Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (52 page)

Weaver exhaled, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “That
black-hearted bastard almost got away with it, too. If I’d have known you all
was down to your last dregs… or shit, if
Will
had known… you dways would
be resting with the fates about now.”

“Shit, yeah,” Lally said. “That was a lucky-ass shot Keeton
took. Second-to-last round in his carbine. Hit him at long range, too.”

“Listen, Lal. Will’s back there bleeding. I gotta get to him.
What say we agree to put all this behind us? Will hears Fink pulled one over on
us, he’ll shit a brick, so let’s keep that between you and me. You and your
folks head on out of here, leave us in peace, and we’ll do you the same
kindness. Shake on it?”

Lally spat into her palm. Weaver reciprocated, and they
shook. She gave Lally the pouch of hardware and assured her it was all there,
every bit the gang was owed.

“I always knew you was a good apple, Jal. Don’t figure you
got your head on straight, running around with a fella like Will Lokes.”

“I’ve heard that more than once,” Weaver said.

Lally shrugged. “Heart wants what it wants. Reckon you know
that better’n anybody.”

“Reckon I do. Be good, Lal. Give your folks our highest
regards.”

“Will do. Can’t promise they’ll take ‘em, though.”

“Just give ‘em the money, then. That’ll help.”

Lally nodded. “Take care of yourself, Jal.”

As Weaver and Toler headed back to the railcar where Lokes
was waiting for them, she relayed Lally’s revelation to the shepherd and
advised him to keep quiet about it. They’d tell Lokes the rest of the gang lost
their nerve and ran off after Fink died. It would be best for everyone
involved, she decided, if they left it at that.

CHAPTER 43

Through the Breach

The tattooed gangers of the Kilnhurst Klick made better
bullies than teachers. They treated outsiders with distaste, mistrust, and a
latent superiority which often resulted in violence. Merrick’s followers needed
toughening up, so the introduction of gang culture into their daily lives had
come as a necessary shock. Training injuries became commonplace, as did the mass
exoduses which ensued. While the fainthearted fled, an influx of new followers
exceeded their number twofold.

Merrick knew not everyone was
cut out for war; any test of mettle was bound to turn some away while
strengthening the resolve of others. The Klick taught practical skills, such as
in the creation and use of weapons in combat. But they were also giving the
masses something far more valuable, in Merrick’s opinion: a sense of what it
felt like to face a more powerful foe, and the ability to stand stalwart in the
face of fear. The Klick were priming them for what was to come. Once the weak
had been eliminated, those who remained would form the core of a more
formidable force. A force better-equipped to help Merrick accomplish his dream.

Before long, the size of Merrick’s following had grown so
large that keeping everyone fed and sheltered became a chore of mounting
difficulty. The arrival of so many immigrants from other towns and cities began
to put a strain on an already-strained food supply. The savages, though wealthy
in the wake of their successful campaign against the trade caravans, had
refused to trade with Merrick’s followers. He needed to invade soon—not only
because it was time, but because people would starve if he didn’t.

Merrick hadn’t moved the flock in several days; it was
becoming too great an ordeal. They’d finally found an interior space big enough
to hold everyone, an event venue called the Lariat Center. Music concerts and
sporting events had once taken place there, but now it was just a big, hollow
room with birds in the rafters, surrounded by a two-level concourse.

In a private room along the concourse, Merrick called a
meeting with his gang leaders, who now included the heads of the Tribe and the
Rowdies. The former were bedecked in bone ornamentation, while the latter
preferred ripped denim and spiked leather. Peraluu Zalva and the heads of her
Klick were present as well, gathered around the conference table at the center
of the room.

“We’re going to invade tonight,” Merrick said. “We can’t wait
any longer.”

“You think we ready?” Peri asked.

“The wonder-man say so, but he don’t know,” said a man in
black-feathered shoulder pads and a bone helmet, one of the Tribe leaders
called Trucho.

Merrick ignored the protest. “There’s a Scarred blockade at
every intersection along the Row, and several more heading down the flanks at
either end. We could circle around and attack from the north, but their scouts
would see us coming across the desert. We could smuggle ourselves in on a fake
trade caravan, except we don’t have a bunch of extra flatbeds, crates or horses
lying around. So I think our best option is to find the weakest blockade on the
Row and concentrate our full strength on it.”

“What the Scarred got for weak spots?” said Peri. “They got
guns.”

“And bullets,” added Joam, as though it needed to be said.

Merrick knew each sentry along the row only carried two
magazines. He also knew, thanks to his one-time shift at the barricade on Olney
Street, that the sorry excuses for soldiers who manned the gatehouse there
would rather play cards and smoke cigarettes and narcotic wraps than perform
any meaningful lookout duty. He wanted to reassure the gang leaders that they
could break through, but he didn’t want to reveal how he’d come by the information.
The second they found out he’d once been a Scarred man, they would probably
skin him alive.

“I’ve done a little scouting,” he lied. “I found a barrier
that looks like a shoddy mess, pretty far gone into disrepair. A couple of
ladders and some firebombs should get us through. It’s not getting in we have
to worry about. It’s what happens after. From there, we need to split up and
wreak havoc across the city. If we disperse, it’ll be harder for the Scarred to
hem us in somewhere.”

“How do we win?” asked Frezwick, a stocky, leather-clad Rowdy
with a split graying beard and grease stains on his gilled jeans.

“I have to get to the Hull Tower,” Merrick said. “I know the
way. I’ll need a group to stay with me as protection.”

Peri lifted a casual salute to show him she had it covered.

He looked at Mird, a Triber in a scrap-metal facemask and a
spiked horsehair wig. “Are the ladders ready to go?”

“They ready,” Mird said.

“And the firebombs?”

Hurol, a goateed Rowdy in a ringed leather vest, stepped
forward. “We got enough fuel to make eleven of ‘em.”

“That’s fine, as long as you give them to dways who can
throw.”

“They’ll throw,” Hurol said.

“Good. Then all that’s left is to get the word out. Tell
everyone to tell everyone. People want to join us at the last minute, I’m not
going to turn them away.”

“What about spies?” Boke chimed in. “Aren’t you worried about
the Scarred finding out?”

Merrick considered this. “I don’t think we need to be worried
about spies. There aren’t too many northern sympathizers around here. Just to
be safe, spread the word that we’re attacking tonight, but don’t say where.
Tell them anyone who wants to come along is welcome, but they’ve got to meet up
with us here first, at the Lariat Center. We’ll lead them to the breach point
after everyone’s assembled and ready. With a crowd as big as the one we’ve got,
anyone who wants the Scarred to know is going to let them know one way or the
other. I’d rather get those few extra bodies on our side than try to keep a
secret we can’t.”

Merrick’s leaders dispersed to make ready for the night’s
attack. He wasn’t feeling particularly confident about it, but there was no
putting it off. If the attack failed, there was no reason he couldn’t try again
down the road. It might be harder next time, but as long as he was alive there
would always be another chance.

I’ll bet they’re all wondering why I don’t shred the
barricade and walk into the city north alone
, he thought. After all, he’d
suffered horrific physical brutality and nothing had killed him yet. The answer
was that although the wounds were gone, the scars remained, and they were
liable to catch up with him sooner or later. Getting shot still felt like
getting shot. It hurt, and not a little.

Merrick couldn’t wait for nightfall. He spent the day pacing
the little room on the concourse, too preoccupied to eat or heal anyone or have
sex. When dusk arrived, he emerged onto a high platform in the arena and waved
his hands for silence. It took his gangers and aides several minutes to quiet
the swollen crowd. When he spoke, he had to shout at the top of his lungs to be
heard.

“Tonight, we make a change,” he said. “We unite a city
long-divided. We are about to become the bearers of history, my friends. There
are better days ahead, if only we’re willing to fight for them. Come with me;
follow me to war and death and chaos, and I’ll show you a future bright with
hope. Full of prosperity for all. We strike at the heart. We strike now.” He
raised a hand, two-fingered.

“I speak,” came the echo of a thousand men and women raising
their hands in agreement.

The sentiment dissolved into a cheer which rippled through
the stands and sent a shiver up Merrick’s spine. He was finally here. They were
finally listening. He didn’t mind that it was only because he possessed
something they wanted. As long as they were behind him, the reasons were moot.

The crowd shuffled to the exits and left the Lariat Center to
begin its noisy trek toward Bucket Row. Merrick led the way, flanked by a unit
of gangers armed with incendiary bottles and portable staircases. At an
intersection a few blocks down, they found a few familiar faces waiting for
them. There was a sanddragon; a wind gargant; an amarpid; a cotterphage; a
deldrake; a brengen; and of course, an emaciated green ghoul with empty black
eyes.

“Swy,” Merrick said, breaking into a smile.

“Sh-h-h,” said Swydiger Porter from behind his painted
filtermask. “No names. We’re here to help you open up the north. Just tell us
what to do.”

“This is incredible,” Merrick said. “I wasn’t expecting you
dways to show up. Almost thought I’d never see you again.”

“Why?” Swydiger asked. “Once the north is open, we’ll be able
to visit you all the time.”

“Right,” Merrick said. “Well, you’re going to make this a lot
easier for us. I want you on overwatch. Find the intersection of Olney and
Tripplehorn and put men on every rooftop this side of the Row. When we rush the
barricade, find yourself a Scarred target and start shooting.”

“Got it,” said Swy. “Let’s move out, dways.”

The Revenants vanished into the night. Merrick was feeling
better already. This was going to be easier than he’d expected; they were going
to walk in and seize the north before the city was awake to hear about it.

Several minutes later, Merrick found himself peering around
the corner of a dilapidated skyscraper, squinting down the long avenue of Olney
Street toward the barricade across Bucket Row. No sign of gate guards in either
of the two lookout posts he knew were attached to the barricade’s rear. Either
the guards were sleeping—slouched below viewing level—or the lookout posts were
empty. He could neither see nor hear the Gray Revenants, but blending in was
what they did best.

Merrick pointed out the locations of the two high observation
platforms so the ladder carriers would know where to place them. The trip down
the other side would be unpleasant unless they had something to step on when
they went over. The true rampage couldn’t begin until someone made it to the
other side and unlocked the gate.

“Everyone ready?” he said in a loud whisper.

“Got us a city to steal, miracle-man,” said Peri.

“Let’s do it.”
And may the fates guide us all
, Merrick
thought.

The ladder carriers slipped around the corners, two sets on
each sidewalk, and broke into a sprint toward the barricade.
They’re moving
so fast they’ll be halfway across Bucket Row before the sentries can pick up
their rifles
, Merrick thought. Half the sentries in the birdhouses were
probably asleep by now
. They’re in for a lousy wakeup
.

After the ladder carriers, the firebombers trickled out to
follow them single-file down either sidewalk. Merrick heard boots thudding on
the pavement behind him. He tossed a glance over his shoulder to see Eldridge
Porter reach the rear of the waiting crowd and begin shoving his way through.

“Let me by. Excuse me. I need to get past. Merrick. Merrick.”

Eldridge was wearing his filtermask, but Merrick recognized
him by the cotterphage painted on it. He motioned for everyone to get out of
the Revenant’s way.

Eldridge came forward, panting. “Merrick. You’ve got to stop
the attack. They know we’re coming. There’s like ten guys in each building
across the row. Way more than we brought. We’re asking for a real firefight if
we engage—”

Eldridge’s words were interrupted by a burst of machine-gun
fire.

Across the eight travel lanes of Tripplehorn Highway, the
ladder carriers and firebombers began to fall.

“It’s too late now,” Merrick said. “We’re all in.”

“Your people are going to get slaughtered,” Eldridge said.
“They’re walking right into a trap.”

Merrick set his jaw. “Then so am I.” And he lifted his voice
to shout: “This is it. This is what we came for. Don’t let their guns scare
you. They’ll run out of bullets long before we lose our will to fight. The
Scarred can’t get away with shutting us out because of who we are, or how we
look, or what they think we’re worth. We’re done being the outcasts. It’s time
to let ourselves in. They’ve got the life we deserve. Now let’s go take it.”

Merrick turned and broke into a charge, hoping someone would
follow. That was when the two hidden soldiers stood from behind the barricade’s
lookout perches to take aim at the oncoming mob.
They were there all along.
And they weren’t sleeping
.

A firebomber lurched as a bullet struck him in the chest. A
second round punctured the bottle grenade on his belt, and a plume of fire
engulfed him. Merrick watched the bomber go down in a writhing, burning mass,
but he didn’t slow his pace. The bomb in the man’s hand caught fire and
detonated as a trio of gangers ran by, knocking them sideways.

As he left the sidewalk and emerged onto the open highway,
Merrick glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to find the crowd rushing
after him. They were going to take that barricade, no matter how many gave
their lives in the effort.

Gunfire erupted from what seemed like every window and
rooftop along the northern edge of the highway, but still Merrick ran.
How
could they have known we were coming?
he wondered as his followers fell
around him. He came upon a wounded team of ladder carriers and hefted their
ladder in his arms, dragging it behind him until two fresh dways came to lift
the back end. It was a rickety thing, and heavy. The weight slowed him to a
jog. He knew he’d draw enemy fire by carrying it, but they’d never get over the
barricade without at least one ladder.

As they lugged their burden off the median to cross the
westbound lanes of the highway, a bullet tore through Merrick’s shin. He
tumbled forward, tripped over the ladder, and rolled to a stop on the pavement,
feeling the resonarc scrape loose from behind his ear. The crowd stampeded over
him in a mad dash toward the barricade. Someone picked up the ladder and
carried it onward.

The pain in his leg swelled to a sickening crest. A wave of
exhaustion followed, sweeping over him as he fumbled around in search of the
resonarc. He found it, but he wasn’t pleased with its condition. The device was
in pieces, crushed to bits in the stampede. Groaning, he pushed himself
unsteadily to his feet, feeling the warmth in his leg as the wound mended
itself.