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For Dead Fandoms.
Fandom: The Tribe
Characters: Bray & Ebony
Gen, c. 5000 words
Sunrise
The tide was on its way in. The waves were gentle this morning, little more than broad ripples on the sand, but their gradual encroachment was obvious to Bray. He knew the sea here. He knew how the bed sloped away to deeper waters; how the right morning could bring breakers that threatened the wall bordering the city's edge; how on some mornings, when the temperature was right, the surface of the sea would glimmer, lit up by the tiny, glowing bodies of a multitude of phosphorescent life-forms. This had been his place, once upon a time. Now it was a no man's land. The only eyes that saw the water glowing nowadays belonged to the fish.
It had all been so different before. On summer nights he had slipped out of the house many times, to watch the sun rise over the sea, and spend a little time listening to the waves. It had been a precious, quiet interlude, before the morning. With the sun had always come the people, shouting and calling and laughing, stirring the birds up into a frenzy, and covering the sand with a tangle of beach towels and deckchairs. For Bray, always a loner and ever in search of silence, the rising of the sun had been his signal to leave. That much at least hadn't changed, even though the beach was always quiet now. Exposed from all sides, and offering no refuge, it was a risky place to visit. It was too hard to run on the sand, and too easy to be cornered, herded into the waves, to certain capture or death. Bray still went there, when the grey dawn had barely broken, but he was one of the few who did. With just enough light to see by, he could search for food, and hopefully not be seen himself – a risk, but a necessary one. The city became increasingly divided almost daily, sliced up into a minefield of staked territories and hotly contested corridors. Every day it became more dangerous to be seen, to risk going out to find food. Bray was beginning to run out of options.
Fortunately he was a little more capable than most. A lifetime spent reading had its benefits, even if they were unexpected ones, and bending down over the biggest of the rock pools, he scooped out a handful of dark green seaweed. It was a good, long strand, its shape familiar from many books and documentaries, enough for several meals if he could find something to mix it with. Swirling it around in the water, to be sure that it was free of sand, he rolled it up and stuffed it inside an old, plastic carrier bag. The garish logo of a music store decorated the front, a reminder of a past that, whilst still recent, was already so horribly far away. It was barely four months since the last of the adults had died, but getting on for six since society had crumbled, and the teenagers had taken over. Longer than that now since he had had time for the trappings of that old life, with its now alien luxuries. Weekends browsing at the record store, or in the bookshop across the street. Afternoons lazing in the sun, reading or studying for school. Angry with himself, he shoved the carrier bag deep into the heavy, leather bag that hung across his chest, pushing the thought aside with equal vigour. Thinking of the past was useless. The only thing worth thinking of now was survival.
As though to push the point home, a car engine roared somewhere, distantly, showing him that he was not the only one awake. The Locos perhaps – they liked to ride through the city in a fleet of police cars, the fastest modified into an armoured carriage for their tyrannical leader, Zoot. An army of roller-skated outriders accompanied every car, ready to dive upon anyone unlucky or unwise enough to be seen. Their speed was deadly, and anybody captured by the Locos was not likely to be seen again. In consequence, the howl of the police siren had become one of the most feared sounds of their new world. Bray froze for a moment, compelled by some new instinct, listening out for the siren. It didn't come. Not the Locos then; they never missed a chance to announce their presence. It was scarcely a relief. To a stray like him – a loner, without a tribe of his own – everybody was an enemy. There were no friendly faces in this city. Not anymore.
Straightening up, he checked both ways along the beach. The miles of sand were empty, the vast, grey sea even more so. The sun was rising higher, ever more of it visible, as it inched its way up above the horizon. It shone across the surface of the water; long, melting fingers of pale gold, that for a second held his attention. He had always thought it a beautiful sight. This time, and for the first time, he wondered what the sun thought of it. It was a fanciful notion, and an absurd one, but it didn't make him smile. Instead he found that the thought only disturbed him.
"Penny for them?" The voice came from behind him, loud and clear with the confidence of one who did not need to hide. A powerful voice, superior without being condescending; and one that he knew almost as well as his own. His body froze by instinct, the urge to run battling with the necessity of remaining still. She was sure to be armed, and might very well have company. If he did run, he could be dead in seconds. Instead he stayed where he was, and remained staring out to sea. Moments later came the muted sound of footsteps on the damp, grey sand.
"The beach isn't safe." It didn't sound like a warning – more like a joke. "You should know that better than anybody."
"If it's not safe for me, it's not safe for you either, Ebony." He turned then, slightly. Just enough to see that she was alone. Alone and so much smaller than he was – and about a hundred times as deadly. She smiled.
"There's about as many people want to see you dead as me. And if it comes to a fight, I'd bet a lot more on my chances than yours." She trailed a hand down his arm, the action about two thirds flirtatious, and one third a reminder of her power. He was used to that from her. He had long since given up trying to decide if she frightened him. "Not least because I'm armed. I don't think I even need to bother asking if you are."
"Am I supposed to be ashamed of that?" He turned away then, looking back towards the horizon, and wondering if he shouldn't just walk away. If he did, she might try to stop him, and even though he was bigger and stronger than she was, he was not entirely sure that he would win. Ebony was not somebody to underestimate. As though to emphasise the point, a car engine sounded again, closer this time. The same as before, or different? Her tribe or another? It probably didn't matter. Everybody was out to get him lately. Which tribe was which scarcely mattered.
"The Seahawks," said Ebony, either guessing at his thoughts, or just thinking aloud. "They got a van from somewhere. They think it makes them something special, but our cars are twice as fast."
"Not very relevant when you're on foot," he pointed out. She smiled.
"True enough. At least I've got a car though, most of the time. All you've got's a skateboard, and there's no way that's outrunning a van."
"It's outrun your thugs often enough."
"More by luck than by judgement. And luck's got a habit of changing."
"Including yours?"
"Maybe." The engine roared again, but it was too hard to judge where the vehicle itself might be. He didn't especially want to think about it. In the current pale light, he might be invisible to a van passing by on the road, but it would not be long before that changed. The sun was getting higher. He really shouldn't risk staying on the beach any longer. Nonetheless, something kept him still. He didn't want to admit to himself that it might be Ebony. Half-crazy or not, she had been his friend once; and she was the first person he had spoken to in more than a week.
"We should probably get off the beach," she said, almost as though, once again, she knew what he had been thinking. He didn't entirely believe that she could read minds, but the suspicion lingered, if only for a moment.
"So leave. It's not like we're headed in the same direction."
"No. I've got a warm, dry headquarters to go back to. Where are you living these days? Some damp rat hole in an alleyway? A rain barrel on a roof? Do invite me to the housewarming, won't you."
"If you're offering me your protection, you can forget it."
"Put my neck on the block for somebody else? Not my line, lover boy."
"Then why exactly are you here? I'm sure we both have things we'd rather be doing."
"Playing with you always was my favourite game, you know that." A mocking smile made her eyes gleam, and she moved around to stand in front of him. She was small enough that he could easily look over her head, but somehow she had presence enough to distract him anyway, so that it was just as though his view really was blocked. "I have my reasons for being here. Loco business, if you must know."
"Zoot sent you out here alone?"
"He knows what he's doing. So do I." She smirked. "Why? You worried about me?"
"He clearly isn't."
"Don't bet on it." Her expression had darkened. "I don't need you watching out for me, Bray. You're the one who needs a bodyguard. Can't you see how helpless you are? I was watching you for ages. I could have been anybody. I could have slit your throat before you even knew I was here."
"Then why didn't you?"
"You really have to ask?" Her dark eyes glittered, darker than ever beneath the bright flames that were painted across her face. "Poor Bray. Such a hopeless, helpless anachronism. But pretty with it."
"Get lost." He was tired of her suddenly, of her flirting and her games. The way she played with him was like an orca, toying with a struggling seal. She reacted to his dismissal as he had known that she would, her anger flaring up again in an instant. For a moment he fancied that there was real fire in her eyes, a blaze so much more vivid than the paint. Then she looked away, to where the road ran parallel with the beach.
"That van out there isn't a joke, you know. The Seahawks might be nothing compared to the Locos or the Demon Dogs, but they have wheels and they have weapons. I have ten times as many people as they do, and we're led by the greatest tactical thinker in the city. It's a lot safer being a Loco than it is scrabbling around out here on your own, fishing rubbish out of rock pools to survive."
"It's not rubbish. The sea and the earth can give you everything you need, if you know where to look."
"They can't give you knives or guns. They can't give you engines, or armies." She leaned closer, the fires gone from her eyes. Instead he saw only pity, or possibly disappointment. "You might just be the smartest kid I've ever met, but book learning doesn't mean a thing in this world, Bray. You and your books, and your dreaming, and that endless desire to save the world. Well congratulations. There's no more pollution, no more poaching, no more overfishing. The world won, but you lost. You carry on the way you're going, and you won't be alive to see the new future we're building. You'll be lucky to see seventeen."
"Neither of us will see another birthday if we don't get off the beach. So if you had some reason for coming over here, get on with it. I have food to gather."
"I have people to gather food for me. I have an army."
"And we both know how you got it." The frustration flared up before he could stop it, and he turned on her with a burst of emotion that he would have preferred to hide. "Rampaging across the city, rounding up everybody who can't fight back. That's your future? Half your workforce are slaves, and your army is out there terrorising the city, and you want me to be a part of that? Not even if it's the only way to survive. If I'm supposed to say thank you for not killing me while my back was turned, then thank you. I didn't see you. Congratulations, you're a proper little street rat. Now leave me the hell alone."
"I'm the queen of this city, Bray." The fires were long gone from her eyes, and instead he saw only ice, a sharp reflection of the suddenly Arctic tone of her voice. "And yes, I could have killed you. I still could."
"I know." The insanity of it hung over his head – the fact that here was his former girlfriend, standing on the edge of their battleground of a hometown, with the power of life or death over him. Him and half of the city. He turned away again, staring back out to sea. A gathering of gulls were worrying over something that floated on the surface. Something dead, presumably. Dead like so much else.
"Forget it. You're right, it's time to leave." Despite the words, she made no move, and he realised that she was waiting for a reaction from him. He didn't know what she was hoping for, but even if he had known, he couldn't imagine himself obliging. He still felt something for her, without quite knowing what, but too much had happened for him to ever conceive of the barriers between them coming down again. He remained where he was, watching the gulls. Whatever they were fighting over was drifting closer, borne in by the tide. Something dead, just as he had expected. Something dead, and wrapped up in material. His eyes narrowed. No, not wrapped up. Something wearing clothes. A person. He reacted instinctively then, hurrying into the surf even though he knew that he was already too late to help. He had seen far too many dead bodies by now not to know what he was looking at, and not to know what to expect as he hauled it onto the beach.
"The Good Samaritan strikes again?" Ebony's tone was mocking, but she helped him anyway, and together they pulled the small, slight figure higher onto the sand, lying it down on its back. It was a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, the bloodied hole in his shirt indication enough as to how he had died. Whatever weapon had killed him, be it a knife or just something sharp enough to be deadly, it was gone, leaving ragged skin, pale and shrivelled. There was more blood on his clothes than there was on him, the wound that had killed him having long finished pouring out his life. By the pallor of his face every drop of his blood might have been spilled. He was as grey as the watery dawn sky.
"Murdered." Bray looked up again, as though he could somehow detect some clue from the sea, or from the coast, snaking away out of sight. Some hint as to who had stabbed the boy, and thrown his body into the water. Ebony shrugged, her small shoulders suggesting a lack of concern that he liked to think was false. He hoped that he was right.
"There's no such thing as murder anymore. There's no law, there's no—"
"He's still dead, Ebony. Doesn't that mean anything to you? It could just as easily be you, or me, or—"
"But it isn't." She made it sound so simple; and when he looked up at her, her face was impassive. The emotions of earlier were gone from her eyes. "He's dead. Call it murder if you want, but there'll never be a court case, and there'll never be any sentence, even if there was any chance of catching who did it. And you and I both know that there's nobody to do any catching."
"So this is the new world you're trying to build?"
"Believe it or not, no. It is a step on the way there, though. You're still looking for the old world, Bray. Law and order and government, and a society our parents would have wanted. Truth is that when the dust settles there'll be the Locos, ruling this city our way. Our laws, our rule. Power and chaos, that's the future. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can get your neck off the block, and stop fighting for an ideal that died with the adults."
"He's a kid, Ebony. He's a dead kid."
"He's a stray. Look at him. He hasn't been in the water long enough for the paint to wash off, but he isn't wearing any, is he. He's a nobody. No tribe. That makes him nothing but fodder for the masses, for the gangs. They can kill him, they can capture him, they can do what they like, because that's how the world works now. Call it survival of the fittest, since you like your old books so much, but it all adds up the same way in the end. Dead or in chains. That's the only way it ever ends for a stray."
"And for me?"
"For you too, yeah. You must know it by now. Take off the rose-tinted glasses just for a minute. Yes, he's a dead kid, but one of how many? And before all of them, how many adults? Nobody's going to care about one kid with a knife in his side, when half of the world is dead. Why should they?"
"Because what else is there? If we don't care about each other, what else have we got?"
"I didn't say we don't care about each other. You think I wouldn't avenge this if that was a Loco lying there?"
"I'm not talking about vengeance."
"But I am. That's the only law that's left. The only law there's going to be for a very long time. You want to go off and see if you can find out who killed this kid? Good luck. And then what? Will you kill him?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Precisely. So you'll build him a prison, and look after him for the rest of his life? Great plan. Give the kid a burial if it bothers you so much, but I don't recommend you do it here. Like you said, the city will be awake soon. Half of it probably already is."
"You think we should just leave him here."
"Leave him, throw him back into the sea. What does it matter? You'll never know his name. You'll never know where he came from. He wouldn't expect anything else."
"Maybe not. That doesn't make it okay." From somewhere far nearer than before, the engine sound came again – this time recognisably that of a big vehicle. The Seahawks were coming closer. As though in answer there came a second sound – the unmistakable wail of the Locos' pilfered police siren. Bray stiffened, but he remained crouched by the body of the boy. Deep down he knew that Ebony was right; the boy was nothing to him, and what was one more death in the city? And yet the bloodstain drew his eyes, the waste of the life, and the stupid violence of it, gnawing at his heart.
"Time to go, Bray." Ebony was looking away, to the road beside the beach where the approaching van would soon appear. Bray summoned a brief, bitter smile.
"Careful. You almost sound like you care."
"Maybe I do. That doesn't matter, does it. Nothing does nowadays, except living."
"And dying?"
"Probably." The siren came again, and this time Bray stood up, no longer able to resist looking towards the street. There was probably time to bolt for cover, if he ran now. He glanced back towards Ebony, but he could see immediately that running was not her intent.
"Ebony..."
"They're my tribe. I don't have anything to fear."
"One of them is your tribe. The other is your enemy. If they catch you alone out here--"
"I wasn't exactly planning on standing in the open waiting for them. The Locos have answered their challenge, though. There's going to be a fight. You don't expect me to run from that?"
"If you've got any sense, yes! Another street fight, another half dozen broken skulls or carved up teenagers, and for what? All so that the Locos and their lunatic leader can—"
"Get down." She grabbed his arm, hauling him a little way along the beach, to a place where the natural incline of the sands gave them cover from the road. They crouched there, Bray's attention torn between the lonely body they had left behind, and the battered orange van that had just come into view. There were kids clinging all over it, like barnacles encrusting a garish hull. The Seahawks had a livery of white, their hair dyed, their faces a cobweb of thin white lines. Ebony smiled at the sight of them, with visible relish.
"Two dozen, tops."
"More than enough for the two of us."
"Yeah, but a half dozen Locos could finish the lot of them." She looked back at him, and the spark in her dark eyes spoke of a very real excitement. Bray's own gaze strayed back to the body of the boy. From the look on Ebony's face, and the way that the Seahawks began hammering on the sides of their van when the police siren wailed again, there would likely be more dead kids by mid-morning. He turned further away, looking far down the beach to where the sands twisted away out of sight. One day, if the fighting ever eased to the point where travel became safe again, he was going to follow that beach and never look back. Go far beyond the city, far beyond the baying, howling tribes and their incessant war. Maybe then he would remember how it felt to be at peace. As though to mock his ambition, the hammering on the sides of the van reached a crescendo, just as the Locos came into sight.
"Stay out of sight, lover boy." Ebony began to straighten up, and Bray made a grab for her wrist, pulling her back down out of sight. She glared at him, tugging free with a twist that caught him by surprise.
"Don't be a fool, Ebony." Ahead of them were twin processions of Locos, all of them on roller-skates, being pulled along by a heavily armoured police car. In their brightly coloured clothing, and frenetic, neon tribal paint, they had a crazed appearance, amplified by their goggles and augmented helmets. Some of them wore long streamers of coloured plastic that billowed out from the tops of their heads – one or two even wore paper windmills. It should have looked absurd. A few months earlier perhaps it might have done. Now, as the Locos spread out to confront the Seahawks, there was nothing absurd about any of it.
"You want me to miss this?" Ebony was smiling, the excitement of the moment lending her voice a rich warmth that he did not recall hearing from her before. That it should appear only now, at the start of a battle, made him look away in disgust. His eyes rested upon the body of the boy again, just as the Seahawks began a mocking chant. They were opening the doors of their van, pulling out baseball bats and metal pipes, and yelling at the Locos all the while. The Locos for their part remained quiet. They were waiting for a signal from their leader, Bray knew. The feared Zoot, seated in the back of the police car, and no doubt awaiting the best moment to stand up and order an advance. The thought of him made Bray's fists clench so tightly that his hands shook.
"You could die!" Sand made his feet skid, but he stood up when she did, catching her arm again, and this time holding tight. "You all could."
"It's war, Bray. We're fighting for the world we want to build. Maybe your friend over there died for the same thing."
"I doubt it. He probably just died for a couple of slices of bread."
"He probably did." Up on the street, from out of the back of the police car, Zoot was rising up, his goggled eyes surveying Loco and Seahawk alike. Whatever he said, it was lost amid the jeering of the Hawks, but his own followers clearly heard it. They began to shout, their own cries clashing with the cries of the Hawks. Without quite knowing why, Bray let Ebony go, his hands falling back to his sides.
"Go on then. Get knifed in the back, or get your head stove in. I hope your new world is worth it."
"Power and chaos, Bray. That's always worth it. I'll give Zoot your best." With that she was gone, scurrying up the beach with the speed and agility that she had always possessed. Before, in the old world, she had found it hard to find a proper outlet for her energy. It was almost as though this madness was what she had been waiting for, from the earliest days of their relationship.
"Good luck," he heard himself telling her, although he knew that she wouldn't hear. She wouldn't care to. Luck to her was something that you won, with your fists or a knife or a length of bicycle chain. It wasn't something that could be bestowed, no matter how well meant the gesture. Despite their differences, despite Bray's hatred of all that Ebony had become, he very much wished her well. Already the Locos and the Seahawks had clashed together, the neon colours of the Locos bright and hot against the stark white of the Hawks. The dull, watery sun glinted here and there on upraised metal – blunt objects or sharp, it made little difference. Either way, it was going to end in blood.
It was not until Ebony had almost reached the melee that Bray thought of himself. Standing as he was he was exposed, and he could not count on the fight as distraction enough. An onlooker, a stranger, a figure who clearly didn't belong – it was all enough to bring down the wrath of a tribe. All the same, he was loath to leave. A part of him almost wanted to follow Ebony, just to see that she survived. She had chosen her path many long weeks ago, but she was still a friend; still somebody he cared about. Still a fragile echo of the world they had left behind. Something else kept him standing there too – the goggled, red paint-streaked boy in the back of the police car, his raised arms decorated in bicycle chains, his gloved fists punching the air. Bray's eyes could not keep from straying back to him, even as he tried to keep track of Ebony's progress. A cold, wretched yearning for the past; for something that had once existed, and was perhaps now gone for good; stirred within him as he tried to catch those goggled eyes. Zoot's attention was elsewhere. It was that more than anything that made Bray finally turn to leave.
He ran. He ran from the noise and the reality of it, the hardship of running on the sand making each step more of a struggle, stirring his thoughts into ever greater unrest. He could hear his pulse hammering away, not loud enough to drown out the cacophony behind. Once, above the banging and the yells, the clash of metal against metal and wood, a scream rang out – shrill and clear and unmistakably born from agony. Only then did he look back. Amidst the tangle of colour that was the battle, he saw Ebony. She had found her way through the chaos, into the back of the police car, where she stood alongside the leader of her tribe. His blank eyes, doubly hidden by goggles and coloured contact lenses, showed no interest, but their hands were joined in a raised salute. As Bray watched, the small, dark goggles turned his way at last. It was what he had wanted, but he knew straight away that it was an empty victory. Whatever it was that he yearned for, he was not going to get it from Zoot.
He hesitated. He could not have said what for. For a moment his eyes took in all of it – the boy dead on the beach; the battling, writhing mass of teenagers out for blood; the duo in the police car; a king and a queen crowned with a wild frenzy of paint. Zoot was still watching him, the impassive goggles stark against his pale face. It was a young face, impossibly so it seemed, to belong to the architect of all of this madness; the paint and lenses hiding a childish innocence that belonged to a fourteen year old boy. As Bray watched, Zoot raised his hand, making a gun from his fingers and aiming it straight for Bray's head. Seconds later the battling tribes had swamped the car, and Zoot and Ebony were gone from sight. Bray had seen enough. Turning away from it all, he ran back to the seclusion of the alleyways. This was their madness, and they had not only chosen it, but created it. If only he could believe that they would keep it to themselves. It was a vain hope, and he knew it. This was the way that the world was now. It was the only future that any of them had left.
The End
Fandom: The Tribe
Characters: Bray & Ebony
Gen, c. 5000 words
The tide was on its way in. The waves were gentle this morning, little more than broad ripples on the sand, but their gradual encroachment was obvious to Bray. He knew the sea here. He knew how the bed sloped away to deeper waters; how the right morning could bring breakers that threatened the wall bordering the city's edge; how on some mornings, when the temperature was right, the surface of the sea would glimmer, lit up by the tiny, glowing bodies of a multitude of phosphorescent life-forms. This had been his place, once upon a time. Now it was a no man's land. The only eyes that saw the water glowing nowadays belonged to the fish.
It had all been so different before. On summer nights he had slipped out of the house many times, to watch the sun rise over the sea, and spend a little time listening to the waves. It had been a precious, quiet interlude, before the morning. With the sun had always come the people, shouting and calling and laughing, stirring the birds up into a frenzy, and covering the sand with a tangle of beach towels and deckchairs. For Bray, always a loner and ever in search of silence, the rising of the sun had been his signal to leave. That much at least hadn't changed, even though the beach was always quiet now. Exposed from all sides, and offering no refuge, it was a risky place to visit. It was too hard to run on the sand, and too easy to be cornered, herded into the waves, to certain capture or death. Bray still went there, when the grey dawn had barely broken, but he was one of the few who did. With just enough light to see by, he could search for food, and hopefully not be seen himself – a risk, but a necessary one. The city became increasingly divided almost daily, sliced up into a minefield of staked territories and hotly contested corridors. Every day it became more dangerous to be seen, to risk going out to find food. Bray was beginning to run out of options.
Fortunately he was a little more capable than most. A lifetime spent reading had its benefits, even if they were unexpected ones, and bending down over the biggest of the rock pools, he scooped out a handful of dark green seaweed. It was a good, long strand, its shape familiar from many books and documentaries, enough for several meals if he could find something to mix it with. Swirling it around in the water, to be sure that it was free of sand, he rolled it up and stuffed it inside an old, plastic carrier bag. The garish logo of a music store decorated the front, a reminder of a past that, whilst still recent, was already so horribly far away. It was barely four months since the last of the adults had died, but getting on for six since society had crumbled, and the teenagers had taken over. Longer than that now since he had had time for the trappings of that old life, with its now alien luxuries. Weekends browsing at the record store, or in the bookshop across the street. Afternoons lazing in the sun, reading or studying for school. Angry with himself, he shoved the carrier bag deep into the heavy, leather bag that hung across his chest, pushing the thought aside with equal vigour. Thinking of the past was useless. The only thing worth thinking of now was survival.
As though to push the point home, a car engine roared somewhere, distantly, showing him that he was not the only one awake. The Locos perhaps – they liked to ride through the city in a fleet of police cars, the fastest modified into an armoured carriage for their tyrannical leader, Zoot. An army of roller-skated outriders accompanied every car, ready to dive upon anyone unlucky or unwise enough to be seen. Their speed was deadly, and anybody captured by the Locos was not likely to be seen again. In consequence, the howl of the police siren had become one of the most feared sounds of their new world. Bray froze for a moment, compelled by some new instinct, listening out for the siren. It didn't come. Not the Locos then; they never missed a chance to announce their presence. It was scarcely a relief. To a stray like him – a loner, without a tribe of his own – everybody was an enemy. There were no friendly faces in this city. Not anymore.
Straightening up, he checked both ways along the beach. The miles of sand were empty, the vast, grey sea even more so. The sun was rising higher, ever more of it visible, as it inched its way up above the horizon. It shone across the surface of the water; long, melting fingers of pale gold, that for a second held his attention. He had always thought it a beautiful sight. This time, and for the first time, he wondered what the sun thought of it. It was a fanciful notion, and an absurd one, but it didn't make him smile. Instead he found that the thought only disturbed him.
"Penny for them?" The voice came from behind him, loud and clear with the confidence of one who did not need to hide. A powerful voice, superior without being condescending; and one that he knew almost as well as his own. His body froze by instinct, the urge to run battling with the necessity of remaining still. She was sure to be armed, and might very well have company. If he did run, he could be dead in seconds. Instead he stayed where he was, and remained staring out to sea. Moments later came the muted sound of footsteps on the damp, grey sand.
"The beach isn't safe." It didn't sound like a warning – more like a joke. "You should know that better than anybody."
"If it's not safe for me, it's not safe for you either, Ebony." He turned then, slightly. Just enough to see that she was alone. Alone and so much smaller than he was – and about a hundred times as deadly. She smiled.
"There's about as many people want to see you dead as me. And if it comes to a fight, I'd bet a lot more on my chances than yours." She trailed a hand down his arm, the action about two thirds flirtatious, and one third a reminder of her power. He was used to that from her. He had long since given up trying to decide if she frightened him. "Not least because I'm armed. I don't think I even need to bother asking if you are."
"Am I supposed to be ashamed of that?" He turned away then, looking back towards the horizon, and wondering if he shouldn't just walk away. If he did, she might try to stop him, and even though he was bigger and stronger than she was, he was not entirely sure that he would win. Ebony was not somebody to underestimate. As though to emphasise the point, a car engine sounded again, closer this time. The same as before, or different? Her tribe or another? It probably didn't matter. Everybody was out to get him lately. Which tribe was which scarcely mattered.
"The Seahawks," said Ebony, either guessing at his thoughts, or just thinking aloud. "They got a van from somewhere. They think it makes them something special, but our cars are twice as fast."
"Not very relevant when you're on foot," he pointed out. She smiled.
"True enough. At least I've got a car though, most of the time. All you've got's a skateboard, and there's no way that's outrunning a van."
"It's outrun your thugs often enough."
"More by luck than by judgement. And luck's got a habit of changing."
"Including yours?"
"Maybe." The engine roared again, but it was too hard to judge where the vehicle itself might be. He didn't especially want to think about it. In the current pale light, he might be invisible to a van passing by on the road, but it would not be long before that changed. The sun was getting higher. He really shouldn't risk staying on the beach any longer. Nonetheless, something kept him still. He didn't want to admit to himself that it might be Ebony. Half-crazy or not, she had been his friend once; and she was the first person he had spoken to in more than a week.
"We should probably get off the beach," she said, almost as though, once again, she knew what he had been thinking. He didn't entirely believe that she could read minds, but the suspicion lingered, if only for a moment.
"So leave. It's not like we're headed in the same direction."
"No. I've got a warm, dry headquarters to go back to. Where are you living these days? Some damp rat hole in an alleyway? A rain barrel on a roof? Do invite me to the housewarming, won't you."
"If you're offering me your protection, you can forget it."
"Put my neck on the block for somebody else? Not my line, lover boy."
"Then why exactly are you here? I'm sure we both have things we'd rather be doing."
"Playing with you always was my favourite game, you know that." A mocking smile made her eyes gleam, and she moved around to stand in front of him. She was small enough that he could easily look over her head, but somehow she had presence enough to distract him anyway, so that it was just as though his view really was blocked. "I have my reasons for being here. Loco business, if you must know."
"Zoot sent you out here alone?"
"He knows what he's doing. So do I." She smirked. "Why? You worried about me?"
"He clearly isn't."
"Don't bet on it." Her expression had darkened. "I don't need you watching out for me, Bray. You're the one who needs a bodyguard. Can't you see how helpless you are? I was watching you for ages. I could have been anybody. I could have slit your throat before you even knew I was here."
"Then why didn't you?"
"You really have to ask?" Her dark eyes glittered, darker than ever beneath the bright flames that were painted across her face. "Poor Bray. Such a hopeless, helpless anachronism. But pretty with it."
"Get lost." He was tired of her suddenly, of her flirting and her games. The way she played with him was like an orca, toying with a struggling seal. She reacted to his dismissal as he had known that she would, her anger flaring up again in an instant. For a moment he fancied that there was real fire in her eyes, a blaze so much more vivid than the paint. Then she looked away, to where the road ran parallel with the beach.
"That van out there isn't a joke, you know. The Seahawks might be nothing compared to the Locos or the Demon Dogs, but they have wheels and they have weapons. I have ten times as many people as they do, and we're led by the greatest tactical thinker in the city. It's a lot safer being a Loco than it is scrabbling around out here on your own, fishing rubbish out of rock pools to survive."
"It's not rubbish. The sea and the earth can give you everything you need, if you know where to look."
"They can't give you knives or guns. They can't give you engines, or armies." She leaned closer, the fires gone from her eyes. Instead he saw only pity, or possibly disappointment. "You might just be the smartest kid I've ever met, but book learning doesn't mean a thing in this world, Bray. You and your books, and your dreaming, and that endless desire to save the world. Well congratulations. There's no more pollution, no more poaching, no more overfishing. The world won, but you lost. You carry on the way you're going, and you won't be alive to see the new future we're building. You'll be lucky to see seventeen."
"Neither of us will see another birthday if we don't get off the beach. So if you had some reason for coming over here, get on with it. I have food to gather."
"I have people to gather food for me. I have an army."
"And we both know how you got it." The frustration flared up before he could stop it, and he turned on her with a burst of emotion that he would have preferred to hide. "Rampaging across the city, rounding up everybody who can't fight back. That's your future? Half your workforce are slaves, and your army is out there terrorising the city, and you want me to be a part of that? Not even if it's the only way to survive. If I'm supposed to say thank you for not killing me while my back was turned, then thank you. I didn't see you. Congratulations, you're a proper little street rat. Now leave me the hell alone."
"I'm the queen of this city, Bray." The fires were long gone from her eyes, and instead he saw only ice, a sharp reflection of the suddenly Arctic tone of her voice. "And yes, I could have killed you. I still could."
"I know." The insanity of it hung over his head – the fact that here was his former girlfriend, standing on the edge of their battleground of a hometown, with the power of life or death over him. Him and half of the city. He turned away again, staring back out to sea. A gathering of gulls were worrying over something that floated on the surface. Something dead, presumably. Dead like so much else.
"Forget it. You're right, it's time to leave." Despite the words, she made no move, and he realised that she was waiting for a reaction from him. He didn't know what she was hoping for, but even if he had known, he couldn't imagine himself obliging. He still felt something for her, without quite knowing what, but too much had happened for him to ever conceive of the barriers between them coming down again. He remained where he was, watching the gulls. Whatever they were fighting over was drifting closer, borne in by the tide. Something dead, just as he had expected. Something dead, and wrapped up in material. His eyes narrowed. No, not wrapped up. Something wearing clothes. A person. He reacted instinctively then, hurrying into the surf even though he knew that he was already too late to help. He had seen far too many dead bodies by now not to know what he was looking at, and not to know what to expect as he hauled it onto the beach.
"The Good Samaritan strikes again?" Ebony's tone was mocking, but she helped him anyway, and together they pulled the small, slight figure higher onto the sand, lying it down on its back. It was a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, the bloodied hole in his shirt indication enough as to how he had died. Whatever weapon had killed him, be it a knife or just something sharp enough to be deadly, it was gone, leaving ragged skin, pale and shrivelled. There was more blood on his clothes than there was on him, the wound that had killed him having long finished pouring out his life. By the pallor of his face every drop of his blood might have been spilled. He was as grey as the watery dawn sky.
"Murdered." Bray looked up again, as though he could somehow detect some clue from the sea, or from the coast, snaking away out of sight. Some hint as to who had stabbed the boy, and thrown his body into the water. Ebony shrugged, her small shoulders suggesting a lack of concern that he liked to think was false. He hoped that he was right.
"There's no such thing as murder anymore. There's no law, there's no—"
"He's still dead, Ebony. Doesn't that mean anything to you? It could just as easily be you, or me, or—"
"But it isn't." She made it sound so simple; and when he looked up at her, her face was impassive. The emotions of earlier were gone from her eyes. "He's dead. Call it murder if you want, but there'll never be a court case, and there'll never be any sentence, even if there was any chance of catching who did it. And you and I both know that there's nobody to do any catching."
"So this is the new world you're trying to build?"
"Believe it or not, no. It is a step on the way there, though. You're still looking for the old world, Bray. Law and order and government, and a society our parents would have wanted. Truth is that when the dust settles there'll be the Locos, ruling this city our way. Our laws, our rule. Power and chaos, that's the future. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can get your neck off the block, and stop fighting for an ideal that died with the adults."
"He's a kid, Ebony. He's a dead kid."
"He's a stray. Look at him. He hasn't been in the water long enough for the paint to wash off, but he isn't wearing any, is he. He's a nobody. No tribe. That makes him nothing but fodder for the masses, for the gangs. They can kill him, they can capture him, they can do what they like, because that's how the world works now. Call it survival of the fittest, since you like your old books so much, but it all adds up the same way in the end. Dead or in chains. That's the only way it ever ends for a stray."
"And for me?"
"For you too, yeah. You must know it by now. Take off the rose-tinted glasses just for a minute. Yes, he's a dead kid, but one of how many? And before all of them, how many adults? Nobody's going to care about one kid with a knife in his side, when half of the world is dead. Why should they?"
"Because what else is there? If we don't care about each other, what else have we got?"
"I didn't say we don't care about each other. You think I wouldn't avenge this if that was a Loco lying there?"
"I'm not talking about vengeance."
"But I am. That's the only law that's left. The only law there's going to be for a very long time. You want to go off and see if you can find out who killed this kid? Good luck. And then what? Will you kill him?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Precisely. So you'll build him a prison, and look after him for the rest of his life? Great plan. Give the kid a burial if it bothers you so much, but I don't recommend you do it here. Like you said, the city will be awake soon. Half of it probably already is."
"You think we should just leave him here."
"Leave him, throw him back into the sea. What does it matter? You'll never know his name. You'll never know where he came from. He wouldn't expect anything else."
"Maybe not. That doesn't make it okay." From somewhere far nearer than before, the engine sound came again – this time recognisably that of a big vehicle. The Seahawks were coming closer. As though in answer there came a second sound – the unmistakable wail of the Locos' pilfered police siren. Bray stiffened, but he remained crouched by the body of the boy. Deep down he knew that Ebony was right; the boy was nothing to him, and what was one more death in the city? And yet the bloodstain drew his eyes, the waste of the life, and the stupid violence of it, gnawing at his heart.
"Time to go, Bray." Ebony was looking away, to the road beside the beach where the approaching van would soon appear. Bray summoned a brief, bitter smile.
"Careful. You almost sound like you care."
"Maybe I do. That doesn't matter, does it. Nothing does nowadays, except living."
"And dying?"
"Probably." The siren came again, and this time Bray stood up, no longer able to resist looking towards the street. There was probably time to bolt for cover, if he ran now. He glanced back towards Ebony, but he could see immediately that running was not her intent.
"Ebony..."
"They're my tribe. I don't have anything to fear."
"One of them is your tribe. The other is your enemy. If they catch you alone out here--"
"I wasn't exactly planning on standing in the open waiting for them. The Locos have answered their challenge, though. There's going to be a fight. You don't expect me to run from that?"
"If you've got any sense, yes! Another street fight, another half dozen broken skulls or carved up teenagers, and for what? All so that the Locos and their lunatic leader can—"
"Get down." She grabbed his arm, hauling him a little way along the beach, to a place where the natural incline of the sands gave them cover from the road. They crouched there, Bray's attention torn between the lonely body they had left behind, and the battered orange van that had just come into view. There were kids clinging all over it, like barnacles encrusting a garish hull. The Seahawks had a livery of white, their hair dyed, their faces a cobweb of thin white lines. Ebony smiled at the sight of them, with visible relish.
"Two dozen, tops."
"More than enough for the two of us."
"Yeah, but a half dozen Locos could finish the lot of them." She looked back at him, and the spark in her dark eyes spoke of a very real excitement. Bray's own gaze strayed back to the body of the boy. From the look on Ebony's face, and the way that the Seahawks began hammering on the sides of their van when the police siren wailed again, there would likely be more dead kids by mid-morning. He turned further away, looking far down the beach to where the sands twisted away out of sight. One day, if the fighting ever eased to the point where travel became safe again, he was going to follow that beach and never look back. Go far beyond the city, far beyond the baying, howling tribes and their incessant war. Maybe then he would remember how it felt to be at peace. As though to mock his ambition, the hammering on the sides of the van reached a crescendo, just as the Locos came into sight.
"Stay out of sight, lover boy." Ebony began to straighten up, and Bray made a grab for her wrist, pulling her back down out of sight. She glared at him, tugging free with a twist that caught him by surprise.
"Don't be a fool, Ebony." Ahead of them were twin processions of Locos, all of them on roller-skates, being pulled along by a heavily armoured police car. In their brightly coloured clothing, and frenetic, neon tribal paint, they had a crazed appearance, amplified by their goggles and augmented helmets. Some of them wore long streamers of coloured plastic that billowed out from the tops of their heads – one or two even wore paper windmills. It should have looked absurd. A few months earlier perhaps it might have done. Now, as the Locos spread out to confront the Seahawks, there was nothing absurd about any of it.
"You want me to miss this?" Ebony was smiling, the excitement of the moment lending her voice a rich warmth that he did not recall hearing from her before. That it should appear only now, at the start of a battle, made him look away in disgust. His eyes rested upon the body of the boy again, just as the Seahawks began a mocking chant. They were opening the doors of their van, pulling out baseball bats and metal pipes, and yelling at the Locos all the while. The Locos for their part remained quiet. They were waiting for a signal from their leader, Bray knew. The feared Zoot, seated in the back of the police car, and no doubt awaiting the best moment to stand up and order an advance. The thought of him made Bray's fists clench so tightly that his hands shook.
"You could die!" Sand made his feet skid, but he stood up when she did, catching her arm again, and this time holding tight. "You all could."
"It's war, Bray. We're fighting for the world we want to build. Maybe your friend over there died for the same thing."
"I doubt it. He probably just died for a couple of slices of bread."
"He probably did." Up on the street, from out of the back of the police car, Zoot was rising up, his goggled eyes surveying Loco and Seahawk alike. Whatever he said, it was lost amid the jeering of the Hawks, but his own followers clearly heard it. They began to shout, their own cries clashing with the cries of the Hawks. Without quite knowing why, Bray let Ebony go, his hands falling back to his sides.
"Go on then. Get knifed in the back, or get your head stove in. I hope your new world is worth it."
"Power and chaos, Bray. That's always worth it. I'll give Zoot your best." With that she was gone, scurrying up the beach with the speed and agility that she had always possessed. Before, in the old world, she had found it hard to find a proper outlet for her energy. It was almost as though this madness was what she had been waiting for, from the earliest days of their relationship.
"Good luck," he heard himself telling her, although he knew that she wouldn't hear. She wouldn't care to. Luck to her was something that you won, with your fists or a knife or a length of bicycle chain. It wasn't something that could be bestowed, no matter how well meant the gesture. Despite their differences, despite Bray's hatred of all that Ebony had become, he very much wished her well. Already the Locos and the Seahawks had clashed together, the neon colours of the Locos bright and hot against the stark white of the Hawks. The dull, watery sun glinted here and there on upraised metal – blunt objects or sharp, it made little difference. Either way, it was going to end in blood.
It was not until Ebony had almost reached the melee that Bray thought of himself. Standing as he was he was exposed, and he could not count on the fight as distraction enough. An onlooker, a stranger, a figure who clearly didn't belong – it was all enough to bring down the wrath of a tribe. All the same, he was loath to leave. A part of him almost wanted to follow Ebony, just to see that she survived. She had chosen her path many long weeks ago, but she was still a friend; still somebody he cared about. Still a fragile echo of the world they had left behind. Something else kept him standing there too – the goggled, red paint-streaked boy in the back of the police car, his raised arms decorated in bicycle chains, his gloved fists punching the air. Bray's eyes could not keep from straying back to him, even as he tried to keep track of Ebony's progress. A cold, wretched yearning for the past; for something that had once existed, and was perhaps now gone for good; stirred within him as he tried to catch those goggled eyes. Zoot's attention was elsewhere. It was that more than anything that made Bray finally turn to leave.
He ran. He ran from the noise and the reality of it, the hardship of running on the sand making each step more of a struggle, stirring his thoughts into ever greater unrest. He could hear his pulse hammering away, not loud enough to drown out the cacophony behind. Once, above the banging and the yells, the clash of metal against metal and wood, a scream rang out – shrill and clear and unmistakably born from agony. Only then did he look back. Amidst the tangle of colour that was the battle, he saw Ebony. She had found her way through the chaos, into the back of the police car, where she stood alongside the leader of her tribe. His blank eyes, doubly hidden by goggles and coloured contact lenses, showed no interest, but their hands were joined in a raised salute. As Bray watched, the small, dark goggles turned his way at last. It was what he had wanted, but he knew straight away that it was an empty victory. Whatever it was that he yearned for, he was not going to get it from Zoot.
He hesitated. He could not have said what for. For a moment his eyes took in all of it – the boy dead on the beach; the battling, writhing mass of teenagers out for blood; the duo in the police car; a king and a queen crowned with a wild frenzy of paint. Zoot was still watching him, the impassive goggles stark against his pale face. It was a young face, impossibly so it seemed, to belong to the architect of all of this madness; the paint and lenses hiding a childish innocence that belonged to a fourteen year old boy. As Bray watched, Zoot raised his hand, making a gun from his fingers and aiming it straight for Bray's head. Seconds later the battling tribes had swamped the car, and Zoot and Ebony were gone from sight. Bray had seen enough. Turning away from it all, he ran back to the seclusion of the alleyways. This was their madness, and they had not only chosen it, but created it. If only he could believe that they would keep it to themselves. It was a vain hope, and he knew it. This was the way that the world was now. It was the only future that any of them had left.
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