by Kenny Soward
“Right,” she said. “But what are your gut thoughts? Revenge? Or you want to get married and buy a farm and raise chickens and pigs?”
The memories of his sister’s betrayal were still fresh. They picked and prodded at the pride he’d once had as a Prince of Xester. As a Prince of Hell. As a member of the Bet-Ohman family. But that had been so long ago. Now he was just a junkie named Lonnie.
That old pride was long gone, or dormant.
Lonnie smiled. “I think the second thing sounds nice. Spend some time together. Be ourselves for awhile.”
Selix turned, fix kit in hand. She looked beautiful standing there. Not the perfect picture of health, not like her dragon voice days, but still stunning. Sexier now with their feelings out in the open.
“You know," Lonnie said, "we can’t be sure who caused this shitstorm.”
Selix smiled and returned to bed. “I’ve been wondering that. I mean, things had been heating up in this town for awhile. A lot of fade rippers laying claim to territory, having spats. Rose Park could have just been a turf war.
"Or a play to get rid of us.”
"True."
“Do you think Makare had anything to do with it?”
“Good question. We’ve been holed up and paranoid for a long damn time, Lonnie. Makare probably thinks we’re dead by now. Probably couldn’t give a shit either way.”
“True. But she's hanging out in my head. Like a rock star."
“After what she did, I can only imagine."
"Yeah, we need to be certain.”
“Sure. We'll reach out. Check in with our contacts. See what they know. Find out who runs the west side now.”
“Now that we burned it to the ground.”
“Yeah.” Selix’s face brightened. “Hey, if the coast is clear we can contract someone to build a tether.
"Go back to Hell?"
"Maybe. Find a nice quiet sky island and retire. Get off this shit.” Selix spread the fixing tools out on the bed and started to tie Lonnie off.
“Could we ever quit? Do we have a choice?”
Selix shrugged. “Question is, do we want to?”
Lonnie nodded. “I want to be myself again. I want to be free. I want it for the gang. We can’t do it here on Earth, that’s for sure. Not on this fucking world.”
“All right,” Selix said, fixing a spoon and handing it to him. “We'll rest for two or three days, then venture out and see what’s happening. Then find a way off this rock. Sounds like a new start to me.”
Lonnie got out his dragon lighter and lit a flame under the tarnished metal. “A new start. Fuck yeah.”
Chapter 15
Lonnie’s first mistake was thinking he was in decent shape. He was worse than he could have ever imagined. He sat up, swung his legs off the side of the pallet, and tried to stand. His knees shook. His thighs quivered. He lost his balance and dropped right back down on the bed, catching himself with his hands.
As weak as a kitten, and that wasn’t much of an exaggeration.
Probably had something to do with recovering from a chest injury and engaging in that ambitious screwing session with Selix an hour earlier. She’d gotten up before him, left their fix kit on the nightstand next to the bed, and gone to find the others. They had things to discuss, but Lonnie realized many of the decisions were his.
Lonnie took a deep breath. Touched the bandage on his chest tentatively, making sure it hadn’t shifted, then tried to stand again, this time keeping his hands ready in case he toppled forward. The second try was more successful, and he managed to take two tentative steps and catch himself against the wall.
He noticed a candle sitting in a tin can, burning right beneath him. Heat wafted up his chest and neck. Not an unpleasant sensation, but he couldn’t imagine having to explain to the others how he fell on top of it and burned the living shit out of himself.
Keep moving.
Lonnie scooted along the wall, noticing the floor was plain dirt. Soft, dry, and dusty. The coolness reminded him, again, that he was somewhere beneath the Ohio River, the current vibrating every surface. It was claustrophobia cranked up a few notches from junkie paranoia. He imagined it for a moment. All of them stuck in the closed darkness, pawing around for an exit while the walls burst. At first, tiny leaks and drips, and the baked clay cracking and breaking, until water rushed in to smother them in its blackish embrace.
Shit. Quit thinking about it, asshole.
Lonnie worked his way to the exit, hand over hand, driving the fear away by telling himself Gruff had lived here a long time and the roof hadn't collapsed. This was a guy who had trouble putting two coherent sentences together, yet he'd done a damn good job on Lonnie’s chest.
He pushed aside the ratty blanket that served as the door and faced a lengthy hallway lit with battery powered lanterns and candles. They were of assorted shapes, sizes, and colors with fat clumps of wax around their bases. They sat perched on tiny piles of things, stacked on whatever, brightening the shadows of this mud labyrinth. The hall stretched at least sixty or a hundred feet, and there was plenty of room to stand.
After doing a dip at his knees to check his steadiness, Lonnie traversed the long hallway, passing random rooms on both sides. He didn’t bother to glance into any of them as the faint scent of food cooking drew him to the end.
He came to a cross section, another passage on his right.
Music met his ears. Not exactly a club beat, but something soft and pulsing. Trance, he thought. Or New Age. Shit Trolley used to listen to.
Lonnie abruptly changed direction. It made sense others would be here. Gruff was a healer, providing a valuable service for fade rippers with enough pop bottles to pay. Whatever the hell that was about.
It might not be wise to go visiting on strangers without the gang at his back, but how could anyone who listened to trance be inclined to pick a fight? Plus Lonnie was feeling stronger with every step. He stopped leaning on the walls for support and stayed roughly upright on the uneven floor. Hard packed mud, reminding him of a dirt yard that had hardened and dried out in the hottest part of summer. Although it was cool against his soles.
The music grew louder. From which room? There were several, each covered with a blanket so he couldn't see inside.
And then a voice froze him. “Hey.”
A woman’s voice. Not a threatening tone, but firm. Lonnie steadied himself. Glimpsed a small pool of light leaking into the hall. The blanket that served as the room’s door had been pulled aside and cinched.
Lonnie placed his hand against the left part of the alcove and edged forward, peering into a room. He spied three feet of bed resting on a base of milk crates stacked two high. Blankets tucked neatly around the edges, forming a tight and orderly fit.
Upon the mattress stretched a pair of smooth, dark legs and two arched feet to match, their toenails painted sharp black. The soft candles in the room threw light in delicate shades across the woman’s skin, glinted wickedly off the enameled toes. The only thing marring the image was a thick bandage wrapped around one calf.
Lonnie gulped, wondering what the woman who owned those legs and feet looked like. Those were legs that worked out, legs that wrestled. Attractive, yes, but Lonnie didn't see them that way. He was more worried about them kicking his ass.
He told himself not to worry. This was the Under River, not a battleground.
Still might be someone from Rose Park. Someone they might have to deal with. Lonnie swung around and let his hands rest on either side of the alcove. He leaned in.
The woman who owned the legs rested against a hill of pillows with a computer tablet sitting in her lap. She wore white cotton pajama shorts with black crosses imprinted on them and a loose black T-shirt with a band Lonnie had never heard of printed on the front. She smiled at him, pearly teeth in contrast to the espresso shade of her round, skeptical face. Her hair was cropped short and tight, her demeanor relaxed and languid, although Lonnie sensed a springboard tension beneath the surface.
Like she could fly off the bed any second.
Her eyes locked on him.
“Hey,” he returned. “Sorry, nothing to knock on.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s one downside of being here. Blankets don’t make great doors. Is my music too loud?” The woman nodded to a tiny speaker sitting on nightstand that was just two more stacked milk crates. As she spoke, she tapped a key on her laptop and the volume lowered.
“No. I thought it sounded good. What is it?”
The music came back up a notch. “Soul Trance. A group out of Louisville. I know the keyboard player. This is a pre-master recording no one's heard.” Her face darkened. “Well, a couple people have.”
Lonnie caught a slight southern lilt he associated with Kentucky. Not Deep South by any means, but a friendly twang muted by the woman’s serious tone.
“You from Louisville or Lexington?”
“Yeah, I am. Louisville. Name’s Bess.”
Lonnie took her nod and the rest of her body language as painfully mistrustful of him. He tried to imagine how he must appear. Terribly thin and unkempt. A junkie’s eyes. But at least he’d put a shirt on so she couldn’t see the thick, ugly wrap around his chest.
Lonnie let his right arm drop from the doorway. Didn’t want to give the impression he wanted to enter. That would be a risky decision based on her posture.
How could someone be so languid but so springy, too?
“I’m Lonnie.”
“Nice to meet you, Lonnie. Been here long?”
Good question. “Around three days, I think.”
Bess gave a larger nod. “Yep, couldn't help but notice your group come in. Y'all made a heap of commotion. I tried to steer clear while y’all worked it out.”
“Probably best.”
“Yeah.”
“This is our first time here. Well, mine, anyway.”
Bess nodded. “I’m not a regular either. You hurt bad?”
Lonnie recalled the painful memory of the car laying on top of him. The bullets that had market his side. Lead and crushed ribs. Lungs filled with blood. “Naw, not really. A few scratches.”
And now Bess laughed. It wasn’t a bad laugh, just not the laugh of someone who wanted to be friends. “No one comes to the Under River with a few scratches. C’mon. Show me.”
Lonnie smiled and pulled up his shirt. Stopped. Let it fall again. Allowed some playfulness into his tone, hoping it didn’t sound too creepy. “You show me yours first.”
Damn. It sounded creepy.
Bess gave a stiff smile. Thought about it for a second, reached a decision, and set her tablet down. She scooted to the edge of the bed, favoring her injured calf. She wiggled that leg until Lonnie acknowledged the injury, and then she positioned herself so that her feet dangled over the side and her weight rested on her locked right arm.
She gently lifted her T-shirt with her left hand until most of her middle was exposed.
Lonnie’s eyes wandered her midsection. Her stomach was cut with muscle, edged only with body fat where her shorts hugged her hips. Minor marks near her belt line appeared to be healing. But there was a huge bandage wrapped around her ribs beneath her breasts. Freshly changed, too. No discoloration.
“Got a few scratches myself.”
“Damn. What bull did you fight?”
That’s when Lonnie realized he’d been reading her wrong this entire time. He thought she was okay with the conversation, showing each other their wounds, making friends, whatever. But her posture. Her questions. The focused look in her eyes that followed and studied his every move.
In her right hand, the one she’d been holding herself up with, held a gun.
And she wasn’t hiding it. Wanted Lonnie to see it. And she’d used the back and forth banter, the I’ll-show-you-my-scars-if you-show-me-yours routine to get herself in the perfect position to draw on his ass.
Lonnie’s face got hot. He hadn’t intended to be rude, nor had he brought ill intent, yet she’d disarmed him.
Shit.
That made him hotter. Hell, he didn’t know a damn thing about this Bess. Was she friend or foe, or even neutral?
"A big bull," Bess said, her expression firm.
Lonnie made a placating gesture. “Oh. Wow. Sorry. I didn’t… I mean, I don’t meet a lot of new people. Especially not here.”
“That’s okay.” Her face remained stoic with a bare nudge of curiosity. Not hostile, yet. Bottom line, Lonnie needed to get the fuck out of there.
Lonnie backed up into the dirt and mud hall. “Okay. Will catch you later.”
“Yeah. You too.”
He returned to the main passage, heart pounding in his chest.
Behind him, the soft sound of the coverlet falling reached his ears, and he shook his head. That hadn’t gone well. Hadn’t gone well at all.
Chapter 16
Lonnie followed the smells of food, shaking off the stink of that last encounter. The scent wafting from the end of the hall reminded him of someone trying to burn a pile of wet grass. Well, if they smothered it in barbecue sauce and then tried to burn it.
As unpleasant as that sounded, his stomach growled.
Journey complete, he stepped into a strange, hybrid space. Low ceilinged, like every other room in the Under River, this one was at least four times bigger than the one he’d woken up in, and it stretched to accommodate a long table (well, a series of three foldout tables of various heights and lengths) placed in the center. There were wooden shelves of pink, green, and purple along the walls, some made of newer plastic. Looked like they’d been plucked out of a garbage bin from the 1980s. The shelves held an assortment of items: old board games, books, toys, a dead TV with big knobs, and many assorted odds and ends.
It was a child’s playroom. A very poor child’s playroom. Or maybe the living room of someone who scrounged from garbage dumps and river shores and the detritus of others’ lives.
Gruff was in the far corner tending to a grill that vented through the ceiling and a pot that boiled and churned over a spit. Seated at the near end of the table was Selix. Her feet tucked under her, still wrapped in the Kentucky T-shirt, she turned the pages of a magazine.
Crash, Elsa, and Ingrid were seated as well, with Ingrid and Crash having their backs to Lonnie, Elsa on the other side facing him.
Elsa.
A laugh worked its way out of Lonnie’s gut and rattled his chest. Phlegm loosened, causing him to cough. He spat, then laughed some more. He bent double and put his hands on his knees, holding himself up on shaking arms. The laughter shook his entire body, from his feet to the top of his head, and only petered out after a long minute. “Oh, that’s great. That’s just fucking perfect.”
Elsa glowered at him from where she sat at the table, face scrubbed clean, ratty sable locks pulled back into a manageable ponytail that hung between her shoulders. The T-shirt she wore was a faded shade of pink with purple stars vomited across the front.
Written in swirling, sparkly-violent script were the words Perfect Princess.
“Yes, Lons. My shirt is incredibly tacky. It was the best one I could find.”
Lonnie kept laughing until it hurt. Even then, he had to make a conscious effort to stop.
Selix looked up from her magazine and watched, her own smile lingering affectionately.
Crash sported a plain white T-shirt. It was too small, an XXL, stretching tight across his shoulders. His dreadlocks were clean and pulled back from his face, arms folded on his chest as he dozed in his chair. Ingrid, on the other hand, spun around and pointed her toes. Her smile beamed, eyes full of what could only be unmitigated happiness. She was clearly enjoying, and looked very comfortable in, her kitty cat pajama bottoms and top. Old, ratted fuzzy purple slippers adorned her feet, which she kicked like a vampire sleepwear model.
“It’s a slumber party," she said. "I’ve heard of them my whole life but never got to have one. A good time, yes?”
Elsa sighed. “Yes, sister. It’s perfectly wonderful. You ar
e so dumb.”
Selix flipped another page of her magazine, an old Vogue. “Quit complaining, Elsa. It’s all Gruff had to offer.” To Lonnie, she said, “He collects stuff from the local thrift stores, buys things when he can. It’s not like he gets many patients who haven’t had their clothes shot up or torn to shreds, right?”
“Putting thread and needle to yours soon,” Gruff gruffed from the grill, the words a singsong. “So many holes in them. So many holes. Rats will roll.”
“Well that’s good news.” While Lonnie didn't care to save most of his stuff, he had to get his jacket and boots back at the very least. He glanced around the room. “Speaking of patients, did you guys notice the woman at the end of the hallway? The one playing the music earlier?”
“I’ve been too busy to explore the Under River,” Selix offered him a knowing smile and a wink, “but I heard it.”
Elsa sneered. “She’s a `Venger.”
“A what?”
“A Holy Avenger, Lons. You know, Bible thumping monster hunters. They hate us fade rippers and have standing orders to shoot us. Oh, right, you’ve been iced for two-hundred and fifty years. You wouldn’t remember these things.”
“How do you know she’s a `Venger? You talk to her?”
Ingrid gave Lonnie an apologetic look. “We don’t need to talk to her. We can smell her blood.”
“It is horrible.” Elsa made a sour face. “Vinegar and piss, as they say.”
“Oh. Well, she has a gun.”
“Let’s not be stupid, Lons. She has more than one.”
Selix bit her lip as she absorbed the news. She shrugged. “So what?”
Gruff pressed in on them with a handful of yellow plastic cups. Kids cups, his fingers jammed in them so he could carry several at once. The old man placed them on the table, mumbled something, and waddled away. Lonnie leaned between Selix and Ingrid and picked up his cup. He looked inside and, not detecting any noticeable floaters, took a sip. It was plain water, cool and refreshing. He gulped the entire thing.
“We leave her be,” Crash said, his words sleepy.