Screw it. He would go alone if he had to. More and more, he’d been dreaming about heading out into that wasteland alone.
A few days later, he sold the surveillance parts on the black market for a little over fifty million koles, half of which he deposited into his tin box. It was an extravagant amount of money for any black-market buyer, even one that dealt in illegal technology. Michael had expected thirty-five million, maybe forty if he were lucky.
When he handed the other half—a thick wad of uncommonly large bills that felt nice and heavy in his hand—to his parents, his mother barked a cry of happiness and hugged him.
His father’s reaction was the same as always. Terry Lanza quickly counted it, slipped the money into his pocket, gave his son a sour look, and hurried to the basement to stash it. He didn’t seem to care that it was easily five times the amount Michael usually gave them. More than the restaurant probably made in six months.
“Fine, I’ll just go alone,” Michael muttered as he sulked his way upstairs to his room.
Here was how he did it.
With the Handy Dan parts taped over different areas of his body, Michael used his day off—his night, actually—to cross town and enter the Black-Market Zone.
Despite its fancy name, the BMZ was not a single, fixed location. That would have been too easy to bust. Instead, it moved around, relying on the city’s underground prostitution ring to pass on its current location. Because of this, the two services—sex and illegal wares—had merged, and prostitutes could sometimes be found hawking illegal radios and cameras. They were able to stay in business by bribing law enforcement, a considerable source of income for virtually all police officers in the outer sectors.
Michael had his own network in place, and he paid well. A prostitute named Brandi on 12th and Victory gave him an update on the BMZ’s current location, which confirmed what he already knew. He’d been studying the BMZ’s relocation pattern for a while and could predict where it would move next with surprising accuracy. He still paid for the information because it was better than ending up in the wrong place past curfew.
“Thanks, baby,” Brandi said as Michael slipped her a wad of bills. “Hey, Vamp, you’re kind of cute. How ’bout I give you a freebie one of these days? What do you say?”
Michael’s face warmed. Hopefully, the hood he was wearing would hide his discomfort. He was pretty sure Brandi wasn’t even a woman. Female prostitutes were few and far between in the poorer sectors since it was easier and safer to join a harem in the Inner Sanctum. Brandi wore a scarf around her neck at all times, probably to hide an Adam’s apple. Michael didn’t say anything as he turned and continued on his way.
He slunk through the streets, making sure to stay off avenues. Lonesome figures moved over the darkened sidewalks like phantoms, wearing hoods and long jackets and probably selling drugs. Those who lacked the skill or knowledge to deal in illegal technology, or the bodies necessary for the sex trade, often entered the drug business as a last resort.
He was out of breath when he finally arrived. Before him stood the cluster of red-brick buildings people called the Towers, each one a black silhouette against the underbelly of the city’s ever-present cloud cover. Michael had been here before, back when the Zone had last inhabited this spot.
He made his way quietly, sticking to the shadows until he reached the front door of Building 02. He knew there were BMZ cameras watching him. After he lowered the hood of his sweatshirt, he raised his fist as if about to knock. But instead of rapping his knuckles against the door, he uncurled his fingers and scratched lightly at the surface. There was a certain rhythm one had to follow to prove they weren’t a stranger to the business.
The security guard who let him in was a grizzly, dark-skinned bear of a man Michael had never seen before. He studied Michael through a hostile grimace.
“You’ve been ID’d by someone on the inside, Michael Lanza. Welcome.”
Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he followed the man inside. A second bruiser appeared at the end of the darkened hallway, motioning for Michael to step forward for a pat-down inspection. They both wore tight black T-shirts, revealing arms that rippled with muscle.
Michael warmed when he saw Joel Kridentz inside the shop.
“Hey, Mikey. Good to see ya, sonny boy,” the master merchant said.
Kridentz peered at him from inside his metal-and-glass cage, a shrunken, shriveled old man with fluffy white hair on either side of his otherwise bald head and thick glasses that enlarged his eyes to a comical degree. Michael was fond of the man; the thing he liked most was that Kridentz wore sticks of dynamite wrapped around his chest. It was obvious a man took his job seriously when he would rather blow himself to smithereens than be forced into retirement.
“Mr. Kridentz,” Michael said, approaching the metal bars behind which Kridentz stood, bent from the weight of all that dynamite. “You’re looking healthy and extremely dangerous, as usual.”
The man smiled warmly at him. “What do you have for me today, sonny boy?”
Grinning, Michael took off his sweatshirt. Kridentz’s eyes went wide as Michael, who had turned his back on the old man for privacy, began to pull wires, shiny processor plates, mini-cameras, microphones, and other devices one never saw outside of a government manufacturing plant from his clothes.
“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey,” Kridentz said, adjusting his glasses. “What would your mother say?”
“People have a tendency to keep their mouths shut when you give them large amounts of cash every month.”
“Indeed they do. No radios this time?”
Michael shook his head. “This was enough of a risk.”
“What did you do with the casing?”
“Wiped it down and tossed it.”
“Smart boy.” Kridentz gave Michael a sober look. “You could go far in life as long as you don’t get in too much trouble. Maybe someday you could be a merchant like me.”
“You know, I always thought I’d look good in dynamite.”
The old man winked at him, then slid the parts off the counter into his open palm. He inspected them for a moment before grunting in satisfaction. Turning, he disappeared around a stack of shelves that split the room in half and reappeared moments later with an envelope he passed to Michael.
“You won’t get a better price anywhere,” Kridentz said.
Michael squeezed the envelope. It was much thicker than usual. The smell of fresh bills filled his nostrils like a pleasant perfume.
“I trust you,” Michael said.
He had known Kridentz for almost a year, and the man bought more radios off Michael than he could count. Sometimes, the old man even tipped him with electronic odds and ends that were often useful. “See you next month, Mr. Kridentz.”
“Hope so, sonny boy. It’ll mean you’re still around.”
Those last few words bothered Michael. He knew he could get in trouble for what he was doing, but the thought he might be gone within the next month—either dead or in chains—made him want to break down and confess to the merchant just how tired he was of being afraid.
Instead, he stuffed the money down the front of his pants, slipped his hood back up, and made his way past the bodyguards to the exit.
Chapter 4
The following Tuesday was Ladies’ Night at the Capitalist Pig.
Benny managed to drag Michael out of his room with the promise that he was going to meet a special girl tonight, someone who would change his life forever—or at least give him a romp he’d never forget. With his usual cynicism, Michael imagined a girl who would rat him out to the authorities upon finding out what he did in his spare time.
He wore his uniform from waiting tables at the restaurant, the nicest clothes he had. He drank, but mostly kept to himself. Whenever Benny forced him into talking to a group of girls, Michael acted polite but kept his beer bottle in front of him like a shield. He’d never been good with girls, but then again, the ones in the outer sectors were a differen
t breed.
In addition to being infested with poverty and crime, this particular sector of New Sancta was known for its “streetcats,” or girls who belonged to members of violent gangs. If someone was caught bringing a streetcat home—or even trying to engage one in light conversation—their entire family could be targeted. For that reason, Michael stayed away from girls in general. There was only one woman for every five men in this city, which meant that any girl a man might try to befriend probably had at least one gun-slinging boyfriend waiting just around the corner.
The city’s bureaucrats were the main cause of this problem, with their method of forcing the pretty girls from the poorest sectors to join harems in the Inner Sanctum—the exclusive, central part of the nation’s capital—promising them wealth and security fit for a queen. There was a saying in the outer sectors that all the good ones, meaning all the respectable, attractive women, were “on the up and up.” In other words, they were living lives of leisure as the private sex toys of rich Party members and would someday receive a pension for each child they were able to contribute to the regime.
Michael was determined to keep his brother from doing anything stupid. Benny had been acting more and more reckless lately, hitting on any girl that looked his way. To ease his anxiety, Michael drank heavily throughout the night, spending precious koles on watered-down Unity beer that he knew would leave him with a terrible hangover the following day. He kept thinking of Bobby Francessa, picturing the boy shivering in a cold prison cell, so skinny and malnourished that his face looked as shriveled as a walnut.
Later that night, deep in a drunken haze, Michael stole the keys to the restaurant off his parents’ dresser and met Benny at the back door. They stole a bottle of gin and sipped it out in the parking lot, where a cold breeze washed over them and made them shiver.
“Dad told me about the million billion koles you gave him and Mom,” Benny said. “That’s some serious money.”
“It wasn’t quite a billion.”
“A million billion, I said. Anyway, he said you were helping the family out. Said I should be more like you.” Benny chuckled. “Spiteful wrath, can you picture him saying that?”
Michael’s ears perked up. He’d never known his father to be proud of him. “No,” he said, and it was the most honest word he’d ever spoken. “No, I can’t.”
“Well, he’s right,” Benny said, slurring his words. “You’re smarter than me. You’re going to do better things, whereas I’ll pro’ly take over this spiteful restaurant and work like a slave for the rest of my days for a pittance. A mere pittance!” Holding up the bottle, he shouted, “To slaving away!”
“Shh—Benny, shut up. What are you, stupid?”
Michael went so far as to clamp a hand over Benny’s mouth. Chuckling, Benny pushed him away.
They could see the Line in the distance, its many flood lamps illuminating the Kill Zone. The machine-gun turrets were busily scanning the area for signs of life, and Michael thought that if he listened closely, he could hear their buzzing, mechanical whine. The spotlamps made the razor wire edging the top of the fence shine like bushels of stars.
“You’re smart, Mikey. Real smart. Tha’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Thanks, Benny.”
“No, really, Mikey. I love you, kid. You’re a smart guy. Much smarter than me. Someday, you’ll make us all proud.”
“Thanks, Benny. I love you, too.”
Smiling, Michael studied the razor wire. In his mind, he was sneaking past it, shooting at guards, evading the turrets, and climbing over the Line, never to look back again.
And Benny was by his side, and always would be.
Partners in crime.
Their father’s voice reached them on the second floor the next morning, shaking them in their beds.
“Who in the raging hell took my keys?”
Benny and Michael stumbled down the stairs and into the cramped living room, faces puffy from all the beer and gin they’d drunk the night before.
Terry Lanza sat at the kitchen table with a quiet rage in his eyes. His forehead and scalp, on which there were only a few licks of hair, were pinker than usual. Unfortunately for the boys, their mother was already at the restaurant, prepping for the regulars that came in every morning for coffee at sunrise. She was the only one who knew how to ease her husband’s tantrums.
Michael hastily retreated as his father got up from the chair. Quickly, he dug the keys from his pocket and held them out.
“Right here, Dad. I’ve got them, okay?”
“You little brats,” his father said. “You been drinking from the restaurant stock again, haven’t you?”
Benny stepped forward. “It was my idea. We were celebrating.”
“Celebrating what, exactly?”
The sour stench of metabolizing alcohol radiated from their mouths and skin. Michael had to gulp down vomit.
“Him losing his virginity last night,” Benny said, cocking his thumb at Michael.
Michael lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Terry Lanza searched his sons’ faces for a sign that his leg was being pulled.
“You serious?”
“Totally. Backseat of the girl’s car. She was upper crust. Guess she and her girlfriends decided to go slumming for the night.” He shrugged.
“Weh-heh-hell,” their father said, clapping his hands once, then rubbing them together. “It’s about goddamned time. I was starting to think you didn’t like girls, Mike.”
Michael glared at Benny. “Guess it was my lucky night,” he grumbled.
“I suppose it was,” his father said, resting his hands on his hips, chest puffed out in pride. “But it looks like you’re shit out of luck today, Romeo. Double shift. Dishes followed by more dishes.”
A violent clenching sensation seized Michael’s gut. A moment later, he was vomiting into one of his mother’s fake potted plants. Benny and Terry howled with laughter.
Chapter 5
The kitchen sink was a rectangular metal basin with a spray nozzle dangling over it. The water that spewed from the nozzle was white hot and sent bursts of steam into the faces of anyone who walked by. Water dripped off Michael’s face constantly. His hands, despite the gloves, were always pink and raw at the end of the day. There were times the heat got so bad he had to go down to the basement and sit in the walk-in refrigerator for five minutes just to cool down.
Benny waited tables, though he spent most of his time flirting with the waitresses, of which there was now only one since Nora went off to join the harem of a wealthy Party member in the Inner Sanctum.
Her name was Jolene. In Michael’s opinion, she resembled a skinny cat someone had shaved, covered in makeup, and taught to walk upright. She rolled her eyes constantly—sometimes at Benny, mostly at Michael.
“Here. Dishes,” she said, unloading a stack of dirty plates by the sink.
“Morning,” Michael said.
She gave him a bored look. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Michael waited for her to go away before starting on the dishes. For there to be this many, a Party member had to have come in with a few friends. They ate free at any restaurant outside the Inner Sanctum. It wasn’t an official rule, but no one in their right mind would think of charging a Party member actual money. Not out here, anyway.
“Mikey? Mikey?”
The high-pitched, parrot-like voice of his mother reached him before she rounded the corner. She wore her usual white shirt tucked into black slacks. Her hair sat atop her head in a loose mound, a pencil sticking out of it. Michael clenched his teeth.
“Hi, dear,” she said. “Why do you look so glum? Listen, Mikey baby, I need you to help with dining room clean up tonight. Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s only an extra hour. Do your old mother a favor. Her back is killing her.”
Placing a hand on the small of her back, she rolled her eyes in cartoonish agony.
“All right, all right,” Michael said. “I’ll do it if you stop calling me Mikey.”
“Or honey dearest. Or honey cakes. Or baby doll.”
His mother snickered. “Don’t the neighborhood kids call you Vamp? I’ll call you Vamp if you like that better.”
Michael aimed the spray nozzle at her. She threw her hands up in self-defense.
“Michael, don’t!”
“That’s better,” he said, lowering it.
Smiling, his mother threw a dirty towel at his face and darted into the dining room.
Soon, Michael was back to work. Picking up a metal sponge, he began scouring a pot deep enough to swallow his entire arm. The screen door slammed behind him, startling him. His father came in from the backyard, which was really just a tiny patch of land that was mostly mud. He stomped his boots against the mat, inspecting the kitchen as if calculating damage done to it after a storm. Michael’s dad always wore that look in his kitchen. The man worked every shift, and he was clearly miserable.
“Mike,” he said, snapping his fingers. “A box of sausage patties. Let’s go.”
The man had an amazing ability to detect even the slightest thing missing or out of place inside his kitchen. Michael wiped his hands on a towel that was warm and damp from all the steam. On his way to the basement stairs, he glanced at his father, who furrowed his brow and said, “Stealing liquor, huh? What do you think this is, the Targin Empire?”
Too ashamed to reply, Michael shuffled down the stairs to the basement to get the sausage patties, which weren’t really made of sausage, but of something else—grain and gum with sausage flavoring, or something like that. They were about as thin as tissue paper, and tended to break into tatters whenever flipped on the grill.
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