Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
Lawrence?
More of the dried, tasteless, tinned food. More of the poisonous, fume ridden air and burnt, orange sky.
Lawrence?
He paused his lamentations for a moment as he lay there on the unyielding, dusty padding of the restaurant seat. Did he… did he really hear that? Or were his suspicions right? Were his frayed nerves finally beginning to play tricks on his mind?
Lawrence, why did you leave us?
He sat bolt upright, blanket falling to the floor, hand snatching out to stop his cannon from doing the same.
“T… Tanya?” He whispered the name quietly, lest the other resting warriors heard. No, it couldn’t be. Not possible. Not here, not now, not after everything that had happened. Impossible. Yet there it was again; faint, yet unmistakable. And it sent a shiver down his spine.
Why did you leave us, Lawrence? Why?
He stuttered, trying to find the words, but his mind and mouth failing to reach an agreement on how they should proceed.
It’s cold out here, Lawrence. So cold. Won’t you let us all in?
“Y… you all?”
Your father’s here, Lawrence. Your mother, too. We’re all here, but it’s cold. Won’t you let us in?
His heart hammered in his chest as he whispered quietly through trembling lips.
“How…?” he demanded as if unto the air itself. “How is this possible?”
I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. But please, first come and let us in.
He slid his feet off his makeshift bed, confused, scared, but desperate; desperate for a chance of familiarity, a glimpse of home. A second chance.
“Where are you?” he breathed.
Follow my voice, Lawrence,
came the whispers in reply.
Follow my voice and let us in…
***
Marlyn stumbled, eyes half closed in his tired state, almost splashing his feet as he relived himself in one of the porcelain urinals.
Should’ve listened to Arbistrath, he thought to himself, ruefully.
He pulled his trousers back up about his waist, fastening them in place with a thick leather belt, before hefting his ever-present cannon to his shoulder. The mail and plate of his garb resounded loud and harsh in the tiled bathroom as he trudged his way to the door, patting himself down with a frown as though he’d forgotten something, then shaking his head and continuing on. Heavy, cumbersome; Marlyn had voiced his objections at wearing the armour all the time, and his voice had been only one of many. But Arbistrath had been adamant; armour to be worn at all times, save when bathing.
Once upon a time, people might have disobeyed that order, coming from him, especially here and now, far from the prying eyes of other Lords or the threat of punishment. But the Arbistrath of today was a different man from the proud, naïve young Lord of Tulador they once knew. The Demon of the Bridge had shocked into life a courage within the man, a courage that had perhaps always been there, though dormant, buried beneath layers of fear and responsibility. Then the death of Hofsted had tempered that bravery, adding to it a keen edge of hatred that lent purpose to the young Lord’s every command.
Yes, the Arbistrath of today was a different man entirely. And so it was that when he spoke, men obeyed without question.
Marlyn reached the end of the corridor that led to the toilets, running left to head back towards the restaurant and his slumbering comrades. He advanced a pace, then stopped, letting out a quiet sigh of exasperation. The manual to the toaster; that’s what he’d forgotten, having put it to one side as he’d taken a piss. He turned, slowly, achingly, back the way he came, then paused.
Was that a shadow he saw, vanishing down the corridor across the promenade, the corridor that led to the security office? He frowned, unsure whether it was his mind playing tricks on him, but then the tiles echoed back to him the gentle creak of the security office door.
Someone was there. But who? No-one had any business there but him…
Curious, he strode across the promenade, past the upturned wooden-effect cart that once sold bottled fragrances and beads, craning his neck as he came to the corridor, eyes straining down the dim hallway. There, the shadow, flickering and cast into ghostly hue by the blue light of the monitors. He walked down, ten, twenty paces, reaching the half-closed door. He made to speak, to call out and see who was there, then thought better of it; everyone was jumpy. And everyone had their cannons hanging from their shoulders…
He reached out, gently rapping on the wood of the door, leaping back, startled, as the door flew open and a face greeted him in the half-light.
“…Lawrence?”
The other guard stared at him, as though he hadn’t heard him.
“No,” said Lawrence, cocking his head as though listening intently to something that Marlyn couldn’t hear. “He’s a good lad, I won’t do that.”
A ripple of confusion passed over Marlyn’s face, quickly turning to alarm as the other guard raised his cannon.
“Lawrence… what?”
Eyes fixed Marlyn, eyes glimmering with a curious and terrifying mixture of hope and fear.
“I’m… sorry.”
The eruption of golden power never appeared, instead, Lawrence’s hands gripping the barrel of his cannon and swinging it like a club towards Marlyn’s unprotected head. The youth fell to the floor in a clang of metal, his skull a ringing mass of pain.
Through the encroaching blur of unconsciousness, Marlyn could just make out the form of Lawrence as he scuttled away; hunched, low and fast, as though on a mission of utmost secrecy and import. Marlyn’s head dropped back to the cold tiles, eyes closing as oblivion reached up to claim him, dragging him down into the dark.
***
Some small part of him cried out at what he had done, in anguish at this betrayal of his friend and comrade. But what must be done, must be done.
The souls of his family and loved ones were at stake.
Yes,
came the whispers once more.
Just a little bit further. Down, down the stairs.
He flew down the corridor and into a stairwell, boots squeaking loud on the white, tiled floor. Down the staircase he strode, lungs burning in his chest as he fought for breath. So near, so close. To see them again. To hold them, to smell them. Familiarity, comfort.
Through the door, Lawrence, through the door and across the car park.
He hit the release bar and burst through the door, out into a dimly lit, underground expanse of concrete that seemed to stretch off in all directions. Scattered throughout the space, like mechanical cows, sleeping for the night, the wheeled steel boxes found throughout the city.
Cars, Marlyn had once told him.
The other side of the car park. Please Lawrence. It’s cold out here.
A surge of fresh strength flooded his weary limbs at the nearness of his goal. He powered on, discarding his cannon to tumble to the ground, dead weight, useless to him now. There, across the space; the yellow-painted barrier of steel that he’d seen on the screen in the office. Behind it, the shuttered gates that barred the entrance to the car park from the outside world, the same gates which he had powered up with a turn of a switch from the office. Powered up, but couldn’t open; Marlyn had locked them with a code and not even Tanya could tell him what it was.
His pace slowed as he neared the gate, his run turning into a staggered walk as he passed the barrier and made his way to the control switch. For a moment, doubts began to assail him, but before they could even form coherent thoughts in his mind, Tanya spoke to him once more, coaxing, beckoning.
Turn the switch, Lawrence, my love. Turn it and we can all be together again.
My love?
A noise that sounded almost like a giggle and the whispers continued.
Yes, my love. Do you not think I noticed how you used to look at me across the bar? I’ve always felt the same way, Lawrence, but was always too shy. Open the gate and we will be together. We can run away from all of this and be together forever.
Doubt, fear, all slipped away in the face of these fresh promises. With no hesitation, he reached forth, grasping the round red switch that sat in a yellow box, twisting it till it clicked. A high pitched whirr, then the jerking rattle of metal as the gate began to rise, slowly, laboriously.
Inevitably.
As the metal shuttering rose higher, Marlyn walked out into the middle of the road, gazing out into the outside world, shielding his weary eyes from the bright orange glow of the lamps outside. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, shapes swam blurrily into view, coming into sharper focus with every passing second.
His blood froze.
The once-man nearest him, at the head of the huge horde, cocked its head to one side as it regarded him, its mouth ripped open by some horrific previous battle to expose a rictus grin that would never fade, teeth and gum showing through where once there should have been flesh.
Together, Lawrence,
it spoke as the horde rushed forth into the car park with reaching arms.
Together forever.
Chapter Four:
It was dusk. Fatigue clawed at their eyelids, but the rumble of the cart as it made its way down the roughly paved road denied any hope of snatched slumber as they travelled.
The Boy gazed about the dim interior of the rickety wagon at his fellow travellers. Will, to his right, eyes closed, hands hidden beneath his cloak; fingers no doubt resting on the hilts of his twin daggers. Next to Will, sat close to the entrance of the covered wagon, an old lady, face wrinkled by the lines of age; at her feet a pig, pink, freshly washed, ready for market. Opposite her, a couple, girl and boy; young, nervous-looking; eyes darting about, hands clasped tightly to each other’s. On the run, no doubt, fleeing a disapproving family, hoping to make a new life for themselves in the hustle and bustle of the town.
Then finally, opposite the Boy himself, the big man. Stinking, unwashed, the man loomed tall, his shoulders broad, putting him in mind of John. But where John, despite his stature, had a countenance of ease and good humour, this hulk had sat and stared at the Boy for the entire time since the man had got on the cart at the last village and squeezed his bulk on board; his eyes bloodshot and sat in a scarred face, challenging, daring him to make comment.
The Boy was not one to back down from a challenge.
“Can I help you, friend?”
The menacing figure snorted and spat a wad of thick, yellowy phlegm to the floor of the cart.
“Just as I thought,” he grumbled, voice like a bag of rocks. “A toff.”
“Excuse me?” The Boy was suddenly very aware of how thin and reedy his voice sounded in the air of the cart.
The big man grinned, lips drawing back to reveal teeth black, broken or otherwise missing.
“A toff. A nob. I can tell, y’see. I’ve worked for a few in my time.” He leant close, shadows casting a nefarious aspect to his scarred and worn face. Rancid breath washed over the Boy and stung at his eyes as the man gestured with his meaty hand. “That nose; smooth and straight, perfect for looking down on people. That forehead; uncreased with lines of worry.” He sat back, smiling to himself as the Boy retorted.
“You know nothing of me…”
The big man bellowed with laughter, then fixed him with an evil eye.
“And that voice… so cocksure, arrogant, used to obedience. I’ve known nobles like you, my lad; thinking it a thrill to go out, mingle with the masses. Play dress up in rags and dirt. Fun, isn’t it? To play at being a commoner. Well, until it bites you in the arse...”