Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (15 page)

“
What,
me?”

“
Not
you, listen.” Despite the situation, Gunner cannot help being
relieved about hearing his mate's sarcasm. It sure makes a change
from the shouting they both engaged in last night.

Blackout
listens. Other than the dull moaning of the building and the vague
falling of more objects, he can hear nothing. He watches as Gunner
paces past him and motions for him to follow.

“
Somebody's
crying. Can't you hear that?”

Gunner
breaks into a jog down the corridor, and stops outside each door to
listen.

Blackout
follows, but keeps his distance. He keeps glancing behind him because
he cannot dispel the strange build-up of dread within his gut. He is
familiar with creatures, or people hunting him, but this is
different.

From
the window, he sees the chaos outside. Billowing smoke drifts from
the office buildings opposite now too. As he strains to see out the
broken glass, he spots people inside the flames. They appear as
nothing more than silhouettes before they plunge from the top floors
and hit the ground below in silence. Blackout leans over to see the
dark masses still on fire, then turns away in disgust.

Why
are none of them screaming?

Blackout
growls and turns away. Despite the chaos, the world falls too quiet
and still as though he is having a demented dream.

“
Hey,
over here!” Gunner shouts as he pokes his head out from the
fourth door to the right.

Losing
his apprehension, Blackout jogs over the glass and through the door
to the room.

The
smell hits him first—the horrendous stench of death which he's
smelt a dozen times before.

As
he turns the corner, all he can see is blood smeared along the bed
sheets. A handprint is on the otherwise bland lamp and across the
wall as though someone has tried to remain upright. The crimson trail
continues across the patterned carpet, so whoever made this mess must
have failed to stay on their feet. The curtain rail has fallen to the
floor and the material bunches together, covered in glass and more
liquid.

Gunner
heads through the room and into the ajoining bedroom. As he follows,
one single bed comes into view, then another. The sheets of the first
are in disarray with purple and pink flowers beneath more stains. The
other bed's sheets have fallen to the floor between the two.

The
lamp on the side table dangles from the cord with the light still on.
Clothes lie on the floor in a haphazard manner like his bedroom was
as a teenager.

Passing
both beds, Gunner disappears into a smaller room where dark liquid
stains the tiles. When a snivelling noise comes from inside, Blackout
realises someone is in there—the person Gunner heard crying.

Standing
at the door frame, Blackout attempts to take the scene in as Gunner
assesses the situation. Crouching on his knees, he talks in the
smooth, calming voice he uses when consoling survivors. Blackout has
also been on the receiving end of that voice many times after
missions have gone wrong, or when he has wound up with a knife, or
bullet buried in his flesh.

The
mirror to his left is smudged with blood and what could be make-up.
The substances distort the view of himself and he is thankful not to
see the horror imprinted there. Various products also crowd the sink
like hair spray, a wide-tooth comb, several hair bobbles and clips
and a toothbrush with the words “
Purrrfectly clean
”
coming from a jolly cat's mouth.

Inside
the ceramic basin, thick wads of blood and toothpaste slide down the
plug hole. He has seen many men he has worked with spitting blood, or
with their guts torn from their breathing bodies. He has seen men
blown apart to leave nothing besides a red mist, but what he is
looking at is thicker.

It's
congealed.
That's
impossible, unless . . .

“
Coban,
get the hell over here.”

Shaking
his head, Blackout passes the sink, but struggles to remove his eyes.
There has only been one other time when he has seen anything similar.

And
that did not end well.

“
Come
on, apply pressure here.”

The
girl slumps in the corner with her yellow hair covered in sweat and
blood. Her whimpers are forlorn within the quiet room.

“
Get
a move on, she's fading.”

Gunner
points to the scrunched, orange material he is holding on her leg.
The liquid spilling beneath is soaking up the cloth at a rapid pace.

“
Now!
I've gotta grab something to hold this! She's got another wound
here.”

As
he props her arm to sit on her lap, milky flesh tears away in a chunk
where an open wound sits. Blood spills onto her dress and forms a
puddle on the floor beside her.

She
squeezes a pair of black handled scissors within her fist, but he
doubts the object caused those wounds.

“
Quick.”

Blackout
rushes to his knees where he allows Gunner to remove his hand. He
replaces it with his own and applies pressure to the orange material
which looks like a child's jumper.

Gunner
rushes to his feet. “Gotta find something to hold it.” He
barely considers before he is unbuckling and tugging at the black
leather around his waist.

“
Listen
mate, I don't know about this.”

“
She's
gonna die if we don't do something. And now!”

Blackout
watches the frustration in his worn face as his mouth breaks into a
scowl when the belt gets stuck. His eyes remain calm despite the
rolls of hardened wrinkles at his brow.

Has
he seen the blood?

“
Something
isn't right here.”

“
Just
hold that still,” Gunner commands as he pulls it free and drops
back to his knees. “Give me your shirt.”

“
Where
are her parents, hey?” Blackout glances towards the door
because he can feel eyes crawling all over him, yet no one else is
present.

Something
crazy is going on here.

“
S
he
hasn't got long left, don't you fucking understand?”

Looking
back to the girl who has fallen silent, they watch as her head drops
and her back hunches away from the wall. As her head rocks one way
and falls still, the grip around the handle loosens, allowing the
scissors to slip from her grasp and onto the floor.

Gunner
strips his khaki jacket from his shoulders and drops it. He rushes to
supply the wound of her arm with his t-shirt when the hand against
his shoulder halts him in his tracks.

“
Stop,
she's gone.”

When
Blackout lifts her jaw with his fingertips, her skin is cold. He
leans in to feel for a pulse, but cannot find one.

“
She's
gone.”

“
Damn
it,” Gunner scowls and wipes a hand across his brow.

Blackout
moves the hair from her angelic features to find a miserable view.
Her eyelids conceal her eyes, but the familiarity to his sister is
undeniable right down to the mole on her right cheek bone. Harriot's
screams fill his head from that day five months and two days
ago—screams and pleas for him to save her.

I
couldn't get there in time.

As
he places her head back, his body jolts from the sound of metal
screeching along the floor somewhere in the apartment.

Gunner
too has glanced up now, but there is something in his expression
Blackout doesn't care for.

He's
back there. We're back there. Right fucking back there.

Blackout's
lips burn with questions. He means to ask his mate about the blood in
the sink, who's now reaching to his thigh to pull the olive handle
free without noise. Yet, the shift behind him freezes him.

When
he turns, he notices the wound on the arm first. The blood has
changed, and no longer resembles liquid but the congealed form on the
ceramic.

Before
Blackout can rise and get himself free, the girl's head rises with a
drowsy rocking motion. When her eyes fling wide, he sees his sister
again, but not how she looked while she was alive.

The
whites of her eyes are all he can see as they glare at him. He is too
busy focusing on them that he doesn't notice her bare her teeth.

Blackout's
body freezes in position as she lunges forward with her slender
fingers stretching toward him. Her grey nails latch onto his jumper
and dig through the material. A groan escapes his lips as he finally
snaps awake and tries to fight his way back.

Gunner
yanks him backwards and he falls on his backside with her still
tugging on his clothes. Before he has time to act, the girl is
producing a dry gargling whine with the knife lodged in her skull.

Gripping
her hair, Gunner yanks the knife free with a wet, squelching sound.
He wipes the blade on his jacket with revulsion and lets her fall
limp against the wall where her body slopes forward.

Blackout
is on his feet in an instant to avoid her touching him again. He
doesn't have time to register what just happened as Gunner is at his
side again with his arm at his chest. “Wait.”

As
he moves passed the sink, Gunner leans against the wall and peers
around the frame. After istening to the faint ruffling inside for a
moment, Gunner raises his fist in the air.

Deciding
he has seen enough, he pulls back and places his lips at the other's
ear. “Someone's in the next room, move on my go.”

When
the stale sleep and whiskey leaves his lobe, he reaches out to stop
Gunner from entering the bedroom.

“
It's
happened again, hasn't it?”

It's
following us.

Gunner's
eyes shift sideways and his features crunch. Blackout has seen the
expression enough times to know it only surfaces when he doesn't want
to say what he's thinking. Blackout refers to it as his “I'm
afraid so” face, but his mate supplies him with no more as he
turns around.

Blackout
scours the bathroom for anything to serve as a weapon. If this is the
same as back in Shield City, then he knows they cannot do much to
prevent them with blunt objects. The longing for his firearm comes in
a wave of desperation.

He
glances back towards the girl and waits for her to move. When she
doesn't, he reaches back to the limp body and grabs the bloodied,
heavy duty, nine inch scissors. He wipes them on Gunner's jacket and
returns.

“
Okay,
ready.” And with that, the old feeling resumes—that
precise and calm resolve he must adopt to get the job done. They may
have been out the game for a while, but those feelings are quickly
slipping back in place.

Gunner
motions forwards with two fingers and slips out from the room.
Blackout follows over the clothes, being careful to avoid the
deodorant and accessories which could draw attention to them.