After an hour of waiting, Three allowed himself to sit rather than crouch. He massaged his calves, hoping to ease the burn. Sleep stalked.
Not now, he insisted. When it’s done.
He had assured Jackson that the Weir had lost interest in breaching the Vault, and he’d been more right than he’d known. Though he could hear their sporadic croaking, he had yet to see even a hint of one below. Clouds masked the moon, making darker the night and heavier the looming silence of the cityscape. He could barely make out the outline of the old rusted, V-shaped piece of scrap metal he’d dragged near the front gate, with his two firebricks inside.
Three drew his pistol, flicked open its cylinder with practiced ease, considered the single shell within. Walking to Greenstone, of all places, with one shell in the pipe. As far as he was concerned, shooting was rarely a good answer to a problem. But when it was, it was usually the only answer. He shook his head with a smirk and flicked the cylinder shut, before sliding the weapon back into its well-worn holster. A few more slugs probably wouldn’t be the difference between living and dying out here. Probably.
A shuffling noise from below caught Three’s attention, and his senses snapped alert. He rose to a crouch and peered into the darkness beneath him. For a long moment, there was nothing more. No noise, no movement, no blue-glow aura that always emanated from approaching Weir. Three remembered just the night before, at how Dagon had appeared without warning. He slipped a hand to the grip of his blade. Instinct crackled. Something was there, in the darkness. Watching.
Three released the short sword, slowly took up his bundle, shifted away from the front of the Vault. Gradually he eased his way to the left side of the squat building, silently worked towards the edge. He carefully wrapped his bundle inside one of the blankets and then passed one end under an arm and the other over the opposite shoulder, tying the makeshift satchel securely upon his back. Then, there at the edge, he waited. There again, the shuffling sound. Footsteps. Definitely approaching. They sounded heavy for a Weir, shuffling rather than pattering as he was accustomed to.
Three lowered himself over the edge, spidered his way down the wall. Slowly. Silently. When he reached the bottom, the shuffling had stopped again. He dropped to a low crouch, forced himself to move with painstaking care, towards the front of the Vault. An inch at a time. His held his mouth slightly open to ensure even his breathing made no sound.
The shuffling began again, and Three could tell now it was just around the corner. Just at the front of the Vault. But moving away. Then a pause. Then shuffling again, towards the Vault. Then a pause. Three came up out of his crouch and slid around the corner. There, in front of the Vault, a hulking Weir stood with its blue-glow eyes fixed on the gate.
“Gev,” Three said aloud.
The Weir’s head snapped in his direction, its eyes rapidly scanning for him, sliding over him without seeing. Three stood his ground, studied the thing before him. This thing that had once been his friend. Three didn’t know how many weeks had passed since Gev had been taken, but apart from the electric blue light flooding out of its eye sockets, the Gev-Weir looked virtually unchanged.
It flexed its hands, squawked a burst of organic-digital noise. Its eyes still roving.
“It’s me.”
The Gev-Weir hunched down, as if to pounce. But Three knew he was safe from its searching gaze. He eased a hand back and slipped his blade from its sheath. Somewhere deep in his heart, a hope that he hadn’t even realized he’d carried died. A hope for recognition. But there was none, and Three knew his friend was gone.
“I’m here, old friend,” he said quietly.
As he spoke, he threw his arms out wide. The Weir reacted to the sudden, sharp movement, and launched itself toward him in a frenzy. But Three’s calmness remained. And just before the Gev-Weir was upon him, he whirled to one side and whipped the tip of his blade expertly through the back of its neck, just at the base of the skull, severing the spinal column in a single, swift stroke, without beheading it. The blue-glow eyes doused instantly. The Gev-Weir collapsed headlong in a weighty heap and was still.
Three flicked the acrid fluid from his blade, and returned it to its sheath. Then he untied the blanket from his shoulder, and unrolled it on the ground. With great effort and care, he lifted Gev’s body and laid it upon the blanket, and then knelt alongside.
Three arranged Gev’s heavy hands over his heart, and then placed his own on top of them. They were cool to the touch, the flesh rough but not yet the rubber-like texture that death so often brought. If Three hadn’t just slain his friend, he could’ve convinced himself that Gev was merely asleep. Three covered Gev’s face, and then wrapped the blanket tightly around the body. He did the same with the remaining blankets, and then heaved Gev’s massive frame up over his shoulders.
He strained to carry the body over to the scrap metal pyre he’d hastily formed, but once there, he laid his friend as carefully as he was able into the V-shape, atop the firebricks. Three stood and regarded the tightly-bound form of his longtime friend. He felt that he should say something meaningful, but discovered he had no words to speak. There seemed to be none worthy of so final a moment. So in silence, Three ignited the firebricks. In seconds, they grew white-hot and soon flames of many colors engulfed Gev’s remains, spreading golden-orange sparks heavenward.
And with the task at hand completed, Three lay down on the cold concrete beside his friend and wept.
A light knock on the door roused Cass from a depthless sleep. She remained still, drew a long breath, waited for her mind and body to synch. Wren was curled next to her, his breathing even. Undisturbed. The knock came again. She checked her internal clock. Twenty-two minutes to sunrise. No sign of Three.
“Mama, Jackson’s knocking,” Wren whispered. Awake after all.
“Alright, sweetheart.”
Cass sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Tested them, glad to discover she could move without pain. It’d been a long while since she could say that. She padded over to the door barefoot and cracked it open.
“Sorry to wake you, Miss Cass. But, Three’s about ready to get moving.”
“He’s upstairs already?”
“Yeah,” he answered, then paused. “Sorta.”
“Sort of?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. He just asked me to make sure you guys were up and ready to go around now.”
“OK, we’ll be up in a few.”
Jackson nodded, but lingered at the door. He tugged at an earlobe, unconsciously from the looks of it. He was nervous about something.
“Need any help?” he finally asked. “I can carry your gear up, if you like.”
“No, that’s alright. Just need to get dressed.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
Cass sighed to herself. She guessed he was lonely, that he was having mixed emotions about their leaving. Might as well give the kid something, however small.
“OK, give us a minute.”
“’K.”
Cass closed the door and switched on the light. Wren was already sitting up, legs dangling off the side of the bed, blond hair sticking up like a halo. His sea-green eyes shone wet as he squinted against the light.
“How’d you sleep, baby?”
“Good,” he answered. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “This bed is nice. I wish it fit in my backpack.”