Black Moon

  No. No. I kept running towards the tank, aware of Ingo beside me. We weren’t the only ones with weapons. I saw dozens clutching hunting rifles, and pistols that they might have once used for target practice.

  The only time I’d ever shot a weapon at someone was the dreamlike moment I’d killed Gunnison. The pistol felt cold in my grip.

  I vow to preserve the sanctity of life…

  The Peacefighting vow jolted through my brain along with my running footsteps. I gritted my teeth. I ducked into a shop doorway and fired on the first tank, trying for the thin slot of a window. I shot again, and again.

  Another missile whined away from the tank. It exploded in a mess of auto parts and people. The street shuddered; I cried out and staggered. Something landed at my feet: a hand. I saw a gold ring on it.

  Incredibly, few people stopped. Some of them swarmed the first tank, crawling over it like ants; a man yanked open its hood. The driver inside must have had a pistol – the man staggered and fell back, rolling down the tank’s steep shell.

  Others climbed onto the tank too, shouting. Smoke billowed past. When I could see again, a second man had reached the hood. He had a two-by-four and appeared to be bludgeoning the driver. Another tank fired; an auto blew up nearby. Its fender slammed into the crowd in front of me.

  Panic beat through me; fury; adrenalin. We have to win. We have to defeat them. I fought to reach a tank myself.

  Suddenly Ingo grabbed my arm. He pointed down a side street, shouting something I couldn’t hear.

  Troops were approaching – hundreds of them jogging towards us.

  “Fall back!” I shouted frantically, waving my arm.

  My words fell in a slight lull; some people heard and joined us. We raced across the street, weaving between parked autos, crouching behind them and firing as the troops spread out into the melee.

  The next few hours passed in a blur. When my pistol was empty of cartridges, I grabbed up a fallen rifle. The night-time streets were lit with the throb of neon signs – with burning autos and the flash of artillery fire.

  Somehow Ingo and I kept sight of each other. Even when we weren’t side by side, I kept an awareness of him. Once I thought I’d lost him – then I spotted him half a block away, shooting over a half-flattened taxicab. As if realizing he’d momentarily lost me too, he looked around and our eyes met.

  I went to join him, dashing between bursts of bullets. The sidewalk was buckled and torn. I slumped beside him, panting. The ruined taxicab had been number 55, I saw disjointedly.

  “How’s your leg?” Ingo asked without looking at me.

  “Sore. A cane wouldn’t be too practical right now though.”

  “Lean on me if you need to.” He shot again.

  All too soon, I’d run out of ammunition. The adrenalin abandoned me too, just when I needed it most, leaving me with only fear and a trembling resolve. By midnight, the Shadowcars had arrived – seemingly hundreds of them, clogging the already-filled streets.

  Guns strode into the crowd, attacking people with blackjacks, shoving them into the backs of vans. Some of the Guns went down, but as the night went on it seemed like a smaller and smaller number. Grey uniforms were everywhere.

  Worse, they had some sort of hand-held explosives they were throwing: small black things, dimpled like pineapples. Some new device of Kay Pierce’s – maybe one that she was producing in those factories of hers. Explosions rumbled through the night, brilliant orange against the shadows.

  We’re losing, I thought in despair.

  Jean Buzet had been going to make his way to the docks and radio the waiting ships once the Guns were drawn to the northern tip of the island. That should have been hours ago.

  “Where the hell’s World United?” I gasped out to Ingo. “Why aren’t we hearing bridges being blown up?”

  Ingo shook his head. We were crouching behind a restaurant at that point, peering out from behind a row of trash cans. He’d run out of ammo too by then.

  “I wish I fucking knew,” he said, his thin form rigid. “Jean seemed to know what he was talking about. That’s the only consolation I have at this point.”

  He was almost trembling. His shadowy figure swiped a fist over his jaw. I shot a glance at him. What’s wrong? I almost asked. I bit the words back; they were ridiculous. What wasn’t wrong?

  Another explosion came from close by, lighting the trash cans orange. In the brief glow, we saw a group of Guns approaching at a jog. Ingo swore and grabbed my arm. We scurried down another alleyway. I longed for a friendly tunnel entrance to appear, but there were none this far north.

  Ingo and I and a small group of others kept having to retreat, back and back – until finally we found ourselves in Little France, a quiet, village-like neighbourhood on the island’s very northern tip.

  The houses here were small, made of thick grey stone. Ingo had said once that it reminded him of his home village near Florence. Most of its residents had been found Discordant – many of the houses were vacant, their windows like empty eyes.

  We couldn’t tell if the Guns were purposefully following us, or just securing the sector. “Much further and we’ll be trapped,” I whispered to Ingo. My pulse was slamming against my throat. Little France had an ancient wall around it, too high to climb.

  “I think we may be already,” said Ingo, glancing furtively over his shoulder. “Shit. More of them. Quick, in here.”

  He started for an archway that led to a courtyard. We both ducked back, scrambling, as pistol fire broke out. The group that had been loosely travelling with us had darted in a different direction. The Guns had opened fire on them.

  “Run,” I panted. “We’ve no choice.”

  Ingo grabbed my hand and we pounded through the archway. The world bucked as an explosion came from right behind us, briefly illuminating the buildings ahead.

  We went sprawling. I yelped as I hit the cobblestones. Another explosion came, from in front of us this time. I covered my head as rubble pattered around us.

  Darkness fell again, along with an eerie deceptive silence – back there in the shadows, the Guns weren’t far away. I sat up hastily, struggling to see in the gloom. Ingo lay prone a few feet away.

  He wasn’t moving.

  My heart seemed to stop. I scrambled over. “Ingo! Ingo!” I gripped his shoulder, shook it. “Please, please…”

  He stirred. “I’m all right – just banged my head,” he mumbled.

  The relief was overwhelming. He staggered as I helped him to his feet.

  A metallic clink came from nearby. The dimpled shape looked innocuous against the shadows as it rolled to a stop beside a bakery.

  “Hurry!” Ingo gasped.

  With our arms around each other’s shoulders, we half-lurched, half-dived into the nearest stone cottage. Its windows had been blown out. Rubble lay everywhere; dust clogged the air. The bakery went with a dull, violent whumpf – the glow briefly lit the square as debris rained down.

  Another explosion thundered. I held back a cry as we were flung against a wall.

  Ingo grabbed me, wrapped his arms around me tightly. The world rocked again; part of the ceiling collapsed with a groaning wrench. The sound of cascading rocks and rubble roared in our ears.

  Ingo’s head was ducked against mine – our hearts beat wildly together.

  As silence settled, for a confused moment I thought we’d died, and were in some dark, dusty afterlife.

  Then footsteps came in a rhythmic tread that sounded both bored and determined.

  “Will you stop wasting those?” said a voice.

  “Hey, new toy…hope we’ll still get to use them, once we get the scum under control.”

  A blast rumbled from the opposite end of the square, as if the Gun had whirled and flung another device. A whooping laugh.

  “You moron,” said the first voice.

  I flinched as light erupted in the cottage. A bright spotlight shone in, illuminating the worn stone wall at the back. A blackened paintin
g of a seascape hung on it, I saw wildly.

  The spotlight started to move.

  Ingo and I were near the front wall. The light glided slowly towards us, showing rubble, broken chairs, fallen ceiling beams. As it angled through a deep-set window, a dark shadow was cast over our corner. We cringed into it.

  Trembling, I pressed my face against Ingo’s neck. His arms tightened around me as his pulse drummed. I could smell his sweat, with the clean, spicy scent of his skin just underneath.

  “No shard of glass this time.” His mouth moved against my ear, the words barely audible.

  “No,” I murmured back. The thought came – confused, inarticulate – that it didn’t matter, as long as Ingo was here.

  The light licked at the edge of our shadowy corner. It vanished, then swept the opposite wall.

  “Anything?”

  “Not sure. Thought I saw someone running through the square before.”

  I kept motionless, my blood pounding.

  Ingo’s lips stayed on my ear. His breathing ruffled against me: harsh, too-fast. Even through the fear, my heart quickened as his mouth moved slightly – an almost-kiss, tentative against my earlobe.

  Had I only imagined it? As the thought flickered past, my mouth moved of its own accord, pressing against his neck in return.

  He shivered. We both froze as the footsteps came closer, pausing only a few feet away. Ingo’s hand found the back of my neck; he pressed me protectively against him. I tried not to breathe. I slipped my arms tightly around his waist.

  The light briefly whipped around the cottage again.

  “Well?”

  “Nah, don’t think so – it’s all collapsed.”

  “Thanks to me.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  The footsteps moved away.

  I was shaking, my mouth still against Ingo’s neck. This was insane. I didn’t care. I pressed my lips to his skin again, lingeringly, feeling the beat of his pulse – the same place where I’d once held a shard of glass.

  It was as if another explosion had gone off. Ingo buried his hands in my hair and lifted my head. When our mouths met, it was wild, fierce, hungry.

  I shuddered and wrapped my arms around his neck, stretching up to meet him as we kissed silently, frantically – felt his arms around me, one hand still buried in my hair, the other roaming my spine, clutching me to him.

  We jerked apart as the voices floated back. Breathing hard, Ingo held my head to his chest – poised, listening.

  “Okay, let’s check the next square. This whole section’s walled anyway; we’ve got it sealed off. If we’ve missed someone, we’ll get them at daybreak.”

  A laugh. “Yeah, let the vermin sweat. I heard we’re not even going to take ’em in – we’re just doing a mass hanging tomorrow. Give them something to think about instead of that fucking flag.”

  The footsteps faded, taking with them the dim glow of the flashlights.

  Darkness. Silence. I was sickened by what I had wrought. The image of a mass hanging flashed into my mind. No. I couldn’t think about it.

  But if this was my last night, I knew what I wanted.

  Ingo’s long fingers stroked through my hair again, bringing my head back to his. I was already craning towards him.

  Our kisses were even more frantic than before. His lips were warm, slightly rough. I could feel the crinkled mass of his scar to one side, the dryness of his mouth there. I didn’t care.

  Ingo.

  I ran my fingers again and again through his chaotic curls. Still kissing me, he dipped his knees and rose – his hands stroked up the backs of my thighs, under my dress, gripped my buttocks.

  I felt drunk. I pushed his jacket off his shoulders.

  “Here,” I gasped.

  I pulled him to the uneven floor with me. He cleared it of rubble with a swipe of his arm and then drew me back to him, our mouths hardly leaving each other.

  I wanted his clothes off but didn’t want to take the time. I tugged his shirt from his trousers – ran my palms over the long smoothness of his back. The feel of his skin was breathtaking.

  Almost roughly, Ingo rolled on top of me. His body was lean and firm; the warm weight of him felt just as I’d imagined so many times. He kissed my mouth, my cheeks, my neck.

  “Amity…Amity…” he murmured. One hand caressed my breast. I caught my breath and held it in place, my fingers linking with his as our hands circled together.

  Knowing the Guns could return any second heightened everything – like flying combat. Shivering, I reached for his belt buckle. Ingo raised himself up and helped me, fumbling with his flies. I stroked him, and he gasped out loud.

  He touched my cheek in the darkness. “Are you sure?” he whispered hoarsely.

  I felt electric, every nerve ending alive. I kept caressing him, feeling his hardness, the vulnerable silkiness of his skin. I turned my head and kissed his fingers.

  “Yes – yes,” I muttered back. “Ingo, please… I want you…”

  He moved quickly, adjusting me. I lifted my hips as he tugged my underwear free. Neither of us undressed more than that. I gasped as he entered me.

  It was over in minutes. The feel of him as we moved together – his back flexing under my clenching hands – Ingo…oh, Ingo…

  From somewhere distant, I heard myself cry out as he jerked against me a final time – held himself there, shuddering.

  I swallowed in the sudden silence, dazed. We were both breathing hard. Though Ingo had stopped moving, his muscles stayed taut.

  For a long moment, neither of us stirred. Emotion robbed me of speech. I touched the good side of his face in the darkness, gently exploring its long planes and angles. I knew it so well that I didn’t have to see him to picture every dip, every curve.

  Finally Ingo withdrew. I heard him adjust himself – the sound of him doing up his flies. Without a word, he pulled me tightly into his arms. He pressed his lips against my temple and then kept his head against mine, his body still tense. He was shivering.

  “Here,” I murmured. I shifted, pulling his jacket over us, and rubbed my hands over his arms.

  “I’m not cold,” he whispered. “I just…” He trailed off.

  I thought I understood. I unbuttoned his shirt and slipped my arms around his waist; pressed myself against his bare chest. He clutched me to him.

  Neither of us spoke. Soft chest hairs tickled my cheek. I stroked his back, gradually starting to feel drowsy, despite everything. A deep sense of rightness filled me. It was like that time on the deli roof, only now there was no fear.

  Slowly, I felt Ingo relax a little too. His breathing became regular, gently stirring my hair. His arms were warm around me.

  We fell asleep that way, with the distant sound of explosions still thudding.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I jolted awake with the confused sense of thunder – a low, fierce rumbling that shuddered the walls of the stone cottage.

  The stone cottage.

  It all came back, feeling like a dream. As the thunder faded I sat up slowly, Ingo’s jacket sliding off me onto the dusty floor.

  Ingo stood at the broken window with his back to me. A greyish dawn lit the room. His back looked straight and stiff. His fist tapped the sill.

  Still feeling disoriented, I watched its movement. I started to speak and then gasped as another drumming of thunder came, so close that it sounded like we were inside it.

  Then I realized there was no rain.

  The bridges. I scrambled up and went to Ingo’s side, gripping the stone sill and craning to peer towards the river.

  “World United?” I gasped.

  He nodded, gazing in the same direction. “Must be. That’s two of the bridges now.”

  I let out a quick, ragged breath. “Oh, thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.” I had no idea who I was even thanking. One of the old gods, perhaps, that the world used to believe in.

  “And listen,” said Ingo quietly.

  I strained to
hear, leaning out the window into the pre-dawn. Auto horns honking – cheers. Distantly, a burst of gunfire came too. A victorious firing-off, or some of the Guns still hanging on?

  It almost didn’t matter. World United were liberating the island. We were no longer alone here, battling this regime by ourselves. I gave a short, weak laugh, slumping against the sill.

  “So Mr Buzet wasn’t full of hot air after all,” I said.

  Ingo cleared his throat. “No. I didn’t think he was.”

  A silence fell. Ingo’s shirt hung open over his chest. Remembering unbuttoning it the night before, heat swept me – that feeling of rightness again.

  Pressing close, I hugged his slim waist and kissed his collarbone. “We’ve got a lot to celebrate this morning,” I murmured, lifting my face to his.

  Ingo went very still. For a moment I thought he was going to touch my hair. Then he turned away and swiped a hand over his jaw.

  “Amity…”

  All at once my breath felt painfully suspended. “What?”

  There was a long pause. Finally he exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t do this right now,” he said softly.

  “Do what?”

  “This. Us. I’m sorry.”

  My mouth had gone dry. “What do you mean?”

  Ingo let his hand fall. His tone was hoarse. “Can we talk about this tomorrow, please?”

  “No, we’ll talk about it right now! Ingo, what—”

  “I just…I need some time to process this, all right? Please – can I have that?”

  Prickly heat swept my cheeks. I stared at him. “You wish we hadn’t,” I whispered.

  He ran a fist over his mouth and didn’t respond.

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Answer me!”

  Ingo pulled away; his voice rose. “Tomorrow, Amity! For fuck’s sake, give me a little breathing space—”

  “Oh, sorry if I’m crowding you! You made love to me! We had sex – right there! And now…what? It was all a mistake?”

  “I don’t know!” Ingo slumped against the sill, massaging his temples. “I don’t know. Oh, hell…”

  In the long silence that followed, another distant explosion came – the Gunnison Memorial Bridge, maybe.