The Last Mission of the Living (The Last Bastion #2)(63)

Already other customers were clustering beneath the vid screens. The music came to an abrupt stop and the feed from the vid screens shifted to the speakers.

“...a warehouse in the Isles Sector apparently had a malfunction in the refrigeration units and the protein stored within was spoiled. An investigation has been launched...”

“Someone leaked the news,” he said to Lindsey.

“What?”

“Someone leaked the bloody news!” Torran gestured toward the screen in disbelief.

The voice of the newscaster was instantly drowned out by angry voices. A second later, everyone’s wristlets started to chime.

Torran quickly checked his to see a city-wide announcement on the ration change.

Lindsey looked up from her wristlet, her expression troubled. “But why leak it to the news?”

“Hell if I know.”

Again, Torran’s wristlet chimed. This time was it was an order from the SWD to return to the facility immediately.

Lindsey’s chimed a second later. “I’ve been ordered to the SWD facility,” she said, confused.

Torran slid out of his chair and held out his hand to her. She reached for him, and just as their fingers touched, chaos erupted near the front doors. Several men and women engaged in a loud confrontation just inside the entrance.

“We’re closed!” the bartender yelled from where she stood on top of the bar. “Everyone out!”

A scuffle broke out. Not near the front door, but toward the rear of the bar. Torran caught sight of several people grabbing bottles of liquor from the shelves as the bartenders attempted to stop them. Blows were exchanged and, instantly, there was a massive surge toward the exits.

“We need to get out,” Lindsey exclaimed.

Tables and chairs clattered to the floor as the rush to either loot the bar or escape into the street commenced. Torran dragged Lindsey into an alcove as several large men shoved their way past them toward the bar. A female patron hurled a chair at one of the bartenders. Another man struck out with a full bottle in his hand, blood bursting from his victim’s ruined face.

Using his height and slim build, Torran skirted along the edges of the throng, pulling Lindsey behind him. The squeeze through the doorway was a bit laborious, the elbows and knees of strangers pushing into his body. He managed to break through the tangle and out of the bar with Lindsey’s hand still clasped in his. Caught in the entrance between the doorjamb and a large man, Lindsey cried out in pain. Her fingers slipped from Torran’s. The man was trying to carry several bottles out under one arm and cuffed Lindsey in an attempt to push past her.

“Don’t touch her!” Torran shouted, shoving the man.

The brawny guy with a shaved head and tattoos stumbled back into the people behind him. Lindsey darted out into the street, and Torran followed. Behind them, the thief engaged in yet another brawl with someone trying to grab the liquor from him.

Clutching Torran’s arm, Lindsey pressed her body into his side to avoid the heavy flow of people around them. “This is really bad, Torran.”

The streets were crammed with distraught citizens. Tempers flared and fear filled the eyes of those standing near Torran and Lindsey. Some were crying openly, while others heatedly argued. The situation was clearly becoming dire.

A drone rumbled around the corner and trundled down the center of the street flashing warnings on it screens. “Citizens of The Bastion, please return to your homes. Do not loiter in the streets. This is for your own good. Citizens of The Bastion...” the drone instructed.

On the balconies, the street residents were hastily pulling their hanging gardens up over railings. The cries of children in the flats above drifted into the night. Torran caught sight of people standing guard over their rooftop vegetable and fruit plots with makeshift weapons in their hands.

“Shit, this is awful,” Lindsey muttered at his side.

“We need to keep moving,” Torran replied recognizing the growing chance of mob violence.

Pushing their way through the mass of people, the two found themselves at a disadvantage. They were moving against the flow. At some point, the mass of people had decided on a purpose.

“They’re heading toward the food warehouse south of here,” Lindsey called out above the noise of the commotion.

Torran’s wristlet kept chiming with incoming messages. He dragged Lindsey up a stairwell into a narrow doorway. Accessing the wristlet, he saw a city-wide announcement of martial law.

A few seconds later, SWD troops marching in formation appeared further down the street. They were garbed in riot gear and held electroshock weapons.

“Torran,” Lindsey gasped.

“I see them.”

To make matters even more worrisome, aerial drones whirred over the tops of the buildings, their long metal wings and spidery legs glinting in the gleam of the streetlights. They could compress themselves into very small spaces, but also lift a grown man off the ground. The drones sported four tiltrotor wings that always reminded Torran of dragonflies. With their long limbs extended, they were over six feet tall, but often flew with their legs and wings retracted making them appear much smaller. The aerial drones were in full battle mode, so the end of each long spindly leg carried electroshock weaponry.

“Get out your armband,” Torran ordered.

Each Constabulary and SWD soldier carried an armband with them at all times for situations such as this one. Torran pulled his out of his battered wallet, unfolded it, and slipped it over his coat sleeve. It adjusted to his bicep, and when he tapped the emblem, it glowed. Lindsey followed suit, and they both activated their distress beacons on their wristlets.