Reintegration

by Eden S. French

  “Why not? You’re always complaining that the girls you hook up with are vanilla. Now, as far as I’m any judge, that girl ain’t no vanilla. She ain’t even fucking Neapolitan.”

  All those drunken, confidential conversations with Zeke were coming back to haunt her. “I told you, a few days and she’s gone. New topic, okay? I want to know how much cash you salvaged.”

  Zeke leered. “I was wondering when you’d bring that up.”

  “I didn’t want to raise it in front of the do-gooders. I have a couple of thousand in my wallet—”

  “You what? Jesus, don’t you worry somebody’s going to pick your pocket?”

  “This is me we’re talking about. Anyone picks my pocket, the next thing they’re picking is their teeth from the gutter.”

  Zeke sniggered. “Well, I got some money, yeah. Before they dragged me out, I wadded up the cash in my safe and stuffed some in every pocket I had. I’d have started on my orifices if I had time.”

  God, it was hard forcing this dumbass to get to the point. “How much?”

  “Just a little over ten thousand. Less once we trade down in Port Venn.”

  “I hope it’s enough to get started. I’m not going to be poor again.”

  “With that implant of yours, you’ll clean up wherever you go.” Zeke eyed the mattress. “You think this thing looks better on the other side?”

  “Good question. I’ll leave you to find out.”

  “Aww, c’mon, Lex, give me a hand with this. Don’t be a bitch…”

  Lexi left him to his frantic muttering. The corridor outside ran from the galley to an infested chamber that Riva had called, without irony, the bathroom. Along the hall’s length, doors opened into various sleeping quarters.

  As she passed by, Lexi glanced into each room. In the one to her left, Kade stood shaking out a blanket. In the room opposite, Amity stared at a deluge of black water as it glooped out of an old faucet. She gave Lexi an miserable look, and Lexi responded with a cheery thumbs-up.

  Upon nearing the galley, heavy music became audible, a sound like a dinosaur caught in a trash compactor. Amid the din, it was possible to hear Callie and Riva in conversation. Lexi stopped just shy of the entrance and listened.

  “I prefer their first album,” said Callie. “Way heavier than the later stuff.”

  “They matured, that’s all.” Riva’s soft voice was harder to make out through the atrocious noise. “If you don’t like From Death to Daybreak, I don’t think we can be friends.”

  “Gotta admit, I do love the title track. When I play it loud enough, wild dogs start howling.”

  “You’re lucky. Back at Bunker One, I’m forbidden to turn the volume up high. Apparently, the music travels through the pipes.”

  Callie laughed. “Well, now’s your chance.”

  “Where do you live, anyway? You said you travel a lot, but you never mentioned if you have a home.”

  “I keep a little garage and junkyard out past the factories. Not far from where the city turns into sand.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Nah. There’s no real gangs out my way, and the local workers rely on me to fix the old machines whenever they break down. I hope they’ll keep an eye on my place while I’m gone.”

  An intense barrage of drums interrupted the conversation. When Callie next spoke, her tone was different—apprehensive. “I don’t mean to be a bitch, but I need to warn you about Lexi.”

  Lexi tensed, her breath catching.

  “What do you mean?” said Riva, sounding puzzled; not alarmed yet.

  “Remember when Zeke was bandaging your hand and she put on that big concern act? Stroking your forehead, murmuring nice things? Don’t be fooled. She doesn’t care about you. She’s a sociopath. She just wants to get laid, and then she’ll be on her way like you never existed.”

  Now this was definitely not good PR. Lexi sidled closer and strained to hear over the howling electric guitars.

  “She’s made clear she’s not interested in a relationship,” said Riva. “And she’s leaving for Port Venn soon. I think she’s been honest with me.”

  “Maybe. But girls fall in love with her, whether they intend to or not, and then they get hurt. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

  “Is there a story behind this? Something between you and her?”

  Time to interrupt. Lexi strolled into the kitchen, and the girls looked up from their work. Callie had her hands in the depths of an oven, while Riva was scrubbing the dark crust from a stove fixture.

  “Aren’t you two cute,” said Lexi. “Having a good time?”

  “Sure are.” Callie looked as smug as a cat hooked to an intravenous drip of milk. “We’re also getting a lot of work done. Unlike you.”

  “Hey, I can do work. Watch this.” Lexi took a sponge and scrubbed at a discolored scab of grease. It refused to shift, and she tossed the sponge aside. “Okay, forget that. Truth is, I’m here to keep up team morale. I’m a natural leader.”

  “There’s nothing down here more full of shit than you. And the toilet at the other end of that hall is literally full of shit.”

  Riva laughed, and Lexi gave her a sorrowful look. “Take a break, Latour. You got a nasty cut. You shouldn’t be working.”

  Riva frowned at the bandage encircling her left hand. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Get some fresh air. Grab a snack from the van.”

  “If you insist, thanks for catching me, by the way.” Riva set down her brush, walked up to Lexi and placed a light kiss on her cheek.

  A pleasant tremor left Lexi momentarily dizzy, not to mention speechless. It was hard to think of anything witty after that fleeting contact with Riva’s warm lips. “Um. Yeah. And, uh, thanks for landing on me so gently.” Damn. Not her best.

  As Riva exited the galley, Lexi admired the alluring motion of her butt. Never had black denim looked so good. Maybe it wasn’t too late to convince Amity to reconsider the bedroom arrangements.

  Lexi’s ass-induced trance was broken by the sound of giggling. “You are so smitten,” said Callie. “It’s adorable.”

  “Smitten? Me? Did that music finally knock out your frontal lobe?”

  “You should’ve seen the look on your face when she kissed you. Staring into the distance, your mouth open like you were trying to catch flies.”

  “I did not look like that.” Lexi gave the counter a savage rub with the nearest damp sponge. “She startled me, that’s all.”

  “Sure, sure.” A screw popped loose from the hotplate and skittered across the counter. Callie stopped it with her palm. “Got you, you little bastard.”

  Lexi dipped the sponge into water for a second attempt. “By the way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk me down behind my back. Let me earn my own bad reputation.”

  “So you were eavesdropping. I thought you walked in at a very convenient time.” Callie twirled the screw between her fingers, her face thoughtful. “I’m trying to watch out for her, that’s all. You told me yourself that you don’t care about the women you sleep with. It was how you justified what you did to me, remember?”

  Decent comeback. Lexi flicked soapy water, and Callie yelped and ducked away. “But I’m not sleeping with her, am I?”

  “You’re working on it, though.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  Callie blushed and began working at another screw. “I’m just being friendly. She’s really sweet.”

  Never had a girl more badly disguised her feelings. But Lexi wasn’t in the mood to tease any more. “Yeah, she is. And believe me, I could use a friend around here.”

  “You have friends. You just treat them like shit. Maybe all some of them need is to hear you say sorry.”

  Callie’s tone was pleading, and vulnerability trembled on the surface of her beautiful brown eyes. “Trust me, I know,” said Lexi, plunging the sponge back into the water.

  * * *

  When trouble finally arrived, it did so around four o�
�clock, wearing a blonde mullet and a leather jacket with Motherfucker stitched across the back. “Nice van,” it said while picking its nose. “Got much mileage on it?”

  “Hell if I know,” said Lexi, who had only just surfaced to catch a little fresh air. Driven by a stupid desire to impress, she’d cleaned the entire kitchen. It was now spotless, but Lexi’s arms felt like they’d been chewed by gorillas. “I don’t even know what mileage is.”

  “You have some friends in there.” The gangster looked like something that might have crawled out of the mattress in Zeke’s room. His head was a mass of scarred flesh, lank hair, and broken teeth, and somebody had cut lines into his biceps and let them scar, forming an ugly fucking tattoo. “Am I right about that?”

  “Why, are you in charge of planning dinner invites?”

  The gangster spat. Why was it that people like him always went around spitting on things? “I’m trying to figure out if you’re a man or a woman. You sound like a woman, but I’m not one hundred percent certain.”

  Lexi had met some intimidating guys in her time, but this jerkoff wasn’t one of them. “Maybe I’m neither. That thought confuse you, Motherfucker?”

  The gangster swaggered toward her, ape-like and sneering, and stopped just inches away. “Whatever the fuck you are, you’re in deep shit. This block is part of our territory.”

  Lexi made a show of surveying the street. On one corner, a pharmacy had caved in, its ceiling peeled away like a festering sore. The gas station beside it was nothing but rubble atop a stretch of cracked, scorched cement. Opposite, several houses stood windowless amid an ocean of wiry weeds. “It’s a real catch.”

  “Go inside and tell your friends this is Rusalka’s territory. You can stay here, maybe, but you’ve got to talk to the lady in charge first.”

  This walking piece of gristle answered to a woman? Well, that was a pleasant surprise. “What happens if we don’t?”

  “For starters, we take the van. Then we mess you up.” The gangster shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Don’t see why you’d want the hassle. We’re just watching our turf.”

  If they’d sent this guy to negotiate, he was probably the nicest and most articulate of the bunch. A disturbing thought. “Okay, sure. I’ll go talk to my friends, and you get the silverware ready.”

  “Uh-huh.” The gangster returned to appreciating the van, and Lexi retreated into the bunker and descended to the galley.

  Callie and Riva were sitting at a freshly-polished table, still listening to the noise they had the audacity to call music, while Isaac sat on a bench and gnawed at a protein bar.

  “Where’s Amity?” said Lexi, and like something from a horror movie, they all swiveled to look at her. “Hey, don’t turn at once. It’s creepy.”

  Riva turned the volume down. “What’s up?”

  “We have a visitor outside. A messenger from someone called Rusalka.”

  Isaac spat out a piece of his protein bar. “Rusalka?”

  “Thanks for the echo. That name mean something to you?”

  “She runs the toughest gang in the district. One crazy bitch.”

  Curious how male crime lords were treated with awed respect, while the women were always labeled crazy bitches. “And I suppose you’re acquainted personally?”

  “She wants me dead as shit.”

  “I have no idea how dead shit is, so I’ll just take that as an emphatic yes.” Lexi flapped a hand at Callie and Riva. “One of you two fetch Amity for me. Even if this Rusalka eats live babies and bathes in blood, she can’t be anywhere near as frightening as our big bad blonde.”

  “That may be unwise,” said Riva. “Amity doesn’t negotiate with gangsters.”

  “If she prefers to rip out Rusalka’s spine and stab her through the heart with it, I’m fine with that, too. I just don’t want to front up to some local queenpin without muscle to back my play.”

  “I’d rather it didn’t come to that. Let me talk to her first.”

  Riva left the room, and Isaac returned to nervously tearing at his protein bar. Lexi sidled up to him. “Why do they want you dead, Landon Hill?”

  Looking into his eyes was like staring down an empty well. He expelled another guttural cough. “Not your business.”

  “While we’re looking after you, it’s plenty of my business.”

  “There’s no need to intimidate him.” Callie was sprawled in her seat, her boots on the table in front of her, but she looked worried rather than relaxed. “Zac, we need to know.”

  Isaac licked his cracked lips. “I took something wasn’t meant for me.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Maybe.” Isaac averted his bloodshot eyes. “I didn’t hurt nobody.”

  No surer way to piss off a gang than to touch their stash. “I wouldn’t say nobody,” said Lexi. “I mean, you fucked yourself over pretty good.” She plucked at his thoughts, testing a greasy strand. He was telling the truth, and she didn’t want to go any deeper than that. “How does Rusalka operate? She have a code?”

  “Yeah, she got rules. Like, no pimping. And she kills rapists with her own hands, hangs them up in the street. But that don’t make her nice. They did seven kids a few months back. Made the mistake of starting their own gang. She had them cut to bits, strung ’em along the street. Dangling off the electric wires.” Isaac picked at the foil of his protein bar. “I was cleaner then, so I saw it. Remembered it. Wish I’d been doped up instead.”

  “You aren’t bullshitting me, are you?”

  “I believe it,” said Callie. “Foundation used to be the home of over ten million souls. It’s a big city. And the farther out you get, the more desperate life becomes, until there’s no easy way to tell men from dogs. Inner city types like you tend to forget that.”

  “Open Hand hasn’t forgotten.” Amity stood in the doorway, flanked by Riva and Kade. “We’ll be accepting this invitation. Roux, bring your shotgun.”

  * * *

  The gangster didn’t speak as he led the group through the abandoned streets. In the silence, a persistent breeze rattled loose awnings while bearing a dust that tasted bitter whenever Lexi breathed it in.

  Zeke had stayed back with Isaac, but everyone else had insisted on tagging along. Amity and Kade kept close to their gang escort, while Lexi, Callie, and Riva trailed behind. Lexi wasn’t crazy about Riva accompanying them, but she would at least be well-protected.

  They walked onto a street that looked like the target of an air bombing. Every second house had been demolished, and the sidewalk was coated in gray soot. A recurring tag appeared amid the graffiti, a prominent, incomprehensible red scrawl that presumably was Rusalka’s sign.

  “We’re almost there,” said the gangster. “Just down the end of the street, see?” He pointed to the open gates of a scrapyard some meters distant.

  “They live in a scrapyard?” said Lexi. “Callie, you’ll fit right in.”

  Callie smirked. She was toting her shotgun, but the gangster hadn’t cared. If anything, it probably made him take her more seriously. Only an idiot would attend a gang meeting unarmed.

  A peeling sign above the yard’s gate declared it to be Cozy’s Junkyard. Presumably, Cozy was so much scrap himself nowadays. A path of packed earth wound between piles of junk—shattered televisions, rusted bicycle frames, fridges bristling with mold. After a few minutes of walking, the group arrived at a large area enclosed by layers of crushed cars, each one a mangled slab of steel and aluminum. A group of gangsters waited at the far end of the clearing, most of them rough enough to seem ready for recycling themselves.

  A towering, leather-clad woman stood in the group’s center. She had a white scar on her cheek, a colossal mane of knotted black hair and an imperious look in her narrowed eyes. Frighteningly, she was taller than any of her companions by a full head and shoulders—roughly seven feet by Lexi’s estimation.

  “Five of you.” Even her voice was terrifying, the kind of deep, muscular tone best suited to growling threats in dark alleys.
“Who’s in charge?”

  “I’ll talk for us,” said Riva. “I’m Riva Latour.”

  The fuck? Lexi glanced at Amity, but she seemed calm, her demeanor as steely as ever. Shit. These two had planned this behind Lexi’s back. A flash of irritation heated Lexi’s blood. Fucking Open Hand amateurs.

  Rusalka stared at Riva’s Mohawk. “You dress tough, but you’re built like a stick, girl. If that wind gets up any more, we’ll lose you.” The gangsters around her snickered, as stupid lackeys were inclined to do.

  “I’m from Open Hand. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “City gang, maybe.” Rusalka shrugged. “No. It doesn’t.”

  “We aren’t a gang. We help anyone who needs us. Right now, we’re harboring some friends who are being hunted by the Codists.”

  “The fuck is a Codists?”

  “The ones you call shut-ins.”

  Lexi tried not to groan. Riva was open, sincere, and earnest. All the wrong traits for negotiating with a hardened devourer-of-men like Rusalka.

  “So you’re more scared of shut-ins than you are of me,” Rusalka said. “Is that right?”

  “Not more scared. But we trust you more. People like you and I struggle every day to eat, to be sheltered, to stay healthy. Codists don’t know what that’s like.” Riva stood with her head high, exuding confident sincerity. Admirable spirit, even if she was about to get a nasty lesson in gangster psychology. “The building we’ve occupied was once an Open Hand safe house. We’re willing to ask your permission to stay in it.”

  Amity frowned—maybe Riva had invented that concession herself—but Rusalka nodded. “You’re respectful. That’s good. But why are you hiding from the shut-ins? I don’t want them in my district.”

  “They have no idea we’re here. It’s only a precaution.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.” Rusalka took a menacing step closer, and Lexi tensed. “Those motherfuckers know everything. They only leave us alone because we aren’t even human to them. Just so many rats. And I want to keep it that way.”

  “I promise you, they won’t come here.”

  “But it’s a risk, isn’t it?” Rusalka touched the handle of a knife sheathed at her hip. “And if you’re telling the truth, the longer you hang around, the bigger that risk gets.”