Malcolm groaned. He pulled the fish loose from his belt and passed it over to Greg without meeting the man’s eye. It was necessary for him to collect all the bullets he could, even if it meant making bad trades to obtain them. And eating weasel for the night.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” said Greg, with a nod.
“You know, I’d call you a cheap ass swindler if you weren’t so polite,” said Malcolm.
“It’s a good business strategy, given the circumstances,” said Greg. “It’s why I have repeat customers.”
Malcolm picked up the bullet and slipped it into his pocket. He lingered in the bazaar for a few minutes longer. The spectrum of items for sale was limited to the stuff of survival. Clothes, food, weapons, candles and fuel for those lucky enough to be able to afford them. Clean water in jugs. Malcolm got his from the brook, as did most others brave enough to venture out of Vanderbrook and into the woods.
He listened to the gossip of the crowd. A couple of teenagers were arguing with an older man about the Europa mission. Malcolm, along with most of the rest of the town, had heard about it a few weeks earlier.
“They’ll rescue Savior and everything will go back to normal,” said one of the teenagers.
“You’re a fool if you think things will ever go back to normal,” said the man. “And there’s no way the mission goes off without a hitch.”
A rocket had been launched out of desperation, taking off from one of the small corners of California where law and order still reigned. Funded by the billionaire aerospace financier Tom Willis, the mission had originally been planned to put the first humans on Mars using solar sails and an advanced reaction drive. In the wake of Second Wind’s destruction, changing the target from Mars to Europa, where many claimed Savior still lived in exile, had been an easy enough sell.
“Things have to go back to normal!” shouted one of the teenagers. “They have to! We can’t live like this forever! Savior will come back, and he’ll kill Zeus, and, and…”
The teenager trailed off. Malcolm empathized with his frustration. So much had been lost in such a short amount of time. For him personally, the lack of electricity or running water was just the start.
I lost my powers. And I lost my friends.
He refused to let himself dwell on those types of thoughts as he headed out of the bazaar. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t accomplish anything. He had food for the night, and an extra bullet for his gun. That should have been enough to content him.
“Wind Runner!” A high pitched, mocking voice came from within a nearby alleyway. “Where are you going, Wind Runner?”
Malcolm was still recognized by his champion identity, though it was common knowledge to those who remembered him that he’d lost his powers. It didn’t gain him anything to be Wind Runner anymore, beyond the occasional pitying glance or disappointed stare.
Bennett, the leader of a small, poorly equipped local gang, stepped out into the street. He was a tall and beefy looking, and he had a face that seemed to be perpetually set into a sneer. He was in the habit of mugging anyone he suspected to be weaker than him and his gang, and the two thugs flanking him left no doubt in Malcolm’s mind what he intended.
“I’m going down the street,” said Malcolm. “I’m surprised that you couldn’t work that one out yourself, Bennett. Though I’m sure you’re pretty used to having simple things explained to you.”
Malcolm kept walking, hoping that he could shake Bennett and the thugs off with bravado alone. He had his gun on him, but the last thing he wanted to do was use it. A gun with four bullets was good as a deterrent and little else. He didn’t have the ammunition for a firefight against multiple opponents.
“What are you going to do, Wind Runner?” called Bennett. “Fly away?”
Malcolm gritted his teeth and pulled his gun out from where he had it tucked into the waistline of his pants. Bennett was the kind of man who he would have enjoyed fighting, back when he was a champion. He was a cocky bully, one that deserved what he had coming to him.
“Back off,” said Malcolm. “Or I open fire.”
“Rumor has it that you barely even have bullets for that thing.” Bennett stared at Malcolm, a slow smile creeping onto his face. His eyes darted to the side. Malcolm whirled, but not quickly enough to get completely out of the way as a hidden fourth goon swung a baseball bat into his shoulder.
Malcolm stumbled back. He fired, and was rewarded with a cry of pain as one of Bennett’s goons took a bullet to the leg. It wasn’t enough to stop them, not now that they’d struck the first blow. Malcolm didn’t have time to take aim again before Bennett and his thugs were upon him, punching, kicking, and eventually, stripping loose his pistol.
He let out a wordless cry of anger and hopelessness. Each time Malcolm felt like he was finally getting his footing back in the world, something else was taken from him. Would it just be his gun this time? Or would it be his life, too?
Shouts sounded in the distance. Gunshots attracted attention in Vanderbrook, scavengers knowing that if they arrived on the scene at just the right time, they could strip a body of whatever was left on it of value. Bennett swore under his breath and kicked Malcolm hard in the ribs.
“You’re not even worth me wasting a bullet on you to end your life.” He kicked Malcolm again, and one of his ribs surged with pain. “Thanks for the gun, Wind Runner.”
Something wet landed on Malcolm’s cheek, and then he heard Bennett and his thugs retreating, leaving him lying in the street. Malcolm stumbled to his knees, wiping away spit and feeling his face burning with hot shame.
They’d even taken the dead weasel from him. Malcolm scowled, knowing it meant he’d go hungry that night. He slipped a hand into his pocket and found that they’d missed the extra bullet he’d traded the fish for.
Maybe I can trade it for some food…
The thought wasn’t all that comforting, given the extent of what he’d lost that day. His face was bruised and puffy. His chest ached each time he took a breath. He stumbled through the streets, trying to avoid areas that would have any people in them, not trusting that he wouldn’t get jumped a second time if he stayed out in the open.
He’d been a champion once.
CHAPTER 3
Malcolm spent most of the rest of the day collecting materials to make more traps. There wasn’t much else he could do. He didn’t want to spend any more time in town than he needed to after the mugging, and aside from doing nothing, he didn’t have many other options.
He set up one more fish trap, and scoped out a tree that he might be able to use for a rock trap before heading back to his hideaway. He made his way there along a roundabout route, not wanting to telegraph to anyone where he lived.
He’d already given up his apartment, along with most of the remaining belongings inside of it. The section of Vanderbrook he’d once lived in was now too volatile for him to risk leaving any of his possessions on their own, and letting his guard down to sleep at night was totally out of the question.
Malcolm’s hideout was a small, very well-hidden cellar under a simple hatch in the ground in the ruins of an old warehouse. It was cold, and had a musty smell to it, but he’d found a small, solar powered LED flashlight in the early days after the collapse to use for light.
Malcolm waited across the street, watching until he was positive the coast was clear, and then slipped into the warehouse. He worked open the combination lock and pulled the hatch open, dropping down and replacing the lock on the inside to keep out any intruder that might happen upon it.
Everything as just as he’d left it. A single small mattress. A scattering of now useless electronics. A few rough changes of clothing; he’d sold all of the nice stuff in the first few weeks, before he’d developed the skill to trap his own food. He had no food now, of course, but he did have several full jugs of water, which he turned his attention to next.
Malcolm cleaned his wounds slowly, using only the water, but scrubbing as roughly as he could bear. They were m
ostly on his face - at least the injuries he could do something about. His aching shoulder and possibly cracked rib would have to be ignored.
He drank as much water as he could, filling his stomach until it was painful enough to make him forget his hunger. It was only late afternoon, but lacking anything else to do, he collapsed onto his mattress and forced himself to get some sleep.
Tomorrow’s another day. Fingers crossed. Maybe it will suck less.
He didn’t fall asleep immediately. He never did. As soon as his head was resting against his pillow, his thoughts turned to Rose, and to Tapestry. He hadn’t heard anything from either of them for months, long enough to make him question if they were still alive.
The thought of his friends being dead or in danger chafed at him like nothing else could. Malcolm had accepted the fact that he’d lost his superpowers, his wind manipulation, and his power mimicry. What he couldn’t accept was how much that had limited him when it came to protecting the people he cared about.
He couldn’t fly off to nearby cities and ask if they’d seen Tapestry, or if a shadow spryte had been spotted anywhere nearby. He couldn’t sweep in, find the people he loved, and fly them to safety. He felt powerless, and he could accept what that meant for himself, but not for what it meant for others.
Malcolm would keep looking for them as soon as he was back on his feet. He’d trade whatever he could catch for bullets, and would slowly build up enough value to trade for a new gun. Then, he’d set out.
The plan seemed audacious to him even as he thought of it. He could barely do enough foraging to feed himself, let alone having a surplus to bring to the trading square. Still, Malcolm held to it, resolving that somehow, he would find a way forward. A way back to his friends.
He fell asleep to the echo of that precious thought.
***
The traps were empty the next morning. Malcolm’s entire body ached with pain, and he’d reached the stage of hunger where true exhaustion kicks in. Hating himself for what he knew he had to do, he slowly made his way toward the bazaar, fingering the bullet in his pocket.
It was a strange comfort to see how destitute so many of the other people living in Vanderbrook were. Malcolm didn’t wish similar circumstances to his own on any one, but seeing people who shared them made it easier to shake off the self-loathing, and the sense that he somehow deserved to be hungry and dirty.
And powerless. Maybe I deserved that, too.
Or maybe not. He shook away his thoughts as he walked over to Greg’s little outdoor shop. The trader frowned as he saw him approach, which made Malcolm more aware of the swelling and the cuts on his face.
His attention was diverted from Greg by an unusual amount of commotion coming from further within the trading square. Malcolm felt his old instincts kicking in, drawing him toward the sounds of jeers and laughter.
Several well-armed men were leading a chained woman into the center of the market. She wore only her underwear, and she was even dirtier and more roughed up than Malcolm. But he recognized her, even with the bruises and slow healing scratches on her face.
Chaste Widow…
She was a slender, tanned woman of Asiatic descent, and she’d once been a regular at Terri’s Tavern. Her underwear didn’t leave much to the imagination, showing off the ample curves of her breasts and butt. Malcolm felt a flash of anger as he considered the chains around her wrists, and what that meant for a woman as attractive as she was.
“She’s for sale!” shouted the man carrying the other end of her shackles. “And she’s cheap. This bitch is one of the cursed!”
Malcolm frowned. The word “cursed” had become as common a way of referring to champions and monsters, the same as “gifted”, the original term, had been before the collapse. In Chaste Widow’s case, it actually seemed appropriate.
“She’s fine lookin’,” said one of the men in the crowd. “How’s she cursed, though?”
“Why don’t you kiss her and find out?” asked the slaver. “Three of my men! Three!”
He lashed out with his free hand, striking Chaste Widow across the shoulders and knocking her to her knees.
“Three dead men, and I don’t even have the heart to lie and pawn this psycho slut off on someone else,” said the slaver. “I should just kill her. But these are hard times, as I’m sure you all know. So she’s for sale, but I make it clear to anyone interested… kissing her means death. Her lips touch yours, and you die.”
Malcolm had been one of the few, if not the only person to kiss Chaste Widow and survive her kiss of death. At the time, it had been as simple as absorbing her power and becoming immune to the effects. He’d taken it for granted, barely even considered what he was doing. So much had changed since then.
“Well?” shouted the slaver. “No need to be coy about your offers. Just shout them right out.”
The crowd immediately began to disperse. Most people backed up like they might from someone with a contagious disease. It didn’t seem to be the reaction the slaver was hoping for.
“Anyone?” shouted the slaver. “Just give me an opening bid. I’ll consider it, I’m not picky.”
Malcolm fingered the bullet in his pocket. His stomach ached from hunger. A single bullet would be worth a loaf of bread, possibly a big one, if Greg was feeling generous.
“I’ll take her,” he said. He felt a little ashamed that it had taken him so long for him to force the words out.
The slaver frowned at him. “You don’t look like you have–”
Malcolm walked up to him and pressed the bullet into his palm. The slaver looked down at it, and then let out a laugh.
“A single bullet,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s good luck or bad luck for you that this just happens to be the caliber I need for my pistol. She’s all yours, kid. But be careful about those lips. Fine for most places, but don’t let them touch your mouth.”
Malcolm slowly exhaled, trying to keep a sudden surge of anger contained.
“Take the shackles off her,” he said.
“You sure?” The slaver quirked an eyebrow. “I was going to give you those along with her.”
“Take them off,” Malcolm repeated. “Now.”
He could feel the coldness in his own expression as he watched the man working the key and pulling loose Chaste Widow’s bonds. She didn’t say anything, not even when Malcolm came closer, and offered her what he hoped would pass for a reassuring smile.
“It’s okay,” said Malcolm. “Remember me? I’m not going to do anything weird. You can go free. I only bought you to let you go.”
Chaste Widow wouldn’t meet his gaze. Malcolm waited for a minute, wondering how long it would take her to process the situation. She looked like she was in a state of numb shock.
He turned to glance around at the rest of the market. A half dozen people who’d been watching quickly looked away from him, too paranoid to even make eye contact. Malcolm started to take a step back toward his hideout. Chaste Widow grabbed his wrist.
I can’t just leave her here…
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you some water. And some clothes.”
She didn’t say anything, but her grip on his wrist tightened.
CHAPTER 4
Back at his hideout, Malcolm gently helped Chaste Widow down the ladder and into his dim and dusty abode. If she was at all bothered by it, she didn’t mention it. In fact, she still hadn’t said a single word to him.
“I know I’m repeating myself, but you’re free to go, if you decide you want to,” said Malcolm. “Or welcome to stay here, if you need some time. I have some water jugs in the corner by my bed. No food, though.”
His stomach made it impossible for him to forget that fact. He would have to go hunting again before the day was out. Probably sooner, rather than later, given how fast his energy was draining.
“Uh…” Malcolm scratched the back of his head, trying to find the words for another point he had to address. “Just so you know, I don’t have my powe
rs anymore. It’s a story for another time, but I figured you should be aware. Your power might kill me if we kiss.”
He cringed, hating the way he’d phrased it even as the words left his mouth. Surprisingly, Chaste Widow gave a slow nod.
“I won’t… kiss you,” she said, softly.
Malcolm had turned his LED light on, and he could see the sad expression on her face. She looked tired and broken, so different from the feisty, confident woman he’d met in Terri’s Tavern months earlier. It felt like both of them had lived an entire lifetime since then, and he suddenly wondered if he looked to her as worn down as she did to him.
“Clothes!” he said, as his eyes wandered down to her bra clad breasts. “Uh, it’s all men’s stuff. Probably baggy on you, but better than nothing. Take your pick.”
He gestured over to the sad pile of somewhat dirty clothing on the ground that his wardrobe consisted of. Chaste Widow nodded and slowly started looking through them.
“I need to get us food,” said Malcolm. “I’m going to leave the lock by the ladder while I’m gone, okay? Just so you can still leave, if you want.”
She didn’t answer him. He wondered if she understood exactly how much trust he was placing in her. If she wanted to, she could snap the combination lock on the inside of the hatch as soon as he left and steal Malcolm’s hideout for herself.
And what an impressive hideout it is. No food, no running water. Truly an estate fit of a king.
“I’ll be back as soon as I find something,” he said. “Don’t expect filet mignon.”
That got a small smile out of her. Malcolm felt himself grinning in response. He climbed out of the hideout, martialing his trust as he closed the hatch behind him.
One of the fish traps had done its job in the time since Malcolm had last checked it. He grinned as he pulled an impressively sized fish out of the net and thwacked it once against the rocks. His log trap was still empty, but in the process of checking it, he discovered a rabbit in the bushes nearby and managed to get his foot down on top of it.
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