by Jim Heskett
“Careful,” one guard said as he waved them on. “You might not like what you see in there.”
Kellen’s brain buzzed with anticipation. His heart thudded in his chest. He gripped White’s hand before he opened the door, and White gripped it back.
Inside the anteroom to the merry-go-round, the former gift shop was dark. Farrah, the town council leader, dragged on a home-rolled cigarette, leaning up against the gift shop door. Her face seemed weary, eyes vacant. A fresh gash across her forehead, crusty blood encircling the wound.
“Morning,” she said. “You two finally decide to move up here?”
“Hey, Farrah,” Kellen said. “No, we’re still happy in Denver.”
“Suit yourself.”
Kellen pointed at the set of doors leading into the merry-go-round. The glass doors had been covered with newspaper, but he could hear noises coming from inside.
White cleared his throat. “What’s going on in there?”
“Something ugly. Something I wish we didn’t have to be a part of, but I don’t see how we have much choice.”
Kellen raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
She flicked her eyes to the paper-covered doors. “We were attacked yesterday. Eighteeners. They came down over the hills.”
“Over the hills? Are they crazy?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. You can see for yourself.”
She pulled on her cigarette and said no more, just went back to staring listlessly at the floor.
Kellen and White pushed open the doors into the indoor merry-go-round. The giant circle adorned with wooden and plastic animals and carriages took up most of the room. A smattering of townspeople lined the surrounding edges.
Farrah’s husband Quentin was standing next to Coyle, the man who had single-handedly assaulted the Denver Airport three years before. With half of Kellen’s arsenal making it possible, although Kellen never seemed to get much credit for his contribution.
The two of them were standing over a man with his hands secured to the pole anchoring a unicorn to the merry-go-round. The man’s face was purple with bruises. His black hair was matted to his head, slicked back with blood. He said nothing, only breathed, his shoulders rising and falling. The handcuffs around his wrist lightly clinked against the pole as they shifted up and down.
Quentin spun. “Kellen, White.” He nodded at the beaten man. “I’m sorry you have to see this.”
“I understand,” Kellen said. “Farrah already gave us the cryptic warning outside.”
“I keep telling myself they’d do the same to me,” Quentin said with a bitter expression on his face.
The prisoner sneered, showing a set of teeth stained red with blood. He then opened his mouth to speak, but Coyle smacked him across the face to keep that from happening.
Kellen cleared his throat. “Did they really come down over the hills?”
Coyle grumbled, not taking his eyes off the restrained man. “They did.”
Kellen noted Coyle’s knuckles were bloodied and bruised. Everyone standing around this battered and imprisoned man seemed to wear the guilt of their actions like suits of heavy armor. All quiet, with eyes down. Kellen himself had been held captive by George Grant, made to analyze an endless stream of data. He didn’t like to see anyone in shackles, even an enemy.
“What do they want?” White said.
“Ask him,” Quentin said, lifting a finger at the prisoner.
The Eighteener spat on the ground. “I’m not telling you shit.”
“You’ve already told us enough,” Quentin said, with a grim look in his eyes. He then flicked his toward the door, and he, Kellen, and White left the room. Coyle and the others stayed behind to keep an eye on the prisoner.
Once they were back in the anteroom, Farrah snuffed out her cigarette and joined their circle next to the old cash register station.
“Do they know about the bunker?” Kellen said.
“Not sure,” Quentin said, “but that’s the most reasonable theory. Yesterday’s invasion was a scouting party of some sort. Just a few dozen of them. They were trying to gather info and then escape back to wherever.”
Kellen frowned. “Did any of them get away?”
“A few,” Farrah said. “If they were looking for the bunker, they didn’t find it. But if they know we’re here, and they’ve gone to this much trouble already, they must be after it.”
“I don’t see why this is a problem,” White said. “You have thousands of people here. Lots of guns.”
Quentin nodded toward the door leading into the merry-go-round. “If what this one says is true, there are five to ten thousand of these Eighteeners out there. The last year or two they’ve gained some power and are now sweeping back through from the west. According to him, anyway.”
White chewed on his lower lip. “Do you believe him?”
“I do,” Kellen said, interjecting. “There have been a lot more of them in Denver lately. Gathering, looks like. Maybe they want to push east and take on Rappaport’s army.”
Farrah wagged a finger. “Now that is something that’s up for debate.”
“What do you mean?” Kellen said.
“Rappaport’s army.” She said the last word with air quotes around it. “Some say it’s a thousand strong, some say twenty thousand. My money is on the first one.”
“However many they have,” Kellen said, “they’re beating back the Infinity out east. Enough to make a difference.”
Kellen couldn’t recognize the look on White’s face. Concern, but something deeper than that. Something inside him was changing.
“We should call a council meeting,” Quentin said. “There are plenty of reasons to stay and fight, but if we lose our home in the middle of winter, things could get bad for our people.”
“Losing the bunker is what counts,” Farrah said. “We give that up, we let go of any leverage we might have had.”
“We’ll go east,” White said.
All of them paused and looked at White.
“What?” Kellen said.
White nodded, searching the ceiling with his eyes as if convincing himself of the idea. “Me and Kellen. We’ll go east and meet with Rappaport. Get her support and bring troops back here. If she has a thousand, we’ll borrow five hundred. If she has ten thousand, we’ll bring back five thousand. Enough to make a difference.”
Quentin regarded Kellen. “Are you on board?”
They’re staring at you, said the voice inside Kellen’s head. Judging you. He could feel all their eyes on him to decide. And no matter what he chose, it seemed like it would be the wrong path.
Chapter 7
Alma - Kansas
Alma, Hector, and George stood at the boundary of the University of Kansas in Lawrence. The light stone buildings with their red roofs were stoic in their dormant state, like modern-day ancient ruins. People used to learn here. Part of Alma resented that because she’d never had the chance to have a college education. She’d had to learn everything the hard way. Painful experience, mistakes, and progressive failure. But, then again, if she’d lived the pampered life of a college student, maybe she wouldn’t have earned the same drive.
There was no way to know, so she shrugged it off.
Alma turned to her father and waved a hand to beckon him toward her. Silent, but with a confused look on his face, he leaned down. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he laced his hands around her waist. She hadn’t hugged her father nearly often enough.
Behind Alma and the others were five hundred soldiers in formation, steam pushing from their cold mouths. She allowed them to keep the white bandannas that made them feel like their own tribe. For now, at least. Once they had proper uniforms, she would do away with those silly props they wore.
In front of them were thousands of tents all across campus. A village of possibility, spread out among the trees and buildings.
“I didn’t think I would believe it until I saw it,” George said.
“And now?” she said.
“It’s hard to think of people coming together at all for a common purpose anymore. But, we do like to cluster into groups, don’t we?”
“Community makes people feel like they’re involved in something bigger than themselves,” she said. “It’s human nature not only to want purpose, but to feel the validation of having the same purpose as other people.”
George nodded. “Who’s the local leader here? Who did you leave in charge?”
“I left no one in charge. This is an independent group. But we are here to speak with a man named Sheridan. That’s who we will negotiate with.”
“Negotiate?” George said. “I thought you told me they were loyal to you.”
“Not yet, but they will be. Sheridan is a good man, and a reasonable one. We met in Texas, and my father stepped in to help him in that bar fight that ended with a knife to his throat.”
George looked to Hector, and the former general pointed at the scar across his throat, blinking his agreement.
“So you have a good history,” George said.
“Yes.”
“But,” George said, doubt on his face, “you don’t have any arrangement with him about sending all of these thousands of troops to follow you off on a mission to unite all the Eighteeners.”
“No, I don’t. But, it won’t be a problem. Like I said, Sheridan is a reasonable man. He will appreciate how my proposition will benefit him, and he will not resist. I am sure of it.”
Alma studied George’s reaction. He wasn’t pleased, but that didn’t matter. They’d already traveled hundreds of miles together, and he would see this through. She would not allow him to back out for any reason.
He was insistent they travel to Denver to recover this black box, anyway, and if that kept him motivated for now, then so be it.
Alma stopped outside the largest tent, the one closest to the center. She didn’t know for sure the leader of this Eighteener army would be there, but it was a reasonable assumption. Various versions of the speech she would make to Sheridan had floated through her head for the last several days. She was ready. Confident.
Her father and George stood behind her. They seemed content to let her make the decisions, and that pleased her. Not that they could have put up much argument; with his slashed throat, Hector could barely speak, and George was a broken man. A skeptic, but usually an agreeable one. She’d spent the time to travel to Virginia and recruit him because she’d assumed his planning smarts would help them.
She still didn’t know if that decision would pan out.
George’s name carried plenty of weight, and the troops who’d followed her this far seemed to like having him around. Someone from the original revolution who gave her legitimacy. She resented that she needed legitimacy, but she’d have to put aside her pride. Winning was more important than pride. Pulling the remnants of this country out of the muck was more important than pride.
In front of the tent were two men marked with the usual white bandannas, each holding shotguns. The Eighteeners didn’t previously wear those silly bandannas at all, but they had to differentiate themselves from the Red Streets somehow. Many of them had also taken to tattooing 18 on their necks or faces.
As she drew near, the two men stepped closer, blocking the entrance to the tent.
Neither of them spoke, only shook their heads. Both were tall and wide, with lean muscles and closely cropped hair, like bouncers at a nightclub.
“You,” she said, pointing at the one on the left. “You know me. I was here a year ago.”
“Things have changed,” the man said. “As they always do.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “What does that mean?”
“It means a lot of things,” he said. “I’m not sure if I’m in the mood to have a long discussion with you about it.”
The other guard leveled a finger at George, his head cocked. “You look familiar, man. Do I know you?”
George pursed his lips and shook his head. “Doubt it. I don’t get this far out west very often.”
“I don’t have time for this,” Alma said. “Either shoot us for trespassing or let us in to see him. I have important business.”
“To see who?”
“Sheridan,” she said. “I know he’s in there.”
Both of the guards chuckled, shared a look, and then stepped to the side to reveal the entrance. “Suit yourself. You might not like what you find, though.”
She tried not to show the confusion scrambling her insides. Their condescension would have to be dealt with later, once she could do something about it.
She entered the tent with Hector and George behind her, and what she saw made her jaw tighten. Jarvis, a loud-mouthed braggart of a military captain, sitting in the same chair Sheridan had occupied during her last visit. Different insignia on his uniform than she’d remembered.
His eyes were down, studying a map over a table, making notes in a spiral notebook. Around him, a dozen men and women were standing along the edges of that table, studying their own maps. Moving chess pieces across them, drawing lines with markers. A war-planning session.
“Where is Sheridan?” Alma said.
Jarvis lifted his eyes and grinned. “You again? I thought we got rid of your ass for good last time.”
She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through it, but her annoyance wanted to race out of her like volcanic spew. “Why are you in the leader’s tent, Jarvis?”
He dropped a pen on the map and rose to his feet, the holstered pistol on his belt bumping against the table. Grabbed an apple from a plate and sunk his teeth into it. “Sheridan is dead, Alma,” he said, chewing. “Things haven’t been the same around here for some time. It’s just me now.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She’d pinned all of her hopes on persuading Sheridan, and now she would have to rearrange everything. Her grand speech was as useless as dirt.
This couldn’t be happening.
Jarvis cleared his throat. “Okay, so, if you don’t have any more questions, you should probably go. There’s nothing for you here, and I’ve got a lot of work to do today.”
Panic gripped her chest. This was not how things were supposed to go.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I’m not surprised. Let me spell it out for you. Sheridan was weak. I am not. That should just-about bring us up to speed. Would you like me to repeat it, but slower this time?”
After a few deep breaths to settle her racing nerves, she resigned herself to the fact that whatever she’d expected before, now she would need to adapt. What would her father in his prime have done in this situation? What would Edward LaVey have done?
Best get on with it. Work with him.
She spread a hand out over the maps on the table. “What is this?”
“We’re going east, to crush Rappaport. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
Alma hid the smile that wanted to spread across her lips. She saw her way in. “Facing her as you are is a mistake.”
“Really?” Jarvis said, planting his hands on his hips. He drew the pistol but kept the barrel pointed at the ground. “Maybe you could enlighten me.”
A few of the others around the table noticed Jarvis’ exposed gun, and they drew weapons of their own. The room grew quiet, everyone’s eyes on Jarvis.
She held her arms out to gain their attention. “Listen to me, please. Do you know who these men with me are?”
“Nope,” Jarvis said, studying both of their faces. “Look like a bunch of broken relics.”
“This is Hector Castillo and George Grant, of the Five Suns. Members of the rightful government of this country. They began this revolution, and they will help us finish it. They will show us the way to get home.”
Several of the soldiers stopped what they were doing to eye Hector. Her father stood firm, eyes forward, not spea
king. It was better if he didn’t speak. His raspy voice only communicated weakness, not strength. His face, though, accomplished exactly what she’d wanted it to do. The people around the table softened when they realized the old man with the slashed throat was indeed Hector Castillo.
The room seemed to change. Confidence swelled inside her.
Jarvis didn’t seem convinced, though. He approached, now raising the pistol. He hoisted the barrel and pointed it at George’s head. Alma started. They hadn’t brought guns with them, and their own army of Eighteeners was back beyond the tents.
“I don’t know if I give a shit who these old assholes are,” Jarvis said, leaning close to George’s face. “Why should I let a power-hungry bitch like you have any say in what we do? Huh? Answer me that.”
“Because,” she said, “there are ten thousand more of us out west, and they are still loyal to my father. Waiting for us to come collect them.”
“Is that so?”
“It is the truth. You want to take on Rappaport and own these lands? You want to do it without losing thousands of your own men?”
He didn’t lower the pistol, but he did at least take his finger off the trigger. “I’m listening.”
“Come west with us. Let your army march, and we will reunite with our people on the other side of the Rockies. Form one force, and we can crush Rappaport, the Red Streets, and the remnants of the Infinity cult in one fell swoop.”
Jarvis pursed his lips, considering.
Chapter 8
Kellen - Kansas
Years ago, when Kellen had first escaped captivity and moved west, there were border crossings at every state line, in every town. A remnant from the days near the end, when state governments began to fear each other, so they built lengthy fences and installed barricaded towers and guard stations. Made it illegal to pass from one state to the next. Then, when the federal government fell, and states followed, that made it easy for groups like the Infinity and other gangs to adopt those border stations, collecting tolls.