“Your brother was our savior,” Vlad says, with a shocking amount of reverence. “But we’d be foolish to believe you’re cut from the same cloth.”
“You’re not the first one I’ve fooled,” I say, unable to resist. Bracing myself for the inevitable lash of his pistol, I’m surprised when, instead, Vlad drags me up and dusts me off. His eyes search mine, and I detect the faintest hint of amusement—like this situation has a certain air of tragic comedy that only the two of us have noticed.
“We’re a fair sort,” Vlad says. “You got a minute to explain why we shouldn’t execute you.”
About to topple over, woozy from the first smack to the head, I search the crowd for answers. Hundreds of green eyes stare back at me, some from bare heads, others from behind the thick fabric protecting them from the harsh plains.
No solutions reveal themselves. I look for Evelyn and Carina—or even Jana—but find no respite in the throng of unfamiliar faces. Strangely, my heart doesn’t hammer or skip.
I offer an easy shrug. “I don’t think there’s a compelling case.”
My honesty throws him off. He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. Finally, he says, “Twenty seconds, Mr. Stokes. Your life could be a short one.”
I stroke my chin. The cuffs rattle lightly. What life awaits me, even if I manage to survive? Constant struggle doesn’t sound particularly wonderful. But then, that’s what life has always been, always will be: a series of insurmountable challenges that just about break us.
Unless you don’t let ‘em.
“Five seconds.”
“Because I have the cure to your disease,” I say. I feel the crowd tense. Years of scraping by has taught them to be cautious. “Not what Ford did to you. What everyone else is gonna do.”
A murmur bursts through the crowd at the mention of Damien Ford’s unspoken atrocities. Suffice to say, he’s not revered in these parts. It takes a little contorting, but I remove the paper Atlas gave me from my back pocket. It flutters in the slight breeze when I reach out to hand it to Vlad.
“Zero,” Vlad says with expressionless nonchalance. “Time’s up.”
“Read it.”
“Perhaps you should have stated your case more eloquently.”
“You want to stop running, you better read the fucking paper,” I say, turning around slowly so that everyone gets a look at my face. I brandish the paper above my head, like it holds the secrets to life itself. In truth, I haven’t looked at what Atlas gave me. It could be nothing. Or it could be proof that I’m worth more than an entertaining public spectacle. “Anyone know what that is? Living? What you know is survival. This is your ticket out.”
And mine too—but that’s irrelevant. When you make the sale, it’s always about what they want. And this, well, it’s what I would call a compelling offer. Door number one—executing me to sate their bloodlust, that outcome is known. The Remnants will continue being hunted by the recently formed New Allied States. But door number two promises change. Maybe disaster, perhaps indescribable joy—either way, life will never be the same.
I set my feet into the cracked soil and stare at Vlad. “So.”
Vlad finally takes the paper and opens it. “Who gave you this?”
“You said it yourself,” I say, “My brother was your savior. This is straight from him. He wrote the code. I’m just delivering the message.”
It’s difficult arguing with your own words. Particularly when you’ve made a proclamation to your entire tribe. Vlad carefully creases the paper down the middle and places it inside a fold in his desert garments.
“This will be taken to the council.” Vlad smiles and gets on the bike. “We’ll have a decision by tonight.”
He revs the engine and speeds away, leaving me coughing. The crowd disburses, everyone throwing hasty glances towards me. I feel Mirko’s rough hands around my neck. Then I’m dragged away, through the narrow metal gates, into the heart of the Gunpowder Hills.
10 | Fiefdom
I only catch a brief glimpse of the Remnants’ fiefdom as I’m pulled through the dusty streets. Gas powered lamps flicker in the hazy afternoon light. Generators hum and crackle. A thin smog hangs over the settlement, from all the families in tight proximity.
The scent of life permeates everything. It’s not ugly, but it’s also not pleasant. This is what strikes me as most unreal—and yet, most appealing—about my time in HIVE. Everything smelled beautiful. But alas, life is messier. Far more similar to the third or fourth fuck of the night than the glorious first.
Mirko and his fellow soldiers pull me to the end of one of the narrow streets and toss me inside a single-story residence that resembles the others.
Mirko walks inside and takes a small key from his pocket.
It dangles in front of my nose as he says, “Hold your hands up.”
I offer him my cuffed wrists. “So you decided to let me go,” I say. “Well done.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
The building shakes as Mirko bolts the door from the outside.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Miss me already?” I say. When I squint to look at my dark surroundings, the cut at my temple hurts.
“You best pray,” his gruff voice says with relish. “If that’s your thing.”
Mirko’s buddy says, “The council don’t overturn nothing.”
“You were a dead man the minute you came here, Stokes,” Mirko says. There’s a long pause. “And don’t drink the water.”
With that, they stomp away, leaving me in a square, almost empty room. Haggard beams of light scrape and claw their way in through a shoebox-sized window in the far corner. It’s just as well that the place isn’t brimming with illumination. A rat scurries over my foot as I walk towards the rickety bench along the wall.
I don’t even jump. I’m too tired to be bothered.
“They caught you too, eh buddy?” I say to my four-legged friend.
The rat hisses, its green eyes probing the depths of my tortured soul before it plunges into a hole. Damien Ford, it would seem, did a number on everything in these parts. Or so the books said—the official record can be unreliable at best. It’s hard to believe one man is responsible for laying waste to an entire section of a country.
Aside from the bench, there’s a tiny furnace in the corner and a stack of wood. Some water sits in a pot on the single burner stove. Tasting dried blood, I head to the stove in order to wash up. Touching the water with my cracked fingertips makes me realize how frigid and tired I truly am. Adrenaline dulls the true nature of your surroundings, but it always subsides. Now, I am staring reality in the face for the first time in three years.
The realization is powerful enough that I almost have to sit down. Instead, with shaking hands, I place logs inside the furnace. Take a little kindling from the nearby pile, arrange it just so. Work the striker until the pile erupts into a crackling ball of flame.
I stare into the rusted pot. The water looks normal.
I’m tempted to drink it straight away, but Mirko’s strange warning gives me pause. So I step away and, as I walk towards the bench, I crumple to one knee. Hallucinations jump across my vision.
The pot hisses and spits, boiling over. How much time has passed? Sizzle. Steam fills the air.
The bursts of light continue as I clutch my knees to my chest. Ramses, Evelyn, Carina, Seattle— they all pass by in a blur. Matt’s memories—of the Gifted Minds Institute, of his efforts to distribute HIVE—pulse in between the hallucinations. Mostly colors, fragments of a ruined scrapbook. I see a final image, this one clear. An old highway sign. I-5.
When I open my eyes, I’m covered in sweat on the dirty floor. The small space is filled with the acrid scent of torched metal. I stagger over to the stove and take the empty pot off. It burns my hand, and I scream.
The door opens.
“I thought you were dying,” Jana says in a hushed whisper as the ancient hinge creaks. “The guard called me over. You look like hell.”
>
“See how you look after you’ve been in jail.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” She comes closer. The glow of the dying fire gives the tattoo on her face a little color.
“You come to apologize?”
“Why?” She reaches into her waistband and takes out a bottle of water. Tosses it to me. Even though the throw is slow as hell, I drop it. “What do I have to be sorry for?”
I don’t answer, since I’m busy scrambling for the water. Once I get the cap off, I drink the entire thing in a single gulp. Liquid streams down my chin. I can taste blood and dirt, but it doesn’t matter. This drink is about the best one I’ve had in my life.
When my thirst is sated, I realize how much my palm hurts from the pot. One problem solved, another one immediately steps in to assume the mantle.
“No rest for the wicked,” I say beneath my breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Life’s funny.”
“Yeah, it’s hilarious,” Jana says. She scowls when she finds the blackened pot. “You try to burn the place down?”
“Why are you here?”
“I came to explain my plan.”
“Oh,” I say, starting a slow clap, only to immediately regret it. “Since you’re so good at following plans.”
“You can’t just walk up and kill Vlad. There are rules.”
“Clearly,” I say.
“That’s not how things work around here,” she says. “You don’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“Forget it,” she says, and turns to leave.
I rush over, not because I’m so eager to talk, but because I’m thinking about something else. I grab her arm lightly and say, “Sorry.”
“Don’t try this bullshit on me, Luke.”
“What’s that?”
“I saw your little harem. They’re staying across the street.”
“You give me a little too much credit,” I say, dropping my hand from her wrist. “I want to hear the plan.”
“You do?”
“I mean shit, sending you best chance of survival within an inch of the gallows is brilliant. I’ve gotta know more.”
“Fuck you,” Jana says.
“You should trust me.” I put my hand on her shoulder, making sure her eyes are locked with mine. With my other hand, I work through the folds in her clothing. I’m not sure what I’m hunting for, but any tools I don’t have are a good place to start. “I saved your life, remember?”
“But you’re not family.”
“Your family is gonna get you killed.” My fingers snake past a leather scabbard. Knife. That could be helpful. But I’m greedy, and keep moving. Because I remember she has something that will force her to go all-in, plans be damned.
The HoloBand.
See, we’re still at the point where there’s still an idea in her head that, maybe, her father was right all along. The plan may have changed—since I’m no longer a tradable asset for anything worthwhile to the Remnants—but the sentiment remains. If the first plan was a good one, then his new plan, to execute me as a message to everyone else, must also be sound.
So I think a little demonstration is in order. Symbolism is clearly big amongst the Remnants, and this will make a clear statement. About what I truly think about the direction their faction is headed.
She moves slightly, and I almost bump into her waist. Instead, I pinch her shoulder.
“Ow, what the hell.”
“I’m trying to bring you back to reality, here,” I say. Got it. The HoloBand, in its little protective case, is in her back pocket. Nothing to it. Easy trick. My fingers pass by the scabbard again, and I can’t resist. I push slightly on her skin with my visible hand, my fingers tracing her shoulder. “Right here.”
“Don’t do this, Luke,” she says, her breath getting softer. “I can’t. I have a plan.”
“You still haven’t said much about that.” I reach my head closer, towards her lips. At the last moment, she pushes me away. I quickly palm the HoloBand as I stumble backwards. A loud expletive masks the clatter of the knife.
I fall on the blade to cover it up, pretending to be hurt.
“You could’ve just said you weren’t interested.” I hold up my arm, where the knife nicked me. Blood runs down. It looks a lot worse than it is. But, then again, that was the plan. I knew she wouldn’t kiss me. Her heart is beating a million different ways, and she doesn’t even like me. That’s a luxury the plains don’t afford.
“I need to go,” she says, her face flushed. She pauses before she reaches the door. “I was going to get Atlas to testify on your behalf. That was the plan.”
“Then you should’ve brought him along for the ride.”
“I didn’t think of it until now,” she says, and then rushes out of the room.
Which is when I realize that I’ve been wrong about one thing.
The Remnants do hope, they do dream, they do imagine, they do plan—just like anyone else.
They’re just not very good at it.
I wipe the blood off my arm and test the tip of the knife. I’m not sure where the blade will land, but I am sure of one thing.
I’m not accepting any verdicts without a damn fight.
11 | Regicide
Fighting may be difficult. I’m still dehydrated, mentally disoriented, and generally feel like I’m battling the worst flu of my life. It’s hard to formulate any sort of plan. Who do I even want to kill? Where do I hide my ill-gotten new tools?
A knock at the door startles me. I hurry to hide the knife. The best place I can settle on is my waistband. The cool metal presses against my bare skin. Any sudden movement, and I’m going to open up a nice cut around my groin. Not the best positioning, but it’s the best I can do on short notice. I slip the HoloBand into my pocket just as Mirko enters.
“Man, you look like shit.”
I look down at the dried blood caking my arm and say, my throat ragged, “I don’t know what happened.”
He shrugs. “They said you were gonna be crazy after being hooked up to that machine. Scratching and clawing at yourself like a dog.”
“You come to watch the freak show?”
He grimaces. “It’s been three hours. The council made its decision.”
Mirko grabs me by the shoulder. He doesn’t bother to recuff me, since I’m too weak to offer even token resistance. It takes all my energy to simply walk as we travel through the winding streets. Green eyes peek through the metallic shutters and junk.
“Move,” Mirko says.
“I’m trying,” I say.
“Don’t try,” he says. “Move.”
It’s like I forgot how to walk. My mind is scattered in a million directions, my senses unreliable. Great job, Matt, inventing something that destroys basic motor movements. A stunning achievement. Some minutes later, Mirko flings me forward. It’s dark in here. Or maybe my eyes are shut. I heave in and out, trying to catch my breath.
I remember what Atlas told me. I need to get to the Gray Desert. Otherwise these hallucinations are going to ruin what’s left of my brain.
“Here.” It’s Vlad. He waves something in front of my nostrils, and I recoil. It’s like being jacked into an electrical socket.
I stand bolt upright, hands tingling as I scan the large meeting room. Thick wooden benches are lined up before where Vlad sits on a stage a couple feet off the ground. He sits on a large chair on a crescent-shaped three-foot-tall riser. Chairs fan out around his pedestal, each occupied by a person dressed in similar black robes. He’s the only one with a crimson scarf, though.
“This a church?”
“Depends on your definition of church,” Vlad says. I’m beginning to think the Remnants’ garments were adopted as a uniform, rather than for practical reasons.
“The council, I presume.”
“A verdict has been reached on the actions of one Lucas Stokes,” Vlad says.
“That’s not my name,” I say.
Vlad waves me off. “We have reviewed the paper, and taken it into consideration.”
“Before you tell me the verdict, you should know something,” I say. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking that I don’t want to die here. Anywhere but here.
“It won’t change anything.”
I don’t like the sound of that, but I say anyway, “I know exactly where to look.” The last image, painful as it was to channel—or whatever the hell you want to call it—gave me a precise idea of where Matt hid the failsafe. The I-5 sign confirmed it. I know the area.
I can take them there, if they’ll let me.
“It’s irrelevant,” Vlad says. “No further evidence will be reviewed.”
“You’re signing your own damn death warrant.” The other council members stiffen. Such outspoken criticism isn’t tolerated. They survive by tribal law, the ones that man grew up with, before the plains were lost, before he harnessed fire and bent the world to his whim.
Vlad steps down from his perch. His measured steps echo. I lean against one of the benches for support, looking for an opening. Nothing comes, and so when he’s only a few yards away, I pull the trigger on a half-cocked plan.
“Back the fuck up,” I scream, reaching for my pocket. “You need me.”
I hold up the stolen HoloBand capsule. The plastic catches the soft light.
Vlad stops, amusement flickering in his bright eyes.
“We don’t need that.” There’s a murmur of assent from the group. “We don’t need you.”
“But you’re big on ritual. And respect.” With a single squeeze, I crush the HoloBand in my sweaty palm. A jolt surges through me—the realization that this is the last remaining tangible piece of Matt. But there’s no time for sentimentality.
My symbolic act of defiance has made the council upset. One member stands rigid. Her robes fall away, and I see the familiar rose tattoo.
“You will not interrupt,” Jana says.
Vlad turns, perhaps to reprimand his daughter for speaking out of turn during the ceremony. It’s clear now that he only rose from the stage to execute me. Pulling the knife out from my waistband so quickly that I cut my skin, I rush forward. Vlad looks back just in time for me to catch him in the chest. The blade slices through the fabric effortlessly.
Ruins of the Fall (The Remants Trilogy #2) Page 6