26
Stadium Eden, Prague, Czech Republic
November 29
The fence around the stadium was tall, chain link, rusted but unbroken. The parking lot was covered with ashes and large metal containers, several workers milling about in hazmat suits, pushing sealed carts around, ferrying the dead to their final resting place. No one spoke.
At the entrance there was a guard with a machine gun, and he stared at the Healer passively. He wasn’t there to keep people out, didn’t care if some fool wandered in. The Healer watched him as he entered, studying the gun carefully.
Right next to the stadium doors was a small shack, the head office, and from the gates to the office was a wide boulevard where the collection trucks rode. The Healer made his way down the centre of that street, looking at the crates to his left and right, and the workers around him froze and stared, anxious.
He stopped at the office and stared at the fogged windows, the steps leading up to the thin wooden door. He took a step towards them when he heard the faint static of his phone in his ear, and froze, looked around, and then up at the sky.
“Green Four, this is Home. What is your status?”
He started away from the shack, back the way he came. He spoke quietly, backing against the concrete wall of the stadium.
“All is well,” he said.
Static.
“You are outside the city core,” Home said. “What is your status?”
“I am following a lead,” he replied.
Pause.
“You were following a lead last night, Green Four. What was the result of that action?”
“The target was not at that location,” he said. “but I have solid information about his whereabouts.”
“Your schedule does not allow for errors, Green Four. If you are encountering difficulties—”
“I will meet my target before—”
“— we can have another agent at your location—”
“No.” said the Healer loudly, and the workers nearby checked him warily. “LS-411 will be resolved today. I will have results soon.”
Static, silence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man dressed in a half-mask heading toward him, directly at him, his stride aggressive. The Healer turned away, waited on the reply. When it came, it was distorted and fragmented by the clouds above.
“We… review… will recall,” they said before the radio cut out. The Healer tightened his fists, trembling with anger. The man who had been approaching was close now, confident and imposing; the Healer spun around, hit him in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. He knelt down on the man, foot on a flailing wrist, and leaned in, using his mask and inhuman voice to their fullest potential.
“Marta,” he growled, and the man twitched, terrified. “Marta!” he shouted again
The man nodded urgently, spoke in Czech, voice high and whining. The Healer let go his hand and he pointed up, up at the stadium. He spoke more, but the Healer ignored him, threw him to his feet, and shoved him towards the massive entrance doors.
Inside were the furnaces. Giant corroded metal beasts sprawled across the turf, their large vaulted doors lit at the sides by fire so hot it left no trace of their fuel at all. Ashes landed heavily around them, covering the aisles in centimetres-thick horror. Workers in heavy masks pushed wide shovels down walkways, clearing the mess, the last hint of their friends and neighbours dumped into dustbins and carted away.
The Healer paused briefly before a large orange furnace, different than the others. Older. On the side, beneath a Czech ID number, he saw the traces of a word he understood, in characters so familiar they seemed foreign:
Shanghai
He trembled, turned away, and his hostage paused too as the other workers slowly backed into the shadows and ran away. The Healer took heavy breaths as his suit whined urgently in his ears, then forced himself to be calm, standing up tall, his grip on the man’s arm re-tightening to the point of agony.
They continued forward, around another corner, until the man paused slightly, pointed with a hesitant finger. There, in the distance, was a woman with a flimsy cloth mask and a scarf tied round her hair, pushing a shovel down the aisle.
The woman noticed them, looked up slowly, then her eyes widened, fear, terror, and she ran, back and to the right, disappearing behind a set of furnaces.
The Healer let go his captive and took off after her, his pack slamming against him with every stride, but his pace quick and precise. He ran down the near side of the furnaces until he came to a corner, peered around carefully and caught sight of Marta dashing away. He tore off, his feet skidding a bit in the ashes, awkwardly dodging the red-hot furnaces.
At the end of the aisle was a crossroads, a few pale shafts of light making it into the clearing past the smoke and machinery, and he paused to check around him. No signs of anyone, no hints of where Marta had gone. The ashes on the ground blew around in a whirlwind, and soon even his own footprints had disappeared. He turned in circles, watching, listening beyond the roar of the fires.
Nothing moved but the embers, dancing up and out of the stadium.
With a start, he ran back towards the doors as fast as he could, cloak flapping behind him as he mastered his environment, picking up speed with every step. As he looked to his right, he saw Marta across the way, running the same direction.
She caught sight of him and screamed, started running faster. The Healer fell around a corner, slid in the ashes and landed on his knees. He skidded, putting out a hand at the last second, involuntarily, and touched a furnace. His fingertips seared with pain, and he bit back a curse.
He got back to his feet and started running fast again, came round the far corner and turned left, saw Marta clearing the doors, out into the sunlight, quick but faltering, wheezing in the impure air. The Healer closed the gap, came close enough, and then slid along the ground beneath her, tripping her up, and she crashed to the ground.
His suit whined at his exertion levels and he struggled to calm his breathing, but he kept moving, crawling up and over her, pushed his hand into her neck, holding her hostage. Her eyes, dizzy and dazed, opened wide again, and she struggled, tried to get free.
She screamed out for help, but he ignored her, pulled the mask off her mouth; the falling ashes landed on her tongue, and she gagged, spat them out.
“Lewis Kwong,” he said.
She just stared, shook her head, terrified by the mask, he could tell. He gripped her neck, squeezed, and she whimpered.
“Lewis Kwong!” he roared.
She started to cry, nodded to him over and over again. He eased up on her, placed his burnt hand against her forehead and leaned in close. She met his goggled eyes, hysterical and terrified.
“Lewis,” he said. “Kwong.”
And she nodded again.
He got to his feet, grabbed her by the front of her jacket and pulled her up too, tossed her back onto her feet. He pointed back, out the gates, into the city. She nodded weakly.
“Lewis Kwong,” he said simply.
“P-P-Panská,” she stuttered, holding up ten, then two fingers. “Panská dvanáct.”
He repeated the words back to her, his pronunciation imperfect, but she nodded a terrified ‘yes’ to him, eyes wide with fear. He was so intent on the address that he very nearly missed the man to his right, swinging a fist at his head. He stepped back quickly, caught the arm and twisted it back and around, and the man fell to his knees quickly. The Healer hit him on the back of the head with his arm, and he fell unconscious. Marta yelped, backed away.
Three other men were closing in, ready to tackle him. He unsheathed his machete and lunged forward, grabbed Marta by the hair and flung himself around behind her, the blade to her neck. He pulled her head back and slid the weapon a bit to the side, cut her slightly, and her friends stopped.
He shook his head to them, slowly, carefully, and watched them. The two of them backed away towards the gate, encircled closely by the collection of workers, angling and shifting, waiting for the right moment to strike.
The Healer saw the chain link next to him, the fields beyond, knew he was nearly there. But then… the guard, the gun! He ducked quickly as the machine gun blasted Marta in the neck and head, sending her flailing forward. Without pause, the Healer spun round and embedded his machete in the guard’s neck so fast his dead body bounced off the gate before falling.
The Healer caught the gun and reared about, aiming at Marta’s friends, who were in shock at the sight of her lying on the ground, their own faces splattered with red. He backed up carefully, gun never wavering, and passed the gate, out onto the road, shaking his head slowly to those that would try and follow. None moved.
“Green Four to Home,” he said as his pace quickened along the main road. “I need directions.”
“Green Four, what—”
“Panská dvanáct,” he interrupted savagely. “Make sense of it and tell me how to find it. This ends now.”