by Arthur Stone
The wind read Boiler’s thoughts once more and sharply shifted direction, clearing most of the air around him. He saw he had indeed pivoted towards the start, away from his group. A cross-shaped shadow advanced swiftly along the ground towards him. He looked up to see what cast it.
A herald of bright light foretold the coming of impenetrable blackness. Boiler was out.
Chapter 11
The smell of burnt hair came first, sickening but tolerable. Then his lip protested, its nerves feeling submerged in molten lead. Boiler jerked awake with a groan and opening his eyes—or rather, his eye, as his left eyelid was soldered shut. A stranger with a shaved head and the look of a natural-born degenerate clicked his cheap lighter in front of his face and grinned. “This one not a crawler!”
“We knew that, genius.”
“I singed his lip and he jumped awake.”
“Shut it.”
Boiler’s consciousness came online but continued to malfunction, a problem compounded by his one-eyed vision. He lay in the covered cargo hold of a truck driving along a road rich in bumps and potholes. The pavement had been laid long ago. Say what he might about NDDOT, they never let the roads get this bad. The only light filtered in through narrow loopholes in the reinforced mesh canopy, and behind him, the breeze powered the dance of the tarp tied to a jury-rigged large-caliber machine gun turret.
Besides the freak who had grilled his mouth, there were four more in here. Three looked like they could be the sadist’s brothers, with bandit faces, scrappy camo or sturdy civilian clothes, and guns. But the fourth was obviously not with the others. He lay behind them next to the machine gun, his hands cuffed and chained to the truck’s metal frame. This prisoner owned camo, too, but he could see that it was new even under the dim light and the mud caked all over it.
The man who stood above Boiler possessed a towering physique and, by the looks of him, an equally diminutive intellect.
“So, stranger, you back. Who’re you? You playing dumb? Think this is a game? Maybe you got too many teeth in there?”
Boiler had no plans to lose any teeth today, so he forced his name out: “Boiler.”
“Boiler? And here we thinking you was a newb!”
“I am. Learned some of the basics, though.”
“So Panther your godfather?”
“No. Nimbler.”
“I don’t know a Nimbler. How many people’s Panther got?”
“Only saw six of them.”
“He talked with someone on the radio or something?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Not that you heard, eh? So what got them to leave that ditch? Who snitched on us?”
“They saw a tripwire. Panther wouldn’t go any further and gave the order to toss the smoke bombs and go for the road.”
The man whipped around at the lip-scorcher. “Course it were you, brainwart! How they see your tripwire? Sloppy!”
“Hey now, Ironpot, chill down, man. It was all good, thin wire, no tracks. Clean work, I swear, by my mama’s spores.” Boiler followed every word of their haphazard sentences carefully, even as he feigned a mental haze deeper than the one he truly felt.
“You go take it up with Raoul.”
“I handle him.”
“And give him a kiss while you at it.”
“I fuck him up if he touch me!”
“Fuck Raoul up? You?”
“I fucked up an elite, and Raoul is no elite. I even took a scraper. And I fuck you up if you don’t lay off.”
“Shut it. You lost your head or something? We’re not in a stable out here. Imbecile!”
“You the imbecile! We are in a stable. Look at the pavement.”
“This is a shitty triangle, barely big enough for this truck, so cut the chatter.”
“Still a stable.”
“You blew this. We had the team in the bag until your screw-up. Panther moved down the road, as expected, but then crossing the road like that, we not ready for that. All because of a shitty tripwire. And who put that wire there, eh?”
“Maybe newb is lying. Let’s ask him more sincerely.”
“How the hell would he have known about your tripwire? What, he read thoughts? Idiot!”
“I said cool it, we got goatface here, so still got something to trade the edgers.”
“We down two, and Panther got away with his whole band. You think Raoul going to be happy with us?”
“He be happy with the edger, Mines and Mapper in his shit zone, you know that.”
“So one maskless edger makes up for your shit? What Raoul want with a dead edger?”
“He can trade him before he goes infect.”
“Fuck, Clipper, you lost it! You ain’t the Clipper I knew. Time to hook up you with some spec?”
“Go hook yourself! You use just as much as the rest of us, holy man.”
“I never do business high, but you don’t give a fuck. You always high! You not speaking any sense. You losing it. I remember what you were like when you showed up. Most promising of all them. Raoul remember you from those days, and he see the difference too. He going to send you to dismem, starting with your balls. That what you want? I bailed you out twice so far, brother, there can’t be another.”
“All good, don’t worry about me. We crippled the bomber, escaped the scene wounded, took the edger pilot captive, drove Panther off the road, and nabbed a newbie from his gang. We gold, man, nobody going to call us out. So quit complaining like a little girl, it’s killing me.”
“Raoul’s the one going to kill you. Blow you open.”
“I take it up with him.”
“Do yourself. Give this one to the edger. He bored over there without his mask.”
“You know, this newbie, he a special one.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Look at this pack he had. Spores and grayballs both.”
“Huh. Not bad.”
“You ever seen a fresh fish live so rich?”
“Take him in the back. I need to speak to the other. Maybe he see something, need to figure out what to say to Raoul.”
Boiler really didn’t like these new companions. Not because one of them burned his lip and the other was cruel, but because the whole truck was saturated with the atmosphere of death, the feeling of a room used for mass tobacco smoking sessions for years on end, as if death was ordinary, run-of-the-mill, perhaps even a daily occurrence here. The four armed men communicated like a wolf pack, each struggling to be as independent as he could, but all of them united because of threats none could bear on him own.
Clipper dragged Boiler over to the other prisoner, then let him go, shoving him into the machine gun. Boiler slammed into it, barely stifling a groan, bruising his leg, and landing on a metal strip holding part of the turret’s base.
His movement ceased when he crashed into the body of the other prisoner. That prisoner turned his head slightly, showing his bloody face and whispering,
“Cuchillo... Pierna izquierda.”
Clipper kicked New Camo in his side, issuing a flat command. “English only, stupid foreigner.” From what he had heard thus was, Boiler hadn’t pegged them for anglo-purists.
His skull had undergone many unpleasant adventures today, but his brain still worked, though with difficulty. He perfectly understood what the other man had said. The prisoner had a knife he kept on his left leg. His former plan of sitting up against the side of the truck hastily canceled, he pretended he was still disoriented, pushing into New Camo even more so that his tied hands ended up near the weapon. He groped for the sheath, grabbed the knife’s handle, and pulled. It took some doing, but he got it out.
There. Now Boiler was armed. But what use was that? He wasn’t flexible enough to fluidly slice his binds off, so he carefully sawed away at them. Happily, he wasn’t in cuffs like the other prisoner, but as he considered, his joy became despondency at the realization that they only had one pair. Their prisoners must not live long, so they don’t need much equipmen
t.
The knife was sharp but unwieldy, its blade misshapen, and Boiler accidentally cut himself several times before he determined an optimal sawing method. The rope was synthetic and tied tightly and wouldn’t hold up for long. His hands began to go numb from the lack of blood flow, but he managed to keep his feeling, and soon his hands were free.
That very moment, Ironpot was standing over him. He breathed lightly in his face with his putrid breath, donned a crooked smile, and addressed him in that lazy, insolent tone narrow-minded people supposed was cool. Boiler still couldn’t place the origin of the man’s speech patterns.
“Well, newb, you talk to me, or we play Inquisition, you hear me?”
Boiler wanted to rub his wrists vigorously rather than engage in conversation, but thanks to his proximity this freak would notice, no matter how stealthy the rub. Of course, he wanted even more to pull the Glock out of the man’s open handmade chest holster, drive a couple of bullets into his chest, then take out that sadist Clipper. Then the other two, one bullet after another, shooting every one of them until all seventeen rounds were gone. His ax would follow, if anyone was still moving, for Boiler had noted its location at the very start. It was in good shape, save the suspicious stains on its blade. But what did he care about stains? He wouldn’t be cutting breakfast sausage. These idiots could worry about the sterility of the tools cutting them to pieces.
“I can talk,” Boiler said readily, careful to keep his hands still.
“Alright. Where you find that pile of treasure?”
“Give me a swig of lifejuice.”
“That all you want? How about a blowjob?”
“You don’t look like the greedy type. I’m dying. Got hit from all directions back there.”
“You don’t look dying. But I despise ‘greedy types’ too, so come on, you open your mouth and tilt your head back.”
The man held an open bottle above Boiler’s face and tilted it down, and a thin stream trickled down his throat. Boiler coughed. It wasn’t lifejuice, just a tiny gulp of dirty lukewarm water. Ironpot laughed with the carefree mirth of a dumb monkey just discovering a new way to scratch its own balls, and Clipper joined in. The other two were soon roaring, as well. They couldn’t have heard a thing over the engine and the bumpy road, but nevertheless showed unquestioning support for their colleagues’ imbecility.
Boiler also smiled. Why not join the mirth when in a minute or two he would be dead, or these guys would be dead, or all of them would be dead. He couldn’t think of a better time to laugh.
“Well, Boiler, how do you like our ambrosia, eh?” Ironpot asked the question with an intolerably false sincerity escalated with uncharacteristically good grammar.
“Could be better. A little weak. A local brew for little girls?”
Ironpot’s eyes narrowed, his sincerity suddenly true. “You in deep, Boiler, real deep. We see who’s a little girl when my boys done with you.”
“I don’t think the lifejuice is what matters here,” the captive replied thoughtfully.
“No? What does matter, then?”
Boiler flexed his fingers, feeling he’d be ready in just a few seconds. The moment was here. His thoughts cleared, the world became simple, all that was superfluous evaporated, and a shock dose of adrenaline flowed into his bloodstream.
What was New Camo doing, though? He was wiggling his handcuffs suspiciously. Was he trying to get loose?
Remaining silent was not an option. He had to reply or else risk alerting them that something was up. He could also talk a little quieter. The truck noise would drown him out, and Ironpot would have to bend even lower, making him more vulnerable.
“I think what matters is your guys’ hatred for the Spanish language.”
“What the hell? You need lifewater more than I figured. What does language have to do with anything?”
“Not just language. Spanish language. Seems like none of you speak a word of it, but sometimes it comes in handy. Like when there’s a major reset, and a massive cluster of Spanish speakers flies in.”
“So clusters can fly now?”
“It was just an expression.”
“Enough funny business. Cut to the chase. Clipper’s had enough and wants to fuck you up, and I don’t see why I should stop him.”
Boiler smiled serenely, extending his monologue in a peaceful drone. “So this cluster flies in from a world where medicine has reached the very limits of human advancement. With the right medicine, they can cure nearly anything. You head to the pharmacy and find, say, a three-liter jar with a cure for ignorance. It’s big, enough for many people, and can cure even the most extreme cases. But the label’s in Spanish, with no translation. You try reading it, but you understand nothing, though in this particular case you might if you took one. You leave the jar behind and exit the pharmacy. And there goes your chance. It vanishes forever, condemning you to perpetual mediocrity.”
“Mediocrity?”
“And so you remain married to ignorance, till death do you part.”
“The fuck…?”
Backed by a jolt of his whole body, Boiler’s right palm struck like a cobra, driving the short, curiously curved knife blade right under Ironpot’s Adam’s apple. His left arm grabbed the pistol handle, but something was holding it in the holster. In desperation, Boiler twisted it pressed the trigger, firing through the holster at the head of the startled Clipper, all the while continuing to deal one blow after another to his massive melee opponent. His hits were short and swift, in the neck, in the face, in the upper chest.
With an inhuman roar, Ironpot feebly pushed Boiler back, but to no avail. He lost his balance and began to fall backwards, away from the newcomer’s attacks. Clipper was appropriately clipped by his first shot, Boiler’s bullet opening his face from cheekbone to ear. The handmade holster couldn’t hold up to the pistol’s recoil and split into two halves, and Boiler broke the thin black cord that remained with one sharp motion.
He pressed the trigger again. His clip would be empty in no time, but that was what he wanted. These people were murderers, and they were all expecting people to try doing to them as they did to others. Ironpot retreated from the knife, rolled on his side, and lay in a pool of blood, reaching for the handle of his ax. Clipper ignored his face wound and brought his machine gun up, flipping off the safety. The two in the cab were moving to engage. And then the nine-millimeter bullets began to hit them all.
Boiler had sixteen left. Plenty for everyone.
An unsettling clatter sounded behind him just as his ammo hit half empty. He dove to the side, turning in the air as he did. There was New Camo, somehow free of his handcuffs, up and deploying the large-caliber machine gun in the direction of the fight. And pressing the trigger. The man shouted something, but the ensuing roar drowned out every other sound in the place.
Boiler, blinded by the powder flash, recoiled, fell on his back, and aimed his pistol at the machine gunner. The latter couldn’t get him from here, since the turret was unable to point this way. But the freed prisoner paid no mind to his fellow captive, instead unbridling an endless scream as he emptied the gun’s ammunition into the vehicle.
His face was a mask of blood, his nose so broken that the tip of it nearly pointed sideways. Still the enraged prisoner fired, having undoubtedly dreamed of this moment for the entirety of the ride.
Something flashed in the cabin, but the chaos was suppressing Boiler’s perception. It seemed the machine gunner wasn’t even aiming, just carpeting the vehicle from side to side like a fireman fighting a blaze. For this tiny truck, a full ammo belt was devastating, and the bullets pierced the cabin walls as if they were made of newspaper. The bodies behind them fared just as poorly, including the body of the driver. The ride had already been bumpy, but now that it was operated by a human sieve, nausea was inevitable. The world bounced and spun uncontrollably.
Once the belt was out, the other captive yelled something, fell to his knees, crawled to Ironpot’s gutted corpse, grabbed th
e ax the monster had never quite reached, faced Boiler, and bared his teeth in a crazed smile. Or bared where his front teeth should have been. Only naked and bleeding gums remained. He had resolved to be the only survivor here.
Boiler propped himself up on the side and fired at the psycho. Normal people don’t look like this. He’s gone mad.
But then the truck reared up and hung in ominous silence. They were falling. Boiler grabbed the edge of one of the loopholes holding the truck’s top on, unable to comprehend how he managed to do so in time. His body must have known what to do without his conscious mind having to process it first.
A shattering blow followed that terrifying second of airtime. A million cables snapped, and the grating twisted and lurched, multiplying the spontaneous urge to vomit. A sharp pain sliced through Boiler’s fingers. He was hanging by one arm, and the truck was standing vertically on its cab. There was no quick way out, and he lacked the strength to climb ten feet to the escape at the back of the truck, which gazed straight up at the sky.
But then, with a perplexing noise, the vehicle tilted, and Boiler’s legs were suddenly wet. Looking down, he saw nothing at first and felt that everything was swimming. Still unable to get his other eye open, he feared the damage might be permanent, and as his good eye adjusted, he realized the swimming feeling might be permanent, too. His legs were submerged in the water rapidly filling the vehicle as the truck sank in its near-vertical position. It was up to his waist. Then up to his shoulders. Boiler recoiled from a floating turret-shredded corpse. It refused to go under, caught on some snag provided by the instrument of its destruction. He had to let go of his loophole now, cling to the side of the truck, and wait for the water to finish rushing in. Then he could escape.
The sunlight was blinding, the waning summer day marching on, indifferent to the termination of the lives of a truckfull of people. If what they had been living could be called “life” at all. Boiler squinted, examining the outstretched surface of the water and the concrete dam running along it. That was where the truck had taken off on its maiden—and final—flight. And unless his eyes were deceiving him, the water here was more than deep enough to bury the whole vehicle. The last corner of its frame went under as it released to the landscape its parting gift of assorted floating garbage.