Read Online Brigends (The Final War Series Book 1) by Russell Krone - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Russell Krone
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coincidence.
Wakeful but tired, he passed the night stroking Adi’s hair and contemplating possibilities. He didn’t stir again and she slept peacefully.
Chapter 7
Zoe’s choice
She babied her ribs, cringing with each step her left foot made. Working through the discomfort, she pushed to keep going.
The last viable portal available was a ghost town. Daybreak had arrived and the station’s inhabitants were out looking for their next meals. Her footsteps resonated off the walls as she limped, leaving an eerie vibe in the deserted interior.
Hundreds of the Lo-5’s worse-off called the Carroll Street Station home. The squatters treated the place as a toilet. The stifling stench of human discards choked the air. Zoe had no respect for the dregs living in this filth. Her philosophy — never blame anyone for what your hands have wrought — refused to pity anyone, least of all these people.
The clang of a glass bottle froze her pulse. A hunched over old woman shuffled along with no real intent. They both stopped and acknowledged one another. Compassion tried to resurface, but Zoe hammered the impulse into the deepest parts of her apathy and continued her trek. The beldam resumed her existence unabated to the stranger’s apathy.
Zoe slid her narrow profile between two wall panels at the end of the platform adjacent to the tunnel opening. A few tight shuffles past the breech and she entered an abandoned utility room. From there an unremarkable door led to the blackened intestines of the city where few were brave enough to venture.
It had been many years since she had used this route, but she was able to negotiate the many detours off the top of her head. The further she delved the more silent and claustrophobic the path became. Without a handheld torch to penetrate the blackness, she relied on touch, feeling the walls with her hands and the floor with the tips of her boots.
An hour later, she arrived at the gates of Agarha.
The brigend mark bothered her again. She rubbed the itch that would never disappear. Stirring in her bunk, annoyed and unable to relax, she squirmed. The thrashing made her side throb. Thankfully, her ribs weren’t broken. It wasn’t like when she was a kid and could recover quickly from almost any wound. At this age, she could’ve been laid up for a solid week.
She didn’t want to admit it, but field duty was no longer agreeing with her. The notion of letting someone else do the grunt work had its appeal. Yet, commanding from the rear instead of out front like a real leader bothered her more than any bullet wound or knife cut ever could. Be that as it may, her aches argued for her retirement.
Lost in a torrent of emotional conflictions, she laid motionless on top of her blanket, rubbing her tender ribs. Unable to sleep was an aggravation too much to bear.
She sat up and looked around her quarters. On a good day, the Spartan room tended to suck the warmth from her spirit. On this bad one, the barren walls mocked her isolationism with renewed determination. She had considered hanging artwork to dampen the bleakness, but whenever she found the time, the chore would go unfinished. It wasn’t laziness enabling her procrastination; it was indifference.
The growing combination of pungent sweat and industrial dirt on her clothes couldn’t be ignored. She stripped off the reminder of the day’s events and stood naked, letting the chill of the room stab at her. She was a tired old woman, busted by countless injuries. Her once vibrant olive tone had faded to a quilt of ashen blotches. She straightened her posture to fool her mind into believing she was a girl, but there wasn’t enough passion to sustain the lie. Her shoulders wilted.
If John had lived to see her in this condition, would he still think her beautiful? Would he have wanted her?
More important than her vanity was the question, would he have been ashamed of what she had done — so soon after his sacrifice?
Muck what-ifs.
Wakeful but tired, he passed the night stroking Adi’s hair and contemplating possibilities. He didn’t stir again and she slept peacefully.
Chapter 7
Zoe’s choice
She babied her ribs, cringing with each step her left foot made. Working through the discomfort, she pushed to keep going.
The last viable portal available was a ghost town. Daybreak had arrived and the station’s inhabitants were out looking for their next meals. Her footsteps resonated off the walls as she limped, leaving an eerie vibe in the deserted interior.
Hundreds of the Lo-5’s worse-off called the Carroll Street Station home. The squatters treated the place as a toilet. The stifling stench of human discards choked the air. Zoe had no respect for the dregs living in this filth. Her philosophy — never blame anyone for what your hands have wrought — refused to pity anyone, least of all these people.
The clang of a glass bottle froze her pulse. A hunched over old woman shuffled along with no real intent. They both stopped and acknowledged one another. Compassion tried to resurface, but Zoe hammered the impulse into the deepest parts of her apathy and continued her trek. The beldam resumed her existence unabated to the stranger’s apathy.
Zoe slid her narrow profile between two wall panels at the end of the platform adjacent to the tunnel opening. A few tight shuffles past the breech and she entered an abandoned utility room. From there an unremarkable door led to the blackened intestines of the city where few were brave enough to venture.
It had been many years since she had used this route, but she was able to negotiate the many detours off the top of her head. The further she delved the more silent and claustrophobic the path became. Without a handheld torch to penetrate the blackness, she relied on touch, feeling the walls with her hands and the floor with the tips of her boots.
An hour later, she arrived at the gates of Agarha.
The brigend mark bothered her again. She rubbed the itch that would never disappear. Stirring in her bunk, annoyed and unable to relax, she squirmed. The thrashing made her side throb. Thankfully, her ribs weren’t broken. It wasn’t like when she was a kid and could recover quickly from almost any wound. At this age, she could’ve been laid up for a solid week.
She didn’t want to admit it, but field duty was no longer agreeing with her. The notion of letting someone else do the grunt work had its appeal. Yet, commanding from the rear instead of out front like a real leader bothered her more than any bullet wound or knife cut ever could. Be that as it may, her aches argued for her retirement.
Lost in a torrent of emotional conflictions, she laid motionless on top of her blanket, rubbing her tender ribs. Unable to sleep was an aggravation too much to bear.
She sat up and looked around her quarters. On a good day, the Spartan room tended to suck the warmth from her spirit. On this bad one, the barren walls mocked her isolationism with renewed determination. She had considered hanging artwork to dampen the bleakness, but whenever she found the time, the chore would go unfinished. It wasn’t laziness enabling her procrastination; it was indifference.
The growing combination of pungent sweat and industrial dirt on her clothes couldn’t be ignored. She stripped off the reminder of the day’s events and stood naked, letting the chill of the room stab at her. She was a tired old woman, busted by countless injuries. Her once vibrant olive tone had faded to a quilt of ashen blotches. She straightened her posture to fool her mind into believing she was a girl, but there wasn’t enough passion to sustain the lie. Her shoulders wilted.
If John had lived to see her in this condition, would he still think her beautiful? Would he have wanted her?
More important than her vanity was the question, would he have been ashamed of what she had done — so soon after his sacrifice?
Muck what-ifs.
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