by Justin Sloan
At this, the man’s eyes narrowed. He stared at her, and she wondered what was going through his head. Energy flowed from him, giving her a chill and then a flash of something sharp.
“You’re worried for me, yet…distrustful?”
He blinked, confused now, then unlocked the gate and motioned her in. “Quickly. It’s best we don’t speak out in the open.”
This was an unexpected reaction. She ducked inside, following him along the walls and behind the buildings, where it was less likely anyone would notice them. One little girl chased a tiny pig and looked up at her with wide eyes, but other than that they went unnoticed.
He stopped at a hut with a curtain for a door, pulled the curtain aside, and motioned her in.
When she had ducked into the hut, he followed. It was dark, not that it bothered her. The only light was the dim glow through the thick curtain. The man, however, seemed restless—very nervous.
“You have something to tell me?” she asked.
He nodded. “If the others knew I was doing this, they might exile me. Maybe remove my head.”
“Well, damn.” She glanced around, found a bench apparently made from wood and animal hide, and decided to sit for the revelation. “Go on, then. No reason to wait and risk them coming around.”
“Most are out,” he told her. “Something about seeing outsiders, and then…the ships.”
“I might have met your group,” Valerie admitted.
“The ones with the ships, or without?” He looked very nervous at this.
“With. Yours are…without?”
He nodded. “They’re afraid of the others, but not friendly. The ones with the airships, they took them from this group of bandits that has been gaining strength. Called themselves ‘Vikings’ and wore horns and all that shit like the old days. Some still do, but they’ve all been assimilated into this new group.”
“Oh?” This was news indeed. “So this new group… They’re not pirates? Or Vikings, I mean?”
He scoffed. “Are you asking if they steal and plunder? You’re damned right they do. But they’re worse than that; they’re fanatics. And that’s what I needed to tell you. That city you’re looking for, Trondheim? They took that city about six months ago. Your friends go there, they’re in for a world of pain.”
Valerie ran her hand through her hair, processing this.
“What reason would you have to lie to me about this?” she asked. “That’s the one thing I can’t figure out. If you’re telling the truth, I need to get to my friends faster than I thought, so I’m sitting here desperately hoping you’re lying to me.”
He laughed, but it lacked mirth. “I get the feeling you’re not someone who should be lied to.”
“That’s right, but a woman can hope.” She stood, not wanting to waste any more time. “How do I get there?”
He shook his head. “Is that really where you want to go?”
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, they own that city, but they have their homes elsewhere.”
Realization hit her like a smack in the face. “And if I take them out at their homes, I don’t have to worry about them in the city?”
He nodded, then turned his face up to the ceiling in thought. “Well, there’d still be the lookouts and the spies—those types in the city. But yes, if you had a force able to do that, your friends in the city would have much less to worry about.”
Valerie smiled. “Trust me, I have such a force.”
He gave her a skeptical look, then glanced around as if expecting to see an army surrounding them. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Trust me,” she repeated, standing and nodding in thanks. “Where are they?”
“One more thing,” he said, leading her back to the curtain. “This group, they came over from the land across the way. Iceland, it used to be called. Now I’ve heard they’ve started referring to it as ‘the Fortress’ on account of this new drug they’ve got. Gives them strength and helps them not feel pain, so nobody would want to try and attack that place. All because of some herb.”
“I might have come across some of that too,” she admitted.
“You…faced the drug?”
She nodded. She wasn’t going to mention that she had sucked a man’s blood who had just eaten the leaves and felt the power of the drug in his blood run through her.
“That, and I took down one or two of their ships.”
The man’s eyes went wide and he said something in Norwegian that she was pretty sure was a curse.
“Is that going to be a problem?” she asked.
“They’ll be out for blood once they know that, and they’ll come after us if they can’t find you.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to make sure there aren’t any of them left,” Valerie noted.
He sighed, shaking his head. “I wish you the best, and hope you have a damned army waiting out there. The gods might not be real, but they are something, and they’re scary as hell.”
“Where do I find these men, and…their gods?”
“The men will be in a city called Meldal.” He held the curtain aside and pointed at a mountain. It didn’t seem to be too far away. “There’s where they live, just on the other side. While your friends,” he pointed the opposite direction, “are that way, along the water. And then there are the gods. But the gods will find you.”
“Good,” she smiled, “because I’ll be waiting.”
“And your army?” he asked.
“It’s just me, but that’s all I’ll need.”
With that she ducked out of the door, scaled the wall, and leaped to the other side to be on her way. She didn’t have any time to spare if she wanted to kill these sons of bitches fast enough to get back and find her friends.
CHAPTER TEN
El Diablo
When the city of El Diablo finally came into view, Diego quickly understood where it had gotten its name. The city, if you could really call it that, was at the base of a small hill that had two dead trees on top—the trees looking like horns and some protruding rocks like the devil’s face.
It also reminded Diego of the place where Felix had been wounded, and he found himself grinding his teeth as they approached.
“These guys try anything,” he muttered as they set down the Pod a little way off, “and I swear to God I’ll rip them all to pieces before letting them harm any of you. You can count on that.”
“Good,” Platea said, glancing at Clara. “But I think we should sit this one out.”
“What?” Clara stared at her, then looked at the others for support.
Wallace shrugged with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, but she’s right. In this place we gotta watch out, you know, in case it gets dicey. You said so yourself.”
“Using what someone said against them isn’t nice.”
“It’s not really ‘against them’ if it’s to potentially save their life.”
“Sure, but you need us. We know—”
“We shared what we know,” Platea interrupted. “We’re staying in the Pod, and that’s final!”
Diego had to agree with Wallace and Platea, and Garcia’s dissenting grunt wasn’t enough to change anyone’s mind.
Their mission here wouldn’t be as simple as the one in Lady Woo’s city, though. As soon as they were within view of the city gates, the gates opened and a large group of humongous men and women walked out, each wearing a leather jackets or vest with a devil patch on the left shoulder.
“What the fuck do we have here, Arturo?” one of the largest of them said with a glance at the runt of the litter—who was still a foot taller than Diego. “You having a birthday party and forgot to tell me about the clowns you hired?”
Arturo laughed, showing teeth filed to points. Wow, Diego thought. He truly didn’t know there were tools like this alive still.
A woman with striking red hair lifted a lead pipe onto one of her shoulders and spat, then looked Garcia up and down. “I like the Latin-looking one
. You from down south, boy?”
Garcia took a look around, then nodded, running his tongue across his teeth as he assessed them. “Chicago, actually,” he finally answered. “And I’ll tell you what, I like you all. I mean it, really, right away you struck me as good people, the kind I’d like to call my friends. So what do you say, huh? Friends?”
Arturo laughed and a couple others joined in, but most of them just glared, understanding that he was mocking them.
“Get out of here before we throw you in the snake pit,” the first speaker said. “Last chance.”
“How ‘bout this, Ugly?” Garcia took a step toward him, removing his camouflage jacket. Beneath it he had on a green tank top, displaying his taut muscles. “You and me. I win, you listen to what we wanna say. You win, we skedaddle.”
Ugly smiled now, to his credit not even glancing at his friends for backup or trying to get out of it in any way. He simply stepped forward, took off his leather vest, and rotated his shoulders so that they cracked. In addition to being huge, he looked like a fighter—broad shoulders, a chunk of one ear missing, and a shaved head. That was probably why Garcia had singled him out.
“You sure about this?” Diego hissed to Garcia. If anything, he should probably be the one fighting, what with his extra Were speed and power. But Garcia was already committed, starting to move sideways and sizing up his opponent.
Wallace and Diego shared a look of hope mixed with worry, then stood there with their arms crossed.
The rest of Ugly’s gang, however, were hooting and hollering, ready for the show.
A thud sounded, then another, and Diego stared in shock. It was the sound of Ugly’s footsteps as he charged like a damned bull. The man’s face was bright red, his meaty hands clenched into fists.
But Garcia was ready when Ugly tried to plow through him. The man had probably intended to tackle him to the ground, ending it fast, but Garcia moved into it, stepping slightly to the side to get around the man. He had left one leg out, sending Ugly sprawling into the dirt, and Garcia was on him in a blur of motion with a quick one-two punch to the face and back of the head, then a fast kick to the ribs before he leaped out of the way.
Ugly got up immediately, quicker than seemed natural considering his size, and started swinging like he was in a dark room surrounded by enemies. It was a mad flurry of meaty fists. When someone trained like Garcia had always done, they were prepared for most anything. A strike came, they knew how to block it and counter, or at least get out of the way. When it was chaos? Not so much.
One of those wild strikes caught Garcia in the chest, sending him stumbling back, and then order returned as Ugly charged. This time he caught Garcia, lifted him into the air, and slammed him onto the ground on his back.
A loud ooomph came from Garcia as his wind left him, and then the first of Ugly’s fists connected with a crack across Garcia’s jaw.
Diego tensed, ready to jump in if needed, but he saw Ugly’s compatriots waiting to do the same, a couple eyeing him. Not that they would have been able to stop him, but the glance and slight smile from Garcia were enough to keep him in place—for now.
Ugly’s next strike came in the form of an elbow—but Garcia had wriggled and moved his head aside so that the elbow slammed into the hard ground beneath him instead. Ugly grunted and went for a chokehold, but Garcia was quicker and maneuvered out from under him and onto the man’s back before anyone knew it was happening.
Now there was a move from the other side, because Garcia had delivered two good kidney shots and then put Ugly into a chokehold of his own. As the other big guy darted forward, baseball bat swinging, Garcia flipped Ugly onto his side, going with him so that the bat hit Ugly in the leg instead of taking off Garcia’s head.
“Shit, I’m sorry, I—”
Ugly kicked at the man, breaking his knee as he wrested free from Garcia and rolled aside. Holding his throat, he croaked, “This is my fight!”
Again he was up and charging, but so was Garcia this time. The two met in the middle like ancient sumo wrestlers, shoving and punching, kicking and elbowing, until finally, with one especially loud crack of Garcia’s knuckles connecting with the big man’s jaw, Ugly wobbled, looked briefly like he was about to come back, and then collapsed.
A moment of stunned silence followed, broken only by a low groan from Ugly.
“Dammit all to hell,” the redhead muttered, running forward to kneel at his side. “Micky! Micky, are you with me?”
The man apparently named Micky shook his head, eyes half-open, then managed to get out, “Yeah. Damn, Homeboy packs a punch.”
“Pops ain’t gonna be happy.”
Micky, recovering, managed to push himself up on his elbows, turning to Garcia and then the others. “Deal’s on. I’ll handle Pops, as long as you tell this crazy son of a bitch to never hit me again.”
Garcia laughed, then stepped forward. The redhead leaped up, lead pipe at the ready, but Garcia offered his hand to Micky. The man took it and stood, wrapping an arm around Garcia.
“This is what I’m talking about. This man right here.” He turned to his group and held Garcia’s hand in the air. The others seemed totally confused until Arturo yelled, “Yeah!” Then they cheered, everyone joining in.
“Wooo!” Micky turned his head and cracked his neck several times. “What a rush! That was a fight, for real. Shit, we oughta bring you out this way more often, see what you can teach these pansies.”
Garcia laughed and nodded. “With the deal we’re offering, maybe that could become a reality.”
“Come on, then.” Micky motioned to the New Yorkers to follow him. As he passed the redhead, he said, “Darla, calm the hell down and put that pipe away. We ain’t barbarians.”
She obliged, blushing, and followed with the rest. What ensued was the complete opposite of their incident with Lady Woo. These people treated Diego and the others like family, laughing the whole way and walking straight through their city without a care in the world about who saw what.
“Where the hell did you learn to fight like that, anyway?” Micky asked, still rubbing his jaw.
“A man out west of here,” Garcia replied. “Goes by the Colonel.”
“Shit! Terry Henry Walton—that Colonel?” Garcia nodded. “I’ve heard stories, that’s all. But yeah, now it’s making sense.”
“You’ve heard stories?” Wallace asked, impressed. “Guess word is starting to spread, huh? Not the segmented city states we once were.”
Micky nodded, leading them into a building that looked like a bar and boasted several whiskey bottles as decor. “You’re right about that. The network around here’s growing...” he shared a look with Arturo, “maybe too damn much.”
“Fucking A.” Arturo took a spot behind the bar and poured several glasses of whiskey, then handed them to their guests and Micky.
“The network?” Wallace started, but Garcia held up a hand, taking over. It was probably a smart move in this place, Diego decided, considering what they’d just been through.
“What can you tell us about Lady Woo and the others?” Garcia asked. “You see, we want to make this land peaceful again, but rumor is that you all and her lot aren’t on very friendly terms.”
Micky’s eyebrows arched at that. “Rumors say that, huh?”
“Is it true?”
“Depends. You think sending two of your boys out to help someone and receiving their heads back in a box is friendly?”
A comment about giftwrapping and it depending on how they were wrapped popped into Diego’s head, but he immediately dismissed it. Not funny, he told himself. Not funny at all.
“Damn,” Wallace exclaimed, glancing at Garcia and Diego.
It was clear what he was thinking—who did he trust here? Judging by the reception at each place so far, Diego knew which way he leaned. As far as he was concerned, Lady Woo could go to hell. The only problem with that was, they needed the network and she seemed to be the key to it.
Well, perhaps
they didn’t need the network, but they wanted it. A system of protectorates forming a sort of Community Watch around the continent made a lot of sense, and would do a lot toward keeping the peace.
He ran his hands through his hair, and nodded Garcia’s way. They had to pursue this relationship first, then figure out what to do about the whole thing. If these two communities couldn’t work with each other, it would have to be dealt with. He had a feeling a lot more of these situations would be coming at them in the near future.
“Pops” finally arrived. He had to be in his seventies, judging by the harsh wrinkles on his leathery skin and his pure white hair. He stood tall, though, and proud.
Micky went over and whispered in his ear, then turned back and pointed at Garcia.
“This fucker right here.”
Pops’ expression didn’t change. He looked Garcia up and down and flatly stated, “No way. This guy’s not nearly big enough to take you.”
Micky laughed. “Turns out size ain’t everything, Pops.”
“That’s what she said,” Pops muttered as if to himself, then burst into old-man laughter. The rest didn’t get what was so funny, but smiled and nodded as if they had.
He joined them in drinking the whiskey, telling them stories about his time exploring the world, his attempts to partner with other cities and communities, and how it had so often led to heartache.
“But if you can pull it off, we’re with you,” he added, tossing back the last of his whiskey. “As for me, I’m an old man with a weak bladder, so I’m going to find a tree, then find somewhere to curl up and get some rest. Micky here will be my man until this is all over.”
Micky nodded, gave Pops a hug, and saw him to the door.
When he turned back he put his hands on his hips, ample gut sticking out and his grin proving he’d had his share of the whiskey.
“Let’s do this, gentlemen.” He strode forward, ground thumping, and shook each of their hands. “Consider yourselves now in league with the devil.”
At this the room burst into laughter, though Diego only laughed along because he wanted to be a team player. It really wasn’t that original, he thought, finishing his own whiskey as an excuse to stop laughing. The smile was at least genuine, because he felt they’d found one group they could trust.