Gridlock

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The following is a story, told within the context of the universe of the Espaeria Wiki. Consequently it has been formatted differently to standard articles.

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*April 15th, 2022*

The pavements were swamped as Marc Verity left the Nasshai Council Assembly, one hand clasping a briefcase, the other attempting futilely to protect himself from the downpour that barraged Magnapor. It was a short walk from the steps of the Assembly to the ranks of vehicles taxiing outside, yet by the time Marc had located his transport and scrambled in, he was soaked to the bone. He was grateful to be inside, both because of the respite from the rain and because of the vehicle’s reinforced windows and armour plating that would protect him from the throngs of protestors that had surrounded the building despite the storm. Behind a thin line of fences and officers, they had waved eye-shaped placards and screamed abuse at the councillors leaving the Assembly. “Open your eyes,” they had been chanting. In times like these, emotions were running high, Marc knew, and he had felt it prudent to ensure his own protection with the armoured car.

He gave a word to his driver, and the car left the Assembly to be ensnared immediately in traffic. The air was a sea of horns, the roads choked completely by cars that seemed to be at a complete standstill. Marc could see solitary figures shuffling between the rows of vehicles, leaning into windows. Those were beggars, he knew, attempting to sell condiments or cheap trinkets to foreign businessmen marooned in the gridlock.

“What the hell happened?” he called through the mesh screen to the driver, whilst attempting to peer through the stream of rainwater running down the car window. They replied about a collision, a bus skidding into the back of a car in the storm. Response crews had cordoned off three whole lanes of the Street of Gallows, apparently, throttling the traffic. No telling how long they might be stuck here.

Marc lapsed back into his seat in frustration. The chorus of horns was beginning to tread on his nerves. He was about to ask the driver to turn on the radio when there came a rapping at the window. Through the rain, he could see a bedraggled figure shaking some sort of confectionary at him. Another homeless merchant, and a thoroughly filthy one at that. In the front seat, the driver attempted to wave them off, which only seemed to attract the beggar’s attention. They called vainly through the glass to dissuade the merchant, and when that didn’t work they cursed and rolled down the reinforced window.

“Hey, beat it, buddy—“

The gunshot cut them off with a crack. The driver’s head snapped back and crashed into the mesh screen, before he slumped sideways into the passenger seat. Marc froze. He dimly registered something wet having sprayed into his face. The only thought that came to him, stupidly, was to wonder who would now drive the car. Then something slammed into the window next to his head, sending Marc reeling away from the door in horror. It took him a beat to recognise the head of an axe that had carved itself halfway into the reinforced window, but when he did he let out a moan of despair. His head was spinning, and as he watched, the axe wrenched itself from the glass, before arcing gracefully through the air to crash into the window once again. The whole thing rippled like a sheet, and instantly frosted as cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. As the  assailant outside tore the axe away to bring it down a third time, Marc looked around wildly for anything to defend himself with, to call for help, to do anything. Then the axe swung down and the window exploded, and as he was showered in broken glass and rainwater Marc screamed out for help.

His cries of terror were drowned out by the din of the traffic.