Inside the Hallecks’ room, Brogan took out a simple map of the city he had hand-drawn from memory that morning. He placed it on a small side table in the corner of the room and the others gathered around him.
“Here’s a map I’ve made. It’s based on one a friend gave me back in the State,” he said, glancing quickly over at Staunton to gauge his reaction, and was relieved to see none. “This is where we are now…”
On the map, Brogan had clearly marked the Plaza de Mentirosas, a few blocks west of 6th Street—La Sexta—one of the busiest streets in the Barrio T. He traced out a route with his finger. “And this is where we’re heading to, right here…” Farther north, at a street named Guerrero, he jabbed his finger on a circle he’d marked with a “Z.”
“What is that?” Karen asked curiously, squinting at the letter scrawled on the map.
“That’s a Zhiglov exchange house, the largest asset dealer in town,” Brogan replied. He gazed at her puzzled expression. “It’s where we’re going to park our money this morning. It’s our safest option until we decide how to put it to use.”
“Looks no more than a fifteen minute walk,” Staunton said, staring down at the map.
“That’s plenty of time to get ourselves killed. Remember, there’s people out there that’ll be stepping over each other to relieve a few greenhorns of their money,” Brogan warned him. “We’ve survived the first day here. Today, it’s just as crucial we remain alert and focused. Let’s do this right.”
***
A short time later, the four left the hotel. Staunton stepped out onto the street accompanied by the two women, his Sig Sauer in the pocket of his coat, safety off, finger curled around the trigger guard like Brogan had showed him. Across, on the far side of the road, Brogan followed ten feet behind, one Glock in the holster by his waist, the second in a shoulder rig under his jacket.
He had left his rifle behind, stowed under the bed with the two Fletcher brothers guarding their room while they were gone. While the rifle might have made a better deterrent on their run to the asset house, only the city’s gang members carried rifles openly on the streets. Unless you were affiliated, it wasn’t such a smart idea to carry one.
They made their way toward 6th Street. At the corner of an alleyway, Brogan spotted a drunk totter out the door of an early-morning drinking house, the stench of stale beer hanging in the air as he passed by. The drunk gazed blearily at him, then walked unsteadily down the lane. A moment later, Brogan heard the sound of retching from behind.
Fancy neighborhood. No doubt about it.
Like most streets in the city, 6th Street was unpaved and had no sidewalks. Turning onto the street, it hummed with activity and the group had to stick close to the edge of the road as a swarm of motorbikes and tricycles buzzed past them.
They passed various fruit and vegetable stalls, a general store, a butcher’s shop, a cell phone repair store, and a couple of one-roomed cafes where, through smoke-grimed windows, Brogan made out customers sitting at wooden trestle tables, slouched over their breakfasts. Other buildings they passed had names printed above the doorways or windows, and he had no idea what was going on inside.
On the higher floors, as he had noted the previous day, laundry hung out from balcony windows. He looked up at the skyline. There were no crawler bots on the rooftops, no hoverdrones in the skies. Their absence would take some getting used to.
Up ahead, amid the busy traffic, Brogan spotted a horse and cart. Behind it, a mule followed, carrying large saddlebags laden with vegetables. John Cole had told him that in the West Valley, on the far side of the Reclamation Area, were the many farms that served the city. Farther north there were other farms too, running all the way to the lower slopes of Wolf Mountain. The city of Winter’s Edge wasn’t short on food.
Fifteen minutes later they made it to Guerrero without incident. On the northeast corner, two burly men in black woolen coats and wearing ushankas—traditional Russian hats—stood guard under the awning of a detached two-story building.
The group crossed over the road. Approaching the asset house, Brogan spotted pistols hanging in holsters by each guard’s waist and, across their chests with muzzles slanting downward, both clutched US military-issue M9 carbines that hung from their straps. Somewhere above on the second floor, Brogan was sure at least one other bull stood guard.
The Russian warlord, Sergei Zhiglov, was one the most powerful men in Winter’s Edge, and his bratva—or brotherhood—his loyal and well-trained militia, kept the peace. During his briefing, Cole had shown Brogan several reconnaissance photographs of the Zhiglov compound situated in the Little Russia district to the northwest of the city.
Surrounded by a high perimeter wall, it was the Outzone’s version of Fort Knox. Behind the walls, dozens of heavily-armed men guarded concrete bunkers, patrolled metal walkways, or stared out through binoculars from watchtowers. Cole told him that below ground, stored in underground vaults, were the hard assets that backed the one hundred cents to each and every Zhiglov Dollar. For those willing to pay the extra premium, this was the currency to own.
The bratva also did a nice line in the Outzone’s energy complex. In the photographs, stacked next to each other in a yard within the compound were several large storage tanks. They contained diesel, kerosene, and natural gas. Each day they were transferred into smaller containers and sold at various outlets around the city. The fuels were transported down the perilous route from the Canadian border by mule train. Only someone with Zhiglov’s power and influence could control the entire supply chain like that.
In front of the asset house was a cement platform. Brogan stepped up onto it and informed the nearest guard they had come to do business. He nodded curtly at Brogan, then opened a thick steel door and ushered the four inside.
The doorway led into a small anteroom where another steel door faced them, identical to the one they had just come through. After they had all stepped in off the street, the remaining guard outside pulled the door shut and locked it.
Inside, the guard pointed at the Glock in Brogan’s holster. “You carrying anything else?” he asked with a thick Slavic accent.
“Yeah, I got another piece.”
The guard motioned with his hand. Brogan pulled the Glock from its holster and gave it to him, then took out the second one from inside his jacket and handed that to him as well.
Opening a steel locker fixed to the wall, the Russian took out a couple of plastic numbered tags. He attached them to both weapons and put them inside the locker, then gave Brogan a corresponding numbered disk for each pistol.
“You,” he said, indicating to Staunton. “Next.”
Neither of the Halleck women were armed. After processing Staunton’s Sig Sauer, the guard frisked all four of them thoroughly, then gave the all-clear sign to a CCTV camera mounted on the ceiling. The door was unlocked from the other side. A moment later, it pulled slowly open and another guard on the far side motioned them inside.
Brogan stepped through first. Glancing around, he saw he was in a medium-sized windowless room, lit by bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling.
In the absence of windows, hanging on the walls were gilt-framed oil paintings of what he imagined must be copies of Russian classics. They were good copies too, all of pastoral settings. One depicted a beautiful-looking dacha and garden on a summer’s day, another showed an ox plowing a field driven by a farmer in his cart holding a clay pipe in one hand, while in yet another painting, a nobleman sat astride a large gray stallion.
At the far end of the room, a bespectacled man in his fifties and wearing a dark, crumpled suit sat behind a counter. He stared at Brogan impassively, his slightly hooded eyes giving nothing away.
“Good morning,” Brogan said, walking over to him. “Me and my friends here got some gold we want to exchange for dollars. Maybe leave some of it for safekeeping too. How do we go about doing that?”
“Depends. We got two options,” said the asset broker in a voice that
matched the look on his face perfectly.
“How about you run through them for us?”
“First option. If you’re looking to deposit your gold for safekeeping, there’s a ten percent fee. That’s up front,” the broker replied, speaking in a strong New York accent. Brogan guessed he was from Brooklyn where, before the war, most Russian bratva members originated. Ever since the Chinese had toasted the city, any scavenger daring to enter the place had to suit-up head to toe in radioactive protective clothing.
Brogan whistled. “Ten percent? That’s kinda steep.”
The broker shrugged. “Try keeping it under your pillow.” His tone suggested he’d been doing this forever. “For that charge, you get to store it here as long as you like. Keep it for five years, ten years, whatever…no extra cost.”
“What happens if I die unexpectedly, like all of a sudden?” Staunton cut in. “I hear that happens a lot around these parts. Don’t tell me you get to keep it all?”
“Nope. It goes to whoever you deem as your beneficiary. You’ll need to bring them in here first so we can identify them properly. We don’t go handing out money to strangers.”
The four considered the implications.
“I think I see a problem with that,” Brogan finally said. “They don’t issue death certs in the Outzone, right?”
The broker gave him a humorless smile. “Consider yourself lucky to get buried.”
“So how do you know when I’m dead?”
“No need to. It works like this,” the broker explained after receiving four blanks stares, “we won’t release your holdings until twelve months from your last visit here. You need to make sure you come back once a year, and we push back the release date another twelve months. Simple as that.”
Brogan frowned. “What if my beneficiary kills me?” he asked. “Does that mean all he needs to do is wait a year then swing by and collect my money?”
“Happens all the time, mister. Means you made a piss poor choice in friends, that’s all.”
Brogan looked across at the others, an amused look on his face. “Can’t argue with that,” he said. “Next option?”
“Option two, the most popular option, is currency exchange,” the broker continued in his deadpan delivery. “In exchange for your gold, we issue you dollars. The Zhiglov dollar is accepted everywhere in the city, and even beyond.” He pulled open a drawer from beneath the counter and took out a crisp fifty dollar bill, handing it to Brogan.
It was an impressive looking note, printed in deep crimson hues with the picture of an imperious-looking man on the front whose face looked vaguely familiar. On the back of the note, sketched in black ink, was a beautifully drawn bear. Brogan held the note up to the light, admiring the complex watermark.
“Nice,” he said. He pointed at the picture of the man. “Tell me, who is he when he’s at home? Is that Mr. Zhiglov?”
“No, that’s Vladimir Putin. Each denomination has a different Russian hero on it,” the broker said, gazing at Brogan as if daring him to challenge his assertion.
“Impressive. Mr. Zhiglov must be a cultured kind of guy…the classy notes, the paintings, the dead presidents,” Brogan said, handing the note back. “So what’s the deal for the Zhiglov dollar? How does that go down?”
“Simple. For a seven percent charge, your gold or any other valuables are converted to dollars. Money up front, like the first option. Only this time you no longer own the valuables you exchange. We do. But now, since you’ve exchanged it for cash, you get to take out whatever money you need, leave the rest deposited here for safekeeping.”
“Just like a bank,” said Karen, who had been paying close attention. “What interest do you pay out on deposit?”
The broker allowed a small smile to appear on his lips. “None, lady. And no, this is not a bank.”
“Let me guess, it’s the other way round,” Brogan said. “There’s a charge each time we come back to take out more, right?”
“A one percent charge per transaction. Bear in mind your money will not be lent out to others at interest. We’re not a bank, and we’re not moneylenders.”
“No fractional reserve banking,” Brogan said.
“Exactly.” The broker stared sharply at Brogan, surprised he knew of such a thing. “Every dollar issued here is backed by tangible assets, not like the Strata State where it’s propped up by digital smoke and mirrors.”
“And good faith,” Brogan added wryly.
“Yes, and dumb faith too.” The broker stared across at the four of them. “Now that you know what you need to know, which one of you is going to show me what you got?”
The four looked at each other hesitantly, before Brogan spoke up.
“I’ll go, seeing as I got here first,” he said. He unzipped the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a money pouch. “Mister, get the scales out,” he said, placing it on the counter. “The rest of you, form an orderly line behind me. No jostling.”
Chapter 14
Thirty minutes later, the group exited the asset house and headed back to their hotel. As they walked down 6th Street again, Brogan sensed the feeling of relief among them. Despite the hefty fee, now that their money was safely locked away, it allowed them all to breathe a little easier. Nothing in the Outzone was without risk, but keeping it under a pillow wasn’t a great option, like the broker said.
Next, Brogan intended to show the Hallecks how to keep a little “mugging money.” The city had many hold-up artists roaming the streets looking for easy prey. It would be wise for them to have something to give a desperate man armed with a knife or a pistol.
Brogan couldn’t help but worry about the two women. With her husband dead, life wouldn’t be easy for Karen Halleck or her teenage daughter, though once the two moved to a safer neighborhood, things would improve. The streets around the Plaza de Mentirosas, or “Liar’s Square” as it was aptly named, were full of run-down bars, seedy hotels, and boarding houses, the Hotel Valiente being the best of a bad lot. It was too transient an area for any sense of community. In the more family-oriented barrios, street justice prevailed, and thieves caught stealing in the neighborhood were mercilessly disposed of. Cole had told Brogan he’d seen it happen many times.
They reached the hotel. Taking the stairs to the third floor, Brogan said to Staunton, “Time to find out if our room’s been cleaned out.”
His friend stared at him, a confused look on his face. “How’s that?” he said. “You expecting it to be cleaned already?”
Brogan grinned. “I said, cleaned out, not cleaned up. We just put a couple of ex-cons, fresh out of the joint, in charge of our gear. Don’t know about you, but that’s a first for me.”
Staunton chuckled. “I think we’re good. I don’t think the brothers want someone like you hunting them down.”
“Or you either, my friend.”
After seeing the women to their room, the two men walked up the hall to their own. Inside, the brothers were resting on the beds with their boots off, watching TV, a rerun of an old Seinfeld show. Brogan chuckled when the door to Jerry Seinfeld’s apartment opened and Kramer made one of his classic appearances, skidding into the room, a wild-eyed look on his face. Even after fifty years, the show was still funny as hell.
The two Fletcher brothers stood up quickly when Brogan entered the room.
“Relax,” Brogan told them, closing the door behind him after Staunton had stepped inside. “Sit back and watch the show.”
“You made it back,” Jake Fetcher said, looking relieved. “The women okay?”
“They’re fine. Megan in particular,” Brogan said with a quick grin. He’d observed how the young man had spent a lot of time staring at the girl the previous day.
Jake’s cheeks colored slightly. “That’s good.”
“How did it go?” Steve asked. “You get a good deal?”
“Good might be stretching it,” Brogan replied. “But we got the same deal as everyone else in the city.”
He wen
t on to explain how everything had panned out. Staunton and Karen Halleck had elected for the currency exchange. Their plan was to stay in the city, so it made the most sense for them. Other than exchanging a few hundred dollars for cash, Brogan deposited half his gold under the safekeeping option. The other half he would take with him when he left Winter’s Edge.
To complete the transaction, each had been issued a private password for their accounts, then they had given several specimen signatures, and after that had been fingerprinted, all ten digits dipped in black ink and rolled over a blank sheet of paper. The practical, low-tech procedure felt somehow satisfying to Brogan. There had been something tangible and real about the process, not just a bunch of ones and zeros stored in a machine.
“Sounds like those guys have their shit together,” Jake said. “I hope someday me and Steve will have something to deposit there too.”
“Frank, last night Dan told us you’re planning on leaving the city soon,” Steve said to Brogan. “Is that true?”
“Yep, in the next couple of days,” Brogan replied. “I’ve got an old friend I’m trying to chase down. I heard he’s someplace south of the city.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Steve said, the disappointment showing in his voice. “Because it sure would be nice if we all stuck together. After everything we went through yesterday, I’d like to think we’ve built a bond between us. You know, a little trust.”
“I’ll second that,” Staunton said. He turned to Brogan. “I know you got your plans, Frank. We all respect that. But Karen and Megan are kinda depending on you. It would be great if you stuck around a little longer until they got themselves set up here.” He grinned. “Sheesh, it’s only been one day and we’re all kinda depending on you, buddy.”
Brogan hesitated a moment, deciding whether he should postpone his plans by a few days. If he stayed longer than he had originally intended, he would have another problem. His upcoming communications from Cole would be encrypted. Depending on the length of the messages, it might take up to thirty minutes to decode them, which meant he would have to find somewhere private to do this. Either he would need to take a private room in the hotel, or work late at night in the bathroom while Staunton slept. Neither option was great. Still, having gotten the Hallecks out of their initial predicament, he couldn’t just leave them in the lurch now.
Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) Page 10