Dark Justice

Chapter 4

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.