Free Class Four: Those Who Survive by Duncan P. Bradshaw Page B

been pretty lousy, but this onion soup is not too bad.”
    Andy grimaced. “That bloke you came in with…”
    Thomas stopped mid-slurp and gulped. He rested the spoon on the bowl’s rim. “Is he?”
    Andy shuffled his feet and looked down. When his features were visible again, he was wearing a cheeky bastard smile. “Ha, nearly got you. He’s fine, on the mend, doesn’t remember much about what happened, but he does remember that you tried to save him from the chompers. Means The Gaffer is satisfied that you’re not some Patrick Bateman. Finish off your lunch, I’ll show you around.”
    In one motion, Thomas tipped the dregs of the soup down his throat, ran a sleeved hand across his lips and jumped up. “Let’s rock and roll. There were some rats in here that were starting to give me the eye.”
    Standing to one side, Andy let Thomas leave his gaol. He kept one hand on the rapier’s handle. “This way, mate,” he said jovially.
    The two men walked to the far end, by the concrete dais and the metallic staircase. “Up there is The Gaffer’s office and personal quarters. You really do not want to go up there without an invite, otherwise Grimm, one of his lackeys, or me, will politely remove you.”
    Thomas stood on the raised floor and looked at the bottom of the stairs, where one of the armoured guards stood watch, statuesque. At the top of the stairs, he could hear a heated discussion between two men, but the words were indiscernible. His gaze swept the floor, noticing some brown spots flecked on the monochrome concrete. He knelt down and ran a finger over them. “Nice place you got here,” he mumbled to himself.
    “Look here, mate. We learned the hard way that without order you have nothing. Without rules, you have nothing. If you do your duties and your fair share, you won’t get any problems; that’s a Netzach’s guarantee.” Andy offered a smile. Thomas cocked his head to one side and took in the man’s features.
    He was around six foot tall, well-built, and he wore thick padded clothes, not too dissimilar to those favoured by martial artists. His receding hair was bordered by a pair of glasses. His hand seemed to be glued to the sword hilt. “Nice toothpick,” Thomas quipped, nodding towards Andy’s weapon.
    Andy chuckled and, with a grace and speed which surprised Thomas, whipped the rapier out and held it en garde in the time it took the average mayfly to pass through puberty. “Toothpick maybe, but while you’re wasting energy flailing around with whatever piece of crap you’ve foraged from a bin, this little stinger will have already lobo’d the chomper that disturbed you. In. Twist. Out, and rinse, obviously.”
    “Fair play, mate. Though I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve seen you in action. Met enough people who talk the talk, walk the walk and who think they’re some kind of undead killing badass. It’s only when they’ve been turned into finger food by a group of those bastards and are begging for mercy, whilst drowning in their own fluids, that they tend to admit that perhaps they were a little on the over-confident side,” Thomas chided.
    “C’mon, this here is the floor where the public Remedials take place and any announcements. If you don’t fuck up, you won’t be standing there looking out at the rest of the camp. Over here…” Andy walked past Thomas to a large noticeboard, where pictures and graffiti were haphazardly laid out.
    Thomas pulled himself to his feet and followed. As he got closer he could see that each picture was of someone unique. Under most were scrawls and messages. “What is this?”
    “This here is the memorial wall. Not everyone we’ve lost is on here, but most. Since we got this place set up, we’ve lost eleven men, women and children. The worst was seven in one night. Trust me, don’t ask about the Night of Douglas, you really don’t want to know.” Andy looked over the wall; his eyes rested on one picture longer than the others.