The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves) (7 page)

BOOK: The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves)
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A second series of shots rang from behind. Seraphin gritted his teeth as one bounced off the metal frame with a
tink
. Too close, he thought, then a second bullet hit. There was a characteristic hiss of air, and Seraphin had time for a soft swear before the rear tire skidded to the right. The bike tilted. He fought to keep it upright and control it, but he knew it would never last. Every second, his tire grew softer.

He had to jump off.

On his right was nothing but flat ground, with no cover for a hundred meters. He’d be safe to land—or as safe as one could be when leaping off a speeding bike—but the troops would shoot him down before he reached the forest. On his left … Iswood was nestled down a harsh and unforgiving slope, covered with pine trees. Soldiers might not get him, but he was likely to break his back against a trunk while rolling down.

Still, Seraphin liked his odds better with the slope.

With one hand, he touched his
skeptar
. Then he let go of the bike’s handles and sprang as far from the bike as he could.

Seraphin tucked himself into a ball and landed hard as the motorcycle crashed and slid on the ground. It gave an ear-splitting shriek before coming to a stop in the sand and gravel. Pain flared in Seraphin’s shoulder, which took the brunt of the impact, then all along his arm as he rolled. He ground his teeth against the burning sensation. Bullets clipped behind him. Seraphin sucked his breath in, then went over the ridge.

The world spun as he tumbled down. He fought to keep his arms over his face, to hold his glasses in place and protect them, but his coat snagged in thorns and branches. They pulled at it, as if intent on ripping it off him. Rocks and the occasional dead trunk smashed into Seraphin’s back, elbows, and knees. Every spin downward brought new flares of pain. At any moment now, he’d crack his skull open. Or maybe break his spine. The Regarian clung to himself, waiting for his luck to run out.

The ground vanished from under him. It lasted a second, maybe two. Long enough for Seraphin to brace for impact. He crashed into a thick pack of ferns. His arms spread out as a grunt escaped his lips. Every breath was a ragged pant. Blood ran down his forehead from a new cut. Battered and exhausted, Seraphin considered staying where he lay. He never wanted to move again. Soldiers would be down the slope soon, though, and he had no time for rest. His ancestors had kept him safe through the tumble down. He couldn’t waste their gift.

Seraphin stumbled to his feet and out of the ferns. His body had left a clear shape in the broken plants, with arms at a weird angle. The Regarian shed his torn and bloodied coat, then placed it so it’d look like he had crawled a few feet and stopped moving. He tried to keep the collar as hidden as he could. It wouldn’t fool them for long, but from the top of the tiny drop, they might think that was him down there, unconscious. Every minute counted.

Still dazed from the impact, Seraphin headed farther into the forest. He had no idea if he could reach a safe hiding spot. This area had no caves for him to hide in, no natural stream to throw hounds off his scent. He limped on, trying to sift through his confused mind for a solution. He couldn’t outrun the soldiers. Every step was a study in muscle pain and agony. He needed shelter, but the only thing he could think of would be the soldiers’ first stop: Iswood.

Seraphin started in that general direction, unsure where in the town he’d hide. He refused to bring soldiers down on Alex, and they would check his family’s house. Seraphin took a deep breath, as if the perfect hideout would surface in his mind if he just calmed down. Nothing came. His brain had been slammed against his skull too often on the way down. It’d left a dysfunctional mess, unable to hold a thought.

By the time the first house came into view, he still didn’t have an answer. He could hear the shouts of soldiers behind. Seraphin’s feet dragged on the ground, sometimes catching in roots. The initial adrenaline rush from his escape was gone. His heart hammered in his chest, but exhaustion weighed more heavily than fear. He couldn’t keep going much longer.

The village seemed empty when he reached it—no voices lamented the dead, insulted the soldiers, or questioned his presence in the Union army. Crawford and the other diggers must’ve gone to bed. The smoke still rising from the
Wet Lizard
and the utter silence gave Iswood an eerie feel. Seraphin walked toward the pub, one step after another. He moved out of habit, numb to the world around him. Birds still sang, pursuit wasn’t far behind, but it all seemed to belong to another world.

He almost fell into the grave.

Iswood’s residents had placed the bodies of last night’s victims in a single large pile, at the bottom of a large pit. Seraphin registered the known faces but refused to place names on them. There had to be half the village in there. Large burns covered their backs and arms, and some had blackened into an unrecognizable crisp. Others had made it out of the tavern before the flames caught them, only to find themselves in front of an execution squad. Bodies riddled with bullets mixed with the burnt corpses. These were pale, rigid, and bloodied.

Pale and bloodied.

Just like him.

A strong wave of nausea sent him to his knees. He couldn’t do that. Hide among the bodies? He had grown up surrounded by these people, could name each one of them. And he’d watched them die, burned or shot. The villagers hadn’t covered the grave. Like it was waiting for him, ready to offer protection. Soon soldiers would arrive, and they would smash down every door in Iswood to find him. He had nowhere else to go. Either he hid with these cadavers, or he’d be one of them before the day was over.

Seraphin heaved what little was left from his stomach—an acrid bile, mostly—then wiped his mouth. He used every bit of will he had to crawl forward. His fingers scraped on small stones, then gripped the edge. His eyes watered at the overwhelming stench. Seraphin whispered one last prayer for forgiveness, then slid down into the pit.

There was a soft wet thud as his boots hit the first body. He could taste bile in his mouth again and forced himself not to retch. Somewhere in this pile was Leanna. He could be standing on her right now, for all he knew. Seraphin spotted an area where the bodies were more white and bloodied than blackened from burns. He crept along, trying his best not to look at his hands. He didn’t want to know if the brittleness under his fingers was burnt flesh giving way at his touch. Dealing with the horrid stink was already too much.

When he reached the whiter zone, he lifted one of the bodies and squirmed under, hiding his head as much as possible. The stench choked him, but he had no choice. White hair would give him away. Lying under the townsfolk, encased in scorched death and bloodied grime, Seraphin inched his fingers until they touched the rough
skeptar
. He apologized in silence, over and over, but remained completely still.

Pale and rigid, like the bodies around him, until the soldiers came and went.

CHAPTER EIGHT

As it turned out, there was one big flaw in Seraphin’s hiding plan: Iswood’s residents were preparing to fill the grave long before the soldiers left the village. They weren’t near the grave anymore, but he could hear his squad moving from house to house. Their shouts were distant, muffled by the houses between them and the weird daze that had settled over him as he waited. Seraphin breathed and moved as an automaton, now. He couldn’t even bring himself to care about the bodies serving as his camouflage. The recoiling horror of his initial crawl had receded, leaving behind a hardened disgust. When he overheard the villagers first speak about finishing the grave, he concluded he knew to leave.

He slid out from under the body hiding him, then glanced up. No one in sight. Seraphin crawled toward the edge. His palms settled against flabby or brittle bodies, depending on their fate, but after two hours lying amidst the corpses, Seraphin no longer cared. He no longer noticed the terrible smell either. He reached the steep slope on the pit’s border, only three feet high, and straightened up, slowly unwinding to take a glance at his surroundings.

No villagers guarded the grave. Not that surprising: it would be a heartbreaking job, and everyone inside was supposed to be dead.

Seraphin studied the soldiers’ movements, on the other side of the village, and as soon as most of them were inside a house, he scrambled out of the grave. His feet loosened small rocks as he pulled himself up, and they rolled down to the bodies. Then he was out. He took a deep breath, stifled an unexpected sob, and sprinted. Seraphin expected a shout at any moment. A soldier calling his name or a villager screaming in horror. None followed his quick dash to the trees.

He threw himself to the ground the moment he reached the forest, crouching behind a large trunk and curling into a tight ball. His breathing had turned into small, out of control pants. His muscles screamed from the sudden awakening, after an hour of stiffness. The short run had brought his bruises back, and his pain was coming through the dull daze of the last hours. He still needed to move, however. He had to make use of the time the soldiers searched the houses to get out of the general area. Alex would have left his things at the pale tree. Just getting there would mean hours of stumbling through the woods. Better to leave now, before his exhaustion caught up to him and caused him to fall asleep just leaning against a tree.

With a deep sigh, Seraphin pushed himself back on his feet. He ignored the throbbing pain in his body and tried to find the strange, almost mechanical zone he’d reached under the corpses. One foot in front of the other. No choice. He refused to have come this far only to crumble into the woods. His hand once again wrapped around the
skeptar
and he pressed onward.

*

By the time Seraphin reached the dead tree, he was ready to collapse and never stand up again. He had no idea how long it’d taken him, but the sun was high in the sky and the day was growing hot. His torn and dirtied clothes clung to him, and the cut on his forehead prickled as sweat dribbled in. Every new step seemed impossible, yet he took them nonetheless. Behind him, thick smoke rose once more from the village. Some Regarians preferred their
skeptars
to be burned, to release their ancestors within. Judging from the smoke, that particular tradition had been quite alive in the townsfolk who’d perished yesterday. Seraphin whispered a few words for his family, resolved to one day come back and create a symbolic grave for them, next to their ancestors.

As he turned back, he noticed a flash of red up ahead and smiled as he recognized Alex’s jacket. It was hung from a branch, probably because of the heat. The sight renewed his strength, and Seraphin hurried up the rest of the way. He found his friend sitting on the fallen trunk of his tree, and the sight of the half-dead pine sank his heart. Sometime last winter, while he was huddled in a small barracks with Stern, the elements had finally won their war. Seraphin’s throat tightened, his eyes watered. It was just a tree, but he stopped in his tracks and sank to his knees. Alex scrambled to his side right away, calling his name, but Seraphin didn’t look up. For the first time, tears were streaming down his cheeks and onto the ground.

Alex drew him tight, letting Seraphin rest against their breasts and sob to his heart’s content. He had no idea how long he stayed there, unable to staunch the flow. Somehow, he’d made it all the way to Alex. He had walked into the Union’s encampment with his ancestors’ gun, pointed it at General Klaus Vermen, pulled the trigger and watched him die, then escaped the camp, dodged pursuit, and hiked to the rendezvous.
Somehow.
Seraphin clung to his friend, fingers digging into their shirt, until his weeping subsided. He took a deep breath, wiped his face, then smiled at his friend.

“I’m exhausted.”

Alex chuckled, then kissed his forehead. “I would never have guessed.”

They seemed to be looking for something better to add. Seraphin shuffled to sit next to them, rather than in their lap, then turned towards Iswood. He’d cried over a twisted tree, but couldn’t do the same for his family. He tried to discard the thought, but it clung to him. He could shoot a man and watch the life vanish from his eyes, but he couldn’t cry for the people he’d loved. A long shudder ran up his spine, and he moved a hand through his hair. His fingers broke through caked dirt and blood, and he grimaced.

“How bad do I look?” he asked.

“Like you just crawled out of a grave.”

Seraphin’s breath caught in his throat. Alex didn’t know. They couldn’t. And the absurdity of their answer, after Seraphin had spent at least two hours half-buried under a corpse—a body who most certainly belonged to someone he’d known all his life—made him snap again. He laughed. An uncontrollable and shaky laugh that earned him an unsettled stare from Alex. Seraphin put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, waiting until he could talk to explain at least a little.

“I did, actually.” That didn’t reassure Alex at all. Their eyes widened in horror, and Seraphin had to raise a hand to stop them from replying. “It’s … okay. I think. The mass grave was my only choice. I prefer not to think about it.”

Alex agreed with a nod. Their lips were pinched in disgust, but they didn’t push the topic. Instead they rose and returned to sit on the trunk, where Seraphin soon joined them. The silence stretched between them, heavy. Seraphin had no desire to talk about the last twenty-four hours, and he couldn’t muster the strength to find a proper topic of conversation. The truth was he should be on his way. The soldiers would extend their search for him. They might even notice Alex wasn’t around town.

“You ought to go back,” he said. “Someone is bound to tell them about you.”

“That we’re friends, and I’m mysteriously not in the village the day you escaped?” Alex shrugged. “I’m not sure they’ll do anything like that. Everybody looked up to your dad. The day they’ll betray his only son—after he avenged his whole family, too—hasn’t yet come. These people … well, they aren’t always the most welcoming, but I don’t expect them to sell one of their own to the Union army.”

BOOK: The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves)
5.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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