by D. L. Denham
“Where’s Thursday,” Reho asked, kneeling next to the dead creature.
“Filling the burner,” Sola replied.
The train was building momentum, but if there were more of these deadly creatures out there, they could easily jump onboard before the steamer gained significant speed. Gibson was at the controls, frantic but focused, unlike how he had been behind the trigger. Here, he was in charge.
Sola took the gaslight off its hook and lowered it to what lay dead on the floor. The man-creature was the one Reho had seen at the edge of the blue light. It was as much human as animal in appearance. It resembled a wolf Reho had once seen in a picture book as a kid. Its nose protruded, but its matted fur and pale yellow eyes were unmistakably wolf. At the top of its head, long hair covered part of its bloodied face. These creatures looked spliced together and unnatural. They must be escaped experiments from Omega. What else could they be?
Ends’ pistol was still gripped in his right hand. “I shot that bastard while it dug its muzzle into my side.”
“I heard shots from the back of the train,” Reho said.
“They were on the roof,” Thursday replied. “We heard the shooting and decided to join the fun.” He had a coal shovel in hand and wore an expression that told Reho the fun was over.
“Fun?” Ends said, grimacing as Sola stuck him with a needle.
“It’s a flesh wound, but it’s deep,” Sola said, pressing a bandage and running tape around his waist.
“I can get stitched once we get to Jaro,” Ends said, unscrewing the top of a flask of hard shine that had seen strapped to his ankle.
Like a madman behind the controls of a suicidal steamer, Gibson never looked away from the tracks ahead of them.
“Is he going to be able to slow this thing down when we reach Killa-jaro?” Thursday asked, looking around the room. No one replied. Reho walked over to Gibson and looked down at the speedometer. Its digital readout was blank. He looked at his AIM: ninety-seven miles per hour.
Behind him, Thursday lifted the dead creature, kicked the handle of the outer door, and tossed the wolf-man into the darkness.
Chapter 8
As they exited the jungle and entered the plains, still miles from the mountain, Thursday stopped fueling the burner. Reho monitored the speed. After dropping to fifty miles per hour, the train had maintained its speed for over twenty miles before showing any sign of slowing.
Just before daylight, they discussed ideas for slowing the train. Ends didn’t panic until he saw Killa-jaro approaching. Ultimately, they decided to go with Thursday’s idea.
Above the second and third passenger car, there were rain containers used to capture water for the passengers and to provide water for the boiler. The plan was simple: make a sizable puncture in both the water tanks and boiler for them to empty quickly. The trick was doing it without having the boiler explode.
Reho went with Thursday. If this worked, water would drain out onto the tracks and slow the steamer. Even Gibson had said it was a good plan. It just needed to be tested.
Thursday held his pulse rifle at an angle, its barrel an inch away from the drainage valves. Reho examined the valves and wondered why there was no manual release, a serious design flaw. The boiler sat like a giant teapot reminding Reho of the Fighter. Instead of being mounted on two legs, it was mounted on and powering a steamer.
Thursday blasted into the valve. Nothing.
“Dammit!” Thursday shouted, looking at Reho who had taken a position farther back. Reho nodded, signaling to try again.
Thursday fired rapidly this time. Reho counted five blasts before boiling water spewed out with a thunderous hiss below them. Thursday flung himself backward to avoid the boiling backsplash. Excess water poured out through a grate on the floor.
“Whoo hoo!” Thursday shouted. “I wonder how fast it’ll empty.”
Reho looked at his AIM; the speed had reduced some. He ascended to the top of the navigation car and blasted the two rain containers there. They drained in under a minute. Both now drenched, Reho and Thursday returned to the navigation room.
***
The train had stopped a mile short of the station’s platform. The cargo was loaded onto the steam-mule, as Ends made his way to the loading platform just west of the town.
The station at the foot of Killa-jaro was deserted, its whitewashed buildings in danger of collapse. Where was the team to take them farther up the mountain to Jaro?
The town had been built with stone, wood, and concrete—structures left over from before the Blasts. Buildings were painted with businesses names he recognized. There were no metal pipes connecting to some large boiler in the distance. After loading the steam wagon, Reho, Gibson, and Thursday walked through the town searching for any signs to show if someone had been here. Sola and Ends remained behind, examining the map.
Windows were boarded up, their glass shattered. He ran his hands across the concrete wall of what had once been a drugstore; its broken, blue and white sign read only Rite—. He stuck his finger into several bullet holes. They were the size of his index finger. Reho stepped back and took in the entire building. This town had been attacked and abandoned for decades.
The morning sun was bright and the air clean. He hadn’t eaten for almost a day but felt more energetic then he had in his entire life. His shoulder had healed. It was still tight, but that would soon been gone, too. The Casio displayed 10:51. We’re early.
Thursday was waving his arms at Ends. “We came out here for nothing, Ends!”
“We’re early,” Reho said.
“Oh,” Thursday said. “What time is it?”
“Almost 11:00,” Reho replied.
Ends looked at his watch and adjusted its time.
“They will be here for noon,” he said. “Get some food and rest so we can move when they arrive.” He took the last drag from the flask and winced as he returned it to its ankle strap.
Reho dug a peanut butter sandwich from his sack. It was more than two weeks old but relatively fresh. Sandwiches from the vending machines placed in the Blastlands had the longest shelf life. They were packaged and sealed tight with a material capable of keeping out radiation. He finished it with half a canteen of water. Reho thought back to the peanut butter sandwiches he’d eaten as a kid. A memory surfaced: he was five years old, sitting at the kitchen table. His mother cut the crust from a loaf of fresh-baked bread and handed him a glass of cold milk. Reho drifted off under the midday New Afrika sun. The muted chatter around him and the chill in the air transported him not to his mother’s kitchen, but to another familiar, less-welcoming place.
***
The city radiated, its white-hot light reflected from every mirror-like surface. He saw himself everywhere: in the glass doorways, on the ninth floor windows. She was here also—the petite girl with the tattoos. He had seen her before in earlier dreams, those cold-milk-and-crustless-bread memories of his childhood. The city of light and mirrors shook like OldWorld gasolines racing through the streets. Reho walked farther down the street to a neon sign. City of Lights. It pointed down a flight of stairs to the city’s underbelly. Reho followed.
The air was damp and the walls wet. Further down, another neon sign glowed. There were no letters, but none were needed. The flickering outline of a nude woman—standing, then bending forward, fingers moving from breast to lips—beckoned passersby. Reho entered. The place was empty. The club was filled with OldWorld leather chairs and sofas; a stage dominated its center. Reho followed a lighted footpath to the back.
Something metallic scraped in the distance.
The reception desk next to the door sat empty.
Ring.
The noise startled Reho. He instinctively reached for the phone before the second ring and answered, having seen actors do the same in movies.
“Hello?”
“How may I help you?” A female voice whispered in his ear, her voice low, soft, and foreign. The words sounded like something out of movie.
“Who is this?”
The screech of metal-on-metal distracted him again.
“It’s me. It’s going to start raining soon. It’ll rain wherever you go,” the voice said. Then the call ended.
Reho opened the door near the desk. A long, dimly-lit hallway ran in both directions, its graffiti-covered walls dotted with closed doors. An orange and black cat appeared out of nowhere and raced past him and out the door. The floors were littered with syringes, rags, OldWorld soda cans, and newspapers. It reminded him of a picture he’d once seen in an abandoned office building—a picture of OldWorld Chicago.
Reho tried each door as he went down the hall. The grinding noise returned. The last door on the left was ajar; the light flickered as Reho entered.
Across from him, a black door was painted on the wall, a familiar image above it: a cross inside a circle with two curved lines spanning its midsection and a loop on its lower segment. Where was Jimmy?
Jimmy was always at the door, his face hidden, engulfed by light. Reho walked closer to the painted door. Something had changed. An eye above the symbol blinked, it looked at Reho then toward the door behind him. Metal shrieked behind him, bringing Reho to his knees and his hands to his ears. Suddenly, the piercing noise ceased. Reho stood and turned, eye-to-eye with Jimmy. His eyes were bright beams emitting from green, lizard-like flesh and glinting off his metallic, animal-like claws. The room went dark as an icy cold rain poured over him.
It’s going to rain.
***
Reho woke, startled. Thursday stood over him, holding his canteen.
“You wouldn’t wake man,” Thursday said.
Reho wiped the water from his face and cleared his eyes. “How long was I asleep?” Gibson and Sola were standing behind Thursday, the entire trio concerned.
“For nearly an hour,” Sola replied.
Reho stood and noticed the humming of gasolines.
“Our transport?” Reho asked, walking away from his spectators and to the source of the rumbling.
Two Humvees, both matching the terrain of a desert, were loaded with their OldWorld devices. Four black-skinned men stood next to Ends. One pointed toward the mountain while the others stood with their arms crossed. They looked military, and each wore rifles, pistols, and carried enough grenades on their vests to start a war.
“Ends is concerned that our cargo will be damaged in the Humvees,” Thursday said walking toward them, zipping his pants. “He is trying to convince them to let him and Gibson drive.”
“Good grief, what were you doing, Thursday?” Gibson asked.
“Well, I–”
“No,” Gibson said, “on second thought, don’t tell us.”
“How long until we leave?” Reho asked, still shaking off the images from his nightmare. It’s going to rain soon.
“Not long,” Sola replied. “Come on.”
The Humvees were impressive in size. Reho had seen one before, in Red Denver. They were used for military transportation and designed to drive in any conditions. Reho placed his hands on the hood and listened to its engine idling.
“You a fan, huh?” one of the transporters asked, a wide smile stretching across his face. He had the darkest skin Reho had ever seen. His arms were scarred as though torn by an animal.
“Yes. I raced gasolines like this one. Well . . . not quite like this.”
The gasolines he’d raced had been piecemeal, motley mixtures of cars and trucks. Anything that would increase their speed. These Humvees were original vehicles with no modifications or replacement parts. They rumbled beneath their hoods and smelled of gasoline as they would have before the Blasts.
“These are prized possessions belonging to my leader,” he said. “He sent these to secure your journey up the mountain.” He stuck out his hand. “I am Zen.”
“Reho.” They shook. His smile was wide, infectious. Reho couldn’t help but smile in return.
Chapter 9
“You should’ve let us drive!” Ends said as their Humvee skidded through the curve, nearly sending them over its edge. Two thousand feet up the mountain, Jaro’s walls ascended into view. They resembled the walls of a kingdom in an OldWorld country. Reho couldn’t recall its name. Scotchland? This city was well fortified from any invasion, except maybe one from the sky.
“I do the driving,” the driver said. “The leader will have what’s left of my fingers if I let foreigners run his gasolines.” He chuckled as he took one hand off the wheel and bit off his glove, revealing his three remaining digits.
“Great.” Ends flinched and returned to the map spread out across his lap.
Sola sat in the back with Reho, quiet. An equally silent transporter sat between them. She hadn’t said much since the attack at the tracks. Her hands rattled, and Reho thought he knew why. Before leaving with Darksteam, he’d seen her slip a tiny blue pill onto her tongue as they prepared the steam-mule. Their eyes had met, as did Ends’. It was withdrawal causing her hands to fidget and dance on her lap.
Through the dust behind them, Reho could make out the other Humvee, maybe a quarter mile back.
“The Kingdom of Jaro welcomes you, foreigners,” the driver said as they pulled up to the colossal, metal gate cutting the mountainous road off from the city. Guard towers lined the fence every three hundred feet. The massive gate slid into the wall, powered by some invisible force.
“Our gates are made of solid steel. Nothing has ever pierced our fortress. Our kingdom will stand for a thousand years and be here when Neopan becomes Atlantis,” the driver said.
“Atlantis?” Reho asked Sola, who just looked at him and shrugged.
Jaro was a world built on and into a mountain. The buildings were made of stone and wood, its streets paved with hard grey-and-white stones. Vehicles littered the street, some as rusted as the ones abandoned in the Blastlands.
The crew followed the transporters to Kibo’s residence.
“Ends won’t leave the cargo,” Sola said, answering Reho’s repeated glances back at the Humvees. He stood propped against the one they’d arrived in, holding his side.
“It’s delivered,” Reho said.
“He won’t leave it until he’s paid,” she said. “If it’s stolen, there is no payment. He was scammed a few years back. Not here, though.”
They walked through double doors and followed Zen as he scurried through the house.
Zen placed a finger to his lips. “You must refrain from talking as we wait for Kibo to meet with us. He doesn’t want anything to disrupt his daughter’s music in the afternoon. It’s the only thing that soothes his wife’s nerves.”
Music filled the air around them. A piano.
***
Thursday, Sola, Gibson, and Reho had been waiting over an hour. The music traveled through the halls and filled the silence with soft melodies that Reho thought could only be played by someone very sad. For most of the hour, Reho studied the city on his AIM. It covered over two square miles, most of it carved into the mountain. Reho had rendered the map twice, searching for any hints of a sublevel. Everything was above ground except for the five-foot drainage pipes carrying away the city’s waste to the other side of the mountain, near the coast.
In the distance, a globular figure crossed the hall on two wheels, darting from one room to another. No one had noticed except Reho. It appeared to be a person wheeled by two towering figures. She must be over six hundred pounds. Just then, Zen opened both doors as though opening the room to hundreds of guests.
“The Magnificent Kibo will now see you,” Zen said. The music had ceased a few moments before, and Reho watched as a young girl walked across the room. She wore a white dress that sparkled with silver as the light twinkled off its fabric. It shimmered and contrasted against her black skin. She was shorter than Reho, younger. Reho sat next to Thursday on the sofa closest to the piano. The beautiful girl looked back as she paused at the door; their eyes met for the briefest of moments Her face was like something from a movie poster he’
d once seen. Gemstones patterned her cheeks and brow. She was gorgeous, blue-eyed, and projected a sense of familiarity. Her face reminded him of Jena for a moment—not physically, but the way he’d felt when he looked at her. She disappeared through the doorway as a tall, muscular man paraded into the room, dressed in bright colors and escorted by a trio of hard-looking men. Their eyes told Reho they had seen their share of death.
The man was Kibo, Leader of the Kingdom of Jaro. His clothing reminded Reho of the judge and councilmen in Red Denver.
“Stand please,” Zen said, motioning them upward. “This is our leader, Kibo III. He is the direct descendant of the Great Kibo who delivered the people of Killa-jaro from the Hegemon.”
“You may have a seat,” Kibo said. “Now that you know who I am, I, in return, want to know who you are.” His tone was rich, his English practiced and fluent. He made his way to a seat across from them. His dark skin was a seamless backdrop for the decorative gemstones that lined it. They dotted his forehead in luminous blues and greens and trailed down the side of his face, connecting with a multicolored row of gemstones at his earlobes. His Herculean appearance gave the impression of a warrior, but Reho couldn’t find any scars. The two bodyguards must be carrying those blemishes for him.
Zen suggested they enjoy some of the complimentary foods spread out on the table between them. Feeling obliged, Reho peeled a piece of citrus fruit and popped a section into his mouth. Its contents were juicy and sweet.
“This reminds me how bad your cooking really is,” Gibson said to Thursday, who had tossed a handful of nuts into the air, destined for his mouth.
Kibo laughed as he reached for a piece of fruit, his eyes resting on Sola.
“It is an honor to be here,” she said. “I’m sure you’re aware our leader is at the gates with your shipment.” Her eyes were serious, her tone leaving no doubt that she was in control. It reminded Reho of how she’d been with the Industrialists out on the ocean.
“Straight to work, indeed,” Kibo said, setting down his half-eaten fruit.