Brink (The Ruin Saga Book 2) Read Online Free
Author: Harry Manners
free. He wiped the blood from his eyes.
They were sacking the observatory nearby, hauling out the last of those barricaded inside like hounds rooting foxes from a run. Those who blabbered and begged were shot or hacked to the ground. Those who fought back were knocked out cold and thrown on the grass beside Max and the other captives.
Charlie stood over them, unscathed. He and the wolfish man had vanished before he had ever reached his gun, even with his limp. “You people and your pride,” he said and spat at Max’s feet.
“Just finish it,” Max growled.
“Finish?” Charlie grinned, and Max saw a shadow of the wolfish man’s leer buried somewhere behind it, an infectious inner madness that seemed to radiate from every one of these creatures. “Nah. You people have a reputation for being real tough bastards, and you put up a hell of a fight. You’ve got the spark He wants. You’re all with us now.”
Max looked at the others beside him in the grass. He expected them to be veterans, nail-hard folk from before the End. But instead, most of them were young, some only kids. Among them he spotted Radley Tibble, snot nosed and whimpering in the grass, clutching a ragged strip of his mother’s dress, one end charred, the other dripping red.
They didn’t deserve this. He knew what it was like to lose everyone you loved in the blink of an eye. Better if they had all died down there with their families. His mental switch flickered on and off, and a wrenching twist was working into his guts. “Who’s He?” he said.
Charlie stepped aside, and another figure took his position—a tall man with a balaclava tied around his face. A pair of wood pigeons bobbed on one shoulder, cooing and cocking their heads to watch the smouldering wreckage below. The man’s striking green eyes lanced into him. He felt like a pincushion, speared by that gaze.
I know those eyes , Max thought. But no, it can’t be . “You can burn our homes, but you can’t take away what we are. We’re free. We’ll never fight beside you pigs, so get it over with.”
The tall man stepped forward and loosened the balaclava, letting it fall to one side. A few of the kids cried out at the maw revealed in the virgin light. Even Max repressed a grimace. It was hard to believe he was alive; there was so much scar tissue, so much shrunken, retracted flesh, exposed membrane and muscle. Patches of bare skull showed in a few spots around where the cheeks and chin should have been.
“It’s been a long time, Vandeborn,” he said.
“James …” Then Max could only shake his head, speechless for the first time in memory.
The fires of Twingo were dying low, and the last survivors were being thrown down on the grass. The flock of victors—filthy, stick-thin and stinking—gathered around the gutted observatory, surrounding their prey on all sides.
But Max scarcely noticed anyone but the tall man before him. Eventually, he found his voice again. “What happened to you?”
He didn’t answer, just turned and pointed east. The pigeons cooed, cocking their heads, as though following the line of sight drawn out by his arm. Max’s eyes followed it too, and his gaze fell upon the horizon. Glistening in the early morning haze, amidst the sagging ruin of London, was the single lit spire in Canary Wharf.
PART 3 – THE PIGEON KEEPER
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
—Plato
Every man gotta right to decide his own destiny.
—Bob Marley
CHAPTER 1
“Geoffrey, get down!” Alexander Cain bellowed.
A hundred other warnings joined his own, but they came too late. The line of dark figures holed up on the mezzanine of the old skyscraper had already snaked their rifle barrels into view. Before the members of the ambassadorial convoy from Bristol could raise their heads, three dozen muzzle flashes winked in the gleaming midday heat.
The first volley killed Geoffrey Oppenheimer’s son and his two nieces, along with three of his other
They were sacking the observatory nearby, hauling out the last of those barricaded inside like hounds rooting foxes from a run. Those who blabbered and begged were shot or hacked to the ground. Those who fought back were knocked out cold and thrown on the grass beside Max and the other captives.
Charlie stood over them, unscathed. He and the wolfish man had vanished before he had ever reached his gun, even with his limp. “You people and your pride,” he said and spat at Max’s feet.
“Just finish it,” Max growled.
“Finish?” Charlie grinned, and Max saw a shadow of the wolfish man’s leer buried somewhere behind it, an infectious inner madness that seemed to radiate from every one of these creatures. “Nah. You people have a reputation for being real tough bastards, and you put up a hell of a fight. You’ve got the spark He wants. You’re all with us now.”
Max looked at the others beside him in the grass. He expected them to be veterans, nail-hard folk from before the End. But instead, most of them were young, some only kids. Among them he spotted Radley Tibble, snot nosed and whimpering in the grass, clutching a ragged strip of his mother’s dress, one end charred, the other dripping red.
They didn’t deserve this. He knew what it was like to lose everyone you loved in the blink of an eye. Better if they had all died down there with their families. His mental switch flickered on and off, and a wrenching twist was working into his guts. “Who’s He?” he said.
Charlie stepped aside, and another figure took his position—a tall man with a balaclava tied around his face. A pair of wood pigeons bobbed on one shoulder, cooing and cocking their heads to watch the smouldering wreckage below. The man’s striking green eyes lanced into him. He felt like a pincushion, speared by that gaze.
I know those eyes , Max thought. But no, it can’t be . “You can burn our homes, but you can’t take away what we are. We’re free. We’ll never fight beside you pigs, so get it over with.”
The tall man stepped forward and loosened the balaclava, letting it fall to one side. A few of the kids cried out at the maw revealed in the virgin light. Even Max repressed a grimace. It was hard to believe he was alive; there was so much scar tissue, so much shrunken, retracted flesh, exposed membrane and muscle. Patches of bare skull showed in a few spots around where the cheeks and chin should have been.
“It’s been a long time, Vandeborn,” he said.
“James …” Then Max could only shake his head, speechless for the first time in memory.
The fires of Twingo were dying low, and the last survivors were being thrown down on the grass. The flock of victors—filthy, stick-thin and stinking—gathered around the gutted observatory, surrounding their prey on all sides.
But Max scarcely noticed anyone but the tall man before him. Eventually, he found his voice again. “What happened to you?”
He didn’t answer, just turned and pointed east. The pigeons cooed, cocking their heads, as though following the line of sight drawn out by his arm. Max’s eyes followed it too, and his gaze fell upon the horizon. Glistening in the early morning haze, amidst the sagging ruin of London, was the single lit spire in Canary Wharf.
PART 3 – THE PIGEON KEEPER
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
—Plato
Every man gotta right to decide his own destiny.
—Bob Marley
CHAPTER 1
“Geoffrey, get down!” Alexander Cain bellowed.
A hundred other warnings joined his own, but they came too late. The line of dark figures holed up on the mezzanine of the old skyscraper had already snaked their rifle barrels into view. Before the members of the ambassadorial convoy from Bristol could raise their heads, three dozen muzzle flashes winked in the gleaming midday heat.
The first volley killed Geoffrey Oppenheimer’s son and his two nieces, along with three of his other
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