The Protector

“Quiet, now. Everything will be fine.” He says.

In the twilight sky above them, patrolling ships in slow formations drag their search-lights between streets. Flames rise from the wreckage of burning buildings. The Thought Police are nearby, scouring the streets in regimented fashion, seeking out the cries of the wounded and afraid. They will take the young back to the State, and kill the rest.

He will not let them take her.

He whispers more words of encouragement. As the child starts sniffling, he pulls her closer to him and into the long shadows cast by a nearby apartment block as a patrol makes its careful way past. Since his mind was freed by the Resistance a year ago, he has been sworn to protect, made to serve and stand in opposition of the regime that governs the ones hunting him. But now he feels uncoordinated. His hand on her shoulder is nearly larger than her head, and unlike him she has nothing to protect her bruised and burned skin from his rough touch. When he tries to wipe the tears from her face, he worries that he will be the one to break her.

He is clumsy, and she is porcelain.

He found her by following her screams, just as the Thought Police had. He had no weapon to kill the officers that would have taken her, and had dispatched the first one with his boot-knife. But he was not quick enough to catch the second unaware. They are both dead now, but in the scuffle his respirator was cracked, and he has nothing on hand to repair the damage. He knows he is dying. He can feel the air poisoning his lungs. There is not much time left.

She is wearing a necklace. A locket, in the shape of a heart. She seems gentle, and he worries that she will shatter like stained glass if he lays a hand on her. But still he offers her his blood-soaked hand. She took it at once, braver than he thought, and did not look back at the broken limbs visible beneath the rubble behind them as though she knew there was no one left to wait for. When they are somewhere safer, he removes a glove and brushes the dust and chips of concrete from the tight black curls on her head. He sees tears lining track-marks down her dust-covered face.

He knew in that moment that he would die to save her. It would be worth it.

Together, they pick their way through dust-choked back alleys. One grimy hand holds onto two of his fingers, her other is wrapped around his reserve canister of oxygen. He told her to keep it safe, and she clutches it to her chest with an intensity that would do any of his Order proud. He knows he will not need it, now that he is infected. It is better for her to have it.

He stoops down to wrap his mantle around her shoulders like a cloak, to keep the nearness of the night from her as best he can. To hide her from the search-lights. When he hears the distant bursts of gunfire he waits until the echoes fade, then leads them in a different direction even though it gives him hope to know that his people are still fighting. Perhaps if he ran towards the violence he would find help, but he will not risk it. The Thought Police are careful. He knows that more will come, and even the largest pockets of resistance will be snuffed out soon. He has seen it before.

He will not let it happen to her. Hours pass as they slink across the districts, and as slowly as his lungs forced him to move, she still needs three strides to match every one of his.

He finds a battered sidearm in a street that leads to a square, and tries not to wonder where its owner went. The magazine is full, but it is all he has and there is nowhere to find more ammunition. He bends to pick it up, never letting go of the hand that holds his own, just as a troop of Thought Police infantry turn the corner in front of them.

He pulls the child behind a crumbled wall. He waits for one heartbeat, then two; and there is only silence. Even so, they are between him and the direction he has led, and he doubts he has the strength to cross the ruins again.

The Thought Police do not notice the pair, but neither do they move on. More join them, and they begin to spiral out in all directions, continuing their search. It will not be long before they find him and the child. He looks left, to a narrow street, once hung with colourful banners but now collapsing from the rooftops down, will lead her West, to the escape tunnels, and hopefully away from Thought Police patrols, he hopes - as long as there is a distraction. He lifts her chin as gently as he can.

“You have to run,” he whispers. He is bad at whispering. “I’ll keep you safe. That way.” He says. She stares at him in silence, pointing down the shadowy street leading westward. He gives her a delicate push, points again. She blinks, once, then wanders into the dark, the canister held close as though it will protect her.

He watches her go for a moment more, then props the sidearm atop the ledge, lifts his goggles and sights with his naked eye. There are so many, he thinks. The weapon barks. One of the officers dies and the others spin in confusion, firing in the direction of his cover. He ignores their poorly-aimed shots, squeezes the trigger again. And again. And again.

Something tugs his arm. He looks down into the eyes of the little girl, and pure terror finds him.

“I said run.” He growls.

She does not, her face set in an unhappy scowl. He shakes his arm to free from her grip, but she does not relent. Something explodes against the barricade and he ducks, throwing his body over hers, firing the rest of his bullets in response. The child buries her head in his cracked armor, her frail body shaking. He can hear her locket knocking against his chest.

Never has he been so afraid to die.

He feels a fool. He tosses the spent weapon, and wraps one arm around the child as he pulls her closer. He holds his breath and when at last there is a break in the constant fire he pounces to his feet, lifting the child to his chest, and runs.

It is hard, so hard, to move. His body aches. Something inside is probably broken, and he does not know how long it will be until the infection takes him. He curses inwardly. He should have kept the final bullet of his weapon for himself. He has seen what the virus does. It takes less than a day. And he does not want to wait that long. A slug hits him in the back and he stumbles but his armor holds, and he sprints down the street where he tried to send the child, the sound of running feet following behind. He does not know where he is going, he knows only that he must go somewhere - that he will not stop until the child is safe or his legs no longer work; that when he has nothing left he will throw her from him and tear the Thought Police apart with fists alone.

He will not let them have her, change her mind into something that is not her own. That is not what his Order would allow.

He has lost count of the weight of the strides he takes. Each step is like a jagged blade in his chest. The Thought Police must be close but he does not turn, lest his legs fall out from under him. To his shame, he can feel himself slowing. A revelation that fills him both with terror and despair. Something hits his leg, and he is too tired and too hurt to carry on. He crashes heavily on one shoulder, sliding a further ten yards, large arms still wrapped around the small child. At the very least, they will have to rip him apart to get to her.

Maybe, if he dies quickly, they will not notice her at all.

Then they are upon him. Hands grab him, drag him out into the open, but still he does not uncurl. He sees black boots and feels the thunderous blows of truncheons rain down on his back.

“I’m sorry.” He tells her, his voice is a hoarse whisper and his back begins to go numb. Suddenly, their hands scrabble to get at the treasure underneath him. The impressionable mind within. And he knows he cannot truly keep her from them. He opens his mouth to ask for forgiveness, but no words come out. In the next moment, she is being torn from his grip. Her screams fill the air and it all seems to happen so slowly to his eyes. The look on her face as she is taken from him.

He waits the half-second for the two officers pinning him to the ground to relax their grip as they uncouple his oxygen tank from the tube leading to his mask. He summons what little strength he has left and takes advantage of the moment, pushing up and head-butting one of the officers in the nose, breaking it. His eyes travel to the wounded man’s thigh, and the holster strapped there.

The girl is not gone yet. There is still time.

His hand moves to the pistol held there before he knows it is travelling. His fingers brush the cold steel of the grip and he holds it tightly, as he spins onto his back and brings the weapon to bear on the officer who is dragging the child away.

The sights of the sidearm align with the man’s head, before they travel lower.

To the heart-shaped locket.

He cannot save her.

But he will spare her.

He squeezes the trigger.

The screaming stops.