“At least that’s the image you’ve been perpetuating to survive,” I responded.
“Ouch,” he said, rubbing his arm. “That arrow hit home. Nailed me pretty good with that one, Mac. Truth is, if my wits fail, I’m not incapable of defending myself. But projecting the image of wandering wizard and philosopher has worked well for me. Matter of fact, in a perfect world, that’s what I’d be—a philosopher.”
“I don’t want to pour water on your campfire, Merlin,” I said. “But I don’t really picture myself as a warrior. I’m not a samurai or a cowboy riding through the countryside out to right the wrongs of the world and protect the innocent.”
“You just want to be left alone, right?”
“That sums it up nicely,” I replied.
“Join the club,” he said. “But don’t pay your dues, because it ain’t gonna happen. This little world here is about territory and power—not peace and love. And if you create something, whether it be material or spiritual, someone is going to try to take it from you.”
I laughed, thinking of the years of Weasel’s preachings to Sarah, Stevie and me. “I’ve got a friend who’s been reading the same books you have.”
“Yeah,” said Merlin. “That would be the text titled, SURVIVING THE CLAN WORLD VIEW, author deceased. I hope your friend has been getting through to you. You seem like too nice a fella for us human beings to be mourning.”
“He’s been making some very real progress,” I said. “I’m on my way to becoming one pessimistic, realistic, pissed off son of a bitch.”
“Excellent. There is hope. Now just remember not to trust anyone until you’ve known them for at least a couple of years, and you are on your way to becoming a long term survivor.”
“Not trusting,” I said. “That would include you?”
“Naturally,” he responded. “But let me give you a little insight into the kind of information I carry around so we can begin building that trust. Here’s a perfect example: No one knows where you live or how many people you got with you. But they sure as shit know who you are. Some of the clans don’t care for your independence, man. But your weed and ammo is so good that they don’t want to mess with you. Unless of course they can find your place. Then they’ll try to take it all and take you out.”
He paused, as if waiting for a response. I remained silent.
“Perfect, man. Don’t give away anything. But I’m going to tell you something right now. My reading on your state of affairs. All speculation. Don’t respond. It’s not necessary. Right or wrong, don’t say anything. This will give you an illustration of how I work. Here’s my take on your situation: You’ve got between three and six people living with you. One or two women. You are completely self-sufficient and armed to the teeth. And here’s the kicker: You live west of the city. Way out beyond the clans.”
I sat quietly, trying to mask my fear. The little guy really was a magician. For a brief moment I considered killing him on the spot. But my experiences with Weasel and Stevie gave me faith in my ability to judge people. Merlin wasn’t a danger to us. Worst case was neutrality. Best situation was a new ally.
He was watching me intently, trying to read my mind.
“Don’t worry. I formulated that hypothesis on you over a year ago from stuff I’ve seen and heard. I’ll never rat you out. Two reasons. Number one is we’re going to be working together. We will soon be business associates. And you possess a product that is essential to my day to day existence. To me, finding a source of good weed is like Columbus sighting land. Number two is, I like you. Can’t say that about many people, man. It’s worth more than I can calculate to find a person I can talk to. But even more crucial to me is the fact that you seem to be trying to live your life by some kind of code. There’s a whole bunch of good people out there, McCall. But they’re all in hiding. Scared shit of the clans. Can’t say I blame them. They scare me sometimes too. But I can’t crawl in a hole and grow some vegetables and wait to grow old and die. You see where I’m coming from, Mac?”
“Yeah, I see,” I said, making my decision. “Let’s do some business.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. I’m not sure if he knew how close he had come—to being right about the compound and being dead. I’ve never told him.
“Good idea. I have two more items for you. They concern valuable merchandise and locations. Hard information. How we going to work this?”
I had already given the matter of payment considerable attention and gave him my idea.
“I think a monthly retainer would be a good idea. You provide us with what you think is important to us and we’ll provide you with a set amount of herb each month. We just need to figure out how to make the trade.”
“What size retainer you talking about,” he asked.
“I figure a half pound each time.”
He rolled his eyes and whistled.
“Definitely acceptable, man. Here’s how I figure it. We set up a drop point each of us can check every week. Probably rotate three or four locations. Once a month you leave the stash. Whenever I’ve got something, I’ll either leave a note or set up a meet. If you ever feel the arrangement is no longer profitable, you just let me know.”
His information was solid. He told me the location of a stash of gunpowder, several pounds. Apparently it was a pre-collapse hunter who preferred to pack his own loads. It was in a residence, sealed and undisturbed all these years. I even got a couple of shotguns out of the deal.
• • • •
Duke and I waited for Merlin in the underground garage, the site of our original meeting a year ago. We had been there since before dawn, sleeping three sections back from the entrance in the bed of a pick-up truck. The note I received from Merlin at one of the regular drop sites was an arcane composition, full of innuendo and mysterious warnings.
DROP BY SOMETIME. NO HURRY. AVOID SITE OF ORIGINAL WEED FEST. TRAVEL ONLY BY DAY. PACK LIGHT ARMOR. THE WIZARD ARRIVES AT MIDNIGHT. EVERY NIGHT FOR NEXT FIFTEEN. EVERYTHING IS COOL.
We had established a code based on opposite meanings and subtraction for our communiques with Merlin. Any time mentioned was exactly twelve hours opposite. Midnight meant noon. Travel by day meant move under the umbrella of darkness. Light armor indicated I should be ready to battle dragons. Any number or day mentioned was on a subtract one code. Fifteen meant fourteen. Wednesday meant Tuesday. Avoiding an area meant meet me there. No hurry gave the message an urgency I had never before encountered with Merlin.
Duke and I left the compound at sunset on the day we received Merlin’s three-day old message. That was last night. Creeping into the garage before the sun caught us, we found a truck and slept for five hours. We shared a simple breakfast upon awakening and moved closer to the entrance to await Merlin.
Above us the city was quiet as noon approached.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JULY 2056
CHICAGO LOOP
As Duke’s ears stood up, I looked expectantly to the entrance ramp that sloped up in front of me, allowing access from the street level. I faced the ramp, sitting cross legged on the concrete floor, my back to a concrete support column. A 9 mm Intratec TEC-9 pistol with a 36 round magazine lay in my lap. It was a no frills combat weapon, not much on accuracy, but with 36 rounds available in single shot or automatic mode, it was an attention getter.
A sound come from behind us, in my range now as well as Duke’s, and I flopped onto my stomach and turned, the TEC-9 pointed into the darkness where Duke and I had been sleeping just a short time ago. I heard the sound again, this time identifying it as the pursed-lip sound people make to summon a pet.
“Hey, Duke,” came a whispered voice. “Come here, boy.”
More kissing sounds.
I was sure it was Merlin. So was Duke, and he bounded to meet his buddy. Duke was fond of Merlin, mostly, I felt, because Merlin spent a lot of time talking to him. Merlin believed the dog’s body was a sacred vessel for the soul of 20th cen hippie.
As Duke dashe
d into the darkness, I didn’t worry about him running into trouble. Had there been anyone with Merlin, Duke would be on high alert.
In a few minutes, they both materialized from the black recesses of the garage, side by side, dos amigos, happy to see each other after a few weeks separation. A smile adorned Merlin’s thin face; the ever present headband and earphones graced his forehead and neck. He walked up to me and shook my hand, a ten second ritual consisting of a 20th cen power shake, followed by a standard hand shake and concluded with a little finger tip number. It was his routine form of greeting me.
Standing on tip toes, Merlin put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug.
“How you doin’, Mac,” he said. “I’ve been worried about you.” His concern was genuine. Merlin liked to joke and spent most of his waking hours in a marijuana fog, but he took friendship seriously.
“Thanks, Merlin,” I said, reciprocating the hug. I pointed to the darkness from which he appeared. “What’s with the back door?”
“Mac, this city is one amazing place. Ever heard of Dungeons and Dragons? This town is one big game board. It’s got more back doors than a whorehouse. Besides, man, it is totally unsafe hangin’ with you. I gotta stay very slick in your presence.”
“Between your cryptic message and these ominous words,” I said, “I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something. Spit it out, Merlin. What’s going on?”
“Not here, man. Not now. We gotta be in a safe place first. We are talking major heat. Plus I’ve got a few things I need to show you. Be patient. Now that I’ve got you under my wing, there’s no hurry. You’re in my territory now, Mac. Safe and sound. Let’s move.”
I had a million questions, but knew no answers would be forthcoming until he deemed the time to be right. I had no choice but to follow the program.
We stashed my bike on the first level of the underground garage, covering it in darkness and then began a journey into strange. Merlin was as careful with the location of his base as we were with ours. Most everyone thinks he lives in the city, but no one has any idea where. I was about to find out.
Instead of exiting up the ramp in front of us, Merlin led us into the blackness of the underground along a sidewalk that was adjacent to a concrete wall on my left. In a minute or so he told us to stop, and I heard a door creak open, which allowed some light to enter our tenebrous domain. We exited the garage into the dim light and I found myself in concrete room with four exits—two stairways up to what was obviously a street, a closed door and an entry to the subway system that the city had expanded and renovated in ’21 and ’22. Merlin herded us up the steps to the street, stopping before we reached the top step.
“Chill a minute,” he said and disappeared over the top, turning right and moving beyond my line of vision. In less than thirty seconds he returned.
“It’s cool. Follow me.”
We entered into full sunlight and stayed behind him as he scampered down what I recognized to be Michigan Avenue for two blocks to a street called Adams, where we turned left and ducked into an entrance to a parking garage.
“Jesus, Merlin,” I said, slightly out of breath from our furtive two-block sprint, “you expecting some kind of commando raid or what?”
“Bear with me, Mac,” he said, eyes aglow with excitement. “I promise this will all make sense by sunset. But it’s gotta be my way. Don’t worry, man. You’re gonna enjoy the trip. I promise.”
He then scampered up three blocks to State Street where we rounded the corner and jumped into a windowless department store display. Merlin leaned back on a one armed, dirty, sexless mannequin and patted it on the butt.
“This here is Arlene,” he said. “She and I have had many an intense conversations over the years.”
He looked at Duke and me, reading my aversion to new turf, and laughed heartily.
“It’s OK now, Mac. Relax. This is my country. A fucking army could march down the street right now and we could disappear before they could even imagine our existence.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that we’d be gone. So fast even our auras would have to run to catch up.”
“Fuck the auras, Merlin,” I said. “What the hell are we doing here?”
“This, Mac,” he replied sweeping his arm to indicate the area outside our shelter, “is going to be part of your cultural education. One of the truly great cities of the world lies at your feet, and you are ignorant of most of its wonders. You’ve got brains; you read poetry; you are more than casually aware of Pink Floyd; you certainly don’t beat your wife—”
Merlin met Sarah a couple of times at weed drops. I replied, “You’ve met Sarah. Lucky she doesn’t beat me.”
“—or your dog. That fuckin’ Duke, man. He’s got some old soul in there. And you, you’ve got the bitchin’est conscience I’ve ever run across; and yet you are amazingly illiterate about this great city that graces your front door. Time to change that, Mac.”
“For Christ sake, Merlin,” I said, “you bring me down here on the pretext of telling me some earth shattering news, and now you act like some kind of tour guide for a fucking dead city. I’ve seen you weirded out, man, but this is one for the record books.”
“Perspective, Mac. It’s all about perspective. Later on, when I tell you what you have to hear, you’re gonna need a proper frame of mind to process the information. There’s some very heavy shit going on, man. But when you hear it, it’s going to have to be put in a context you can work with. I got a plan here, Mac. Two years, Mac. That’s how long we been working together. Have I ever given you anything but the best? Ever steered you down the wrong path?”
I had to admit that indeed he hadn’t. He had become a good and trusted friend. What had begun as a business relationship had evolved into an easy and comfortable camaraderie. Both Sarah and Weasel had met Merlin at drops and felt the same way I did. Same with Stevie. Probably the most important factor in his favor was Duke’s reaction. The dog had loved the quixotic little man from the start. And all of us trusted Duke’s instincts about people. When it came to reading people, Duke was our secret weapon. It would have been impossible for us to accept anyone into our group without Duke’s blessing.
Merlin climbed out of our window and looked up and down State Street.
“Take a look around us,” he invited. “We’re taking a little stroll around this area. Keep your arsenal available in case we have visitors. But I don’t expect anyone. Clans don’t find any of this of interest.”
Even though the territory was just a few blocks from my familiar scavenging domain on Michigan Avenue, it was new ground to me. And somehow Merlin was very much aware of the fact. My business was rarely in the heart of the city, and when it was, I was always in and out as quickly as possible and had never visited anywhere except Michigan Avenue. Most everything we needed for the compound could be found outside of the city proper. In open territory.
Duke and I climbed out of the display window and followed Merlin as he returned to Adams Street and ambled west, moving away from our point of origin. There was a different feeling here. The emptiness was more profound, spookier than that of the areas outside the city. What had once once been the commercial and cultural heart of Chicago was now a ghost town. We were walking across the bottom of a canyon, high rises forming the walls that towered over us. On the street level a few rusting cars remained, their tanks and engines drained of gas and oil; their tires deflated and graying from years of summer sun and winter winds. Forlorn reminders of our pre-collapse affluence.
The streets and sidewalks were infested with weeds that had worked their way into cracks in the concrete and asphalt and then expanded their base as seeds found new points of purchase. Trees that had been planted five or six decades ago as some landscape architect’s attempt to remind urban dwellers that photosynthesis had nothing to do with cameras—and left unattended for forty years—had broken through sidewalks and streets with their powerful roots. Their inquisitive limbs stretched into the lower floor wind
ows of department stores and towering office buildings.
Decades of falling leaves merged to form a humus base in which the hundreds of varieties of weeds, flowers and grasses took root and thrived. But concrete was still visible among the weeds and rotting leaves, for the winter winds whipped much of the leaf cover away before it could create a soil thick enough to survive the onslaught of snow, ice and winds that swirled and swept through the canyons.
Broken glass was everywhere, but it posed no threat to Duke because its edges had been dulled by time and weathering and Duke’s pads are leather thick with callouses from thousands of miles of walking or trotting by our sides over the last five years. On the street level all the glass was shattered during the collapse. Up higher on the huge buildings, many offices were without the protection of glass—empty, ominous holes looking like the beginning of decay in giant teeth. I guessed that the seals and caulking in some of the upper level windows failed the test of time and the onslaught of weather and the huge thick slabs of glass had fallen victim to gravity.
We paused in the alcove of a high rise on Adams. Merlin pulled a couple of apples out of his pack, tossing one to me. He reached back in and retrieved a piece of jerky which he tossed in Duke’s direction.
“You notice,” said Merlin, “a complete lack of human habitation in this area. It’s only very rarely that I see anyone in this section of the city. On ground level most of this was stores, clothing, shoes, books—you name it. Looted out decades ago. All the rest of it is offices. For the life of me I can’t figure out what they needed all those fucking offices for. I mean, you got blocks and blocks of buildings twenty, thirty, forty, hell, eighty stories high filled with fucking offices. What the hell were these people doing in those offices?”
“Got the same thing in the suburbs,” I said. “Except the buildings are long and low instead of thin and high. Full of file cabinets and desks and chairs and fake plants and machines and pictures of families. Not to mention a few skeletons. That’s why I don’t need to come in here much. I can scavenge just as well outside the city. Only places I’ve been down here are the Washington Library, the Art Institute and Michigan Avenue offices.”
Blood of the Dogs_Book I_Annihilation Page 22