by Sean Platt
The boy cried out, begging to be spared.
But it was Slum Lord’s turn to do the ignoring.
He went into the adjoining room and met Sasha’s disappointed stare. “What? You wanted a show of strength.”
But Sasha didn’t say a word.
Ten
Wolf
Callan’s Corner
* * *
Wolf was seated at a table in a dark corner in a dark bar in a dark shithole of a nothing town called Callan’s Corner, drowning his brain cells until the place closed and he shuffled off to his room at the adjoining inn.
Oil lamps illuminated the bar because there was no electricity in these parts. The ceilings were coated with black grime from the lamps. A wind-up record player regurgitated the same scratchy album, jaunty country on a loop, some asshole endlessly whining about losing his girlfriend and hat.
Wolf was one of the bar’s four occupants. An ancient bartender and two slightly younger men on stools staring at nothing. Same as last night.
He had hoped to maybe meet a nice distraction or two. But it was slim pickings for anything remotely close to his type. And not just because Wolf preferred a woman with teeth, saving the occasional sloppy bobbing exception. Their kind of roughness reminded him of something he didn’t want to remember, despite hating how much he’d forgotten. His bear skin of a beard was starting to gray and now looked like the gathered pubes from a retired battalion of battle-scarred soldiers, but still Wolf would rather fuck himself than any of the hags littering this village of gloom and despair.
It only took him a day in Callan’s Corner to decide that if he wasn’t gonna get his dick slippery, it was as good a place as any to drink himself to death. Looking at the two old fuckers fixed to the bar, they appeared to be sharing the strategy.
Yesterday was gone; he might as well say adios to mañana.
Except, Wolf wasn’t entirely sure that he could die. Made him want it more than he might have otherwise.
He had unnaturally fast healing, and he’d done more drink and drugs than any human should responsibly ever do by units squared. Not to mention the brawls he always managed to come out on top of, with the other guy always either begging for mercy or already dead.
Wolf longed for a night where he could close his eyes and not see those two dead kids staring back at him.
The bartender — a braided Willie Nelson with a Santa beard and thick black glasses — shuffled over to Wolf. “Closing time is soon. One more for the road, young man?”
“Young man? You sure you ain’t the one that’s titty to the wind?”
“It’s all relative. You’re a young man to me.”
“How old are you?”
“Name’s Gus.” He offered his hand. “And I’ll be eighty-eight next month.”
“Goddamn,” Wolf said, shaking his hand. “That’s ancient. Like Rime of the Ancient Mariner ancient.”
“Rhyme of what?” Gus asked.
“That old poem from like the seventeen or eighteen hundreds. An old guy like you never heard of it?”
“No, can’t say I have. So, what’ll it be?”
“Give me enough to sleep through the night.”
“If sleeps what you’re chasin’ you might want somethin’ else.”
“Oh?” Wolf arched an eyebrow.
Fuck yeah. Maybe he has the shit that killed Belushi.
“I’ll be back.”
Wolf gave him a wink and a nod, suddenly in a much better mood. He hadn’t been high in a while. Drugs were hit-and-miss in these parts, both with their potency and availability. He could score in The Slums, but that place was the wrong hive for a man looking to be left alone.
He dug into his backpack and grabbed Caleigh’s copy of Alice Unfolded.
He looked at the cover, a silhouette of a girl with stars and trippy geometric shapes inside and all around her.
So far he couldn’t get into it. Maybe if he was high he could get past the wedding scene. Judging by the cover, it seemed like the perfect read while tripping balls, assuming the words weren’t too blurry.
The door exploded open and drew the room’s attention.
It was a woman and a young girl frenzied with panic.
Wolf slipped the book into his jacket pocket and sat up, paying attention as the woman and her kid both ran to the bar.
“Please, you have to hide us. They’re coming.”
“Who’s coming?” Gus asked, setting his narcotic delight on the bar.
“Sentinels.”
“Sentinels?” Gus laughed. “As in … Stratum Sentinels? They ain’t been seen topside since right after shit hit the fan.”
“Well, they’re here. Trust me. Please, I don’t want them to hurt her.”
Gus looked down at the little girl and something shifted in his face. The smile was gone and his eyes were suddenly urgent.
What the hell are Stratum Sentinels?
Wolf felt like that name should be more than familiar, but he drew yet another blank.
“Please,” the woman begged. “They’re coming and they’re going to take us. They’re going to hurt her.”
Gus looked at the doors, then waved them behind the bar into the back room. “Go in there. You can lock it from inside.”
Wolf eyed the door, reaching inside his jacket and running a finger along his knife. He hadn’t anticipated killing any geriatrics, so here he was drinking without his sword.
The old men looked back at Gus.
“Act like nothing’s happening,” he said.
So they resumed their drinking.
The doors opened and four men entered, dressed in all black. They looked like soldiers, shoulders stiff enough to have rods that ran from sphincter to skull. Crimson badges on their uniforms read SS.
Swords at their sides. Buzzcuts and scowls.
One of the men, a tall ginger with a face full of freckles, held a crossbow. He aimed it into the bar, scanning for trouble.
Wolf didn’t react. Acted passed out, long hair hanging to hide his glimpses.
The shortest and oldest of the men — a barrel-chested steroid case with a square jaw and graying sideburns, a Captain Fuckface if ever Wolf saw one, barked, “Where are they?”
“Where’s who?” Gus played Barney Fife behind the bar.
Another of the men, gangly like an Ichabod, stepped forth with a piece of paper. Wolf couldn’t see the front from his angle but imagined it had an image of the mom and daughter hiding in back of the bar.
“This woman and child are wanted for treason.”
“Haven’t seen them.”
“There’s a big reward.”
“That don’t change my answer.”
“How about you two?” Ichabod showed the paper to the two old men at the bar.
They took a moment too long to answer.
Fucking idiots.
“No. Haven’t seen them,” one of them said before quickly flinching away.
Captain Fuckface grabbed the crossbow from Ginger and fired a bolt.
The grizzled liar fell like a bowling ball to the floor.
Gus and the other old man both jumped, shouting out in surprise, then freezing as the soldier aimed the crossbow between them, slowly moving it back and forth.
“Which one of you wants the chance to live?”
Wolf had transferred his knife to his right sleeve, ready to drop it into his palm and fill this fucker with holes.
He stayed still, closing his eyes tighter as he heard footsteps approaching.
Ginger kicked his boot.
Wolf acted smashed, stirring his body on the stool like a spoon through some soup as he slowly opened his eyes. “Huh, what?”
“You seen this woman and girl?” Ginger shook the paper in his face.
“No, but if you wanna tell the older one my room number, I’d be happy to mingle some limbs.”
Fuckface looked at him, confused.
“Don’t have to be married for a bit of marital congress,” Wolf further
ed his point before laughing.
“Is something funny?” Fuckface yelled, turning to Wolf and handing the crossbow to Ginger.
Wolf still barely held his head up. “Other than you four ugly fuckers harassing my mellow, nope.”
Captain Fuckface turned to walk away, then reeled back on Wolf to sock him in the face.
But Wolf was faster, and already holding his dagger.
He leapt forward and buried the blade in the man’s gut before he could blink, his eyes only widening after Wolf had shivved him a half-dozen times. He stopped a beat before hitting the ground.
Ginger aimed the crossbow at Wolf and fired.
He dodged, only barely but more than enough. “You missed!”
Wolf threw his dagger. And didn’t miss.
It landed straight between Ginger’s eyes.
The other two men approached.
Wolf scrambled to the ground and grabbed the former captain’s sword by the hilt. He heard movement behind him but turned too late.
A giant arm was around his throat.
Then a blade was at his side, its tip begging for burial.
“Drop it,” said a deep voice in his ear.
A human boulder was holding him as another six soldiers entered the bar.
Wolf lost his weapon.
Another soldier, a tall man in his late forties with blue eyes and a bald dome, sauntered in behind them. He eyed the dead bodies, looked at Wolf, then studied the men at the bar.
“Search the back,” he said.
The six soldiers rushed to follow his order.
They returned moments later with the woman and girl, both cuffed, kicking and screaming, begging to be let go.
“Take them to the wagon,” said the bald man. “Then clean up this mess.”
The woman looked at Wolf and he saw something in her eye — recognition? Or was she desperate and hoping he would help?
The déjà vu was undeniable. He felt like she knew it as their eyes locked.
Then it was broken as four soldiers dragged them both toward the door.
The woman screamed as she kicked one of the soldiers in his knee, then spun away from him and bit a second soldier on the cheek.
The girl screamed.
Wolf stomped his foot on the big fucker holding him, spun around, clapped the man’s eardrums, then kicked him hard in the balls.
The man doubled over, grabbing his babymakers and whimpering.
Chaos as soldiers moved in on the woman and Wolf.
Hell all around him.
He grabbed the sword and spun around, searching for a fucker to run it through.
The woman and the girl raced toward the door.
Wolf was about to kill Captain Baldy when a bolt slammed into the back of the woman’s head.
The girl turned as she saw her mom fall face first. Time seemed to freeze as her eyes widened, followed by her mouth.
She screamed, falling to her knees, hands still cuffed behind her.
“Mom!” she wailed.
Wolf, caught up in the moment, failed to notice the man and his knife.
The blade plunged into his back.
He turned to see the young soldier who’d stabbed him staring back in surprise.
Wolf shouldn’t be standing.
He swung, first slicing the soldier’s stomach open, then stabbing him straight through the heart. The soldier fell in a pile of his own mess as Wolf turned to see a pair of soldiers yanking the girl away from her mother.
“You fuckers!” Wolf bellowed, trying to draw their attention.
They looked up but ignored him, as two more soldiers charged.
The girl kept crying, “NO!” as they dragged her toward the door. Her crying swelled, louder and louder until it was piercing.
The soldiers released her and covered their ears.
Then the world around them turned purple. Dark like The Ruins.
Rain fell hard, as though a Ruin Storm had formed outside, with violet lightning ripping through the room.
For a moment there was only silence and darkness, save for the sounds of their collective breathing. Then the sound of the metal cuffs hitting the ground, the girl, somehow, breaking free of her shackles.
Then every last man in the room, save for Wolf, went insane, like The Lost when they turned, clawing and biting one another to death.
Gus tore into the old man’s neck. Wolf could hear the chewing.
The soldiers had dropped their weapons and began wrestling.
One came at Wolf growling, teeth bared as he landed atop him.
It was all Wolf could do to roll out of the way, causing the blade to rip deeper into his flesh.
“Fuck!”
The rabid soldier scrambled toward him, eyes white and wild.
Wolf reached behind his back and yanked out the blade with a bellow of agony.
The man landed atop him, pushing Wolf onto his back, which caused more pain to splinter through him, severe enough to eat his consciousness.
The soldier was at his throat.
Wolf shoved his hand between the man’s teeth and his own neck.
The man bit his hand.
“Fucker!” Blood ran down his hand and the man sank his teeth in deeper, head shaking like a dog chomping onto its victim.
Wolf raised the blade and stabbed the man through his ear until he finally stopped moving.
He shoved him off of his body, then scanned the room to make sure that the other soldiers were dead.
Chaotic bellows carried into the bar from outside as if everybody in the town suddenly woke enraged and rabid. How many had turned? Wolf saw the girl lying down, cradling her mother, sobbing. He went over to her and she flinched.
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Her wet big eyes met his. He saw something familiar in them, something he couldn’t place or identify, other than it felt like a glimmer of light.
He looked down at her mom to see if there was any chance of saving her. But she was gone.
Outside, the screaming got worse. The newly turned would soon be looking for victims.
“We need to get you out of here.”
The girl ignored him, hugging her mother tighter. “No,” she said in an almost infantile voice.
He reached out to gently touch her shoulder.
She flinched, her hand swiping his arm away.
His world exploded in a brilliant flash as they touched.
* * *
Wolf was no longer in the bar.
He was in a dark, circular concrete room with a tree growing from the center. Impossibly tall, glowing purple and pink as it blossomed.
A man’s voice on the other side of the trunk: “Come here.”
* * *
Wolf woke to the sound of movement.
Confused, he absentmindedly reached for the first available weapon.
His hand moved over a wet corpse before finding a blood-encrusted knife.
As his blurred vision swam into focus, he saw bodies everywhere, and four men in red — Rangers, drawing weapons on him.
“Put it down,” commanded one of the men.
Exhausted and unable to fight them all, he dropped the blade. It clanked to the ground and the men moved in to cuff him.
He growled to himself as they dragged him out of the bar.
“Well, ain’t this some beer-battered bullshit.”
* * *
TO BE CONTINUED …
* * *
EPISODE TWO
Episode 2
Down the Rabbit Hole
Eleven
Johan Pascal
Pascal rode back to Hope Springs ahead of his unit, alone, giving him time to shake the worst of Kanjo’s memories from his mind.
The difficult part about digging into people’s heads was that it sometimes infected Pascal. Memories, dispositions, and trauma, for hours or even days afterwards.
Kanjo had suffered a difficult life and despite the man having sold a child into slavery, Pascal c
ouldn’t help but feel some sympathy, and regret.
He dug into his belt pouch and pulled out his pills, a compound that Hope Spring’s medic, Allison, had concocted just for him. She called it a kill switch and warned him against overusing it.
“Only in emergencies. Or it could mess you up.”
“Mess me up? Please, doc, don’t use such sophisticated medical terms.”
Allison had laughed, her smile crinkling the dimples on her cheeks. “Fuck you. How’s that for a medical term?”
He'd laughed.
Two pills down his throat and Kanjo’s memories had already stopped hurting. By the time he reached Hope Springs, Pascal felt nothing.
He went straight to his house. Changed out of his Ranger uniform and light armor, then into his most well-worn clothes to better blend in. He wore faded blue jeans, a long-sleeved red flannel, and a black jacket.
He slipped his sword into the sheath on his back, then headed toward the stables. The stable girl had just finished outfitting the horse with non-Ranger saddlebags and Captain Stewart was standing there waiting.
Stewart got between Pascal and Cobalt, his horse. “You go in there and shit hits the fan, we’re not bailing you out.”
“Understood.”
“You’ll have a bullseye on your back if anybody recognizes you. They’ve been looking for any excuse to hang one of us outside the city, ever since Hendrix. You going in on some off-book mission, that’s a reason.”
Pascal nodded, sliding coins into his saddlebag, alongside a couple of canteens, plus food for himself and the horse in case he had to stay any longer than needed. He stroked his mount’s head and set an apple in front of him. Cobalt’s large teeth looked like they were smiling as he took the fruit into his mouth and lazily ate it.
Stewart continued, “And if the mayor or vice mayor give me shit, I’m telling them that you disobeyed a direct order.”
“Duly noted.” Pascal swung onto his saddle.