Dark Justice

by Shelley Russell Nolan

Genres: Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy; Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

Driven to kill. Compelled to protect.

Five hundred years ago, the cure for the common cold went horribly wrong, turning those infected into freaks consumed with hate and rage. Forced underground, the freaks return above ground at night, driven to attack the surface dwellers – their bite infecting thousands more.

To fight the freaks and protect mankind from extinction, scientists created genetically enhanced soldiers. Stronger, faster, with enhanced senses, wardens are trained from birth to protect the weaker humans.

The Captain of the Ward, Jackson Kyle, is infected while saving the life of another warden. Due to his genetic enhancements, he is like no other freak. His faculties intact, he escapes from the Ward and encounters a mysterious young woman. The second he touches her, he is caught in a bond, compelled to protect her at all costs. For she will decide the fate of humankind.

Release date: September 11, 2019

Publisher: Odyssey Books

Print pages: 330

Sample

PROLOGUE

 

HIGH-PITCHED LAUGHTER and squeals drew Justice to the crack in the wall. She peered through, squeezing in close to get a better view of the children playing in the middle of the street outside the monastery. Boys and girls, carefree smiles wreathing their faces, threw themselves about with no regard for the dirt that clung to their clothes as they avoided the grasp of the tall boy chasing them. He lunged forward and tapped a girl a year or two younger than him on the back and then darted to the side, sprinting off as she spun around and gave chase.

Justice looked down at the brown robe the Gaean monks insisted she wear. It covered her from neck to toe, the deep hood hiding the neat braid that constrained her long hair. What would it be like to wear jeans like the others, to run barefoot in the street, hair in tangles, uncaring of who might see her?

A hand clasped her shoulder and she spun around, eyes wide, heart pounding.

‘You shouldn’t be out here.’ Her mother took Justice’s hand and led her toward the large stone building that had been her home ever since she could remember. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘But the other children get to play in the street. Can’t I, just for a little while?’

Her mother stopped and kneeled in front of Justice, brown robe pooling around her, a frown creasing her brow. ‘We have talked about this with Brother Owen. You know it is too dangerous.’

Justice heaved a sigh and lowered her head.

Her mother cupped Justice’s chin with gentle fingers and lifted her head. ‘I know you wish you could be like other children, but you aren’t. You are special and must be protected. If it wasn’t for Brother Owen and the others, taking us in, giving us a home...’ It was her mother’s turn to sigh, eyes shadowed.

After a long moment, she gave a shake and smiled at Justice. ‘It is time for your lesson with Brother Owen.’ She clasped Justice’s hand and led her to the monk’s office at the back of the main building.

Justice could no longer hear the children playing outside, but knew they were still there. Today was a rest day for them, while she had to learn about history, politics, and the laws that governed them—all subjects Brother Owen thought she needed to know to fulfil the purpose she was born for.

After the lesson, she joined her mother in the large kitchen off the common room where they ate their meals and helped the monks prepare the dinner. Her mother hummed as she chopped the vegetables Justice had peeled for the beef stew. The monks were quiet, solemn as they worked, but now and then one of them would glance their way and smile.

Once dinner was prepared, the stew bubbling away, Justice and her mother returned to the small room they shared.

‘What book would you like to read today?’

Justice ran her fingers over the spines of the small collection of books on the table between their beds, selecting one with a bright yellow cover and handing it to her mother. She had read them all, numerous times, and could practically recite them word for word. But this was her favourite part of each day, where she nestled into her mother’s side, able to forget about her duty and simply enjoy the sound of her mother’s voice.

That night, after the evening meal had been eaten and the kitchen scrubbed clean, Justice lay in her bed and traced a fingertip over the birthmark covering the palm of her right hand. A set of scales, evenly balanced. If not for this mark, no one would think she was special. She’d be able to run and laugh, live like everyone else, instead of being locked away behind stone walls.

She rolled onto her side and shoved her hand under the pillow. Soothed by the familiar sound of her mother’s even breathing from the other side of the room, she drifted off to sleep.

Hours later she sat up, disoriented, searching for what had woken her. Her brow creased at the sound of people shouting in the distance. The monks never raised their voices. She looked across the room, expecting to see her mother’s face, looking just as puzzled as her own, but the bed was empty.

Justice slipped out of bed and tip-toed to the door, wiping sweaty palms on her nightgown as she peered down the empty hallway. The shouting was getting closer, loud bangs and cries of pain echoing down the hall.

The urge to dive back into bed and pull the covers over her head warred with the desire to find her mother. She stepped into the hallway, body stiff, and shuffled toward the source of the noise. Heart thudding in her chest, she crept closer to the large common room at the end of the hall, still with no sign of her mother. Worse, the sound of fighting ceased and an eerie quiet took its place.

Justice reached the end of the hall and peered into the common room.

‘Mother.’ She tore across the room, dodging fallen bodies, most of them wearing brown robes, as she raced to her mother’s side.

Her mother lay on her back, the front of her calico night‐gown drenched in blood, fear etched on her face as she struggled to speak. ‘Run, Justice. Run,’ she gasped, raising a hand to push her away.

‘No. I won’t leave you.’ Justice sobbed, vision blurred with tears. She swiped a hand across her eyes and scanned the room. ‘I’ll get Brother Owen. He can fix this.’

Brother Owen lay a short distance away, sightless eyes staring at her, a large knife sticking out of his chest. She gave a low moan, eyes widening as she realised all the monks were dead, bodies sprawled in untidy heaps.

‘There she is.’

Justice’s head swung around at the shout and she whimpered as two men burst out of the chapel. She clutched her mother’s hand as they descended upon her, knives raised.

Her mother struggled to rise, but the first man to reach them slashed down with his knife and she fell to the side, blood gushing from her neck. Justice screamed and scrabbled backward as he spun around and stabbed her. The knife hit her in the chest and bounced back, the force of the ricochet tearing it out of his hands. His eyes gaped as he dived after his knife.

The second man reached her side and grabbed Justice’s hair, wrenching her head back, knife at her throat.

‘Do it,’ said the first, face contorted with rage. ‘Kill her.’

The man holding her hair shook, the force of his movements shaking her along with him. He collapsed to his knees beside her as the other man lunged forward. Still on his knees, the man holding Justice released her hair and clasped her about the waist instead, wrenching them both around.

He roared as his companion’s knife sank into his unprotected back before he went limp, falling on top of Justice, pinning her to the stone floor. She squirmed, breath coming in gasps, seeking to wriggle out from under him. But he was too heavy.

A hand grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her free.

Knife in one hand, ready to end her life, the man who had killed her mother shuddered and fell to his knees. The knife fell to the ground as his shaking eased. He gazed at Justice with wonder in his eyes and tenderly wiped the tears from her cheeks.

‘It’s all right, little one. I won’t let anybody hurt you.’ He wrapped his arms around her, cradling her as he got to his feet.

Justice peered over his shoulder at her mother’s dead body, tears streaming down her face. She stifled her sobs with a fist, body shaking as the man who had destroyed everything she loved carried her out of the common room. In the darkened streets outside the monastery, Justice held herself rigid. She was not supposed to be out here. It wasn’t safe.

Nowhere was safe. Not for her.

Two days later, in a hotel room in a town so small it didn’t have a name, Justice shivered as the man who had vowed to protect her glared at her from across the tiny dining table.

‘What have you done to me?’ He pushed his chair back from the table, rising to his feet. ‘What did you make me do?’ He snatched up the knife he’d been using to butter bread for their lunch and lunged toward her, a snarl on his lips.

With a yell, he dropped the knife and clutched his head, falling to his knees, groaning. His second attempt at her life ended the same way, only this time it took him longer to recover. When he regained his footing, he strode toward the door, freezing mid-step, body shaking. After a moment he turned around, hatred clear in his gaze as he strode back to the table. He finished making sandwiches, pushing a plate in front of her. He took his own plate and retreated to the bed on the opposite side of the room, sitting with his back to her.

A tear slipped down her face as she remembered Brother Owen’s lessons detailing how the Earth Goddess Gaea had arranged for her to be protected until she had fulfilled her duty.

The moment he’d touched her, the man who had tried to kill her had become her unwilling bodyguard, compelled to protect her at all costs. Now the initial shock of the bond had worn off, his reasoning had returned but not his free will. He would guard her with his life, feed and clothe her, provide shelter while she grew to adulthood.

But he would never love her.

No one would.

She had not been created to find love. She had a purpose. Justice would be done.

 

ONE

 

JACKSON KYLE OPENED his eyes a fraction to study the guards stationed outside his cell deep within the bowels of the head‐quarters for the Brimfield Ward. The lights in the cell block were dimmed but he could see them clearly. They were both watching him, enhanced vision almost as good as his in this light. Hands close to their holsters, they were ready to shoot him if he made a move they didn’t like. The one on the left shifted his feet, fingers caressing the top of his stun gun, mouth twisted into a grimace as he glared at the prisoner lounging on the cell’s only bunk.

They would be able to see the whites of his eyes shining even though his lids were half closed. That shine allowed him to see in the dark far better than when he’d been a warden, like his guards.

He closed his eyes and listened to them breathe, their respirations shallow as they maintained a vigilant stance. Two hours into their shift they were alert, prepared for anything, but three weeks of guarding him without incident would see them settle into their watch. Soon their breathing would deepen, muscles relax and attention spans waver.

Ears pricked for any change in his surroundings, Jackson caught the murmur of voices from the guardhouse at the end of the corridor. Moments later the door into the cell block opened and his guards were called away.

Visiting time.

The guardhouse door closed and a single set of footsteps made their way toward him. When the footsteps stopped outside his cell, he opened his eyes to look at the woman who had replaced him as Captain of the Brimfield Ward.

Muscles tense, teeth bared, Jackson fought the urge to bound off the bed. The freak inside him wanted to grab Miranda Wilson around the throat and squeeze until she choked out her last breath. His own breathing ragged, the chains around his wrists and ankles jangling with each movement, he pushed down the monster and concentrated on the man he had once been.

He sat up, grimacing, as he held on to his self-control—barely. ‘You need to stop coming down here,’ he said, voice little more than a growl. ‘Please, kill me and be done with it.’

‘How can you ask that of me?’

‘The man you remember doesn’t exist anymore. All that’s left is the freak.’

‘I won’t accept that.’ She shook her head, long black hair momentarily obscuring her face. She brushed it back behind her ears. ‘Zarb is close to finding a cure. You just need to hold on a little longer, give him more time.’

He barked out a harsh laugh. ‘Zarb’s been working on his cure for years, and he’s no closer now than he was when he started.’

No scientist in the five hundred years since the cure for the common cold had gone horribly wrong had come within spitting distance of a cure. Daniel Zarb may have been a genius, but he was fooling himself if he thought he would be the one to finally eradicate the virus that turned people into rage-driven monsters determined to destroy the uninfected.

Jackson rattled his chains. ‘These aren’t going to stop me. I can feel it, eating away inside me. The things I want to do, to you, to every man, woman, and child in this godforsaken town. I will slaughter every single one of them if you don’t stop me.’

His breathing quickened; the mere thought of the carnage he could inflict with his bare hands excited the freak within. He closed his eyes, snarling, hating himself, hating his inability to control the virus that had turned him into one of the infected he had been trained since birth to kill.

Being a warden, he’d been able to resist the virus longer than the humans his kind had been created to protect. But the longer he sat here, chained to the wall, the stronger its hold on him became. Soon there would be nothing of the man left. He had to make Wilson kill him before then. He couldn’t do it himself, unable to shut off the self-preservation instinct inherent in his freak nature. Wilson didn’t consider him a threat while he was locked up, holding on to the hope he could be cured. It was time to destroy that hope, once and for all.

He opened his eyes and launched off the bed, lunging at the bars, stretching his long arms as far as he could. A low growl ripped from his throat as his chains pulled him up short.

‘I will rip them to shreds, bathe in their blood.’

‘Stop it.’ She backed away from the bars.

Jackson forced himself to keep going. ‘I’ll make sure every citizen of Brimfield knows who to blame for their pain and suffering before I kill them. They’ll go to hell knowing you’re the reason I turned into a freak in the first place—how you kept me alive against Ward law—that you got every one of them killed.’

With visible effort, Wilson met his eyes. ‘A week. Two at the most. That’s all you have to hold on for. Zarb is so close. You will be a warden once more.’

Jackson shook his head. He had to make her understand there was no going back, not for him. ‘Like I said, these won’t hold me for long.’ He held up his manacled hands. ‘When I get out, we’ll see how much pain you can take before you break.’

‘Zarb will cure you, and I will not break,’ she said before striding off.

Jackson listened to the hitch in her breathing as she gained entry to the guardhouse. She was already breaking, cracks working their way through her spirit with each visit, and she wasn’t the only one.

He wouldn’t last another day locked in this cell, let alone two weeks waiting on a cure that might never eventuate. He had to get out of there before the freak inside him broke free and everything that had made him Jackson Kyle died forever.

 

TWO

 

DANIEL ZARB ROLLED to a stop in the middle of the hallway, blocking Miranda’s path.

‘You’ve been to see Kyle again. Why do you keep torturing yourself?’ His brown eyes coursed over her face.

‘It’s none of your business, Zarb.’ Miranda brushed past his wheelchair. He grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face him.

‘It is my business, mine and every other warden. “No warden shall suffer a freak to live.” That’s the law, and there’s never been a freak like Kyle.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

Zarb gazed up at her, expression grave. ‘I think you’re so blinded by the man he used to be you’ve lost sight of what’s right in front of you. Jackson Kyle is a high-functioning freak. He’s got the rage, the hatred, the unending need to inflict violence on humans and wardens, but he’s kept all his faculties. He can reason and he can wait. Right now, he’s sitting in his cell plotting how to escape and kill us all.’

Tears pricked her eyes, remembering the way Kyle had taunted her. She shook her head. ‘No, I won’t accept that. He’s not a freak, not completely, and he can be cured. You said you were close to figuring out how.’

‘Not close enough to save Kyle. Every time I think I’ve got the virus locked down and a vaccine ready to go, it mutates and I have to start again. You must kill him, before it’s too late.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not in charge here anymore, Zarb—I am.’

‘Then start acting like it. Kill Kyle before he hurts the wardens beyond repair.’

‘He can’t hurt anyone while he’s locked up, and he’ll stay locked up until you find that cure.’ She wrenched her arm out of Zarb’s grasp, shoved his wheelchair aside, and fled down the corridor.

Each time she visited Kyle, she felt stained so deeply that it could never be washed clean. But she couldn’t stop going any more than she could stop breathing. He was strong, stronger than any warden she had ever known. He’d be able to hold on to his humanity until Zarb found a cure.

She reached her quarters and stripped off. Seconds later she stood under the shower spray, scrubbing at her body so hard it hurt. It was a good pain, better than the one tearing her up inside. The wounds Kyle inflicted on her each day were invisible to the naked eye and yet far more painful than anything she had ever experienced.

Tears flowed down her cheeks to be washed away by the cool, clear water. Memories of happier times flooded her as she turned off the taps and reached for a towel. Eight years ago, she’d been reassigned to the Brimfield Ward and put in Kyle’s patrol, and she’d fallen in love with him the first day.

Three years older than her, Kyle had distinguished himself in the field countless times and his promotion to captain when Daniel Zarb lost his legs surprised no one. He’d never given any sign he returned her feelings, but she had held on to the hope that one day he would come to love her as much as she loved him. Then a freak took him away from her.

And it was her fault. She’d gotten separated from her patrol and ambushed by three of the infected. Kyle had rescued her, but he’d been bitten by one of the freaks in the process.

Dreading the thought of a future without him, she climbed into bed and cried herself to sleep.

A shrill alarm wrenched her back to wakefulness.

She bounded out of bed and pressed the talk button on the intercom set in the bedroom wall beside the door.

‘This is Captain Wilson. What’s the situation?’ The strident alarm drowned out her words and she missed the operator’s response.

‘Shut down the alarm,’ she yelled into the mic.

Silence fell. She drew in a lungful of air and steadied her breathing before repeating her question.

‘Kyle has escaped.’

Miranda froze. She must still be asleep, living a nightmare. ‘Captain, are you there? I said Kyle has escaped.’

‘I heard you.’ She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall. ‘I want this place searched from top to bottom. Have all wardens within headquarters on alert and armed with stun guns. Kyle is not to be killed. Understood?’

She drew a shaky breath. ‘Order all patrols to concentrate on the area around headquarters in case he’s already on the streets. I want him found and I want him found fast.’

She signed off and dressed in fresh armour, begrudging the time it took to splash water over her face and brush tangles out of her hair. But the wardens needed their leader to look as well as act the part, even if inside she was falling apart.

She headed down to the lower levels. Blood was splattered on the floor of the guardroom. She stepped gingerly to avoid walking in it as she crossed the small room on her way to the open inner door. She saw two guards at the far end of the corridor, lights blazing now the cell block’s single occupant had fled.

Inside the cell, one of the medical staff kneeled over the still forms of the two guards assigned to watch Kyle, the same guards Miranda had ousted from their posts so she could visit in privacy hours earlier. No blood had been spilled here. The two men lay on the ground, pale and unmoving.

Miranda held her breath as she stared at them. She exhaled in a rush, almost sagging to her knees when she saw the slow rise and fall of their chests.

‘They’re alive.’ Relief made her lightheaded.

The medic didn’t look at Miranda. ‘He used his chains. Strangled them until they lost consciousness.’

‘How...?’ Miranda swallowed down bile before continuing. ‘He was locked in the cell, chained to the wall. There is no way he could have taken out two guards.’

‘Maybe he had help.’ The medic stood, stepping aside as his assistants came into the cell with two stretchers.

‘Who would let him escape?’

The medic looked at Miranda, grey eyes cold. ‘Perhaps Matthews will be able to tell us.’

‘Matthews?’

The medic led the way to the guardroom and pointed at the blood on the floor. ‘He’s banged up. Zarb has him in the infirmary.’

The infirmary was one level above the cells. Miranda and the medic strode into the room where Zarb leaned over a man lying on a table that had been lowered to allow the former captain easy access. Tim Matthews lay motionless, bloodstained bandages covering the top of his head and his torso.

He tried to sit up when he saw her. ‘I’m sorry, Captain Wilson.’

‘Shush, Matthews. We’ll talk about it later, when you’re feeling better.’ Miranda pushed him back down. His features were unrecognisable in the ruin Kyle’s fists had created. The rest of him had fared even worse.

‘I know I shouldn’t have let Sergeant Grahams leave the cellblock, but he insisted he couldn’t wait for the shift change to use the bathroom,’ said Matthews, voice weak. ‘Said he’d be real quick, nobody had to know he’d left his post.’

Matthews’ pained expression eased as the medication took effect. ‘I never heard a sound when I opened the door to let him back in so I thought everything was okay. Half an hour later he said he had to go again. I opened the door, meaning to tell him to wait it out. Kyle was on me so fast I didn’t have time to call for help. Next thing I know, the shift change was there.’

Miranda remained silent, a hollow ache settling in the pit of her stomach.

‘I’m going to be all right, aren’t I? You won’t have me reassigned?’ Matthews’ eyes pleaded with her. ‘I don’t want to leave Brimfield Ward. If you give me another chance, I promise I won’t fail you again.’

Miranda looked at Zarb, an unspoken question in her eyes, relieved when he gave a quick nod. She plastered on a smile. ‘Everything is going to be fine, Matthews. You just concentrate on getting better.’

‘Are you going to have me reassigned?’

‘No, you’re staying right here.’ Miranda gave him a final pat on the shoulder before turning away and heading for the door.

In the corridor, she stopped when Zarb called her name.

‘Kyle didn’t infect Matthews, but his next victim might not be so lucky. You must kill him before he attacks anyone else. He’s too dangerous to be left alive.’

Miranda turned away, unable to face the accusations in Zarb’s eyes. Hearing them in his voice was bad enough.

‘I know.’ Her faint whisper hung in the air. ‘I know.’

 

THREE

 

HANNAH YOUNG SCRUBBED at a beetroot stain on an empty table in the dining hall.

‘Looks like you got your work cut out for you. Sure you’re up to the challenge? Keeping this place clean is a big responsibility, for a half-breed.’

Head down, Hannah bit her bottom lip. If she responded to Chelsea Locke’s snide comments, she’d end up having to clean the barracks on top of her existing duties.

‘You missed a spot.’ Locke stood beside a table Hannah had already cleaned and tipped out the dregs of her coffee so it splattered across the table and on to the floor.

‘You’d better get that cleaned up. Wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re shirking your duties.’ Locke folded her arms.

‘Hell no.’ Hannah tossed down her rag and straightened up. She moved toward Locke, fists clenched at her sides.

The shrill peal of the alarm filled the dining hall.

Locke and the other wardens ran for the exit, resembling a swarm of black insects in their body armour. Ever since Jackson Kyle had been infected, most wardens wore their armour whether they were on duty or not, but Hannah wore her standard attire of black t-shirt and blue jeans. As a half-breed, living among wardens under sufferance, she had never been issued with body armour.

She continued cleaning the dining hall, the task far more pleasant with it empty. Locke wasn’t the only one fond of tormenting the lone half-breed at headquarters. Once the tables were clean, she went into the kitchen to put away the dishes she’d washed earlier, revelling in the late-night silence.

Four wardens burst into the room, Locke among them. They wrenched open the cupboards, pulling out the contents and dumping them on the floor.

‘Hey.’ Hannah strode forward, hands on her hips. ‘What are you doing?’

Locke and two of the others ignored her, one guy shoving her aside to get to the pantry behind her. Sergeant Rogers, an older warden, grimaced as he surveyed the disarray his team were making.

‘Sorry, Hannah, but we’ve got orders to search every inch of this place,’ he said. ‘Kyle has escaped.’

Before he could continue, the others finished their search and came over.

‘He’s not here,’ said Locke.

Rogers nodded and spoke into the radio mic attached to his uniform. ‘Six to Control.’

‘Go ahead, Six.’

‘Kitchen and dining hall are clear.’

‘Copy that, Six. All search parties have called in. Kyle is not on the premises. You can stand your team down.’

Locke and the other two wardens turned to leave the kitchen.

‘I didn’t dismiss you,’ said Rogers.

‘But Control said we were to stand down.’ A frown creased Locke’s brow.

‘You don’t take orders from Control. I say when you stand down. Clean up this mess.’ He indicated the pots, pans, and other kitchen implements spread over the floor.

‘That’s the half-breed’s job.’

‘Do I need to report you for insubordination, Locke?’ Locke blanched, then a red flush covered her cheeks as she joined the other two in putting the kitchen back to rights. Hannah stood beside Rogers, her satisfaction at seeing Locke humbled tempered by what would happen when he wasn’t around. The statuesque blonde would make her pay for this. As a distraction from what that payback might entail, Hannah questioned Rogers about Jackson’s escape.

‘I don’t know much more than you.’

‘What’s Captain Wilson going to do about it?’

‘She ordered us to recapture him—alive.’ He gave a snort.

‘As if we’ve got a hope of finding him. Kyle was the best damn warden I’ve ever seen, and I’ve served with plenty of good ones. He’ll be even more dangerous now he’s a freak. We should have killed him when we had the chance.’

‘Don’t let the captain hear you say that. She’s not exactly rational where he’s concerned.’

‘Rational or not, when the body count starts to rise, even she will have to admit keeping him alive was a bad idea. Maybe then she’ll finally start acting like a captain and do something about it.’

Hannah grimaced. ‘Like you said, she’ll have to find him first, and that won’t be easy.’

 

FOUR

 

JACKSON STRODE into the town centre, outfitted in a stolen uniform complete with helmet, searching every back alley and laneway he came across for an entrance to the underground tunnel system.

Rage laced with frustration flooded his body with every step. He wanted—needed to kill. Restraining the urge to maim, rend, destroy as he’d escaped had taken every ounce of self-control that remained in him. The warden in the guardroom had been the worst. He’d meant to knock him unconscious with one blow, but the sound of his fist pounding into the guard’s flesh had excited him.

He forced the thought away, focusing on his breathing. He had to maintain control long enough to get below ground before dawn.

A furtive movement on his left caught his attention seconds before an infected human stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path. Whites of his eye shining, the newcomer snarled at Jackson and lunged forward.

Jackson spread his arms wide, feet planted firmly. Seconds before the freak barrelled into him, he twisted his body aside, using his opponent’s momentum to slam him into the building on his right. He pulled the man back by the collar and then drove him forward again, once, twice, three times, until the freak reeled, barely able to stand upright, blood pouring from his broken nose.

Jackson wrenched the infected man’s head up by the hair, using his other hand to steady the shoulder. He twisted the head, grinning when he heard the snap, and let the body flop to the ground. Chest heaving, he rode the rush of endorphins that came with the kill, revelling in it, hating it at the same time. He was no better than the freak he had just put down, a freak that could have been cured if Wilson had been right about Zarb’s efforts.

He hadn’t let himself believe it was possible, that there was a way for him to be free of the virus and return to being a warden. Now he was out of his cell, the faint ember of hope he had refused to admit existed burned that little bit stronger.

A cure.

A way home.

If he could hold on for the two weeks Wilson had pleaded for.

If the wardens would have him back.

He stared at the body for a long moment before walking over to where the man had been standing. He inspected the brickwork bridging the gap between the two warehouses. The bricks were not plumb up against the warehouse on the left, leaving a space wide enough for someone to push a hand through. He pried at the bricks, testing their give.

They didn’t budge.

He slammed his fist into the side of the warehouse and a section of the wall toppled over. He took off his helmet and stepped through the gap before propping the section back into place.

Holes in the roof sent slivers of light into the warehouse. He stopped and tested the air as his eyes adjusted. Fresh earth and mould; dust motes disturbed by his entrance. He walked over to a ragged hole in the ground that allowed access to the basement and jumped down, landing on the floor as agile as a cat and twice as cautious.

A large hole had been gouged in the basement wall and he stepped through it, entering a concrete labyrinth added to over the years by dirt tunnels dug by half-breeds and humans infected with the freak virus. He left behind the centre of Brimfield and passed under the merchant district and into the poorer section of town, near the outskirts. Dozens of offshoot tunnels dotted the main passage, faint stirrings indicating they were already occupied.

After walking for over an hour, he spotted metal rungs in the side of the tunnel. He scaled them and entered a small catchment area filled with pipes of varying sizes that serviced the town’s water reservoir, the constant dripping of water forming a large puddle on the tunnel floor. Damp, cramped and cold, his surroundings weren’t the least bit hospitable and yet Jackson found reason to smile. On the other side of the catchment area he could see a closed door bearing a faded yellow sign with black lettering: ‘Maintenance Access Only’.

When he’d been promoted to captain, he’d studied the old blueprints of Brimfield in the hope the human Over-Council would allow a full-scale incursion below ground. It would be impossible to eradicate the infected when they could only engage the enemy aboveground. But the Over-Council had refused any request to amend the charter that governed all wardens, afraid of what they might do if there were no freaks left for them to fight. The result of genetic enhancement generations ago, stronger and faster than the average human, their strength set the wardens apart. As long as they were perceived as a potential threat the situation was not likely to change.

Jackson reached into the kit hanging on his belt to find a tool to pick the lock with. Coated with rust, the lock resisted, but Jackson persevered and soon stood inside the storage room surveying his new domain. The room was bare except for a battered desk. A trap door in the roof concealed a ladder leading to the outer ring of the reservoir complex. He’d be able to lie low here, with easy access to the world above.

A primeval shiver enveloped his body. Dawn was close. He left the room and re-engaged the rusted lock before retracing his steps through the tunnels. Two tunnels later, faint stirrings signalled an occupied section. His senses led him to a large cavern, markings on the concrete floor showing it had once been an underground carpark.

Now it was Freak Central.

Infected of all shapes and sizes were spread around the place, together and yet alone, warily watching those around them. Some camped in groups of two or three, smaller freaks who found it necessary to give the illusion of safety in numbers. Clothing ragged, many of them covered in dirt, they prowled through the darkness, awaiting their chance to spread the infection to those living aboveground. Human or half- breed, all trace of their humanity had been wiped away by the same virus burning through Jackson’s veins.

The whites of their eyes shone as they focused on the newcomer in their midst. He swooped forward and grabbed a lone man by the neck, resisting the urge to twist until his spine snapped, determined not to give in to the need to kill. Teeth bared in a snarl, he wrapped his hands around his victim’s throat, choking him until he went limp. He let the unconscious body fall and rummaged through the man’s belongings, tossing aside anything he didn’t want.

Then he moved on to the next freak. This one slid away without protest when Jackson tore through his camp, recognising a predator more deadly than he could hope to be. By mid-morning he’d taken everything he wanted and returned it to his hideout. A stained single mattress rested on the floor near the back wall. On the desk he’d laid out a selection of utensils and other items, among them two ancient pairs of sunglasses and a battered oil lantern.

Sunglasses had been banned in Brimfield for years, the town council concerned they would be used by the infected to go aboveground in daylight. Jackson knew it would take more than sunglasses to ward off the stabbing pain resulting from exposure to sunlight. Still, they would come in handy if he had to face anything brighter than moonlight without his helmet.

He couldn’t stay in this room for the next two weeks, waiting on a cure. That would be no better than being locked up at headquarters. He’d go crazy, the virus sure to assert its dominance and erode what little control he had. No, he had to keep busy, keep acting like a warden even though he’d never felt further from his heritage.

Jackson was a direct descendant of the Special Forces soldiers genetically altered to better combat the infected when they first appeared over five hundred years ago, and he’d been trained to kill from a young age. But with the hope of a cure dangling over him, he couldn’t justify any more deaths at his hands. That didn’t mean he couldn’t stop other infected from killing the humans he was sworn to protect. He’d patrol from the shadows, keeping himself sane until Zarb’s cure was ready. But to do that, he needed to be able to handle more than moonlight.