by J. L. Harden
“You see these callouses here on her knuckles? You know what this means?”
The goons didn’t expect this. They are surprised. But they know what it means. Of course they do. They are brawlers themselves. I’ve seen them, or guys like them, fighting in the tunnels, in the abandoned warehouses and train yards. I’ve seen them fighting for food, for water. Fighting to make a living.
“These callouses here,” Mike continues. “Means our little Sheriff is a fighter. It means she can throw a punch. She can probably take one or two. But we’re not going to throw one or two, are we? No, it will be slightly more than that…”
“I thought the Mayor told you to take some stress leave?” I say.
“Sure he did. But I wasn’t going to miss this for the world. But before we get down to it, can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away, Mike.”
“Where the hell did you learn to fight? Who taught you?” He holds his broken hand in front of my face. “Where the fuck did you learn how to break a man’s hand?”
“My father taught me,” I whisper.
“What else did that fool teach you?”
“He taught me quite a lot…”
“Name one other thing that high and mighty motherfucker taught you?”
“He taught me how to hunt…”
Mike Malone laughs and the goons join in. “Nothing to hunt in the Wasteland, darlin. There’s nothing left. Tell us, what did he teach you to hunt?”
“Rats…” I say, trailing off. “He taught me to hunt rats…”
He stops laughing. He gets it. And I stop short of saying, “My father taught me to hunt rats just like you…”
I stop short of saying that I’m going to hunt him down and kill him and skin him, pull his guts out with my bare hands. I stop short because I’m in no position to be making threats.
And I should really stop talking. I should save my energy.
Mike stops laughing and the goons stop laughing and they get down to it.
They take turns throwing their fists and their weight at my face.
Right hook.
Left hook.
Uppercut.
Overhead smash.
Hammer fist.
They don’t throw any elbows. I don’t know why.
Mike shouts encouragement at them. Tells them to hit harder. “Hit her like you mean it, you fucking pansies!”
I try and cover my head, but every time I do, they shock me with this stick that delivers a lightning bolt into my body. My limbs spasm and convulse out of control and the pain sends me momentarily blind.
So I don’t cover my head. I let my hands fall to my side.
And the goons get back to work on my face. I think my jaw is broken. I think one of my eye sockets is broken. I move my jaw. Nah, not broken. Not fully. I spit out a mouthful of blood. I somehow still have all my teeth.
One of the goons, he lines up a right hook, gets his weight behind it, puts his hip and his back and his shoulders into it.
I feel the impact. I see stars. A bright flash.
And then I’m out.
Chapter 7
For a second, for a minute, for an hour or two, for an entire day, I have no fucking idea where I am.
And then I remember.
I’m sitting in the Waiting Room.
A holding cell.
A dungeon.
A torture chamber.
When my ears stop ringing, when the sound of blood pumping through my head subsides, I wish it hadn’t. Because now I can hear the noises from the Eternal Dark.
And I realize I’m not ready for this.
Not ready for the physical torture. Not ready for the mental torture.
I’m not ready for any of it.
Maybe I should’ve played the game.
The game.
Their game.
I don’t know what the Collector is doing to those girls. But I can take a guess. I can take a real good guess. It’s enough to make them run. From Wonderland. From their one chance of salvation. It’s enough to make them run as fast as they can, enough to make them risk their lives in the Buried City.
Hector was right.
Ed is right.
Something is rotten in Wonderland.
But I’ll never find out what. I’ll never find out because they’ll cover this up, they’ll disappear the girls.
Drug them and poison them.
Kill them.
Bury them in the Wasteland.
Take your pick.
And I will soon join them. I’ll share their fate.
How’d I get myself into this mess?
I think about the note from Ed. I think about how he managed to slip it into my office, onto my desk. Managed to do this unseen. Without leaving a trace. When I first read the letter, I didn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.
But now I wish I’d had more time to study it.
The words were treasonous… the words… just the words… were enough to get us both killed.
Rebellion.
Revolution.
War.
A war between the people of the Wasteland and the good and fortunate people of Wonderland.
The note said there were more girls in hiding. Hiding somewhere in the Buried City.
Did any of them get away clean?
One girl is already dead. Poisoned and dead. Not even Hector could save her. Another has been captured. She couldn’t run, she couldn’t stay hidden, and I couldn’t help her. It’s my job to help people… and I couldn’t even do that.
“It’s because you can’t run from Wonderland,” I say to myself, to no one.
You can’t run from the Collector and his Overseer and his Enforcers. Can’t run from the Lord.
You can’t run. And you can’t hide. Not here. Not in the Buried City. Not when the Mayor is as corrupt and crooked as he is.
I’m thinking about this and I’m thinking about how the odds and the deck is stacked against us.
Against me.
I’m thinking long and hard.
And then a man in a lab coat is standing on the other side of the bars to my cell. He points a gun at me. And he shoots me.
It’s a dart gun. And I barely register the pain of the pin prick.
And whatever was in the dart is wonderful.
It’s more than wonderful.
It’s amazing.
It’s miraculous.
And there’s no pain.
And there’s no stress.
And there’s no thinking about the girls on the run and what they’re running from.
There’s nothing.
Nothing but instant euphoria.
Damn them. They’re going to mess me up. They’re going to break my face and my spirit. And then they’ll heal me. Fix me. Patch me up. They’ll rinse and repeat.
They’ll turn me into a monster. A drug addicted, mentally unstable monster.
Time slows down. Maybe I pass out. Maybe I don’t.
Time stops altogether.
And then it speeds back up.
I see a light. Not sure where from. It’s a strange blue light. It’s coming from the Eternal Dark.
And because I’m broken and concussed, and because I’ve been pumped full of god knows what, I am drawn to the light. And because I’m on another planet, I don’t have the good sense to stay away from the dark, to stay put. So I walk towards the back of the cell. I walk through the crack in the wall.
There’s a strange glowing light, and I can’t be certain, but I think this cave…or tunnel… or whatever it is… I think it’s full of fireflies. No. Not fireflies. They’re glow worms. Have these strange creatures been mutated by the radiation of the Last Great Wars? By the Night of a Thousand Suns? I don’t know. But I can’t stop myself from walking towards the light.
And through the light.
It’s enough to see by. Enough to see a cage of reinforced steel bars that cuts off the tunnel. Enough to see the claw marks and bite marks that are scra
tched and etched into the steel. The bars are much like the bars of my cell. They block off the tunnel, making it impossible to escape through here.
I move closer. And now I can see that the bars are stained with blood. And clumps of hair are glued and stuck to the bars. Human or otherwise, it’s impossible to tell.
And then I see a hand.
A hand.
I see claws and talons. I see them moving, gripping around the bar. The hand is all I see. I don’t see who or what it is attached to. It’s too dark.
I stumble back. I trip and fall, cutting my elbows and my back on the rocks and the concrete and the bricks. I run back to the safety and refuge and sanctuary of my holding cell.
And I realize nothing is getting in here and nothing is getting out. Me included.
I hear more noises. A roar. A scream.
I try and block out these sounds. But I can’t.
I sit against the wall and pull my knees up to my chest. I put my hands over my ears and I stay like this for some time.
A long time.
And then there’s a rap of knuckles on the bars of my cell. I struggle to open my eyes even though the swelling has gone down quite a bit. Whatever they shot me with has worked miracles.
“Ed?”
“I don’t have long…”
“What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
“I had to make some trouble at the Casino. I created a diversion. Predictably, they sent everyone. There’s a skeleton crew left here. Gave the guards the slip. It was easy. It was nothing.”
He says it was easy. He says it was nothing. Creating a diversion at the headquarters, the epicenter of the Underworld. Pissing off the Bosses. Evading the new Sheriff and his deputies and the Mercs and whatever Enforcers remain in the Buried City.
Yeah, easy.
“I’m sorry you’re in this mess,” he says.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s my own damn fault.”
“I’ve tracked Hector. He’s somewhere in Wonderland. He’s still alive.”
“How do you know that?”
“We had implants,” he answers. “They’re a kind of tracking device. For when we were travelling through the Wasteland. Just in case we got lost. Sandstorms out there as wide as the horizon. Bury a city. Bury a man, no problem. Anyway, he’s still alive. His vitals are good and healthy. Not sure for how long though. Not sure how long until they find the implant. But there’s still hope…”
“Hope? I’m not sure that there is. The Mayor is working with Wonderland. All the deputies are as well. The new Sheriff? You better believe he’s on the take. Anyone who’s anyone is on the take. No one, and I mean no one, is going to stand up to Wonderland, to whatever it is they’re doing to those girls, and whatever it is they’re doing behind those walls. No one is going to join this, us, our side, this crusade, or whatever this is. I’m sorry, but you’re on your own. And I’m no help to anyone. I can’t even help myself. So yeah, you’re on your own for this…”
This…
I want to say rebellion… revolution… war…
Because that’s what it feels like. It feels like we’re rebelling against Wonderland.
It feels like we’re going to war.
Which to be honest, is super fucking weird.
It’s weird because we are the last ones left. We should be on the same goddamn side. And yet it feels like we’re going to war. It feels like we’re starting a revolution.
But we’re not. Because we’ll be dead before we get a chance to build an army, before we get a chance to take up arms
“It’s okay,” he says. He reassures me and his voice has a calming effect on me. “We just need to stay alive for the moment. And that means getting you out.”
“How the hell do you propose we do that? You don’t happen to have the key to my cell on you?”
“No. But I’m working on it.” He motions with his head towards the Eternal Dark, to the crack in the wall. “There’s your escape route.”
I laugh at Ed. Probably laugh a little bit too loudly.
“I’m not going through there. I’d rather take my chances here. I can take a few more punches.”
“It’s the only way.”
“I’m not sure that it is. There’s a heavy duty cage blocking off the tunnel. It’s reinforced steel. There’s no cutting your way through. Not unless you’ve got some sort of heavy duty industrial plasma cutter. And besides…” I say, showing him the inside of my wrist. “I’m pretty sure they’ve got a tracking device in me. Standard procedure for prisoners. So they’ll know if I run. They’ll be able to find me. To make matters worse, I’m without a torch. I’ve got no shoes. I can barely see straight. I’ll be lucky to make it three feet before they catch me and drag me back in here.”
“Leave it to me,” he says confidently, completely undeterred.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’ll destroy the tracker, I’ll get you some boots and I’ll get you a flashlight. Maybe even a flashlight that is attached to a gun. I’ll find you a way out, even if we have to walk out the front door.”
“When the hell are you going to perform this miracle?”
“You’ll know when.”
This promise, his words, they give me hope and strength. And I realize that hope is a dangerous thing. Because if this hope is taken away from me it could destroy me quicker than any bullet, quicker than any form of torture.
Edgar Ramirez disappears.
I try my best to forget about him and his promise. I try not to think about it. Try not to get my hopes up.
But it is impossible not to.
Chapter 8
I’m pretty sure I’m asleep. Not dreaming. Too exhausted.
The door to my cell swings open.
Before I can open my eyes, someone slams a black hood over my head. I’m dragged to my feet and led out of the dungeon.
I’m marched up some stairs.
I still have no idea where I am.
They take the hood off my head and I appear to be in a kind of conference room.
The room is full of people.
The Mayor.
The new Sheriff.
Some of my other former deputies.
People on the council.
People from the Guilds and the Unions.
Everyone wears a very serious expression on their face. Every single person. Like they all got together and practiced in front of a mirror.
The look is part anger, part hate, part disgust.
The Bosses are there as well, pretending to be business men, pretending to be caring members and stakeholders of this Buried City, of this buried community.
But they don’t care about the community, or about the people. They only care about themselves.
I suddenly realize where I am and what’s about to go down.
I suddenly realize that this is a circus. It’s a show.
And it makes me sick.
This charade is for the people of the Buried City, maybe even for the people in the Canyons. It sure as hell isn’t for the people in this room. Every fucker in here is in on the joke.
They are all actors. And they are all very convincing.
And it is making me very, very angry.
There are cameras and microphones pointed at my head. Everything is being recorded. Everything will be recorded so it can be cut up and edited. I will be portrayed as a monster and a villain.
The Mayor will be a champion of freedom and justice. He will be a hero. Eternally vigilant and ever watchful, a protector of the people.
Here we go…
The Mayor looks at me and says, “Anything you’d like to say?”
“Really? Are you going to use any of it?”
He doesn’t answer me. He won’t drop the act. Not for a second. I guess I can respect that.
So I say, “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Very well.”
He takes a deep breath, prepares himself, prepares
his voice, his words. These are his weapons. And with them, he is very dangerous. He is devastating. With these weapons, he can, and has annihilated enemies and challengers and trouble makers.
My father.
Me.
Hector ‘the Exiled’ Ramirez.
Countless and nameless others.
“This situation is unprecedented,” the Mayor says. “And as a result we must take unprecedented action. But first and foremost, before we administer punishment, before we extract our fair recompense, we must concern ourselves with justice. We must be one hundred percent assured that we are doing the right thing. Because if we punish the former Sheriff without evidence, without giving her a proper and fair chance to defend herself and her actions, we are no better than the savages of the Wasteland. No better than the beasts of the ruined cities.”
He pauses, lowering his head as if in deep thought, as if he actually truly believes the ideals he speaks of.
“And we must be better. We must. We are the last ones left on this planet, our home, our birthplace. We have a duty and a responsibility to leave Earth with our heads held high, to keep the things that make us human, to keep the savage beast at bay, to do right by our ancestors. We have a responsibility to hold ourselves to the highest form of accountability, so that when we are chosen to live amongst the stars, chosen to take up our rightful place on the great continental Arks, we will be welcomed and respected. So that we will make the people of the Arks better by our presence, by our experiences both shared and earned. So that they will come to respect us and to trust our wisdom. So that the people of the Arks will look to us for leadership and guidance. And well they should. Because we have survived the Wasteland. We have survived the wrath of the Red Giant. We are the last Caretakers of Earth.”
I feel pride ooze from the pores of everyone on the council, from the Bosses, from Mike Malone. They are proud of who they are, of what they’ve become. And I think they expect to be welcomed on to the Arks with open arms. I think they expect to be treated as heroes and wizened travelers of worlds, as gurus and experts, instead of desperate refugees. Instead of an unwanted and unwashed burden.
I wish I could be this deluded.
“No one born on the Arks can make this claim,” the Mayor continues. “But we can. And because of this, we are special. We are unique. We are stronger and better. We are determined and resilient.”