Travelers

by K A Riley

  “We believe in every one of us for everyone else,” I offer.

  Ledge nods for a long time before finally calling out to one of the archers to go and get someone called “All-to-Pot.” He tells the other archers to stand down and return to their posts before calling on Trolly and Chunder to step forward. “An’ bring their weapons with ya.”

  Chunder shakes his head, but his sister tugs him along by his sleeve.

  The archer scampers off while Trolly and Chunder push their shopping cart forward again and start handing us our weapons.

  Brohn heaves his powerful arbalest over his shoulder. For a second, I think the leather strap might snap right across his chest from the weight of the bulky weapon. But Brohn gets it squared away along with his quiver of bolts. Rain clips her satchel of dart-drivers to a buckle attached to the bottom of her jacket. Cardyn snaps his twin tomahawk axes into their mag-holster. Since I already have my Talon-gloves on, I volunteer to hang onto Terk’s flail for him. “Just until he’s up and about,” I say with a confidence I wish I felt.

  I try holding the hulking weapon over my shoulder, but it turns out to be heavier than I thought. “Ugh. How did he carry this thing?”

  Brohn laughs as he takes it from me and drops it with a heavy clang back into Trolly’s metal cart.

  “For safe keeping,” Brohn says. “Terk’ll need it when we get back.”

  I give Brohn a smile of thanks for his optimism, but Ledge doesn’t seem to share the sentiment.

  “The Fort Knights are no joke,” he assures us. “There’s not a lot of them but what there are is plenty deadly. Me and Lost-the-Plot ‘ere was part o’ their royal court years back as wee lads before we got kicked out.”

  “Kicked out?”

  “Expelled. Excommunicated.”

  “For what?”

  “We thought they should be sharin’ the power. Sound familiar?”

  “Maybe we can do a better job of convincing them,” Rain says.

  Chunder makes what sounds like a grunt of skepticism. “Had more’n my share o’ run-ins wit ‘em, me.”

  Peeling back his lips, he’s in the middle of showing us his mouthful of chipped, cracked, and missing teeth when Ledge’s messenger arrives with a short, wild-eyed woman in tow.

  Tangled in layers of colorful skirts and with her neck covered in just as many brightly-colored scarves, the woman trips over the frayed edge of the carpet leading into the room and stumbles right into Brohn’s arms.

  She gives him a twinkle-eyed, “Cheers!” and proceeds to start brushing herself off, a frenzied act that causes a cloud of dust to go wafting up from the faded rainbow of skirts she has on over the top of a pair of baggy canvas overalls.

  Ledge waves his hand in front of his face and coughs as he introduces us. “This is All-to-Pot. Lost-the-Plot’s older sister.”

  She hops in front of me, Brohn, Cardyn, and Rain and bows to us one at a time, her hand over her heart, which seems to be the custom around here.

  “All-to-Pot was like us,” Ledge explains. “One of the Royal Fort Knights. I’ve got business to attend to in the south lanes. She’ll show you around. Take you through the Settlement. Get you to Buckingham Palace. After that, well…if we don’t see you again, it was nice knowin’ ya. Let’s just hope the Fort Knights kill ya quick. You seem like a good lot, and I’d hate ta see you suffer.”

  Ledge orders three of the boys in the white robes to stay and take care of Terk. Then, he and Lost-the-Plot stand without another word and disappear behind the billowing red curtain at the back of the room.

  “I guess I got ya all to myself,” All-to-Pot beams.

  We thank her in advance for taking us, but she p’shaws away our gratitude with a big smile, which quickly disappears once she catches a glimpse of Terk lying unconscious on the floor in the middle of the three boys, who are tenderly slipping a thick blanket under him. “The big bloke there…‘e’s not comin’ wit us, is ‘e?”

  “He’s…resting,” Cardyn explains. “He’s going to stay here and nap while we head off on a perfectly safe, reasonable, and very well planned out mission to try to steal some alternator thing from Buckingham Palace to save his life.”

  All-to-Pot scrunches up her face like she can’t tell if Cardyn is joking with her or not. “Well, be that as it may…you won’t get in, but I can at least get ya to the palace. Better ‘ope God or the Devil can get you the rest o’ the way.”

  19

  Tour

  Constantly tripping over her feet and getting tangled in what appear to be three or four layers of her oversized and ill-fitting but wildly colorful skirts, All-to-Pot takes us on an impromptu tour through the Hyde Park Settlement.

  Confirming what we got a glimpse of on our way in and what I’ve already seen through Render’s eyes, the entire area really is a giant tent-city, lined left-to-right and front-to-back with even rows of thatch-topped, single-room huts—mostly aluminum or wood-sided—like garden sheds or really big dog houses.

  In the distance, spaced a couple of hundred yards apart and just inside the walls, are rickety wooden scaffolds, each rising above the height of the exterior wall. I can’t see them all from here, but the towers closest to us have armed sentries posted—mostly boys but also a few girls—in a hodge-podge of oversized armor, bedsheet-sized cloaks, and floppy hats.

  Because I’ve already seen all of this from above, it’s a weird combination of surprise and déjà vu to see it in detail from ground level like this.

  The huts have cut-outs for windows. Some of them are decorated with flimsy curtains in washed-out hues of reds, blues, yellows, and greens. Instead of doors, strips of beads or tattered panels of cloth hang from the doorways. Clotheslines stretched between the squat buildings hang heavy with linens, sheets, stockings, shirts, pants, and a grayish, off-white array of men’s and women’s underwear. Nearly every hut has a patch of dirt in front of it, plowed into lines and packed into an alternating pattern of trenches and mounds. It looks like a community-wide gardening project, although sadly, except for a few feeble vines here and there and some scraggly, prickly-leaved weeds, not much seems to be coming up.

  “They’re comfier than they look,” All-to-Pot promises, adjusting her scarves and the straps of her overalls over her bare shoulders. She tips her head toward one of the huts as we pass. “Keeps the ground cool under ‘em. Ledge is trying ta get a gardenin’ project going, but we keep tellin’ ‘im nothing’ll grow out ‘ere. ‘e says all the stores in the city’ve been looted down ta the bone. Says we need ta be self-sufficient.” Still marching and occasionally stumbling over the uneven ground, she swings her head back around toward Kensington Palace and sighs. “Quite a place, innit?”

  “It’s big,” I confess.

  “And nice to see something around here that isn’t all corpses and rubble,” Cardyn quips.

  “Honestly, we owe it ta the Royal Fort Knights.”

  “But Ledge said—”

  “I know. I know. They got up ta some mischief ‘n mayhem early on. Maybe killed more blokes than was necessary. But they ran the Roguers out, sealed off the high-radiation parts of the city, somehow got rid of the Eastern Order—don’t ask me how—and they kept these two palaces safe and standin’. Took Buckingham for themselves. Left Kensington and the park ta us.”

  “And you live back there in the palace?” Brohn asks. “Or do you have one of these cabins out here in the park?”

  “No one actually lives in Kensington Palace,” All-to-Pot explains. “Not anymore. Ledge and them operate out of there, sure. It’s their home base. They hold their big, important meetings in there,” she says, adding an eyeroll to her finger quotes. “But we all decided early on if all of us couldn’t live there, none of us would. So we make do out here.”

  With dozens—and then, hundreds—of kids, pretty much all our age or younger, slowly emerging from the huts along the lane we’re in, I can see why everyone wouldn’t fit into a palace, even one as big as Kensington. The park’s popu
lation must be huge, and I’m trying to figure out how so many of them survived.

  Most of the shed-like dwellings have steel drums out front or stone pits where fires smolder. The purplish-gray smoke rising up makes me wonder exactly how much contamination has seeped into whatever it is they’re using for firewood.

  As we walk on, making our way east through the vast park on our way to Buckingham Palace, the number of curious eyes on us grows exponentially. There’s a weird kind of respect in the air, though. The kids here range in age from about ten or eleven to maybe late teens and early twenties, tops. But they all seem strangely mature, standing in doorways, sometimes with the younger kids nestled up against the sides of the older ones.

  They’re dirty and probably malnourished, but there’s a certain confidence about them—quiet but creepy—that seems out of place on the faces of kids our age.

  On the other hand, there’s also a warm politeness in their eyes and in the subdued nods and the few, feeble smiles they cast our way as we pass.

  I’m impressed. Since leaving the Valta, we haven’t seen too many places that operated with this kind of quiet civility. The closest we saw was with Mayla and the Unkindness in Chicago. They went out of their way and risked their lives every day to get food and medical supplies to those in need. But now, for all the help they tried to offer and for all the good they tried to do for their community, there aren’t more than a couple dozen of the Unkindness left.

  Krug’s Hypnagogics saw to that.

  I feel my jaw clench tight and my eyes get wet. It’s times like this when I wish we could dig Krug back up and kill him all over again.

  I’m snapped out of my moment of revenge-fueled fury when All-to-Pot, who seems to have the coordination of a three-legged, drunken monkey, trips again and would’ve gone down if Brohn hadn’t reached out to snag her by the arm.

  “Cheers! So listen…Kensington Palace was first built in 1605. Got bought by William the third in 1689 ‘n Queen Mary the Second on account o’ poor, delicate, asthmatic William couldn’t breathe at the Palace of Whitehall down by the water so they needed somethin’ a little more inland ta accommodate ‘is sensitive lungs. Dainty chap, ’im. Then Christopher Wren got called in ta make some renovations ta the palace. Courtyard, archway, clock tower, Dutch gardens, and the like.”

  “Christopher Wren?” Brohn asks.

  All-to-Pot slips her arm into his for balance. “Christopher Wren. The architect. Rebuilt over fifty churches ’ere—includin’ St. Paul’s—after the Great Fire of 1666.”

  “And how do you know all this?” Cardyn asks. “Were you there or something?”

  All-to-Pot laughs. “Do I look nearly four-hundred-years old to you?”

  Cardyn and I exchange a glance before he turns back to our clumsy tour guide. “Well…”

  “I’m twenty-six,” she beams. “One of the oldest ’ere. Me mum was a docent in Kensington Palace. Knew everythin’. Knew more about Kensington than the ones what built it. Queen Mary died of smallpox in Kensington. Queen Anne got pregnant seventeen times but never produced an heir ta the throne. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert first met in Kensington Palace. Great romance, theirs. King George the Second was the last monarch ta call the palace home. Learned all that from me mum. She knew it all. I used to sit on the sofa at ‘ome when I wasn’t nothin’ but a wee girl when she was prancin’ around the kitchen practicin’ her chatter waffle to tell the tourists.”

  “And what about Buckingham Palace?” I ask. “What can you tell us about that?”

  “Not nearly as much, I’m afraid. Mum never worked there. But I know it was first built in 1703. King George the Third moved in in 1761 or maybe it was ‘62. I forget. And I know Queen Victoria grew up back there in Kensington Palace but moved into Buckingham for good in 1837. Oh, and it’s got over seven ‘undred rooms, it got hit nine times by Nazi bombers in World War Two, and you’ll never, ever get in.”

  Cardyn tilts his head back and exhales an aggravated moan. “What—are we wearing a sign that says, ‘Doomed to Failure’?”

  “I don’t mean ta kick the legs out from your chair, Love,” All-to-Plot says softly. “You all seem like a good bunch. We don’t get a lot of good bunches around ’ere. It’d be a shame ta see you all…you know…”

  With her fat pink tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, she makes a long, drawn out slashing motion with her index finger across her neck.

  “We’re not going to get killed,” Brohn reassures her.

  We all support him with vigorous nods and murmurs of confidence, although I wish he’d reassure us with as much certainty as he does her.

  Just as we turn a corner, a boy comes at us out of nowhere, skittering up and startling all of us to a dead stop. He can’t be more than nine or ten years old, but he has the rough and weathered look of a true survivor.

  Fearless, he marches right past all of us to stand in front of Brohn.

  20

  History Lesson

  Shirtless and wearing weathered linen pants and a pair of brown leather boots at least three sizes too big, the boy asks if he can see Brohn’s arbalest for a second.

  Brohn’s just starting to unsling the bulky weapon when an older boy—maybe nineteen or twenty, pear-shaped, shirtless and disheveled, and with the hairiest chest I’ve ever seen on anything that wasn’t a gorilla—pops out from the hut next to us, dashes over, and hauls the boy clean off his feet.

  “Real nice of ya,” he says to Brohn. “But this ‘ere’s Mr. Sticky Fingers. You let ‘im ‘see that thing for a second,’ and you’ll never get it back.”

  So much for civility.

  Caught by the collar, the boy kicks, squeals, and squirms. Gorilla-chest drops him, and the younger boy goes scurrying off between two rows of sheds, giggling, with two of his fellow shirtless friends hot on his heels.

  All-to-Pot laughs and introduces the hairy young man. “This ‘ere’s Bob’s-yer-Uncle. Him an’ me are two o’ the Hyde Park Settlement Managers. There’s twenty-two of us in all.”

  After an exchange of deep, hand-on-the-heart bows, Bob’s-yer-Uncle slips into a pilly orange robe with the letters H.P.S.M. embroidered in white thread on the lapel and joins us on our walk through the park.

  As we make our way toward Buckingham Palace, All-to-Pot and Bob’s-yer-Uncle take turns telling us about what happened to London.

  “First Eastern Order attack was in 2022…,” All-to-Pot begins.

  Bob’s-yer-Uncle reties the rope belt holding his robe together. “Cyst plague hit in 2030.”

  “That’s right,” All-to-Pot agrees. “I remember because it was the day of my tenth birthday party when the news broke. Mums and dads was scrambling by ta pick up their kids before we even got ta the cake.”

  “But the full-on quarantine didn’t go up until 2031.”

  All-to-Pot shakes her head and calls out for us to follow her as she circumvents a crispy-fried tree stump in the road and cuts to the right down another hard-packed laneway. “Nasty year, that. First the burrowin’ worms. Then folks started passin’ around the sickness to each other like they was handin’ out complimentary breath mints. You all get it back home?”

  We shake our heads.

  “Never seen anything like it. First day, skin goes patchy. Next day, fever spikes. Then it drops, and just when ya think you’re safe and sound, your whole body goes red and lumpy. Looks like ya been boiled.”

  “So is that why there are those white ‘C’ marks all over the place out in the city?” Brohn asks.

  “You’ve seen, those, ‘ave you? Crazy contagious. Some said you could pass it on just by lookin’ at the bloke next ta ya.”

  Bob’s-yer-Uncle says, “Some say it was folks like…,” but then he trails off.

  “Folks like what?” Rain asks.

  He casts his eyes to the ground as we walk and doesn’t answer.

  “Folks like what?” Brohn repeats.

  We must walk for at least another hundred feet before All-to-Pot swallo
ws hard. “Folks like you.”

  I catch her eye before she turns away. “You mean Emergents, don’t you?”

  “It’s nothin’ personal,” she assures us.

  “And nothin’ against you,” Bob’s-yer-Uncle adds. “Ya weren’t even ‘ere, were ya?”

  All-to-Pot tell us, “That’s when they turned the ‘awkers loose. They ‘ad the job of trackin’ down Emergents. Sendin’ ‘em off ta Processors.”

  “So you know what happens in the Processors? You know about the recruitment of Emergents?”

  “Yeah. But it’s kind of a sore subject. Kind of a myth where ya don’t know if it’s all true, part true, or all made up. Not a lot of certainty around ‘ere during the wars and the plague years. No one knows if you…I mean, if they were the cause or the cure.”

  “We get that a lot,” Brohn says.

  “Anyway, throw in the Eastern Order blowin’ the country to Kingdom Come and all the adults getting killed or movin’ away, and you’re left with this.” All-to-Pot stretches both arms out wide as we walk, inviting us to take in the majesty of this self-contained, gated, and created community.

  Lagging behind Rain and Cardyn, who are listening in rapt attention to the continuing history lesson, I ask Brohn from behind my hand if we should tell our hosts the truth.

  “About the Order?” he whispers back.

  “Yeah.”

  Brohn glances up to nod along with something Bob’s-yer-Uncle is saying about some big weapons depot raid ten years ago. Out of the side of his mouth, Brohn suggests we keep the truth about the Order to ourselves. “For now, at least.”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  When I think about it, these Banters are in a precarious enough position as it is. They’re trying to keep themselves going in the middle of fluctuating cycles of heat, acidic rain, bacterial and parasitic infections, organ-eating viruses, and a variety of Scroungers and Roguers, all in the shadow of these Royal Fort Knights who seem to be lording it over them somehow.