The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  The bottles, mugs and glasses were a motley assortment, all used a thousand times before and washed with less than outstanding care. Washing required water, after all, and water was always in short supply. The other utensils were just as varied; pitchers made from milk jugs with their tops cut off; plates and cutlery of every thickness and pattern and color.

  When Merrick came close enough so the torches could illuminate his face, he was greeted with such droll pleasantries as ‘at ease, soldier,’ and ‘look a’ this coffin’ dway,’ and ‘it’s my baby boy!’ These were the regulars, and since traders and merchants were the only visitors the city north ever got, regulars made up the majority of the pub’s patronage. They weren’t all comrades, of course, but the locals respected the Scarred men, by and large.

  Merrick ascended the shallow steps to the patio. As he began working his way through the crowd, hands emerged to clap wrists with him and slap him on the shoulders. They were a crew of misfits and mongrels, soldiers, barflies, and off-shift city workers. These were people whom Merrick considered family. Maybe they weren’t relatives, but they were the closest thing he had. Merrick’s mother had left before he was old enough to remember her. His father had never stopped blaming him for it, always more preoccupied with feeding his zoom habit than with caring for his son.

  Merrick slipped through the crowd of tables and swung the door open. The inside of the bar looked much like the patio, except for the quilt of smog that obfuscated everyone from the shoulders up. Presiding statuesque over the festivities was Colvin, the hulking bouncer who stood just inside the entrance. Merrick gave Colvin a pat on the shoulder as he passed by. A pair of musicians was playing in the corner, a folk song on guitar and hand drum. Billiard balls cracked, fizzed, clunked. The two ancient tables were warped, the sticks handmade, and the balls collected from multiple sets. Most didn’t know the difference, and the tables were in high demand every night. Merrick was good at billiards, but he rarely played. He was good at a lot of things he’d given up on or lost interest in, when he thought about it.

  “Gimme a tall one of whatever slop you’re peddling tonight,” Merrick said when he reached the bar. “It’s cool out and I want something with enough hair to keep me warm.”

  The bartender, Flanagan, was a lithe fellow, and only a few years older than Merrick. He had a well-trimmed goatee and a head of thick black hair, which never seemed to grow longer than a finger’s width off his scalp. “Ain’t seen you in a couple a’ long days,” Flanagan said, warm but unsmiling.

  “Working.”

  “Right,” said the bartender, pouring him a mug of something dark and stiff-looking. “Kill any muters lately?”

  “Not many since I got put on guard duty. Ain’t too exciting up in the birdhouse.”

  Flanagan pinched his lips together. He righted the mug and finished his pour, letting the head lift into a perfect pillow. Underneath, the brew was heavy and aphotic, a shade of even dingier black-brown than coffee.

  Merrick’s mouth watered.

  “What’re you paying with tonight, more copper?” Flanagan asked.

  “More copper, and some gold.” Merrick drew a coil of thick electrical wire and a beat-up old necklace from his pocket. He let the necklace drizzle onto Flanagan’s palm. The bartender examined it before tucking it into the register.

  “Start me a tab,” Merrick said, taking the mug in hand. He looked past the bartender to the EMPLOYEES ONLY sign posted on the back door. The locks and bolts all along its length gave one the idea that this was not a suggestion. The Boiler Yard’s brewery and cellars were set up behind the building, in a fenced-in lot festooned with barbed wire. Flanagan and his business partners had rigged up the distillers in a series of truck boxes, using pipes, gauges, and holding tanks from the dozens of appliances at their disposal. It was the largest brewing operation in North Belmond, and it kept them from having to rely solely on the trade caravans for their stock.

  Merrick raised the mug, intending to take a long draught. The brew was bitter and musty, stocky as molasses, and he had to stop after the first swallow. “New batch?” he asked, grimacing.

  “Takes some getting used to,” Flanagan said, smiling for the first time.

  “It’s good… just took me by surprise,” Merrick said. He wasn’t sure whether he was lying.

  “Should’ve smelled it first.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m just thirsty.”

  Merrick felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist.

  A soft voice came from behind him. “How you been, sweetie?”

  Kaylene, Merrick knew.

  She wriggled under his arm and nuzzled her face into his chest. In typical fashion, she was already quite impaired for such an early hour.

  Whoever sold you that outfit forgot to give you the other half, Merrick thought. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Looks like you’re doing pretty well yourself.”

  Kaylene laughed. “I’m always better when I see you, sweetie.” She let go and took the barstool beside him, tossing her platinum mane over one shoulder. “So, tell me what’s new.”

  Kaylene was a decade older than Merrick, but she never got tired of teasing him. She’d be as friendly as it took to earn a drink. Then she’d be off to earn her next one from some other poor sap. Merrick was used to the routine.

  “Kaylene, I keep telling you. This thing between us? It’s never gonna happen. I couldn’t live with myself if I ruined our friendship.”

  Kaylene laughed again and touched his arm. “Aw, you’re so sweet, honey. I missed you.”

  Merrick was out of patience. He pulled away from Kaylene’s hand and glanced around the bar. The man on the stool behind him was Wiles Jensen, a middle-aged city contractor, and the bearer of a considerable white mustache. Merrick tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned and stared at him with a blank expression.

  Merrick had a knack for remembering people, even the ones who had no recollection of him. He’d come to accept that maybe he wasn’t all that memorable. “Have you met this young lady?” Merrick asked him. Then to Kaylene, he said, “Kaylene, this is Wiles Jensen. Why don’t you introduce yourself and shake his hand?” Merrick knew the two had met before, but Kaylene was past the point of recollection.

  Merrick grabbed his mug off the bar. “I’ll see you in a little while, Flan,” he shouted with a wave, receding into the haze of the room. The bartender smirked when he noticed Kaylene and her mustachioed paramour.

  The first table Merrick came to was manned by three of his fellow soldiers. They were all part of Mobile Ops, his old unit.

  “Hey, Bouchard. What’s new in the birdhouse, comrade?” said Admison Kugh, a severe-looking man with a flat head and a muscled neck and jawline. He was about Merrick’s height, but broader in the shoulders and thinner across the midriff. They called him Adder, or just Q, since his last name was pronounced like the letter.

  “Pick up any mutie girls lately?” asked Coker Reed. He was a thicker man than both of them, portly through the midsection, but not quite as tall, with a bulbous nose and round cheeks that were always flushed.

  The third soldier, Jettle Trimbold, raised his beer in greeting, but said nothing. Trim, they called him. He was exactly that, in both form and function—and he was the tallest of the lot.

  “You dways lose a bet?” Merrick said, passing a hand over his scalp. All three of the Mobile Ops boys were balder than bullets.

  “That’s funny, coming from someone who looks like he’s wearing a cactus helmet,” Coker said. “You’re lookin’ pudgy these days, Bouchard.”

  “And you can still charm the whiskers off a bushcat. Let’s pull you off the beat and see how long it takes you to grow your hair out and work up a bay window like this one.” Merrick bulged his belly and gave it a loving rub.

  “Seriously, how is it up there?” Kugh repeated, chuckling.

  “Sucks. How’d you think it was? The whole city south is crawling with muties I never get to kill.” Merrick took a more measured drink fr
om his brew. The taste was growing on him, but even the smaller sip made him shudder.

  “I think the birdhouse would be great,” Kugh said. “Sitting on your ass all day, a mutie or two for target practice every now and then… having a piss without some ganger trying to chop your dick off. That’s the dream, man.”

  “Nope. Not that great,” Merrick said. “Be glad to switch with you if you’re interested. We aren’t even allowed to shoot unless someone crosses the road. Waste of ammo, Captain Robling says. He repeats it like it’s his personal mantra. I don’t care, though. Anytime I get a clear shot on a mutie, I’m taking it. Coffing hate muties.”

  “You hate everything, Merrick,” said Trim. “It’s well-established that you’re the biggest curmudgeon in the Scarred.”

  “I speak with you,” said Kugh, holding up two fingers.

  “You dways would hate everyone too if you had to report to a crooked-nosed old windbag like Robling. You still have Captain Curran, the best C.O. there is.”

  “I speak,” said Coker, gesturing. The others agreed.

  “Plus, I have the hottest coffing job in the service. I’m that much closer to the light-star up in my birdhouse than you coffing ground-pounders. Man, I’d probably get my dick chopped off willingly if it got me on the ground again. What’s been going on in Mobile Ops?”

  “The usual shitstorm,” Coker said, with something that sounded like both pride and utter satisfaction. “We got called up for the grand entrance of the big Vantanible train earlier today.”

  “A caravan finally made it here?”

  “Coff it, yeah,” Kugh cut in, raising his glass. “We’re stocked up with foreign booze for a month.”

  Merrick stared into his mug with abated desire. “Remind me I need to try some of that before I leave tonight. How’d it go?”

  “Mostly fine,” said Coker. “These dways over here can probably tell you about that.” He tilted his head toward an adjacent table. Four strangers sat huddled around the beer-stained utility spool, hard men in rough shape, looking tired and dry from a long journey. They were wastelanders, not merchants. That meant they were hired caravan protection. Shepherds.

  Coffing hate shepherds, Merrick thought. There was something else about them he found curious. By the looks of their wind-whipped skin and sand-crusted leathers, they’d been riding hard—not slogging along beside some lethargic trade caravan.

  The shepherd closest to the door wore an eyepatch; his saddle was leaning against the wall beside him, taking up the space of another person in the small, crowded room. The man looked to be no older than Merrick, and at twenty-three Merrick was one of the youngest people he knew. Without thinking, Merrick let himself stare at the strangers for a long time. The lone eye flashed in his direction and caught him looking.

  “Something I can do for you?” the man with the eyepatch wanted to know. His voice was lucid but effortless; sure of itself, even in inquiry.

  Merrick stood and extended his hand. When the shepherd saw the mark, he scowled and worked his jaw, as if to chew something that wasn’t there.

  Merrick lowered his hand, but decided to introduce himself anyway. “I’m Merrick. These are my buddies. This is Kugh, that’s Coker, and that’s Trim.” His comrades tipped their proverbial hats.

  “You’re scurred, are you?” said the one-eyed shepherd.

  Merrick had heard every insult and slur that existed for the Scarred Comrades—some through stories, others through his own experiences. They got it most often from out-of-towners who didn’t know what was good for them.

  Merrick sighed. “That’s very clever.”

  “Oh. Did I hurt your feelings?”

  “The Scarred don’t have any feelings. They make us throw them away when they give us these.” He showed the mark again.

  “That’s good. So you won’t mind…” The shepherd flicked a leather strap at Merrick from beneath the table. It struck Merrick’s mug and sent it clattering to the floor. Brew splashed onto his denim and pooled around his shoes. The noise of the bar died away. The floor squeaked as Kugh and Coker pushed their chairs aside.

  Merrick felt his temperature swell until it was pounding against his temples. Birch called to him from inside his tunic, silvered-steel retribution. His fingertips burned, knuckles and joints aching with the heat. A multitude of impulses flashed through him, revealing their terrible possibilities. He took a deep breath and let his anger dissipate, his senses retreating in upon themselves. He bound them and locked them away, choosing serenity instead of rage. When he uncurled his fists, he could feel the impressions his fingernails had left in his palms. “I’m going to pick up my mug,” he said. “Then, I think you should buy us a round so we can put this behind us.”

  “How about this,” said the patch-eyed shepherd. “You hit the bricks so I don’t have to look at you anymore.”

  Merrick covered an eye with his hand. “Why don’t you just turn left? You won’t even know I’m here.”

  His friends chuckled.

  The shepherd stared. His eye was a spike the color of cold iron. When he spoke, his voice ran along the edge of a precipice. “That won’t take care of the smell, will it?”

  Trim was on his feet now, which got the other shepherds to theirs. Kugh and Coker moved in to rub chests and make threats.

  Where in the Aionach is Colvin? Merrick thought. The bouncer should’ve gotten involved in this by now. In a way, Merrick was glad for his absence. The fewer reliable witnesses, the better.

  “Hi, I’m Kaylene.” Merrick heard the woman mumbling to herself as she careened across the room. She flung herself into the shepherd’s lap and threw her arms around his neck. “I like your… hair,” she said.

  The shepherd cringed away at first, startled. Then he must have seen the look on Merrick’s face. “Hi there,” he said with silvery precision. He looked into Kaylene’s eyes with an inviting smile, sinister as flame. “Can I have a big hug?”

  Kaylene obliged him.

  The shepherd squeezed her tight. His eyes met Merrick’s, and his smile eased into a thin red stroke. “We’re gonna have a good time, aren’t we?” he whispered, loud enough for Merrick to hear.

  “Kaylene,” Merrick said.

  She twisted around to look at him and stuck out her bottom lip.

  “Kaylene, why don’t I walk you home? Come on, let’s go. Come with me.”

  “You’re mean to me,” she said, clinging to the patch-eyed shepherd.

  “He is mean to you, isn’t he?” The shepherd placed a hand halfway up her thigh. The other was resting below her hip.

  Kaylene was close to tears, deep within the emotional whims of her inebriation. “Yes.”

  “You’d rather stay with me, wouldn’t you?” The shepherd was whispering into her ear now, brushing the hair away from her reddening face.

  “Yes,” she said again, nodding like she was trying to hold back tears.

  Merrick’s blood began to drum in his temples again, rising, beating against his bones and throbbing across his skin. He scanned the room and found the empty niche where the bouncer usually stood. All those terrible possibilities came back to him, all the ways he could cause this shepherd pain. The anger mounting inside him felt as real as anything he could touch, and he knew he was reaching a place there was no coming back from.

  Then something happened within him that he didn’t understand. It was like an electrical current that wrapped itself around his mind and took dominion there, extending somewhere out beyond his control. It made his hair stand on end and snatched away his sense of discretion. Why am I getting so mad about this? What do I care about Kaylene, or what happens to her? She’s not my responsibility. I’m not her bodyguard. It’s like she wants to be taken advantage of, the way she acts sometimes.

  Merrick knew the wisdom of turning and walking away, of leaving the situation behind. He was on thin ice with the Commissar as it was. These shepherds, who had come off the wastes to stir up trouble, wouldn’t think twice about havin
g their way with some nameless barfly. Kaylene was a grown woman who was free to make her own decisions. But it wasn’t just Kaylene. Merrick would’ve stuck his neck out for anyone there if they were in real danger.

  Every ounce of restraint Merrick possessed wasn’t enough to hold him back now. He began to burn, but this time the sensation of heat was palpable and agonizing. He smelled the raw stench of melting skin, saw wisps of smoke rising from his hands. His fingertips were glowing with the white-orange of hot coals, as if a light were shining through them from the other side.

  Before he could process what was happening, Merrick’s fingernails began to peel from their tethers. They were curling up and withering like little pieces of paper. The rage and the fear boiled over. He lunged at the shepherd and dug his smoldering hands into the man’s throat.

  CHAPTER 11

  Kept to Stay

  “A horse,” a woman’s voice shouted.

  When they saw that the man leading the horse was not one of their own, the voices fell to murmurs that echoed along the cavern walls and reached Daxin’s ears in an indiscernible jumble. So there were other people down here. A lot more, by the sounds of it.

  The three bandits reached the bottom of the cave and turned back toward Daxin, who was still hobbling down the last few steps, his mare’s reins in one hand and his shotgun in the other. The figures huddling in the dark moved forward to greet the three returned men. One of them, a woman, wrapped Cutlass in a long embrace.

  Daxin stopped at the bottom of the last dirt step and rested his tender foot on a patch of stone. He could make out little more than shapes at first, but his eyes began to adjust in the sliver of daylight that was hovering along the outside edge of the cave. Women and old men shuffled forward and peered out at him, the outside light only reaching far enough to give him a faint impression of their dirt-smudged faces.

  “Don’t hurt anybody,” Cutlass said. “Please just take your water and go. It’s over this way.”

  “Wait a minute,” Daxin said, halting him. This is why they’re starving. These men aren’t just fending for themselves. They’re trying to feed a village.