BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

His fingers curled around the wire fence close to hers. “Despite everything, I’m glad I went. You were right. I needed to see it to understand.”

“And do you?”

With a faint smile, weary yet warm, he rose and crept away.

–

It took Chase another hour to loop east, beyond the city limits, back into the edge of Creaser and the towering Wallace Estates. It was now light. His clothes were torn and drenched in sweat. His face and arms were covered in dirt and his hair hung tangled and damp. Blood oozed from a wound on his shoulder – raw flesh exposed through a jagged gouge. If he was caught now, there could be no denying where he had been all night. Creeping between the towers’ shadows, he hurried to block twenty-one. Too afraid to call the elevator, should the squeal of rusting steel draw unwanted attention, he climbed the seventy-eight flights of stairs.

Naylor stood by the window, where he’d remained all night. Smoke signals rose across the city, conveying the night’s carnage. The sirens had ceased a few hours earlier. Daylight meant he could no longer follow the headlamps of Authority trucks as they snaked their way up to Leven Hyder. Yet he couldn’t move from the window. He couldn’t desert his post, knowing his friend was still out there. Somewhere.

A faint knock on the front door made him start. He knew the raids weren’t over. He immediately thought of Clo, still asleep in her room. What little blood was left drained from his stone-grey face as he approached the door.

He looked through the spy hole. There was no one there. His pulse racing, he held his ear to the door. Silence.

Only, there wasn’t silence. He knelt down and listened. He could hear breathing on the other side. Low down, almost to the floor.

He inched open the door, peering down through the narrow gap. “Oh no…” he said, finding Chase slumped on the floor. He opened the door fully and grabbed Chase under his armpits, dragging him through. Before locking the door, he glanced both ways down the corridor, fearing a witness.

He pulled Chase into the centre of the room and placed a cushion under his head. Seeing the bloody wound to his shoulder, he found a cloth and held it firm against the gash. “Chase, wake up,” he said, lightly patting his cheek with his free hand.

Chase’s head lolled, his mouth half open.

Naylor hurried to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, which he held to Chase’s mouth. The first few drops spilt out and poured down his chin. Then the cold liquid on his tongue revived him. Naylor held Chase’s head still, trying to get more water into his mouth.

Chase swallowed, then swallowed again, then grabbed the now-empty glass.

“Wait. I’ll get you some more,” said Naylor.

Chase regained consciousness, dizzy and confused. After two more glasses of water, he looked up at Naylor. “Sorry I took so long to get back.”

“I was worried.”

“I know you were.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a bloody great hole, Chase. You need sutures. Did the A do it? Did they get you?”

“I fell, that’s all. There was glass everywhere. It’s nothing.” He waved a weak hand in dismissal.

Naylor hesitated, afraid to ask. Yet the not knowing was worse. “Ursel?” he said. “Is she okay?”

“Yes. I left her at the Circus.”

“Thank the Deep. And Wella? Did you find her?”

“No.” Chase struggled to sit upright. He rubbed his temples, eyes closed. “No, but Ursel’s convinced she’s there.”

Naylor slumped back, sack-like.

“What?” said Chase.

“All of that… For nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“But you didn’t see Wella.” His whole body sagged. “All night. I stood by the window, watching. I never moved. I heard the sirens, imagined the screams. There were fires: blisters dotted across the city. I saw the convoys shipping people away. I was terrified you were among them. I should never have let you go.”

Chase saw the residue of terror in his friend’s expression and realised he felt no fear himself. Instead, an unfamiliar peace warmed his chest. The adrenalin that had propelled him across the city was spent; the exhaustion left in its wake was superficial. Overriding all else was a peculiar calm. “I’m glad I went.”

“You’re what?”

Chase sat forward, the warmth spreading. “Something happened at the show. I don’t know what it was. I don’t pretend to understand. But I felt something. Something incredible.”

Naylor stared, mouth agape.

“I felt this powerful connection with the music. I was drawn to the woman singing. It was as if there was an electrical charge flowing between us, captivating me. I felt euphoric. That’s the only way I can describe it. Euphoric.”

“Did you even look for Wella?”

“Ursel did.” Chase read the incomprehension on Naylor’s face. “She told me to watch the show.”

“So, what? You just relaxed and enjoyed yourself? Forgot that you were risking your life to find your sister?”

“I’m trying to explain—”

“All I’m hearing is that the A is fucking right. It’s like you were drugged. Did they give you something to drink?”

“No. It wasn’t like that.”

“Then tell me, Chase. I’ve heard the radio. I witnessed the attack on the city. Tell me. What was it like?”

Chapter Eleven

Governor Blix stood behind her desk, white-knuckled fists pinning down its surface. She leant forward, her face contorted, bereft of its characteristic composure. “Tell me there is a sound explanation for this monumental fuck-up.”

Wulfwin stood to attention before her. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt; his eyes, bloodshot. He gritted his teeth, knowing there was more to come. Biding his time, he met her stare.

“We had solid intel,” she hissed. “The best lead in years, squandered. Someone is responsible. Someone who clearly does not grasp the severity of the situation. That someone is about to pay dearly for their utter incompetence. I demand a name, Wulfwin. Not a scapegoat. I want to know who thinks they can fail my will.”

“I want those damn Music Makers as much as you. Believe me, if there was someone who failed to follow