The Rising Fire E-Book

L.E. Fitzpatrick

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Civilization will fall.

The Union are marching. They're hungry, desperate, and winter is coming. On the other side of the wall, the rich and privileged hold all the power, but that is about to change.

Charlie Smith is tired of fighting, and of being hunted. After his family's murder, he seeks meaning for his life. When he hears about the Union, he realizes that this is his chance. It's time to make a stand for what's right.

As the institute closes in and civil war is about to erupt, sacrifices have to be made. But not everyone is going to make it out alive.

Leseprobe

The Rising Fire

Reachers Series Book 4

L. E. Fitzpatrick

Copyright (C) 2019 L. E. Fitzpatrick

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Edited by Alicia Ramos

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

In memory of Winetta Starr

Come all you good workers,Good news to you I'll tellOf how the good old unionHas come in here to dwell.

Prologue

Ten years ago

It was nearly two in the afternoon. Si Daniels swirled the melting ice in his glass of Scotch. He perched awkwardly against the hotel bar, one hand on the counter, the other whiling away another hour on a single drink. Daniels' feet twitched anxiously, scuffing his old leather shoes against the parquet floor. Once upon a time, the shoes were a quality purchase, much like Daniels' suit and the semblance of a haircut he didn't seem able to part with. But, like the Grandchester Hotel that housed him, they'd all seen better days. By chance the hotel had found itself on the right side of the border when the wall went up thirty years earlier. The cheap rooms and concrete views attracted a clientele more accustomed to life in the slums, needing a base of operation while they conned their way across the capital. Daniels was such a guest, lingering between what was beginning to feel like two worlds, trying to find a way home that didn't end in poverty.

A burner phone sat in front of him. He checked it every few minutes, growing more anxious with every disappointed glance. Two days ago, he'd put feelers out around the city looking for a buyer interested in stolen security software. That had been his second mistake. His first was accepting a job from ViperCorp Securities in the first place. But Daniels wasn't in a position to be turning down work. He had debts to pay, two families to subsidise, and a gambling habit that overwhelmed both.

The prospect of a temporary respite to his financial hardships dazzled him, distracting him from the obvious signs this was going to go south. The biggest being that a respected security company would enlist a third-rate thief to secure a product that was worth millions. The second was the target, Jay Stanton. Stanton was supposed to provide them with the program he had designed—until ViperCorp had retracted their generous deal three weeks ago and Stanton told them to go to hell. One double-cross always leads to another. Now Daniels had a computer program he didn't understand, ViperCorp tearing apart London looking for him, and no buyer to save the day.

From the back of the bar, Charlie Smith kept an eye on Daniels over the top of his newspaper. He knew all about Daniels' woes, and it wasn't difficult to see where the thief's future was going. Charlie checked his watch. His brother would already be in Daniels' room. In a few minutes he would crack the safe there. And then Charlie would finish his drink and leave the Grandchester and London for good.

“You in the mood for some company?” The female voice made him start.

When Charlie looked up, a woman was leaning over him, her breasts spilling from her tight dress as though they were coming up for air. She smiled, cracking the creases in her heavily applied makeup. She was holding on to her beauty, but it wasn't enough to hide the severity in her eyes. She'd approached Charlie because he was in an expensive jacket and she'd seen him buy a drink from a wallet full of notes. Unlike Daniels, Charlie was at the top of his game.

She twisted herself to present her best angle. Charlie put her in her forties, twice his age and an expert in her trade. He entertained the idea of paying her to distract Daniels, to buy John enough time to get the job done. It was too risky though. If anyone came snooping around later, they'd connect the woman to Daniels, and inevitably Charlie to the woman. The last thing he needed was another corrupt, ruthless corporation hunting them down.

He opened his mouth to respectfully decline, when he saw Daniels bolt for the door. Charlie jumped up after him, pushing past the whore. He grabbed the door at the exit and turned in the lobby, expecting to see Daniels hit the stairs. The steps were empty. He looked left instead, catching the man fleeing out the hotel's main entrance. Charlie launched himself forward.

A heavy cloud of smog had settled on the city. Vehicles chuntered over the road, clogging at the entrance to the border control. To Charlie's right, he caught Daniels weaving through the cars and reaching the opposing pavement. Charlie chased after him. He thrust into his jacket to grab his phone. They'd checked Daniels' pockets an hour ago, and he was clean. He had no vehicle, no safe house. The only place he could have kept the program was the hotel room, so why was he running? Charlie pulled his phone out and punched the menu key. A force hit him from behind, hurling him across the road.

When he came to, his face was pressed into the tarmac. Slowly, on his hands and knees, he panted into the sidewalk. His fingers brushed plastic. He looked and saw his phone, smashed and sitting in a puddle of brown water along with a set of false teeth. He frowned and raised his head. In front of him an old man sat gawping, empty mouthed. His grey eyes fixated on something behind Charlie. Confused, Charlie turned back to the Grandchester—what was left of it.

A smoking skeletal structure stood in its place. The upper floors had disintegrated downwards, swiping away two sides of the building with them. Smoke and dust blossomed in their stead. If Charlie hadn't chased after Daniels when he did, he'd still be inside. He'd probably be dead. Then it dawned on him. John was still in Daniels' room.

Bystanders helped the old man to his feet, recovering his teeth from the pavement. Charlie wasn't in the mood for help. He scrambled to his feet before they could reach him, ignoring the pain in his arms and legs from the fall. There was no serious damage, nothing that would stop him racing back to the Grandchester and pulling his brother free.

Sirens blared around him. They were in London; the response time here was quick. There would be police coming, and they'd want to ask questions. Charlie hesitated, knowing if he ran to help, the authorities would catch him.

Before he could make up his mind, red and blue flashed in his line of vision. Seconds later bodies were being pulled from the rubble. Charlie was still staring, his clothes betraying his proximity to the blast. He backed away from the crowd, from the police looking for witnesses, before anyone could spot him. There was a car park across the street littered in broken glass and dust. He grasped the railings shielding him from the emergency services and looked back at the hotel. Logically, John couldn't have survived. He was three floors up. Now there were no floors, just one pile. John had to be buried in there. But if Charlie concentrated, if he reached out with his mind, he could sense his brother inside. As impossible as it was, he was sure his brother was alive.

More bodies were pulled from the rubble. Eight dead. Charlie scanned the scene, looking for signs of movement within the carnage. He toyed with his broken phone, trying to piece it together and finding it as ruined as the hotel. It was getting dark, and he was starting to doubt his earlier confidence. He concentrated again, reaching out to see if he could sense a stronger presence. John was still there, still moving, still fighting. At least Charlie believed he was.

A rumble rattled through the building. The firefighters inside fled, escaping seconds before the building gave out and imploded. There was no way anyone inside could still be alive. There was nothing left. Charlie felt his hands start to shake. He couldn't even comprehend the possibility of a life without his brother. He glared at the firemen, surrendering to the catastrophe, not knowing what to do.

“Been waiting long?” John said from behind him.

When Charlie turned, John was standing there, as though he'd been there the whole time. There was debris on his clothes and a small gash on his head, but nothing to suggest he'd just survived a building collapsing on him. He looked at Charlie, expectant and smug.

“How the hell did you get out of there?” Charlie was so overwhelmed he pushed John back, then grabbed hold of him to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

“Crawled mostly,” John said with a shrug. He pointed at his trousers. “Knees are fucking threadbare.”

There was a commotion outside the hotel. The police were pushing the crowd back, trying to isolate the area. John tipped his head. It was time to leave. Side by side, they headed back towards their car, parked three streets down. Charlie tried to play it cool—he tried to pretend he was as nonchalant as his brother—but minutes earlier he'd been waiting for John's body to be pulled from the rubble, and now he was striding through London like he owned the place. He had so many questions, starting with the most important.

“Did you get it?”

John's hands were stuffed deep into his pockets. A faint blush rushed up his cheeks. And if Charlie weren't already in a state of shock, he was about to encounter his brother being embarrassed. Incredible as his survival was, he'd been in the Grandchester for a reason. John was a perfectionist, and empty pockets were unacceptable.

“No.”

“No? What do you mean no? What happened?”

“The fucking building blew up,” John snapped.

“So it's still in there?”

“No. But I know where it is.”

Charlie looked at him expectantly, but John had already moved on. Charlie watched his brother slip deeper into the London shadows. If John knew where the program was, then they would find it. They'd get the job done. They were the infamous Smith brothers; they always got the job done. He fastened his jacket and went after his brother.

1

Charlie pressed against a frost-covered pine as the sun retreated. He peeled back his gloves to check his watch; the night air chewed on his exposed skin. The second hand rotated twice. He nudged his brother. John hooked his rifle over his shoulder and pulled his balaclava down. In three strides he disappeared into the woods. Charlie checked his watch again. Time to go.

Thirty miles of forest stretched in front of him, interrupted only by a single undocumented dirt track slicing between the trees. At the end of the road a twelve-foot barbed wire gate and fence encircled a three-mile-wide dip in the terrain. The site was marked only with a battered Private sign hanging loosely across the gate, pretending that the road beyond was nothing but a dead end. Charlie knew better. The fence was intact, the gate locked. What was the point in maintaining defences if the road led nowhere?

He moved forwards. The brace on his weak leg bore the weight of his descent. The pain in his hip and back was irrelevant against the importance of this final job. His boots struck the tarmacked road, and twilight embraced him. A sudden hush settled on the surrounding wilderness. Charlie sucked in a breath and waited.

Nothing.

No warning shot.

No rush of guards coming to capture him.

His attention flicked left to his brother's hideout. Then right to where he knew Rachel would be waiting. He checked his watch a final time. On cue an engine rumbled through the trees behind him. Half a mile down the road, Roxy was covering their escape. But Charlie had no intention of escaping. This was it for him. And he was ready.

His boots crunched on the frozen tarmac as he advanced on the gate. To his left a concealed camera pointed at the entrance. If it was being monitored, they would know he was coming. Let them know.

He counted his steps. Three more and he would be visible. He looked to the growing shadows—they were on his side—and moved forward.

The silence deepened. His heart quickened. He pulled his gloves off and pressed his hands against the metal framework of the gate. It was sealed with three electric bolts. Charlie closed his eyes and let his mind wander. Like a current, his powers surged through the gate, reading every twist of wire, every supporting frame. He travelled through its mechanics, learning it, understanding it. Controlling it. He found the operating system, his mind merging with it. And then he was the gate blocking his path. He twisted his hand sharply. The fuse box blew, the locks releasing. He let go of the gate and swiped his hands apart. With a violent creak it flew open and clattered against the fence.

Charlie stood, exposed. An open target for a lazy shooter. The air rattled in his body. He waited. Waited for the alarm. The soldiers. The bullets.

But there was still nothing.

His lips parted, another plume of breath twisting in front of him.

He took one final look at the shadows and stepped across enemy lines.

The track devolved into mud and stone, hugged by a lower tree canopy. The darkness deepened until he was surrounded by an eerie emptiness. The cold worsened, sinking through his clothing, penetrating his body to his bones. The moment stretched forward, the black seemingly infinite. And then it was suddenly lifted. The woodland broke and a concrete structure was exposed.

The sight of it hit Charlie hard. He was unable to move forward, the wind knocked from his body. The broken, vengeful man was suddenly gone. In his place was a terrified boy, staring at his worst nightmares unfolding. He blinked, concentrating on the pain in his back, reminding himself who he was and why he was here. This is not the place, he assured himself. This could not be the place they incarcerated him all those years ago. The structure was square and unmarked like the building from his childhood, housing an identical single, fortified entrance. But the laboratory he was held in was made vulnerable by a rocky incline, climbable by two young boys with nothing to lose. Here the ground where the incline could have been slumped, petering off to a small, stinking pond. This is not the place, he assured himself again. This is not the place.

Charlie squared his feet, stretching his back before the building. He would not be intimidated. He would coax them out of the bunker, and John would pick them off.

As he neared the building, he flexed his fingers, savouring the power he could wield. He reached out, feeling for anything threatening. Weapons, vehicles, machinery. He sensed nothing awaiting him. But that couldn't be right. If this was an Institute laboratory, it would be protected.

The stretch of tarmac that circled the building was now fully exposed and empty. Charlie was dumbfounded. Last week the road had been full of military vehicles. At the very least there should have been a handful of base vehicles parked up.

Charlie stopped walking, hit by a cold, unsettling thought. What if they were waiting for him? What if they had known he was coming for a long time? What if they intended to capture him and resume their experiments? There was still time to turn back, and for the first time since arriving in the forest, he was considering it. He wasn't afraid to die, but he was never going to be their lab rat again.

His fingers brushed the grenade in his pocket—he wouldn't be taken alive—and he continued on.

When he reached the bunker, he placed a hand against the metal door. His powers surged through the building, but he could get no sense of what lay beyond. The stillness seemed to deepen the harder he focussed, until he was part of the building, sitting in a place out of time and space.

“Where is everyone?”

He spun, drawing his pistol. Rachel raised her hands, unimpressed.

“Don't shoot.”

Charlie almost cried. His heart was racing. The gun trembled in his hand, and he stuffed it back into his hip holster.

“Don't sneak up on people,” he said.

“Hey, you told me to sneak in behind you. It's not my fault you're easily spooked.” She examined the door, frowning. “Aren't we all supposed to be dead or dying about now?”

“Apparently it's our lucky day.”

“Think they're waiting for us inside?”

Charlie nodded. It was the only place they could be.

He loosened his shoulders, feeling the wave rocket down his back and into his weaker leg. He could do this. He would do this.

“Ready?”

Rachel nodded, the uncertainty he felt reflected in her eyes. They were both here for revenge, both willing to die for it and both afraid of what could meet them inside. He pressed his hand against the metal door and allowed his powers to explore. The lock had been sealed electronically, but Charlie struggled to find a current he could surge. Instead he found the manual override, an internal heavy-duty lock on the back of the door.

The lock clanked hard. Heavy hinges creaked, and the door stretched open. The noise ricocheted into the long, dark corridor before them.

Charlie gasped, overcome with a sense of vertigo. This was all too much like a bad dream. He touched the wall to steady himself, listening to the deafening silence swallowing his breaths. Where are they?

Rachel peered in. “Well, doesn't that look inviting.” She fished out her flashlight and shone it into the black. Illuminated, the entrance wasn't any more welcoming. The walls were scuffed and scratched, the floors stained with brown track marks. The corridor housed a single check-in point to the left, a small cubicle which should have been constantly occupied, recording the movements of everyone entering and leaving the facility. Beyond that was a seemingly inactive lift. Charlie was starting to get a bad feeling in his gut.

“Ladies first?” he offered.

Rachel glared at him and pushed him forward. He took out his own torch and crossed the threshold. Run. Get out of here. The panic sounded like a chorus in his mind. As if the echoes of all the Reachers lost here were united in trying to compel him to save himself. He didn't believe in ghosts, just regrets. And he carried too many of those to turn back now. This was his fight. He wouldn't shy away from what awaited him.

He shone the light into the check-in station. There was an empty pencil pot beside a mouldy cup of coffee on the desk. Scraps of paper carpeted the floor. As Rachel covered him, he bent down to inspect them closer. The jotted notes were unintelligible clusters of numbers and codes. Nothing he could make sense of. He gestured for them to move forward towards the unfunctioning lift.

“If the lift's out, where are the stairs?” Rachel asked.

Charlie pressed his hands against the closed doors and eased them open, exposing an empty shaft. Empty save for a ladder running the length of the cavity. It was exactly as he remembered it, except this time he would be going down and not out to freedom like before.

It was impossible to know how far the cavity went. In his laboratory there were six floors that he knew of. It was possible this was even deeper.

“Wait until I get to the next floor, then follow me down,” he told her.

He crawled inside and grasped the ladder. The climb down was clumsy. His leg brace struck the ladder, each step creating an overture for his descent. If they were waiting, they would know exactly where he was, but he could do nothing about that now. He hung outside the lower floor. It was far too late to go back. He put his hand against the metal and forced the doors open.

Another empty corridor stretched in front of him. He shone his torch, exposing a row of open rooms. If they were still here, they were dragging out the game and having fun with him.

Rachel's feet struck the ladder. He waited for her to join him. He was willing to take on an army alone, but not the emptiness of the place. Only when she stood behind him did he feel any confidence to move forward.

Rachel was lucky. She had never been in an Institute facility, although she'd come close once—too close. The atmosphere of the building wasn't affecting her as much as it was him. She surged ahead, poking her head in the nearest doorway.

“What are these rooms for?” she asked.

“In the one I was taken to, this was the staff floor. Offices, common room. That kind of thing.”

“Well, I suppose you need somewhere to unwind when you've had a hard day torturing kids,” Rachel said and gestured they should keep going. She was right to keep up the pace. The longer they stayed here, the more unsettled he would get.

He moved to the next room, the ajar door concealing the inside. He kicked it open and waited for the shot, or shout, or anything. When he shone his torch into the space, he found an abandoned desk sitting there alone. There were marks on the walls and floor, signs of recent life, but no indication of who worked here or what they did.

They moved on to the next and the next. Each one similarly vacant. Some housed discarded furniture, others were totally barren. Cabinets had been emptied. Computers cleared away. A stray monitor remained fixed to one wall, cables dangling like the legs of a hanged man. There were nails remembering pictures, wear marks around doorways. A coffee machine sat on the opposing wall of what had to be the common room, the pot burnt and cracked.

Rachel nudged one of the discarded chairs with her foot. “This doesn't make any sense. We saw them. They were here two days ago. Where the hell have they gone?”

“I don't know.”

Thunderous rumbles shook the corridor, reverberating across the walls like gunfire. Charlie swung around. Halogen lights ignited in blasts. Bang. Bang. Bang. The lift gave out an agonising groan. Rachel pressed herself against the wall. She nodded at Charlie. He went first.

He twisted his body into the corridor, raising his weapon at the lift. The lights fizzed and flickered. The corridor was plunged into darkness. A second later the lights ignited again. The lift doors opened.

Charlie waited for the gunfire. For the hordes of soldiers to charge at him. He was ready. He could do this. He wanted this. Come on.

His brother stepped from the lift, into the open, and quirked his eyebrow. An amused twitch twisted his mouth. Charlie lowered his weapon and exhaled. He wasn't sure his chest could take any more false alarms.

“Who's watching the entrance?” he asked.

“I called Roxton over to cover us. Not that we need it. The whole place has been abandoned. There's no one here, just a shallow grave by the generator, probably about five men inside.”

“Reachers?” Rachel asked.

Charlie understood everything from the look John gave him. They had seen what the Institute did when they abandoned facilities first-hand.

“Non-essential staff,” John explained. “Still in their uniforms. Single shot to the back of the head. Nice to know the Institute are creatures of habit.”

If he closed his eyes, Charlie could still see it. The porters and janitors, all standing outside the facility, executed one by one by men they had worked alongside for months.

He kicked at the wall with his braced leg, furious with his timing. This was supposed to be his final stand, the moment he faced his greatest enemy. He was prepared to die here. But not to wait. Not to reset and begin hunting all over again.

“Do you think they knew we were coming?” Rachel asked.

“No, they'd still be here if they did,” Charlie said. “Something else must have happened. Maybe someone compromised the location. We found them; others could too.”

He rubbed the growing weariness from his face as the adrenaline started to subside. The building was still hiding rooms. Beneath his feet would be a cell block, little white spaces to house unfortunate Reachers. Beyond that, the hub of the operation, the laboratory. If there was no one here, those places would be similar husks, but Charlie was compelled to see them. This was not the place he and his brother had been incarcerated, but it was similar enough. If nothing else was to come of today, he would stand outside the cells a free man.

The lift seemed to slow the further down they travelled. Charlie wondered if this was all an elaborate game. Whether the doors would open and he would be greeted by a small army now they'd convinced themselves the laboratory was deserted. It was wishful thinking. There would be no fight. All that awaited him here were ghosts and bad memories.

The doors opened, and the corridor lights blasted into life. The smell hit Charlie first. It was unmistakable. Rachel took the lead, decomposition drawing the former doctor out of her. Charlie brought up the rear, the walls of this latest corridor being all too familiar.

Again, the rooms were all open. He counted eight. Eight rooms for eight solitary Reachers. Five of the beds still had bedding; the other three were stripped. Each room only housed one prisoner, a change from Charlie and John's time. John moved into the nearest cell, his steps just slightly more hesitant than normal. He looked to Charlie in the doorway, and his jaw clenched. John was a grown man now, but Charlie could still see the young boy he'd been paired with, and he was reminded again of why they had come here.

Towards the back of the corridor the smell got worse. The final door led to a shallow staircase, opening to an examination room. The sight of it made Charlie's stomach lurch more than the smell. How many times had he been restrained in a room like this? How many doctors had cut him, electrocuted him, poisoned him? His hands were shaking, and he was furious with himself for wavering. It had been years ago. They shouldn't still have this hold on him.

The equipment had been stripped from the room, leaving only rust marks and stray wiring hanging over the metal stretcher. And on the stretcher, beneath a yellowing sheet, was the source of the smell. The body had already begun liquefying, dissolved innards pooling on the tiled floor near the drainage grate. Rachel approached, her constitution ironclad. She peeled back the sheet, exposing the body of a teenage girl.

Her head had been shaved, exposing purple welts, bruises from countless experiments. There was no way to tell what kind of Reacher she was, whether she'd been telepathic like Rachel or telekinetic like Charlie. In the end it didn't matter. This was the fate for them all if they got caught.

Rachel turned to him, colour draining from her cheeks. She had come so close to being on that slab herself. Charlie had saved her, but the potential still bothered them both. It wasn't just Rachel. The girl could have been his daughter. And once again he found himself grateful Lilly had been killed before they could bring her to a laboratory like this.

In a storage shed on a farm in Wales, Charlie had file after file of other fallen Reachers. Their fates mirroring that of the girl on the slab. He carried them all with him, taking the burden of their deaths because he had survived. So many faces. So many names. What was the girl on the slab's name? Where had she come from? Would they ever find out?

“Take some pictures,” he told Rachel. “We need to document this.”

2

The light bulb was swinging. Back and forth, a pendulum over the dying Union man. His blood spattered over the antique printing press, dripping onto the anti-government pamphlets scattered on the floor. The printer's fingers twitched in a puddle of blood and ink and dirt. His face was pressed into the floorboards, his last breaths clogged with paper dust. Then he was gone, the moment as swift as the assault on his office. Five enforcement officers pointed smoking automatic rifles over him. Their victory had been spoiled by yet another anticlimactic bust. Union men favoured words over weapons. The fight was starting to become a slaughter.

There were other targets. The Union had stores and offices all over S'aven. There was no point wasting time on a lone rebel and an archaic printing system. Time to move out. Then something stirred in the shadows of the back room. The squad froze, eyes alert, watching the darkness hungrily. Their steps were cautious as they advanced. Guns poised, flashlights dancing over a cluttered storeroom, amphetamine-fuelled fingers vibrating against triggers—this was what they lived for.

Boxes had been dumped by the back exit, blocking the only escape anyone inside might have. The space was small, only large enough for two of the squad to fit inside. Their torch lights spiralled and caught the terrified eyes of a girl hiding under the cardboard. She shrieked and tried to cower back into the rubbish.

She was pretty, in an emaciated, grief-stricken way. No older than fourteen, her tears stained with ink; she would be their reward.

Mark Bellamy was leading the squad. He stood at the head, the alpha, and felt the lust build around him. He raised his hand before anyone else tried to claim the girl. A wave of disgruntled passivity rattled through them. Mark threw his rifle over his shoulder and snatched the girl by her bony wrist. She yelped and cried, twisting in his grip. With her free hand she clawed at him, scraping her filthy nails at his face. He slapped her. The sound surprised them both. The girl lowered her head, her braids covering her face, shielding her from further assault.

“Go on without me,” he said. It was an order, not a request. He knew the nature of his unit. They would relish the opportunity to destroy the girl with their desire. Unleashed, they would be uncontrollable. But Mark had the girl, so Mark called the shots. He drew her closer to his chest, breathing in the smell of machine oil and ink. “I'll make my own way back.”

There was another potential site for Union propaganda distribution and another opportunity for more helpless girls to savage. S'aven was nothing if not filled with potential. And these were S'aven's elite. These men could—and would—do anything.

With renewed purpose they filed out. Mark waited, listening to their steel-capped feet clomping out onto the street. An engine ignited—their transporter—and then pulled away. As the sound faded, he exhaled and released his grip on the girl. She dropped to the floor, scampering away from him, but he stood between her and the exit. There was nowhere to go. He breathed deeply, returning to a semblance of rationality, then removed his helmet.

The act liberated his thoughts—his real thoughts—and he shed the persona of the law enforcer.

He looked at the girl. Really looked at her this time, without intent or insinuation. The effects of this night would stain her future like the blood on the pamphlets. Mark couldn't save her from what lay ahead. He could only help her in this moment. And maybe afterwards she would be alive to do something more. Maybe she would survive this rotting town.

He crouched down, allowing her to look him in the eye. She was small for her age, like most of the kids in S'aven.

“What's your name?”

She didn't answer. Despite her emaciated form, there was defiance in her eyes.

Another trait of the S'aven youth.

“My name's Mark. I'm sorry for hitting you. I had to make them think I'm like them. But I'm not going to hurt you again. I promise. I'm going to help you. It would make it easier if I knew your name.”

She considered it. Her big brown eyes flipped from Mark to the body over his shoulder. Then she pushed back her braids, meeting his gaze with more bravery than anyone in the unit would ever know. “L-lacy. My name is Lacy Mooney.” Mark cursed inwardly. He knew the name too well.

“Was he your father?”

Her eyes filled with water as she nodded. It meant the dead man was Leroy Mooney, the second most important man holding the Union together. His death should have been avoidable. The building was supposed to be empty. Mark had leaked the plan two days ago and, unlike other strikes, this had run by the clock. He understood that the printing press was immovable, its Victorian weight and size cementing its place in the unsuitable office. Surrendering the building meant giving up a means to distribute information. But there was no need to die over a machine and certainly no reason to bring a child here. Mark didn't need any more blood on his hands, and he was putting a lot on the line trying to keep innocent people safe. What was the point when men would wilfully sacrifice everything for an unwinnable fight?

“We need to get out of here. Let's move these boxes and get going.”

Lacy rose to help. Her cardigan was thick, but Mark could see how unnaturally thin she was beneath it. He'd lived through food droughts before, but the current situation in S'aven was starting to scare him. Food was being purposely withheld from the people in an attempt to control them. It was a dangerous game and one the authorities would regret playing. Mark moved Lacy aside and did the work himself. She couldn't afford to waste her strength, and the station provided him with more than enough rations.

With the back door clear, he was able to map a path to the canal. The rest of the unit should have made their way to the next raid site, but there was a chance they'd been inspired to commit more trouble in the area. Avoiding the main roads, he took the back alleys and weaved around the ramshackle homes lining the gardens to the old, dilapidated townhouses.

A gag-inducing stench haunted the canal. Death had arrived in S'aven, gathering disease-ridden bodies beneath the thick water that cut through the town. A cholera outbreak had hit the worst of the slums. If things didn't improve soon, it would spread, and the canal would be abandoned for bigger dump sites. Mark held his breath as he walked. Lacy seemed used to it.