Love, Death, Robots and Zombies
Page 3
Don’t think of it.
There’s a war in my head as the past tries to break through all I’ve layered on top of it. Everything I’ve done for three years has only been to stabilize what was destabilized that night. And now this too is being taken away. I can’t let it happen. I can’t.
I’m apparently rocking and muttering to myself, on the verge of some kind of emotional breakdown, when I glance up and see Cabal staring at me from the open doorway. Pale moonlight surrounds him like a halo. He makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh, then just shakes his head: pathetic. Fin is the next to take watch.
The night passes in a dark malaise. I’m ashamed and angry at myself for becoming what I am–this helpless thing cuffed to the wall. This victim. My own harsh judgments defeat me further. It’s possible I fall asleep. The next thing I’m aware of is the bluish predawn light and the girl sitting up in bed, staring at me. In that hazy state between sleep and dream, before the mind shutters itself in defense, I see her–really see her–for the first time.
She’s pulled out a thin steel-link necklace previously hidden beneath her ragged white shirt, and she handles it absently while her wide blue eyes imprison me. The dead certainty of it hits me like cold water: I know her.
Her hair is shorter, messier. Her clothes are different. She has new scars and she’s older, taller, curvier. I didn’t see it in the fear and firelight last night. But those are her eyes, her lips, her mole on her right cheek. How could I have missed it? She’s been dead for three years, yet here she sits, looking at me.
Annabel Lee.
Chapter 3.
Farmington had been lucky enough to escape major damage from the Big One, along with the aftershocks and the ensuing chaos of the Fall. The population itself was not so lucky, having been mostly wiped out by the Synth-Z plague.
My grandmother’s grandfather had been a child at that time, and his family had run a small market in the village. As the climate changed, the crops failed and most farmers could barely feed their own. When my grandfather wandered in from his travels with all kinds of oddities and electronics, he converted my family’s ailing market into a ‘tronics-heavy general store. That was the store I grew up in.
I never knew my father. He’d been born in Farmington and spent a reluctant life there. When my mother was four months pregnant, he found a rare treasure of Old America. He knew he’d get the best price for it in Cove, though my mother had always said that was just an excuse to make the journey. He’d had a piece of his own father in him, the wandering piece, and it’s god-awful hard to stay trapped in one small village your whole life when you have the soul of a wanderer.
The problem was he never wandered back. Illness? Bandits? Wild animals? No idea. My mother was adamant that he didn’t intentionally abandon us. They really did love each other, I guess. Or she loved him, at least.
My mother herself caught the Wheezing Sickness and passed away when I was seven. Even before that, I was mostly raised by my grandfather, Bacchus. Often I’d fall asleep on the bench in the back our family’s store after experimenting with some new piece of equipment. My grandfather knew a dozen ways to make batteries. He also made generators, various electrical components and some pretty efficient solar cells.
There were only a handful of other kids in Farmginton. My three best friends were Berkley, Crispin, and Annabel. Berkley was the most daring of us and the best at fighting. Crispin was smart but often sickly and overly cautious. And Annabel was–well, the girl. The only girl we played with. Named after some old poem, she was gentle, often quiet, and didn’t like to play the rougher games, but she was a fast runner and an essential part of our group, and sometimes she could be as daring as Berkley.
Although I never thought much about it, she did seek me out more than the others. Even back then, I was kind of a loner. I loved my friends, but my favorite activity was ranging. I’d often spend the whole day combing through abandoned houses in the desert, searching for oddities to bring back to my grandfather. On many of those trips, I returned at dusk to find Annabel waiting on the edge of town.
Her parents had forbidden her to leave Farmington, but she liked to see what I’d found out there, so often I’d pick up a little something for her. Once, I found a peculiar necklace, chain-linked steel rings with a black jewel in the shape of a heart, set in a silver circle. It wasn’t anything valuable, but I knew it was the kind of thing girls like, and what else was I going to do with it? I gave it to her. Her face lit up like it was gold. That was one of the last trips I made before the raiders came.
The funny part is–can you call it funny?–Rodrick’s Raiders were the lesser evil. They knew villages like ours weren’t worth the trouble. Sometimes they even traded with us. Mostly they waylaid rich caravans leaving nearby city-states–Cove, for instance.
Apparently Rodrick’s group had made themselves too much of a nuisance, however, or perhaps some Coven politician had been out to prove a point. All I know is one day their whole band showed up in our town, retreating east in a hurry. Some were injured and all were hungry and armed. What else could we do?
We fed them and boarded them and treated the injured, not because we wanted to, but because to refuse point-blank could’ve been group-suicide. The goal was to give them what supplies we could afford in the hope that they’d move on quickly and avoid burning the farms on the way out.
But the army from Cove didn’t see it that way. Rodrick’s Raiders had moved on by then, but a few of the injured had stayed behind and tried to hide. They failed in that regard. Worse yet, the raiders had been eating all the food ahead of the army and laying traps along the road. So into our village came a maimed, half-starved, angry group of armed men. Do I have to spell out the rest? We were aiding the enemy–what did they care for our reasons? There was too much fuel for a fire, both literally and figuratively.
I escaped the desolation. My grandfather and most of the others did not. Those that lived probably fled to Cove or starved in the wastes. After I couldn’t find anyone to shelter with, I didn’t stick around to find out. The one thing I can say is that I did find Lectric in the ruins of my grandfather’s store. He’d been looking for me there, curiously unharmed. Together we headed northeast, and here in the ruins I found the rats under the Library. With meat and water and the tricks I’d learned from my grandfather, I didn’t starve to death–but it was a close thing for a while, I’ll say that much.
Of course, I thought all my friends were dead. I mean, Cove’s bastard of a commander had herded everyone together for questioning and speech-making before the violence began. I’m pretty sure I saw Crispin trampled by a horse soon thereafter. Things were moving very fast, but I have an undeniable image of that event in my head. Berkley and Annabel–well, Berkley was certainly too brave to live, and when I couldn’t find Annabel in the remains of the village, I knew she was dead too.
Yet I was wrong.
Because the girl sitting up in my bed is wearing Annabel’s face–plus a scar and sad eyes and three years of hard living–and turning in her hand is the very necklace I gave her, with the black heart in the silver circle.
Echo is Annabel. I make some kind of coughing sound which is actually an attempt to say her name, but she only sinks back into the bed, hiding her face from view. My first instinct is to start yelling for her or maybe at her, but this sleepy pre-dawn revelation is so bewildering that I can only stare, and then I wonder why she didn’t already talk to me.
Maybe she doesn’t recognize me. Recently I’ve had to start shaving. I’m probably taller than I was too. But still, she must know. Then doubt sets in: is it really Annabel? Maybe I’m seeing things. Her face is hidden now. But that was the necklace, wasn’t it? It has to be her.
Ballard returns from watch-duty and wakes Finnigan to hunt.
“Hey Tristan, what the hell do you eat around here? Circuit boards?” Ballard asks.
“Rats,” I say.
“Nice. Care to show Fin where to find some?”
I try not to stare at Echo/Annabel while we eat. She avoids looking at me too. Now and then she glances my way, however, and in that glance is recognition. I reaffirm her identity in my own mind a dozen times. Still, she says nothing.
Cabal doesn’t say much either, but now and then he eyes Echo/Annabel. He has some loyalty toward Ballard, but I sense a petty cruelty waiting just beneath the veneer of civility.
Slowly, very slowly, the day passes.
Foundry’s army is still a few days south. While the scouts kill time, I look for some means of escape. I have no desire to be in anyone’s army. The funny part is: I hate Cove, and if given a choice I might actually consider joining a cause against them … but I doubt Foundry is any better, and the attempt at coercion itself only ensures my antipathy. Really, I just want to be left alone–but what can I do? Then Ballard says something during dinner.
“... and after Rodrick’s Raiders broke up, we headed south.”
I haven’t been paying attention, but this part stabs my brain. A small fire is going again and we’re finishing the fox. I swallow hard and choke out a question.
“Rodrick’s Raiders?”
“Hmm? Yeah. We used to scout for them–me and Cabal. That’s where we met Fin too. Cove caught up with Rodrick and hanged him, I hear. But it was easy living for a span. Something wrong, Tristan?”
I can’t soften my expression. A terrible mask has frozen in place.
“No,” I say, and chew the end of a bone for distraction. It takes everything not to look at Annabel. One look and it will all spill out. She’s been running around with scouts from the same group that started the trouble in Farmington? I grind the bone to bits between my teeth. The splinters stab into my gums. The blood tastes like warm copper. I’ll think of her as Echo, not Annabel. Annabel is dead.
“You sure?” Ballard asks.
“Hurt my tooth,” I mutter.
“Mmm, yeah, this fox was more dead than alive. Hard to believe you survived in this shithole. You’ll do fine in the army, man.”
You think so, do you? I’m going to mount your head outside the Library. But no, I’m a coward, and I don’t know how to overcome three armed enemies. Or four. Whose side would Echo take?
That night, I’m cuffed to the railing again. I don’t see this part as being particularly discourteous. It’s more of a wasteland law: don’t trust anyone who hasn’t already died for you. But Rodrick’s Raiders–I do take offense to that, even if it was the men from Cove who burned my village.
What little sleep I manage is filled with confused nightmares. I’m back in Farmington, but when I try to run I’m cuffed to the bench inside my family’s store. Echo is there, but she’s also someone else. Her shirt is torn to reveal one breast, and she lights me on fire as she tells me everything will be okay.
Meanwhile, somewhere out in the desert, Foundry’s army draws a little closer.
There are no rats the next day. No foxes either. My tomatoes are in the hidden garden, but I’ll be damned if I give my captors a single bite, even if it means I have to starve with them. It’s a miserable day.
Ballard takes Echo and Fin into the ruins, either to hunt or scavenge, which leaves me with Cabal. I’m still cuffed to the railing, since they saw no reason it should be otherwise. Cabal spends the time throwing a large knife at a spot on the wall. He’s disturbingly accurate, even after he starts sipping something from a flask. When he’s tipsy, he comes over to talk.
“I know what you are,” he says, smiling, pointing the knife lazily in my direction.
I don’t say anything. Lectric gives a low growl.
“Ballard thinks Foundry can use you. But the army can’t use deserters. And that’s what you are. I see it in your eyes. You’ll run the first chance you get.”
Still I say nothing. Cabal notices Lectric growling and barks like a maniac, following this up with a bout of girlish laughter. Lectric whimpers.
“You know, I caught a deserter once,” he says confidentially, then gets up and walks away, leaving me to wonder what happened. Ballard and Echo soon return. Fin is still out. Ballard has picked up some broken tech but is otherwise empty-handed.
“Dry as a bone, this city. At least we should be leaving tomorrow,” he says, flopping onto the bed. He drops the piece of old tech on the floor next to his travel pack–right next to the keys to my cuffs.
Echo sits demurely on the bed and stares at the floor until Ballard pulls her down. She curls up sideways, facing away from him. I can see her face at an angle. Ballard’s hands roam her body. Is it just my imagination or is she enduring, rather than enjoying?
Slowly, Echo’s eyes drag toward mine. She flinches away briefly but then locks on and stares at me. Her expression is masked, yet her eyes grow watery. Her left hand slowly tightens, clenching the blanket in a white-knuckled grip. Ballard’s hand lifts the bottom of her shirt. A tear escapes her eye. She makes no sound.
Finnigan bursts into the Library.
“Something’s coming down the road to the east. I think it’s a roamer,” he says in what, for Fin, must pass for excitement.
“You’re shitting me!” Cabal says, retrieving his knife from the wall.
“This far? You sure, Fin?” Ballard asks.
“No, could just be some wandering lunatic. Gotta get closer to see.”
Roamers are rare in these parts. So rare that I’ve never actually seen one. A few came close to Farmington once, but all I heard were the gunshots; all I saw were the burnt remains. If Fin is right about this one, I’m guessing it’s been trailing Toyota all the way from the z-line. Hopefully it won’t start a trend.
“Check it out and let us know,” Ballard says.
“I’m coming too,” Cabal says, unsheathing his scimitar. “Finally, a little fun.”
And they’re gone.
In their absence, Ballard’s exploration of Echo’s body becomes more pointed. I might as well be a painting on the wall. Echo resumes staring at me, however. My face feels hot. There’s an electric tension in the air. Ballard buries his face in her neck. She does nothing to stop him. She does nothing to encourage him. She might as well be a living doll–except for her clenched hand and the tears in her eyes, which he’s too preoccupied to notice.
I can’t stand watching her, knowing she’s lying next to one of Rodrick’s Raiders. Knowing she knows it. How can she do this? That’s Annabel on my bed, for Crom’s sake. That’s the necklace I gave her. How did we get here?
I see them both at once: Annabel in my memory, Echo in the present. The girl with the shining eyes and blowing hair, the girl with the scarred cheek and cold expression. Every silent caress of her unresisting body is more appalling than the last. His touch is an insult to me, to her, to the ashes of our village. My face has hardened into something terrible. A demon’s hatred shines from my eyes. One look at either of us would stop Ballard in his tracks. But he can’t spare the attention. His lust absorbs him completely.
Slowly, deliberately, Echo turns her body toward him. Her eyes stay on me. There’s some hidden purpose in her silent gaze. Her right leg comes down over the side of the bed. Her bare foot lands on the floor beside Ballard’s pack … right on top of the keys. My eyebrows go up. She caresses his hair and pulls his head against her neck.
He shifts on top of her, his face hidden from me. He’s encouraged by the response. He’s writhing against her now, lifting her shirt higher. Her body responds, yet here face is as barren as a statue–all except for the eyes. He kisses her bare stomach, her navel, he’s moaning softly in desire, and then in one calculated movement her right leg shoots swiftly forward, across the floor and up, wrapping arou
nd him while she clenches the back of his hair and writhes sensually against his eager mouth.
With that first movement, the keys skitter across the floor.
Ballard’s pack has tipped over too. He starts to raise his head at the sound, but Echo pulls him back down, whispering an apology, as if she just couldn’t control herself, she hit the pack by accident, and now he fumbles hungrily with the belt of her worn leather pants.
I stare stupidly at the keys. There’s no way that was an accident. She wants me to escape. My heart is pounding. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Yes, idiot, yes! But now I’m terrified. I lean forward. Crom! The keys are just out of reach. Naturally.
Lectric gets to his feet beside me, watching curiously. I jab my finger at the keys–Get Them, Boy. He tilts his head. Get The Keys, I mime. He looks at them. He looks at me. Stupid dog. I should’ve used a Tritium-Beta instead of a Spark 2100.
My pack–there’s got to be something in it I can use. I reach back, trying not to make a sound, and pull out Volume Seven. I want to laugh hysterically; Conan may save me after all. I stretch toward the keys, extending the graphic novel, and cinch them closer. Got them!
There’s only two keys and they both look the same. The first one I try opens my cuffs. Ballard is still ensnared by yearning. What now? His pistol in the leather holster lies next to the bed, but it’ll be a struggle to get at. I don’t know if I can get it out and aim it before he grabs me, and I’m not particularly big for my age. Yet I need a weapon.
My crossbow? Across the room with an extra supply pack. Too far. Wait. There’s something closer. It calls to me from the unused parts scattered across the desk I use as a workstation, no more than ten feet away: the bottom of a partially completed trap. It’s basically just a capacitor and a resistor wired to two steel nails, secured to a flat board. The important thing here is that the capacitor is more than half-charged. Not the safest practice to leave it lying around like that, yeah, but my lack of caution is about to come in handy.