“Plume?” Greerson said. “Who’s Plume?”
“You should attend a few more City Council meetings, trooper,” Wilhelm said with the weakest of all possible smiles. “Madeline Plume’s a mouthpiece for the Colonel. And Ortega’s ridiculed August Rhymes more times than I can count. This can’t be right, Tom. Are you sure?”
“One thing’s for sure,” Tom said. “If Plume’s involved, that means there’s a woman in the middle of this – that doesn’t sound like Burroughs’ style.”
“That line Ortega’s been trotting out blaming the Brotherhood is horseshit anyway,” Greerson said with real venom. “I figured he just wanted someone to blame so it didn’t look like he didn’t have his shit together. But it was probably deliberate.”
Denny pulled a wad of tobacco from his belt and gummed it.
“Misdirection,” Tom said.
“Fantastic,” Wilhelm added and sighed.
He walked off a short distance, rubbing his face furiously with his hands.
Tom’s eyes drifted back towards Jekyll.
“Life in the City sounds great,” the hunter said.
Tom couldn’t help a weak laugh. He nodded with dry agreement.
“I could do with some ethanol for my bike,” Jekyll said. “You know, if you think the City owes me something.”
“That was a hell of a cache in that car,” Tom said and pointed to the dead 4WD and immediately remembered he’d also got Freestone’s horse killed.
“There’s a couple more, hidden around the place,” Jekyll said.
“Well, you’re owed plenty,” Tom said, “even without saving our hides.”
“Got a couple of pretty good shots in, considering the distance,” the hunter agreed.
Tom gestured at the man’s binoculars.
“Within rights just to sit back and watch the show.”
“Na,” Jekyll said. “Couldn’t do that to your children.”
For his part, Tom walked closer and forced his right arm into action so he could shake the man’s hand. Greerson came in and did the same.
*
TOM STUDIED THE face of the man he’d killed as if forcing himself to absorb every detail of the bloody fruit bowl the gunshot impact had made of his face. It looked like the slug found an escape route out the side of the dead man’s shoulder after taking the Thermomix to his head.
“We have to go back,” Greerson said.
Lifting his gaze, Tom swiveled to consider Wilhelm standing a short distance away looking ashen. The Councilor ran a slow hand over his short-clipped, receding hairline feeling the sting in the noon glare on his black dome.
“We’re running late,” Wilhelm said.
“For the meeting?”
Wilhelm nodded, expression resolute.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Greerson stared and openly fumed at him. “If you’re right and that ass-hat Ortega’s in charge, he could use this opportunity for almost anything.”
“We’ve got no idea what his agenda is,” Tom said.
“Councilor,” Greerson said. “What about your woman? Your people? We have to warn them. This mission can wait.”
Surprisingly, it was Jackal who cut the stony silence.
“My bike can fit two, not three.”
Tom gave the hunter a gentle look.
“You’re offering another set of wheels?”
Jekyll gestured off-handedly to the motorcycle.
“I can trek overland from here,” he said. “Got another close by. There’s elks coming into these parts.”
“Fine,” Greerson said.
He nodded fiercely as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else about his decision. He shared another angry look with Wilhelm and Tom.
“I’ll go back and spread the word,” he said. “Whatever else you might say, this is urgent.”
“I don’t disagree with you, Denny,” Wilhelm replied. “But if Tom and I take the motorbike – which, yes, we really appreciate, Mr Jekyll – how will you get back?”
Greerson only laughed. He lifted one of his shoes and motioned.
“I’m a runner,” he said. “I’ll be back in the City by sundown.”
“If you keep your head down,” Tom said.
“And . . . you’d best re-enter quietly,” Wilhelm added.
He glanced to Tom for agreement and Tom nodded, conflicted by his newfound appreciation for Wilhelm’s inner steel.
“Any instructions?” Greerson asked. “I thought I’d contact Council woman Deschain directly and go from there. Like you said . . . I’m not sure who can be trusted.”
“You can trust the Council, Denny,” Wilhelm said as if flustered by the suggestion. “Though . . . obviously we now have to treat the Colonel as a suspect.”
Wilhelm looked at Tom as if to explain. Whatever enmity there might be with Rhymes, the Councilor’s expression showed he was still navigating deep shock.
“We’ve been together since the very beginning,” Ernest said weakly.
Jekyll sniffed like a feral cat, bustling in to bring their attention to the proffered motorbike as if eager to get gone. Greerson quickly stripped the dead commandos of their gear, and Tom re-equipped with one of the modified M4A1s and a pouch with ammo. He joined Wilhelm beside Jekyll at the dirt bike, and Wilhelm and Tom swapped equally befuddled looks at the technical jargon the hunter spewed, letting them know everything they’d apparently need to know about keeping the bike running long enough to get them to their fate.
*
GREERSON TOOK OFF at the old man’s shuffling run common to marathoners, leaving Tom and Wilhelm to inspect the Jackal’s departing back as he also disappeared off to the west striding away through a distant wild corn field.
Tom excused himself a moment, carefully slipping out of his narrow backpack, peeling the slippery Kevlar bag from his sweat-soaked back and fishing out the two-way handset he’d packed.
Lucas answered within a minute.
“Hey, I’m glad we’re within range,” Tom said to his son, not really wanting to admit the fading technology was a gamble. “Where’s your sister?”
“She’s at the Enclave,” Lucas said. “I’m here with Kevin and Dkembe. There’s a lot of stuff happening outside, but I don’t know what’s happening.”
“OK,” Tom said. “Is the D-man with you now? I need you both to hear me.”
Assured they could, Tom continued, mindful of Wilhelm’s eyes playing over him.
“You need to stay indoors until I get back,” Tom said. “It’s not safe in the streets.”
“There’s a lot of guns out there, Tom,” Dkembe’s voice crackled out of the handset. “Gunfights twice today. Red Armbands quit the streets. I saw a bunch of dudes marchin’ in some kind of protest.”
“Stay indoors,” Tom said. “And keep the radio on standby.”
He wanted to ask about Lilianna, but something held him back. Maybe it was thinking she might be safer in the Enclave than any of them. Instead, Tom told his son he loved him and that he’d be back sometime late after nightfall. Then he stashed the device back into his bag, conscious still of the Councilor studying him.
“You always have a trick up your sleeve, don’t you, Tom?” Wilhelm said. “You didn’t mention the two-way to Denny Greerson?”
“This bike can only carry two anyway,” Tom said. “I figured he’d welcome the chance for the run.”
“Even though you have a way to send a message to the City?”
“Frankly, I’m a bit shocked you didn’t bring one.”
Wilhelm cleared his throat and fought off any embarrassment.
“Yes, I let Carlos Ortega set me up,” he said. “He’s been with us since the first days too and I let myself think that meant I could trust him. You could still send word right now, though.”
“My eleven-year-old son’s on the other end of that two-way,” Tom said. “He’s nobody’s errand boy. And nor am I, for what it’s worth.”
“Family first, hey Tom?” Wilhelm said and lifted his hands,
any placation in the gesture thrown off by the weird chortling laugh as if there was something at all funny in their predicament. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge you looking after your own.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You’ve got so much to offer to the rest of us, if you only would.”
“That from the guy who’s uncertain about whether he wants everyone to survive the winter?”
The humor drained from the Councilor’s face.
“Come on,” Tom said. “Let’s get going. Do you know how to ride this thing?”
“As a passenger?”
“No,” Tom said with a derisive snort, flapping his injured wing. “You’re going to have to steer. I’ll be lucky to hold on, but it can’t be more than ten miles from here.”
Wilhelm looked like that was a lot to cope with. He approached the dirt bike like a man hoping not to spook a young stallion and Tom begrudged him a pitying smile which slowly softened as he watched the Councilor pore over the bike, checking the features and maybe even remembering some of what Jackal had said.
“You know you’re a marked man,” Tom said softly. “You’ll go back to the City, knowing that, once we’ve done what we came to do?”
“What else am I going to do?”
Wilhelm gave a hopeless, weak kind of smile. Then he mounted the motorcycle and moved around until more comfortable.
“You mentioned someone called Hugh when you were speaking with Alvarez,” the Councilor asked and only then levelled his eyes at Tom. “Who was he?”
“A man in the City,” Tom said.
Something loosened in his chest – something about what he and Wilhelm’d been through that somehow made him less disposed towards paranoid secrecy than before.
“Hugh was one of the troopers killed in the raid on the Armory,” Tom relented. “You know I knew one of them. But he was a friend. I knew him, knew his widow. I promised her I’d find out why her husband died. And for who.”
“You’re an honorable man, Tom,” Wilhelm said. “Thank you.”
Then he kicked the bike into life on the first try, chuckling at the false effortlessness of it and motioning for Tom to mount up too.
*
A HALF-DOZEN mounted men rode out to meet them, an escort of gunmen leading them to where Freestone’s roving camp had most lately moved.
In a show of old-world optimism, developers before the world’s downfall had started work on the supermarket ahead of the homes planned for the future subdivision, and with construction halted before anything more than the walls could go up, nature had reclaimed the barren area clear for at least a mile around with the only trees a cleared “scenic avenue” to the non-existent home sites. Freestone’s familiar tents and wagons encircled the ivy-clad gray walls of the supermarket, converted at short notice for the sake of their itinerant camp.
It was hard to ken Wilhelm’s reactions until they’d dismounted in what was once the store’s parking lot, though much of the road surface had crumbled with weeds sprouting through the ground unchecked. Thirty-or-so nearby horses were under the care of a small group of teenage boys and girls who clearly saw chores as more of a social occasion. Their chattering laughter drifted across camp. At the newcomers’ arrival, passing adults halted at their tasks or emerged more forthrightly from the dead supermarket to inspect them, no one taking up diplomatic duties until Freestone himself appeared.
The leader came out of the vacant supermarket wiping his filthy hands on a rag and wearing a linen shirt sweat stained by the heat of the day. Without his jacket, Freestone’s sinewy physique and bearded, wind-chastened features were a testament to the rugged nomad community. Freestone shot Wilhelm a curious look, one eye screwed up in the act of scrutiny cutting against the midafternoon sunshine in his eyes.
“You’re late,” he called out. “I’d given up on you.”
“We ran into a little trouble on the road.”
Freestone eyed the fresh tape on Wilhelm’s brow and nodded.
“So I see,” he said. “Where’s Trigger?”
“Look, about that. . . .”
“Where’s my fucking horse, Vanicek?”
“We were jumped by Furies when I made my way back,” Tom said. “I’m sorry. Trigger’s alive . . . but she didn’t take much of a shine to me, to be honest. We can add whatever compensation you think’s fair to this trade we’re going to make.”
“Are we?” Freestone replied as if having second if not third thoughts. “Who’s this?”
“This is Councilor Ernest Wilhelm, from the City.”
“Mr Freestone,” Wilhelm said and offered his hand. “Hello.”
“Don’t smile at me, you fuck,” the Confederate scowled. “Did your boy here tell you how many of my men your people killed? And horses?”
“I’m no one’s ‘boy’, Colin,” Tom said.
“Don’t call me by my first name, Vanicek,” Freestone growled and turned on him, scanning him up and down as if he might explode with punches at a moment’s notice.
“You wanna wrestle again, is that it?”
Tom didn’t say anything, frozen lest he reveal just how crippled he felt.
“Where’s the longbow?”
Again, Tom didn’t say anything. The Confederates’ leader only laughed and gestured to a few of his men.
“Relieve these gentlemen of their weapons,” he said.
Freestone calmly awaited some kind of complaint, but just as he’d been jaw-locked before, Tom didn’t say anything lest he singlehandedly undermine the whole reason for them being there. Equally stony-faced now, Wilhelm shot Tom a raised eyebrow.
“I don’t think making any sort of deal today is a certainty, Tom,” the Councilor said.
“Naw,” Freestone said and chuckled, his tone abruptly good-natured now they were both disarmed. “I’ve talked it over with a few of my people and the deal’s solid.”
Wilhelm realized he’d raised his hands in surrender as the three cowboys disarmed them, but such compliance wasn’t needed. He lowered his hands like there was any way to reclaim some dignity, but that horse had bolted too.
Freestone walked back towards the supermarket as if expecting them to follow – precisely because he did.
And they did.
*
FOR THE DURATION of their latest stay, the Confederates had moved the children’s lodgings and their kitchens inside the open-air frame of the supermarket. It didn’t take much to clear out the weeds and a few mounds of rotting garbage and turn it into a more secure perimeter against whatever perils the Confederates tracked. Somehow, Tom had the sense they were always on the lookout for more than just zombies.
Sentries were posted at all points, wherever the overall structure had gaps or missing windows or otherwise wasn’t finished before the calamities of the apocalypse destroyed share-market value. The delicious smell of the women’s kitchen was nearly humbling, and Tom could tell Wilhelm found himself distracted too, in and amongst everything else the keen-eyed Council man drank in during their too-brief tour of the ruins. Tom spotted Freestone’s wife Rika in among the women, and the young newcomer Kate, too. The women looked undeniably happy going about their chatter – talk that probably included the new arrivals. But when Kate’s eyes flicked Tom’s way, he was again surprised to see them darken with hate.
Freestone led the newcomers, trailed by those same three men – Teller and Wolski, plus the big bruiser from the campfire named Magellan – into one of the big back loading areas framed on one side by the metallic doors to old cold storage units now permanently out of action. There was nothing like furniture in the place, but stacks of unused concrete pavers and a few weather-beaten laminated doors loaded onto cinder blocks made do. Like some cliché of the open range, an incomplete card game was laid out around one end of the improvised tables, and a fifth man sat on a plastic tub, looking up at them with interest while cleaning and re-assembling a revolver.
“Freestone,” Tom said. “I
brought you something.”
The Confederate snickered.
“This better be good.”
Tom eased off the backpack with Teller licking his lips like he wanted nothing more than another chance to pound Tom into the floor. Tom didn’t actually think he was at risk of getting shot, but he moved carefully all the same, though his injuries explain most of the slowness. He unzipped the bag, knelt, and withdrew out a carton of cigarettes.
“Well holy shit,” Freestone said. “And it is good. Alright.”
He took the package from Tom’s hands and tore it open, dealing a pack of cigarettes to each of his men, though the one cleaning the gun declined. Freestone opened that packet instead, and once he had the plastic wrapping off, cracked the box and inhaled the smell.
“Think they’ll be stale?”
The men chuckled and someone produced a box of matches and they got down to it. Tom declined an offer from Freestone.
“One would just make me want more,” Tom said.
“Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em,” Freestone said. “It’s a hard habit to keep up these days.”
“Maybe we should be glad,” Tom said. “Are you ready to talk? I’d like to be home with my children before midnight.”
Freestone ignored him to take a couple of drags on the cigarette, chortling quietly to himself for some reason as he rested his jeans-clad ass on the edge of one of the rows of cinder block.
“In a couple of days, a small group of us are going to come visit you,” Freestone said. “At your invitation, of course. Our people are curious. And you people sound like you keep nearly getting killed. I’m not dealing with faceless men . . . nor your grinnin’ beaver over here.”
The politician’s smile on Wilhelm’s face faltered and died.
“What about our deal?” Tom asked.
He shot Wilhelm a glance to see how the other man was faring, well aware it was the Council man and not him who’d come to broker – if at all.
“I don’t know why, but I like you, Vanicek,” Freestone said. “So I’m gonna deal with you. You make the deal. And you answer to deliverin’ on it. You can go back to your City and make whatever arrangements you need with your own people, but leave us out of it.”
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