Chapter 4: Battle for Survival

It begins before I can process what’s happening. A howl rips from nearly a dozen throats as the transgressors surge forward, already clawing at each other in their desperate rush for weapons and water. My breath catches as I watch the pack move as one—elbows flying, fists swinging wild. Before they’ve taken ten steps, three are down, clutching bleeding noses and broken bones.

So quick. A wave of sand hisses upward as two of the fallen scramble to their feet, shoving a third man back down. They sprint forward. One goes down a second time, another trips in front of him. Both disappear under the stampeding feet of the others.

Papa snatches my sleeve. “Neeka! This way!”

He pulls me and Old Man Ambrose in the opposite direction. My breath snags as I heave Ambrose’s right arm over my shoulder. My heart pounds like a madly beaten drum. Unable to help myself, I glance back.

One man outpaces the others—the tall one with the furtive eyes. He reaches the supplies and snatches a blade and tankard without breaking stride, letting his momentum carry him in a wide arc to the left. That could have been me. First there, blade and water in hand.

But everything’s moving too fast; even my thoughts shred apart like tattered ribbons in the wind as I’m caught up in the violent fervor of what happens next. The remaining transgressors fall on the supplies like starving raptors, snarling and struggling with desperate, ferocious ardor.

One grabs a blade and whirls. Before he’s fully turned, he’s run another straight through the gut. Blood spurts and nausea hits me, but I can’t look away. I’m riveted by the madness of it, the zeal as they fling themselves at each other, fighting with nails and teeth for every split-second advantage. They know this might be their last fight.

But they can’t all win. Only one, maybe two will survive. So why fight? Why not run? Wouldn’t they last longer? But humanity is madness. Fear drives us to improbable ends. So as I stagger away, Papa across from me and Old Man Ambrose hobbling between us, the others slaughter each other behind us. Everyone thinks they’ll be the one to win until the blade pierces their heart.

Breathless, I glance back again. The Royals taunt the gangly man from the airship, calling him a coward, but he keeps running. Smart, if you ask me. Better chances alone than caught in that mad melee.

Under the airship, three men are already down, seconds into the fight. The man stabbed through the abdomen writhes his life away on the hot ground, leaving crimson smears in the sand. Another lies still; I didn’t see him die, but it was quick.

A short, stumpy man stumbles from the fray, his right arm hanging limp. Bone pierces skin at his bicep, blood flowing down to drip from useless fingers. His lower arm sways like a loose rope on a sail. I see the pain twisting his face, the manic desperation as he scrabbles away. He must know he’s wounded beyond hope. The humanity in him chants the prelude to his death, but something feral won’t let go—some deep-down, primeval part that insists on fighting until the end, an organic impulse that won’t surrender its last shred of life. I feel a flash of pity. Only a flash, because that’s all I have time for before he collapses, blood loss claiming him.

That could have been me. Could have been Papa. That poor soul had a past full of memories and people and hope, just like the rest of us. Could have had a future if only…

The scarred woman finds a blade and skids out from the thrashing mass. A look like thunder crosses her face as she swings at another man’s neck. I look away.

When I look back, he’s face-down in the sand. My pity hardens into something cold inside my chest, an urgent node spurring me on. Move faster. With dry breath scratching my throat, I quicken my pace. Old Man Ambrose struggles between me and Papa. We’re half-carrying him now, my shoulder flaring from his weight. But I can’t slow. Behind us lies massacre; ahead, wasteland. The wasteland is our only hope.

A hoarse shout from behind makes me flinch. My hair streaks across my face as I turn. The one-legged man hops across the sand a dozen paces from the others, hand outstretched as he begs us to wait. He’s chosen flight over fight, but I’m not sure it matters. With one leg, he won’t get far, and we can’t turn back.

Even as the thought forms, a burly transgressor with a blade spots him and gives chase. The hopping man stumbles and curls into himself.

Something inside me surges up and I shout—a warning? Pure horror? The gruff man with the blade glances my way and pauses, raising his weapon high. A sinister grin creeps across his face as he savors the moment before taking a disabled man’s life.

That split-second of pride costs him everything.

The bruiser—faster than anyone his size should move—darts from the melee with the wooden mallet raised high.

This time I don’t look away. The mallet swings through the air, a dull brown arc against breathless blue sky. It connects with the back of the transgressor’s head, and he jerks forward with a sudden, unnatural motion before gravity claims his limp body. Even from this distance, I glimpse his startled eyes rolling back, and my stomach turns.

So much barbarism. So much pointless, odious death.

For the first time since the brawl started, I remember Lord Solomon and the Royals. My eyes lift to the airship railing where they stand shouting and cheering. Their laughter is poison in my ears. I hate them. How can they derive pleasure from such brutality? They create spectacles of horror to satiate their own morbid desires. What sort of person, I wonder, would do that? What kind of perversion would it take to stand up there and laugh at the slaughter below?

In my head I fling curses at Solomon, re-swearing the oaths I’ve sworn a thousand times before. I will kill him. Someday. I will rid the earth of his abominable existence. Let him stand up there now, bloated with all his tawdry glory. Let him laugh. I will wait for my revenge.

Below the airship, the skirmish has died down. Only three transgressors remain standing; the one-legged man still crawls away, trembling, but they ignore him. He’s easy prey, poses no threat. The three face each other in a sloppy triangle, panting but trying valiantly not to show weakness.

Bodies litter the sand around them. Some look as if they could be sleeping. Others are mutilated—limbs severed or twisted at nauseating angles, blood saturating their skin and staining the sand beneath.

The three survivors each hold a tankard of water and a weapon—two with rusted blades, the bruiser still gripping his bloody mallet. Nobody wants to challenge him. After a tense moment, one man breaks the standoff, darting toward the crawling victim.

“Neeka,” Papa warns, but I can’t look away. I need to know how this ends. Need to know who might be hunting us later.

The one-legged man wails and covers his eyes like a child, but his attacker shows no mercy. The blade pierces his neck, and the killer snatches his water pouch. He’s barely taken ten steps when a blunderbuss shot shatters the scorched desert air.

For a heartbeat, I’m confused. The transgressor jerks and collapses into the sand. Dead. My eyes dart to Protector Atwood as he lowers his weapon on the balcony.

“The water pouches were a merciful gift. Never take away what Lord Solomon has given in mercy!” Atwood bellows.

My gut sours. “You speak of mercy,” I hiss, and Papa mutters warnings under his breath. He fears my hatred for Solomon will override my wisdom. Sometimes, I do too. But right now, I maintain control. Escaping this insanity is the first step to killing Solomon.

By now we’ve struggled far enough that I have to strain to hear Atwood’s voice. We could have covered more ground, but Papa and I won’t abandon Old Man Ambrose. I refuse to leave a friend behind.

Only two transgressors remain: the bruiser and his rival. The gangly man who fled first is long gone, still running, I’m sure. Putting as much distance between himself and the mad melee as possible. Again—smart.

The scalding desert air tears at my throat until it feels like it’s bleeding. If there weren’t more urgent concerns, I’d stop, but I know I can’t. I glance over my shoulder one last time as Old Man Ambrose stumbles between me and Papa.

The smaller man breaks his staring contest with the bruiser and dashes toward the transgressor Atwood shot down. He snatches the dead man’s tankard and turns to flee, desperation overtaking caution in his mad grab for survival.

Atwood tosses his blunderbuss down to the bruiser, who catches it with practiced ease and turns toward the fleeing transgressor. I feel a spark of guilt at the relief inside me, but I know this is how it must be. He dies, and we live.

The bruiser takes aim and fires. At the last moment, the fleeing man realizes his mistake, but it’s too late—the bullet takes him in the back, and he goes down in a spray of sand.

No more bullets in the chamber.

Relief clashes hard with fear inside me as the bruiser drops the weapon and rushes to collect the dead man’s water tankard. At least with him now having all the water, he’ll have no need to come after us.