Jay Posey - Morningside Fall

“Come on, with me,” he said.

They kept moving like that, leapfrogging from alley to alley. Every time Swoop wanted them to start, stop, or reposition, he’d grab some part of Wren or his coat and drag him around: an arm, a shoulder, once behind his neck. It hurt a little. But Swoop knew right where he wanted everyone to be, and he had no problem putting them there. Wren still hadn’t seen who was chasing them, but he could hear their strange calls back and forth.

Swoop held them in place for a moment, and leaned out weapon first to check if it was clear. He kept his gun up and shouldered, but he let go of it with his left hand to reach for Wren. Just as he did so, there was a funny tonk sound, and Swoop grunted and fell back hard against the wall of the alley. He slid part way down, but caught himself, and managed to push Wren and Painter back away from the entrance. He motioned for them to go back the way they’d come.

But Wren noticed Swoop wasn’t standing up straight, he was kind of hunched over to his left, and when Wren looked down, he gasped. There was what looked like a six-inch-long steel rod sticking out of Swoop’s middle, about two inches below and to the left of his heart.

“Go, go,” Swoop said.

They backtracked, but as they came out into the open space, there were three figures further down the street. Scrapers. One of them let out a high-pitched whoop.

They were too far away for Wren to make out many details, but he saw enough to know he would rather fight to the death than be caught by them.

Swoop forced Painter and Wren to cut to their right, but as they crossed the mouth of another alley, they saw two more scrapers heading their way. Swoop drove them towards another gap between buildings, but when they entered it, they saw the far end was blocked by a wall of debris.

Instead of turning around, though, Swoop pushed them further in. Wren didn’t understand why, unless he was just trying to get distance between them. He was going to have to gun them down as they entered. But then Wren understood. He hadn’t seen it from the other end, but as they got closer, he saw a gap in the ground.

It was a stairwell that led down to a door a few feet below street level. Swoop shepherded them down the steps.

“There, back against the door. Make yourselves as small as you can.”

Wren did as he was told, and balled himself up in the corner. Painter squatted down beside him.

Swoop sprawled on his back in what seemed like a terribly uncomfortable position on the stairs, with his legs kicked wide for support. Across his body he laid his weapon, pointed back down the alley and braced on his right fist, which he rested on the lip where the ground met the stairwell. Very little of Swoop would be visible from the opening of the alley, but Wren had no doubt that Swoop had a clear and deadly view. The rod was still jutting out of his ribcage, and it made Wren feel sick to see it, but Swoop didn’t seem to be paying any attention to it.

Wren pressed his hands over his ears, knowing at any second one or more of their pursuers would round the corner, and Swoop would open fire. Every pounding heartbeat seemed like the last one before the fight would start. But Swoop didn’t shoot.

Wren uncovered his ears and listened. Painter was panting next to him. Swoop might’ve been holding his breath for all the sound he was making. And there was the soft patter of snow falling. There was a cry from one of the scrapers, and another several seconds later. And then all was still.

They waited ten maybe fifteen minutes there in that alley, waiting for the end to come. But nothing ever happened. Swoop finally took the time to glance down at the thing sticking out of him. He grunted again, like he was unimpressed.

He sat up part way, and shifted position so he was seated on one of the stairs, with his weapon still pointed at the entrance. He transferred the grip back over to his right hand, and then with his left, he took hold of the rod and waggled it back and forth with a grimace. It didn’t budge.

“Well,” he said. “Don’t that beat all. Painter, come gimme a hand here.”

Painter looked at Wren with a pained expression, but he reluctantly went to Swoop.

“Get a good hold on the end there,” Swoop said, indicating the rod. “And pull it straight back. Pull, don’t yank. And s traight . Nothin’ side-to-side, alright?”

Painter nodded and took hold of the tail end. “Ready?” he asked.

“Do it.”

Painter strained for a moment, which made the wound seem even more terrible to Wren, but then it came free with a metallic pop.

“Figures,” Swoop said. “Of all the places it could go.”

Wren looked more closely and could see now that whatever the thing was that had been sticking out of Swoop moments ago, it’d actually gone through one of the magazine pouches on his chest harness first. Whatever was inside was surely destroyed, but it’d very likely saved Swoop’s life.

“So we’re real low on ammo now,” he said, taking the damaged magazines out and looking at them briefly. “But I’m only a little nicked.” He pulled his harness away from his body and Wren saw a wet crimson spot on the garment beneath.

“Guess that’s a good tr-trade?” Painter said, still holding the rod. Some kind of projectile, though Wren didn’t know what kind of weapon it had come from. It was about eight inches long, cylindrical, and sharpened to a stake-like point. About an inch of the point was bloody.

“Would’ve rather taken the hit and had the ammo,” Swoop said.

“Are you OK?” Wren asked.

“Yeah. Burns a little, but I’ll be fine.”

“What happened to the scrapers?” Wren asked Swoop.

“Let’s go see.” Swoop got to his feet, and started moving cautiously towards the end of the alley, weapon up and ready. “Stay close behind me.”

Wren fell in behind Swoop and put his hand on the man’s back. Painter came along right behind Wren, with his hand on Wren’s shoulder. Together the trio edged their way to the end of the alley.

“Well, that’s something,” Swoop said. He paused and lowered his weapon. Wren peered around Swoop, and then immediately wished he hadn’t.

Two of the scrapers were lying in the street. One on his back, the other face down. Both in puddles bright red upon the snow.

“What h-h-happened to them?” Painter whispered.

Swoop shook his head. “No idea. Don’t think we want to find out, either.”

He didn’t waste time moving out. There were several more scrapers lying in the snow in both directions, and as they made their way towards the bridge, they came across yet more. More than eight or nine, though Wren wasn’t really keeping count by then. He mostly tried not to look at any of them.

It was another half hour or so before they came within sight of the Windspan. Calling it a large bridge had been a massive understatement. It didn’t seem especially wide, no more than maybe two normal streets side-by-side. But it looked like it was miles long. And now that he saw it, Wren understood why it was so much of a time-saver on the way to Morningside. And too, he guessed at how it’d gotten its name.

The Windspan actually climbed up and over the sprawling urban ruins. There’d be no twisting or turning alleyways, no navigating unfamiliar territory. Just a long, straight shot to the other side.

Swoop halted for a moment, maybe fifty yards from the bridge.

“There it is, boys,” he said. “The Windspan.”

Wren noticed he kept pressing his arm into his side, and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet.

“There’s s-s-suh, someone on it,” Painter said.

“What?” Swoop said.

“There,” Painter answered, stepping forward and pointing. Sure enough, there seemed to be someone on one side of the bridge. Just sitting there.