*
He awoke a few hours later as the passenger next to him jostled him on the way to the washroom. Thankfully, his instincts had prevented him from reflexively killing the interruption to his sleep. I think I've been in a state of paranoia too long.
When the guy in the window seat returned, Kevin smiled, let him in, and immediately reached over to shake his hand. “Howdy,” he began affecting a light Southern (Florida) twang, “my name's Stanford Wellington Lee.”
The other guy smiled politely and shook hands. He was certainly a well-fed fellow. His hand was like a slab of beef, but his grip was firm and his eye contact just as strong. He was certainly a businessman—and assumed that Kevin was as well. “Carl Douglas, Brokers.”
Kevin smiled bemusedly, and cocked his head. “Brokers? Sorry, not familiar with them. I'm, well, I'm sort of new. I'm still not entirely certain if I'm being promoted or punished by this transfer.”
Douglas paused, then sighed and shook his head. “Newbies,” he muttered under his breath. “Listen, Stan, first order of business upon arrival, know who the hell you're dealing with. Next thing you know, you're going to tell me you don't know the caste system.”
Kevin rolled his eyes, because that's what he thought he should do. “Well, I know there's us and there's everyone else.”
Douglas studied him for a moment, wondering if he was serious. “Son, what kind of business are you in?”
Oh nuts, this is what I was worried about, being pinned down. Think fast. What would they need in San Francisco? White collar…oh, screw that. It's a ruined city even before the nukes. “Construction, actually. I'm a design engineer, I draw 'em up and build 'em up.”
The “Broker” nodded, a satisfactory answer. “First of all, the caste arrangement is a little more complicated, starting with the 'us' you mentioned. You're Corporate, I'm a Broker. Both white collar, but you're more general, we're more focused. We're the drug market. W.K.D-60.”
Kevin's face was serious and studious, but his mind jerked to a halt. He nodded, as though this was nothing to him. W.K.D-60, otherwise known as “Wicked Sixty,” was a rarity in his world. It was affordable only by those connected to the rich and the powerful, providing a high so intense that once the user was hooked, they stayed hooked. None of the usual law enforcement agencies could tell where the drug was from, or why a cheaper version hadn't dribbled down to the lower classes. Now he knew: only the rich and powerful could afford to get a drug delivered from a small pocket corner of Hell. And was the DEA going to commandeer an army unit to invade the city that Earth forgot?
“Really?” he replied. “Tell me, are the rumors true? About what the number means?”
The Broker frowned, then leaned back against the window. Kevin didn't know any rumors about the drug, but since no one could explain what the number meant, he assumed that someone had to have a theory.
“Well, let's just say we don't take our own product. The intelligent among us think that a one-in-sixty chance of having a brain hemorrhage every time you use it is a bad thing.”
The spy nodded in sympathy, cringing inside. “You could say that. So, you're specific, Corporates are general, then there are the Mercs and the gangs, and citizens in between?”
Carl thought a moment. “Yes and no, depending on the area. Some neighborhoods fell apart, and only a few held together. Stay in the Corporate zone, you'll be just fine.”
Chapter 17: New Arrivals
April 16th, 2093
Kevin Anderson sighed, making sure to keep his luggage around him. Faking his way onto the personnel transport for the rich and famous from LAX to San Francisco had been relatively easy, except that it left him stranded at the mouth of the Golden Gate Bridge. He made sure his small titanium spy kit was secured on top of his wheeled suitcase, and he used the handle to drag them both along with his right hand while he carried his larger suitcase and backpack in his left.
When he had first seen how much of his own belongings had been packed for him, he believed he was being graced with a gift from a friend. Now he wondered if he wasn't damned to schlep this stuff all over a city of criminals and thugs. Everyone else on his transport had had cars waiting at the bridge. Kevin was stranded.
He sighed deeply. I wonder if the Mercenary Guild will have a place open for me among its members. Then again, it might be that some of them still have a price out on my head.
Kevin started walking along the bay, walking along the outer edges of the Presidio, the old military base. There were several people who gave him dirty looks over the barbed wire fence, and he was certain that a sniper had his head in the crosshairs the entire time.
He walked past the lush green fields of the Presidio and made his way to Fisherman’s Wharf…or at least what he remembered as Fisherman’s Wharf. There were occasionally fishing boats along the water, and there were all of the restaurants that he remembered from before the Day of Fire, but it was different somehow. There wasn’t anyone else out on the street that he could see. Okay, he knew it was late, but it was only 11:30 p.m. What kind of major city closes down before midnight?
He walked past the docks across from Alcatraz Island, and that was where the trouble started. Kevin saw the two men in urban camouflage, but didn’t pay them any particular mind. They carried themselves like either military policemen or like bullies, possibly a little of both.
“Hold right there,” one of them barked, drawing a sidearm. This gunman was as tall as he was, but heavier, and with blonde hair. The second was half a head shorter but a forearm’s length broader, with light brown hair trimmed close to the scalp.
Kevin Anderson also noticed that they had assault rifles slung over their shoulders.
“Hey, fellas, I’m guessing you’re the SFPD?”
The two blinked, shared a glance, and then laughed. “Wow,” the shorter one said in a deep voice, “you’re walking around the Finance District at night, and you’re asking Corporate Security if they’re police? There hasn’t been an SFPD for years, pal.”
He shrugged. “Sorry, I just arrived.”
The tall one raised his eyebrows, kept his handgun drawn, and moved towards the spy. “Then put your hands up, pal. We’ll need to bring you in for questioning.”
Kevin sighed deeply, dropped the suitcase, let go of the luggage, and raised both hands. When the Corporate Security officer came closer, Kevin pivoted his upper body, moving forward, stepping around the guard’s gun. Kevin clamped down with his right arm, trapping the muzzle of the gun between his body and his bicep, and he pivoted back, the gun twisting away with him, out of the guard’s hand. Kevin delivered a roundhouse punch to the guard’s neck so hard he should have broken the man’s windpipe, but he pulled back at the last moment. Kevin grabbed the gun from under his arm and threw himself at the other guard, who was reaching for his sidearm. He rammed his left knee into the man’s stomach, and then mule-kicked into the first guard, doubling both men over. He didn’t even put his foot down before launching a kick to the second guard’s face, and bringing the leg down in a pendulum swing that swept the legs out from under the first guard.
Kevin snapped upright, bringing the gun level to his eye line, and scanned the area to make sure there was no one else. He then moved over the fallen guards, stripping them of their weapons, their belts, even the shoes of the first guard—they looked like Kevin’s size, and the boots were new.
“Two questions,” he continued, slinging the boots over his shoulder. “One, how do I get to the Mercenary’s Guild from here?”
The short one looked up at him and growled. “Follow the docks until it makes a curve in the street, then go right, straight through Chinatown. Once you’re through there, follow the water again, otherwise you’re going to run into the Brokers, and trust me pal, you don’t want that.”
Kevin raised an eyebrow. “That’s considerate of you. You’re being honest…why?”
The guard smiled darkly. “Because I want to kill you one day.”
Kevin s
miled and crouched down so that his face was closer to the guard’s level. “Buddy, trust me when I say that threats don’t work after someone’s already kicked your ass. Now, your clothing – memory cloth body armor? Both of you, strip. And I want your code for this evening, in case I run into any of your boys.”
He walked away after knocking both of them out, using the newly claimed clothing as a makeshift sack for the stolen weapons.
Kevin walked into Chinatown, and he felt like he had entered a Chinatown in New York. The architecture tried to mirror the styles of the old country as much as possible, down to the ornamental tiled roofs, stylized lions, and excessive use of red and yellow.
The one thing Kevin found odd was that he had seen no one on the street here, either. He’d been used to it in the financial district, and he had figured that it was mostly business offices, so the area closed when the businesses did. He was starting to feel like the last man on Earth. But what would scare the residents of a whole town?
Knowing the culture, Chinatowns haven’t changed for hundreds of years, if not more. There would at least be a group of tongs floating around to enforce law and order in Chinatown…well, at least order. If the Corporate Security people were any indication, each neighborhood makes its own law. So where's security for the north border of Chinatown?
Unless they don’t need guards in the northern end, because they trust the CS guys to keep that area under control? I wonder if—
And then he heard the screams. He paused, reluctant to move. His instincts told him to come to the rescue. However, his training told him to take it slow, observe the situation, and then act. As such, he slipped down an alley, following the screams. He found a group of young children, with two elderly adults, surrounded by a group of six people in black cloaks. All of the cloaked figures held knives, certainly ready to perform a vivisection or nine.
“Hey, guys,” Kevin called out, “is there a Holiday Inn around here?”
The cloaked forms stopped and slowly turned to face him. “Do not interfere. We are doing our Master’s bidding, sending them on to the Pearly Gates.”
Kevin blinked, then slowly nodded, sizing up the gang as if they were competition. Something was definitely off, and putting his finger on it would probably take more brainpower than he had at the moment. “Okaaayyy…whatever. Look, I’m new here and I’m trying to find a place for this evening. Can I trouble you guys for directions to the nearest hotel?”
Two of the figures nearest him looked at one another, and Anderson had a bad feeling about this. One of them, a young teenage boy whose eyes shone brightly with a holy fervor, said, “He is an Exile; he must be in pain as well.”
The other, a woman in her mid-twenties, nodded. “Indeed. We should end his pain.”
Kevin blinked, slowly putting down his luggage. He was about to have one of those days again. “What pain?”
“The pain of loss, of loneliness,” the boy answered, moving on his right.
“Of never seeing home again,” the woman continued, moving on his left.
“Submit,” the woman told him, “and we will send you on…do not submit, we will send you on with as little pain as we can, as St. Jack commands.”
St. Jack and they have knives…Jack the Ripper? Kevin’s eyes lit up with what onlookers would later call “a mad, unholy fire.” He grinned pleasantly, happily. “Funny, and I was going to make you the same offer—either give me directions, or pain.”
They didn't even confer with each other as they swept in. They charged from either side, low, hoping to trip him up. Kevin countered by charging the woman, moving out of the boy’s path, and launched a kick right in her sternum, connecting with a hard crunch. He turned towards the other; as Kevin faced him, the kid stopped and stood upright, still holding the knife. The spy scooped up the woman’s weapon. The other’s blade came down in an arc for Kevin, and he sidestepped, jamming the blade into the boy’s spine as he moved past. Before the knife dropped from the boy’s falling figure, Kevin pulled it away so he wouldn’t land on it.
Kevin turned towards the other four cloaks, knives in hand. “Let the kids and old folks go, or else.”
One of the others stared at him blankly. “We are the Children of Thanatos,” the man said, as if it were a matter of fact. “…We do not fear death.”
He said nothing. Thanatos? Greek word for death…they talk of Mercy killings…so what would they fear? “I’m not threatening you with death.” He stomped down on the boy’s hand. “I’m threatening you with life.” He worked the teenager’s hand like he was snubbing out a cigarette. “A long and unhealthy one.” He nodded down at the boy. “This child will never walk again, unless your tech is up to par with the East Coast, and I seriously doubt that. You want to join him on the feeding tube diet, come ahead.”
The other Children blinked, then roared, alive with rage, tossing aside their would-be victims, and came for Kevin.
One broken neck, one broken knee, a smashed nose, a knife driven through an elbow, and a kneed kidney later, there was only one “Child” standing.
Kevin smiled at the remaining Child of Thanatos. The man blinked and dropped his knife. “You are an Angel-Servant.”
Kevin smiled, “More like you shall not screw with the Lord thy God.”
“But, I, Lord...we will leave here. Let me take them away.”
He advanced on the Child, slow and menacing, until they were face to face. “If I catch you killing anybody here, I will leave you alive.”
The Child of Thanatos recoiled in horror, falling to the sidewalk, nearly screaming.
Kevin advanced on him. “Am I clear?”
“Yes, Angel-Servant! Yes! Yes!”
“Good,” he said, his voice a dangerous purr. “Now there's only one thing I want you to answer right now.”
“Yes! Yes Angel-Servant, anything!”
“Where's the nearest hotel?”
The “Child” blinked, his forehead wrinkling, confused. “I...Angel...but...”
There was a tug at Kevin's pant leg, and he looked down. One of the six-year-olds had decided that he was mostly harmless—to them—and stood there, tugging on him as though he were a stubborn pull chain that wouldn't work. Once she noticed that she had his attention, she pointed at the oldest gentleman there—and if he wasn't the oldest, he certainly looked it. Kevin raised a brow, then looked back to the quivering mess he held onto.
“Never mind, I think I have a place for the evening. Now, get going, and drag your friends off the street. It's littering, you know.”
*
Kevin had not been taken to an apartment, or a house, but to a large, sprawling restaurant. The carpet was a deep, almost blood red, the walls were oak, and the decorations were red and yellow. Only a glance at the pictures on the wall told Kevin that it had remained somewhat untouched since the April Fool's War, the day all Hell had broken loose.
What was it that Mandy said? Oh yes, they call it “The Last Day” around here. Talk about being melodramatic. He looked over at the old man he’d saved, and had the urge to carry him. The guy didn't have English as a first, second, or even third language, so communication was hard.
Suddenly, a shape darted out of his peripheral vision. He dropped his luggage and slid into a defensive stance, but the shadow darted past him and hugged the old man. There was a string of Chinese dialect that he couldn't trace. While they talked, Kevin studied the newcomer. This guy was young, mid-twenties, 5'7”, well built, with wavy black hair. His face was more oval than round, with a broad forehead and... Is one eye brown and the other black?
The conversation finally stopped and the younger man turned to Kevin. In accent-less English, he said, “You saved my...” he caught himself, and then said, in a softer voice. “I am sorry, do you know who you just saved?”
Kevin looked around, then back. “I'm guessing someone interesting.”
He arched a brow over the eye that was obsidian black, then glanced at the luggage. “You are not from around h
ere, are you?”
Kevin smiled. “What was your first clue?”
“You're white and in Chinatown after dark. That either makes you brave, stupid, or new.” He held out his hand. “Shen Lo. Think of me as a Lieutenant.”
Kevin shook it. “Lt. Kevin Anderson, USMC, and late of the Central Intelligence Division. Tongs, right?”
Shen smiled and gave a curt nod. “Are we truly that easy to read?”
“Tongs still run Chinatown in New York, why not here?” Kevin smiled. “Unlike some of the more politically correct 'structured communities' – you know, when the government pours in tons of money that's supposed to bring a bunch of different peoples together – Chinatown is an actual, naturally occurring community.” He shrugged. “Besides, when the entire city structure goes to hell, who else is going to keep an area together but the people in the community?”
Shen cocked his head slightly. “You seem to be very knowledgeable, Mr. Anderson.”
Kevin shrugged. “It's simple basics. At the end of the day, governments, and other large organizations, deal in expediency, and they think morals are for Aesop's fables. And in cases where it all falls apart, a city held together by geographic and political constraints would break down into more local units.” Kevin smiled. “Part of my job involves getting, and analyzing, information.”
Shen gave him a small smirk. “You will find it difficult to get such a thing here. Information is very valuable. In many cases, you won't get it.”
“Oh, trust me, Shen, if I have to, by hook or by crook, I will.”
Shen Lo looked him over a moment, and then waved him inside, towards the dining room. “Please, come inside. Let me feed you something.”
Kevin shrugged and followed. “As long as it's not someone.”
“If that is a problem in San Francisco, I have yet to hear of it.” Shen glanced to one side of the room and gestured at a waiter, and opened his mouth to speak, when Kevin cut him off with a wave of his hand.
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 19