If miles == words…  🙂

Here’s a long excerpt from the latest:

The farther away from Old Nanston, the more muted the sounds of battle.  Graceful, ancient wrecks of buildings yielded to more modern, squarish blocks of shops and residences.  Old Nanston gave way to Pattson as they moved north, into the boroughs where the two cities had grown together.  They walked without speaking to each other.  Anchovy followed Charles, tapping his bar on the street, occasionally dragging it against a wall.

Old Nanston had been evacuated early in the siege; most of his neighbors had been relocated to Creely or Ettinhill.  Pattson appeared to have been treated similarly.  They didn’t see anyone until they reached Llewellyn’s Water Gate.  A cry of young voices carried down the street; Charles found himself pausing in midstep to listen to them.  It was a wild sound; it made the hair on the back of his neck stand stiff.

Anchovy sprinted toward the source of the cry, swinging the bar recklessly at his side.  Charles bit back a warning for the boy to slow down, be careful, watch out!  Fat old man.  He forced his legs to hurry, to prove it wasn’t so.

The Water Gate was as much of a wreck as Old Nanston.  The ducts and troughs had been demolished, and the fountain was a mangled heap of stonework.  But clear water wept out of the ruin and pooled against the broken remains.  The Artwork that drew water from the aquifer deep beneath the city was still operating.  About a half-dozen children dressed in nothing but their underjohns squealed and splashed in the water.  They saw Anchovy and raised skinny arms in salute; but their eyes were wary when they laid on Charles.  The last of their cries echoed along the street as they stared at him, as he stared back.  Not knowing what else to do, Charles put his hand in the nearest pool.  He winced; the water was frigid.  He brought a palmful to his mouth and slurped it noisily.

“Who’s this?” one of the children asked.

Anchovy shrugged. “A man, followed me up from Old Nanston.”

A couple of the older boys produced trousers and caps from the stones, and pulled them over their bare legs, their wild hair.  Their ribs showed like cages.

“What’d you do down there?”

“Miss Betsy’s business, that’s what.  You hear her singing in that water today?”

“Naw.  Them Teddies blowed her back to the ocean.  Creely ain’t nothing but a hole and rubble now.”

One of the other children laughed, “Wasn’t much more than a hole and rubble to start out.”

“She ain’t left,” Anchovy said quietly.  “Miss Betsy wouldn’t let them run her out like that.”

“Let them?  Pssh.” This from a boy with shaggy hair, and a bit of fuzz growing over his lip.  “Where’s your cart, boy?  You been pulling that thing ‘round these boroughs since you stepped out of diapers, and now you’re all afoot?”

Charles saw Anchovy’s knuckles turn white, gripping the bar.  The children gathered around the fountain slid closer, each of them.  Something hungry, something chaotic was in their eyes.  A bit of madness.