The Copper Horse #1 Fear (3 page)

For three years, his father had been forced to work two jobs. One as a baker to put food on their table, and the other building the new city walls as community service. The massive fortifications protected London from the undead, or as they started to be called—zombies. Someone had told Reuben that the illness had come to Europe on a ship from the African colonies, and 'zombie' was the name that the black people called the undead. Or cursed, as they liked to say. Whichever the name was, it meant one thing to a six year old boy: monsters. And now, they swarmed the world beyond the city walls. He wouldn't dare travel outside of London. Ever.

He smiled at the sight of a rat in the last trap he had left and quickly came closer, ready to kill it with one blow. Over the years, he'd gotten proficient at finding good places for hunting, and he always returned home with at least a dozen of the rodents that made up a substantial part of his and his father's diet. He actually liked their meat, which was good, because he wouldn't be able to afford anything else, anyway. Reuben's father also used it to make pies, their most expensive product. Officially it was 'pork', or 'duck', or even 'pheasant' when his father felt very fancy. But it was what it was and always tasted the same. Nonetheless, it
was
meat, and no one liked to be hungry, so customers would come and eagerly order suspiciously cheap 'pork' pies. After twenty years in locked up London, they probably didn't remember what proper pork tasted like anyway.

Even the rats weren't that easy to catch. Not a lot of people were willing to descend into the sewers, and Reuben knew precisely why. The same reason every loud sound gave him the spooks. It was dark, wet and horrible, but the smell was nothing in comparison to the possibility of finding a stray zombie walking around hungry. As a safety measure, he always kept close to the ladders leading up to the street, but if he wasn't focused enough, a hunting trip could cost him his life.

But once, he met a zandy, which was how ordinary people of London called zombies who were toffs before they—well—died. If it wasn't for how much of a coward Reuben was, he would have been rich now. The zandy's fingers were sprinkled with golden rings. All Reuben would have had to do was kill the thing and slide them off. Instead, he ran for the ladder.

He put the remaining catch into his rucksack and made his way up the nearest ladder. He moved the sewer cover with a crowbar and pulled himself up. The early morning light hurt Reuben's eyes, but after a moment, he looked around to see if he wasn't in danger of being trampled and swiftly exited the sewer. Luckily, this entrance was located close to home, which meant he could have breakfast soon.

The fogbound street was empty and quiet, making it easy for him to quickly get to the bakery. His father and the two neighbor boys they paid a few pennies were already hard at work, and now he was supposed to join them. Reuben was far from lazy, but the amount of work his father required him to do would be a strain to anyone. The first days after the assault two weeks ago had been full of pain, especially when he had to lift heavy trays of bread and his father didn't cut him any slack.

The bakery was located in the local main street, its narrow shape made not just the shop, but also the workspace behind it extremely uncomfortable to use. The baking itself took place in the basement, so all breads, pretzels, pies and buns had to be carried down and then up the stairs. Quality ingredients were too expensive for their neighborhood, so they had to subsidize for at least part of them with cheaper replacements, compromising on taste. Of course, that didn't stop his father's ingenuity one bit. If a customer tried to complain about finding some lice in the bread, the old man would say it was cumin.
Cumin!
They hadn't seen proper cumin for a few months now.

Reuben sneaked into a narrow alley and went in through the side door, welcomed by hot steam and the sound of his father's commanding tone. He didn't envy the boys who worked for them. His father gave them a hard time, especially when Reuben wasn't there to be pushed around.

"That you, Reuben?" rasped the harsh, permanently hoarse voice. "Where are the pigs?" That was the codename for rats.

"Coming!" Reuben yelled into the downstairs bakery. "Gotta skin them first! Tom! Where are the breads? They should be upstairs by now! People're gonna come shopping soon!" He went behind a brick wall, so that he could hide what he was doing from prying eyes, and smacked the sack full of rats on the old wooden table.

"It's ya who's late!" growled his father. His shout was followed by a loud rumble and sounds of cursing. "Ya idiot! Pick that up and make sure they're not dirty!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Did they drop the bread? Wait! I'm comin'!" Reuben made his way down the creaking wooden stairs, straight into the dry heat of the baking cellar.

In the dim light inside, he saw Ben, one of their helpers, kneeling among at least a dozen loaves that lay about on the dirty floor. He was frantically collecting them into a wooden box. Reuben's father stood by the oven, the thin, sagging skin on his chest moving as he took sharp, hoarse breaths, white hair floating in the air.

"What took ya so long?" He hovered over Reuben with a snarl.

Reuben looked at the nervous, red-faced boy and said nothing. A bit of dust wouldn't hurt bread enriched with woodchips. "You have to be quiet down there," he muttered, squatting to help gather the hot loaves.

"What, ya complainin' again?" His father's lips thinned as he shot him an angry look over his shoulder.

Reuben had had seven siblings, but all of them had died, some even before the Plague. Unfortunately, that didn't help him bond with his father.

"Stop lookin' around and get yer ass to work!"

"I know that! Just wanna help the boys so they don't throw more bread around." He rolled his eyes and got a faint smile from Tom. "Got time to make the pies."

"They're no good for anythin'!" snarled his father, squatting by the oven to use the bellows. "We should knock'em out!" Reuben knew the threat was meant to frighten their young helpers and force them to accept a lower wage. It wouldn't be the first time his father had used this tactic.

Reuben shook his head. "Just get on with it," he told Ben.

The boy nodded and ran up the stairs as if it were his life on the line. "It's not that easy with two different shoes," Reuben muttered, trying to excuse himself for being late.

"The old pair was only two years old!" His father's prematurely wrinkled face tensed up like the skin over boiling milk. "Serves ya right if ya can't take care of 'em! It's still my money!"

"I work here, too, ya know!" Reuben bit his lip and lifted a large tray of rolls.

"Yer a lazy rat! That's what ya are!" His father scowled, making a move as if he wanted to shove him toward the stairs.

Reuben huffed with anger, but kept his mouth shut. Talking back would only make everything worse. Even skinning rats seemed a better prospect than working with his old man. At least it was something he could do on his own in the backyard. Tom ran past him to get another tray to the shop.

"Reuben, is he mad?" Ben picked up the basket to take it upstairs. "We earn less than a hedge whore as it is!"

"You'll get used to it," murmured Tom, who had worked for them much longer.

"He's always mad." Reuben let out a long sigh.

Chapter 3

The day was long and tiresome, just like pretty much every day. One thing Reuben could look forward to at the end of it was a glass of cheap gin. He shared a room with his father above the bakery. Big, but with a slanted ceiling that forced him to slouch. He created a glimmer of privacy by hanging a curtain made out of old sheets between his and his father's side, which was much more spacious. Apart from the dirt, he couldn't complain about the living conditions though, as he knew most people in this part of London were much worse off. It was warm, too, thanks to the heat from the ovens downstairs. If it weren't for his father, Reuben would enjoy this place, but the man was becoming less stable with each passing year. Extremely stingy, unpleasant and authoritarian, he sometimes woke Reuben up just because he didn't like someone resting when he wasn't. He'd make up a task that supposedly needed completing immediately, even if it really didn't.

There was one thing the old man was better at than Reuben—drinking gin. Every time Father stole his alcohol, Reuben wanted to push him down the stairs. He rarely had the guts to hit his father, though. There was something imposing and scary about him. If there were anything else Reuben could do with his life that wasn't worse than his current job, he would disappear without a word or even a sting of guilt.

He sat down on his worn out mattress and slouched, closing his eyes, to allow at least a short moment of rest.

"Did ya waste water again?" He jumped at the shout from downstairs.

"Waste," he huffed to himself. "Just washed a bit! It's not a crime every two weeks, now is it?" He hit the back of his head against the low ceiling.

"Ya wanna go whorin' again! Don't remember what 'appened last time?"

Reuben scowled at the memory. Why couldn't he be like other men? Not fucked up in the head. He had told his father he'd got mugged. "Well, it won't happen again!"

Even if he wanted to, which he didn't, he doubted anyone would be attracted to him with the two bruises still lingering on his chin. They weren't much in comparison to his multicolored stomach.

"Yer good for nothin'! And this time I'm not gonna give ya money to waste!" His father's screams from downstairs made Reuben bang his head against the wall in frustration yet again. In a way, he learned to accept it, because what was he good at? He was a baker, but not a good one. All he'd mastered was the skill of making breads and pies that pretended to be edible, though if given the ingredients to make a proper one, he would probably fail miserably.

He'd been taught basic reading by one of the neighbors when he was a boy, but it was hardly an achievement. Reading longer or complicated texts posed a challenge, so he didn't see his future in connection to this skill. He was strong and good at taking directions. That was about it.

Not wanting to waste any more of his time, Reuben pushed a cap on his head and went down the narrow staircase, hoping he wouldn't walk into his father. Luckily, the old man must have been in the backyard—at least that was Reuben's conclusion as he saw the back door wide open. He tiptoed out to the street, sick of the constant confrontations. There was one place he wanted to see on a warm afternoon like this one, and it was not in the slum he lived in.

He put on his old leather gas mask. It only covered the lower part of his face, his eyes left unprotected, as he couldn't afford goggles.

Numerous factories, lamps and engines in the city produced an amount of smoke that could give a man lung disease or even kill. Everything looked as if it was covered by a widow's veil, and almost no one wore white shirts anymore, because of the rate at which they changed color. The hair and skin weren't safe either, and even Reuben's father washed his face and hands on a daily basis. They used gas masks distributed by a charity organization dedicated to help London's poor. This air quality issue was considered a priority, since it caused such numerous health problems.

On a warm Saturday afternoon like this one though, no warnings would keep people out of the streets. The one good thing about being a baker was finishing work early. He had to get up in the middle of the night to help prepare the dough, but at least he got to see a bit of sunlight if he went all the way to Hyde Park once he'd called it a day.

The park might have been surrounded by a filthy city, but with the amount of trees and flowers, the air here was a lot cleaner than anywhere else. Reuben lowered his gas mask with a sense of relief and took in a long breath, watching the greenery through the tall fence. The smell was so different from the dusty aroma of the slum. It reminded him of the rare times of happiness, and he let his eyes wander over the thick grass. Between the trees, he could see children running around with a hoop and rod, their fine clothes probably more expensive than his house.

Reuben remembered playing there as well when he was a young boy and it was still available to the public. Now that it was closed off to the poor, all he could do was look through the steel bars. There were countless guards inside, so trying to sneak in wasn't much of an option.

It was hot and maybe even a bit muggy, but Reuben was sure it was lovely to walk between the trees. He couldn't see them from where he stood, but there were fountains deeper in the park. Walking along the fence, toward the gate, he opened his shirt to cool off.

A loud whinny to his side made him jump.

"Whoa there!" He laughed it off, looking up to the massive horse. "Sorry, sir!" he said to the rider, though he didn't know what for. Better safe than sorry.

The man looked at him from behind a pair of black-lensed goggles that seemed too big for his slim face, which, too, was hidden by a simple, but elegant mask. As if owning a horse wasn't enough of an expression of great wealth, the man wore a splendid riding costume. The jacket was pale brown velvet, the same color as the man's top hat, and as Reuben's gaze traveled south, he saw how cleverly the tailor had complemented his customer's well-formed thighs, encased in a pair of breeches made of the softest leather. Only then did Reuben realize that the man was riding bareback, which was in stark contrast to other wealthy gentlemen Reuben saw in the streets of London.