PodCastle

* Author : Merc Fenn Wolfmoor
* Narrator : Brian Murphy
* Host : Khaalidah Muhammad-Ali
* Audio Producer : Peter Wood
*
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PodCastle 481: What the Fires Burn is a PodCastle original.


Rated R
What the Fires Burn
by A. Merc Rustad
It’s near dusk when VanDrake Tage Rannheim trudges into the city to meet a friend. He sticks to the lee of buildings, smog and shadow wrapping his coat. Don’t like a lot of attention. Can’t help it, mostly, but he keeps his greatcoat pulled closed to conceal weapons. Ain’t wiped the mud off the back sigil, either.

He spots Sparrow across the street, leaning against a gritty brick wall. The kid’s no more than fourteen, skinny and quick. Got his frayed satchel over one shoulder. Tage’s known him and the gang—Lark, Starling, Crow, Gull, Titmouse—and for a couple years now, ever since they saved his life when he took on a demon and near lost. He’s more than obligated. He wants to keep ’em all safe.
Tage lifts an arm, waves. Sparrow straightens and grins. Relief winds through Tage. He’s always afraid he’ll show up one day and Sparrow won’t be there. Doesn’t let himself dwell on what’ll happen when it’s him who don’t show.
Tage waits for a coal-laden wagon to rumble past before he crosses.
Suddenly, Sparrow goes still, eyes wide.
A coal binger shuffles down the sidewalk, yellow-eyed, teeth grinding. It used to be a thin young man, too-big coveralls tattered, hair and skin caked in soot. Bloodied nostrils twitch. Every bone stands out under papery skin. It’s aimed right at Sparrow.
People on the street look away, walk faster, ignore what ain’t their problem.
Tage grits his teeth, storms forward. He dodges round the back corner of the wagon. He don’t know why a binger’s wandering the city, why it’s eyeing Sparrow ‘stead of the wagon that just passed. Don’t care. Bingers ain’t got minds no more, but that don’t make them less dangerous.
“Sparrow, move,” Tage snaps.
The kid don’t budge.
Goddamn it. Tage’s muscles burn as he sprints, reaches Sparrow first. He grabs Sparrow ‘round the shoulders, hauls the kid bodily down a narrow side alley. Sparrow don’t weigh much more than his namesake. The jostling shakes him sensible, and Sparrow flinches, thrashes.
Tage drops him, turns. The binger follows them. Its eyes are fever-bright; its hands twitch, grasp. Tage steps in front of Sparrow, right into the binger’s path. It lurches to go ‘round him. Going after Sparrow. Fucking hell—there ain’t nothing normal about this one.
Tage grabs the binger’s jaw in one hand, its bony shoulder in the other, twists its neck full around. Bones shatter with brittle popping sounds. The binger goes limp. Tage drops the body in an ash-muddied puddle. Water splatters his boots.
The adrenaline fades, leaves Tage’s body aching. A burning cough flames in his lungs, the cold air and exertion no help. He swallows. The itching pain fades as he sucks in a steadying breath.
No one follows them into the cart alley, no one lingers to watch. Tage turns to Sparrow. “All right?”
Sparrow shudders, thin arms tight around his ribs. “Shit. I hate them.”
Tage rolls his shoulders. He shares Sparrow’s revulsion, if not the horror. He sees corpses, not the people they once were. Only way to work. He’s spent his whole life as an enforcer. Murder and execution go arm in arm. “Ain’t seen one act like that.