Gallows Humour

The Beginning of the End

Ugly purple clouds billowed over the ocean, turning the waves dark and sharp. Light crackled between the crevices. Wind drew the storm closer, carrying on it the prickle of ozone and sea salt.

The simmering orange bubble of the sun sank below the seething ocean. Foam coated the overgrown banks and clung to the barnacles clumped on the dilapidated bridge. True was trying not to focus on the way the bridge swayed. They crouched in the growth, waiting. Their pack weighed on their shoulders, comfortable and grounding, although their possessions had all been removed to make room for Radio's explosives. They held their shovel across their lap, a water bottle of moonshine hung from their belt, and a shard of glass hid under their sleeve, bound to their arm by a stretch of old cloth.

Radio Silent crouched on their blind side. They kept Jonesy well within their sighted side, and Eliza perched somewhere behind them in a tree, chewing on something that True felt was better not to ask about.

The plan was simple.

Thin the Red Faction's numbers by luring them out to a false After Market.

Launch a shadow dweller attack at the bridge.

Swim across to the island and plant the bombs.

Somewhere north of the bridge, Cal walked the spider-silk thin line of an alliance that would be dead by the end of the night, regardless of which side won. He and half the civilians were biting their blades, sharing war space with Allsaint and his coven of dwellers until the time came to spring the trap.

Across the city, at the false After Market, waited Big Valdivia and the rest of the civilians.

True rubbed the trench in their side. The jab of pain focused them. It was hot to the touch and cramped something fierce. Unsurprising. They'd caught infections from cleaner, smaller injuries. It wasn't going to kill them in the next few minutes, so they shoved it way back under a pile of other things they were ignoring. Like that bridge. And the deep ache in their head that felt like a railway tie being pounded through their eyeless socket.

"There they go," Eliza whispered. Sure enough, strutting along the bridge was a mini horde of factioneers. They walked in silence, the scuff of their patched clothes and clomp of their boots were the only sounds they made. No sk-flps, True noted with a fair share of bitterness. They squished as far down into the underbrush as they could get. Held their breath as the factioneers marched past, eye sharp.

There, bringing up the rear, Otsana's obnoxious white-streaked hair. Good, she would come home to smoldering ruins, the way they had, if she came back at all.

A twig snapped.

True's glare whipped toward the sound. Enemy? Wild animal? Stranger? Jonesy. True tried to kill him with their thoughts. Jonesy made a show of cringing and easing off the stick crushed under his knee. The psychic murder attempts redouble.

Turning a watchful eye on the factioneers, they tightened their grip on their shovel. The group marched on, miraculously unaware of the ambushers a mere few feet from them. All except one. Otsana had slowed, dropping off the tail-end of the pack. She skimmed the clumps of brush where True hid. True's hand drifted to a backpack strap, preparing to shed the extra weight.

After a long, sweat-soaked pause, Otsana turned her back and ran to catch up to her group. A minute ticked by, five minutes. True dared not move. The anticipation of the horde turning back kept their heart in their throat. But the factioneers blurred into silhouettes and finally disappeared.

When the factioneers showed no signs of re-appearing. True snake their hand out to catch Jonesy.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" they hissed.