Legacy Of Ashes

by Ric Beard

  It’s like Mayor Vaughn was clearing the way for these bastards.

  His Tab’s best guess, in the absence of cell tower positioning, put him about twenty miles outside the Triangle City safe zone, 320 miles from the wall itself. The rusted, faded sign announcing the city limits seemed to agree. Judging from his own ease of passage on the deserted interstate en route to Statesville, there was no resistance between here and the wall.

  He mulled over his predicament while using an outcropping of rocks for cover and trying to get a real count of the badlanders below. They walked in and out of the decrepit buildings too frequently though, moved in and out of tents and walked into and out of crowds. The way they moved through the camp shaking hands and sometimes hugging said a lot about these people: some hadn’t seen each other for a while. The only reason for people to come from different areas of The Chain’s territory and use a place so perilously close to the Triangle City safe zone was simple. They were staging. They were using this place to gather before the storm they would create east of here. Their numbers weren’t great enough to cause a serious threat, but the rate at which they were arriving told Miles that was bound to change. When The Chain was finished gathering and made their move toward Triangle City, they would march along the wide road, unencumbered.

  A reverberating rumbling sound echoing through the hills snapped Miles awake from his inadvertent cat nap. The moon had risen high in the night sky, and the stars had popped into the royal blue canopy of space. He eased up against the rocks, and scanned the camp. There were three campfires left, each with a few people standing around them, all looking toward the west entrance of the office park. Guards with weapons walking the perimeter came to a standstill and faced the road leading to the interstate, as well. As the rumbling became louder, Miles felt a tingle of premonition, a foreboding sense that things were about to get really bad.

  What he saw roll into the camp at that point confirmed the premonition. His heart thumped in his chest.

  I have to do something.

  Keeping low, Miles ran along the path that wound around the foothill toward the southeast, where he’d parked his bike in the forest. He would have to risk being spotted in the safe zone. Maybe it was his time. Maybe he’d meet his demise. But he’d lived more years than his fair share, and there were hundreds of thousands of people at risk inside those walls.

  Miles adjusted the strap on his SmartGlasses so they squeezed tighter around his head as he jogged down the gravel-covered trail and into the woods. He covered the mile in about eleven minutes and found his bike where he had left it. He straddled it and thumbed the ignition button.

  Nothing happened.

  He pushed the button again and again, but the navigation panel didn’t light up, and the purr of the electric engines didn’t sound. He leaned over the side of the bike and pressed the release on the motor cover. With the night vision provided by his glasses, he could easily see the gaping rectangular hole that served as his problem.

  “Hey, bro.”

  Miles jerked his head up and saw a man holding up a rectangular piece of metal, dangling loosely from a set of wires in his hand.

  “Yo,” another voice said. Miles spun his head around in time to see the butt of a rifle coming toward his face.

  The world went blurry, then black.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Always with the Questions

  Day 4

  Friday, Mar 22, 2137

  Statesville

  The moon seemed to jump across the sky as Miles slipped in and out of consciousness for what seemed only moments at a time. There was a crowd taunting him. Then there were badlanders standing in a bunch, their heads turned in another direction. Then they were gone and the night was quiet.

  The dancing light of the fire was an orange blur viewed from his swollen eye. A cut under the eye burned. Numbness plagued his hands and feet as the bindings gripped him to the pole staked into the ground. The scent of iron wafted from caked streams of blood trailing from his nostrils.

  A man with long greasy hair sat near a campfire twenty feet away, too far for Miles’s chilled bones to enjoy its heat. Another paced nearby. He counted the blurry movements of two others in the distance. A rusted bucket sat atop a metal frame above the flames.

  The man next to the fire looked up and grinned, exposing a black gap from a missing tooth among otherwise yellow teeth with stripes of decay just beneath purple gums.

  “Looks like the napping beauty’s awake.”

  The pacing man perked up and walked toward Miles as the other rose from the loose dirt without bothering to slap the dust off his ass. Judging from the dingy look of his pants, Miles guessed he rarely bothered, if ever.

  “It’s Sleepin’ Beauty, moron.” The man smirked at his comrade. Then he stepped close to Miles. “You get cha a good nap?” Miles didn’t meet his eyes, nor did he reply.

  “Quiet kind, I s’pose,” the other said as he approached. The two men stood before Miles, one looking at him in a squint, like he was missing an eye, the other sneering or smiling—Miles wasn’t sure which—with the corner of his lip raised, revealing the socket a tooth once called home.

  “Should we wake Jimmy?”

  “Naw. He gets ornery as fuck.” He chuckled. “Besides, we can get what we need ourselves. Like Jimmy’s always sayin,’ we should show some ‘nitiative. Go grab that bucket.”

  “Yup,” the other guy grunted, walking off toward the fire.

  “You tell anyone you seen us?”

  Miles didn’t reply. The world was surreal, as if he were seeing it through a transparent tarp.

  The other man returned carrying the rust-stained bucket, a dirty rag wrapped around the handle. He dropped it unceremoniously on the dirt, spilling some of the steaming water over the edge. He stuffed the rag into his pocket.

  “Best answer, son,” the bucket man said. “You tell us what you done, and I’ll end it quick.” He reached into a sheath on his hip and pulled out a surprisingly shiny knife with ridges cut into the back of its blade. “You don’t, and…” He pointed the tip of the blade at the bucket.

  “I didn’t do anything.” Miles was surprised by the clarity of his voice. His throat was so dry he’d expected a croak. “Didn’t talk to anyone. I ain’t from around here.”

  As he opened and closed his one good eye, Miles saw a reflection of the fire on a motorcycle’s fuel tank go dark and reappear. He wondered if he would ever see clearly through the swollen eye again.

  The taller man with the knife laughed.

  “He ‘ain’t from around here’, Carl.”

  Carl joined him in a laugh.

  “You know we can see your clothes, right?” Carl said. “I don’t think you stitched them fancy pants yourself, son.”

  “I don’t think he’s cooperating, Carl. He’d rather try and make himself sound like us. He thinks we’re stupid. Let’s try the bucket.”

  “Too bad. I don’t like the bucket.” Carl clicked his tongue, yanked out the rag, and picked up the bucket. He walked around Miles until he was out of sight while the taller man pulled a glove off his hand with his teeth, one finger at a time.

  “I didn’t say anything to anybody,” Miles said, though his own voice sounded distant.

  The man shoved the glove into Miles’s mouth and then held his hand over it. The taste of sweat and leather made his stomach lurch. He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. He grunted and heaved his chest. A lump of something shot out of one nostril and onto the man’s shirt. The man looked down at the clump of snotty blood but didn’t seem to be bothered by it.

  “Guess that couldn’t be helped. Stop shittin’ around and get it done back there, Carl. I got him.”

  “Okay, Rip! Jesus!” He paused. “Sorry, pal.”

  Miles fought to breathe through the one clear nostril. He felt the tension of the ropes around his hands releasing, but he couldn’t move them. His right hand was retied to the pole, his left gripped firmly by Carl.

&nbs
p; An explosion of pain erupted in Miles’s left hand as it was submerged into the hot water. All the muscles in his body revolted, and the burning wave made the world bright, lifting the groggy shroud as adrenaline rushed through his body. His screams were muffled moans as the glove shoved into his mouth served its intended purpose. He heard the bucket being dropped to the ground behind him but his hand still felt like it was on fire. Despite the adrenal surge, his arm was retied to the pole before he could free it from Carl’s stony grip. There was another flash of darkness—the entire fire seemed to vanish for a moment—causing Miles to wonder if he was blacking out again. But the man before him hadn’t vanished.

  Just the fire.

  Miles ticked his head to the right and looked at the dancing flames before looking back at the tall man. This Rip fucker was smiling at him. He jerked at the ropes hard, wiggled his entire body against the post, trying anything to free his hands so he could coil them around the redneck’s throat.

  Rip laughed.

  “That ain’t gonna help ya, tough guy. Tell us what ya done, and we’ll end it. Don’t tell us, and we’ll do the other hand.”

  He removed the glove from Miles’s mouth. Miles tried to spit on him, but he couldn’t manufacture saliva.

  “Who did you—?”

  Rip’s Adam’s apple popped like a cork as a curved blade pushed through his throat from the back of his neck. Before the man crumpled to the ground, there was a flash of dark movement to Miles’s left, and Carl’s gasp behind him was followed by a gurgling sound and the thump of a body crumbling to the ground. Then he felt the rope around his hands jerking and heard the zipping sound of a blade sawing through rope. There was movement again as a short figure appeared in front of him. He was wearing all black leather with a wide hat shadowing his face, so Miles couldn’t make out his features. The figure put his hand on Miles’s chest and bent at the knees to cut away the binding rope around his ankles.

  Miles started to fall forward, but the figure shot up, wrapping strong arms around him, hugging him against the pole.

  “It’s going to take a bit to get the circulation back,” the figure whispered. “Just hold here for a second and let it get started.”

  Miles nodded; his eyes shot around the camp, looking for movement. Where had the two perimeter guards gone? Why did no one know what was happening? He waited for an alarm of some kind, but none came. From here, he could look down at the top of the figure’s hat. He was a short fellow, considering Miles’s average height. After a moment, he felt tingling in his feet and hands, though the sensation in his left hand was more akin to electrocution. He pulled it up and grunted.

  “Not yet, babe.”

  Babe?

  Miles jerked his head downward again. The figure wasn’t a man at all; it was a woman. He now recognized the unmistakable impression of breasts pressing against his lower abdomen as she hugged him to the pole. Where the hell had she—

  “Okay. Try to get your feet beneath you. I got ya. Wiggle your toes, get the circulation going. We gotta move fast.”

  Miles wiggled his toes and swiveled his feet on their heels.

  “Who are—”

  “Shhh!” The figure pulled Miles’s stitched arm over her shoulder, wrapped the uninjured hand around her waist, and pulled him from the stake. “Lean on me. I’m strong for my size, but try to use your feet. We’re heading for that rusted-out truck near the interstate over there.”

  Miles followed her nod, but he could barely see the truck across the field in the black night and so far from the camp fire.

  She’s wearing SmartGlasses.

  He nodded, and they were off. Miles struggled to keep on his feet as the woman allowed his weight to bear down on her. They moved at a slow clip, but as feeling returned to his legs, they were able to pick up the pace a little. He tried to look over his shoulder at the camp to see if anyone had noticed the ruckus, but the woman urged him forward with a jerk of his waist nearly knocking him down.

  “Move your ass,” she grunted. “I can’t keep you up all day.” Her chest was heaving, the sound of air wheezing out of her throat as she huffed. The snakebite on his shoulder was sore, but paled in comparison to the pain surging through his left hand.

  The dirt and grass crunched beneath their feet as the woman dragged Miles across the open field to the rusted-out truck. His leg closest to the woman fumbled on a rock and locked with hers tumbling them to the ground. Miles inadvisably stuck out his burnt hand to break his fall.

  “Mother f—!”

  A gloved hand slapped onto his lips.

  “Shhh!”

  The woman in black bore her hand onto his mouth as her hat swiveled so she could see the camp. He followed her gaze. No one stirred. She removed her hand and sighed. He looked up into her eyes. She wore SmartGlasses with frames beneath the lenses over dark-colored eyes, though the night lighting and the shadow of the hat’s wide brim shrouded their color.

  She’s wearing older glasses.

  They paused for a few deep breaths before she bounced to her feet again and started dragging Miles onto his knees. Her thighs were thick and looked powerful.

  “Just a few more steps.”

  When they made it to the truck, she pulled him around to the other side of it, swiveled to get both arms around him, and leaned him back against the rusted metal.

  “Can you stand on your own?” she asked, looking up.

  Her face was a dark shroud in the night, the brim of her black hat allowing him to see only a flicker of smooth skin in the moonlight. She jerked her chin up, and he saw her eyes were yellow. He started to jerk away, a vision of the snake in the tunnel seizing his muscles, but his legs reminded him of his predicament and he relaxed what best he could with all the pain in his body fighting him at every instant. She tilted her head, staring up at him. No, her eyes weren’t yellow; it was the SmartGlasses.

  “Can you stand or not? Skinny or not, you’re starting to weigh me down.”

  He entrenched his feet, looked at his knees, and tested his weight as he leaned off the truck.

  “Yeah, I don’t know how much walking I can do—”

  “Standing is good for now. Here.” She let him go and stood up. He estimated that she was five-feet-four, at best, as she reached below the long black coat that hung to her knees and shook an arm free of it, allowing it to drop off her shoulder. She shimmied a rifle off her shoulder, squeezed the stock, and two metal rods popped out in a ‘V.’ She walked to the hood of the pickup and balanced the rifle there. She stood on the tips of her boots so she could peer through the scope and scan the perimeter of the camp. Glancing down at the burnt hand and its shriveled skin, she frowned. “I hope you’re right-handed.”

  Miles nodded.

  “Good. Okay, cover me.” She jammed the bolt-action rifle into his hand and practically vanished before his eyes as she crouched and ran around the front of the truck. She peered over the hood at him. “I assume if you’ve survived a hundred years and lived through the fall, you can shoot a rifle?”

  She knew how old he was? Who the hell was she?

  “Are you a friend of—?”

  “You don’t know me. Now focus. Can you cover me?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer.

  Feeling his heart racing, he spun around, leveled the rifle on the truck, and looked through the scope. Though the rifle might have been 150 years old, its scope was certainly not. Through its lens, he could see a perfect representation of broad daylight. He caught sight of the woman in black as her short legs pumped like pistons toward the stake to which Miles had been tied only a few minutes before. He swung the rifle, aiming left and right, checking the camp. There was no motion. He saw something in the distance, beyond the camp fire, and squinted into the scope.

  A body. One of the perimeter guards. She’d taken out the perimeter guards he’d seen when he awakened the final time! Then he looked around again, seeing if perhaps he could spot a partner who might have helped her. Nothing. He settled
the rifle back on the woman. She had Rip’s corpse by the belt and was dragging him toward the tall grass.

  This woman was crazy. They should be running right now.

  As if you could run.

  His left hand was screaming, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins still might have been weakening the effect. Or maybe his nerves were in shock. The woman had gone back for Carl and was dragging him now. Two minutes later, she was back at his side. She looked around as she huffed and puffed, her bosom rising and falling in quick motions. Yanking off her hat, she bent down and gripped her knees.

  Her black hair was cropped at chin-length. Miles mused that he could now confirm the creature was human, after all.

  “Who the hell are you?” This time his dry throat caused his words to crackle out.

  “No time.” She stood up and leveled her eyes on him, peering from one of his eyes to the other. “This isn’t our time. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m breaking protocol.”

  “What are you talking about? Did I wake up in some kind of weird western?”

  “I know,” she said with a short laugh. “I know I sound cryptic. But look, we’re going to meet again one day, assuming we get the hell out of here. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you remember that I just saved your life and avoid the urge to share what you’ve seen tonight.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small red device with two black buttons. She held it out to him. “With anyone.”

  He took it.

  His Tab.

  “How did you—”

  She pushed two fingers onto his lips.

  “Stop with the questions, or I’m taking you back to the pole. I couldn’t get your bike back. I don’t know where it is.” She turned and pointed across the interstate. “There’s an old business strip about a quarter mile down to the west. Behind it is an ugly tarp, completely covered in dirt with some bricks holding down the edges. My ride is there. Take it. The code is Alpha-nine-seven-six-three-four-one. You got that?”