A Route of Wares: An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure: Hollow Island Book One

by Daniel Coleman

  The man had been pushed down at some point in life, and hard.

  As Nash’s eyes rested on the man, a bio appeared. Gembel Saatia, unmodified. Drunkard.

  He was originally trained as a bean farmer ten years before, making him one of the most senior residents of the island. It’d been five years since he’d worked an honest job. He had a record of trespassing and minor theft, and had fathered three native-born children. Severe cirrhosis of the liver, current life expectancy three months.

  That was tragic, but what really hit Nash was that even the lowest drunk on the street was monitored closely by Hollow Image Projections, though they obviously didn’t intend to offer any sort of treatment to extend Gembel’s life.

  Regardless of all that, there were currently no bounties out on him. To Nash that meant they had no business with him.

  John Wayne came to a stop in front of the man and nudged him in the ribs with the tip of his boot. “I told you I didn’t want to see your filthy mug beggin’ by the market anymore.”

  Gembel opened his eyes and looked down at the boot tip in his chest then took notice of the rest of his surroundings, including John Wayne’s face. “Fig me,” he slurred. “If there was a God, your dad would’ve been castrated as a yearling.”

  The tip of John Wayne’s boot went into Gembel’s ribs as a kick this time, knocking the drunk onto his side. Nash winced as John Wayne’s spurs narrowly missed the man’s arm. There were a few people walking near the market entrance, but all of them seemed to be in a hurry to be anywhere else.

  “Just can’t help yourself, can ya?” said John Wayne. “A day in the hole without any hooch might teach you a lesson. Get up and get movin’.”

  With a run of curses under his breath, Gembel worked on climbing to his feet. Nash leaned closer to his trainer and said, “Is begging illegal?”

  John Wayne rose to his full height, turned to face Nash, and stared up at him. “Didn’t we have this discussion twenty seconds ago, piker?”

  “I’m just trying to learn the ropes.”

  A red undertone was visible on John Wayne’s face. “I like to keep the unsavory elements off the street, as if I have to explain myself to you.” He spat on the ground near Nash’s feet.

  Nash didn’t back down. “Unsavory elements? That Ware in the market was more likely to cause problems than a quiet drunk.”

  With a rising voice, John Wayne replied, “It’s not against the law to be modified, piker! Most Jennies just run around acting like idiots, not hurting anyone.” He glanced at Gembel who was watching the argument with interest. He poked Nash in the chest and snapped, “Don’t question me in public.”

  From his hands and knees, Gembel added in a slur, “Or in private, or even in your head. He’s one mean pig milker. And I should know. He’s milked me plenty of times.”

  “Are you still here?” growled John Wayne.

  The drunk lifted his hand to protect his face, but when a blow didn’t come, he put it on the ground and worked on standing again.

  John Wayne turned his gaze back to Nash. “You’ve already burned through ten inches of my three-inch fuse.” Punctuating each word with another poke in the chest he said, “Do, not, push, me, again.”

  Nash glared back, but didn’t say anything.

  After a few seconds more of the evil eye, John Wayne’s gaze went back to Gembel. “You know the way.” He shoved the man the direction he was already heading.

  It was too much help for the intoxicated man and he stumbled forward into the street. A small cut was already bleeding on his cheek when he looked back at John Wayne and said, “Why do people with the biggest guns always have the smallest … brains?”

  “Pukewater in a bucket,” said John Wayne and gave him another full strength kick to the ribs.

  “Hold on,” said Nash, reaching into his pack for his first aid kit. Let John Wayne get pissed off at him, he couldn’t just stand back and watch. “You’re taking this too far.” He knelt beside Gembel.

  Before Nash knew what was happening, John Wayne’s gun dug into his temple. In a voice too detached for the situation, he said, “Rangers aren’t some mamby-pamby police agency. And there’s no UN inspector peacekeeping forces here. If you’re not hard enough, you’re a liability to me and every other Ranger. I should just do all Rangers a favor and flunk you right now.” John Wayne laid his finger on the trigger.

  Nash stood as slowly as possible and faced his trainer, who raised the gun until Nash could see down the barrel.

  In training he’d learned all about the gun, but the view down the cylinder was a whole new perspective. The tiny aperture filled his vision. It took him back to Jed’s pistol-shaped stun gun—but unlike that implement of torture, this one could do permanent damage.

  The words from an old poem came clearly to his mind: Never befriend the oppressed unless you are prepared to take on the oppressor.

  There was no way to know if John Wayne would actually shoot, but it wasn’t a risk Nash could take at this point. He couldn’t look out for anyone if he ended up dead on his second day.

  “Fine,” he said, raising the flag of surrender and feeling like a piece of garbage.

  “Scutting right it’s fine,” said John Wayne. He still didn’t take the gun out of Nash’s face.

  “C’mon, Gembel,” Nash said to the drunk. “Get walking.” If he could get the man to the jail, at least he’d be out of John Wayne’s hands for a couple of days.

  John Wayne lowered his gun but not his eyes. “In case you haven’t figured it out, the Corporation doesn’t give a fig about how smart or tough you are. They just want Rangers who can follow orders.”

  Nash bit his tongue so he didn’t talk about the Nazi Holocaust, suicide bombers of the early 2000s, or whoever pushed the buttons that launch the Final Nukes. Many of the tragedies of those situations had been committed by people who had just been following orders.

  No one spoke as the two Rangers followed Gembel down a couple city blocks. With every step, Nash cursed the bully tactics of his trainer, but what could he do? Taking a bullet would help no one. Nash wasn’t about to blindside John Wayne with a bullet in the back, and anything less would only piss him off and make matters worse.

  All he could hope for was to get through this deal with Gembel and hope his trainer chilled out a little bit.

  Just like the rest of the buildings on the street, the jailhouse was a cement building, but hanging in front was a wooden sign painted with cell bars. The front door was open.

  John Wayne followed his prisoner in and said, “We’ve got one for your special cell.”

  Nash heard the guard chuckle before stepping into the building and seeing a bald, stocky man with a scar on the side of his head. “Mr. Saatia. Welcome back. Your suite is ready for you.”

  The jail consisted of four stark cells in a row, each with a cot and a toilet. A large brass bell hung near the doorway. Off to one side was a metal door with no grate or opening. The guard used a large key to unlock the solid door then pulled it open. The cell was a meter across and barely two meters deep. It held no toilet and no cot, just a bucket in the corner. The one basic human right that was provided to everyone on Hollow Island free of charge wasn’t even available in that cell.

  “Does it meet your approval?” asked the guard, half-bowing in mockery to Gembel.

  John Wayne gave him a hard kick in the pants and said, “There’s a lesson waiting to be learned in there. See if you can find it.”

  Gembel stumbled toward the cell and caught himself in the doorway. He turned to look at Nash. In a slow, slurred voice, he said, “Evil triumphs when good men do nothing.” He spat at Nash but missed badly. The guard elbowed him in the gut and Gembel fell to the cement floor, striking his head against the back wall.

  With his eyes closed, Gembel started to shake. Nash couldn’t tell if it was a seizure, or if Gembel was being dramatic. He took a step forward to check him out … and the heavy metal door slammed shut right in front of him.
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  “He needs help,” said Nash. “Medical attention.”

  “Every single time,” said John Wayne, rolling his eyes. “Fifty times I’ve hauled him in here and fifty times he’s played some hound and hare game.”

  He motioned for the guard to lock the door, and the guard obeyed.

  Speaking loud enough to be heard in the cell, John Wayne said, “I was gonna say one day, but our drunk friend needs to learn a lesson for White Hat here. Make it three days. And if my young pard here comes and tries to take him out early, double the time and take away all of his rations.”

  Gembel would die in six days with no rations. He was already frail, undernourished, and beat up. That part about taking away rations might be a bluff. The reason behind this whole show of force was so that John Wayne could teach Nash a lesson.

  John Wayne walked out, leaving Nash staring at the metal cell door.

  The sick feeling in Nash’s gut was worse than the kick he’d taken there yesterday and worse than stacked lies. It was physically as painful as the lies had been, but with the added salt of a guilty conscience.

  If Gembel did this every time they brought him in, then he was just playing Nash. There were no sounds of seizing, but that could be because of the huge metal door. And as badly as Nash didn’t want to be played, it would be worse to stand back and let a miscarriage of justice happen here.

  Nash hurried out of the jail. John Wayne would blow a gasket, but he’d gone too far.

  When he caught up with his trainer, Nash hit his shoulder from behind. “John Wayne,” he said, coming to a stop in the street, ready for the confrontation. “We need to let him out. At least go in there and check on him.”

  “Training’s over, piker,” called John Wayne, not stopping, not even slowing down. “Now leave me alone.”

  Nash wondered if he’d heard him right. Training was over? He remembered John Wayne’s face from a few minutes ago when he’d come out of the market looking for Nash. Somewhere deep down, John Wayne felt some sort of responsibility for Nash. This act had to be a bluff.

  He hustled to catch up as the cowboy huffed down the gravel street. “You’re stuck with me for thirteen more days,” said Nash, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Apparently you already know everything there is to know.” They turned down a narrow street with no markings on the buildings.

  “What happened to two weeks of training?” demanded Nash. He didn’t want to talk about this now, but he knew John Wayne wouldn’t talk about Gembel until they solved this.

  “Two years isn’t long enough to convince you that your old morals don’t apply here. It’s just a matter of time until you get yourself killed, or worse, get me killed.” He stopped in front of a door underneath a wooden sign with a cat on it. “I meant what I said about that drunk sumbitch. You open that door and it’s yours and his funeral.” He tapped on the door with a single knuckle.

  The door opened immediately and a lace-clad woman with a seductive grin motioned John Wayne in. Before entering, John Wayne looked Nash up and down. “I wash my hands of you, piker. Congratulations, you passed. Now leave me alone.”

  The door closed, leaving Nash alone in the street knowing he had failed.

  6

  Never Befriend the Oppressed

  << Hollow Island is approximately 100 miles by 35 miles. If the U.S. Territory of Puerto Rico had become a U.S. State, it would have ranked 49 out of 51 in size.

  hollowisland.com/stats >>

  Nash stared at the door his trainer had just gone through.

  It was no joke; Nash was on his own.

  Hollow Island’s population was around a half million people, with twice that many cameras. The city of San Juan surrounded Nash, squeezing him. Zero friends, zero money in his pocket, and zero ideas of where to go and what to do.

  As he staggered away from the door, he tried to take stock of his situation.

  At least he wasn’t dead after that fight yesterday. He had his dream job, even if he had no idea of how to do it. And at least he wasn’t locked in a windowless cell, unconsciously smashing his own head on a cement floor.

  Nash’s body craved more food, but his gut was still sick thinking about what he’d just been a part of.

  If he went back to the jail to try to help Gembel, it would only make matters worse for both of them. Every time he tried to help someone, he succeeded only in making things worse.

  Nash needed to find a way to push the poor drunk from his mind. He needed to get somewhere away from San Juan, find a new situation and start fresh. Again.

  He reached an intersection and looked down the three streets. The market held nothing for him at this point, so it was down to two options. Nothing in training or on the island so far had prepared him to be able to make the choice between one road and the other.

  Some of Goodchild’s words from training rang through his mind in that rich Scottish accent. You’ll face decisions you can’t even conceive of now. And once you choose your path, lads and lassies, it’s hard to undo that choice. So, which road will you walk?

  This particular challenge was definitely a decision Nash hadn’t conceived of. So which road would he walk now? Apparently, the coward’s road, where he crawled away with his tail between his legs and pretended like there weren’t evil people in the world. The road where he couldn’t make a difference because he was too new and inexperienced.

  In his mind he was back to that sweltering day in New York. He’d been too hesitant that day as well. And it was his fault Karolina had been hurt. His fault for offering the chance to yield instead of finishing the fight. He should have known men like that would take advantage of the opportunity—and of Karolina.

  And what had he told himself when he’d immigrated? That it would be different here. That he wouldn’t hesitate when someone needed him.

  To the right lay the jail. To the right lay the risk that he might make someone’s life so much worse it could lead to death. And to the right lay the opportunity to make the difference he’d always planned.

  To the left lay a street he’d never been on. A fresh start where he could get his feet under him. There had to be a hundred other mango trees in this city where he could sit down to catch his breath and eat another free lunch.

  And in his hand, he realized lay the Ranger miniature. Karolina had sanded the hair down to a lighter color, to be closer to Nash’s. The words she’d said when she gave it to him echoed in his mind. For a kid who’s always been more of a man than anyone I know, the perfect mix of kindness and bravery. A guy who will never sit back and let someone suffer when there’s something he can do. You were born to be a Ranger.

  Sitting under a mango tree while people needed him was not what he’d come to Hollow Island for. Nash couldn’t sit back and let evil men have their way. No matter what happened today, Nash needed to walk a road with his head held high. It was time to befriend the oppressed, and damn the consequences.

  “I’ll stand up,” said Nash out loud, then took the street to the right.

  The jail was only a minute’s walk and when Nash approached it, fear seized him. Slowing his pace, he considered whether the fear was for himself or for Gembel. Opening that cell door would open other doors for both of them, doors that most likely wouldn’t turn out well for either of them.

  They could deal with that later, even if Nash had to help Gembel get to another city where he could live out whatever months he had left.

  With a deep breath, he hardened his face, barreled in and stormed over to the guard, who sat in the corner, leaning back in his chair and whistling. His eyes widened and he started to lower the chair, but Nash reached him first and kicked one of the elevated front legs of the chair. The guard windmilled his arms, but it didn’t stop him from slamming back into the cement ground, hitting his head with a crack. It was the same sound Gembel’s head had made on the concrete, and Nash found it satisfying.

  Earlier the guard had looked all tough with his scarred face and two Rangers o
n his side. Now as the man shied away from Nash, he looked like a scared child, right down to the whimper on his face.

  “Keys,” said Nash, bending close enough to smell the breath of a man who’d lost his faith in dental hygiene the day he immigrated.

  The guard fumbled at his waist unproductively where the keys hung from a metal clasp.

  Nash grabbed the key ring and yanked. Bits of metal clinked on the walls and floor as the clasp broke and the keys came free.

  When Nash took a few steps away, trying a key in the lock of the solitary confinement door, the guard said, “John Wayne is gonna hear about this.”

  “I’ll tell him myself,” said Nash, realizing in the moment that he had to stand up to his trainer at some point. He tried another key.

  “You don’t want to mess with John Wayne,” said the guard, sliding back against the wall and using it to stand. “He’s killed for less.”

  “That’s the rumor,” said Nash.

  He slid a key smoothly into the lock and twisted it. With a satisfying clank of settling steel, the mechanism released and Nash pulled the door open. The odor of urine enveloped him.

  Gembel Saatia lay on the floor where he had been when the door had closed. He wasn’t convulsing any more. He wasn’t moving at all, and he had turned a pale shade of blue. As Nash’s eyes adjusted to the dim cell, he saw gooey foam around Gembel’s lips.

  “Hey,” said Nash, rushing to his side and shaking him. “Gembel? Open your eyes.”

  Gembel’s head lolled to the side, his eyes wide and glassy.

  Nash put his fingers to Gembel’s throat. No pulse, no breathing.

  “Wake up. Wake up!” Nash shook him harder, but it just made the dead man’s head and limbs wag back and forth.

  How long had it been? Eight minutes? Ten? Nash thought back on the basic first aid he’d been taught in training. There was no way Gembel could come back after being dead that long, but maybe he hadn’t stopped breathing right away. Nash was here, so he would do what he could.