Anathemas Page 2

  Enforcer teams are already running into position at the intersections. They’re armed and tense, their faces obscured with rebreathers. They’re already shouting and shoving people about. Their voices are distorted by the vox-amplifiers. They have stopped looking or sounding human. You keep well clear. You’re not stupid.

  Military law will be imposed in seven minutes.

  The countdown keeps repeating. People panic. Everyone is running. You turn up the tunnel to your arena with a minute to spare.

  You think you will make it but the gunfire starts early. The enforcers have no mercy. They are as panicked as you, and itching to kill. They are gunning people down behind you. The screams and shouts are all around you. A hard round sparks off the wall to your side. Another brushes your hair. Blood from the man next to you splatters your face.

  You throw yourself into the stairwell, scramble up the steps on all fours, and crawl along your balcony. There are dirty puddles left over from yesterday’s leak.

  You reach your hab door terrified and exhausted. You hear a scream and you tentatively peer over the railing. A pack of ­enforcers are dragging a body between them. It could be the toad-seller. You do not wait to see. You are not so stupid. You turn the handle, fall inside, pull it closed behind you and double-lock it.

  You expect some words of concern from Tarja, but she is just lying there in the cot.

  Her foot is swollen like a rotting sump-lizard. She’s burning up. You take her wrist in your hand. She’s a brave woman but she is in pain. You can see it in the desperate light as she opens her eyes and they try to focus on you, the speed of her breath, the way she clings to you as if you can save her from this.

  ‘It’s the plague?’ she says.

  You nod.

  ‘Do you think I have it?’ she whispers.

  ‘No!’ you say quickly.

  ‘Did you get the medicine?’ she asks.

  ‘No. There’s a lockdown. It’s spread into the hive.’

  There is a long pause. She swallows and winces. You feel power­less and stupid. You should have gone last night. It would have been so easy. But now the plague has spread and there’s a lockdown and there is nothing you can do.

  ‘It’s just a bile-rat bite,’ you say in a reassuring tone.

  She nods. She trusts you.

  You laugh to lighten the mood. ‘Listen. No one has ever died of a rat bite.’

  Her eyes open at that. The blood clot is growing. She tries to joke as well. Her voice is just a rasp. ‘Maybe I’ll be the first.’

  You tell her no one dies of bile-rat bites. She squeezes your hand. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure,’ you tell her.

  She purses her lips. ‘Thank the Throne,’ she says. She starts to tear up. The blood has filled her eyeball now. It’s all bright red. ‘I was so afraid.’

  You laugh now. ‘No need to be afraid,’ you tell her. ‘I will look after you.’

  You give her a whole day’s ration of water. She swallows painfully, then sinks back into the bed.

  As she sleeps you look at the wound intently. You study the bruises and the miscoloured blotches. You have all been told what the scourge looks like. Grey skin. Cold. Damp. Clammy.

  Her illness is the opposite. It is not the plague. It’s just an infection.

  You cannot stand to be cooped up like this. You want to sweat and work and earn. You think of the money you could be earning, and yawn. You’re tired. You want to sleep so you do not disturb her. Slumber is like falling into water. You are dead tired. It is just a matter of closing your eyes and letting the blackness sweep over you. You cannot be angry when you are asleep.

  As you’re dropping off to sleep an enforcer patrol passes outside. Their vox-units sound inhuman.

  ‘You will stay in your habs. Transgressors will be shot. Contamination will be cleansed.’

  You hear this and turn onto the other side. They told you it had been quarantined, you think, just before dreams, and you believed them.

  Next day it is the same. Vox-horns inform you all that the infection has spread. ‘No one is to leave their habs. Derelictors will be shot on sight’. Same with the third.

  On the fourth day there is suddenly the sound of shooting just outside your door. It’s your neighbours. You hear his voice, and the curses of his mother, mixed with the harsh bark of the enforcers. The shouts fade away then a dark liquid starts to pool under your door.

  You mop it up, disgusted. The cloth comes away red. You realise what it is and throw the sodden cloth onto the floor, wipe your hands in disgust.

  At last you open your door a crack. Blood has pooled outside your neighbour’s doorway. The door has enforcer tape drawn across it.

  ‘They took them all!’ the old woman named Sabbad says. She lives two hatches down. Her door is just ajar as well, and she’s peering out at you.

  ‘Did they have plague?’

  She shakes her head. ‘They went out for food.’

  You shut your door and bolt it again. This is not how you want to end up. But on the fifth morning you have run out of food and Tarja’s temperature has risen, both her eyes have turned red, and sweat stains her armpits and pools between her breasts.

  ‘I think I’m dying,’ she whispers. She leans into your side and wraps both arms about you.

  ‘I’m going to go,’ you tell her. ‘I’m going to bring you tonic. There’s a mendicant two levels above us. My mother used to go to him. I don’t know if he’s still alive, but maybe his son has taken over the trade. I’ll go after dark-time.’

  ‘It’s dangerous,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ you assure her.

  She believes you and swallows and nods. You have made up your mind. You cannot sit in this filth much longer.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She closes her eyes and relaxes into you. The credits you had saved. You will take those. They are hidden in the corner, under the tin stove. It is your secret stash. You’re worried whether it’ll be enough.

  Her breathing slows, her tension eases. You feel the dead weight of her head as she leans into you. You are propping up her dreams. This is a beautiful thing in a shitty, shitty world. When the time comes you lie her down gently, and pull the blanket over her.

  An hour after dark-time you listen at the door, then open it a crack.

  There is only a low ambient light, coming from down in the arena. The overwhelming sense is of stillness and quiet. You hold your credits in your pocket to stop them clinking against each other, turn right, and slide along the wall like a shadow, senses straining for any hint of enforcers.

  Very distant gunfire drifts along the tunnel. There are lizards on the stairs. They dart to the side as you approach. You have never seen so many lizards. You are used to this darkness from working in the pits. You reach the arena floor and keep to the shadows, and make your way to the shaft and start to creep up the stairs.

  This is the most dangerous part. Gunfire sounds far off, but the shaft is deserted, the downdraught is malodorous. The lack of people disturbs and disorientates you. You have never seen your hive without people. Nothing looks right without people. The hive feels vaster now it is empty.

  Vaster, colder and totally disinterested.

  You get to the level you want and pause to get your bearings. You are sweating. You wipe your brow, still clutching your credits, and you make your way to the back-street dispensary. It is locked and the windows shuttered, but you know there is a rear door that your mother used to take you to.

  You slide down the alley. A bile-rat sits in the corner, its six legs drawn up about it. You can hear it munching. With the lack of people it has become bold. It does not run from the sight of you. You hiss at it, and gently clap your hands. ‘Yah!’ Very slowly it turns and squeezes into a hole in the wall till only its tail is left, disappear
ing after it.

  Dim light seeps out from under the dispenser’s door. It still has the same sign hanging beside it.

  You feel relief at that.

  A scratch at the boards and it opens before you. The warm light is so sudden it is almost blinding.

  A rough hand pulls you inside. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come for medicine. My girl has been bitten by a bile-rat. It’s got infected.’

  ‘I’m the doorman. Tell your story to him!’

  The hand shoves you through a thick black curtain and an inner chamber is revealed. Red lights cast a thin illumination. Small round tables have been set up, where pairs of men drink. At a makeshift bar a hunched worker sits with a bottle of grog before him.

  The worker looks up at you as you pass. You stumble over a chair. You make sure not to go near any of them. You get to the bar. The man behind is wiping a glass as you lean on the counter. He is not the dispenser you remember. He is young, lean, with a stained white apron tied about his waist, the knotted belt hanging at his side. He ignores you, then puts the glass down and walks towards you. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I need counter-septic. My girl has been bitten by a bile-rat. She’s hot. She’s sweating. I need something to give her. I think the bite is infected. It’s been five days now.’

  He nods and walks to the shelves behind him, and pulls out a vial of dark liquid.

  ‘Got a bottle?’

  ‘No.’

  Your lack of preparation visibly irritates him. He turns and walks out of sight, and comes back with a small dispensary phial. He’s just washed it out, and flicks the last drops of water from it, then fills it up and twists the dull metal screw cap back on. You repeat the instructions back to him and he nods.

  He tells you the price and you pay him. ‘Thanks,’ you say and turn to go, but one of the workers is standing right behind you. You almost drop the bottle as you bump into him. He ­overshadows you.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ he says.

  ‘Home.’

  His eyes are shadowed. ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He jabs a finger at your bottle. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Antitoxin. For bile-rat bites.’

  ‘Let me taste it.’

  ‘It’s medicine,’ you say, and the smell tells him all he needs to know.

  ‘Filthy,’ he hisses and you hurry past, but another man stands in your way. One by one they block your efforts. You shove past them, and the last to stand before you is the doorman. He puts a hand on your arm. It feels cold and clammy.

  He sees the bottle and smiles. ‘Don’t worry.’

  You look down and his flesh appears blotchy and grey in the ruddy light. Your mind scrambles for purchase. His flesh is grey and cold and clammy…

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’re all infected here.’

  You want to scream as you shove past, thrust the door open and tumble out into the alley. You keep running through the shadows. You are sure that they will follow but the street remains deserted.

  When you are a safe distance you look at your hands. They appear normal.

  ‘Thank frekk!’ you hiss and keep pushing yourself and you do not stop until you reach the stair-shaft. You scramble down the stairs. There is a patrol of enforcers making their way up so you have to climb out onto the support strut, and you crouch there, barely daring to breathe. They pause at the entrance to your tunnel. You can hear the strike of a match, and then the scent of lho-sticks. Their vox-chatter sounds strangely inhuman.

  Bastards, you think. Keep moving.

  Your girl is sick. You need to get back. You’re panicking. Can the plague have got so deep in the hive so soon? Have the authorities been lying to you all? Maybe the whole hive is already infected. Maybe the signs are not grey and clammy, but hot, like Tarja… As you crouch you can feel your heartbeat in your fingers. You are so tense. As taut as wire, the bottle cradled in your hand.

  At last they move on and you move slowly out of cover, and pad down the stairs.

  Your breath comes quickly as you take the last steps up to the level above your hab. You get to your door and put your head to the wall. It is cool and soothing. You push inside.

  Tarja has fallen out of bed and lies on the floor. She moans as you help her back up.

  She comes up into your arms easily. She is as light as a bag of ore that a child might drag along the tunnels. You kick the rug back with your foot and lay her down, as gently as a mother lays her baby down in the corner of the grog-shop. You give her a swig from the phial. You take one yourself, just in case. It is thick and syrupy, and tastes better than it smells.

  The shock of the liquid jolts her eyes open. Both bloody red eyeballs stare up at you.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You look strange,’ she says.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. The way you’re staring at me.’

  ‘I think I’ve been infected,’ you tell her.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘The plague!’

  She moves slowly, pushing you away. Her bloodshot eyes barely look human. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘In the dispensary…’ you start, and look at your arm. There is grey mottling under your skin. It runs right up under your sleeve. Livid grey patches of scaly skin.

  Her red eyes look at your arm, and then back to your face. ‘I don’t see anything,’ she says, and forces a smile, but there is nothing kind about the smile on her face. It has a dangerous, predatory look to it. ‘There’s nothing there,’ she says.

  You stand up as she stares at you in that way. You back away from her as she sits up and tilts her head and says, ‘Arvid. Are you all right?’

  You stumble and your hand touches something cold and hard. Her mouth moves, but the sound is not human. It is like the growl of an angry beast. Her teeth are fangs. Her lips drawn back in a snarl. She’s infected and she infected you.

  You grip the knife in your fist. She speaks a word that brings terror to your heart. An instinct within you tells you the blunt truth. It’s you or her.

  Only one of you is getting out of this alive.

  SUFFER THE VISION

  Jake Ozga

  A detail captures my attention: there is something about the way the dead woman is lying that suggests she was crawling even while she bled out. Her arm is outstretched, her hand lost amidst viridian undergrowth. I brush the flowers and vines aside with my boot to reveal a child’s doll, a simple thing carved from a single piece of wood; it lies broken, splintered and snapped. Even though my soul is bereft of poetry, I can see the obvious parallels with the scenes of slaughter that surround me, and the sight is strangely poignant. I contemplate it for a while, even as the savage sun beats down and the flies begin to settle.

  We have seen no sign of any child. I reappraise the dead woman; with her barbaric tattoos and animal-hide clothing it is hard to think of her as anything more than another wildling creature in this realm of beasts and monsters. But she could, I consider, be a mother that fought protecting a child and then died reaching for this doll in a final, futile gesture. A mother’s desperation fuelled by a mother’s love. I have heard of such a thing.

  The clearing smells of blood and excrement, of death and pollen and fresh rain. The forest already reclaims the filth into rich, black soil. In this realm nothing is sacred for long: life is wild and death is voracious. Scavenger beasts have disturbed the corpses so that they are scattered and mauled, the flowers are trampled, and body parts and vividly coloured petals sit in pools of congealed blood, gathering flies. The events here are hard to interpret. I see a clump of red hair; I see tanned flesh patterned with blasphemous symbols. I see dark eyes, frozen in the moment of death. I see wounds wrought by tooth and claw. But I am far from an expert in the ways of beasts and this is not my realm, and so I trav
el here with guides.

  It is my holy duty to seek those who would hide from Sigmar’s embrace: the apostate preachers, the children of a poisoned seed, the beasts that hide in the flesh of men. I lead a savage band, men of this land that turned on their own kin and renew their pledge of devotion to the God-King with unsurpassed violence. I strive every day to serve my god. I strive every day to be more holy in his eyes, for I know that he watches me. And at my back, I bring a storm.

  ‘Witch hunter.’ One of my companions calls to me. Grar is a man with eyes like chipped flint, twice my years and a native of this realm. He is a veteran who has worked alongside many witch hunters, but he is new to my employ and indeed, I am inexperienced at working with others. In his mouth my honorific is made to sound like an insult – these men bark and snarl like the animals they track. But it is merely posturing, or else it is some game of baiting they play amongst themselves, and either way it concerns me not at all.

  He speaks again, and his accent – that of the Olg’hal hill tribes, one of the smaller tribes in this remote region of Ghur – is thick and his words seem to snag on teeth filed to points. ‘A bear, maybe an amberback. Not so common. This happened two days ago, at most.’

  It is not like Grar to sound uncertain. He pauses to spit – more posturing. There is a sheen of sweat on his skin that the dirt and the pollen clings to. He is stripped to the waist and his scarred flesh is stained dark blue with a powerful dye that the Olg’hal apply as warpaint. The heat is oppressive, smothering. He copes with it far better than I.

  ‘A bear, then, a large one. They disturbed it in its lair.’ My guide gestures at the nearby cave. ‘And it reacted badly.’ He bares his sharpened teeth in what passes for a grin, then turns a body over with his foot. ‘They were Gath’ok tribe. This one was their warband leader. The others were his family or his slaves. They share family markings. See here? He had sworn them to Dark Gods.’ Grar spits in his hand and runs it over his shaven pate, a gesture I have come to recognise over these past few days as a sign of warding.