faintest croak. His eyes, half-closed, were sore and scratchy, and his head pounded relentlessly. He tried to reach for the itching stab in his forehead but found his hands locked in place. Sharp jabs of discomfort followed each slight movement of his limbs.


    He shifted his head left and right slowly, each movement accompanied by pain. He recoiled. His heart raced. It thumped so loud he could hear it in his head. His wrists and ankles were bound. He narrowed his eyes. Thick motorcycle chains lashed to the head and footboards of a simple cot bed bound him. He tried to take a deep breath, but his throat rasped and spluttered in protest.


    The room was a dim square, a single metal door padlocked from the inside. A large black sheet hung from the high ceiling, concealing another room. Small beams of light peeped through tiny holes in the cloth, like stars in a night sky. There must be a window out there, he thought as he heard ferocious rain hammering on glass. A red glow flickered from a small camp stove atop a folding metal table in the corner. The smell of cooked pigeon wafted through the air. It was smokey and rich, causing his tongue to cloy and his stomach to lurch.


    ¡°Where am I?¡± he whispered, his throat stinging in protest. He hacked and coughed and tried again. ¡°Is anyone there? Where am I?¡± Clearer this time, but the daggers in his throat stabbed him harder.


    It was hot. Not the pleasant hot, like the kind in Trevor¡¯s Kitchen, but hot as in close and stuffy and damp. A small white radiator whirred by the far wall, pulsing out waves of heat. Hanging on hooks behind it were several thick woollen blankets of varying shades of grey and black. A strange contraption was next to the radiator ¨C a series of thin metal bars on a frame. Off each bar hung a piece of clothing dripping water to the floor.


    To the right of the wet clothes, a mirror covered in steam was mounted on the wall above a makeshift sink. Droplets of water rolled down tentatively, trying not to be the first to fall. Two metal drums of water stood next to the sink, one of which was smaller and stood upon a crude metal scaffold. Under the scaffold was a second camp stove, the firelight tickling the drum and sending steam from the water whispering into the air.


    A wooden table with a single chair held the centre of the room, two bowls sat on top. Next to his cot bed prison, a tall grey locker stood. He could only see the middle and bottom shelves. The highest of the two had a crudely sawn-off shotgun resting on it ominously, the barrels pointing at his head. On the bottom shelf of the locker, sat a leather harness, with stakes sheathed in ringed holsters at the sides. Two hooks at the back of the locker held a nasty black hatchet in place, dried blood congealed on the blade.


    His heart pounded. It pounded so hard he forgot about the violent pulsing in his head. The shotgun, the stakes, the hatchet, the body hanging in the sky above The Gardens. Everything flashed back to him. His panic spiked. The brutal killer had him in chains. The room was a kaleidoscope.


    Trevor and Lisa.


    His stomach dropped. He ripped his head to the side and vomited on the wooden floorboards. He sobbed until he drifted unconscious.


    Jude opened his eyes. He hadn¡¯t been out long. He couldn''t have been. The smell of cooked pigeon still lingered in the hot air. He felt sick to his stomach. Heartbroken. He had woken from a nightmare, only to realise the nightmare was his reality.


    ¡°Be calm, boy,¡± a low voice spoke. A cold voice. A tingle teased his neck and tickled his spine. Jude jolted forwards, the searing pain of the chains chewing on his wrists forcing him back down.


    ¡°I said be calm. You¡¯ve no cause for fear. If you comply.¡±


    The black sheet of stars brushed aside as the man stepped into the room. He was tall and lean, his movements balanced and deliberate. Like a wolf, thought Jude as he eyed the man. His dark hair, flecked with silver, hung at his shoulders. His beard, thick but not overly long, matched his hair, and a drooping moustache concealed part of his tight grimace. His eyes were bright, cold, and bloodshot red. Seen once and never forgotten. He wore no clothes other than a dirty pair of thick cargo trousers. His torso seemed impossibly sculpted, adorned with a raft of scars and, most notably, what looked like a bullet wound in the centre of his chest.


    ¡°You killed her!¡± Lisa''s face flashed before Jude''s eyes, and he watched her slide onto the knife once more. He remembered now ¨C he was seconds away from killing Marcus when the man had clattered him, sending his arrow into the night.


    ¡°Keep your voice down or lose your tongue!¡±


    He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in close. Jude could feel the heat of his breath. Strong moonshine and smoke. Stale sweat and dried blood. He radiated fear.


    ¡°Just kill me. I¡¯ve got nothing to live for. Thanks to you,¡± he croaked.


    ¡°Engage your brain, boy. Think. Your last arrow would have killed Marcus, of that there is little doubt. But what then? I assume the dead man in the mud was the husband. I saw her anguish as he died.¡±


    Jude wretched. He moved to vomit. Only blood trickled out. He scrunched his eyes. If he had hands, he¡¯d cover his ears.


    ¡°You¡¯d have saved her at the expense of yourself. But she was already dead,¡± the man continued. He wiped the blood from Jude¡¯s mouth with his bare hand and cleaned it on his trouser leg. ¡°You¡¯d have her watch you ripped apart by the pack of Crochead bastards. Two bodies for her to bury. What for her then? Either grief or the City Guard would have finished her. That would be my best guess.¡±


    Jude¡¯s anger subsided. The man was right. He closed his eyes, his brain whirring. ¡°So you¡¯re a hero stepping in to save me, is that it?¡±


    The man scoffed. Jude continued playing events round and round in his head until he finally spoke. ¡°Except you¡¯re wrong. I¡¯d have shot Marcus a second time and saved her. You¡¯d have killed the four addicts just as you did, and Lisa and I would both be alive!¡±


    ¡°You are partly right with that, boy. But it¡¯s more complicated. Had you killed Marcus, I wouldn¡¯t have killed the Crocheads. I¡¯d have left you to them.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, cheers¡­¡±


    The man ignored the sarcasm and continued as he lit a hand-rolled cigarette. Curious, Jude thought, for he¡¯d not seen one in years.


    ¡°I needed Marcus alive, so I saved him. Temporarily. He will die soon enough, and his death will be slow and indescribably painful.¡±


    ¡°That offers me no peace of mind,¡± replied Jude.


    ¡°I don¡¯t exist to safeguard your peace of mind, boy.¡±


    ¡°This is bigger than you or your friends. The woman could be alive now, without her man, without her home, guards and Crocheads hunting her whilst she¡¯s traumatised by grief. But she isn¡¯t. She no longer exists. Or perhaps she¡¯s with the big man somewhere, dancing in the clouds. Whatever it is you believe, make peace and move on.¡±


    Jude sighed. He¡¯d delivered them with contempt, but the man¡¯s words rang true. There was nothing left for Lisa. He didn¡¯t know what he believed anymore, but she was at rest, and she wouldn¡¯t have to endure the pain he was feeling. She wouldn¡¯t have to live on without Trevor, and that was enough.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill Marcus,¡± said Jude.


    ¡°I thought you might say that, boy.¡±


    Jude felt his heart hurt. Boy¡­ He heard Trevor¡¯s booming voice in his head. He dropped his chin to his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might cry.


    ¡°Stop calling me ¡®boy.¡¯ My name is Jude.¡±


    ¡°As you wish, Jude. Now, if you¡¯re ready to be calm, I''ll unbind you. That in the bowls on the table is wood pigeon, far superior to the flying rats you¡¯re accustomed to. Let''s say you have a seat there, and we decide what''s next over a hot scran?¡±


    ¡°Fine. What do I call you?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t call me anything,¡± said the man as he released Jude from the chains.


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll call you ''boy.''¡±


    The man¡¯s face flashed. For a split second, Jude thought he would strike him, but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then he finished unbinding the chains and stepped back, allowing Jude to swing his legs off the side of the bed. The man handed him a large glass of cold water, which he had retrieved from the larger of the two barrels across the room. Jude guzzled desperately, the daggers in his throat blissfully cooled and his cracked lips returning to life.


    ¡°You can call me Ansell,¡± he said as he pulled on an oversized black top, which concealed his athletic frame. He tied his hair into a tight bun on the back of his head, and suddenly, he appeared almost human.


    The two sat at the table, Jude on the chair and Ansell on the edge of the bed, and they dove into what was the best meal Jude had eaten since before The Panic ¨C wood pigeon in a thick brown gravy with boiled potatoes and carrots. There was even salt on the table. Jude¡¯s eyes almost watered with the first mouthful, the flavours so intense and complex.


    ¡°Why is this so good?¡± he asked with a mouthful of bird.


    ¡°So much you don¡¯t know and you concern yourself with my cooking skills,¡± Ansell replied.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been eating rats and rations for over five years, so yes, I am concerned with the food,¡± said Jude, chasing a potato around his bowl.


    ¡°If you must know, my food comes from outside the city, and I will say no more for now.¡±


    ¡°No one has been outside the city in years,¡± Jude scoffed through a mouthful of carrot, gravy pouring down his chin and plopping back into the bowl. ¡°Well, no one except the guards on the supply convoys.¡±


    Ansell ignored him and placed his knife and fork down in his empty bowl, then slid it to the centre of the table. He lit another cigarette. The tip crackled and flickered as he pulled drags.


    ¡°Why am I here?¡± asked Jude. ¡°You don¡¯t strike me as the friendly type, no offence.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t seem friendly. Yet here you sit, your head stitched back together, your thirst quenched, and your belly fat with my food,¡± Ansell replied, and he¡¯d said it only half in jest.


    Jude finished his last mouthful, and copying Ansell, he placed down his cutlery and slid his bowl to the centre of the table. He stood from his chair and walked across the room to the mirror. His head was stitched, though it looked nasty and would be leaving a jagged scar. His eyes looked sore, red and purple and swollen half-shut. The bridge of his nose was doubled in size. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    ¡°Thank you, Ansell,¡± he said with meaning. Ansell nodded.


    ¡°In response to your other question of why you are here, you answered that yourself earlier when you said you were going to kill Marcus. I understand why you want to kill him, and I believe that you could do it. Marcus has some information that I need, and until I have it, he must live. So you are a prisoner of sorts, although I hope we can come to an agreement that makes your time with me as comfortable as possible.¡±


    ¡°If you were so concerned I¡¯d kill him, why didn¡¯t you leave me to the City Guard?¡± Jude asked.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t have long to consider my options. You might have escaped in the chaos. I had three thoughts: let you go, take you away, or kill you. Now, you¡¯ve got a set of bollocks on you for a runt, I saw that. So I had you at good odds to get away.¡±


    ¡°So it was take me or kill me then?¡±


    He nodded and docked his cigarette in his bowl. ¡°I nearly finished you off, but I don¡¯t like killing civvies if I don¡¯t have to.¡±


    ¡°Lucky me,¡± scoffed Jude. ¡°What¡¯s a civvy?¡±


    Ansell flashed half a smile and shot him a puzzled look. ¡°I forget how far we¡¯ve come from the old world. I only kill Crocheads, dealers, runners. Not¡­normal people, know what I mean?¡±


    ¡°I guess.¡±


    Ansell pondered for a moment before he spoke. ¡°I¡¯m¡­sorry¡­for your loss.¡± He winced at the words as they formed, as though it caused him physical pain to show some empathy.


    Jude bowed his head. ¡°How did Trevor die?¡±


    Ansell was quiet. His demeanour had been getting warmer during the meal, and although still utterly terrifying, Jude found himself feeling calmer in his presence. However, the question seemed to have placed a thundercloud over his head.


    ¡°Truth be told, he died badly. Marcus set him up. I don¡¯t know why, but he antagonised the big man, spat in his face. The City Guard turned up right on cue. The timing was impeccable, no coincidence. They pulled the moonshine out of the crawl space, and Brunner gave a parcel to Marcus. Payment for the tipoff, I''d wager. As to why the Captain of the City Guard attended a low-level code violation, I''ve no clue.¡±


    Jude sat quietly, sipping on another glass of water he¡¯d fetched from the barrel by the sink.


    ¡°They dragged the woman out. Captain Brunner kicked and beat her. The big man grabbed at his leg, probably a plea to stop. Then Brunner executed him as he lay in the mud.¡±


    Jude¡¯s jaw ached. He¡¯d been grinding his teeth, and he could taste blood in his mouth again. ¡°You watched all of this and did nothing? Do you have no compassion at all?¡±


    Ansell glared at Jude, his brow furrowed, and his eyes flashed angry. ¡°If I involved myself in every injustice within this cesspool of a city, I''d never sleep.¡±


    Jude didn¡¯t answer. He couldn¡¯t comprehend being in the same situation Ansell had been in and doing nothing to help. He sensed, however, that pressing the point too hard might anger him further than he dared.


    ¡°You mentioned an agreement, one that makes my stay here more comfortable?¡±


    Ansell stood up from his chair and crossed the room to the sink, which he filled with hot water from the steaming barrel with a plastic jug. He splashed water across his face, washing gravy from his beard, then he turned back to Jude, a thoughtful look on his face.


    ¡°We both want Marcus dead, but I need my information first. So I can¡¯t risk letting you go free, or he¡¯s likely to catch an arrow. Your archery is impeccable. To hit a man in the shoulder at that distance in rain and wind, with a split skull and blood in the eyes¡­truly impressive.¡±


    ¡°I was aiming for his head,¡± replied Jude humourlessly.


    Ansell stared at him curiously. ¡°How about you stay with me of your own accord until such time I¡¯m ready for him to die? Then you can finish him, and we¡¯ll go our separate ways.¡±


    Jude pondered the suggestion, although he was aware he didn¡¯t have a choice. He was getting the sense that disagreement was likely to see him lashed back to the bed or impaled on a rail stake.


    ¡°After Marcus, I¡¯ll kill that bastard Brunner. Captain of the Guard or not.¡±


    ¡°I thought you might say that, too. What you do after Marcus is dead is your own business.¡±


    Jude dropped back into thought. He could feel Ansell¡¯s eyes examining his face, as though he was reading his mind. ¡°Seems fair enough. I¡¯ve seen your¡­work, so I¡¯d imagine Marcus will be dead and I¡¯ll be free in a day or two?¡±


    ¡°Not quite. Marcus is alert to his danger now. I doubt he¡¯ll come out into the open alone for some time. I work in the shadows, stalking and watching. Unless my hand¡¯s forced, I only strike when I can do so unseen. I need to bide my time and wait for complacency.¡±


    ¡°How long?¡± asked Jude, his eyes narrowing.


    ¡°A few weeks, maybe more.¡±


    ¡°Ok, then. I agree,'''' replied Jude. ¡°Not like I¡¯ve got anywhere else to go. You¡¯ll have no trouble with me whilst I wait. The living conditions are better than I''m used to, so I¡¯m happy, provided that wasn¡¯t the last wood pigeon,¡± he grinned. For a split second, Jude thought Ansell might smile.


    ¡°We can¡¯t stay here. We¡¯ll be leaving the city. You¡¯ve been sleeping for two days, and in that time, I¡¯ve been out. The whole City Guard is looking for you.¡±


    ¡°Me?¡± Jude exclaimed. ¡°What have I done? You killed everyone, not me!¡±


    ¡°You did shoot Marcus.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but he didn¡¯t die.¡±


    ¡°Ok, maybe the Guard is looking for us both. But they won¡¯t find me. I''m a ghost. A grey man. I could be anyone in this city. I don¡¯t exist. You, on the other hand, are a young man with golden hair and a scarred forehead, carrying a bow and arrows. Added to that, I imagine every Crochead in The Gardens knows who you are.¡±


    Jude opened his mouth to protest but closed it just as quickly. Ansell was right.


    ¡°That¡¯s not all,¡± Ansell continued. ¡°There are others hunting you, led by a big man with dreadlocks. All armed. They¡¯re in every slum, squat, and shanty from here to Sackville Pile, asking after a golden-haired young archer and a girl with bronze skin and amber eyes.¡±


    ¡°Zuri!¡± he gasped. The fight with the addicts, the argument, it all came rushing back. He left her to go home by herself after dark, and he didn¡¯t even know if she was safe. Dawson would want his head.


    ¡°I have to go. Now!¡± pleaded Jude.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t listened to a word I¡¯ve said, have you?¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t understand, my¡­friend,¡± he said with hesitation. They were more than friends, yes, but he didn¡¯t know what exactly they were, especially not now. ¡°That night it all happened. Before I got back to the kitchen, we were out together, and I let her go home alone after dark. He¡¯ll have promised Winston the rest of my arse!¡±


    ¡°I¡®ve no idea who Winston is or why he wants your arse, but you aren''t hearing me. You can¡¯t go out there. Besides, I''ve already told you, you¡¯re not free until I¡¯m done with Marcus.¡±


    ¡°I love her,¡± Jude mumbled, looking Ansell in his eyes.


    ¡°Love means nothing to me,¡± he snarled as he looked away.


    ¡°Have you ever loved anyone, Ansell, or did you embark on your trail of murder and butchery immediately after you departed the womb?¡± He stood from his seat, fists clenched.


    ¡°Enough!¡± Ansell slammed his hand on the table, teeth bared under his beard. Then he exhaled the tension, like he had done earlier. ¡°Who are the men, and why do they seek you?¡±


    ¡°The men are Dawson¡¯s, and they seek me because I was out after dark with Zuri, Dawson¡¯s daughter. We argued and¡­I left her to go home by herself.¡±


    Ansell nodded, a curious look on his face. ¡°You¡¯re in love with Dawson¡¯s daughter? As in Dawson, the Shanty Lord ¨C his daughter?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°Does she care for you?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Well, maybe not anymore. I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Well, it would appear Zuri has informed her father of your abandonment, and he deems it betrayal enough to hunt you down.¡± He picked up a pair of black military boots and pulled them on over thick woollen socks. ¡°You will stay here whilst I attend to an important matter. Then we¡¯ll decamp the city for a while. When it is safe and Marcus is open for an attack, we¡¯ll return.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not safe outside the city, surely you know that? Why do you think they guard the perimeter? Roadmen? Cannibals? You must have heard the stories?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m aware of the stories, and unlike most, I know for sure they are true. The outlands are fraught with terror, but open your eyes. The perimeter guards are there to keep you in your prison just as much as they are to keep cannibals out.¡±


    Jude grumbled and scratched his chin. ¡°I still don¡¯t think we should go out there. Lisa said the Roadmen pour burning tar on people.¡±


    ¡°I know how to navigate the outlands safely, and that¡¯s what we¡¯ll be doing. It¡¯s wild out there, but you can relax.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± Jude sulked. ¡°Why do we have to leave the city though? Can we not just stay here?¡±


    ¡°I need to leave anyway. My food stores here are low, and my tools need replenishing. I have somewhere else, somewhere quiet and more comfortable, to pass the time. Besides that, too long in the city is bad for my mood.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s reason enough for me. I¡¯ve seen what tends to happen when you¡¯re in a bad mood,¡± replied Jude, the impaled body which had hung over The Gardens fresh in his mind.


    Ignoring Jude¡¯s comment, Ansell continued, ¡°A few things you should know before I leave. You are in the clock tower of Town Hall.¡±


    He stepped towards the black sheet and yanked it open, securing it to the wall with a small tie. Bright light bathed the room, flooding in through the open doorway. Jude stepped through cautiously into a second room. Astounded, he looked up at the face of an enormous clock, brilliant white light beaming through from outside. It was mesmerising, the light dancing, the shadows of the clock hands and numbers jittering around on the walls. He had never seen anything like it.


    ¡°It¡¯s amazing,¡± he exclaimed.


    ¡°It¡¯s certainly a sight to behold the first time you see it,¡± Ansell agreed. ¡°It doesn¡¯t work anymore. If you can tell time, you¡¯ll see the hands are both stuck at twenty-five to seven.¡±


    ¡°I can tell the time,¡± Jude scowled. ¡°I was eight-ish when The Panic started.¡±


    Ansell didn¡¯t acknowledge the response as he stepped past Jude into the bright room. It was long and narrow, and the clockface occupied the whole wall on one side, floor to ceiling. There was a second bed at the end of the room below a square window, which looked out over the city''s jagged skyline. A thin table rested against the other wall, home to an array of household items ¨C cutlery, toiletries, pens, and paper. On a small bedside table lay empty bottles and an ashtray brimming with dead ends.


    Jude took the room in for a few moments until a disconcerting thought struck him. ¡°I don¡¯t understand. We¡¯re in the Town Hall clock tower, which means one of the biggest squat camps in the city is in the main hall below us.¡±


    ¡°Correct,¡± replied Ansell, understanding Jude¡¯s confusion. ¡°They don¡¯t know I¡¯m here, which is why you need to keep your voice low.¡± Ansell sat down on his bed. ¡°At the beginning, before the hall was a squat, I took these rooms, sabotaging the way up as I did. The narrow staircase to come up here was old and wooden, and I sawed the beams and collapsed it. Then I padlocked the doors. I¡¯m cut off from them up here. To get out, I have a makeshift route down on the outside of the tower.¡±


    Jude laughed with disbelief. ¡°Down below, there are hundreds of addicts terrified of you, telling horror stories about you. And all the while, you¡¯re sleeping and eating wood pigeons above their heads.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Ansell replied, without a hint of humour.


    ¡°Right, fair enough,¡± said Jude, rolling his eyes. ¡°What else?¡±


    ¡°There are hair clippers on the table. I¡¯d suggest a change of appearance. Help yourself to new clothes. A green denim jacket is bang on top.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re about three sizes bigger than me!¡± laughed Jude.


    Ansell glared at him. ¡°I¡¯ve been out and got you new things. They¡¯re on the top shelf of the locker.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± replied Jude. ¡°Is that all?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s an empty bucket in the corner next door. Make sure you wash your hands afterwards,¡± he said, pushing past Jude back into the first room.


    He took a thick leather belt from the locker and fastened it about his waist. It was now devoid of rail stakes, dropping the hatchet through the looped sheath instead. He placed two shells into his shotgun and thrust it into the holster strapped to his thigh. Stepping over to the drying rack, he squeezed his fingers on the back of a black-hooded top, and satisfied it was dry, he pulled it on. He then took a thick shirt and buttoned it over the top. He picked up the leather harness from the locker and strapped it about his chest, sliding his last stake into the holster at his side.


    ¡°Your bow is under the bed. I¡¯m going to collect you some arrows whilst I¡¯m out. We¡¯ll need them where we¡¯re going,¡± he said, throwing a thick grey-hooded jacket over the top, which he left open. He placed a weathered baseball cap on his head and raised the hood. Finally, he selected a pair of black fingerless gloves, which he tugged on hastily.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± asked Jude.


    ¡°My business is my own.¡±


    He secured a thick black snood over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed. Then he slung a rough-looking rucksack onto his back and crossed the room to the radiator. He pulled a dirty heavy woollen blanket from the wall, which he wrapped about his shoulders. Suddenly, he looked rough and inconspicuous; his body language changed and his stance dropped into a hunch. He looked just like any beggar or vagrant Jude had seen about the city.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be back after dark, which is when we leave. Be ready.¡±


    Jude watched as Ansell opened the padlock and exited the room abruptly. He heard the lock going back on the other side. With a weary sigh, he lay back on the cot bed and closed his eyes.

 A Tiger Caged

    Gut-wrenching sadness overwhelmed Zuri as she walked along the canal away from the three bodies lying in puddles of blood and water. The barrage of rain had subsided, now replaced by a strange mist of drizzle that was impossibly occupying every shred of space in the air.


    ¡°What have I done?¡± she whimpered, voice cracking, tears rolling.


    For two months, she had been seeing Jude, walking through the city with him, laughing and playing carelessly. They had been the best times of her life. Yes, he was na?ve. He was away in the clouds, a dreamer. But that was what made him so endearing. A bright light in her cynical, bleak world. He was her hope.


    For as long as she could remember, she had been miserable. Free but captive. Like a tiger in a zoo. Her mother used to take her to the zoo before The Panic, and they would watch the tiger together, awestruck. Regal and stoic, prowling her massive pen. Only looking back, it wasn¡¯t so massive at all. It was small and it confined the tiger, stifled her, and pacified her. Zuri was a tiger. Locked in Dawson¡¯s Shanty. Free to roam its confines as a queen, but never to escape and never to take back her wild heart.


    Ever since her mother had passed away, her confinement had felt infinitely worse. It would be one year this month that she¡¯d been alone, locked away without her. Though, at least, she was free of her mother''s vile husband. There was little love between Zuri and Dawson. He had been an absent father at the best of times and aggressive, intimidating, and controlling at the worst. The passing of her mother hardened him further, and Zuri had been the one to suffer. He became possessive and made her feel like a pawn or a plaything rather than a daughter. God forbid a rival shanty owner got hold of her ¨C Arnero, or maybe Little Caesar at the Apollo Fighting Pits. They might hold some leverage over him then, and that would be bad for business.


    An on-and-off war between him and Arnero had made her life impossible to enjoy, and she¡¯d been unable to leave the dark and lonely shanty for as long as she could remember. The only joy she had was looking out of the windows, imagining herself walking free. Or she¡¯d stare out at the tall buildings in the skyline and imagine herself working in one of them. In a suit with one of those mobile phones that the ladies in the old magazines held like some priceless treasure.


    Fortunately, the war had come to a tentative end late last year. The two Shanty Lords reached an agreement that they would remain on their own turf when pushing Croc. Still, it had taken months of begging before Dawson allowed her to leave, and only then with Jenko and two guards as her shadow. Now the tiger roamed outside her pen, but with neck collared and freedom leashed.


    Then Jude appeared. The boy who personified freedom. Running and twirling, loosing arrows and hunting hand to mouth. He intrigued her beyond her control. He besotted her with the idea that she could live this way, that she could run and run and never look back.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    A week later was her eighteenth birthday, and she had demanded her freedom. Reluctantly, he agreed. Whether he''d been worn down with her irritating persistence or his guilty conscience, she didn¡¯t know. She didn¡¯t care. Now the tiger was out of her pen, no zookeeper holding her leash. Yes, she knew tigers didn¡¯t adhere to curfews, but she would try to ignore that and enjoy her first slice of true freedom.


    Now all her begging and pleading had counted for nothing. She was on her way home, way after dark and without Jude. Her dad would never let her see daylight again, and Jude was in grave danger. That¡¯s what he gets for loving a caged tiger. She scoffed. Only her dad could hunt down and execute a boy for being late. He¡¯d be face down in the corpse marshes come this time tomorrow. Her heart began to flutter and spin. He¡¯d have the sense to run, surely he would. But no, she didn¡¯t believe that. The boy¡¯s a dreamer, an optimist to his detriment. He¡¯d be as likely to turn up at Dawson¡¯s of his own will as he would to run away.


    ¡°Stupid boy!¡±


    The tears poured, lost in the rain. She had planned to ask him to run away with her. They could leave the city, sneak through the perimeter guard, and never look back. Sure, everyone had heard the stories of the wild country, the outlands. Marauding cannibals. Roaming packs of starving dogs. The Roadmen plaguing the deserted motorways. All stories to keep people from dreaming ¨C to keep tigers caged, she was sure.


    It would have been an adventure, the two of them running away. He¡¯d hunt their meals with his bow. She¡¯d prepare the fires and lead the way. Perhaps they¡¯d find an abandoned cottage in the depths of nowhere and call it home. She cursed herself for her temper, though she couldn¡¯t help but hold on to her feelings towards the Crocheads. They were devious reptiles who would sell their soul, rob, murder, pillage, anything ¨C just for a pin of Croc.


    On she walked, sadness and anger battling away for centre stage in her theatre of tragic thoughts. Suddenly, she was aware of footsteps behind her, though she dared not look back. Her stride lengthened and pace quickened, she pulled up her hood against the drizzle and pushed on.


    The footsteps matched her splash for splash in the puddled cobbles. The rumble of a distant engine seemed to draw closer and closer. A blur of black zipped past on her left as she drew level with an alleyway. Something was off. She could sense it. Breaking into a run, she powered along the canal, flashes of black mirroring her. Every time she passed an entry into an alleyway, it was there. She was being paralleled.


    As she reached the end of the road, the screech of tyres deafened her. White spotlights blasted her in the eyes. A shadowed shape loomed over her. Smoke and fumes in the air, thick and black. She tasted the smog in her throat. A truck boxed her in.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Her voice broke as panic set in. The truck rolled towards her, its growl low and aggressive. The lights blinded her sick and dizzy. She turned with a flash to the left to make a break for an alleyway, when a hulking figure burst from the darkness and crunched into her, spinning her to the floor. Her head rattled against the ground, and she battled confusion when she tried to stand, the lights and noise compounding it. The hulking figure closed in on her. She opened her mouth to plead, and then ¨C a whoosh of air followed by blackness. A canvass bag pulled over her head, powerful arms locking it in place. She struggled for breath, panic mounting, her precious air wasting away. Her strength waned, and her flailing arms dropped to her side as she gasped and gurgled for breath, folding limp into her captor''s clutch.

 Mighty Micks Weapons Emporium

    Ansell pulled his thick woollen blanket about his shoulders tightly as he scanned the open ground in front of the Station Market. He sat on the frosty concrete, a thin scrap of card under him, unconcerned by cold. In front of him, a metal tin was standing idle. A beggar''s tool. Part of the illusion. It was more full of the falling snow than coins. Keen eyes peered out from under his hood, a dead stare piercing the air. He eyed the front of the Station Market closely and allowed his thoughts to drift.


    The Station Market was a bustling train station in the old times. Tourists, business people, locals getting to work ¨C all manner of people descended on it before The Panic. Now it was a slum in parts and a huge indoor market in others. To the right of the tall glass frontage, pillars of iron grey stood tall. They held up the old train tracks, which jutted out over the ground below, providing a long and deep shelter. It was dark under there. Flickering firelights of stoves and campfires, spattered amongst the masses of people crammed in, pulsed defiant against the cold. The usual smell of death and decay wafted from there.


    Crocheads, lying in bliss, were frozen on the wet concrete. They¡¯d likely wake up frostbitten if they woke up at all. But their next fix would numb the pain. Beggars occupied every wall and open space. They provided Ansell with his camouflage. His target had yet to reveal himself, and Ansell had waited for most of the morning. Normally, this would be of no concern, but today, time was critical. He needed to get away from the cold grey prison of the city. He was longing for fresh air, green grass, and quiet nights under the stars.


    With a sigh, his thoughts turned to Jude. He was still trying to work out why he had taken him back to the clock tower. Of course, it was partly to prevent him from killing Marcus. But he couldn''t help liking the boy. He had a gut feeling that their paths were interwoven.


    Perhaps he had been alone for too long and simply needed some human companionship. Perhaps he felt he could have saved the boy¡¯s friends and was trying to make amends. Why he cared was beyond him. He¡¯d seen countless injustices in the last decade and none of them had moved him. This kid had steel, though. Raw, na?ve steel, which he found refreshing.


    You''re getting soft, he chided himself as his eyes locked on to a shifty, ratty-looking man.


    He shuffled fast towards the entrance of the Station Market, his head down under a pink bobble hat, eyes fixed forward, burning a hole in the front door. Ansell¡¯s pulse quickened. Bloodlust rising. He pushed himself to his feet, and head down against the snow, he trudged after his target. He had watched this man more than once over the last few weeks ¨C a Crochead from the squats under the iron pillars. More than that, he was a runner.


    Last week, Ansell watched him collect a parcel of Croc from another Crochead near the Apollo Fighting Pits. He followed him and saw him deal it in the squats and slums around the markets. That sealed his fate. He seemed connected enough to know where Marcus could be bedding down, and if he didn¡¯t, he would be a worthy kill regardless.


    The Croc runner barged through the front doors to the market as Ansell picked up his pace to keep him in sight. The pink hat would be a big help in the market, which was packed wall to wall with people.


    Ansell pushed open the doors. A waft of damp heat took his breath. The sheer amount of people crammed inside provided the warmth, along with the burning fires of several food shacks. The commotion was thunderous as vendors shouted and peddled their wares, calling out deals and prices to passersby. Children zipped through the crowds, laughing and chasing each other in groups. Ansell knew by now they would steal anything that wasn¡¯t nailed down. He idly fingered the drawstring pouch of coins in his pocket.


    The smell of fire smoke and cooking meat cloyed the air, merging with the sweat and decay of the slums on the upper levels. On the floor, below a series of massive screens long since turned off, two Crocheads were rolling about, tearing at each other. Ansell edged closer. They were fighting over a wrap of Croc. The baying crowd watched on, mesmerised by the brutality. Whoops and jeers echoed around the market.


    Ansell scanned the heads in front of him. The lower floor of the Station Market was long and narrow. Market shacks lined each side, crowds of people bustling about their fronts. Through the middle, people pushed to reach the stairs to the squats on the upper level. The pink hat was bobbing about in front of a stall, a board of wood hanging on chains from the roof. Scribed with red paint, it read: ¡°Mighty Mick¡¯s.¡±


    Ansell approached the stall. Quietly, head down, blanket pulled about him, he perused the vendor¡¯s wares. All manner of weapons lay on the wooden boards. Closest to the front were kitchen knives, shivs, hammers, crowbars. Standing guard over them, Mighty Mick was everything his name would suggest.


    A towering man, with a thick red beard and a tattoo of a dagger in the centre of his forehead, his stern eyes peered out from under thick bronze brows and scrutinised every passerby. A cigarette hung from his mouth, downturned and sour. Behind him mounted on the walls were an array of crossbows, bolts, hatchets, and machetes.


    Ansell noted him sliding shut a box cleverly concealed under the counter. It hid revolvers and pistols, with accompanying ammunition. Pink Hat was closest to Mick, talking quickly, his features animated. Ansell edged into ear shot and listened carefully.


    ¡°I need a gun,¡± he said, ripping the hat from his head and wiping the sweat from his filthy brow.


    ¡°You can¡¯t afford a gun, Arthur,¡± Mick replied, flicking cigarette ash over his shoulder.


    ¡°Fuck! I know. Stupid of me to think you might help out of goodwill.¡±


    The big man laughed a grumbling chuckle and scratched his gruff chin.


    ¡°A good knife, then? Not a kitchen one, a proper one ¨C or a machete or something. One that¡¯s going to scare people to look at.¡± Clearly panicked, thought Ansell. Though I¡¯m sure the little bastard isn¡¯t aware I¡¯ve been stalking him.


    ¡°Good knives cost good coin, Arthur,¡± replied Mick. ¡°Go on, what¡¯s got you shitting yourself this time?¡±


    ¡°The Ghost, that''s what. Surely you¡¯ve heard? Few nights ago. Another body strung up above The Gardens, gutted and staked through the heart.¡±


    ¡°The Ghost,¡± laughed Mick. ¡°That¡¯s what we¡¯re calling him now, as if he¡¯s not human. You¡¯re wasting your time carrying a knife to kill a ghost, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t see it,¡± responded Arthur. ¡°He killed four men in the blink of an eye, like they were nothing. Then he pointed the body out. It was hanging above in the sky. It was Lloyd, you know, Marcus¡¯ brother.¡±


    Ansell smiled. He was right about Arthur; he knew Marcus.


    ¡°Yep. Lloyd was in last week, thought he was being followed, and bought a shiv,¡± said Mick with a wry smile. ¡°Not the best advert for business, eh? Didn¡¯t do him much good!¡± Mick¡¯s booming laughter filled the air, and the look on Arthur¡¯s face nearly caused the faintest snigger from under Ansell¡¯s snood.


    ¡°Ah, but I see you¡¯re clearly concerned. I¡¯ve got a lovely Bowie here, but it¡¯s going to cost you.¡±


    ¡°Let me see,¡± snapped Arthur as Mick turned and selected a vicious-looking knife from a shelf.


    An impressive weapon. The blade was wide and as long as Arthur''s face. Light glinted off the curve. An expert had honed it. The edge swept up beautifully into a perfect point. Looks to be hardened steel, thought Ansell. Some kind of antler comprised the handle, which was separated from the blade by a shining bronze hilt.


    ¡°Perfect!¡± Arthur exclaimed as the shine of the blade glittered in his hungry eyes. ¡°How much?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll cost you a note, my friend,¡± responded Mick with a raise of his eyebrow.


    The colour drained from Arthur¡¯s face. ¡°Mick! A note? Come on, you¡¯re killing me, that''s a full morning''s work.¡±


    ¡°You could always take one of these shivs. Just like poor old Lloyd had, see there.¡± Mick thrust his fat weathered finger at a lame-looking piece of metal sharpened into a point. ¡°Of course, The Ghost won¡¯t bat an eyelid at that. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll agree,¡± he said with a snarky grin.


    Arthur sighed and dug into his pocket. His hand came out, and he waved a note under Mick¡¯s nose. ¡°Here! If it doesn¡¯t serve its purpose, I¡¯ll be bringing it back.¡±


    ¡°If it doesn¡¯t serve its purpose, I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll be bringing it anywhere!¡± Mick¡¯s laughter once again filled the air as he secured the knife into a well-made black leather sheath and slid it across the counter to Arthur.


    Arthur snatched it up and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans, which were holding on to his hips for dear life, aided by a frayed length of blue rope. With a murmur of dissent, he spun away from Mighty Mick¡¯s and pushed himself through the crowd, followed swiftly by Ansell.


    Ansell brushed his way through the masses with ease. Shuffling and limping, hunched over, blending in. To any but a trained eye, he was a vagrant trudging through the market to his begging spot. One of countless many, deceit working its black magic. He was leagues away from a shuffling beggar. His every movement served purpose, each step assured and intentional. Fluid, like water carving its way through a valley. Fast yet steady, and careful not to make up too much ground on Arthur, who was bumping and knocking his way through like a drunkard navigating a dance floor.


    He watched as Arthur pushed off to the right through the swell in the crowd, everyone vying for priority over the stairs. Ansell saw him break free and take a sigh of relief, as though convinced he might have taken a knife in the back from every person he passed by.


    He darted across the open ground, occupied only by beggars sitting in groups on the floor around feeble fires and Crocheads strewn here and there, needles in veins. Heads nodding. Scales black and burning.


    Tall glass double doors flung open ahead, inviting a freezing blast of air into the market. Groans and expletives sounded out. Unperturbed, Arthur continued through them into an enormous room with majestic, arched ceilings.


    The room completely dwarfed the other parts of the Station Market. Ansell had been here before, arriving on a train. He wore a uniform then, and he had a family. The Panic was just a hushed murmur of dissent. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    He took position about a small fire, just prior to the glass doors Arthur had passed through. From here, he could survey the route his target was taking without being too obvious, now that the cover of the crowd was gone. He dropped to the ground with his blanket draped over his shoulders, and he jabbed his hands out above the fire. The vagrants at the fire accepted his gruff nod as they weighed him up as one of their own.


    ¡°Got any burn, lad?¡± said the nearest vagrant, a haggard old man with black teeth and dead eyes.


    Ansell grunted back. He pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear. He flicked it to the vagrant, who caught it like it was a ticket out of the country.  ¡°Any Guard patrols been through?¡±


    The vagrant inhaled half the cigarette in one drag. He gagged and coughed and hawked blood into the fire. ¡°Yes, lad. On the track before. Lookin¡¯ fer the Grey Man and a sprog with a bow ¡®n¡¯ arrows.¡±


    Ansell nodded. He looked through to the massive room. Several platforms stood over long recesses in the ground where train tracks lead off to the cold grey of the outside. A few of the tracks were home to old disused trains, which were now doubling as dens for far too many Crocheads.


    Steam and a yellow-brown layer of muck from a mixture of sweat, breath, and burning Croc fumes covered every inch of every train window. Ansell shuddered as he considered just how foul the smell would be inside. Delighted, he saw Arthur continue past them, yanking his collars up as he pressed on towards the swirling, blustering winds outside.


    Ansell slowly climbed to his feet and bade farewell to the vagrants with another grunt. He slipped through the double doors, being careful not to allow another vicious blast of cold air to pour in. He quickened his pace across the platforms until he saw four City Guard patrolmen descending a set of wide steps. Keen to avoid them, he dropped gracefully to the track below. To his left, a train door flung open, and he fell to his knee in the shadowed darkness of the platform¡¯s high walls.


    ¡°Five minutes. I¡¯m meeting him now! At the embankment, babe, five minutes,¡± sounded the shrill voice of a woman as the door slammed.


    A thud and a crunch rang out when her feet hit the stones and picked up a fast pace away from his position. The woman would be a dealer for the train squats, collecting all the coin from the resident users and dealing with Arthur before returning and dishing out. Arthur would make a large drop to her. It was a more efficient way of dealing, where in the past, he would have done every deal hand-to-hand in small amounts. Ansell had seen this many times before.


    Being careful to keep his distance and his feet light, he crept along the track, standing on the metal runs to avoid crunching the gravel. Ahead, the woman reached the open air, where the arched ceilings ended, but the tracks continued off towards the horizon. She swung right, hopping off the track and up onto a small concrete path running parallel to it. Then she passed through piles of rubble and debris and disappeared down a steep grassy embankment littered with dead nettles.


    Ansell followed cautiously. Stopping at the crest of the embankment, he lowered himself to his chest, next to a battered grey maintenance box. He tugged his blanket up over his head. He was all but invisible. Only his eyes peering out at the scene below could give his position away.


    Arthur stood with his back to a tall red brick wall, his eyes darting left to right nervously, his hand clutching the hilt of his new weapon. The woman joined him, and Ansell was close enough to hear their exchange.


    ¡°Hurry up.¡±


    ¡°I left the train as soon as ya went past ya dick ¡¯ed!¡± the woman replied, her voice slurred and phlegmy. Horrible, thought Ansell. She¡¯s clearly missing several teeth and even more brain cells. ¡°Why have ya dragged me out here for? What''s wrong with the fuckin¡¯ platform where ya normally serve up?¡±


    ¡°Shut up. This killer is scaring me to death. No point in killing me. I''m tortured as it is. Constantly looking over my shoulder¡­I feel like I¡¯m being watched. I¡¯m shitting myself.¡±


    The woman laughed, harsh and raspy. She raised her hood over her head and swooshed around him like a floating ghoul. ¡°Woo¡­is the Ghost haunting you, Arthur? Does he know ya get yer bits from Marcus? No wonder you¡¯re shitting it, you¡¯re next!¡± Her laugh continued, full of genuine amusement at Arthur¡¯s plight.


    ¡°Keep the bastard noise down!¡± Arthur hissed. ¡°If he does know, then I will be next. The last three dead were all close to Marcus. The runner down near the Apollo Fighting Pits, Dunny the runner at Sackville. We thought it was a coincidence until Lloyd. I asked Marcus if I could keep my head down with him in Arnero¡¯s Shanty, but he¡¯s got me out here doing drops!¡±


    Ansell now had the information he needed, although he was mightily disappointed. The torture was his favourite part of killing Croc dealers, and ordinarily, he¡¯d have indulged himself regardless. But today, time was of the essence.


    He sprung to his feet with blistering speed, the blanket about his shoulders thrown to the air, billowing behind him in the wind. With a rapid flick of his wrist, his hatchet was in his hand. His arm whipped back and forth, releasing it through the air in a deadly arc. With a sickening crack, the blade buried itself in between the woman¡¯s terrified eyes. A spurt of crimson erupted through the air as she poleaxed to the ground below.


    Ansell advanced down the embankment one slow, intimidating step at a time. Frozen to the spot in complete fear, Arthur¡¯s bottom lip trembled, and his wide eyes dared not blink.


    ¡°I¡¯ll do anything. I¡¯ve got Croc, money ¨C a-anything,¡± he stammered as a dark stain appeared on the crotch of his blue jeans. ¡°Marcus! You want Marcus, don¡¯t you? He¡¯s at Arnero¡¯s¡­s-s-she¡¯s protecting him. I don''t know why, I swear.¡±


    Ansell continued walking him down, his dead gaze fixed on his face as he stepped into range. Arthur, sensing the end was upon him, drew the knife from his waistband and brandished it.


    ¡°You can¡¯t kill a ghost with a knife.¡±


    With a petrified scream, Arthur swung the knife, the motion slow, telegraphed and steeped in desperate fear. Ansell sidestepped the blade and thundered a left hook into Arthur¡¯s body, feeling the crunch of ribs under his fist. Arthur cried out and doubled over as the wind billowed from his lungs. In beautiful synchronisation, as though performing a dance, Ansell¡¯s feet shifted, and he followed up with a right cross to the temple. It sent Arthur sprawling to the ground. The knife spun from his hand and pierced the grass. He groaned and pushed himself up onto his forearms, crawling away as he sobbed.


    Suddenly, he felt a weight on his back stop him in his tracks, and a firm hand pulled against his forehead, yanking his chin up to the sky. The cold steel blade of his own knife chilled his throat as it glided across, opening him up and ending his torment.


    Ansell stepped back and wiped the knife clean on Arthur¡¯s coat. He pulled the sheath from his waistband and fastened it sideways to his own leather belt at the base of his back. Sliding the blade into its sheath, he set about the two bodies.


    Approaching the woman, he swiftly and unceremoniously removed his hatchet from her sorry corpse, stomping his boot on her chest as he yanked the handle. Her face was a sea of blood as the blade pulled clear. Rummaging through her pockets, he found the coin she was to pay Arthur with, which he kept. He then retrieved the small package wrapped in plastic from Arthur¡¯s breast pocket and dropped it into his rucksack.


    He stood back and reviewed the scene. It was a bloodbath, but he was unsatisfied. Crocheads died in this city every hour of every day. These kills needed to be attributed to his cause. His seeds of fear needed planting if they were to grow. The boy can wait.


    Ansell strode forward, kicking the woman¡¯s limp body before dropping to his haunches and drawing the knife. Placing his left hand on the woman''s jaw, he worked the knife intently, carving on her forehead two letters on either side of the gaping gash caused by his hatchet.


    W-E-A-K.


    He slipped his hand into his jacket and drew his final rail stake from its harness, and with a grunt, he drove it through her lifeless heart.


    He stood and stepped the short distance to Arthur¡¯s body, rolling it to its front with a push of his boot. Drawing the knife once more, he carved jagged letters into his forehead, ignoring the terror frozen upon his face for eternity.


    G-U-T-L-E-S-S.


    He ripped open Arthur¡¯s coat and sliced his jumper from neck to waist with the blade before returning it to his sheath to replace it with his hatchet. Holding the hilt close to the head of the axe, he slashed it across his gut, releasing his sloppy black entrails.


    One by one, he dragged the bodies up the embankment and placed them on a train track each, running parallel to each other. Their carved foreheads faced back towards the filth and degradation of the Station Market. Finally, he placed a single coin in the woman''s palm, leaving it face up on her knee, repeating the process for Arthur. This time, a single wrap of Croc sat innocently in his hand. He stepped back and took in the scene with a dark smile. Satisfied with his work, he spun on his heel and loped back along the tracks.


    He retraced his steps through the crowded market, less intentional with his route back now that he was relieved of a target to hunt. He passed four more City Guard patrol, led by a sergeant walking with a condescending air of arrogance. The crowd was parting about him, avoiding his cold stare. Ansell recognised Sergeant Kramer, the man in charge of identifying and capturing him, though he¡¯d never gotten close enough to cause him any concern.


    Soldier or police? Ansell wondered. The City Guard was made up of the remains of them both after each failed to harness the uprising during The Panic.


    Police, Ansell concluded as he watched the sergeant push a woman out of his way. Ansell had known soldiers, known them well in another life. They were crass and sporting and loyal by large, not like this Kramer. There was no soldier in him. He wagered he was a former policeman. Aloof and condescending. Vindictive. Consumed by power and his own sense of self-importance. The smarmy sneer needed wiping from his bastard face.


    His time will come. He continued past the guards and drifted through the crowd, blended and unseen until he finally reached Mighty Mick¡¯s stall.


    ¡°You have arrows,¡± he stated, more an observation than a question.


    ¡°I do,¡± replied Mick, his dark eyes peering inquisitively from under his thick brows. ¡°Crossbow bolts of different weights, homemade from river cane, or I''ve got carbon fibre and fibreglass shafts. The latter will cost considerably more, as you¡¯d expect.¡±


    ¡°I need arrows for a recurve bow.¡±


    ¡°A recurve bow,¡± Mick repeated back with a raise of his eyebrow. ¡°Not much cause to stock long hunting arrows, very few around with the skills to fire them. In the early days, there were a few who went hunting deer outside the city, but you know¡­the cannibals put a stop to that.¡±


    Silence hung in the air until, eventually, Mick continued, ¡°As it happens, I do have them.¡± He ducked behind his counter and re-emerged with a bundle of cloth, silver barbs pointing from one end. He opened the cloth on the counter, revealing twenty black arrows. ¡°Thirty-one inches, carbon fibre shaft, rubber flights. I¡¯ll cut to the chase as they¡¯re not cheap ¨C a small silver coin per arrow.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take them all,¡± replied Ansell. He clinked a small drawstring bag on the counter-top. ¡°There¡¯s sixteen small silvers in there. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll be pleased to offer the discount seeing as they''re so hard to sell.¡±


    Mick chuckled and snatched the bag from the counter, tossing it into the air and catching it before counting the pieces out. ¡°It¡¯s been a fine morning for business. You have a deal.¡±


    Ansell rewrapped the arrows in the cloth and slotted them into his backpack, the ends jutting out from a gap in the zip. He turned to leave, when Mick¡¯s gruff voice spoke again.


    ¡°One more thing, my friend,¡± he said as he rested his burly arms on the counter, peering closely at Ansell¡¯s eyes. ¡°City Guard came by my stall not five minutes ago. Asking if I sell arrows for a recurve or compound bow.¡±


    ¡°Curious,¡± replied Ansell. ¡°It appears there are more archers in the city than you suggest.¡±


    Mick didn¡¯t laugh. His eyes narrowed. ¡°They offered a very large reward for informing on anyone buying arrows, or for information leading to the arrest of any archers for questioning. Perhaps you¡¯d like to better their reward for my silence? I''d wager they¡¯re but a shout away from us as we speak, and as much as I despise the Guard, times are hard friend. You know that.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± Ansell said, stepping in closer to Mick. ¡°I would not like to better their reward, you worm. So I suggest you run along and inform them. Though, if you do, you may live to regret it.¡± As he spoke, he drew back the blanket from his shoulders to reveal Arthur¡¯s blood-stained knife in his hand.


    The colour drained from Mick¡¯s ruddy cheeks. Fear and uncertainty invaded his face as he mouthed to speak, but mustered only a stammer. His eyes locked on the knife until, in the distance, screams and wails erupted in the air and took his attention.


    ¡°Guards! Bodies on the tracks!¡±


    He swung his eyes back towards Ansell in disbelief, but he''d disappeared with blistering speed towards the exit doors.