by Lyndsay Ely
This wasn’t a room… it was a vehicle.
And it was moving.
“Finn!” Her eyes flew open. “Where’s Finn?”
The woman stepped away, crossing her arms as she leaned against a counter littered with bandages and a portable medical scanner. A row of metal cabinets with coded locks ran above her head. “Was Finn one of those bodies back there? Because they’re right where we left them.”
“Geez, Olivia!” Max perched on the edge of the bed beside her. What she had taken for filth on his clothing were actually streaks and splatters of paint, in all colors. “We saw the smoke. What happened?”
“Finn and I… we…” Pity grasped for the words. “Scroungers attacked our camp. They… they killed…” The room wavered as her lungs emptied. She fell back onto the bed. No. The word beat in her head, worse than the pain. No, no, no. “They killed her and… and you just left her there?”
Max’s brow furled. “There was nothing we could—”
“Did you bury her? Did you do anything?”
“She was dead,” said Olivia.
“You just left her there!” Pity shot up again, oblivious to her injuries, only to have Max push her back down.
“We had to,” he pressed. “It was dangerous to linger, and you were hurt.”
She shoved him away, searching for something to say but finding nothing.
Too late. A scream built in her chest, unable to go anywhere. She was right there, and you just watched them—
The thought refused to finish.
“It’s not all bad,” Olivia said. “These survived.” Pity looked over to see her dangling the gun belt in one hand and brandishing a revolver in the other. “They’re awfully nice.”
Pity’s cheeks burned with anger. “Those are mine! Give them to me!”
“Not a chance.” Olivia stashed the weapons in a cabinet above her head. When she closed it, the touch pad flashed red. Locked.
“They belong to me.”
“And I say they’re good payment for saving your life.”
She glared at Olivia, who glared right back and let a hand fall to her side. Strapped to her hip was a leather whip, coiled in a tight circle. Pity recalled the pain from before and looked at her wrist. Ringing it was a wide bruise.
Max sighed. “Olivia, please…”
“We don’t know her from Adam, Max. And she tried to kill you.”
“I didn’t—” Pity began, but the vehicle’s vibrations suddenly tapered off and ceased.
A moment later a door opened at the front of the compartment. A massive, densely muscled man ducked through it, carrying a rifle.
“My turn to drive?” said Olivia.
He shook his bald, round head. Other than a thin strip of dark hair on his chin, he was clean-shaven. “Time to swap out the fuel cell. How’s our guest?”
Olivia swatted a hand. “She’s fine.”
“Is that true, miss?” His voice was deep but smooth.
Pity grimaced. “No.”
“Of course not.” When he approached the bed and reached out a huge, flat hand, she eyed it warily but shook it. “Santino Quintano,” he said. “Santino, por favor. And you are?”
“We hadn’t gotten there yet,” said Max.
“Serendipity.” Her voice was as hollow as an old bone. “Jones. Everyone calls me Pity.”
“Pity,” Santino continued, “you were very lucky today. We can drop you at the next outpost or commune we pass. They will have real medical facilities and—”
“No!” she cried. “I mean, I can’t…” She hesitated, thoughts tangling. Finn… her guns… The pounding in her head intensified. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. When she looked up again, everyone was staring at her.
“Hmm.” Santino tipped his head. “Judging by your clothes, I’d guess you’re off a commune?”
She nodded.
“And where were you headed?”
“East.”
“Just east?”
“Yeah.” She cooled her tone. “Just east.”
Olivia snickered. “Runaways. Cute. Did you think you were going to stroll into Columbia and find the streets paved with gold and all the prosperity you could carry? You would have been lucky to find a bed to rent in the lower slums. What were you thinking?”
“We were thinking”—her voice cracked—“that we had to get away from where we were.” No, she thought. I needed to get away. Pity swallowed at the lump that had formed in her throat. “It doesn’t matter. But I… can’t go back there.”
“Comprendo, chiquita,” said Santino. “But you can’t come with us.”
“Why not?” balked Max, getting to his feet.
“Max—”
“She’s hurt and alone, with nothing. Her friend is dead and she says she can’t go home. So why can’t she come with us?”
“I do have something,” Pity interjected. “I’ve got my guns.”
Olivia snickered. “Hon, you ain’t even got that.”
“If she’s a good shot,” Max pressed, “Beau might take her on. He’s always complaining about the lack of—”
“Max,” Santino warned. “We have a job to finish.”
“The job’s done,” he countered.
“The package still needs to be delivered.”
“And it will be, whether she’s with us or not,” said Max.
“What makes you think a girl like her is going to want to go where we’re going?” Olivia said.
“Why?” Pity spat, irritated at being pecked over like a bit of corn by crows. “Where are you going?”
“End of the world.” One side of Max’s mouth turned up proudly. “We’re headed for Cessation.”
CHAPTER 5
Hell, as Pity had heard the city described, sounded exactly like what she knew of Cessation: hedonistic, ungodly, full of sinners. Outside the CONA embrace, where there was no government, no morals, and no law. As different from the communes as it could be—a city dedicated unto itself.
“Sounds great,” she said.
Max brightened. “Really?”
“No. But I don’t have much choice, do I?” She stared at the locked cabinet. And I’m not going anywhere without my guns.
Santino looked at Olivia, who shrugged. “I say we dump her at the nearest CONA outpost. And that’s only so we didn’t waste our time saving her sorry ass.”
Pity waited as Santino deliberated her fate. It was his decision to make—that much was obvious. Her heart pounded harder with every passing moment, each beat like a shard of glass piercing the back of the eye, but she forced herself to hold his golden-brown gaze. What if he decided to leave her? Were they anywhere near the 87th? By now her father might know they—
A different sort of pain stabbed her.
—she was gone. Pity didn’t know how much dust he’d kick up over her, but she had a good idea what would happen if she ended up back within his reach.
At last, Santino took a deep breath. “Stopping might mean curious officials, and we don’t need that. So we take her with us. But Olivia holds on to her weapons, and, Max, she’s your responsibility. Now and when we get home. Me entiendes?”
Max nodded.
“Great—Maxxy gets a pet and we get another damn passenger.” Olivia stomped over to a storage crate and typed a code into the lock. It clicked open. She drew out a squat metal cylinder. “C’mon, I’ll help you swap the cell.”
Santino checked his rifle. “Let’s be quick. Way things have gone today I don’t want to be idle any longer than we need to. Keep an eye on her, Max.”
“Both eyes,” said Olivia as they exited the front of the vehicle.
“Thank you,” Pity said when they were gone. “For not letting them leave me.”
“No problem.” The rings at the edge of his mouth twitched up. “I know something about needing to get somewhere other than where you’re supposed to be. How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts.” Everything hurt: her bones, her skin, her
soul. Finn’s dead. The thought gored her over and over—Finn’s dead, Finn’s dead.
And it’s all my fault.
“Here, hold still.” Max pressed another med injector into Pity’s arm. The pain washed away like dust in a summer rain. “Better?”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Without the pain to keep them at bay, Finn’s final moments flickered in memory. Why hadn’t she done something? Why had she just watched?
“It’s okay. You don’t need to hold it in.”
“I’m… not…” She curled forward, chest tightening. The room wavered through the gathering tears.
Finn.
“I can’t leave you alone, but I don’t really need both eyes on you, either.” Max put on a pair of headphones and then grabbed a sheaf of papers and some pencils. He sat down at the seating area, turning slightly away. “If you need anything, I’m right here.”
He began to scribble. True to his word, he didn’t so much as glance back, not for the several minutes Pity watched.
Finally, she rolled toward the wall and let the tears flow.
Pity slept. When she woke, Max made her tea. She cried and slept some more, grief and exhaustion coming in shifts. She remained bedridden until the following morning, when, with careful steps, she hobbled over to where Max was washing dishes. They were nearly the same height, and their eyes met when he looked up from the indentation that passed as a sink. For a moment, Pity faltered. His appearance was still an oddity to her, but Max had a disarming air to him, a trait that served to both calm and unnerve her in equal measure. Despite the kindness he’d shown, he was, Pity reminded herself, a stranger.
“Can I help?” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t lie there any longer.”
“You can dry.” He handed her a towel. “Any better this morning?”
She grimaced. “My body feels like one big bruise.”
“What about the rest of you?”
The question hung in the air.
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay. But can we talk about something else?”
“Like what?”
She wiped the water from a plate. “Like who y’all are. You’re not scroungers, and you don’t strike me as drifters.”
“No, we usually stay put in Cessation.”
“Were you born there?”
“No.” Max laughed and scratched the back of his head. His hair was so dark that Pity half expected his hand to come away stained inky black. “But who is? Cessation is someplace you end up, not where you start.”
A weak smile crept onto her lips. “And this vehicle—it’s a mobile command, isn’t it? From the war?”
“You’ve seen one before?”
“Not in person, but I’ve heard about them.” Metal fortresses on treads, mobile commands were predecessors to the near-impenetrable Trans-Rail train cars. It would take a missile strike to even scratch one. Pity thought of the Ranger and felt like a fool. How could she and Finn have thought they were safe? “Where did you get it?”
“We’re only borrowing it.” He handed her a bowl. “My turn for a question. Why did you run away? You did run away, right?”
“Yes.” She lowered her gaze. “My father was trying to send me to another commune.”
“Why?”
Pity shrugged, wincing at the pain that accompanied the gesture. “Spite, mostly. He hated my mother, never mind she’s been dead for years. Not that there was much in the commune for me anyway… except… except for Finn.” Her breath snagged in her lungs and trembled there, trapped. She gripped the edge of the counter.
“Hey.” Max dropped the cup he was washing. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.” She gasped, unable to get enough air. “It’s… it’s just she…”
“Sit down,” he ordered. “You shouldn’t be on your feet yet.”
Pity backed up against the cot and collapsed, hardly feeling the pain that rippled through her. Tears filled her eyes once more. “She shouldn’t have been with me.” The leaden words tumbled from her tongue, unbidden. “She should be on the commune right now, elbow-deep in an engine. That life was killing me, but she was the one who ended up dead. It’s all my fault.”
“Don’t say that.” The sharpness in Max’s tone pierced her daze. “You weren’t the one who pulled the trigger.”
“But I didn’t do anything to stop it, either. And now…” Pity shuddered as reality bit deep, a warped inversion of her brief, hopeful dream. First east, now west—from the stalwart CONA cities to the biggest den of sinners on the continent. Her brief, hopeful dream was as dead as Finn. Even her guns weren’t in her possession anymore. “Oh, Lord, what am I going to do?”
Max went down on one knee beside her. “You’re going to come with us,” he said calmly, “and figure things out from there. Cessation is… It’s not like what you’ve heard. I mean, it is, but it’s more. There are all sorts there—dissidents and drifters, Ex-Pats, CONA citizens, and free folks. Don’t worry. There’s always work for a girl who—”
Her head snapped up.
“That’s not what I meant!” He searched for a moment. “Look, if you change your mind when we get there, I’ll put you on the train myself. I promise.”
His gray eyes were earnest, without a hint of malice, but Pity recoiled. Everything suddenly seemed like a terrible idea. Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back. Maybe her father wouldn’t kill her.
“Why are you being so nice? I don’t know you… any of you.”
“You don’t,” Max said quietly. “But we helped you when we could have left you behind.”
The door to the cab opened, and Olivia stepped through. She stopped short. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No.” Max got to his feet. “We were discussing what Pity might do once we get to Cessation.”
“Oh, yeah?” Olivia went to a storage bin and fished out an apple. “Did you get around yet to telling her what you do?”
“No,” Pity said, tensing with suspicion. “He didn’t.”
But Max swelled with pride. “I’m with the Theatre.”
She waited. “The Theatre?”
“Don’t they know about us in the communes?” Some of the pride evaporated. “The grandest show since before the Pacific Event? Cessation’s crown jewel of entertainment?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Damn, I really thought you would have heard about us…”
“Heard about who?”
Max threw out his arms with a flourish. “Halcyon Singh’s Theatre Vespertine.”
The name meant nothing. “So… you’re an actor?”
Olivia snickered and took a wet bite of apple.
“Uh, no,” Max replied. “I mean, it’s not that kind of theatre. I do costumes and painting—backdrops, sets, skin.”
“Skin?”
“Some of the costumes are… unconventional.”
“What about you?” Pity said to Olivia. “Are you with the Theatre, too?”
“Me?” The woman chewed and swallowed. “Nope. I’m just a bartender.”
Without another word, Olivia returned to the front cab, closing the door after her. The click of its lock was a grim reminder that, for all intents and purposes, Pity was in a cage. Where she was going—and what she was going to do when she got there—wasn’t entirely in her control. Which meant that she needed to bide her time. Falling to pieces wouldn’t bring Finn back or get her anywhere at all.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Max, “for getting worked up. Y’all have been nothing but kind to me… more or less.”
Max smiled. “Olivia is slow to warm to strangers. Give her some time.”
“Sure,” Pity said aloud, staring at the locked cabinets.
I don’t want her warmth, she thought. I want my guns.
They hit the desert a day later. Though she remained confined to the back of the vehicle, Pity didn’t need to see it. She was familiar with the parched, empty steppe sho
wn in CONA broadcasts, the edge of the lifeless scar left by the Pacific Event more than fifty years before. To this day no one knew exactly what had happened—the nature of the weapon or who had unleashed it or even whether it had been an intentional act. Only that it had left huge portions of the world uninhabitable and erased civilizations that had endured for millennia.
The bleak history that led up to it was well documented, though: escalating global conflicts, overpopulation-driven biological terrorism that left so many infertile. The aftermath of the Pacific Event was little better, the desperate exodus eastward too much for an already strained nation to bear. In comparison, the conflict waged between the Confederation of North America and the United Patriot Front hardly seemed worth spilling a tear over. Bloody as it had been, it was an ugly sort of proof that life could, and would, go on.
Is it the same for you? she asked herself. How much can you lose and still go on?
Without windows in the vehicle, Pity measured time in meals. It was morning when Max made breakfast, night when he said it was time for dinner. She helped him cook, though there wasn’t much to it: open a pack, heat something up, add water to something else. Still, the work helped to quiet the grim ruminations that stumbled through her head like drunks: where she was going, what she was going to do, and what an artist, a bartender, and a soldier were doing in the middle of nowhere with a mobile command.
And Finn, left behind to rot.
In late afternoon on the third day, the door to the cab opened.
“We’re almost at Last Stop,” Santino called, still strapped into the driver’s seat.
Max, fussing over the status display on one of the larger storage containers, looked up. “Can I bring Pity up front?”
“Why not? Olivia, you drive. Pity, take her seat.”