by Brian Hodge
I think he wanted to hold me, and I know I wanted to hold him and push everything else away. And I wish just once I wouldn’t be scared and could really try.
But while Jason indeed held center court, he wasn’t alone. Another figure stood there as well. Less substantial, because she knew nothing about him. But that didn’t make him any less real.
She had spent her life as an abnormally sensitive girl. Sensing things, feeling things, making herself crazy with visions and intuitions.
And now, this day, she’d looked into the eyes of a man whose essence felt unlike any other she’d ever encountered. A man with silvery-blond hair and blue ice for eyes, with rivers running deep and murky within him. He radiated the confidence and resolve of a conqueror. He was in touch with a part of himself that few ever managed to reach. She should’ve been scared, period, but while the fear was there, so was the awe. Who he was, she didn’t know. But as she recalled that first darkly thrilling contact, Erika wondered how much she’d be willing to sacrifice to find out.
5
Ladue had been one of St. Louis’s finest suburbs. Big homes, manicured lawns. Volvos in the driveways, BMWs in the garages, and Chivas in the liquor cabinets. Everywhere you looked, money out the ass.
Ironic then, to Travis, that it should all fall under his thumb. There weren’t many people left, true, but there were enough to rule. And a lot of good their money did them now.
They worked for him now. He was the Man in Charge, Lord of All the Eye Could Behold. For most of these survivors, this was probably the first real work they’d done in their entire, once-cushy lives.
“Diamond.”
The Jimi Hendrix replica stood leaning against the fender of a large flatbed truck, his rifle propped across one knee. “Yo, Travis. What brings you out west?”
Travis hitched a thumb toward the truckbed, where these not-so-rich-anymore folks were loading on cases of food they’d gleaned from the empty houses. “How much we got so far today?”
Diamond shook his head, rolled a wooden match from one side of his mouth to the other. “Ain’t been counting. But half-full, more or less.”
“Any problems?”
“Nah. These folks, they take one look at me, and hear one word from Lucas, shit, they keep in their place.” He chuckled. “Lucas, he sounds like he gargles razor blades.”
Travis laughed. Then he leaned back next to Diamond and watched a while as these Ladue residents systematically searched the houses and brought out newly packed boxes of canned and dried foods. They were given some to keep and surrendered the rest. Lucas and a couple of the newer men wandered among them, divvying things up, making sure what was headed for the truck actually got there. Keeping these folks honest. They’d move on when this block was depleted…on to the next one. And the next.
All mine now. I call the shots now. Me.
“Chilly day,” Diamond said, rubbing his hands together. “Say Travis, you know, I think it’s time we got some of these folks moved over into Forest Park or somewhere to start harvesting us some firewood. Winter be here ’fore we know it, man. Always hard to guess in this part of the country, and we got no weatherman now.”
“I know that, Diamond. Another few days. I’ll put Hagar on it.”
It was a good choice. Hagar had been the one to round up their wood stoves.
Earlier in the month Travis had been overseeing the food detail down in Webster Groves when he came across a man who’d been a building contractor, mostly home construction. Travis had been elated. He’d appropriated the man and put together a crew to install woodburners in rooms along the largest wing of the Omni, and a network of stovepipe to carry the smoke out. Rough work, especially without power tools, but where there’s a will there’s a way. The contractor was another week or ten days from finishing the job. Providing it all worked properly, they’d give him back his new wife and let him go home again.
Fair was fair. Right?
“It’s going real good, ain’t it, Travis?” Diamond sounded pleased, but underneath rang a note of trepidation.
“It’s going great. Like fucking clockwork.”
“Yeah. That’s what I mean.” He sighed and lifted his rifle to absently wipe the barrel. “It’s like we can’t do no wrong. Everything works out. And I mean everything.”
Travis glanced irritably at him. “So why do you sound so miserable all of a sudden?”
“’Cause I’ve lived a hard old life, man. I ain’t never seen nothing run so smooth before, and it just worries me is all. Like it’s all too perfect.” Diamond shook his head. “And don’t ask me how I know, ’cause I couldn’t explain it, but it’s ’cause of that Peter Solomon. Am I right, or what?”
“I guess so, yeah, he’s part of it.”
“Damn straight. But what’s in it for him, anyhow? He don’t act like none of the rest of us. You seen him. He acts like he’s having the best time of his life, like it’s all a big game. And I don’t mind telling you, that man scares me. He ain’t normal. There’s something real wrong about him.”
He’s right, but do I care? “So what do you want out of me, huh? What do you want?”
Diamond drew back, looked at the pavement, shrugged. “I dunno. Nothing, I guess. Maybe I worry too much is all.”
Travis nodded. Best Diamond keep his head down, do his job, get a few kicks now and again, and leave it at that. Because he could afford to keep his distance from Solomon. Just as Travis couldn’t.
Because I’m the one that’s gotta look into that guy’s eyes and face whatever’s behind them. I’m the one he tells stuff to, and what to do next. I’m the one that’s gotta face that every day.
Because I’m the one he picked.
* *
Union Station was deceivingly more vast than what any vantage point inside or out might lead one to believe. The mall area was roughly formed in the shape of a reversed letter L. The base of the L, what had been the train shed in the days when it served the railroad, faced Eighteenth Street. The other branch ran parallel to Market Street. Facing Market was an immense granite building known as the Headhouse, gabled and looking not unlike a Bavarian castle, with a clock tower on the east end. The Omni Hotel was nestled in the L-shape’s open area. Two wings extended south from the Headhouse stretch, and two more wings ran west off one of those. A number of garden areas were tucked among the gaps between the various wings, the grass now wildly overgrown, and the entire rear of the hotel overlooked a small, artificial lake. Used to be, on a sunny day, you could rent a rowboat and paddle out to drift around the center, or sit in the beer garden at the west shore and coax the ducks into eating junkfood, or sit in the plaza market or at the outdoor cafe near the mall’s back entrance. You could sip your imported beer and wonder how you’d ever find your car again, for the parking lot you’d be overlooking seemed long enough to serve as a runway for a small plane.
Union Station, pride of St. Louis. So long as the city was up for grabs, there was no other place Travis wanted to live.
As often as he could, he liked spending sundown in the mall, usually at the juncture of the L’s two branches. The mall consisted of two levels, ground and upper deck, under a Plexiglas ceiling. Natural lighting did a lot toward overcoming the lack of electricity.
For the simple joy of surroundings, he didn’t think he could do any better than out here in the open concourse, surrounded by storefronts whose merchandise was now forever in season, by tiered pools and trees and stilled escalators. His. All his.
Travis shifted on his bench, a gleam catching his eye. He peered at one of the fountains. Its water remained clear, unlike the one across Market Street. The bottom was carpeted with coins, worthless now. A wishing well? Whatever.
He caught a snatch of laughter; sounded like the upper deck. Also sounded like Pit Bull. This place was probably the first playground he’d ever known.
And
then, from behind him: “Heads up!”
Travis, lost in his own glorious reverie, swore and turned around and nearly toppled off the bench. Normally he had ninja reflexes, could sense someone coming. But Peter Solomon was the quietest man on earth, when he wanted to be. The man could probably make no noise walking on corn chips. And now Solomon stood behind him, laughing like he’d just seen the funniest thing in the world.
“I didn’t scare you, did I?” Hands on hips, he rocked merrily back and forth.
Travis grumbled and righted himself on the bench. Little shit like that, yeah, just exactly what Diamond had been talking about. Time of your life, huh, Solomon? Travis had early on decided that Peter Solomon had something on the ball that no one else did. At least no one he’d ever met.
“We need to talk, Mr. T. Briefly.” Solomon slid onto the bench beside Travis. “Put out the word. There’ll be a biiiig reward for anyone with enough brain cells to get electricity running in here. Even for someone who finds us someone else that can do it.”
“Big reward?” Travis said.
Solomon shrugged. “Food. Sex. Revenge served warm. We’ll leave it open for now. But they’ll be amply rewarded.”
“Consider it done.”
“Another thing.” Solomon clucked his tongue sadly. “I overheard a conversation today by some of the men from the food detail. Seems as though one of them—Reggie Adkins is his name—got a little softhearted and let his group of workers keep more than their share. I don’t know his reasons, but I suspect he’s letting his gonads do his thinking. We can’t have discipline problems like that.”
Travis shook his head, waiting for the inevitable. Here we go again.
“Take Reggie and find his people. And make examples of them. All of them.” Solomon winked. “Well. My conscience is clear. It’s your problem now, you know. Remember…you promised.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I pretty well promised my fucking life over to you that day. You just better make it worthwhile. “I’ll round up some guys and we’ll take care of it tonight.”
“Don’t use guns tonight,” Solomon said, voice thoughtful again. “You’ll not always have guns and bullets to rely on. You need to be flexible.”
Travis sighed. To give him a job to do? Fine. That was expected. Part of the deal, because he needed Solomon, needed his vision, his clockwork mind, and in return for that, well, certain deeds got done. But to micromanage how that job was done? Another thing entirely, and much too picky. “You got another way in mind?”
“Ah, I thought you’d never ask.” Solomon rose, full of robust life and bursting with good cheer. “Follow me.”
Travis followed him across the concourse, down wide steps and past enormous red clay planters, across into the Banana Republic shop. It was a specialty clothing store—safari pants, jungle shirts, pith helmets—everything for the Indiana Jones look.
“I love these clothes,” Solomon said. “You can never have too many pockets.”
He cut left inside the front entrance, lifting one of several identical objects from an adventure display atop a rugged crate. He hefted it, swung it with a soft slicing of air.
“Machetes?” Travis said quietly. Maybe Solomon knew best after all. It certainly made things more interesting. What would it feel like to wield one of these things and feel it bite into someone’s head? Pretty all-powerful, he imagined. He grabbed one and swung it into a rough-hewn wooden post, once, twice, whacking out a chunk. “I like it.”
Travis gathered up the rest, and their sheaths, cradling them in his arms. They stepped back out into the brighter light of the mall, though it was fading fast. Noise from the second deck again. He looked up to see Pit Bull moving along the railing, leaving the Dallas Alice shirt shop. The grinning, bald wrestler was wearing a Garfield sweatshirt, extra-extra-large, a Cheshire smile luminous in the dusk. Pit Bull saw Travis and waved, giving his idiot-child’s laugh and ducking into another shop.
“That’s another matter,” Solomon said from behind him.
“What is?”
Solomon gave him a tilted smile. “Pit Bull’s only good for two things, really. The first is scaring people shitless. You used that to your advantage early. Commendable, it really was. But you don’t need that nearly so much anymore. You’ve a good number of others who can be just as menacing, with a good deal more discipline to boot. Granted, you won’t find anyone with more loyalty…but everything’s a tradeoff, isn’t it?”
“So what’s the second thing?”
“The other thing he excels at is hurting people. Not like you’ll be doing tonight, though I bet if you turned him loose in such a situation, you’d have a tough old time bringing him back under control. He’d revel in the bloodshed, all because you told him to.” Solomon grinned again. “No, what I’m suggesting is that you channel all that energy into a direction he’s already familiar with, that he already understands: the ring.”
Travis stood motionless while realization slowly dawned inside him. Weren’t they all needing some kind of diversion these days, something to watch, something to cheer? No more baseball these days, or football or hockey or basketball. But now, this…it was perfect.
Solomon nodded. “The sport of kings,” he softly said.
* *
From the shadows of a recessed doorway, he watched as Travis and six others left, packed into two cars and driving west. To hunt, to kill, to bring death from the polished edge of a long, flat blade. Just a handful of Travis’s private army. One of them, of course, would never be returning, but the army was growing. The Omni must’ve been home to more than a hundred men now, plus the women and children.
Solomon watched the twin pairs of taillights vanish down Market Street, then stepped from the shadows. He moved down the Headhouse’s sloping walkway and its parapet. Below his position was a recessed drive where VIPs were once received from their limousines. He reached the sidewalk and crossed the silent street, heedless of the evening chill. Ahead, in Aloe Plaza, the three corpses still rotted unhindered, one dissolving in the fountain…grim reminders of Travis’s public display early last week.
He breathed deeply, inhaling a whiff of decay, faint but growing stronger as he neared its source. An aroma to be savored. Had he ever felt this alive before? Sure. But it had been much too long.
Solomon stared west for a moment, then north, then east, into the dead city, shrouded now in the graveclothes of night. Dead? No, not quite. Sparks of life still stirred within. Of course there were those in the suburbs. But he remembered the pair last week who’d wandered onto Travis’s show of strength. A young man and woman. Walking. From the east. And that’s the direction they went back to as well. No suburbs that direction. No, it was only city. Was someone else calling the downtown region home, too?
The memory of the girl’s eyes lingered like a vaguely pleasant, vaguely unsettling daydream. It had felt as if she, through whatever strange talent was her lot in life, had peeked farther into him than everyone else did. Not that that was necessarily bad. Everyone needed one with whom he could share the innermost. Maybe she wasn’t it, but…well, their gazes had locked, despite the number of others around, and that had to count for something.
Erika…he liked the name, Nordic for regal. Solomon’s eyesight was very keen, and he’d read her name on the lips of the guy she was with. Jason. The exchange of names had gone both directions. Funny—in his own way, the young man appeared to have almost as much fury bottled up within him as did Travis. Though in Jason’s case, it looked as if an irritating streak of morality kept it in check. Righteous, primed for justice. Right. Solomon had seen the type before. They usually broke when the going got rough.
How much would it take, Solomon wondered, to crack that morality in half and let the real Jason out?
Why, how far could each of them be pushed? Where were their limits?
Such sporting days ahead, full of sporting ways
. Such fun.
Solomon crossed the plaza, stepping over the sagging body of a man wearing the shredded remains of an army hazmat suit. He stood at the edge of the fountain, staring into the greenish soup it had become, ripe with the decomposing remnants of one of St. Louis’s finest. At last he bent forward to drink of the fountain’s water, knowing that his faith would keep him safe, like more primitive folk who sipped snake venom as a sign of trust in their god, and recalling the wisdom that had settled upon him a few months ago, driving east in Wyoming along with his deadly cargo…
…the seeds of deity growing deep within him…
And as he completed the impromptu communion, he knew it to be true.
He was a god of war.
6
November was half over, and the first half had been as soggy as England. For those in Brannigan’s, this brought mixed emotions. On the positive side, it provided an unmatched opportunity to test the rain catcher they’d built atop the parking garage. It passed with flying colors. Add to this the fact that Caleb had dowsed an underground spring in the park grounds near the Arch, and they were no longer dependent on the Mississippi for water. They’d sunk a pipe and pump to the stream, and while it didn’t save them from trips with the water truck, at least the water came out cleaner than it did from the river.
On the downside, the weather was turning colder, and two wet weeks only made it worse. Winter was on its way. Nobody talked of it much, at least openly. They’d prepared as best they could, and now all that was left was to wait. And hope for the best.
Jason watched the dawn of the fifteenth from his bed, snuggling into several quilts and blankets, warm and fuzzy-eyed and as happy to see the sun’s rays as he would’ve a friend he’d thought dead.