92.
I climbed hand over hand up the rope, my injured shoulder screaming at me with every pull. If it wasn’t for the Magnet Runes keeping me glued to the cable, I probably would have slipped and fallen by now. Even so, I could feel the Runes fading. My energy was almost depleted, not surprising considering how much juice I had been pouring into the Knucks and how much damage I’d taken. Finally, I could see the open doors to the 14th floor above me. With teeth gritted, I jerkily pulled myself up the final few feet.
My bloody fingers grasped the edge of the opening, and I pulled my battered body up, boots scraping against the wall. I crawled on all fours, panting, feeling light headed. I lifted my blood soaked balaclava up and spat on to the dusty floor, blood dripping from my swollen lips. My eyes focused slowly and I realised there was a small white lump in the blood. My hand shook as I picked it up and realised it was a tooth. I sighed and threw it away. Tenderly, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and looked up. I could see only one light at the very end of the corridor peeling out into the darkness from a flat door that was slightly ajar as if inviting me in.
A grim feeling, like the proverbial lamb taking itself to slaughter, overcame me. Unsteadily, I rose to my feet, my legs quivering as they took my weight, and my head still spinning. Just one foot in front of another, just one more corridor, one more battle, and this will be over. Just one more… and it’ll all be over. I pushed forward into the darkness, too exhausted to prepare for an ambush. But the floor was entirely silent. The doors loomed on either side of me, dusty and with peeling paint, but they never opened. No goons jumped out at me, no monstrous men wielding obscenely large weapons. Just silence and darkness.
I was limping pretty badly now; I think I must have twisted my ankle and my knee on my left leg. I could already feel the joint swelling, but that didn't matter, nor did it matter that one of my eyes was almost swollen shut or that I couldn't tell if sweat dripped down my body or blood. Not that it made a difference, not now. I had to reach out a hand and lean against the wall as I limped to stop myself from keeling over. The only thing that mattered was that door and what was behind it. I arrived at the door and pushed it open, but I still had enough sense not to stride through at the same time. I waited for a second to see if a bullet or a blade whizzed by, but there was nothing.
I staggered into the flat and saw that it was like those other ones I'd seen: completely broken down, all the walls demolished so there was only a strange rectangular open space. Even the windows had been demolished, leaving a gaping hole in the far wall, a cold breeze fluttering through, and the city laid bare before me. The room reeked of sweat, booze, and desperation. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a sickly yellow glow over the dingy space, throwing long shadows across the concrete walls. And there was Brick, standing with his back to me, leaning against the open window space, staring out at New London. His hulking frame swayed slightly, a half-empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a knife in the other. Sherbert was next to him, his face pale and bloody, his body trembling as he sat bound to a rickety chair, that was only a slight shove from going over the edge.
I stepped into the room slowly, my boots crunching against broken glass scattered across the floor. My heart pounded in my chest, but I kept my grip steady on Grandad’s bat slung over my shoulder.
"Brick," I called out, trying to make my voice sound firm.
Brick didn't react; he stayed staring out at the city, his hand held the blade resting on the wall above him, the wind whipped his torn, expensive-looking shirt as he stared into the abyss.
“I'm here now, Brick. You can let Sherbert go; he hasn’t got anything to do with this!”
I took another tentative step into the room, and Brick drained the bottle of whiskey, glugging it down, the whiskey dripped down his chin and onto the floor. He tossed the bottle over the edge and put a hand on Sherbert's shoulder, gently tipping the chair towards the opening and the 14 storey drop.
"No!" I yelled.
I was about to lunge forward when Brick tipped the chair further and I froze. The only thing holding Sherbert up was Brick. Sherbert's mouth was gagged, but I could hear him pleading and whimpering, his blackened eyes wide and bugging with fear.
"Why’d you do it?" Brick asked, his voice husky and thick with drink, his words slurred.
"What?" I said. "Listen, Brick, put Sherbert down, alright? Just leave him out of this. You want me, right? Well, I'm here.”
"Why’d you do it?" Brick asked again. "You fucking ruined me.”
I blinked and stared at the well-muscled back of Brick.
"You're a criminal," I replied. "You created misery and poisoned the city. Why’d you think I did it?”
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Brick's shoulders twitched, his head dropped, and for a moment, I thought he was sobbing. But then I heard a brittle, wheezing cackle escape his lips, his thick shoulders bounced up and down. He threw his head back and laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound that echoed around the room. He then turned to me, and for the first time, I came face to face with the man whose empire I had been destroying brick by brick. I was looking into the eyes of a monster. Even Somnix didn't compare to what I saw in front of me. Somnix was a creature. A thing. He was a wraith, an imagining of nightmares. But Brick? Brick was very real and very human.
His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his mouth twisted in a sneering grin that was all yellow teeth and spittle. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his cheeks looked sunken. I could see his fists were deformed and bloody, with large scabs peeling on them. In fact, there were various scratches and wounds all over him. He was barefoot, and it seemed like the broken glass and the bits of rubble didn't bother him at all. His nose was running, and there was a mixture of snot and blood trickling out. He twitched and convulsed, his eyes were two tiny black pin pricks. I'd seen the effects of heavy drug use and alcohol before. Brick was the perfect picture of someone who had spiralled far too deep into the bag. He looked feral… unhinged.
The only other time I’d seen him, he was perfectly groomed and carefully dressed. Now his hair was a wild, matted mess. His fingernails were dirty and caked with grime. His shirt, which looked like it cost more than most people made in a month, was ripped and hanging open. The ends of the shirt were dirty and yellowing, and his expensive trousers were scuffed with small burn marks, and were trailing beneath his bare feet. He ran a white, dry-looking tongue across his teeth.
"Is that what this is, little boy?" he asked me. "Some fucking superhero fairy tale?”
"Call it whatever you want," I spat back. "But it's over, Brick. Let Sherbert go, and then we can settle this."
Brick snarled and advanced a step.
"Over? What, you think you've fucking won? You think you've done something here? You think you took down Brick?" he screamed, his voice raw and his eyes wild and frantic. Spittle flew from his mouth as he roared and pounded his chest hard enough to leave welts. "Do you know who the fuck I am? I'm fucking Brick, and I own this fucking town!”
I readied myself, crouching down and unsheathing Grandad's bat.
"It's not about winning or losing," I said to him calmly, almost too exhausted to be afraid now.
"No, it's about survival,” Brick growled. “That's all it's ever been about! You think I chose this?" He threw his hands out wide. "It was eat or be eaten. It was predator or prey my whole fucking life, and Brick is nobody's prey," he spat. "I didn't choose this. It chose me!”
"You chose it," I shot back at him, anger flaring in my chest. "We all get a choice, Brick. You could've walked away. You could've done something better. You could have reached back and helped kids that ended up like you, but instead, you became a destroyer. You became the fucking poison in this city. You didn't help kids like you; you just guaranteed there'd be hundreds, thousands, more kids whose parents became addicts, turned into fucking zombies and ended up in the same places as you!”
His eyes flashed with something raw, something vulnerable, before they hardened, the madness taking over again.
"Don't give me that self-righteous bullshit. If I didn't do it, someone else would have. You ain't never getting rid of the evil in this city, kid. You can batter and break your way through a thousand men, and people are still gonna snort and shoot shit and get high and fucking ruin their lives because they're losers! They're fucking nobodies! They're weak!”
"So they deserve to get taken advantage of?” I said. “They deserve to get turned into empty, drug-addled fiends. And what about their kids? What about their families? They deserve it too?”
“Spare me the lecture,” Brick snarled. “You ain't no saint yourself. You spill blood just like me. You burn people to the ground, just like me. Tell me, how many of my boys do you think you battered and broke and cut and ruined just to get to me? You really think you're any better? They’re all somebody's kids. They’re all just victims of this fucked up system too. But that didn’t matter to you, did it? You still beat them, broke them, and smashed their fucking heads in!”
I blinked in surprise. The faces of the men I'd fought flashed in my mind. The way I'd battered them, broken them, stamped on them, and kicked them, with no thought as to who they were or what led them here. Were they just victims of this cruel city like I was? Like Brick was? Did they have families and parents who were worried about them, maybe even children of their own wondering if daddy would come back today? Had I become just another cog in the cycle of violence in New London?
Brick saw the doubt in my eyes, and he grinned maniacally.
“See, deep down you know I'm right. You're just like me, a gutter rat who'll do whatever it takes to survive.”
“No,” I said firmly, stepping closer to him. “I'm trying to put a stop to it. To stop people like you from hurting innocents. I'm trying to make things better in this city.”
Brick's grin faltered, and for a moment he looked exhausted and broken.
“Better?” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper. “There's no better, you idiot. The world's a sewer. You can climb out of it, but you'll still stink of it. There's no clean hands and happy endings. You fight or you die, that's all there is to it.”
“You're wrong,” I said, my voice steady. “There's always a choice, Brick, and you're just not man enough to admit you chose wrong. You took the easy way.”
Brick cackled again, his insane laugh echoing around the empty room. The wind picked up behind him, and I readied myself. Just or unjust, right or wrong, fair or unfair. Now it was just a battle for survival. One of us would walk out of here, and one of us wouldn't. Brick leapt and I drew Grandad’s bat.
In that moment, life became simple: either Brick would die, or I would.
How do you think the final battle between Brick and Alex will end?
