by Sean Platt
He passed through the village of mostly wooden cabins, ignoring the battery of wind chimes like a soundscape in hell.
To the west he heard men sawing wood, preparing lumber for shipment downstream.
He walked towards the docks, nodding at a couple of old fishermen. One of them nodded back. The other ignored him. Wolf was used to it.
He glanced north along the river, seeing some of the boats with their nets. Most of the vessels had gone out farther, likely nearing The Ruins where the fish tended to thrive.
He passed the fish market, then the town’s lone hotel on his way to City Hall, a small building that had been a tourism office before the world turned to dust. A woman cast an angry glance his way as he passed her fruit stand.
“My dick hanging out?” Wolf looked down to check.
She harrumphed and showed him her back.
He kept walking along the docks. Men huddled together, their fishing lines cast.
“Morning,” he called out.
One of the men spit into the river, but they all ignored him, acting like they didn’t spend their lives selling meat that reeked.
“Okay, then.” He was used to the looks. People had always either loved or hated him, and the affection ran deep either way. Even while wearing a heavy coat of amnesia, Wolf had no problem knowing that as a cellular truth.
But this morning it seemed like everyone in this shithole was pissed at him. So he reminded himself that the world was made of morons, and it was his calling to capitalize on that particular truth.
Wolf didn’t need fuckers to build him a statue. He just needed them to stay the hell out of his goddamned way. The mayor and Glenda both liked him, that was good enough. He got the work and drink he needed, plus a warm bed above the bar.
He was met at City Hall reception by Gary, the mayor’s nephew, a cadet who fancied himself a wannabe Ranger, but was dumb as a comforter.
Gary, all of fifteen if that, sat up at his desk and looked down at his clipboard. “Hello, let me check if—”
Wolf walked by the imbecile’s desk and into the mayor’s office, grumbling on his way. “I’m on the fucking list.”
He shut the door behind him.
Harmony Solis was sitting at her desk, looking over a stack of paper, glasses on her head. Long hair fell in auburn waves over her forest green sweater. The mayor was mid-forties, and juggled bullshit like she meant it.
She held up a finger. Wolf took the seat in front of her desk, propped a boot over his right knee and waited patiently. Best not to interrupt the mayor when she was focused. Harmony was one of the few people around here that listened and read more than they chattered. So she was worth the attention.
She circled something in red pen, then finally met his eyes. “Sorry. I was just looking something over.”
“No problem, Mayor. You summoned? You need me to make your wish my command, I assume.”
Few people smiled at Wolf unless they wanted something. Even then it was almost a tic. But Harmony meant it.
“People around here are getting nervous,” she said.
“Well, two kids and their uncle fucked off in The Ruins. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Some people are blaming you for their deaths.”
“Me? Ah, no wonder the good citizens of Dickburg have been giving me the reek-eye all morning.”
“They lost three people in the community. They’re looking for someone to blame.”
“Maybe someone else can help you go into The Ruins to find shit.” He shrugged. “Gear for a piece of machinery, you call me. Medical supplies, you call me. Little Timmy falls down the fucking well, guess who goes Ghostbusters? I’ve dug in and done your dirty work, so how is it my—”
“Because you’re an Alt. The storms don’t affect you. A lot of people think you’re cursed.”
“Superstition is religion for ret—”
“No.”
“What?”
“You can’t use that word in my office.”
“Superstition? Ain’t a pecker in this little pueblo ever made life beyond the one that follows a bit of fidgeting the midget in Bridget. Storms were pounding this place long before anyone here knew my name.”
“People aren’t thinking logically right now.”
“You gonna shoot straight or shit from your mouth?”
“I think it’s best you get out of town for a bit. Lay low.”
“Run away?”
“I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Wolf laughed. “I’m not planning on falling in love.”
She removed her glasses and tousled her hair. The next words came like she was ringing them from rocks. “I don’t want my people hurt anymore.”
And that was fair.
“I understand,” he said.
“Here …” She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a pouch, and slid it across the table with a pleasing jingle of copulating coins.
“It’s not much, but it’ll help. If you go to Callan’s Corner, ask for Tomas at the inn. He’ll rent you a room cheap. Mention my name. Or, if you want to take your money further, you could head to The Slums.”
“The Slums?”
“They’re dangerous, but a guy like you can protect himself. The shanty town is worse.”
Wolf slipped the pouch into his coat. “How long are you expecting me to live like a little bitch?”
“Reach out in a month or two. We’ll see how things are. People might realize how much you’ve been doing for us by then.”
“So, get the fuck out of here until we need you again?” He nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Sorry, Wolf.”
“You think you’re saying sorry, but it sounds to me like you’re getting the last word.”
“I’ve always been good to you.”
“You have. But I guess there’s nothing we can do this time. Not with all the black cats and broken mirrors.”
“Wolf …”
“Be seeing you around. Maybe in a month or two.”
He tipped his head and left her office.
It wasn’t Harmony’s fault. She had always been good to him.
He ignored Gary on his way to the front door, then stepped out into the morning air, now much colder than when he’d gone inside.
He felt alone in the world again. But also free. To explore. To get the fuck out of this taint of a town and get his dick licked somewhere else.
As he passed the house of the dead kids, their mama, Colleen, walked out the front door in step with a friend. She saw him and froze.
He’d been the one to tell her. The slap hadn’t hurt all that much, but the memory felt like a scar.
She looked at him, same as the others had, like it was his fault her kids were dead. Even though Wolf would have been happy to trade places with them.
Glenda had four shots poured and waiting.
“So, you knew?” And down went the first.
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t say anything?” He looked around. There were a few more regulars at the bar and a few at the table. All of them eye-fucking him.
Another shot of fire. “That’s okay. I get it.”
She nodded. “I’ll miss seeing your drunk ass.”
“And I’ll miss your hideous shirts.” Down went the third. “The one you’re wearing today looks like unicorn diarrhea.”
“That’s better than what you called it the last time I wore it. And hey, it’s better than dressing like midnight.”
Wolf looked up and down his body. Black pants, shirt, and long coat. “Back in black, baby. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.” He swallowed the rest of his whiskey. “I’ll stop wearing black when they make a darker color.”
Wolf finished shoving his clothes into his backpack and zipped it shut.
All his worldly belongings in one backpack. Something about it felt right and pathetic. He wasn’t sure how old he was anymore. Late forties, he figured. It felt like he should have more to his name than a few bags
of clothes. Maybe he did before the world ended.
He slung the pack over his shoulder and left his small rented room, ready to move on.
He froze at the threshold, remembering something.
He went to his nightstand and opened the drawer to find the book that Caleigh had lent him, Alice Unfolded.
He looked at the cover and thought of his promise to the girl that he’d read it. He felt a deep sense of shame that he hadn’t read it in time to have the conversation she so obviously wanted.
He couldn’t find time in his mostly wasted days and nights to read one damned book?
Wolf set his backpack back on the bed, unzipped it, and slid the book inside.
He slung the pack back over his shoulder and was on his way.
He’d check out Callan’s Corner for a bit. Then maybe head to The Slums. He heard there was good money to be made fighting in the pits there. And, if he was being honest with himself, Wolf was looking for someone or some way to end his misery.
Eight
Johan Pascal
South of Hope Springs
* * *
Word came early from a messenger bird with news of another merchant attack. Pascal donned his protective Ranger gear and headed south on horses with Captain Stewart to investigate, plus Knox and Campbell in tow.
As they traveled south, an early sun barely crept through the fog, failing to dent the cool autumn air.
The clopping of hooves echoed against cracked pavement along the four-lane boulevard, overgrown with vegetation and debris. Metal husks from long-abandoned vehicles lined either side of the street like skeletons, reminding them of the world left behind, now like islands in a sea of fog.
Pascal took the lead with Knox and Campbell in the center. Stewart assumed the rear, leading from the back.
They passed the crossroad to Fortress and stuck to their southern route as the lanes dwindled from four to two.
The woods and fog closed in even tighter around them. In this stretch, the threat of an attack was strongest. Bandits had never hit Rangers traveling in a unit, so they were probably safe. Still, Pascal couldn’t shake the sense of being watched.
Bandits were becoming more violent. Until a couple of months ago, they had never murdered the merchants. Or kidnapped women and children. Until recently, there had been honor among thieves. But now that code was being ignored, if not shit on. Burned bodies, decapitations, corpses staged for maximum shock. Women and kids were no longer off limits.
As they passed Jacob’s Inn, Pascal remembered turning away Nathaniel and his daughter the night before. A creeping feeling wormed through his guts.
The road squeezed them even closer together.
The fog thickened, every blurred object on the side of the road looming ominously ahead of them.
Something cracked in the woods to their left.
Pascal turned his crossbow toward the noise. He glanced at the other Rangers, who were also silent and on full alert.
Another crack and a pair of ravens flew from the trees towards the woods on the opposite side of the street before getting swallowed by the fog.
Everybody looked at Pascal, awaiting his signal for permission to move, trusting his senses first.
He waited a moment longer, then motioned them forward.
They stopped at the half-burned wreckage of a merchant’s wagon.
Pascal wasn’t sure if whoever originally found the scene extinguished the fire or if it had been the early morning rain. But there was zero doubt about the identity of the burned corpse.
It was Nathaniel.
The horses were gone, probably stolen.
Pascal turned to Stewart as he approached. “Did the note say whether there was anyone else found, dead or alive?”
“It only mentioned the dead man. The Ranger didn’t recognize the trader. Do you?”
“His name was Nathaniel. He and his daughter had sought refuge last night. I turned them away. Charlotte is only fifteen or so.”
Pascal dismounted and went over to the dead man whom he’d turned away just a bit over twelve hours ago, flashing back on the man’s angry glare as the sickly-sweet scent of burned meat assaulted his senses.
He went to one knee and touched Nathanial’s arm.
I should have let them camp outside the city.
As his fingers brushed the charred flesh, memories from the man flooded Pascal’s mind — Nathaniel and Charlotte surrounded by a group of bandits that had spilled from the woods in the early morning dusk to attack them.
The bandit had been an Alt, his fist made of flames as he burned Nathaniel alive. His hair was long like a leg and white like a cloud. Sunburned skin, and eyes so light they were barely even there.
The memories were fleeting and Pascal couldn’t control their flow, rewind, or direct them in any way. They were echoes of this man’s final moments, he could only try and mine something useful before they faded into the ether like a satellite signal lost to the infinity of space.
He watched and heard as Charlotte screamed. Nathaniel had turned to see a beefy man with a big black beard grabbing her around the neck and yanking her into the darkness.
Nathaniel had tried to stop them.
Then he was on the ground, a blade in his back, helpless as they took his girl. Her screams cut through him, filling Pascal with dread and fear for the girl. He wasn’t sure how much of it was echoes of the dead man’s fear, and how much of it was his own terrible memories of the daughter he never got to raise after she and her mother vanished alongside the world.
Memories looped on themselves. Nothing new, save one fleeting glimpse of a short, familiar man. His name was Kanjo, and he lived not too far away.
Pascal let go of Nathanial’s arm, wiping his fingers on his pants.
“I’ve got a lead.”
“Wait.” Stewart bent next to Nathaniel’s bare, burned foot and retrieved a folded piece of paper.
His face paled when he unfolded it.
Stewart turned the page slowly to show them. The Alts are Coming and Your Cities Will Burn!, written in blood.
Pascal sighed. Just the sort of shit the general would use to drum up more anti-Alt hysteria.
Kanjo lived in a nomad village south of Jacob’s Inn, a bit off the beaten path, down an old dirt road that — to his pure delight — few people knew how to find.
The fog was finally lifting when Pascal led the Rangers into the old RV park where Kanjo rented space for nomads to stay, whore, or fuck themselves up on drugs. The place was like a miniature version of the shanty town squalor east of The Slums.
Before they even rounded the corner and into the clearing of the old campground, someone, likely a lookout, banged pots and pans from atop a treehouse in the park’s rear. Pascal saw a grimy, skinny boy in his teens pounding on them as a warning as they entered the clearing.
Dozens of dirty people in ragged clothes watched them with mistrusting and mostly drugged eyes, staring out from the windows of old metal campers, from inside tents, and underneath the fraying awnings. A few people were too stoned or too asleep to bother eyeing the Rangers coming through.
Pascal turned to Knox. “Watch for runners.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Stewart shouted, “I’m looking for the man that runs this place!”
Dozens of eyes kept staring. But no one stepped forward to help. An old man with no teeth and a gummy scowl stood and approached the edge of his camper’s awning. He spit tobacco a foot from the front hooves of Stewart’s horse.
He wanted to make an example of the man but was too frightened. There were at least forty people living among the twenty or so campers and tents. Maybe more in the woods nearby. He knew they were outnumbered.
Pascal dismounted, bringing himself level with the people. Maybe they would trust him, despite his red and black armor. Crossbow on his back, hand on the hilt of his sword, at the ready but not threatening.
He approached an old gray-haired woman in dirty layers. She wa
s sitting in a plastic chair, knitting a blanket. She glanced up at him with barely any expression.
“Have you seen Kanjo?” Pascal asked.
“Nawp,” she said flatly.
A man shouted from across the way, coming from a long silver-and-white camper stained with rust and God knew what else.
“Ain’t nobody seen shit. Get the fuck out.”
Pascal turned to see the man stepping out of his camper, holding a compound bow, aimed at his forehead.
“We’re just looking to ask Kanjo a question.”
“Ain’t no Kanjo here. I suggest you leave while you still got the chance.”
Pascal turned away from the man and called out to everyone. “If anybody here can tell me where to find Kanjo, I’ll—”
THWAP!
Pascal heard the bolt coming and dodged just in time, hearing it THUNK into the side of a camper behind him.
He looked up to see the man reloading.
Knox sent a bolt straight between his eyes.
Someone screamed.
People scrambled, either to safety or for their weapons.
“Fuck,” Pascal groused, spotting a familiar figure running into the woods.
“Kanjo! Go!” he shouted to his Rangers on horseback, covering them with his crossbow as nomads went for payback.
He shot a woman with a hatchet coming at Knox, hitting her in the back and sending her sprawling to the ground with a gasp.
Pascal felt two men coming from behind, before he could reload.
He dropped the crossbow, unsheathing his sword like lightning from the sky and meeting the first man’s blade.
The surprise of impact sent the man stumbling back into his friend, knocking them both to the ground.
Pascal ran through them both at once with his sword, taking no delight in their deaths, nor any regrets.
A woman screamed incoherently as she charged him with a raised machete.
Pascal sidestepped her, then swung his sword and sliced the tendons of her knees before she could turn back around.
The woman bellowed obscenities at him as he dived to the ground, grabbed his crossbow and raised it in time to stop a lanky teenager racing toward him while wildly waving his sword.