Nightbleed, Peter Fehervari [short story to read .TXT] 📗

corner ahead, watching passers-by. His blue suit was armoured with flak-plates, boosting his already considerable bulk. The winged-sun icon of Carceri Hive shone from his breastplate and helmet. A tinted visor hid most of his face, but his vigilance was obvious.

Enforcer, Skreech thought sourly. He slowed his pace, but kept moving, wary of drawing suspicion. The lawmen were becoming more active on the streets these days, as if they knew something big was coming. There’d never been many of them – maybe a thousand covering the whole city – but even one of the bastards was bad news.

You’re looking for someone, Skreech guessed. Violent crime used to be rare in Carceri, but things were becoming edgier in the final days. There’d always been gangs working the slums, running vice in all its flavours or making trouble just for the hell of it, but nothing like the doomsday cults that had come crawling out of the shadows in recent years. Crazies like the Razers or the Darkscars killed because they liked it, even if they had a creed of sorts. Skreech reckoned they’d heard the call of the Night Below, but didn’t have the soul to listen the way he did. Unfortunately they’d carried their trouble beyond the slums, which upped the heat across the whole city. That made his crusade trickier.

Ain’t me you want, he guessed, eyeing the enforcer ahead. Oh, the authorities knew his work for sure, but they didn’t get its significance. And they sure didn’t know his old name or face either – the one he wore now – or they’d have taken him out long ago. To them his offerings were small fry beside the cults’ mayhem, but the herd knew better, in their blood if not with their heads. The newscasts proved that. Nothing scared them like the kiss of the Needleman!

Skreech realised he was smiling. Guiltily he bit his tongue, drawing blood as penance. This was serious. Maybe the law wasn’t after him specifically, but that enforcer wasn’t going to like the looks of him. The odds were good he’d be stopped and searched, which wouldn’t end well – not with the things he was carrying – but turning round was also risky. The crowd was pretty thin so the lawman might notice and come after him.

Make a move, Skreech urged himself, turning the options over. Both were bad.

As so often happened in a crisis, his saviour threw a miracle his way. This time it showed up as a rushing yellow wall. The tram rolled alongside him, heading away from the enforcer, going fast, but not so fast Skreech didn’t see the gaping doorway coming right up – jammed open, like they sometimes did. There wasn’t time to think things over. Now or never!

Skreech leapt.

A heavy thud cut through the soporific rhythm of the wheels. Startled from her dozing, Chel glanced along the carriage. There was a boy leaning against the wall opposite the faulty door, about ten paces away, his hands pressed against the glass. Clearly he’d jumped aboard and lost his balance. It was a reckless, stupid thing to do.

Idiot, Chel judged. As if hearing her scorn, the newcomer turned and caught her gaze. His sallow face crawled with scars and tattoos, but his eyes were striking, like clear blue pools in a swamp. Black hair hung to his waist in a snarl of dreadlocks, braided with fragments of metal and glass. His leather coat was frayed, its gloss faded and spattered with paint. He didn’t look much past eighteen, but his spirit would be older, coarsened by violence and wounded pride. Chel had seen the type before – both men and women – especially since she’d started working nights. This boy would cut her open without a second thought.

He’s smiling, she realised. It wasn’t the arrogant smirk she’d expect from such a face, but something softer… Filled with wonder. She looked away quickly.

There were six other passengers in the carriage, all Delta-class labourers judging by their drab coveralls – probably cleaners heading for the industrial district. None of them paid any attention to the predator who’d leapt among them. Either they were lost in their dozing or fearful of drawing his interest, as she’d done. If the boy attacked her they’d just sit by and sink deeper into themselves, seeing and hearing nothing.

You’re all dead already, Chel thought, studying their placid faces. But too lazy to see it.

Cautiously she glanced at the newcomer again. The boy had sunk to the floor, back against the wall with his legs drawn up, evidently contemptuous of the seats. His fingers drummed skittishly against his knees, betraying the tension beneath his relaxed posture. He was staring at the blur of buildings through the doorway, but Chel sensed his focus was elsewhere.

On me…

For the second time that night she felt no fear at the prospect of danger. Indeed, she was energised by it. She didn’t trust the smile the boy had offered, but she trusted the desire it concealed – the urge to hit out and hurt. Trusted it because she felt an echo of that same compulsion in herself…

Come then, she urged, her fingers stroking the shok-jak in her pocket. Try me.

But the boy didn’t answer her unspoken challenge. The carriage emptied steadily with each passing station until they were the last on board, but even then the predator didn’t stir. Had she misjudged him? No, she’d never felt more certain of her instincts. Her sharpened dreams had sharpened her in turn. Somewhere beneath that razor-bright clarity her old self chimed a bell of warning. This wasn’t right. It was the VLG-01 talking, twisting her out of kilter. It had to be.

‘I don’t care,’ Chel whispered, stifling the alarm. ‘I like it.’

The tram ground to a halt again, signalling her stop. They were nearly at the line’s terminus, beyond which lay the periphery slums, where civilisation petered out. That’s where her fellow passenger – fellow predator – belonged.

Finally the boy moved, rising smoothly when Chel