Jean Preston - Sledgehammer

“We were worried about you,” said Saburo

Kirwyn sniffed deeply and wiped his eyes. “Yeah?” he said. Saburo sat beside him on the log, neither looked to the other.

“I never used to cry,” said Kirwyn. “Now it seems to happen all the time.”

Saburo slowly shook his head and raised his shoulders. “There’s no shame in it. Only shame is pretending you – don’t…” he said, half remembering what Alana had told him. Kirwyn breathed deeply and raggedly.

“What happened?” said Saburo.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” whispered Kirwyn.

Saburo nodded. They sat in silence a while. “If you ever change your mind—” he said “I’m here, y’know?”

Kirwyn looked at him for the first time since they started speaking. “Thanks… Saburo” he said, genuinely.

They made their way back to the bike.

“ Just had a little trouble getting his pants back on ,” said Saburo puckishly.

“I bet. With you around,” said Alana, elbowing him.

Loma laughed, Kirwyn smiled.

The journey was sunny at first, with a cool breeze. But as the road entered the woods, they found themselves enveloped in a warm fog. An old man riddled with tattoos carrying a heavy backpack ran past them. He stopped, stared at them with bulbous eyes. He pointed back at the direction he came from, tried to cry out something-but it was incomprehensible, he ran off.

Loma dismounted and had Kirwyn push the bike behind them. Alana, Loma and Saburo drew their weapons. Little flecks of ash swirled around them, growing more numerous the further into the forest they walked.

“The Immortals,” said Alana. She had relayed to Loma and Kirwyn the encounter they had had at the ruined village the day before. “They’ve been busy.”

“Do we keep going?” said Saburo.

“The next town is hours away, I want to have a look,” said Loma. “You say they only come at night?”

“I think so,” said Alana.

“Let’s see.”

Refugees came pouring out in drips and drabs. Shell-shocked and inconsolable, carrying what little belongings they could hold. Many reacted with fear when they saw the four travellers, few would offer more than a brief word of explanation before they took off into the fog. They were mostly elderly, predominately women, no children. They were all tattooed – simple geometric shapes, black bands on their arms and legs, diamonds on their foreheads, the older they were, the more covered.

Sevenokes was about the same size as Moortown, though its population was now much smaller. The city walls were concrete and high, nigh impregnable save for the large hole that had been blasted through them, insultingly close to the much flimsier-looking gate.

When they approached they heard the sound of a gunshot. They all instinctively ducked.

“Who are you?” cried a voice.

“We’re traders,” yelled Loma.

There were muffled sounds of arguing. They looked up at the city walls, saw smoke billowing upwards. There was a distant explosion – that had them all ducking again. A man exited the crack in the wall and strode towards them, holding a shotgun. His skin was dark brown, and he had tangles of black hair that fell on his shoulders like tentacles. He racked his shotgun as he approached.

“Now’s not a good time for trade,” he said.

“Maybe we can help,” said Loma.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

“No,” said Loma.

Alana interjected – “Was it the Immortals, who attacked you?”

The man looked her over suspiciously. “Yes. That is what they call themselves. How did you know?”

“They attacked a village north of here a few days ago. We helped to escort the survivors to Retragrad.”

The man snorted. “Well – thanks but no thanks. We’re sticking around.”

There was another muffled explosion that made all of them flinch.

“Are they attacking right now?” cried Loma.

“No! That’s my bloody vodka exploding. They struck in the night, when most of our soldiers were out fighting another battle. They’re cowards you see? They took all they could and burned the rest. The fires have spread to the distilleries.”

“Can we come inside? Maybe we could help,” said Kirwyn.

The man looked them over again. They were an odd group, if they were spies they probably would have dressed more inconspicuously.

“Give me your weapons. Empty out the ammunition,” he said.

They did in turn. Kirwyn handed his sword, the man looked down at it and snorted. Kirwyn latched it back on his belt.

“Name’s Ben,” he said. “Welcome to Sevenokes.” With that he turned, clutching the many weapons awkwardly. He disappeared through the crack in the wall. Loma followed him. There was another explosion.

“How many fucking distilleries do they have?” cried Saburo.

Ben’s head popped back into view “ None ,” he said, bitterly.

They entered a hellish scene. The town crumbled and smouldered before them. Teams of volunteers set to work, and the four travellers joined them almost unconsciously, settling into the work, forgetting their own troubles for a while.

The streets were teeming with tattooed bodies, streaming into smoking buildings, retrieving precious goods. Some carried hoses and pumps, and sprayed water into the remaining fires. Loma assisted in these duties – her suit was fireproof, and filtered out smoke. She could enter the most hazardous building unimpeded.

Some lifted chunks of rubble, trying desperately to get at the wounded people trapped underneath. Saburo and Kirwyn helped in this task, pulling off their jackets, squatting down and tossing great chunks of concrete away, carrying broken bodies to medics.

Alana assisted in the medical wards – cleaning and bandaging wounds, disinfecting tools and ferrying precious supplies to the medics who needed them. Hers was a steady hand to hold, and she offered it freely to the pained and inconsolable.

By the time the last fire had been extinguished, the four travellers had developed a surprising and real camaraderie with the township. They had arrived so suddenly and so fortuitously, and conducted themselves with such unassuming dignity that it much impressed the townsfolk, especially as it lay in such stark contrast with their last encounter with foreigners.

A few shared nods, pats on the shoulder, barked words of encouragement and advice, this was the language of their work, and they shared many crushing disappointments and many moving victories – saving lives, reuniting the dispossessed.

They lay exhausted next to one another, sharing flasks, wiping the ash from each other’s faces. So strong was this sudden bond that when the households gathered to decide on their next course of action, the four were ushered in as if they had always been there.

An old woman started the proceedings. She relayed the events of the previous night. They received word that a neighbouring town was under siege. Sevenokes sent the majority of their forces to aid them, but they never found their allies. Their town had been destroyed and the people were missing. They searched in vain. Meanwhile, Sevenokes itself was being attacked.

They sent giants who crept over the walls and killed sentries. When they tried to radio for help, they realised their communications did not function, nor did any electrical device within the town. The Immortals blasted a hole in the wall and sent troops in who looted, committed arson and retrieved choice slaves. They brought these to a man in a mechanical suit, not unlike the one Loma wore. He picked the slaves he wanted, then they all departed on vehicles which were unseen.

An old man with a hawkish face piped up. “We need to fight them as soon as possible. It would take years to regain our full strength, every day they grow stronger.”