Shroud: City: Chapter 1

[Wrath]

Long read, better get a snack.


He was being dragged.
Two people carried him between them. Unable to hear the comments of the people carrying him, and those watching, he managed to open his working eye.
The entire visible world was a mess. Rotating, blurry, and stained with his own blood.
He was being carried to somewhere unknown, in an equally unknown territory.
Barely recognising the door being held open, he gazed into the world appearing before him. A small room with a table in the centre.
The room was poorly decorated. Bare walls and floorboards were the surroundings, and the only furnishings were a simple bench and the table. Floorboards were cracking, and there were many fading red stains on the walls. A bulb was suspended from the ceiling by a cable, and it hovered above the table. A white cloth had just been laid down on it. It had lost most of its original colour, and it was torn in many places, but it sufficed. The infirmary had been kept as clean as the owners poor facilities would allow.
Hung up upon almost every wall was a tool or instrument of both a sharp, and medical nature. All bore scratches, and some tools had needed tying to their handles. Each tool was old and overused, but like the room, they too were kept as clean as possible.
Feet dragged across the floor like a puppets as the two men pulled the heavy patient into the room, one of them struggled for balance as he kicked the door shut behind him. A working eye struggled to open, and it saw the table coming closer. Feeling a split second of weightlessness, the patient was laid onto the table. His eye now stared unblinking at the ceiling. Struggling to breath, he inhaled the vile stench of the room.
One of the figures held out a hand to his side, and then spoke, his voice distorted and distant.
“Light.”



One week earlier...
Eastern Continent
The City
Sector 12
Amon Street Holding Station
04:13 A.M.
86th day of Tria

Light.
There was a light.
Eyes opening, trying to accustom to the piercing glow. The eyes burnt. They felt as though they had never been used before. Scorching retinas were changing size as he struggled to take in reality. Weakly, the eyes were opened wide, letting the world enter him.
Lying on his side, he looked to his left to the ceiling. Water was dripping onto his left cheek from above. Freezing the skin, splashing into his eyes. As his senses slowly returned he could feel the cold stone floor against him. Groggily, he managed to sit himself up. Clenching his fists in response to the pain in his head, and the ringing in his ears. Standing up, struggling to keep a balance, he looked around him.
The light had been a high set torch on the wall by his side, giving a dark red glow to the room. He was in a small square cell. No windows, a disgusting and filthy bed, a shit stained pot that acted as a toilet, and a sturdy and heavily armoured door made of wood and iron. There was no handle on the door, and a slot that could not be opened from this side. The stone floor, walls, and ceiling were all a sickly shade of yellow and brown. The stone was in decay and cracking, and there were some parts where chunks of the wall had long fallen away.
His brain felt a million sizes too large for his head. With every passing heartbeat he felt his skull grind in tune with it. His hand came up to brush some of the water off of the dampened hair. The water that had awoken him had come from the leaking stone ceiling. Though his head hurt too much to be sure, the distant sound of rain pummelling stone was just loud enough to hear.
As he moved forwards, the room span around and threw him to the floor. With difficulty the arms spread and pushed against the floor, forcing the body upwards. Eventually he was standing. Time itself seemed to slow down to a crawl. The disorientation increased, and the room darkened. Staggering clumsily towards the bed, he allowed himself to land as gently as possible on it, an almost impossible task.
Straining, the prisoner groaned as a dirty hand came to his forehead. His flesh seemed white-hot to his touch, and he could feel his head throbbing.
His arms were not built, but they were far from thin. Four numbers were tattooed onto his right forearm.
18-09-01-24
He was unaware that he was whispering.
“Issue…Issue number…what?” Barely hearing his own voice, his fingers ran down the numbers, imagining there would be a different feeling, as though the numbers were imprinted onto his skin. There was nothing, the numbers were part of him. The black ink was permanently bound to the flesh as though it had always been there. With difficulty, he shifted his legs over the side of the bed, and managed to sit upright. The examination begun.
His chest was bare, and there were many bruises. As his fingers pressed them, they responded with slight pain. He wore now torn leggings, made of cloth and leather, which now looked tattered and loose fitting. Thick and heavy black boots came up underneath the leggings and ended at his thighs. Experimentally he reached down to touch them, it felt like the boots had metal lining on the inside.
A bitter realisation was upon him.
“Who am I?” He whispered, now hearing his voice for the first time. The sensation in his ears made it sound even quieter than it actually was. It was an alien sound to him. He almost felt shocked to hear it.
Slowly, some of the dizziness faded, and eventually he managed to bring himself up from the bed. Stumbling forwards, though retaining balance, arms reached out for the door. He fell against it, slamming his hands onto it for support. It made no sound as the weight of his body pressed against it, and it failed to move an inch. The door must have been eight foot high, and there was no way he could kick it down. He banged against it, hoping for some response. As his fist landed he heard a reply, an explosion from beyond the door.
Backing away from the sound of shouting, and more explosions, his eyes widened in horror as he heard keys turning in the door.
The door swung open, and in an instant there was a blinding light that shone into the cell and pushed him back as though it was a physical blow. Back onto his knees once more, both hands raised in defence against the light.
He could hear footsteps.
He heard a voice shout at him in a language he had never heard, but understood perfectly. Though his recovering hearing made everything sound distant and quiet, he recognised everything that was spoken. The words seemed aggressive, and the language sounded like a guttural retch.
“Are you ready for execution, scum?” The man said.
A large strong hand grabbed both of his and they were pulled away from the eyes they protected. A man with long white hair, and a heavily tattooed face, glared sadistically at him. He was dressed entirely in black leather with robes of cloth hanging on them. There was armour protecting the top of the chest and shoulders
He yelled the exact same inhuman language at him, and struck him sharply in the side of his head with a large and sleek metal rifle.
“I admire you for surviving the fall.” Seemed to echo in the prisoner’s ears, after the man spoke.
The pain in his head was already immense, and the blow had made it worse. With every heartbeat his head throbbed. He barely heard another voice from behind the man shout.
“Zal, they are coming. The Assembly know we are here.”
His heart pounded fiercely, his head was forced down and he felt a rifle being pressed to the top of his aching head.
The soldier named Zal laughed in satisfaction as he prepared to pull the trigger.
“Time to die, your Excellency.”
His mind reeled, gazing forwards he could see a short hunting knife strapped to Zal’s thigh. Acting on impulse, he lunged forwards for the blade, shot to his feet, and drove the knife into the mans neck. Tearing the rifle from his hands, he kicked his body away from him, and turned the rifle on the man who had stood in the doorway behind Zal.
Without thinking, he held the gun in the correct way, and shot the soldier in the forehead, hardly needing to aim. He fell without a word. The light-emitting machine that he had been holding ceased to work as he hit the floor.
He examined his rifle, not knowing where it was from, or how he knew how to use it. It was called a Maximum. That he could remember. The weapon fired single shots, he remembered as fingers ran over the weapon, and it was effective at both long and short range. He turned it over and found the opening. It could only hold one bullet at once. You fed the bullet, pulled the switch on the top back, and fired. Then did the same as before.
Powered by fear, the weakness that had controlled his body now turned to energy.
Not questioning why he could not remember where he learned the knowledge of this gun, the prisoner turned his attention to Zal’s body. Retrieving his knife from Zal’s throat, the prisoner brought the knife to his leggings and wiped the blood off onto them. He removed the scabbard from Zal’s thigh, and wrapped the straps around his right arm, so it could be removed with his left hand without having to swap rifle hands. He didn’t remember being ambidextrous, as he placed the knife into the scabbard with his left hand. His ears seemed to burn as a distant tapping sound begun. Footsteps. He searched Zal, and found a large leather belt around his waist, with many, many pockets for a single bullet. It was almost full. Grinning, he ripped it off and hastily removed a bullet. The prisoner placed it into the rifle, pulled the gauge back, and listened to the bullet clicking into place. Not having the time to attach it to his waist, he crept out of the cell as the footsteps came closer.
“Zal, Krin, come on! What’s taking so long?” Called an almost mute voice, from the solder outside.
The masked soldier cursed upon seeing Krin’s body, and cried out as he saw the prisoner leaving his cell.
“You!”
The prisoner raised the rifle.
As the soldier turned and started to run, the bullet pierced the back of his head, and left through the front. Blood seeped from the wound, and the soldier hit the ground without a sound.
The prisoner noticed that the soldier was unarmed, and almost felt regret for silencing him. The realisation that these soldiers knew who he was suddenly arose in his mind. He stared at the black numbers on his arm, he bent down and pulled away at the soldiers sleeve, and discovered that he too had numbers painted on his flesh, but they were completely different to the prisoners.
Examining Krin proved the same. He didn’t bother to check Zal.
He leant back against the walls, and stared at the numbers.
If he got out of this place, he would undoubtedly meet people. Maybe they could tell him who he was? But what if they couldn’t? He tilted his head and strained to think, the pounding in his head was still beating in time with his heart. He didn’t see how the numbers could relate to a name. The rifle in his hands gave him a theory. Maybe he was a soldier? Maybe the people numbered their soldiers, for identification on the battlefield?
He shrugged, and took the name Eighteen, the first number on his arm.
He was in a corridor lined with large doors like the one he had just come through, save that these all had handles on. These were doors to other cells. The stone ceiling here was leaking as well, and some torches had even been extinguished where the dripping was bad. The stones shared the same sickly colour as the ones in the cell that Eighteen had left behind him, and it seemed that the stones out here were in worse condition than the ones in the cell. There were many dead men on the floor of the room, each one dressed in identical black cloth uniforms.
“Prison guards?” He thought as his eyes scanned their bleeding corpses, and then the corridor. One way was a dead end, the other way led to stairs. Remembering the belt of bullets, he returned to his cell, after stepping over Krin’s body, and gathered the belt from Zal. Gently laying the rifle to rest, Eighteen wrapped the belt around him, adjusting the straps so it was fixed tightly to him, and took another bullet. Already walking towards the stairs, he gently inserted the bullet, and pulled the gauge back as before. Up ahead, another soldier was coming down the stairs, cursing as he saw Eighteen. Crouching to his knees, the prisoner held the rifle up and fired without aiming. The bullet screamed through the air and pierced the soldier’s neck. In vain, the soldier clutched the wound with his left hand, attempting to prolong the life that faded as fast as the blood that emerged between his fingers. Falling to his knees, the solder squeezed the trigger and fired. The bullet exploding some feet away from where Eighteen knelt. The prisoner rose, and ran to the stairs. He was already unaware that the rifle was now loaded again.
The stairs were spiralled, and eventually, he came up into the front area of the small jail. There were dead guards here as well, and two more soldiers, these too had white hair, and the rifles. Hearing him approach, they turned and fired. Eighteen went to his knees, ignoring the bullet that whistled next to where his head had been, and fired.
The soldier closest to him turned his head behind him as the other soldier fell dead.
With incredible speed, Eighteen brought himself back to his feet and was running to the soldier. He slammed the top of the rifle into the soldier’s face, the shock causing him to fire at the floor, shattering the stone tiles beneath both men. On the floor, he held his hands in defence as the black armoured boot crashed down onto his chest. Eighteen reloaded, and shot the soldier between the eyes.
The front area of the prison was a large room. In the middle was a large wooden table, littered with mugs of foul looking ale, and cards. The guards must have been playing as the soldiers showed up. The room, like the rest of the prison, was stone, leaking, and barely decorated. Either the prison was in decay, or this was merely a holding area. Either for lesser criminals, or for criminals waiting to be moved onto wherever the better place was. Though it wasn’t hard to imagine any place being better established than this terrible jail. There was a large blackboard against the wall, which Eighteen imagined was supposed to be for writing the names of prisoners. It was dominated by everything other than names. Shopping lists, word games, and various other useless items were chalked onto its surface. In the bottom left corner was a small sentence “Prisoner brought in unconscious, needs questioning.” Eighteen’s fists tightened in frustration. There was no name, nor any indication to what the hell it was he had done to end up in this place. Dismissing the anger, he turned his attention away from the board. The only exits to the room were the stairs he had just come up, and large wooden door at the end of the room.
Reloading again, not bothering to check his amount of bullets left, the escapee walked through the room, and towards the door. As he walked Eighteen was overpowered by a ringing in his ears. Slamming against the wall to avoid falling to the ground, he dropped the rifle and brought hands to both ears. Gasping in pain, Eighteen gripped the ears as though he was preparing to rip them off. The pain, becoming too much to bear, drove him to his knees with tears welling in his eyes. Then as suddenly just as it had started, the ringing was gone, along with the thudding in his head. He gasped for air and let go of his ears. Only now aware of them, he wiped the tears away. Eighteen couldn’t help but smile at the return of his hearing. He was now totally aware. The rain that had once sounded like a million fingers tapping in the distance was now closer and much louder. The low rumble of thunder outside in the storm, added to his satisfaction. The rifle was gathered up, and he was heading to the door once more. As he moved, one thing puzzled him. He could still hear the thunder droning outside.
The moment he opened the door, the noise went from a distant hum, to a powerful roar. The sound came from far to his right. He had heard an engine, not thunder.
He had left the jail to enter a narrow alley, the floor lined with ancient cracked cobbles. Scattered along the brick walls were many small glass torches. Their shape was spherical, and they shone perfectly. These lights seemed to have no flame inside them, and they had strange ropes coming from them that ran down the wall and into the ground. They were lined against the wall and each one was an equal distance to the others.
Now outside in the rain, Eighteen jerked at the cold touch upon his bare chest. Death was certain if he stayed outside for long. Casting his head upwards, he saw nothing but blackness in the sky above. An enormous dark cloud stretched further than he could see in any direction. A loud explosion from his left alerted him, and his eyes travelled in that direction. Though the length of the alleyway was long, and the left entrance was quite a long way from him, he was amazed that he could make out the men entering the passage clearly. There were four of them, and although they were similarly dressed, none of them had white hair, and their rifles were different to the one Eighteen was carrying. These weapons were not the sleek metallic ones that the soldiers in the jail had been using; these were wooden, almost clumsy looking things. Whereas the soldiers in the jail all had a rifle and a dagger, these men carried their rifle and a sword that rested in a large scabbard strung around their backs. There were more men behind them in the street beyond the alley who Eighteen could see clearly. They were firing at whatever was making the noise. His ears burned as the voices of the men travelled from the alley entrance, to him. Even amidst the sounds of the rain, the engine, and the rifle shots, Eighteen could make out their voices.
The men spoke not in the language that the white haired soldiers had spoken, but in a tongue more simple. A tongue that Eighteen understood just as well.
“Who the hell are these guys?” Shouted the first man. “Where on Earth is that…Thing, from?” Eighteen guessed they were referring to whatever owned the engine that was making such a racket. All the men turned to the sound of an even louder explosion that seemed to come from what their comrades were fighting. The engines sounded louder, and more erratic. The sounds it produced gave the impression that it was coughing and dying, something that the men showed satisfaction for. Eighteen could hear them cheering and laughing, as the engines grew even louder. A few more shots were fired, and then came a sight that Eighteen would never forget. Slowly rising above the ground, the thing headed in the direction of the alley, hovering just over the gaps above the buildings. It was a large contraption, constructed from wood and metal. There were no visible indications to what made the machine fly. Parts of it were burning, and there were many holes among the metal areas. The machine was too dark for any observer to determine its shape. Eighteen was unable to see where, but there was a soldier on the vessel who shouted in the sinister language Zal had spoken.
“He's still alive!"
Without even thinking of the action, Eighteen dived to his side as three bullets plummeted into the ground where he stood. Instantly back to his feet, he raised his rifle and started looking for the soldier who had fired.
Different voices shouted at each other in frustration from above him, and to his side Eighteen could hear the other men shouting to each other.
“There’s another one here, one that was left behind!”
Panicking, Eighteen fled after seeing them charge into the alley.

[Wrath]

Criticism is welcome, and appreciated.