Jay Posey - Three

Three set his blade aside on the basin and splashed water over his face and head several times. After the final splash, he stepped back from the basin and knelt upon the floor, feet behind him, head slightly bowed. Cass watched as his breathing slowed to such a point that she began to wonder if he had ceased breathing at all. Several minutes passed, and his stillness amazed her. For a moment, she wondered if he had perhaps fallen asleep, and if he had indeed even intended to do so. She couldn’t remember having seen him sleep at all since the beginning.

Three rose like a liquid shadow, grabbed his shirt and blade, and switched off the light. A very faint residual glow emanated from panels placed around the room, like the softest of moonlight, intended no doubt to create an atmosphere that encouraged sleep while staving off the fears that a pitch-black room made of concrete might otherwise inspire. In it, Cass could just make out Three’s movements across the room to their loaded packs. The man was utterly silent, like a dark mist driven about by an unfelt breeze. It suddenly occurred to her that she might well just be dreaming the whole event.

He crouched, then rose soon after with a bundle in his arms. He moved to the door.

“Hey,” Cass whispered.

Three halted. But didn’t turn.

“Hey back,” he answered finally, in a low voice. He waited. Waited for her to say anything more. That seemed to be his way.

“I know your secret.”

He was silent for a time. Still. Cass felt sleep’s heavy approach. She wondered briefly if she’d actually said anything at all.

“I doubt that, girl,” he finally replied. “But we’ll talk when I get back. Maybe we can start being honest with each other.”

Three opened the door, and the dim light from the corridor framed him. Cass saw he had slipped on his vest, with his pistol and short curved sword in place. And she thought she could make out a bundle of what looked like blankets in his hands.

“Where are you going?”

Three inhaled, held his breath. She saw his shoulders go up, draw back. Frustration? No. Steeling himself.

He exhaled. Checked the blade at his back. Shifted.

“To see a friend.”

And was gone.

Three crouched atop the Vault as the final traces of day seeped from the heavens, unveiling the first stars. Clouds were rolling in, backlit by a half-moon on the wane, tinted red from the residual glow of the electric embers of the city beneath. The Weir cried to one another, some from a distance, others less so, the echoes reverberating through the steel and concrete sprawl. Three had learned to judge those calls, or rather not to misjudge them. Magnified by overpasses, twisted by alleys, muffled by high-rises. Misreading the sounds of the hunt could prove fatal. Or worse.

Jackson hadn’t been eager to let Three back out of the Vault so close to twilight, but the kid knew better than to argue for long. And the fight had gone out of him anyway, once Three had explained. Now, out here on top of the Vault, the temperature was dropping steadily. A light wind swirled out of the surrounding alleys and moaned softly through the skeletal maglev structure, streaming like water over the top of Three’s freshly shaved head. He thought briefly about grabbing one of the old blankets he’d brought with him, but decided against it. The chill kept him alert, and comfort was an enemy.

After an hour of waiting, Three allowed himself to sit rather than crouch. He massaged his calves, hoping to ease the burn. Sleep stalked.

Not now , he insisted. When it’s done.

He had assured Jackson that the Weir had lost interest in breaching the Vault, and he’d been more right than he’d known. Though he could hear their sporadic croaking, he had yet to see even a hint of one below. Clouds masked the moon, making darker the night and heavier the looming silence of the cityscape. He could barely make out the outline of the old rusted, V-shaped piece of scrap metal he’d dragged near the front gate, with his two firebricks inside.

Three drew his pistol, flicked open its cylinder with practiced ease, considered the single shell within. Walking to Greenstone, of all places, with one shell in the pipe. As far as he was concerned, shooting was rarely a good answer to a problem. But when it was, it was usually the only answer. He shook his head with a smirk and flicked the cylinder shut, before sliding the weapon back into its well-worn holster. A few more slugs probably wouldn’t be the difference between living and dying out here. Probably.

A shuffling noise from below caught Three’s attention, and his senses snapped alert. He rose to a crouch and peered into the darkness beneath him. For a long moment, there was nothing more. No noise, no movement, no blue-glow aura that always emanated from approaching Weir. Three remembered just the night before, at how Dagon had appeared without warning. He slipped a hand to the grip of his blade. Instinct crackled. Something was there, in the darkness. Watching.

Three released the short sword, slowly took up his bundle, shifted away from the front of the Vault. Gradually he eased his way to the left side of the squat building, silently worked towards the edge. He carefully wrapped his bundle inside one of the blankets and then passed one end under an arm and the other over the opposite shoulder, tying the makeshift satchel securely upon his back. Then, there at the edge, he waited. There again, the shuffling sound. Footsteps. Definitely approaching. They sounded heavy for a Weir, shuffling rather than pattering as he was accustomed to.

Three lowered himself over the edge, spidered his way down the wall. Slowly. Silently. When he reached the bottom, the shuffling had stopped again. He dropped to a low crouch, forced himself to move with painstaking care, towards the front of the Vault. An inch at a time. His held his mouth slightly open to ensure even his breathing made no sound.

The shuffling began again, and Three could tell now it was just around the corner. Just at the front of the Vault. But moving away. Then a pause. Then shuffling again, towards the Vault. Then a pause. Three came up out of his crouch and slid around the corner. There, in front of the Vault, a hulking Weir stood with its blue-glow eyes fixed on the gate.

“Gev,” Three said aloud.

The Weir’s head snapped in his direction, its eyes rapidly scanning for him, sliding over him without seeing. Three stood his ground, studied the thing before him. This thing that had once been his friend. Three didn’t know how many weeks had passed since Gev had been taken, but apart from the electric blue light flooding out of its eye sockets, the Gev-Weir looked virtually unchanged.

It flexed its hands, squawked a burst of organic-digital noise. Its eyes still roving.

“It’s me.”

The Gev-Weir hunched down, as if to pounce. But Three knew he was safe from its searching gaze. He eased a hand back and slipped his blade from its sheath. Somewhere deep in his heart, a hope that he hadn’t even realized he’d carried died. A hope for recognition. But there was none, and Three knew his friend was gone.

“I’m here, old friend,” he said quietly.

As he spoke, he threw his arms out wide. The Weir reacted to the sudden, sharp movement, and launched itself toward him in a frenzy. But Three’s calmness remained. And just before the Gev-Weir was upon him, he whirled to one side and whipped the tip of his blade expertly through the back of its neck, just at the base of the skull, severing the spinal column in a single, swift stroke, without beheading it. The blue-glow eyes doused instantly. The Gev-Weir collapsed headlong in a weighty heap and was still.

Three flicked the acrid fluid from his blade, and returned it to its sheath. Then he untied the blanket from his shoulder, and unrolled it on the ground. With great effort and care, he lifted Gev’s body and laid it upon the blanket, and then knelt alongside.