After buying the vital gold earring and gold tooth, Conrad Joseph’s metamorphosis was complete.
Meanwhile, Michael Eggers got himself a trader’s license and some signage for their premises. He and Con had high-end hand-held devices, the internet, and fancy desks with all the showy office bells and whistles, enough to placate the most observant clients. No computers, no printer yet—those were all still a pipe dream. But at least they could move their center of operations from Tree to indoors now that fall was upon them. They slept on cheap mattresses in the lunch room in the back. Here they prepared cheap meals, remembering the soup kitchen offerings with much fondness now in the face of their own feeble attempts at cooking. The real attraction to the premises they chose was the shower. Long hot showers, something Mike was beginning to think he would never experience again, became his new personal vice. He’d been too long walking around filthy.
Working from the library, Mike set up trades for his first trickle of customers. For himself and Con, he played some penny stock, bringing in a small stream of income, saving as much as possible for that big score.
All the while, they watched out for Weazer, always coming up empty. They never came out and said it, but meat wagon was on both of their minds. It seemed that Weazer had finally succumbed. This thought kept them both very aware of the precariousness of their own positions and working hard to escape them.
And Michael began his search for Charles and Wren Wood, name by name off the internet, anyone in the lower mainland he could get to by bus, since this was one part of his life he did not share with Con. There was a lot of listings under Wood. At first, he’d blanched at the scope of the task, but soon was able, through the process of elimination—PublicPage—to winnow down the possible candidates.
He had to go door-to-door. He had Wren’s high school yearbook picture from last year, a publicity shot of Charles from one of his many interviews, which, sadly, had abruptly ceased around the same time he seemed to have folded up his tent and gone…somewhere.
His wife, Chelsea Wood, was pictured with him at an awards dinner years ago, so he had a picture of her as well, though it was grainy. Chelsey Wood was a real looker.
Charles hadn’t changed much in the intervening years; Mike hoped Chelsea hadn’t either. Armed with the photos, he haunted each residence of his remaining names until he could eliminate the occupants. Every day, he set out to a different address. Every day, well, most days, he crossed off another candidate.
He also searched through professional directories. Maybe Charles Wood had gone over to the dark side and was working corporate for money? Everyone had their price.
Today, he was headed over to the north shore to a pricey condo listed under C. Woods. It was a long shot, since he knew from the histories that Wren had attended high school in Vancouver, but things had changed since Zhang’s arrival. She didn’t live in the large home she was supposed to be living in; she certainly wasn’t attending the school she should have been—he knew this because he’d watched the school every day for a couple of weeks. No stone unturned.
He still had no idea what he would say to her, to any of them if he found them. His story was just too bizarre. He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.
The bus let him off a block away from the place, surrounded by lush landscaping and winding walkways that were carved into the hilly north shore topography. The grounds featured a comfortable bench seating area and a sparkling pond with a small fountain at its center. Shade trees were in abundance; birds flitted from branch to branch, the sun was mellow and warm, the breeze refreshing. So different from downtown Vancouver—by a mile.
Looking up at the pink stone and glass building before him, he found himself wishing he had this kind of money. Or access to this kind of money. Maybe he could talk some of these residents into investing this kind of money with his new company…
He consulted his phone again, checking the unit number before approaching the front entrance. Naturally it was locked. He found the unit number, Twenty-Three D, on the polished brass panel and pressed the call button.
He got an immediate response, the woman’s voice petulant. “It’s about time. A person could grow old waiting on you. That pizza better still be hot.” This woman sounded old. Too old to be Chelsea Wood.
He blinked, opened his mouth to deny being the pizza delivery person then shut it. This might be his only chance to see this woman, to eliminate her. No stone unturned. He blurted, “It’s hot.”
The door made a buzzing sound and the lock clicked, which he assumed meant he could go up. He grabbed the handle before she changed her mind and darted inside, through the air-conditioned lobby to the elevator. The doors slid open at once and he was on the twenty-third floor so smoothly and silently—he half expected to still be in the lobby when the elevator stopped.
And there was Unit D, displaying a tattered, dusty Christmas Wreath. So, this woman was both pissed off and forgetful. Or maybe she just didn’t give a damn anymore.
He knocked on the door, avoiding the dust-covered wreath.
“It’s open!” she called.
He hesitated for a moment, then grasped the handle. He’d come this far. All he needed to do was see her face and he’d know. There was the sound of a crash, of breaking glass and a muffled cry from inside the condo.
He pushed open the door and ran inside, only to stop in confusion, facing a wall of stacked and bound newspapers, magazines, postal boxes, pizza boxes, liquor boxes—and bottles—and a God-awful wall of stink. He’d expect this smell out in an alley or coming from an over-flowing dumpster—not a high-end condo in a pricey neighborhood.
A moan from somewhere deep inside the labyrinth of floor to ceiling boxes and bags pulled him forward. Mike sped through a winding path into what might have been the living room. Turning a corner, he found a tiny, cleared spot that featured a stained, dark green couch with seating for one the only remaining space, a coffee table before it with a small television screen propped up with a green plastic plant pot, the plant long shriveled into dried, twisted twigs. On the floor, between the couch and table, lay a skinny woman.
A thrill of recognition coursed through him. She was down and out, thin and sick, but he was certain that this was Charles Wood’s wife, Chelsea Wood.
He’d made his first real connection with Charles Wood! Everything—everything he’d been through had been worth this moment! For the first time, he believed he would be able to pull this off. He, Payton Wisla, was about to save the future.
But he had a few steps ahead of him to make it happen.
Beside Chelsea lay a broken plate and a scattering of old, hardened pizza crusts and empty gin bottles. The woman was clutching her wrist, her palm bleeding.
“Help me,” she whispered, her attitude from over the intercom gone.
He picked her up, holding his breath as he did. She didn’t smell great. She was so light in his arms, it was as if he were picking up a husk of a person, not an actual person. He sat her into the only available seat, unsure what to do next. When she said nothing, only stared at her cut hand as if seeing it for the first time in days, he asked, “Ah…where’s your kitchen?”
Grimacing, she nodded further into the labyrinth, to another narrow path. He followed it, kicking aside more bottles as he did, entering the source of the stink: the kitchen. The sink was loaded with dirty dishes, floating in stagnant, scummy water. Spying a roll of paper towel—that had to be clean—he wet it with water from the tap and returned to the woman, offering the soaked paper.
She took it from him, hissing when she applied it to her cut. “Well, there goes my bess… pizza gripping hand.” She brought her gaze over to his, her eyes landing just a little off kilter. Her pupils dilated, and her blonde hair was a fuzzy rat’s nest on one side, plastered flat on the other. A stiff strand of hair was pasted across her cheek, likely from dried spit. This was Chelsea Wood, for sure, and she was drunk out of her skull. In the picture he had of her, she’d once been beau
tiful.
The intercom buzzed.
“You bring the pizza?” she slurred.
There was a beat of silence. How do you confess your lie to a drunk?
The intercom buzzed a second time, and with the sound, came an idea.
Did it matter what he told her?
“That should be it,” he answered, hurrying back to the door to buzz in the real pizza guy. Waiting for him to come up, Mike pulled out his wallet and peeled off a twenty—which he hated to give up—and thought quickly. Could he stay and pump Chelsea for information? She didn’t look like she’d be kicking him to the curb anytime soon. Now that he’d found her…
The pizza guy emerged from the elevator wearing worn jeans, a black Sen-Sen T-Shirt with lime-green earbuds stuck into his ears. Mike could hear the music blasting from here. The pizza guy’s head nodded with the beat, his expression disinterested. Mike took the pizza box, handed him the twenty, and told him to keep the change. Without a nod, the guy pivoted and returned to the elevator, still rocking to the music.
Watching him go, it occurred to Mike that everything had just changed.
Back inside hoarders’ paradise, Mike Eggers placed the boxed pizza on a stack of magazines and set about fixing Chelsea’s hand, fixing her another drink, and convincing her that he should stay and watch over her. It didn’t take much.
8
OUTLANDERS: DAY ONE: WEN 2047
IT WAS A BRILLIANTLY LIT, late summer day, and at the end of the well-tended highway, surrounded on each side by thick pine forest and the sound of tittering birds, Coru, Wren, Mattea, and Deklin arrived at the huge Freeland Wall and gazed up into the cameras, waved, and waited. Coru reached out and gripped Wren’s hand. He could feel her palm was damp with nerves, so gave it a squeeze. Just let her try walking away from him now that they had found each other.
Deklin tucked himself close to Mattea, his innocent eyes wide and uncertain. Mattea flipped his long black hair back over his shoulder, stoic as always, his features unlined, his dark eyes calm, and placed a comforting arm around the boy who was almost as tall as him at six feet.
As they had done only days ago, the huge doors slowly parted, inviting them back into Freeland. Nothing had changed inside—it was still a massive installation, sealed into a natural bowl formed by the surrounding Kootenay Mountains. A blacktopped surface stretched below the blue, cloudless sky before them, large enough to safely land a fleet of planes, and led to another monstrous pair of doors set into the mountainside that, in their turn, led inside to Freeland proper—and all their friends.
They were again invited to surrender their weapons on the red circle painted in the center of the hot pavement and waited patiently as the circle silently disengaged and lowered into the ground, taking their weapons with it. Coru was fine with this.
What was important to him now were the people who stood by his side and his one precious personal item, his sketch book, filled with images of his time with his family of choice here in WEN 2047, of Drop Out Acres, of all the wildlife he’d seen and faithfully recreated over the last year. The rich greens of the surrounding forests, the dark and rippling Peace River, Deklin’s dancing, prancing, multicolored goats, each prettier than the last, the smoky scent from Mattea’s imposing lodgepole and leather sweat lodge, loaves of Catherine’s golden-topped bread lined up across the kitchen windowsill to cool, the tinkering sound of tools as Dan muttered and coaxed more life from the motor of the old red tractor, Sandy fashioning colorful play clothes for the ever-growing children by cutting down clothes the men scavenged, the melodic sound of Sean’s singing as he chopped fire wood or tended the animals, the sweet smell of alfalfa blossoms drifting in the warm breeze, the hum of Deklin’s honey bees in the orchard, the brilliant yellow carpet of dandelions that led the way between the two homestead cabins. All these images shored up Coru’s soul, shored up his faith they could, and would, save this world. More than anything, he wanted to return to their home in the north, but there was much between them and home.
Wren squeezed his hand, bringing him back to their task—convince the Bear Lake Outlanders to take a chance on them.
Once the circle rose, empty, and reconnected with the pavement, a small garage-sized door on the bottom left of the mountain entrance opened and they were waved inside.
They exchanged glances. It was truth telling time.
They drove Beast and Beastette forward and were met once again by Michael Grimes. Grimes was dressed, as were they, in the simple Freeland garb of comfortable grey pants and zippered jacket over a plain white T-shirt topped with a numbered silver identity tag hung on a chain around his neck. For many of the Outlanders trickling into Freeland in search of security, being given these simple, clean uniforms was a luxury. These uniforms were practically runway model clothes after more than a year scraping by with scrounged and patched together clothes.
For himself? Coru preferred the scrounged clothes. They suited him better.
“Hey, Tatman! That was quick. Change your minds?” Michael asked, his eyes flicking at Coru’s bald and tattooed head then quickly away when he saw Coru had noticed his curiosity. Coru was used to this reaction now. Grimes nodded to another man to close the door once they were inside the bright, cavernous interior. The place was alive with workers going about their tasks both on the massive floor and up inside the hundreds of glass enclosures that lined the rocky interior walls and were joined by a complicated network of sparkling glass elevators that moved both vertically and horizontally.
Coru shrugged and smiled with apology. “We realized at once we shouldn’t have brought Deklin with us, so turned around right away. It’s too much for him out there. Freeland is much safer for a boy like Deklin.”
Grimes agreed, his expression understanding. “Until we have New Pacifica handled, no one is…” He stopped himself, shifted gears, and grinned at Deklin, reaching up to ruffle the boy’s thick blond hair. “We need special boys like you at Freeland, Deklin.” He looked at Wren, who, as a flaxen blonde, the same as Deklin, they were passing off as Deklin’s sister. “Tough out there?”
She pressed her lips together, nodded once and replied, “POE.”
Coru squeezed her hand in approval. She’d struck the perfect balance between worry and acceptance. How they handled this day could mean everyone’s future.
“Ah.” Grimes sobered. “Close?”
“No,” Coru answered, directing Grimes attention back to himself, knowing this was hard for Wren. She didn’t want to leave Deklin, but they had no choice now. “But close enough.”
“So, Freeland’s looking pretty good right about now.” Grimes, a true believer, sounded a bit smug here.
Coru widened his eyes and shrugged in response, his “What can a guy do?” expression firmly in place. Wren dug her fingernails into the back of his hand before dropping it and stepping away. Okay—so maybe a little over the top. They were here to keep Deklin safe and to launch a search party into enemy territory, and they needed help. Below the radar help.
He made a show of frowning. “The thing is, Michael—do you mind that I call you Michael?” He didn’t wait for an answer, and turned Michael around, keeping his arm across the man’s shoulder and walking him toward the elevators companionably. He lowered his voice. “We need to get the rest of our group safely here before winter and the trip back to Peace Country will be too much for Deklin. We should maybe talk to our people before we leave again. Don’t want to drop poor Deklin here off like a lost puppy.”
Grimes nodded vigorously. “I totally agree. Let me locate them for you.” He pulled a device from his sleeve and keyed in a request. Freeland ran a tight ship.
While they waited at the elevator, which would take them down to the many levels underground, Wren murmured, “Thank you for understanding, Michael. We owe you a great debt.”
He shook his head, all business. “No. This is why we’re here, to keep people safe, to unite families and ultimately, recolonize all of British Columbia. Starti
ng here at Freeland is the first step to our way back. We do this together.”
Coru regretted his manipulation of the man. Grimes really did believe in what he was doing here at Freeland. Just because he was a total keener didn’t mean he was wrong.
The elevator door slid open and they went inside. Studying his device, Grimes said, “Your group is on level thirty-three, just finishing their orientation. We’re in luck—they’re about to take a break.”
Coru smiled his thanks and locked his gaze on the passing level numbers as they sped downward. Truth telling, this wasn’t going to be easy.
AS SOON AS Gayle Antonelli walked through the door of the meeting room Grimes had hastily set up for them, Wren rushed to embrace her. They’d become close over the last few weeks—fighting for your life, side by side, forged strong bonds. And now, Wren was about to ask Gayle to care for Deklin while she was gone. And to allow her husband and son to come away with Wren. It was a big ask. Big.
Gayle hung onto Wren hard, and whispered, “Why did you just leave and not tell me? I’ve been so worried.”
“I’m sorry. We thought it was kinder. And we were wrong. We turned right around and came back.”
Gayle drew back and faced her, her cheeks shiny with tears. Her expression altered at once at seeing Wren’s. She murmured, “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
Wren nodded, bit her lip and looked significantly toward the men, Mattea and Coru speaking with Gayle’s husband, handsome, dark-haired Tony, and her teenage son, Mario, a young Tony Antonelli clone. Completing the circle were the tall, blond Hanson twins, Gary and Tom, and stocky, music teacher-cum-freedom-fighter, Doug Prater. Seeing Doug’s stubby iron-gray ponytail shed vulnerable wisps of hair with each swing of his head made her sigh. Doug had such a good heart.
“What’s up?” Gayle wanted to know.
Wren squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “We have a lot to tell you in a very short time. Let’s grab a coffee and find a quiet corner. It’ll be just like back at Bear Lake around the campfire. A new planning committee.”
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 11