The Reap

Chapter One

Silence. It's the first thing that greets me when I enter the tunnel. The air is heavy with humidity, making my clothes cling uncomfortably to my skin. It reeks of sewage and garbage. The curved cement walls are covered in untamed moss and vines. Stagnant water flows in a straight trail throughout the tunnel's length. Sunlight only reaches a few feet before being engulfed in darkness. My eyes strain to adjust as I take a few careful steps ahead. The silence is unbroken; it unsettles me. I grip the strap of my rifle and tug on it, making the weapon slide in front of me and into my awaiting hands. My finger wraps around the trigger instinctively. The only sounds within my earshot are the sloshing of my feet against the water and my uneven breathing.

The darkness begins to envelop me, and I have to resist the urge to bring out a flashlight. Light attracts Hollow Ones. A few minutes tick by, and I can no longer even see my arms just a few inches in front of me. I can feel my eyes stressing, searching for any glimpse of illumination. Soon I have to switch from seeing to hearing. Resting my hand along the wall, I guide myself blindly. A breeze passes through. I shiver, more from agitation than from cold. My hands start to shake and the grip on my rifle tightens. To ease my fidgeting, I slip my hand into my jacket pocket and pat the folded slip of paper inside. Beside it is a crinkled envelope. There is one last item. I trace my fingers along its laminated surface and feel for the small tear that distinguishes itself in my memory.

Suddenly I freeze. Quickly I ready my weapon and listen intently. Only the subtle dripping of water greets me. Just when I am about to step forward I hear it again. Clicking. My heart seems to stop while a queasy feeling develops in my stomach. The clicking briefly grows louder until it fades into silence again. Then there is a splash further down the tunnel, and a mixture of clicks and hisses follows after. I press myself as far up against the wall as I can and crouch down. I cannot run or hide. There is no exit in sight or within my reach. I am forced to remain here, praying that the Hollows will not detect my presence. Every muscle within me is aching to move, but I do not dare react. The clicks and hisses and splashes grow nearer. My palms grow sweaty and my ears ring from anxiety. Finally, they stop. From what I can tell, they can be just a few meters in front of me. Tempting as it may be to blindly shoot, I am not willing to bet my life on it. Even if I did manage to hit a target there's no guarantee that there aren't more Hollows in here. I could unintentionally agitate an entire horde of waiting predators. So when the sound of sloshing water slowly approaches me, I reluctantly stay still.

The first Hollow One walks in my direction while the other paces back and forth. Through the darkness, I can make out the silhouette of the creature – spindly body, long claws, and a small, lumpy head. My whole body goes rigid as it stands right in front of me, letting out sharp, loud clicks. The sound stings my ears, making me flinch in the slightest. Hollows are blind to anything but motion. It knows I'm here somewhere; it is trying to agitate me into moving. When it releases a screech, a shooting pain pierces my ears and I gasp. The Hollow One looks down. Slowly it leans over. I can smell the wretched scent of its breath, and a gag threatens to escape my mouth.

The second creature approaches. My finger is still on the rifle's trigger, and I have no other choice.

Before I can act, a splash is heard further behind me, followed by barking. The Hollows instantly turn their attention towards the new prey and run past me. I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. A minute passes by before I feel safe enough to move again. My legs carry me quickly down the length of the tunnel as I am, at this point, desperate to get out. It isn't until my foot hits something hard that I stop. Reaching out, I feel the rungs of a ladder. It's rusty and covered in a substance that I would rather not know about, but I will myself to climb up. The exit is covered by a lid that's not even properly attached to the manhole. I push my arms against it and it rolls away with ease. A gust of somewhat fresh, hot air fills my lungs; The sunlight hits me directly. I squint and shield my eyes as I pull myself out of the sewer. My clothes are sweaty and my boots are covered in waste, but I don't care.

I let myself adjust to the brightness before looking around. Surrounding me are tall, protruding skyscrapers and streets lined with broken-down cars. There are closed shops and bars all along, with their windows boarded up and the doors chained shut. In the distance, I hear the massed noise of people speaking. The NOX Telecast opening music plays mingled with the angry shouts of protestors. A billboard advertisement reads:

"A Cure is Coming. The Hollows of Today Are the Healthy of Tomorrow."

I almost laugh.

Across the street there is a glass skyscraper, the largest building in Downtown; I'm on the east side of the city. From here, the Cornerstone Market is less than a mile away. I want to run, but I settle for a brisk walk. The bridge up ahead is split in the center and practically crumbling apart, but there are enough beams to support its weight, so it isn't that much of a hazard as what it appears. Passing under it, I see the aftermath of last night's riot, when the Blood Hounds and the Rogues fought over an airdrop. Stepping over Molotov fragments and bullet shells, I can't help but imagine how much cleaner I could have pulled off this grab on my own. Gangs have strength in numbers, but loners work discreetly.

I round a corner to the right of the bridge. A small distance away is the Cornerstone Market. The tents there are arranged in a large square formation, with a little over 50 of them. Each has their own flags to distinguish what exactly they're selling. There aren't many customers from what I can see from the outskirts. The majority of them are along the edges of the market, still shopping or paying the last of their purchases. Sellers are closing up shop for the day. Barnabas closes last. His tent is set up in the heart of the marketplace. It is the largest shop and a quick pinpoint if I take the right path.

The vendors button up their tents and lower their flags. The sun has started to set; people are leaving before nightfall. Barnabas's flag still remains towered above the others, flapping lazily. Sunlight shimmers off of its black silk material and glows along the white outline of its sword illustration. Beside the glinting silver flagpole is the tent – crimson and designed with tribal patterns. A sign posted out front says "Weapon Goods." I'm about to walk inside when I stop. I view the skull design above me and then see the deeper, darker red stains randomly splattered across the tent's lighter colored fabric. My fingers reach out and trace along a fresher looking stain. I swear I could have seen a smeared handprint mixed within the spattered blotch.

There is movement inside, and a deep, gruff voice follows after. With hesitance, I think about whether potentially losing my life is worth the reward Joel offered me. Ultimately it would come down to two choices: to possibly die a failure at the hand of Barnabas, or certainly die a coward at the mercy of an employer who once trusted me.

~•~

I throw open the tent flaps. Instantly my gun is drawn with my finger on the trigger. Barnabas turns around to look at me. My breath catches in my throat.

There was something about him that frightened me, disturbed me. It wasn't the barbaric way he dressed; or the way his beard was braided with bones; the jagged scars against his olive skin; not even the tattoos that covered his shaven head. Those I was used to. It was the look in his eyes that startled me. Bloodshot, expecting, frustrated, tired.

I lower my gun and he smiles like a father would to his child.

"Alessia White," he says in his Middle Eastern accent. "Such a joy to see you."