Stone Rising (6 page)

             
A child, no older than eight or nine; her pig-tails tied back with pink ribbon, her frilly dress torn and spattered with gore. To her side, her school-satchel, still bedecked with pin-badges; Spongebob Squarepants, My Little Pony. The flap of the satchel hung open, the lifeless eyes of the severed head stuffed within staring out in blank and unending horror. The child screamed in pitiful rage as she sprinted through the rubble and debris that littered the street.

             
A pensioner, what little of his wiry hair that remained, white, his wizened face lined with extreme age. His electric scooter long since discarded, battery drained dry; fingernails torn, raw, crusted with dried blood as the senior citizen dragged himself mindlessly on, useless legs trailing behind, teeth bared in a feral grin of bloodlust.

             
A taller figure, amongst the rampaging crowd; black-skinned, muscular, his blue, mechanic’s overalls torn and stained with the vital fluids of his victims. He ran, barging aside with his bulk the smaller creatures in his path, eager to be the first to reach their prey. He stopped, barely twenty yards from the makeshift wall of ruined cars, the leather of his boots screeching to a halt amidst the glass and gravel that coated the once smooth pavement of the road. A prickling, static frisson in the air and he raised his right arm, staring at it in wonder and fear, as those of the gibbering horde nearest stopped their frenzied run and backed away in confusion. An audible hum, a feeling of leaden weight, of evil intention, then a roar of pain as the giant crashed to his knees, contorting in agony.

             
A crack, as the bones in his arm shattered, the flesh of his limbs swelling; the muscles rippling like a python, its swallowed prey still struggling for life. Power untold flowing from an unknowable source to fill this pathetic creature with dark strength. Talons erupted from lengthened fingers and as neck and shoulders inflated to balloon-esque proportions, the shaven head of the man began to disappear from sight. Eyes dark, empty, stared out, up, towards the wall of cars before the horde. In the last instant, before the head disappeared from view entirely, a flicker of life from those dark orbs, a pathetic mewling as the human soul that once reigned over that body cried out in final, desperate torment.

             
Kill me.

             
From atop the wall of cars, the weak sunlight flashed upon armour of silver. A cloud of grey cigar smoke issued out from slim nostrils as a high pitched whine of building power filled the air.

             
“No problem.”

             
An eruption of golden fire leapt out to speak release upon the crowd of the damned. The swollen giant, yet half transformed, evaporated in blissful peace as the fire consumed him in its embrace. Similar flashes roared out from either side of the figure atop the wall, reaching out to clear the crowd from the road, like weeds before a brush-cutter. Like darkness before the light.

The pig-tailed girl, the pensioner, the mailman, the mother, the care-worker, the bank-clerk, the shop assistant; all puppets of a dark power.  All now gone, obliterated, blasted into peaceful and welcome oblivion before the wave of golden fire.

              Finally, after long moments, the smoke began to clear, the air filled no longer with the cries of madness and the howling of the damned; only the popping sizzle of scorched fat and the crackle of charred and brittle bone disturbing the stillness of the air. The road cleared of movement, still and macabre; a slaughterhouse of the innocent and the lost.

             
The man took another drag on the cigar clenched between his teeth as he surveyed the carnage before him, before hefting his weapon to his shoulder and turning, clambering down the wall of cars to the road behind the defences. The others followed, grunting with the effort, their movements encumbered by the shining silver plate and chain mail they wore, so out of place amidst the concrete and glass of their surroundings.

             
A fellow warrior approached him, face grim from the slaughter before. There was no pleasure to be had in the destruction of this enemy; innocents, trapped in the flesh puppets of their own bodies. No pleasure in ending them.

             
No pleasure in anything, here.

             
“What now, sire?”

             
Arbistrath threw his cigar to the ground, grinding it beneath a steel boot.

             
“We go home, Lawrence. Take these supplies back. Get some rest.” He looked up to the tall buildings that reared dizzyingly on all sides. “It’ll be dark soon…”

***

The creaking rumble of the descending gates came to a halt and Marlyn flicked the switch to turn off the motors.

              “And that’s the last of them.” He nodded to himself as he regarded the monitors before them, seeing the entrances to the complex all sealed off. “Should see us right until morning.”

             
A hand on his shoulder, the knuckles raw from wearing steel gauntlets too often.

             
“Good.” Arbistrath’s face was sombre; no change there. “How long will this new oil we found last us?”

             
“Diesel.” The word leapt unbidden to Marlyn’s tongue as words so often did of late. “And it’ll last us a week, maybe ten days.”

             
A nod from Arbistrath.

             
“That’s good. Gives the men some time to rest.”

             
The young lord paused for a few moments, a vacant expression on his face. Marlyn watched him, noting how tired he looked, the dark circles beneath his eyes, before Arbistrath shuddered, jarring himself to attention again.

             
“Well… keep up the good work, lad. Don’t stay awake too long.” He nodded towards the bright security screens. “And give your eyes a break – those things can’t be good for them.”

             
Marlyn laughed.

             
“Will do, sire. Night.”

             
Another weary nod from his lord, before he turned and strode from the small room.

             
Marlyn turned his attention back to the screens in front of him, rubbing his eyes, screwing them shut and opening them again to try to relieve the ache.

             
“I think he’s right, y’know,” he murmured to himself.

             
He frowned, for a second, as he gazed about the bank of controls, feeling a slight mental tug towards one particular control. He reached out, twisting the small knob, the glaring brightness of the screens diminishing as he did.

“Hmm.”

              It had been that way ever since that fateful night at the foot of the Beacon; since feeling the seeping, golden touch of his newly empowered cannon, his mind had burst into bright and vibrant life, his curiosity alight, his intuition enhanced. Perhaps back home, back in Tulador, he would have died of boredom, for even now he could recall the primitive, backwards state of the technology. Wood, steel, pulleys and levers. So simple. So… easy.

             
But here? Here in this strange, new world the technology that surrounded them at every turn amazed and intrigued him. These screens before him – how did they work? How could he see things from so far away? It wasn’t acting like a telescope, no; there were no lenses. Just metal wires wrapped in…?

             
Plastic: a malleable, organic polymer useful for insulating against electric current.

             
He shook his head, staggered for an instant, as he always was whenever the answers sprung from nowhere. He didn’t understand how all these things worked; the monitors, the gates. No. But his intuition allowed him to use them well enough.

             
Enough to allow them to survive. Thus far, at least.

             
This place they had found themselves holed up in. This – he glanced at the words in the bottom corners of the screens – ‘Shopping Centre,’ was rammed full of such technologies. He yearned to pull the devices apart, to see what made them work, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to understand, even if he did. The half-dismantled gadget atop his workstation was testament to that. ‘Toaster’ the label had said. What did it do? And how did it work? That was the frustrating thing; knowing just enough to be aware of your own ignorance. Maddening.

             
Perhaps, one day, when
he
returned to find them. To bring them home, then maybe he would find some answers.

             
He closed his eyes, suppressing a shudder at the misery evoked by the thought. How long had they been here now? A month? A year? It was hard to tell. Either way, his faith in the promise of their lord grew weaker as each day passed. For was it not clear? Was it not evident by the hordes of the damned that roamed the streets outside? The only thing that separated the lost souls without from the Clansmen of Merethia was the lack of trailing, waxed moustache.

             
This world had already fallen. Their mission, their reason for coming here, failed before it had even begun.

***

A scratching. A clawing. Quiet, subtle, like the rasping of tiny nails on a wall in a far corner of a house. Lawrence opened his eyes and, just like that, the noise was gone. Had he imagined it? He listened, straining in the gloom of the restaurant booth to hear for it again, but all that reached his ears were the sounds of low, heavy breathing; the fitful moans of other homesick warriors at slumber, minds plagued at night by the horrors that haunted their waking days.

             
What had Lawrence expected, all that time ago, when they had stood, proud and brave, before the Portal atop the Beacon? To walk out the other side into fields of green? Shining towers of glass and gold? Pretty maidens charging forth with garlands of flowers to drape about their necks? Perhaps. Perhaps that was what he’d thought they’d deserved. Hell, he’d have been surprised if they hadn’t all felt the same after all they’d been through. A nightmare. Horrors beyond the wildest imagination. Even now, who knew how long after, he could still hear the screeching metallic cries of the Centaurs; still smell the sour tang of sulphur.

             
But back then, at least, back on the battlefields around Merethia, they’d had a purpose. They’d had a goal. And of course, they’d had
him
. The blinding light. The warming glow, the presence, that pervaded all about, filling them with hope, with strength, hearts a-flutter with pride. Unconsciously, his hand found the sturdy, reassuring grip of his cannon, the metal never tarnishing, always warm, its surface faintly aglow with its golden sheen of power.

             
But what did they have now? The misery of his predicament blew through the nostalgia in a heartbeat. What now? No goal, no purpose, no drive. Nothing, save a hellish struggle for survival in a world long since lost. Fie, how he wished he’d never joined the Tulador Guard. Wished he’d stayed at home, in his village. Taken over his father’s forge. Plucked up the courage to venture down the tavern, lean over the bar and tell Tanya exactly why he’d been staring at her over his pints of ale all these years… Even now he could picture her dark, curly locks; hear the melodious laughter that used to ring throughout the tavern of a night. The years they’d spent together, the times they’d shared, yet never had he made the move. A lifetime of wasted chances.

             
That scratching again, clawing, insistent, on the very edge of his hearing. Again, as soon as he focused, it was gone. He shook his head. Tiredness, no doubt; the day’s march, lugging that noxious smelling fuel back here, had obviously worn him out more than he’d realised. His limbs felt fine; food was no issue here, entire huge rooms of this building filled with metal tins of preserved meats and legumes. And the work wasn’t usually too hard in itself either, most of the time being cramped up here, safe and locked away from the horrors of the world outside, with only the weekly forays in search of fuel to power the lights and gates of their refuge.

             
No, the weariness here was mental, stemmed from their environs; the steel, the concrete, the ruined, twisted vehicles and the roaming hordes of the once-men. For a lowly guardsman of Tulador, used to the bright sunshine and the rolling, green fields, this vast city felt claustrophobic, threatening. The tall buildings that loomed like man-made mountains seemed to pen them in on all sides. The cold, tiled floors and harsh, artificial lights of this complex they’d barricaded themselves within each night. It all felt too alien; bereft of life.

             
Bereft of hope.

             
Hope. Yes, that was Lord Arbistrath’s favourite word of late. Hold fast to hope, he told them. Keep in mind the promise of our lord. He’ll not forsake us. Hold out here, as long as we can. He will return. Lawrence snorted to himself in quiet derision. Not likely. Not if the months they’d already been here were anything to go by. As far as he could see, the future only held more of the same; more of the misery, more of the mind-numbing boredom. And more of the ever-present fear that never left, that chilled each man, right down to the bone, no matter how warm the strange mechanical heaters of this complex kept the air.