Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (53 page)

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to ignite. He had been so
nervous he’d been thinking only of the charge. Now it was his only option.

Warmth gathered in his chest. The overwhelming fatigue that
swept through him then was like nothing he’d ever felt, a knockout blow. He
knew he could stay awake only as long as he remained ignited.

Up ahead, the mob reached the barricade. The two guards in
the lookout perches were spraying gunfire down on them, but that didn’t last
long. They ran out of ammunition and abandoned their posts while the gates
shook with the press of the crowd. The sentries in the buildings above,
however, had been thriftier with their ammunition. They’d also managed to drop
anyone who picked up a ladder. The seething crowd beat against the wall of wood
and plastic and corrugated steel. Without a way to surmount it, they were stuck
there like cattle in a pen.

Merrick took off at a lightning clip, shoving his way through
the press with hands that burned with power. People moved aside at the euphoria
of his touch. When he reached the gate, he pushed everyone back while screaming
for them to make room. As soon as he’d cleared a few feet of space around him,
he activated his shield.

This is a shitty way to die
, he thought, stepping
forward. The front edge of the orb made contact with the barrier. Plastic and
metal melted away, forming liquid flows around Merrick’s feet. He took another
step. White-hot slag splashed on the clothing and skin of the closest
bystanders, raising cries of pain.

One more step. The orb flickered, sending a wave of energy
through him. He was halfway through the barricade now. He could see the oily
red image of the Olney Street Café on the other side, along with the gatehouse
awning and the flimsy card table beneath, surrounded by its makeshift seating
fashioned from cinder blocks, a wrought-iron café stool, and a movie theater
chair.

The barricade’s hard resistance turned to soft, muddy
compliance. The orb shrouded him from head to toe, linked to his movements as
if physically attached. Wood burst into flame and floated away as ashen specks.
Metal and plastic dripped down around him, adding to the pool at his feet.

The barricade shuddered as its supports disintegrated.
Merrick braced himself, expecting the whole thing to collapse on him. He might
survive the falling debris, but the buildup of molten metal could do plenty of
damage. Taking his final step through the barricade, he snuffed his shield and
shifted out of the way. The structure held.

A barrage of gunfire struck the wall around him. He dropped
to the pavement as soldiers took pot shots from behind blockades further down
the street. Molten slag was still melting off the circular hole he’d cut in the
barricade, making it unsafe for his followers to come through. That didn’t stop
the soldiers from firing on the crowd through the opening, though.

Merrick crawled to the gate, unfastened the lock and swung it
open. The people flooded through, passing him on their way toward the soldiers.
He joined the crowd, swept up in the current, then ducked around the next
corner and burned off the last of his remaining power running full-speed toward
an empty-looking building behind the Row.

He got far enough to enter the lobby and climb halfway up the
first flight of stairs before everything within him gave way. He dropped to his
knees and collapsed on the steps. The unbearable weight of his fatigue kept him
from rising again, as if he’d suddenly grown tired enough to drop dead on the
spot. He was asleep before he could form another thought.

He woke where he’d fallen, crusted drool on the staircase’s
faded pink carpet. Silver starlight filtered through high windows in what he
now realized was the lobby of either an old apartment building or an antique
mom-and-pop hotel. The memory of the attack began to return to him. He didn’t
understand; hadn’t morning come yet? Or, Infernal forbid, had he slept through
an entire day?

The scene on the street outside made him suspect the latter.
The dead lay all around, souther and Scarred alike. Fires burned on every
corner, and the smell of death smoldered beneath an overlay of charred flesh.
The streets were empty of the living, friend or foe.

Merrick dragged the first dead soldier he found into the
building’s lobby and changed into the man’s shabby urban-camouflage fatigues.
Without an angry mob to carry him to the Hull Tower, a disguise was his best
ploy. The chances of anyone recognizing him along the way were slim, but they’d
be slimmer if they thought he was a soldier.

He found a rifle and gathered enough unspent ammunition to
fill three magazines. Then he backtracked to the next corner for a peek at the
Olney Street barricade. A crew of soldiers from the Engineering Division were
busy at work repairing the structure while a team of Sentries guarded the opening.
Medics were tending to the wounded and loading bodies onto a flat horse-drawn
wagon. Whatever goals Merrick’s followers had managed to accomplish last night,
throwing the city north into anarchy did not appear to be one of them. Still,
they’d disturbed the city north’s usual calm atmosphere to some degree.

Merrick doubled back and headed for the Hull Tower. The
stench of battle began to fade as he traveled, though it smelled only a little
cleaner here than in the south. Walking these streets again after months away
felt strange. He soon determined that a full day had passed while he slept,
rather than just a few hours. The sleep of the gifted would never have released
him so soon.

He saw the first sign of his followers a few blocks north of
the Row. A pair of Rowdies emerged from an apartment building, each man
carrying a sheet-wrapped bundle over his shoulder. A woman chased them outside,
beating them with her fists and shouting for them to give back what they’d
stolen. One of the gangers cuffed her across the face, sending her to her
knees.

Further down the street, three male Tribers were lugging
another north-woman through a doorway by her arms and legs. Further still, a
group of southers were kicking an elderly northern man as he lay on the ground.
This is what they think we came here for?
Merrick thought in disbelief.
Looting
and raping and killing? They’re only proving why the Scarred wouldn’t let them
in to begin with
.

Something struck Merrick on the head. His vision flashed
white; pain came afterward, sharp and sudden. The offending brick hit the
ground at his feet and broke in two. Above him, a ganger drew back and hurled a
second brick in his direction. This time Merrick sidestepped the projectile.

He felt faint. Warm blood poured from the wound, but the
warmth in his chest was already closing it up. Gangers rounded the corner and
sprinted toward him with readied weapons.
They think I’m a Scarred man
.
“Stop, it’s me,” he shouted, holding up his hands and backing away. “It’s
Merrick Bouchard. The healer.”

The Klick gangers were too blood-crazed to recognize him or
make sense of his words. Merrick kept shouting. They kept running. They didn’t
stop until their bodies hit the ground a few seconds later, a mess of blood and
severed limbs. Merrick shredded the next brick before snuffing his shield and
giving the ganger in the window a profane gesture. “It’s me, dipshit.”

The ganger frowned in confusion, shrugged, and threw another
brick. Merrick dodged it and retreated into the shadows along the opposite sidewalk.
From then on he made it a point not to be noticed.

In an alcove across the street from the Hull Tower, Merrick
stopped to observe the crowd gathered at the entrance. This many northers only
assembled here when there were problems. Merrick studied the name tag, branch
emblem, and rank insignia on his stolen uniform before he approached.

Merrick made eye contact with one of the door guards as he
shoved his way through the crowd, giving the man a casual nod in greeting. “I
got a message for Wax from the Row,” he shouted as he came to stand before
them.

“Sorry, uh—” the guard studied the name on Merrick’s uniform,
“—Private Wingate. No one’s allowed in right now. Commissar’s orders. Give me
the message and I’ll have it sent up to him.”

“Can’t do that,” Merrick said, heart pounding. “Orders from
my C.O. No one hears this but Wax.”

The guard shrugged. “You’ll have to wait with the civilians
‘til he opens up.”

“Look, pal. I don’t know either of you dways, but if this
message doesn’t get delivered to Wax tonight, I don’t think he’s gonna like you
very much when he finds out you’re the reason.”

“Top secret ‘n shit, huh?” said the other one, a shorter,
balding man. “Heard that one before. Every civilian who shows up here says they
won’t talk ‘til it’s Wax who’s listening. All the other messengers from the Row
today have given us their dispatches. What’s your deal? Who’s your C.O.?”

“Captain Robling, man,” Merrick shot back. “Come on, what is
this, amateur hour? I told you I got a message. Quit busting my balls and let
me in. I’m off shift as soon as I deliver this. I’ve been waiting to get a few
drinks in me all day.”

Both guards looked at him strangely. “Off shift? No one’s off
shift. Not until this shit with the southers clears up. How’d you get off
tonight?”

Merrick thought quickly. “I don’t mean
off
, off. Just
a break, is all. Robling said I could swing by the Boiler Yard and grab a brew
after I brought Wax the message. That makes you two dways the only thing
standing between me and a cold one.”

“Shit, I could go for a beer right about now. Been a long-ass
day.”

Merrick leaned in. “Tell you what. I’ll pick you up a couple
and bring them through on my way back.”

The guards looked at each other. The bald one licked his
lips. “This better not be some stunt, Private. You screw us over, I’ll find out
where you bunk up.”

“Trust me on this one, boys,” Merrick said.

“I’ll have a dark ale, then.”

“Same for me,” said the other.

“You got it.” Merrick shouldered past them and put his hand
on the revolving door. The bald guard caught him by the wrist before he could
open it.
The mark
, he thought, glancing toward the bare flesh between
his thumb and forefinger. His nailless fingers were supple, the skin newly
formed.

The guard wasn’t looking at his hands, though. He eyed
Merrick for a long moment, then said, “On second thought, make mine a pale.
Imported. None of this local stuff.”

“Imports are expensive these days,” Merrick said, pretending
offense.

“You want to go inside, or don’t you?”

Merrick gave him a wink. “Pale it is. Imported.”

“Don’t be long.”

Oh, I plan to be here for a while
, Merrick wanted to
say. Dodging bird droppings and broken glass on his way through the atrium, he
took the stairwell beside the corridor of elevators and climbed to the ninth
floor. The guards standing outside the double doors to Wax’s office seemed more
expectant than surprised when they saw him coming down the hallway.

“What’s the news?” said a hook-nosed man with whom Merrick
wasn’t familiar.

“For the Commissar’s ears only,” Merrick said.

“He isn’t taking visitors,” said the other guard. Merrick
did
know this man, he realized, but not before the man recognized him. “Bouchard?”
he said. “Bouchard, is that you?”

Merrick made to speak, but he wasn’t sure what to say except,
“You guessed it. It’s me.”

“What are you doing here? I heard you got banished,” said
Seaton Jamerton, the man whose birdhouse shift with the Sentries had come
directly after Merrick’s a few times each week. Seaton eyed Merrick’s scarred
face with a curious frown.

“Um… no, that was bullshit,” Merrick said. “I just got moved
to another unit.”

“Oh yeah, where? You’re in the Sentries again now, I see.”
Seaton pointed to the blue shield insignia on Merrick’s uniform. “Oh, this?
Yeah, I uh—”

“Who’s Wingate? They demote you to private and change your
name, too?”

“Shit, Seaton, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry.” Merrick lifted his
rifle and sprayed the two men with a burst of rapid fire. He kicked open the
double doors and emptied his magazine on the second pair of guards he knew
would be inside the waiting room.

At the desk, Wax’s secretary Cath raised her hands in
surrender and wheeled backwards in her rolling chair until she hit the wall
behind her. “Don’t shoot me. What do you want? What do you want?”

“Where’s Wax?”

Cath’s breath trembled, button-up blouse tight at her chest.
She tossed her head to indicate the left-hand hallway.

“Get on the ground and put your hands behind your head,”
Merrick told her. He waited. “You better be there when I get back.”

Jamming a fresh magazine into his rifle, he made his way down
the hall and turned the handle of the first door on the right. Inside was a
large boat conference table covered in a scale model of what Merrick quickly
realized was the entire city of Belmond. Wax was leaning over the table while
his captains and advisors sat around him.

The Commissar glanced up as Merrick entered, then
straightened. “Well… Bouchard, isn’t it? You look like you’ve been through some
shit.” He grimaced at the ugly scars across Merrick’s face.

Merrick laughed wryly. “I really am a scarred man now. Ever
since you banished me, I swore I’d make you regret it.”

“You didn’t have to swear,” said Wax. “I’ve regretted it ever
since I made the decision not to kill you. The instant they reported back from
dropping you in the wasteland, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I remember telling you that back then.
I could tell I was still on your shit-list when you tried to have me killed.”

Wax smiled. “So all this business with the southers breaking
in… that was your doing?”