Mayhem

by Michael MolisanI

  Townsend relaxed to some degree, but she admired his dedication, his discipline. He was no fool, and when he answered, he spoke with great care.

  “I don’t wish you to leave.”

  To Margaret’s mind this was no different from battle. The enemy had been sighted, and her forces were on the move. She could see them, feel them, and she waited for her moment to strike when all around her was fire and mud. The worst of it was over now, it was time to engage.

  “No matter how hard I try to find offense, no matter how much I try to laugh at your moustache, or forget you, I keep failing. I find that I like you and want to learn whether or not that’s something we have in common.”

  Townsend answered quicker than Margaret had expected, and she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised, “You’re a witch. Wouldn’t you be happier with someone… else?”

  “Witches are cruel,” Margaret replied, just as easily, dropping her hands, palms to hips, “We are by nature competitive, mean, we like to revel in our power. I’ve never bedded one, as rare as male witches are. I’ve spent my entire life in service, I’ve only known soldiers, only loved soldiers. We have more in common than I could share with another inclined.”

  Margaret could no longer read Townsend, his fret was gone, his worry, but she couldn’t dig past his eyes or smell his intent. She honestly had no idea what he was about to say next. That was a rare experience for her, and Margaret’s pulse snapped at the thrill of it.

  “Is this a joke?” Townsend replied slowly.

  That’s not what I expected.

  “I don’t care for jokes. I have a younger brother who did, and I’m quite satisfied off that experience.” Margaret closed her eyes, cracked her jaw with one hand, “When Alexander was a boy, he convinced me to take him past the tank traps of Crafton. He knew of a place our mother went, to be alone, and swore that she’d be happy to see us. We got lost of course, Alexander had made the whole thing up. Maggi didn’t appreciate the risk. When she caught up with us, she beat the shit out of me while her son laughed his handsome little head off. So, no, Lieutenant General, if you think I’m the sort of person who’d get a giggle out of fucking with you, you’re mistaken.”

  No one alive, save Alexander Lopez, knew that story. It was a difficult memory to repeat. Maggi’s rage was legendary, and it was one more reminder that Margaret wasn’t Maggi’s real daughter. One more reminder that Alexander was the boy who would be king.

  When Townsend answered he spoke softer, in a tone Margaret had not heard before. In their intimate moments, he’d spoken almost submissively, but now he regarded Margaret as a peer, an equal.

  That was all that she wanted from him.

  “Thank you,” is all he said, and she could feel it press into her flesh and raise the short hairs on the back of her arms.

  “At home I’m no more than the woman who stands before you.”

  Townsend stood, pulling another cigarette from the metal tin, and stepped around his desk. He seemed larger now, a towering master of his domain here in the office he kept.

  “A secret for a secret, then. I’ve desired you since the siege of Saint Louis. I was just a junior commander then, and you walked the formations in a yellow ball gown, train covered in mud, wearing your plate carrier. It didn’t fit right because of your breasts. Your hair was full of flowers, and I swear to this day I could smell those flowers. You told us that if we marched at your side we would live forever, a history that you would personally carve in granite.”

  Margaret giggled, feeling her cheeks flush, “You did smell the flowers. I was projecting that into your minds, the minds of a thousand men. I didn’t want you to be afraid, I didn’t want you to believe you were fodder for me. I wanted each and every one of you to know I would be there, with you. You needn't face the nightmares alone.”

  Townsend met Margaret’s eyes, taking another drag off his cigarette. He extended a hand, offering her the second cigarette he’d withdrawn, “The next time I saw you, your flowers were gone, your dress was tattered. A lot of men fell for you at Saint Louis, Lady Mayhem.”

  Margaret’s frame was but a child before Townsend. True to her request of Janet, the sleeveless doublet she wore dropped low, her breasts pale and veined blue in sunlight. The doublet itself was manufactured from velvet, in a damask flower brocade.

  “I never lied. I loved each and every one of you.”

  Margaret accepted the cigarette and allowed salted tears to trickle across her cheeks. She wanted Townsend to see that, she wanted to be an ordinary woman, here and now, for his eyes.

  Townsend retrieved another lighter from his slacks and offered a flame to Margaret. She accepted, leaning in, purposefully so he could better see her cleavage.

  “I suppose we have some ground rules we’d need to cover,” Townsend said.

  Margaret nodded, her eyes burning, as she straightens up. The twig was hot when she inhaled it, and she’d lost her taste for tobacco since last the two had slept together.

  “First, you’re not to call me Lady Mayhem in private. My name is Margaret, and it's what I’d like to be called.” Margaret coughed on the cigarette, raising back of hand to her lips before she spoke again, “Second, you’re not to speak up to me again. You speak to me like an equal.”

  Townsend audibly ground his teeth and corrected himself, “A battlewitch is always the ranking commander at war.”

  “We’re not at war, are we?” Margaret smiled, inhaling another puff of the cigarette, “I never chose to overrule a good commander, we were always a team. To be honest, that’s the closest I’ve ever known to a real relationship.”

  Townsend turned, raising his brows, and stamped his own twig out in one of the two ashtrays sitting on his desk, “I ask for privacy. Whatever we share, we share together. We don’t exist for my men, we don’t exist for morale, we’re not the flowers in your hair.”

  Margaret understood why he requested this, and she couldn’t blame him. A witch always played the crowd, a witch was always a showman of the circus. “You’re not my pet, you’re someone I like, and I don’t treat people I like poorly.”

  Townsend turned his gaze back to Margaret, and his brow was heavy and grim. No mask between them now, there was something unveiled in his eyes.

  The twig burned down to Margaret’s fingertips. She felt hot cherry next to her flesh, and she didn’t move to put it out yet. “I’m also going to ask you to accompany me to a banquet. I haven’t a day yet. It’s a date. A public date. All of your junior commanders will hear of it. All the garrison soldiers will know that you’re the man who fucked Lady Mayhem twice and took her to banquet. A first among nobles and scoundrels alike.”

  Townsend seemed to bristle at this, then tilted his head, a smile creeping across his face. No matter how serious he could be, behind his bushy moustache, a boy was peering out at Margaret with the understanding of a secret joke between them.

  Margaret’s cherry was burning her index and forefinger. It hurt, but not enough to drop the embers on Townsend’s tile. She quietly leaned forward and placed the remains of the tobacco in his ashtray.

  “You’ll meet me, in my home, the day of that banquet. At sunset.”

  With that, Margaret turned, walking away from Townsend. Her wake pulled at his energy, entangled his desire and his adrenaline. The flutter in his chest may as well have been fruit she’d picked directly from a tree, branches laden low. She was giving him a gift to pay for the golden treasure she stole from him now.

  “Wait, Margaret,” That’s the first time he’s spoken my name, “why is there a banquet being thrown?”

  “In celebration,” Margaret studied the blisters on her skin, red and dirty, her back arching toward Townsend, “my brother and Lady Manticore return from the southwest, in triumph. The Empire is complete, the wars are over.”

  8:18am February 25th, 39 Veilfall

  Stockton, California

  French Camp Gate was the southernmost entrance into Stockton. The wide highway th
at drove north narrowed under Stockton’s great walls, with multiple sub streets branching off across the arena. Smaller farms made a living at the outskirts of the city, along with hundreds of warehouses, some of which dated back to before the Collapse. Trade goods coming north from the port of San Francisco would offload caravans and wagon trains, while steam engines from the east divested their properties, north of Stormair; the largest military base west of the great Sierra Nevada.

  Stormair had been an airport prior to the Collapse. Aurora Owens herself was said to have led a siege against Federal forces that occupied the area. Nearly four decades later it had become a sprawling fort that housed at least a one-third of the 3rd Army’s total infantry and mechanized units, along with virtually all engineering and support corp.

  Margaret stood just outside Stockton’s walls, on the West Side Highway, where the Arch banked east toward Stormair. The concrete branched up at a wide angle and curved away, toward some of the smaller warehouses. Part of the Arch was still pre-Collapse, but it had been widened, allowing the former House Owens army to deploy their armored vehicles, double-wide in case of a siege.

  There were no trees or scrub here, only tan and beige concrete, stained yellow and sooty by rubber and motor oil. Beyond the wall’s tank traps the air was low and hazy with diesel smoke and cattle excrement, thick, humid and burning away the cool ease of night. Margaret could smell livestock fields to the west, and alfalfa farms to the south, a palpable nebula which harassed her sinuses and made her eyes weak for sleep, puffy and red. Dust devils gathered, spun up, and fell, as countless vehicles, line by line, rolled across the Arch.

  This was the command element that Lady Manticore had spoken of, mechanized troops, returning from the south. Roughly eight-hundred men, riding close to two-hundred vehicles. It was a mix of old-world military transports, MRAPs, HMMWVs, conventional trucks and 4x4s converted to technicals, mounting belt fed machine guns or autocannons. Smaller vehicles with seven-slot grills had Antecedent infantry hanging off their side doors, while large vehicles contained their soldiers inside. None of the trucks ran clean, all of them heaved a thick tidal wave of black soot, engines choked for fresh air, running loud with exhaust leaks or straight headers. Their tan and brown desert camouflage had been highlighted black and sometimes only grill lights could be seen through the smoke, a looming haze that rambled and twisted like some giant snake, a creature of its own awesome dread.

  Burning petrol and oil were a lover’s kiss at the nape of Margaret’s neck. She’d always traveled with a fast, mechanized unit, light armor and fire support. She’d ridden on the outside of the smaller trucks a hundred times to let the wounded or sick take seats, her arms aching after eight hours on the road, her goggles black with grime and her lungs choked and burning.

  I’ll never ride to war again, she ruminated, wistfully. She would miss this.

  Hungry, sleepy, Margaret waved down one of the rolling cart vendors who sold their wares outside the walls. As the day progressed closer to noon, this highway would become packed by cart and wagon, petrol transport and pedestrian. Stockton’s streets were mostly post-Collapse, too narrow for traffic, and limited to day-permits. Hundreds, thousands, would wait on the highway into late evening. It was no surprise that plenty of entrepreneurs found themselves heavy in coin, catering to this never-ending flood of humanity.

  The peddler was in his early seventies and wore a dark orange tunic stained by the same engine carbon that covered everything else at the gates. His glasses were oversized, with a wide crack through the left lens, and a long beard that was more salt than pepper. He greeted her politely, nodding once and twice, then accepted the hand she offered, her naked hand.

  Before the Collapse this man’s family owned a restaurant in north Sacramento. Margaret pressed other images away, along with memories of the Collapse, the dead and dying. For a moment, for a very brief moment, she thought she could smell Sacramento ablaze. The memory was more violent than a punch to the gut, a wave of heat she thought might burn her flesh off.

  Margaret watched the man in his orange tunic prepare brightly seasoned meat on a stick over his makeshift rattle cart, burning wood and kerosene. She noticed his hands and wrists were burned, long ago.

  Though she wished the old man no ill, she paid him and brushed him off. These were memories for days far darker. The Collapse was a demon she kept locked far away from her waking existence. There were millions of sad stories, just like the vendor’s, that could be found in a handshake, brushed flesh, or a kiss, all emoting screams in the night. Allowing the crushing sorrow of those dreams to break and pull apart your bones did no one any good.

  The meat was likely chicken, but perhaps mixed with pigeon or something else stringy and lean. It was good, the seasoning bit back in Margaret’s mouth. When she’d eaten it all, her fingers were red and yellow, gleaming with grease and lard, pieces of skin and fat buried under nails. She suckled at each digit, licking as a happy puppy might greet its master, chewing at her nails, and running her teeth under to dislodge any remaining food. She paused before pressing her hands down her cotton skirt. The dark yellow fabric was smeared with grease and spittle.

  By now soldiers of the northbound battalion were walking past her, groups of friends, lance buddies, and fire teams mixed together. Filthy from the road. Their fantigues were covered in carbon and dust, mud, and even the tell-tell hue of dried blood. Most wore scarves or masks, to breathe on the road. They smelled rank, a vulgar mix of body odor and stale urine. They’d be on their way into Stockton, checking in with Townsend’s command and getting bunk assignments before questing into bars and taverns, bath houses and brothels. Judging by their unit patches they were 9th Battalion, 1st Army. Alexander’s own troops. Some wore painted logos of a snarling Doberman Pinscher, a few had leather patches naming them, Dogs of War.

  Although they weren’t Margaret’s boys, they felt like her soldiers. They were buzzing from the road, amped up on the freedom of solid land and stirring with hunger. Margaret could hear the low jumble of their background thoughts, cursing across a spectrum of tawdry remarks. Undressing Margaret with their eyes or lost in visions of their own personal fetishes, to be pursued later tonight. It was a warbling yammer that tasted, sounded, like no other group of thoughts Margaret had ever known in her existence.

  She would miss this too.

  A young man, maybe sixteen or seventeen, charged up to Margaret, grabbing her waist and lifting her off the ground. She let him, and she giggled for it too. His arms felt like rebar and he planted a kiss on her lips before running off at a shout; “Stockton is one beautiful city!”

  His lips felt like corn husks, his mind a firecracker held to her bosom. He was a young man, burning with life, the kind of energy that could wake up a sleepy old witch, or tempt her to cavort with the 1st Army tonight.

  I’d shine poorly on Townsend if I fucked them, but no harm in a few drinks.

  Before she could consider the possibilities further, Margaret’s stomach turned. It wasn’t her chicken-pigeon breakfast either. There was a high-pitched vibration around her, something that the uninclined 1st Army could never notice. It fractured the air and made her skin crawl as though her own sweat had been sucked inward, allowing it to fester and boil above her muscles.

  It was a familiar sensation for Margaret. This is what Maggi Lopez had felt like to other witches. Unsettling and invasive, it was always difficult to spend time near her. Her jaw set and her brow furrowed as she remembered the time she spent near The Beast, the words of Aubriana, and even Aphrodite.

  That contempt was exaggerated further when Margaret spotted Ramona’s twin sister in a pack of rowdy soldiers returning from the Arch, vehicles parked and ticketed at Stormair.

  She was a wider woman than Ramona, but Amihan Lopez had the same face, same features, same jawline and brows. She was bulkier, stronger in the shoulders and neck. Her short hair was a mad array of windswept havoc, bleached with potassium lye and stained deep red with various sha
des of henna. From ear to ear, across her face were two red lines, permanent tattoos, just like messy and colorful blemishes that ran down her neck, under scarf and goggles. Regardless of the face she shared with her sister, Amihan walked, gestured, and smelled like Maggi Lopez.

  There was no avoiding her. Just as Margaret had sensed Amy first, so too had the young woman found Margaret. She was looking around, eyes wandering concrete and dust, blinking back at carbon when she noticed Margaret.

  Amy shoved aside one of her companions, leaning into stride, and rushing for Margaret. As tall as her sister, she engulfed Margaret in a firm, almost painful embrace. No different from the rest of 9th Battalion, she reeked of rotten sweat and dirty fabric, her face beaded with sweat.

  “Aunt Mayy,” Amy laughed, careful to keep her skin off Margaret’s skin, but running her hands down the older woman’s grey blouse, “I’m sorry, I’m filthy from the road, I’m so sorry.”

  Are you sorry you gave a child up for adoption?

  Margaret’s face turned, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, and Amy noticed. “It’s fine. They’re just clothes, they’ll wash.”

  “We’re ahead of the 1st and 2nd Army.” Amy turned, her tan cheeks a shade of rose, gesturing out across the soldiers returning down the Arch, “This is my unit, the 9th Battalion.”

  Amy was pressing for a compliment, as if these road weary men and women were somehow sacrosanct because they reported to her. Margaret did her best to satisfy the need for approval, placing hands on her hips, “They’re a fine group,” Margaret paused for a moment, squinting into the sun, “Geraldine isn’t here, with you?”