Chapter 19
~ Bridge to Nowhere ~
It had him in its grip. A phantom weight pressing on his belly.
While his mind floated in a sea of unformed thoughts, somewhere in the murk, an image appeared. Fingers digging deep, pressing down. And down. Flattening him. Squeezing out breath, blood, and everything that made him real. Until there was only skin. And the sensation of being all alone.
He was alone. Profoundly so. They had all left him. Had they ever even been here? Now, he lay in the void. His figure shapeless. The afterimage of a child. And not even that—because what child had no parents? No one to take care of him? He was just a thing now.
The sensation sharpened. It was pain. Rhythmic bursts radiated through him from his side. He let his consciousness follow it. All the way back to himself until his eyelids peeled open, unwillingly. They were ready to greet the world.
But there was only greyness. A vast expanse of it had replaced the sky. And there was a smell; strong, pungent, and almost physical, as if iron had turned into liquid and was pouring from his lungs.
As the blueless sky turned above him, sound finally reached him. A ringing at first, fading slowly—a bird flying away screaming. Then, a vibration. Deeper. The song of a million voices swelling all around him.
And in the current, a word.
“Kid.”
It dragged him back to the blunt reality. He was Milo. And Milo could have flinched. But his body refused, locked in place. Only his eyes moved, drifting downward to the thing crushing his ribs. A box, heavy and black. Sitting on him like a sleeping bear.
He pushed against it, weakly at first. Then harder. His elbows trembling beneath him. That’s when he saw it. The streak of crimson curling down his right arm and onto his hand. It was warm. He knew where it had come from before even touching his face. He tried wiping it away from his nose with the back of his hand. But there was more than he expected. Sticky. Smearing across his skin instead of disappearing.
Milo would take care of the ursid first.
It resisted, but the box tumbled off him after a few attempts. It struck the metal floor, and his breath came easier. And the voice spoke again.
“Kid, can you help me?”
The words pushed through layers of something thick; they came out wet and croaking. Milo’s head tilted up. It was the one responsible for their current situation. The driver. Dangling above him, the seatbelt biting into his chest.
Milo rose slowly, standing up in the middle of the sideway van.
He didn’t feel like helping. Not at all. He would rather leave now.
His bag lay limp on the metal; the men who had taken it from him sprawled around the wreck. They didn’t look ready to bother Milo anytime soon. That was a relief. His fingers found the strap and swung the bag over his shoulder. His eyes wandered outside the van, past the open doors and onto the street. Two silhouettes were shrinking as they ran away from the crash site. Keira and her friend. Clark? Or maybe it was Mark?
In any case, Milo didn’t care. Keira could leave. He would do the same. Because the chorus outside was growing louder, and Milo knew what it meant. So he took a step forward, making his way to the back of the vehicle. But the driver seemed bothered by it.
“No, wait! Kid! Don’t leave me here— I need help!”
But he wasn’t a kid anymore. Not a thing either. No. He was Milo. And Milo wasn’t one to help people who were mean. He dropped outside and slipped towards the nearest quiet alley—where the tumbling people weren’t emerging. He didn’t look back. Milo knew what he’d see and he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t want to be here for what came next. And if he disappeared quickly enough, he’d escape unharmed.
Except for the bleeding in his nose.
The driver kept yelling. That was the way of it. At least, it would serve as a distraction; they would enjoy it. Not long after, as Milo reached the shadow of a building, a sound came: glass breaking apart. A struggle and muffled grunts. And then, like boots sinking into mud. Or perhaps a fruit being crunched on. Something wet and tearing. The driver screamed now. His voice so much higher and desperate. But it didn’t last long. He choked mid-breath, and a swallow replaced the scream. A gurgle. Something big making its way down a constricted throat.
Milo’s skin prickled.
Yet he wasn’t scared. He wasn’t scared at all. Men were scarier. They lied. They hurt you without needing a reason.
Unpredictable.
Now, they wouldn’t bother him. Not anymore.
A figure shifted ahead. He had been so fixed on the sound, so focused on leaving, that he had forgotten to watch out. It was someone tall. A woman. Long black hair spilling over a scarlet tunic. But her face was hidden. Behind the snow-white mask, her eyes moved, locking onto him.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Milo.”
Indeed, he was Milo. And she knew his name.
Damn them all.
Keira’s patience was nearing its limit. The grenades spun ahead, spilling their white gas, and she wished the masked idiot was there. She’d show him just how dangerous she could be.
But he wasn’t. So she’d settle for the next best thing: breaking a few bones.
She donned her own mask. Less dramatic than his, probably, but this one would make sure she’d breathe. Her fingers curled around the grip of her weapons, pried from her belt. Two bludgeons. Simple enough, but they made easy work—for her, at least—of most things with bones to break.
She and Lark had been fast enough to get away from the horde, but blinded as they were by the fumes, the faster ones would be on them soon. And there was the question of the Children. They hadn’t gone through all this trouble to sit idly.
Why had they gone through all this trouble? She wondered. But sounds of the infected drawing near took priority.
Bursting from smoke, the first one lunged at them, eyes still holding onto some colour. Keira sidestepped rightward, letting him stumble before slamming the left bludgeon deep inside the back of his neck. A crack was just the thing she had expected, and the corpse fell like a puppet with no strings.
Lark was busy with another, so she got ready to deal with the next mass of limbs. Already, a female with clothes similar to Keira’s came towards her. Probably a victim of the recent attacks. No matter. The idle bludgeon found its way through the skull, popping outwards in a splash of red.
Scavengers or not, they all die the same.
Keira wasn’t worried. As long as there weren’t too many of the fresh ones, they would be able to escape the sightless. In two efficient swings, two more dropped dead. For good this time. And one more. And then many more. Already, the bludgeons were coated in clotted blood and brain matter—growing heavier with every kill.
But she had lost sight of Lark.
When she turned around to search for him, she saw them in the haze. Redscarves. They were there, after all. A blade shone in her direction, and she dodged it in time. But the teenager didn’t. A cry of pain escaped him as his forearm shattered.
She ended it fast. Both bludgeons shoved into the frontal lobe; a pity he’d never see it fully developed, but it was a cleaner death than most.
Keira exhaled, ready to deal with the next inconvenience, when she realised the sound of the engine she’d grown used to had gone.
Whoever it had carried this way, they were close now.
At the sight of the crashed van, she had gone like a hound on a scent. Jumping through the smoke before he could call her name. Instinct told him to hang back, to assess first. But it seems instinct had never met Victoria.
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Alek abandoned his beloved motorcycle in the nearest alley, hoping it would be left alone, and sprinted after the impatient hero. Axe at the ready. He wasn’t sure what all this mess was about, but something definitely felt wrong.
His right hand reached for the gas mask and slipped it over his head. After he had gotten Victoria out of this suboptimal situation, maybe he’d take the time to customise the right lens into a patch. But there were more pressing matters at hand.
The white welcomed him in its cold embrace. Alek exhaled softly.
He let the weapon guide him—the muscle memory drive its strikes. What better thing to do than rely on your body when your vision had failed you? The experience of endless struggles surged through him. Guiding his steps. Lending him strength. The steel met muscle and bone, and Alek felt alive.
He was good at it. More than most. Probably because he had stopped seeing people behind the veil of rot. Stopped caring. They were only corpses now, and all this—merely target practice. The fast ones were dangerous, sure. They could still see, still jump, still fight. But in the fog, they were all equals. Blinded and driven by rage. And his burned hotter, fuelled by skill and anchored in wit.
His boots skidded over the concrete as he spun again and again, making quick work of the runners. Until the fight ultimately left him.
Like a candle snuffed out, all his will evaporated. Alek stood frozen, weapon half-raised, staring ahead. He was left numb in front of an enemy more than a target. A little boy. Wide, terrified eyes. The knife in his hands quivering. Useless. The boy was barely a threat to him, but Alek’s body refused, caught in a limbo where killing suddenly became as hard as the first time he had done it. He would never forget it. The look in his friend’s eyes as he had put an end to suffering.
The air shifted. An infected took form from the smoke, bare feet slapping against the ground. The child broke the gaze barely in time before the creature crashed into him. His frail body folding under the weight.
Alek moved faster than his thoughts.
The leather of his boot sank deep into the infected’s side, sending it rolling across the rocky floor. It snarled with the impact and caught himself up. But Alek was already there. The Pulaski came down with its own will, biting deep into sinews and meat. Tearing itself free before burying again. And again.
It seemed never to stop.
His grip burned, his muscles twisted. The wooden handle was slick in his hand, but he kept going. He carved and butchered and struck concrete. It didn’t matter that the thing had stopped moving. Alek still hungered. His breath sawed in and out of his chest, thick with something wild.
Eventually, the weight of the axe pulled him out of his frenzy.
The worst thing was the silence. Not the dead thing’s—the boy’s. He hadn’t moved. He lay where he had fallen, his face frozen in a kind of horror they all knew so well.
The look of someone who had just seen a monster.
Please let him be safe.
Victoria’s only demand. The singular thought thrumming in her head as she barrelled through the dense clouds. Evil swayed within, writhing in her way, just past the foggy lens of her mask. They had lurched into her path more than once, but she hadn’t slowed. She didn’t care for a fight as long as she could elude them. Every second counted. She had to reach the crash site.
It was the sight at the other end that made her breath itch. Something even worse than death greeting her.
A wall of undead.
Rows upon rows of them, shambling bodies pressed together. Bone-white eyes rolled in sunken sockets. Teeth clicking in a hungry rhythm. Some clawed at the ground, dragging themselves with blackened fingers. Others clambered over their own kind in a ceaseless, mindless chase.
They would join the fight in minutes. But Victoria didn’t care, for the van had been swallowed whole within them.
No.
The word pounded through her veins, beating in sync with her pulse. No, no, no. It couldn’t be.
She took a step forward, but the truth was plain to see. No path would be carved through the writhing mass. No heavenly way to reach the wreckage buried behind maws and limbs. She couldn’t even see inside. See if he was there.
Milo. Had he—?
No. He surely had gotten out. He was smart. He had to be out. The thought was all she had. She latched onto it, turned on her heel and threw herself back into the smoke.
It clung to her. Thick and suffocating. It coiled around her throat and burned her lungs even as she breathed through the filters. Every flicker of movement became a possibility. Every shifting shadow, another maybe. She sprinted left, then right, the world twisting around her.
“Milo!”
He had to be there. Somewhere.
There! A small figure, a flash of red, the scarf catching on the wind. It fluttered like a signal. Her legs carried her forward before she even realised it. Her hands fell on his shoulders.
“Oh, Milo, I—”
He spun. The words died in her throat.
Not Milo.
The realisation barely had time to take root before something else did. It cut across her vision. A cylindrical blur of hardened steel and a dull crack. The boy’s body folded sideways before she heard the impact. He struck the concrete—eyes wide with shock, but the life already gone.
Behind him, a hulking form appeared.
It was a beast of anger. She stood taller than Victoria, with shoulders twice as broad and her presence crackling with power. Dark curls framed a face hewn from stone, expression unreadable behind a black mask. She breathed like a predator that had run down its prey and savoured the chase. In each massive paw, a bludgeon spun, slick with blood.
The first raindrops fell at that moment—cold, barely there—but enough to stir the mist.
“What do we have here?”
The sultry voice rumbled with malice. “You seem a little old to be a Child.”
Victoria’s fingers closed around her own weapon. A blade against clubs. A knife to a stick fight. But the favour wasn’t sure. She didn’t even know why she should fight.
“Wait, who are you?” she asked, springing on her feet.
A strike. Steel whooshed past her ribs, missing by an inch.
“Name’s Keira,” her adversary snarled through the rain. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll be dead soon, unfortunately.”
A guttural moan rose nearby, an infected dragging its feet towards them. Keira barely spared it a glance. One swing, a wet crack, and the creature crumpled.
Good. Let her tire herself out. Questions can come later.
Keira stepped into Victoria’s space, forcing her back. “Are you going to stop dancing, pretty girl?”
“Why would I even fight you?” Victoria escaped another blow.
Keira rolled her shoulders in answer. The rain thickened, washing the last wisps of fog away. Victoria exhaled sharply and ripped the mask from her face.
That’s when she saw him. Alek. On the other side of a group of infected, brawling with a young man whose mouth was hidden behind a scarlet bandana. But there was another one creeping closer. Blade in hand and ready to stab. Right in Alek’s blind spot.
Victoria’s choice was made. She sprung forward, twisting her grip on the knife.
A blur shot past her face.
Annoying little thing. Her assailant wasn’t ready to give up.
“Where are you going so soon, squirrel?”
Victoria stopped inches from her chest. “Move.”
Keira smirked, letting her gas mask fall on the ground. “Make me.”
The knife felt right in Victoria’s grip. She spun it once, letting the weight settle.
Fine.
Keira came fast, aiming for her ribs again, but Victoria was already pivoting. She dipped low, blade arcing sideward. The edge tore across Keira’s obliques. Not deep enough.
A grin flashed through the downpour as Keira pressed forward, forcing Victoria to weave between strikes. But Victoria was faster. Better. She slipped through the onslaught like water around rock.
The knife spun between her fingers, flicking outward to slash. It was only a matter of creating an opening. A single breath. Just a brief moment to escape.
Thus, Victoria feinted left, then dropped low, her blade carving into Keira’s thigh. Momentum carried her forward. A sharp turn. A step through.
She was out.
Her focus locked ahead, past the group of infected. She barely saw them. The only thing that mattered was to help her endangered friend. But her race was cut short.
One of the dead stood in her path. Black hair clung to a pallid face, rain traced hollowed cheeks. But it was the eyes that halted her. Almond-shaped and chestnut brown. They looked almost…
A wrenching force tore her backwards by the neck, fingers curled around her collar. The ground slammed into her spine as she was sent rolling across the concrete. Pain flared. Victoria gasped, lifting her head back up.
Beyond Keira and the dead, Alek screamed. Blood dripped from his back where the blade tore free. Through the rain, blurred figures closed in. The one clad with a bandana. Another with a crowbar. And the boy with the knife. Alek struggled onto hands and knees. He crumpled under another hit. Hands seized his arms, pinning him down.
Victoria lurched forward, a desperate, wordless cry tearing from her throat—
But pain exploded in her chest. Keira’s boot had found its way deep into her thorax. Her breath was crushed from her lungs, and she lay pinned to the ground like a broken thing.
“It’s between you and I, little squirrel.”
Through the curtains of flesh and water, she watched them restrain Alek. Saw his body bow under another blow.
And then she saw a bright orange glare bathe the scene. A burst of light, fire, and force split the air apart.
BOOM.
She watched it unfold on Keira’s face. The explosion reflected in the pupils, flickering like a dying star. The shockwave rolled over them. Keira stumbled backwards, arms raised instinctively.
An opening.
Victoria was on her feet and striking. Her blade driven into Keira’s abdomen, slipping past fabric and flesh. Heat rushed over Victoria’s knuckles, and for a second, she sensed the woman tense beneath her grip. The tremor of a body locking up. The thunk of a bludgeon hitting the ground.
Still, Keira shoved Victoria back with all her might, a grunt tearing from her gullet.
This time, it was a fist that came crashing to Victoria’s side, where her wound had hardly scarred. The force sent pain coursing through her whole body. Keira was on her before she could breathe, teeth bared in animal fury.
They both tumbled to the ground, limbs tangled on the wet stone as they rolled. Victoria fought with everything she had. Clawing at Keira’s face. Driving a knee into her stomach.
Her breath exploded outward every time Keira retaliated.
Victoria’s blade had slipped in the melee, and she fought now with the energy of despair. Every movement met resistance. Every inch was won with pain.
Keira constricted her arms around Victoria’s waist and slammed her into the ground. A jolt of agony. Their faces inches apart; eyes burning with fury. Her assailant’s blood smeared across her body.
Keira braced an arm near Victoria’s shoulder and drove forward, forehead colliding with Victoria’s skull. The impact sent a myriad of stars bursting behind her eyes. But they kept moving—rolling and fighting. Their throes bringing them closer to the river’s edge, the rushing water lost beneath their own echoes.
Victoria spat and twisted, rolling free in a desperate bid to break away. She hit the ground, planted a palm, forced herself up despite the fire in her nerves.
Keira was faster, already on her feet. Two fists slammed into Victoria’s back.
She lurched forward, but Keira seized her arm and wrenched. The pain was instant, searing and tearing. Victoria staggered—
The ground was no longer there.
She was falling. Keira’s grip slipped onto rain and blood along her arm. No one was there to catch her. Alek’s presence was gone. Milo’s life taken.
The water rushed up. And she hit it. Swallowed by a wave and sinking. The buildings stretched up into jagged angles, and the whole world twisted. She saw Keira’s silhouette above, and in the distance, the sky swirled in crimson and black.
Pieces of a bridge collapsed into the water, following her into the depths.
***
As usual next week will mark a pause before the beginning of Part 3. But rest assured that I have some surprise waiting for you in the mean time. (And of course a new cover in the works)
What to expect in Part 3
- See factions fall and rise in a brutal fight for information, power and land
- Explore the darkest corners of the world where the infection has become much more than a mere disease
- Continue your search for answers as the mysteries of Noxhold, the infection and an event that threatens everything reveals themselves to you
If this sounds intriguing, join us each week on Friday at 18:00 (GMT +2) for a new chapter of Whimpers of the Light.
As you may or may not have noticed the last few weeks I've posted chapters on a friday instead of the usual wednesday. I'm not sure if this is something that will stay but I've found that when my day-to-day is more hectic a friday release is more manageable. This is why I will probably keep on experimenting with friday releases going forward with Part 3.
So before Part 3 begins, please feel free to tell me what works best for you! Even though I still might do my own thing, it's always valuable knowledge.
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