S.T.Y.X. Humanhive

by Arthur Stone

  Boiler hadn’t expected to encounter a monster at Gloom’s place. Right in the middle of a well-defended settlement, and with decent English skills, to boot. All the other ghouls he had seen so far had done nothing but growl.

  Reader had mentioned encounters like this, but he kept his weapon raised and voiced his doubts. “You’re a talking ghoul.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. Lower your weapon, chum. You must be a newcomer, so let me explain: I’m a quasi, and as far as quasis go I actually look pretty good, so get used to it.”

  Boiler finally relaxed, slinging his gun over his shoulder. “I just learned about quasis across the street, but I didn’t think I’d encounter one so soon.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. There aren’t really that many of us, and we tend to get ourselves shot. Can’t imagine why.”

  “Are there any pros to being a quasi, though?”

  “If we got into hand-to-hand combat, I could tear your face up so bad that even the ugliest quasi would look like Brad Pitt in comparison.”

  “So you’re stronger?”

  “Quite a bit stronger.”

  “As strong as the infecteds?”

  “Something like that, but we’re not infecteds. Get that through your head. So what are you here for?”

  “I’m looking for Gloom.”

  She bowed slightly. “You’ve found her.”

  “I’d like to wash up.”

  “The bathhouse will be open soon. We’re heating up the water—no sense keeping it hot round the clock.”

  “Got any clean clothes?”

  “Rags aplenty, for any taste.”

  “So, shower, rags, and a night on a soft bed. I wouldn’t mind a hot meal, either.”

  “Got it. But I run a no-violence establishment here, you get me? You start waving your fists around and you’ll leave a blind cripple. Any disputes get taken outside. You hear me?”

  “Got it.” As if they’d be tolerated outside, anyway.

  “The dining area is down the hall. Pretty empty now, but people will start pouring in soon, and you’ll be able to grab a hot meal and a drink there. Don’t bang on the dishes, don’t rip the tablecloth, and keep your voice at a reasonable level. No fights inside.

  “Also, people are only allowed inside once they’ve cleaned themselves up. If you really want to eat right now, they’ll bring you something outside. I have standards to maintain, you know. And no pinching anything, or we’ll beat you to a pulp, and that won’t be taken outside. We’re hard on stealing, so no worries about that. You can leave a box of spores right in the middle of the hall and no one will lay a hand on them.

  “We’ve got some escorts for you, if you want. Everything’s for sale. For an hour, for a night, whatever you’d like. You pay up front, but no beating them, no maiming them—you take care of the goods, you hear? First you need that bath, or I won’t sell you any. Wouldn’t want to dirty our reputation.”

  “You don’t have to be rude about it.”

  “I’m not being rude. But my customers will be rude if they see you, covered in blood and shit and who knows what else, putting a hand on my girls. I didn’t buy their French lingerie to see it wasted on scumbags like you.”

  “Whoa now, I’m not touching anyone. I’ll pick up some clothes and get down to that bath.”

  * * *

  Boiler arrived a little early. He had spent most of the interim taking to Gloom as he was picking out his clothes. The girl had warmed up to him over time, proving that even monsters could have a decent heart. He even got a couple of free cans of beer out of it, and he was grateful.

  The bathhouse was little more than a steam room with a pool outside, and so Boiler sat, soaking in the water vapor and sipping on his beer. Some unwritten rules probably forbade alcohol in here, but he didn’t care. He wanted to drink, and wanted to relax, and this was the way to do it. For the first time in five days, he felt clean. He wasn’t a germaphobe, but he did love basic hygiene, so the filth was one of the things he most hated about the Hive.

  The steam room door swung open, and a naked man of about forty strode in, most of his body obscured by his enormous stomach. He held a bottle of expensive whiskey in one hand and a cheap plastic cup in the other, a juxtaposition of extravagance and frugality. The vices of the night before were still evidenced on his face, and his hands trembled noticeably even though his stride was confident.

  “Oh, sorry, thought the place was empty. Who the heck are you, anyway?” The man spoke with a thick accent.

  “Boiler.”

  “They call me Tiny. Godfather who named me was real joker. Want a drink?”

  Boiler lifted his beer can into view.

  “Bah, soda for little girls!”

  “More like piss, actually.”

  “Indeed. But come on, I want you to drink something good instead. The evening has been tough one, but I do not regret. Very fun time, in all senses of word. Too bad I do not remember all of it. Were you with us yesterday? I do not remember you.”

  “I wasn’t here.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Far away, trying my best to survive.”

  “Very worthy activity. Then let us drink to survival, and to wonderful evenings!”

  Plastic cup and aluminum can quietly met in the air, and both of them drank, Tiny draining his glass, grunted, and sniffed.

  “Yuck. They should keep this shit for when they have to wash floors. Give me minute and I will come back with vodka.”

  “I’ve got my beer.”

  “Suit yourself. What is wrong with leg?”

  “Everything. Two pieces of shrapnel, some buckshot, and a crossbow bolt.”

  “All in same leg?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sounds like leg causes you nothing but trouble. Cut it off! One more round then, to your health.”

  The door flew open and a disheveled man peeped in, his face decorated with an astounding panoply of bruises. When he spoke, it was evident he was a professional alcoholic. “You drinking in here?”

  “Why are you always so surprised at this, Slicer? Never seen honest people drink before? And who painted your face blue like that, anyway?”

  “Uh, well...”

  “You want to drink with us?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, bring something to drink from!”

  “Got it.”

  When he returned, it was clear that he was the one who should have been nicknamed “Tiny.” Boiler did a double take. Instead of a glass or a mug, he brought half of a soap dish with him, which puzzled the real Tiny to no end.

  “You should bring plunger instead of wine glass, maybe. At least plunger would hold decent amount of alcohol.”

  “I don’t want to go running around naked looking for a glass.”

  “You go running around naked all the time!”

  “Come on, just pour me some, you offered.”

  “As you wish. Here, meet my friend—his name is Boiler. Boiler, this miserable addict is called Slicer. Another round, to our new friendship!”

  Boiler was less than thrilled that the steam room was melting into the world’s most pitiful watering hole. He rose. “Boys, it’s been fun, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Where to?” said Tiny, disappointed. “We were just getting started.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Hmm, sounds like good plan. Since you are going to main building, ask them to grill up some meat for me—I will be there soon.”

  “How much meat?”

  “Just say Tiny ask. They will know how much.”

  Chapter 29

  Despite Gloom’s assurances about the standards of his institutions, the dining hall was a cross between a tone-deaf incarnation of the Mos Eisley cantina and the kitchen of a Spanish slave galley. A few refinements had been attempted, but they did little to improve the atmosphere. The linoleum floors were not so much dirty as full of holes, but the tattered wallpaper was covered with suspicious stains. The only decorat
ion was the bald head of a young moose hanging from the wall, the tables and chairs were cheap plastic junk, and the bar counter was made of lightly polished wood that had seen far beyond its share of spills, dents, and scratches. The smell of liquor pervaded the room, along with the aromatic afterlife of a proprietary concoction of shitty food and vomit. When Boiler opened the door, one of the guests was full-on yelling, loud as a manmincer.

  Boiler took in the scene through squinting eyes, struggling to adjust from the dark hallway to the multitude of lamps set throughout the room. He glanced at the few guests, then stared at the side of the room with the counter. A widescreen TV was set up, and on its screen two boxers, one black and one white, were having a go at each other. The white boxer was struggling to keep his feet.

  A pimple-faced boy of fourteen or so manned the counter. Doubting they had a menu, Boiler simply asked for something good that could be made quickly. The boy promised him soup and “the most delicious burger this side of the Hive,” plus a salad and some freshly baked bread. Boiler turned down the shot the young man offered. That beer had been enough; any more would start to dull his senses.

  This decision was an uncommon one here in the dining hall—all the other visitors were draining shots innumerable.

  He pointed at the TV. “Who’s fighting? No way there’s reception here.”

  The boy shook his head. His voice cracked a bit. “Somebody brought us a recording, a whole USB drive full of boxing matches. But you’re right, no TV reception in the Hive, and we only have power thanks to our generator. If you find any interesting DVDs or video files, talk to Gloom and she’ll buy them. Not really movies, but concerts, events, that sort of thing. I mean, movies are OK, but only the latest releases are worth it.”

  Boiler nodded and sat, casually finished his beer, and reached for the second. That moment, another visitor burst through the door. He’d already had his fill of drink, and probably did by this time every day. Saggy pants, a stained tee shirt, and frayed cuffs, with one foot lacking a sock entirely and the other’s sock looking several weeks old. In contrast with all this, he wore a pristine cowboy hat, a Taj Mahal rising above the slums of Agra.

  The man touched a finger to his hat and announced his intentions, with a valiant attempt to sound sober, “I heard this place has the best vodka in the East. So I had to come try it myself.”

  Someone snorted, but no other reaction ensued. Boiler stared, frozen in place with his second can of beer unopened, as the visitor grabbed the bottle the barboy set on the counter, turned, and stared at Boiler in silence.

  He said nothing for nearly a full minute, then shook his head in disbelief. “I’d better quit drinking. Wait. Boiler, is that really you?”

  Boiler at last opened his can, held it up in a silent salute, and took a sip.

  Nimbler walked over, inadvertently knocking over a chair then collapsing into another across the table. He deftly uncorked the bottle, and tried unsuccessfully to gulp down its contents. “Damn the bastard who made these so narrow. Hey, boy, get me a glass! What kind of shithole bar doesn’t give a man a proper way to drink his beer?”

  Before he finished his sentence, the glass was on the table. His hand shaking, Nimbler poured a third of the bottle out and guzzled it down greedily. “Nobody in this damn world remembers how to make good beer. Least it’s not Coors. Are you sure that’s you, Boiler?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Praise the heavens, here I thought I was hallucinating. If you want to, you can punch me in the face, hard as you like. Just not in the nose, that hurts like hell when it’s healing.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “What?” He steadied himself with a hand on the table. “You the forgiving type?”

  “Do I look hurt to you? You were saving your own skin. You owed me absolutely nothing, so I don’t see why I should be offended.”

  “You sure have changed.”

  “That’s for sure. When a situation like that happens a few days later and your companion shoots you in the leg instead of just running away like you did, you become a little more understanding.”

  “Who fucked you up like that?”

  “Fisher.”

  “Fisherman?”

  “Nope, just Fisher.”

  “There’s a Fisherman here, drunk as a pig all day, saw him on a porch this morning in a puddle of vomit. You sure that’s not him? He’s not far, we could take him.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Like a pile of shit. Smells like it, too. He’s been here a week now, drunk his own wallet dry.”

  “Not him. This Fisher couldn’t have been in this town at all for the past few days.”

  “Too bad. I’d love a reason to fight Fisherman. Bastard. Anyway, since you aren’t mad at me, how about we change topics? I’m your godfather, after all, named you myself, and I still haven’t gotten over the way I left you there. Sure, the Hive is a new world, but we can’t lose everything about the old world, about ourselves, about our humanity, right? Or we’re no better than—than them. So I consider myself in your debt, and whatever you order is on me. What’d you get?”

  “Soup, a burger, some salad.”

  “I wasn’t talking about food, dammit.”

  “I’ve had two cans of beer, so I’ve had enough.”

  “The fuck you have. The vodka here is delicious, so let’s order a liter apiece and talk about the future. Maybe we can find a couple of girls, too. Gloom’s got everything we need. They’re the ugliest you’ve ever seen, but there’s no makeup works as good as a liter of vodka.”

  “No, no vodka, no girls. Have fun without me.”

  “You, my friend, are failing to properly consider the implications of the broader demographic situation.”

  “Did you even understand that sentence yourself?”

  “Alright, let me rephrase. How many babes have you seen since you got here?”

  Boiler thought about that. “Windbag, Gloom, and maybe one other. The one that works at Gloom’s who brought me clothing in my size from the back. Oh, and a middle-aged woman out on the street.”

  “So dozens of people, but only four women among them. How many men have you seen?”

  “There are eight of them right here in this room.”

  “Why so many men and so few women? The monsters go after the women immunes first. Some people say they find them easier to track. But whatever the cause, we immunes number ten men to every one woman. So that one might be as ugly as a primate, but here, she’s a princess. Particularly in a dirty stable at the edge of the world. Anyone coming back from the Edge stops here first, and immunes have stronger hormone imbalances than teens at a wet t-shirt prom. And might just kill you if you get in their way. It’s not uncommon to hear of men capturing female empties, tying them up, and using them. Kissing is out of the question, of course, and the romance in the atmosphere will be elusive at best, but everything else still works. Don’t you grimace like that, either. You turn up your nose at decent chances like the ones offered here and you might end up right with the empty-rapers someday. So how about I order a room and a couple of girls from Gloom? Or we could tag-team with one. That’ll be cheaper, maybe even more... comradely.”

  “If they’re all like the girl who brought me my clothing, I’ll pass. Hell, a ghoul would be cuter. And probably nicer.”

  “Raiders can’t be choosers. When it comes to loot, when it comes to spores, when it comes to women. You can take some time to acclimate first, I’ll allow that. But at least you’re in on some of that delicious vodka, right?”

  Boiler shook his head.

  “The Hive is no place for a monk, Boiler. If you don’t take some time off for yourself, some time to let go, the stress of life outside will kill you. That’s why these great stables are here, after all! Just guards, girls, and guzzlers, that’s all a raider really needs! We bring our loot here and squander it to give our nerves a break from the terrors of the Hive. It’s good for us and good for the stables. Nobo
dy comes here just to get a can of bloody beer!”

  “I guess I’ll be the first, then.”

  “You won’t be that way for long, take it from me.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “That we will. By the way, how the hell did you escape that manmincer? It figured out what I was up to fast and headed straight back your way. What happened then?”

  “I killed it.”

  “Somehow I believe you. You sure you don’t want another drink? Well, I’ll have another, if it’s all the same to you. Or two. In the Hive, Boiler, you can down liter after liter of liquor with virtually no hangover. As long as you don’t forget lifejuice, too. That nectar of the hivegods cures all ills for us immunes. You can smoke all you want, too—no immune has ever come down with lung cancer. That disgusting parasite living inside us protects us from virtually everything that wants us dead. It’s protecting its host, after all. We still don’t know if it’s a virus, prion, bacterium, fungus, whatever—I doubt anyone knows. Here, let’s drink to the health of our mysterious stowaways!”

  Boiler had never gazed so lustfully after a burger as he did after the one they placed before him just then. Nimbler smelled the dish and asked the server, “Look, I realize you’re cooking humans into patties here, but the meat’s fresh at least, right?”

  “He always jokes like that,” the teenager reassured Boiler with a smile. “These are beef patties with a little chicken and butter. I’ll have your salad out in a minute.”

  The quicker of the two feasting raiders nabbed the patty currently under scrutiny, bit the smaller half of it off, and complained as he chewed. “I didn’t think I was hungry, but one look at that burger changed my mind. You been here long?”

  “Since this afternoon.”

  “Good move, coming to a stable. Someone must have helped you out, though, or you’d never have found the place.”

  “You meet all kinds of people, you know. Some help you, others fight you. And still others help you, then shoot you in the leg to feed you to a trampler.”