Jay Posey - Three

Recognition.

Where was the third guard?

The realization struck in the same instant that the guards moved. The short guard snatched Wren by the front of his coat, jerking the boy away, tearing him free of Three’s leg. As he did so, the older guard brought his hands up, pointing some kind of dull metallic box at Three. He heard Wren cry his name, shrill, terrified, followed by a muffled thump.

Three twisted, reaching into his coat to draw his pistol, but something dull punched into his upper chest, sent him sprawling. He absorbed the fall as best he could, rolled to his feet. The older guard was still standing with his arms outstretched, a look of shock on his face. Three went for his pistol, but before he could get it free of his holster, massive arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his own to his sides. Three instinctively whipped his head backwards, felt the impact, the crunch of cartilage that told him he’d just broken someone’s nose. But still the arms squeezed. He snapped back again with his head, and then again. The arms released for half an instant.

But before he could exploit the moment, he felt the vice-grip clamp around his neck, cutting off the blood flow to his brain. He had seconds before he’d pass out. Time slowed.

The older guard was running at him now. The shorter guard fought to control a squirming Wren. Blood rushed in Three’s ears. Cass flashed in his eyes. She’d trusted him with her boy. With her life. He’d come so close. Too close.

A deep redness started closing in from the edge of his vision. He fumbled, felt his fingertips brush the grip of his pistol. The red became blackness. Sound suddenly snapped to an unearthly sharpness. Wren crying out. The shouts of the guards.

There. The pistol hard in his hand. He drew it, felt it slide with intolerable slowness. Darkness nearly complete. Numbness. Was he still holding the gun? The old guard was two steps away.

A low whoosh… whoosh… whoosh. Louder each time. The last strangled rush in his blood-starved brain. Something cracked wetly. The grip around his neck fell away. Hard impact on his knees, his pistol clattered away. And as his vision returned, there were the feet of the older guard floating up off the ground, backwards, up and away from Three. And in the next instant, time returned to its proper flow, and Three saw the old guard slamming backwards to the ground, and Mr Carter there.

As the old guard impacted, Mr Carter followed him to the ground, dropping his knee into the man’s chest. Mr Carter spun, swept something up from the ground behind Three, where the third guard lay bleeding from his face and side of the head. His hammer. He must’ve thrown it.

Three’s fogged mind fought to catch up as the events unfolded before him at lightning speed. The short guard cried out in pain, and dropped Wren. As Three gained his feet, he saw the man clutching his arm, with crimson spots welling up in three separate locations. Wren crouched back, his tiny blade gripped tightly, gleaming wet in the fading light. Tears streaming down his face.

Three covered the distance to the guard in three steps and buried the sole of his boot in the man’s solar plexus. The guard buckled to the hard ground, and Three was on him the next moment, delivering a devastating fist crushing down into the man’s jaw. Three saw the guard’s eyes go blank under the impact, out cold.

Wren’s sobs suddenly caught Three’s hearing, and he turned to see the boy standing there, knife in hand, arms dangling at his sides, wailing in terror, and confusion, and who knew what other raw emotion. But there was a commotion near the gate, and Three knew that more guards were surely on their way.

“Run! This way!” Mr Carter yelled, and in the next instant, Three had Wren in his arms, and they were running, running again, away from Morningside, back into the open, back once more into the gathering night.

Following Mr Carter’s lead, Three raced back through the outskirts cradling Wren tightly to his chest. Three was still lightheaded from the attack, and his lungs strained for air as they threaded their way through the eerily sterile urban remains. Through the alleys and side streets, they fled like thieves, like men with hounds at their heels. The night fell down around them, a heavy shroud upon weary shoulders. They ran long past the squatters, out through the crisp borders of Morningside’s reach, into the fuzzy border between the open and the looming township.

At last, Mr Carter slowed his pace, and then soon after ducked into a brick shell of a building. Mr Carter moved through the first room quickly, scanning the surroundings. Towards the back, a darkened corridor ran to a second, windowless room. Mr Carter stopped at the entrance of the corridor, and waved Three and Wren on through. Three pushed his way into the dusky room, immediately reminded of his small room back at the village. He set Wren on his feet, and dropped to a knee, sucking air into his burning lungs. His hands were clammy with sweat, shaking. Behind him, Mr Carter leaned against the doorframe, doubled over, hands on knees, panting as well. Wren stood as stone, staring blankly, his hair matted to his head by Three’s sweat. It was minutes before anyone spoke. When Three had recovered enough to know he wouldn’t pass out, he took Wren’s face in his hand, and sought out the boy’s eyes in the darkness.

“Are you hurt, boy?”

Wren made no sound, but Three felt the boy’s head shake slightly from side to side. Three dropped his hand onto Wren’s shoulder, squeezed it.

“What happened?” Mr Carter asked from the corridor.

“They tried to take Wren,” Three said. After a moment, he added, “and I almost let ’em. I let ’em get the jump on me. If you hadn’t come back…”

Three trailed off, suddenly reliving those near-final moments. Trapped. Blacking out. Wren struggling in the guard’s grasp. Three, powerless to prevent it.

“The child,” Mr Carter said. He paused, searching for words. “He… called. ”

“Are they dead?”

“I don’t think so. The one that had you, the big one… maybe. It was not my intent…”

“My fault. Should’ve been more careful.” Three shook his head, then snorted a humorless chuckle. “Been on a bad run with guard-types lately.” He thought back to the attack, but much of it was a jumble in his head. Too many things happening at once. One guard grabbing Wren, the other hitting him with… what? “One of them shot something at me. Knocked me down. But not much more. Any idea what that was?”

Mr Carter thought for a moment, and shook his head slightly. “Many of them carry dislocators. But a shot from one of those would’ve done more than just knock you down.”

Dislocator. Made sense. Intended as a non-lethal weapon, a dislocator fired a semi-rigid projectile that caused massive overload of one’s datastream on impact, incapacitating the target without causing any significant physical trauma. But Three wasn’t wired. That would explain the surprised look on the guard’s face.

“Maybe it was a dud,” Three offered. He didn’t know if Mr Carter was aware of his disconnected status.

“Could be. Fortunate, if so.”

Three got to his feet and moved his hand from Wren’s shoulder to the top of the boy’s head, where he gently tousled Wren’s blond hair. Behind him, he heard Mr Carter stir, and moments later the soft glow of a chemlight spilled through the room. Mr Carter entered carrying his light held out slightly before him. He moved gingerly into the corner where he let his pack slide to the floor and then sat more heavily than Three expected. Weary. Wounded. Three wondered just how much pain the man was silently bearing.