A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (14 page)

Eighteen

Stone aimed and fired.

The driver of the armoured car swept right as the bullet splintered his side window. He had crept along Stone’s flank, looking to ram him, but had instead found himself staring down the long barrel of a revolver. The jeep was on his left, out wide, holding back, burning across the rough terrain. The pickup truck loomed in his rear view mirror, strips of metal across the front windscreen. He could see two warriors inside the cab. A third manned the cartridge belt fed heavy machine gun mounted on the flatbed. He hadn’t open fire and Stone had to assume the Cleric wanted him alive. That was never going to happen.

The three vehicles bunched around him, dropped back suddenly and then shot forward.

The jeep swung in hard and fast. His car took the impact and he gripped the wheel hard, trying not to spin off.

The armoured car then slammed into him, but ran against the spikes and pulled quickly away, one of his tyre mesh guards trailing off into the dirt.

Steadying the car, Stone fired off two shots from his revolver, both bullets careering off the armoured car, forcing him further wide, bumping off the road and onto the hard dirt.

The jeep rammed him again, metal torturing metal. A warrior leaned out and repeatedly hit the roof of the car with an axe.

With both side windows rolled down, Stone levelled his revolver and squeezed the trigger. The bullet whistled past the driver’s nose and the jeep swerved away and back into the dirt.

The pickup truck was coming in hard now and Stone’s car jerked forward as he was rammed. He wrestled with the wheel, losing control for a moment, sliding left and right, tyres squealing against the road. The armoured car crunched against him, leaving huge dents on the front and back doors. The pickup rammed him a second time and he lurched forward. The warrior standing on the flatbed hurled a large rock at the back of his car. It went straight through the rear window, spraying glass across the back seats. He banged his fist on the cab of the truck and reached down for another missile.

Stone spun the wheel left and crashed into the jeep, forcing it from the road in a shower of dirt.

Tyres burning hard, he pulled away, the three vehicles scattered loose behind him, but accelerating quickly.

The warrior on the back of the pickup truck threw another rock through his back window and the remaining glass shattered. He drew a machete and climbed onto the side of the pickup, holding on with one arm. The truck came in. Stone swerved right and battered into the armoured car. His car was tossed back into the centre of the road. A warrior leaned from the armoured car and shot out his front tyre with a crossbow. Stone felt it at once, the shredded rubber flapping uselessly.

There a loud thud behind him. He steadied the wheel, turned, revolver in hand. A machete wielding warrior was scrambling towards the back window, shouting, eyes wild, skin dark from the sun. Stone fired. The bullet burst through the man’s shoulder, spitting out flesh, but he held onto Stone’s car and lunged in through the back window. The warrior thrust the machete and Stone shifted from his seat fast, one outstretched arm clinging desperately to the steering wheel. He tried to line up the shot as the car bounced and swerved. The warrior thrust again with the machete and tore through Stone’s sleeve, slicing into skin. Stone grimaced as the pain burned through his arm but he couldn’t let go of the wheel. The armoured car swung in and rammed him. He felt the car spinning. His arm was burning. He jammed his revolver towards his attacker and fired until the gun clicked empty. The warrior slumped down onto the back seat.

Stone pulled himself back into the driver’s seat as his car was hit again, from the left, then the right.

Quickly, he shrugged out of the long coat, glancing at his slashed arm, streaming with blood.

The armoured car swept in and the crossbowman leaned out for another shot, this time at the rear tyre.

One hand on the wheel, the barrel of his revolver wedged between his legs, Stone dropped in a bullet, snapped back the chamber, pointed and fired.

He hit the man in the chest and the warrior toppled from the armoured car, his body smashing and bouncing against the road.

Stone gripped the wheel with both hands. The car was heavily dented, back window gone, right front wheel gone, and something was rattling behind him. In the rear view mirror something broke off and smacked against the pickup truck.

The jeep screamed in from his left and clattered against him. As it recoiled a warrior leapt from it and skidded onto Stone’s roof. His revolver was in the foot well, empty. The warrior slid down into the car. Stone reached for the machete, loose on the back seat. The armoured car on his right hit him once more and the wing came loose. The warrior climbed over the body of his fellow tribesman and lunged at Stone, unleashing a volley of punches to his head.

The warrior dragged the body out of his way. threw a leg over the front seat, and as he climbed across Stone drove the machete up into his throat, twisting it hard.

Feeling dizzy, he let go, his head throbbing, searing pain in his arm. He began to edge off the road, nudging past the jeep, onto the sun dried ground.

The dead warrior was draped across the front seat, drenched in blood, the machete hanging from his throat.

Stone shoved him onto the backseat with the other one, snatched up his revolver, dropped it into his lap and then turned the wheel furiously, the car lurching off the ground.

He broke free of the noose. The driver of the armoured car slammed on his brakes, tyres screeching along the road. The jeep and pickup truck swept into the rough terrain and circled around but Stone had placed a short distance between them now. His car was shaking and rattling and bouncing all over the place. His left arm was becoming numb. He stamped down on the accelerator, heading for the fourth chasing vehicle, a rusty looking van, the slowest of the vehicles that had tracked him across the wasteland.

Unblinking, he kept a straight line.

He pushed bullets from his ammunition belt, dropped them into his revolver one at a time.

The armoured car was bearing down behind him. Stone saw the passenger in the truck gesturing and pointing but the driver was ignoring him and pressed down against the accelerator.

The vehicles grew closer.

Closer and closer.

Stone saw the armoured car fill his rear view mirror.

With seconds remaining, he swerved left, and bounced off the road, into the dirt. The driver of the van tried to turn but the armoured car ploughed into him and the vehicles erupted into a hideous fireball, sending metal and burning bodies screaming into the air.

The pickup tuck suddenly opened fire and bullets raked the gloomy sand. Stone swerved towards the jeep and slammed into it, the spiked crash bar ripping giant holes in its side.

He threw the gear stick into reverse but the vehicles had locked together. The warrior with the axe sprang from the jeep. He was holding a pistol as well and fired off a few rounds. Stone ducked, as the bullets punched through the windscreen. He pushed open his crushed door and rolled free of the car. He dragged himself along the dirt, keeping low. The heavy machine gun rattled and spewed out bullets across the sand. Stone spotted the warrior moving round to attack him and fired from beneath the car, spearing both ankles. The man howled and dropped. The pickup truck drilled another line of bullets, the ground erupting all around him.

Stone came round the other side of the car, the dusky sky filling with giant plumes of black smoke, and felt the searing heat from the burning vehicles.

He needed to tend his arm but, instead, he leaned across his car and fired at the driver of the jeep.

The warrior slumped dead across the wheel.

The pickup truck swung in again, rapid fire, bullets pinging everywhere. Stone grimaced as his hip burned. He glanced down and saw he was bleeding. He edged around the abandoned jeep and fired until his revolver was empty, shooting wild, hitting nothing.

He saw the truck pull away, slow and grind to a stop. The gunner was reloading. Stone pushed himself forward, this was his last chance. He reached his car, unsteady. He had hardly any movement in his left arm. His side burned and blood trickled down his leg. He leaned into the car, almost losing balance. The gunner banged on the roof of the cab and the pickup truck gunned into life, like a snarling beast ready to charge.

The warrior on the flatbed began firing, bullets tearing up the road, spraying everywhere.

Stone stared down the barrel of his rifle, balanced on his pained left arm, and squeezed the trigger.

The driver’s head jerked back, the bullet drilling between the steel plating covering the windscreen.

The vehicle swerved, the gunner lost control and toppled off onto the road and the pickup skidded out onto the dirt, engine idling.

Stone limped along the road, emerging from the billowing smoke, rifle in hand, as the gunner tried to pick himself up.

He fired off one last shot.

Dropping to his knees, he tore off strips of shirt and tied his arm. He clamped a hand across the bullet wound in his hip and limped back to the car. He reached for one of the bottles of Ford that Sadie had given him. Spitting out the cork, he poured it over both wounds, gritting his teeth as the drink washed away the blood. He rooted into his pack and took out a small kit to stitch both wounds. He had been fortunate that the bullet had gone straight through or he would have been in serious trouble, out here in the middle of nowhere. It was then he remembered the warrior he had crippled.

He stepped around the car and saw the man with the bleeding ankles crawling across the dirt.

He stopped as he heard the crunch of boots behind him. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder and began to drag himself away quicker.

Stone limped towards him, reached for him and snapped his neck.

Nineteen

“Chancellor?”

A hard pedalling convoy of tricycles was on the street below, each one fitted with a large wire basket, strapped down boxes of supplies, replenishments for Hamble Towers. The riders wore blue caps, dark red overalls, and black boots. The sky above was dark. The clouds were thick and heavy. Scattered lights showed from apartment windows across the city. Further, beyond the flat rooftops, he saw the tallest building of Hamble Towers, the top floor brightly lit.

His eyes continued to gaze at it.

“One day,” he muttered.

“Sir?”

“Come in, Mason.”

The newly promoted First Minister stepped into what had been Jorann’s office less than a week ago. His reached for the door handle until Gozan said, “There’s no need, everyone has left.”

Gozan was right, in a way, everyone had left
this
floor, a long corridor flanked with offices, but they had not left the building and had retired to private rooms and bedchambers on the lower floors. Mason followed the instruction and left the door open, lingering awkwardly, unsure if he should sit or not. Gozan had his back to him, one arm neatly folded across it. He noticed his Chancellor was holding a fine cut glass in his other hand. It was brimming with drink. He had never seen Gozan consume drink before. It was readily available at the Towers but never here in the city, possibly illicitly down in the markets, but certainly not inside the House of Leadership. Sloppy heads, sloppy work, thought Mason.

Gozan turned, smiling, and offered him a glass, but Mason politely declined. Drink did not agree with him. His response was ignored, though, and a glass was poured anyway. Reluctantly, he accepted it, held it for a moment before taking a light sip. The liquid warmed and burned. Gozan gestured for his companion to sit. Both men faced across Jorann’s desk and there was a peculiar silence with only the sounds of the city.

“Do you know what I feel sitting here, Mason?”

Mason knew he was next in line to sit in the Chancellor’s chair and rule the city but that was a long way off, ten years away, possibly more, and First Ministers had been demoted before, so nothing was certain. He had no idea what it felt to sit in that chair. To rule Chett. To rule Gallen. To control everything.

“Powerful?”

The utterance sounded lame, and he regretted it immediately.

“No,” said Gozan, shaking his head, glumly. “I feel sadness. A wretched sadness that only an older man can feel for a dead friend.”

“Chancellor Jorann was a remarkable leader, sir,” said Mason, half raising his glass in salute.

“He was an awful leader,” said Gozan, raising his voice. “I thought you were a perceptive young man, Mason. Jorann was a terrible Chancellor. A puppet figure head for fifteen years whilst … he was a superb First Minister, honest and fair, but a hopeless, bloated, lovesick Chancellor.”

Mason was stunned. Was this more games from Gozan? Was he being tested? Should he agree to curry favour? Or vehemently protect the reputation of the murdered man?

“I think he was a good Chancellor, sir. Yes, he had his failings, he was soft when a firm hand was required although, to be honest, this came more in his later years than his early terms.”

Gozan chuckled, swirled the drink in his glass.

“Nothing is certain with Chett politics, Mason. I admire your courage to speak your thoughts. I do not want a yes-man as a First Minister. Nor was I testing you. Jorann was a foolish Chancellor … but he was a good friend. I miss my dear friend. I do not miss my Chancellor.”

He drained the glass, set it down more heavily than anticipated.

“Now, this delicate matter, approach it.”

“As you alluded to earlier, sir, I do have spies and contacts within the city. They feed me information, sometimes useful, sometimes not. I think it best to build a picture of people, rather than the one they want you to see. My father, former Third Minister, taught me that.”

Gozan rolled open his desk drawer, took out a bottle and refilled his glass.

“I am horrified that our Chancellor was assassinated and that many soldiers and servants lost their lives protecting him.”

Gozan squeezed the trigger once and the Chancellor fell backwards. His face turned ashen and blood bubbled over his shaking lips.

“You … were … always …”

Gozan stood over him, raised the pistol and fired twice more.

“… minor rumblings of discontent, yes,” Mason was saying. “There are complaints of rigid routine, unfairness, a stifling of freedom, but these murmurings have never been tainted with such ruthless and cold blooded violence …”

“You are not in Progress Square,” said Gozan, his voice growing impatient. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Save your speeches and oily charm. Get to the point, Mason. Tell me what you know.”

The young man cleared his throat.

“It’s difficult, sir.”

“Why is it difficult?”

He glanced back at the open door and lowered his tone.

“Collusion, sir.”

“Collusion?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Between?”

“The SOT and a high level officer in the Red Guard. With access to weapons and the ability to turn rabble into terrorists.”

“We hanged SOT murderers this morning, Mason,” said Gozan, and took a long drink. “Only last week we netted the core of the SOT. I don’t understand the point you’re attempting to make here.”

“A senior officer, sir, has been seen visiting a suspected SOT safe house, here within the city, under our …”

He suddenly turned in his chair and frowned. “Did you hear that, sir?”

Gozan lowered his glass.

“Hear what?”

Mason rose from his chair and walked slowly to the office door. He peered along the corridor. A wooden trolley of folders in baskets had been left near the stairwell. Several doors were open, many were closed.

“Well?” called Gozan.

Mason stepped into the doorway. He was certain he had heard a noise in the next room. There was a closed door to his right, an open one to his left. He glanced through the open doorway. It was a simple office. A desk. A chair. A row of metal filing cabinets. A window looking out across the city. He saw his reflection in the glass. He turned and tried the door on the right. Locked.

“Sorry, sir, it was …”

He stopped.

Cold, hard steel thrust against his neck.

He raised his hands, very slowly.

The gun muzzle pushed and he shuffled forward, one step at a time, not daring to turn his head.

Untroubled, Gozan peered over the rim of his glass.

“Good evening, General.”

Nuria lowered her weapon and Mason heard it being holstered. As he turned round, she was closing the door.

“Your spies are wasted,” she said. “Send them into the Trader Zone to look for illegal dealings instead.”

Gozan got to his feet and clapped Mason on the back.

“You were never in any danger. You are perfectly safe.”

He strode to the window, looked out at Hamble Towers, at the tallest building, that top floor apartment.

“I’ll let General Nuria explain.”

Stone took the pickup truck.

It was dark and he drove for hours, into the night, the landscape bleak and sparse. He was stitched and patched. He had stripped every weapon and piece of ammunition and food from the dead Blood Sun warriors. The burning vehicles were miles behind him now. Tomas and Emil were even further behind. Exhausted, aching, he kept driving, the long highway black and unbroken. He saw the mountains on the horizon and would keep going until he reached them.

Now he knew he was close.

He no longer needed maps or clever deception. He had a way in, he had weapons and he didn’t need a way out.

“I don’t believe it,” said Mason, shaking his head.

“Why?” she said.

“Why go to these lengths?”

“Chancellor Facundo understood this very well,” said Gozan, turning from the window. “Men need to hate, Mason. Men need to blame. Years ago, when the desert raiders attacked us, day after day, scaling the walls, firing into the city, killing and maiming – who did we hate then? We hated them and we blamed them for what they inflicted upon our perfect society. Your father stood in the House of Leadership. He understood hate.” His face was flushed. “You are very young. A smart suit. A charming joke in the office with the junior ministers. Do you think that is all it takes? You will be up to your arms in blood and filth in this position, Mason. It takes a man to be First Minister. Even more to be Chancellor. I thought I saw it in you. Was I wrong?”

Nuria, perched on the corner of her father’s desk, almost felt sorry for the young man as Gozan continued to lecture him. Having believed to have uncovered a high level conspiracy, Mason had shown a tremendous deal of courage to bring it to the new Chancellor, now the most powerful man in the city and Nuria’s mentor. Yet his resourceful actions and brave resolution had unravelled something far worse.

“We beat them back, our brave Red Guard soldiers, but Facundo knew it wasn’t enough, we all knew they would be back so we rode out into the wastelands and hunted them down, every last one of them. Jorann was my General and I was his Captain. We had horses then. Not these dreadful bicycles. We found their villages and camps and burnt them to the ground. We killed them. The men, the women, the children … we spared no one.”

“That’s enough,” shouted Jorann. “Captain Gozan, leave some of them alive … not the children … spare some of the children…”

“But that wasn’t enough for Chett. Men need to hate. Need to blame. Facundo focused our citizens against those who among us looked different, the disfigured, the oddities. He poured the blame on them. It was easy. They became shunned and despised until Facundo exiled them from within our walls. And then there was calm. But Facundo had learned of the Pure Ones, the deformed with this … this incredible gift and he was filled with regret for banishing them. He had no idea that amongst these … these different people … were the greatest gifts to Gallen. His greed for power and control tore Chett apart. It was a savage and dark time for our city. Now, Chett needs the Pure Ones again. We cannot allow our people to keep dying. Sickness will devastate us unless we can fight it. Pure Ones are the way. The only way. Facundo handled it badly. We will not. Once the law is repealed, Pure Ones will be welcomed back into our city to help our sick and our dying.”

Nuria stared at Gozan as Mason nodded in stunned agreement.

“Facundo used the Pure Ones for the powerful. The common citizens were never able to afford his charges. How will it be any different this time?”

Gozan stared harshly at Nuria, taken aback by her statement.

“Understand me, General, I love my city. What I do, what I have done, has always been for Chett.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“But the SOT?” said Mason.

“Pure fiction,” replied Nuria, her eyes fixed on Gozan. “An invention. Men need to hate.”

Gozan smiled thinly and picked up his glass.

“But, sir, who were those men and women we executed this morning? Who have we been arresting?”

“Often, no one. We tell our citizens what to think and feel, Mason. Today, we told them that the group responsible for murdering the former Chancellor have been punished. Now they will be relieved and they will return to work happy that justice has been served. Tomorrow production will rise and once again Chett will continue to turn.”

“They were innocent,” said Mason. “We executed innocent people this morning, didn’t we?”

“Is this a problem for you?” asked Nuria. “The people need to believe in the SOT. Believe in them so they can fear them and hate them.”

“Fear them?” said Gozan.

“But why this way?” said Mason, shaking his head. “I can’t, I really am struggling with this, sir, I am sorry.”

He rose from his chair.

“Sir, I am a loyal Minister, but … why do we need them to hate and blame?” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “What are we so afraid of?”

“Who do you think they will hate, Mason? Without the desert raiders or the deformed or the SOT? Who? Who?”

“Us,” said Mason, glumly.

“Yes,” nodded Gozan. “The SOT are fake, Mason, we use them to misdirect out citizen’s opinions. Life is hard here in Chett. Jorann never understood how hard it really is for people. He felt that if you were kept safe that was all there should be. People want more. They crave more. The SOT are the reason people do not have more.”

Mason cleared his throat.

“Sir, if the SOT is not real, then who
did
murder Chancellor Jorann?”

Gozan got to his feet.

“General, I think First Minister Mason is tired. He has been drinking. Place him in detention for a few days. Let the fog clear in his head.”

Nuria unholstered her firearm.

“And make sure you return here afterwards.”