The Partisan Chronicles [Dystopia | Supernatural | Mystery]

Rhian

A town is a town, and the town had people, and the people had things. Point is: we arrived in Istok tired and irritated, and all I could think about was having a drink. I knew straightaway it was gonna be a long night. The locals weren't throwing a parade for us like they would in Delphia, but I'd seen that look on Barren faces afore. The poor bastards in Istok were hopeful.

"Nondescript as it seems, the town of Istok has an interesting history," Strauss said, climbing out of the wagon and stepping into the road.

"Yeah, that's amazing, man, thanks," Michael said.

Never mind how it seems, that's just how they jived. Michael wasn't an arsehole, and Strauss wasn't precious about banter. Not everything has to be a thing.

Strauss shrugged. "Consider, Commander, the accumulation of knowledge not as a gain for the present, but as insurance for the future."

It was good advice, but the history lesson would have to wait. The Bountiful Blessing was a stupid name for an inn, and I reckon the town agreed seeing as the only other people inside were the fifty something owners. Unhappily married in business and in bed, by the looks.

"Passing through town, Partisans?" the Big Man asked.

"Yeah, we'll need a room for the night," Michael said.

"Of course, of course." Big Man nodded about a thousand times. "But you should eat something first. My wife is famous for her stew. Ursula! Stew!"

Truth, I needed sleep, not stew, but the food came with bread, and it smelled delicious. I might have also said it tasted delicious, but I didn't get a chance to bloody taste it. According to Ursula, something had fallen somewhere in the kitchen, and I'd be the only one nimble enough to reach it.

When I got there, I lowered my voice on account of I got the impression she was keeping something from the Big Man. "So, what's the actual problem?"

"It's my husband."

"Right—well. There's a priest in the party if you need counsel."

The old woman shook her head. "About three weeks ago, my husband made a deal with a couple of strangers—people from out of town, I guess."

The obvious question was, "What kind of deal?" so I asked it.

Apparently, some tourist couple had started paying the Big Man the big bucks to rent out the rooms upstairs.

"I don't want them here," Ursula said.

"You could just stop taking their notes."

"I would, but my husband is unmoving." The woman shook her head. "We can't continue arguing every day while our business—our real business—is failing. I didn't choose this line of work for the money. I miss my patrons. One month ago, you would have walked into a packed house. Now, half the regulars are saying the strangers make them uncomfortable. The other half are sick."

"Sick with what?"

Ursula shook her head again.

I wasn't a bloody doctor so, "All right," I said. "You'll have us go upstairs and what? Talk it out? Sort it out with violence? How far are you willing to go?"

The woman shuffled over and plopped a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. It was so goddess-be-damned sincere, it was uncomfortable.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "If you help me, then I'll only have to argue about it with my husband one last time, and then it will be over."

That was fair enough. I promised we'd look into it.

Back at the table, Strauss was still picking at his bread like a goddess-be-damned sparrow. Beside him, Michael had already finished his stew. And mine.

"The hells?"

"Don't worry. Strauss said you could have his," Michael said. "It's beef."

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"Never mind." I waved it off. "All I wanna do is sleep."

"Actually, we have no rooms available tonight," Big Man said.

"Why didn't you say so before?" Michael asked.

"Don't be too hard on the man, Michael. It's not like we need a whole room." I looked to the Big Man and smiled on account of it felt right at the minute. "How about a closet?"

"There are no rooms or closets available tonight," Big Man said.

"How about a floor?" I asked.

Surprise, surprise. There were no floors either. Big Man wouldn't budge, and that's a game a person gets bored of quickly. I stomped around the table, walking straight into the Big Hand that tried to stop me.

"There's nothing for you upstairs, Partisan."

"Hey, Strauss," Michael whispered. "I'm getting the impression we need to be upstairs."

"Indeed," Strauss replied.

And that's right about when First Commander Michael Reider stood up, turned around, and punched the Big Man in the side of the head. I chuckled at the same time Ursula screamed.

And then, after a moment, she laughed.

Of all the things I'd imagined we'd find upstairs, a naked man tied to a chair wasn't one of them. The poor bastard seemed about a hundred years old. He'd been clawed at, starved, and left for dead by the looks of it. You don't even want to imagine the smell of it.

It only took about a second after stepping inside the room afore we were assaulted from behind. Another man straight out of nowhere—just like Councilwoman Oranen that one time in the tree house. Strauss took the brunt of it, flicked out of the room like a stray fluff on a pair of trousers. If it weren't for Michael getting a quick grab on That Thing, I may not have escaped into the corridor.

I had the advantage out there, but Michael still didn't have a proper place to fight—the bedroom wasn't all that big and it was full of obstacles. So, I taunted That Thing by plunging a dagger into his back, and then I dodged out of the way while Michael turned the tides in his favour. Next thing I knew, Strauss was picking himself off the floor, and Michael had That Thing pinned to the wall in the hallway with Intrepi-bloody-ever stuck through his gut. It didn't kill him, but it hurt. I could tell.

"It's all inevitable," Out of Nowhere man said.

"Yeah? Then so is this." Michael pulled his sword out of That Thing's midsection, and after a step to the side, a wide swipe, and about ten pints of blood later, we were left staring at a man's head rolling side to side on the floor.

"Holy shit," Strauss said.

I gave Michael a pat on the back.

"Holy shit," Strauss repeated.

Ten billion to one, nothing quite like that had ever happened in his cell at Palisade.

"Michael, I reckon you broke him."

"Yeah, well—we don't have time to fix him. Rhian, check the hostage while I search the other rooms. Strauss, snap out of it."

The naked man wasn't the only interesting thing in the room. There were words written all over the walls in just about anything but ink. The man was breathing, but barely. I clapped my hands in front of his face.

"Oi, mate. We're probably here to rescue you, but it'd help a lot if you'd wake the hell up and tell us who you are."

Out in the corridor, Michael said something like, "Strauss, do something."

Pitiful footsteps pitter-pattered through the door. The poor bastard was paler than pale and painted with blood. Strauss nudged me aside politely, crouching in front of the naked man. "If you can hear me, could you offer a sign? Wiggle your fingers."

The Naked Man wasn't responding, so I took the time to explore the room.

"Strauss, what do the walls say?"

"Predominately gibberish."

"But it's not all gibberish?"

"The four letter frequently repeated word says, 'Lies,' and—"

"They all lie to you," Naked Man muttered. And then I reckon he opened his eyes seeing as Strauss said, "Sinclair, Reider—this man is a Partisan."

The identification code tattooed on the man's neck explained the rest. So, we found Gregory Keller—about three minutes before he died. And if there were more of Those Things lurking, I reckoned they'd be holed up somewhere in line of sight to the Inn. They'd be watching, and I wanted to know from where.

I ran to the window and peeped through it. A person-shaped shadow darted to the north.

By the time I'd managed to pry the window open, the shadow was gone. Lucky for me, I had ears like a bat and feet like a kitty-cat, so I squeezed my freckled arse out the window and into the night like a goddess-be-damned idiot.

Look, Those Things were starting to get on my nerves.