The streets are churned, as by a beast. Buildings lean, topple, expose their innards to the morning light. Some stand pristine. Whole blocks ruined, others untouched.
If this is the result of a Thyrian attack, it is on an unimaginable scale. But if not an attack…?
Someone will look into it when the dust settles. The Examiners will question for a decade. Questions are hesitation.
The trams are out, obviously. A car is discarded nearby, dead bodies beneath. It will take an hour by foot to reach her Tower. Too long. I begin to run, aching. It’s hardly better than walking. With the debris and the people and the sudden shifting of buildings, crumbling one last time, it is almost more dangerous than walking. I deliberately take hold of my racing thoughts. I grab them, jerk them back, force them to slow. It will take an hour. Fine. (It will take longer. The whole city is in my way.) Imagination lives a hundred lives in the space of a thought, I remind myself. If she still lives, she might live a long time, even pinned beneath rubble. Even if she bleeds. And if she is dying, if she is dead, five minutes is too long.
What might be does not matter. I do what I can do; it is all I can do. This is the only philosophy that makes sense to me.
I pass men sitting on piles of broken brick, mothers digging in four stories of collapsed buildings, children screaming for their parents, dozens descending precarious heights that were once homes. They understand, too, now. Life is simple. Politics, rumors, traditions, dreams, jobs–everything that is not survival is luxury. Sweet, unimaginable bliss. To her, life is strife and struggle. She has never understood.
Does she now?
A man stops me. He is old, but he surveys the wrecked city street with leisure. By his rags and breath, I am certain he lost little and perhaps even gained by the disaster. “Where are you going?”
“To the Wheel.”
“The Select can’t help. They won’t. They’ll watch us and write books about how we ate each other.”
“Maybe.” I don’t want to argue. I start moving again, and he calls out. I stop because there is something wild in his voice. I stop because there is something I wish to say. I do not know what it is.
“It’s time to start over,” he says, a fire in his eyes. “No more powers that be. No more distinctions. Every man a king. Down with the Select and their magic!”
The word has hardly left his mouth before I have his neck squeezed in the crook of my arm. Cold fire is in my gut. “I am sworn to protect the Select. Are you their enemy?”
“No, no,” he hisses. “I–”
“I am going to one of them now.” Yes, this is what I wanted to say. In case I fail, someone will know that I tried, that I did not abandon her. “There is a Select I will protect. If she is dead, I will have nothing left. Her name is Calea. If you ever meet her, honor her.”
I let him go and continue on, picking up the pace. Perhaps an hour will not matter. Perhaps it will.
The gate to Section Four is near. Already, the people are massing, pushing, swarming, trampling. They think there is safety there, on the other side of the wall that separates the sections. Section Four–the section she controls. Her domain. If this was an attack…but where are the soldiers? What’s the objective? Her Section, where the common man has wealth to rival the Select. Or soon will.
The immigration offices are hollowed-out shells, walls and furniture and bodies littered on the street. Even from my place, away from the mob, I can see that the wall separating the Grunt from Section Four has fallen.
It does not have to take an hour.
I throw myself into the mass of people, silent among the mad. I claw forward, shoving bodies out of my path. They resist. I press harder. I throw a punch, climb over six as they collapse in a huddle. I am inside the Office of Neighborhood Immigration. The thick flow of humanity stagnates. Men are pressing forward and backward, diving into corners and searching out alcoves. I can tell by their clothes the men of the Golden Streets. If they are seeking refuge in the Grunt, then they have been hit hard.
I hit hard, too. I will not be stopped. I lean forward, head down, shoulder leading, and cleave a path. I am growing angry. Why will they not get out of my way? I must go. I must move.
I am on the other side, in the place we Grunters call the Golden Streets. The road is blackened by explosions, the avenue utterly destroyed. Every building has been blown to pieces. Emaciated frames remain, shivering in the wind. Blood is splattered on the concrete and steel. Behind me, the breach between the Sections writhes, but the scene before me is still. I count three cars, the newest models, twisted like sheets of paper after the flame.
It doesn’t matter. She is not here. She is in the Tower overlooking her experiment.
I spring forward, my legs reaching their full stride. My makeshift shoes have fallen off. I continue. The way is shredded rock. I find my way by honed sense. My feet are beginning to bleed. I take a moment to rob shoes off a dead man. They are too small. I cut a line along the soles to give my feet space. Uncomfortable, but it’ll do.
I stop. I glimpse handlebars just ahead. I take the moments necessary to pull it upright. Every other vehicle in Section Four has been demolished. This remains intact. It’s one of her creations, a bicycle with a battery-powered engine. The key is in it. The driver moans nearby. I turn the key. It starts. I look at the reading. Nearly empty.
But not completely empty.
I rev the engine. Steadying the bike with my feet, I let loose. The front wheel hops over the next mound of rock. I look for the smoothest path; I bump and jolt over riven road. My teeth jar in my body. My insides quake. But I am moving.
It is bone-cracking work. I sweat. I live moment by moment. My body burns. I force myself not to glance at the energy reading. Like my body, I will it to continue on. It sputters, leaps forward, hesitates, dies. I throw it aside, take two or three deep breaths.
I am near enough to see her Tower. The top is gone. A jagged summit fumes black smoke. I can see her balcony below the smoke. I hope for a moment to see her there. She is not there.
I’ll find her.
Don't miss a single word of stories as they are published! You'll also receive first notice of special sales and behind-the-scenes information.