The man holstered the shotgun across his shoulders and fixed Brendan with a long, steady gaze.
“With or without you, I leave tomorrow,” he said. “The choice is yours. Join me and cleanse the world, or stay here and continue living this...life.”
He walked off the front porch and disappeared into the abandoned neighborhood, leaving Brendan alone with Tiger Stripe’s corpse.
14
Brendan’s mod was all but ruined. Its metallic fingers barely responded to his commands, and when they did, the response was delayed and twitchy. He’d try reaching for something, and it would take a full second for the mod to lurch forward.
It was time to visit Krystal.
Krystal’s home sat outside the heart of Newhaven. It was a nice location, central enough to be convenient to customers, but remote enough that the neighborhood was quiet.
Brendan knocked with his flesh hand. The mod hung twitching and useless at his side.
A moment later, the door swung open, and there stood Krystal, a slight woman with smooth, dark skin. She wore tattered jeans and a grease-stained white tank top. She took one look at his mod, sighed, and asked, “What happened?”
“I fell on it.”
“You fell on it.” Krystal chuckled and lifted the twitching mod in her hands. “Ever consider playing more gently with your nice toys?”
She cocked a single eyebrow. Her eyes twinkled from behind blue-streaked dreadlocks, but Brendan wasn’t in the mood.
“Can you fix it?” he asked.
Krystal released the mod and waved nonchalantly. “Of course I can fix it. Have I failed you yet, Brendan?”
Brendan had no response for that.
She motioned him in. “I was just about to start dinner. You hungry?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, simply turned and made her way into the kitchen. Brendan followed her to a gaunt man with white hair, shivering on a couch in the living room.
Krystal stooped until her face came inches from the white-haired man. “Uncle Jeff, you remember Brendan, right?”
Uncle Jeff turned his head, but Brendan doubted he saw him. He doubted Uncle Jeff saw much of anything these days. Like many in Newhaven, he’d bought into the urban legend that, if injected into the bloodstream, tar-proofing would protect against infection. He had been wrong.
The stuff wasn’t much kinder to his insides than tar would’ve been. He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t alive, either. Occasionally, some spark of the old Uncle Jeff would peek through in a faltering word or a flickering expression, but the moment never lasted. If Krystal was smart, she would have kicked the quivering freeloader to the curb a year ago. He was one more mouth to feed with no ability to contribute. Newhaven had no room for sentimentality like Krystal’s.
Brendan followed Krystal past Uncle Jeff once she’d finished talking at him. In the kitchen, a pot sat atop the stove, boiling and giving off a scent that was appetizing only in that it smelled edible.
“How do you feel about soup?” Krystal asked with a glance over her shoulder.
Brendan shrugged. “How am I supposed to feel about soup?”
“Careful,” Krystal said. “If you act any more excited, I might think you’re trying to butter me up.” She winked and produced a ladle and three bowls.
She filled all three with a runny concoction that was a bland non-color, pushing one toward Brendan and carrying the other two into the living room. Brendan tagged behind, holding the soup in his flesh hand while his mod continued its ragged dance.
A tray waited in front of Uncle Jeff, and Krystal set the two bowls on it. She took a spoonful of liquid and lifted it to the trembling man’s lips, tipping it up and wiping his chin with her finger where soup dribbled out.
Brendan smiled at the familiar scene. Krystal had been one of the few kids his age when he and his parents showed up in Newhaven, so the two of them formed a natural bond. While his father was out finding new and creative ways to provide for his son, Brendan would visit Krystal and her Uncle Jeff. Even at that young age, she was an expert with machinery. She already had enough customers to keep her house stocked with supplies. Brendan would sit on the floor and watch while she alternated between repairing mods and coaxing food into Uncle Jeff’s mouth.
Newhaven had changed since then, but the scenes inside Krystal’s house remained the same. There was something comforting about that. As much as Brendan hated to go to her, as much as he resented her pity, he loved this house. The second he stepped through the front door, he transformed back into that carefree child. The world became less scary, if only because Krystal’s house reminded him of a time before he learned how to fear.
“So,” Krystal said, taking a break from Uncle Jeff. “Anything interesting happen today?”
Brendan shrugged. “Some guy told me I needed to visit his friend and help him save the world from the tar.”
Krystal tossed her head back, roaring laughter and leaning into the dusty couch. “Oh, did he? And you didn’t go?”
Brendan couldn’t resist a chuckle. “Yeah, you know. This weekend wasn’t good for me. I told him if the offer still stands next week to give me a holler.”
Krystal snorted. She tipped another spoon into Uncle Jeff’s mouth and wiped away more streams spilling out the corners of his lips.
“Had you ever seen him before?” she asked, more seriously now.
Brendan shook his head. That likely meant he was new to Newhaven. The population was too small for newcomers to hide longer than a couple days.
“Why you, anyway?” Krystal asked. “That’s a pretty random question to ask a stranger.”
Brendan hesitated. If he could trust anyone, it was Krystal, but the thought of telling her about his experience in the basement still gave him pause. Not only had he been able to control the tar, but he’d used that newfound ability to kill someone. While Brendan understood the necessity of his actions, Krystal had never been so pragmatic—and try as he might, Brendan couldn't shake his need for her approval.
Still, the story welled up inside him. He needed to process the day, from the sudden discovery of his power over the tar, to the stranger's request, to how—for the first time—he’d seen an infected die.
And so he told her. He started in slow, hesitant bursts, but then the words tumbled out faster and faster. Soon he wasn’t just telling the story; he was reliving it. He lay in the basement with the black pool rippling above him. He stood outside the house, considering a man’s offer to rid the world of tar. He watched Tiger Stripe’s body crumple to the ground, never to stand again. The nightmare of that morning descended over him, almost as real as when it happened.
When Krystal spoke again, he jumped. He’d nearly forgotten she was there.
“Wow,” was all she said.
Brendan nodded. In the quiet, he studied Krystal's living room. It had always struck him as odd the way Krystal tried to decorate the place. Even as the world crumbled around her, she dared to make a house a home. Where other salvage buyers wanted payment in tools and weapons, Krystal would spend hours repairing a mod for a picture to hang over the mantle. Most of her decorations were faded, stained, or otherwise discolored, but she hung them proudly all the same.
“Why didn’t you go with him?” Krystal said after a silence.
Brendan looked at her. “You’re serious?”
Krystal shrugged. “Why not?”
Brendan laughed. It was a harsh laugh, one that didn't include a smile. “How about because I’ve never seen him in my life?”
“Oh, come on, Brendan,” she said. “Weren’t you at least a little curious? Didn’t you want to learn about his grand scheme?”
This time, Brendan allowed himself a small grin as he chuckled. “Yeah. I’m sure he had something wonderful planned. Probably wanted to harvest my arm.” He patted his still-twitching mod.
Krystal glanced at the mod. “Was that supposed
to be a hint? Don’t worry, I’ll get to it. Let me finish dinner, at least.” She took another sip of soup, then pointed her spoon at Brendan. “I’ll tell you this. Wherever that guy's headed, it can't be any worse than Newhaven.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously! Look outside. Can you imagine a worse city?”
That was just it. Brendan could picture several cities worse than this one. He could break down into excruciating detail a dozen factors that would make Newhaven even more of a hellhole. But not Krystal. She so desperately wanted the world to be better that she couldn’t imagine it being worse.
“If it’s so bad, why are you still here?” Brendan asked.
“I think we both know the answer to that one.” Krystal nodded at Uncle Jeff, who continued to stare at the wall. “If...things...were different, I’d go with your new best friend in a second.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“Yes I would! Maybe after...” Her voice trailed off, and she squeezed Uncle Jeff’s knee. He didn’t so much as glance at her.
Silence fell over the living room again. Brendan sipped at his soup. It was flavorless, but it was nutrition. He was grateful, though he’d never let Krystal know it.
“Okay,” she said. “You’ve been a good boy. Let’s see that arm.”
Brendan turned on the couch, laying his mod across her lap. She ran her fingers along its trembling surface, seeking out every crevice and bulge. Her brow furrowed, and a furious intelligence lit her eyes. Brendan had known plenty of mechanics in his life, but none understood mods like Krystal.
“Tell me what’s happening,” she said, not looking away from her work.
Brendan told her about the hiccup in the grocery store and about falling on it in the basement. Her fingers traveled further along the prosthetic, climbing up his bicep to his shoulder.
Finally, she nodded. “Should be an easy enough fix.” Now she looked at him, cocking an eyebrow. “But what did I tell you about playing more gently with your toys?”
Brendan grinned at their private running joke.
“How much will this cost me?”
Krystal waved dismissively. “How much has this ever cost you? I can do this stuff in my sleep.”
She lifted her right hand, holding it by her cheek with the palm facing back. With a click, the top half of her index finger swung aside on a well-disguised hinge. In its place, a small, thin tool with a glowing blue tip extended from the middle knuckle. Hers was one of the best-disguised mods in Newhaven. She’d worked hard to match the synthetic skin’s color to her own, to hide every seam and hinge with artificial wrinkles and scars.
“You know the drill,” she said. “You won’t feel a thing.”
The glowing tool gave off a gentle hum, and she went to work.
She hadn’t been completely right. There was no pain, but Brendan did feel her mod on his shoulder. His mod housed touch and pressure receptors—helpful tools to maintain balance and control—but no pain receptors. Some people equipped their mods with intricately calibrated pain receptors, worried that removing their capacity for pain would remove part of their humanity. Not Brendan. The less pain he experienced, the better. If that meant he was less human, so be it.
Krystal didn’t speak as she worked. She never did. She entered a world of her own when repairing mods. The glowing blue tool danced around his shoulder, occasionally joined by more tools hiding in other fingers. Krystal worked quickly and decisively. These were motions she’d done a million times on a million customers. Brendan didn’t doubt her when she said she could do a job like this in her sleep.
After a few minutes she leaned back, examined her work, and said, “Okay. Good as new.”
Brendan extended the arm. He twisted it, worked it in circles and zigzags, even stretched it across the room. The tests were unnecessary, of course. Krystal never botched a repair.
“Looks good,” he said. “You’re sure you don’t want anything?”
“Nah,” Krystal said with a shake of her head. “You’re family, Brendan. I believe in taking care of my family.”
Brendan only nodded.
A knock sounded at the door. Five raps, loud and insistent. Krystal froze, brow furrowed. Only a couple seconds of silence separated the first barrage of knocks from the next.
“Looks like I’ve got another customer,” she said brightly, though Brendan sensed her apprehension. It was long after dark now. Krystal rarely got business this late.
She excused herself and left Brendan with Uncle Jeff. Brendan scooped at what little soup remained in his bowl, hoping to find something more filling than broth, but to no avail.
“Brendan,” said Krystal’s voice from the entryway. “You’re staying here tonight, right?”
He hadn’t even asked, but he had a feeling she’d make the offer eventually. He’d planned on it.
“If you’re offering, I won’t turn you down,” he called
“Good,” came the reply.
Krystal appeared in the doorway.
“The more the merrier,” she said, and then stepped aside. “It looks like we’ll have one more joining the slumber party.”
A man walked through the doorway. He was tall and lean, with torn jeans and a black T-shirt. He had long gray hair and a beard to match. His face was pitted and scarred, and his cold blue eyes shone through the oily tangles of hair.
It was the man from the house.
He’d found Brendan.
15
The man stiffened when he saw Brendan. He paused in the doorway, unsure if it was safe to approach.
“I already told you,” Brendan said. “I’m not coming with you.”
After a deliberate pause that seemed to stretch for minutes, the man said, “I’m not here for you.”
“Wait, you guys know each other?” Krystal called from the entryway. She rushed into the living room, placing herself between Brendan and the gray-haired man.
Brendan flexed his newly-repaired mod, ready to use it at a moment’s notice. “That’s him.” He jabbed a finger at the intruder. “That’s the guy who tried to get me to travel with him.”
Krystal nodded. “Well, he’s telling the truth. He came because his car broke down. I told him I’m not doing any more work tonight, but he’s welcome to crash on the couch overnight.” She offered an apologetic smile. “You still have dibs on the guest bedroom. Don’t worry about that.”
Brendan folded his arms. “Car’s broken down, huh?”
The stranger held his gaze, but said nothing.
“So,” said Krystal. Then again, holding the word out longer, “Sooooo.”
She’d never been good with tension. Personal conflict was so rare in her life that she was lost any time she saw others fighting.
As if attempting a peace offering, she said, “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”
The man regarded her, deep in thought. It was as if he was debating whether she deserved his trust. Eventually, he grunted, “Samson.”
“Samson,” Krystal repeated. “Brendan told me you were going to see a friend. He’s supposed to...what? Help you get rid of the tar?”
“He guards a portal to the blight,” Samson said, and his eyes locked with Brendan’s.
Brendan waved a hand at the door. “You don’t need a portal to find that stuff. Just walk around town for a few minutes. You’ll find plenty.”
Unperturbed, Samson said, “This portal leads to all the blight. To its very source.”
“Its...source?” Krystal asked.
“The blight keeps seeping into our world. I have destroyed so much of it, but it is not enough. It will not stop entering our world unless I destroy its source.”
Krystal nodded. “Right. And you really do destroy that stuff. Brendan told me about your special gun.” She looked at Brendan, pleading, but he wasn’t about to help her with this surly, gray-haired man. Finally,
she nodded, out of conversational gambits, and said, “You know what? I think I can fit in one more job today. Why don’t we take a look at this car of yours right now?”
16
Samson’s car was an old-looking tan model Brendan didn’t recognize. Granted, he’d taken little time to familiarize himself with car models. Foot travel had always worked better for Brendan’s purposes. Salvaging took enough energy already; he didn’t need a bio-powered engine sucking him dry.
Brendan hung back while Krystal and Samson approached the car. He would’ve preferred to stay inside, but as Krystal moved to leave, she shot him a meaningful glance. Brendan didn’t blame her. The possibility remained that Samson was harmless, if only a little detached from reality, but those lean muscles and gleaming eyes told Brendan the gray-haired man had plenty of control over his faculties. That made Brendan nervous. If Samson wasn’t crazy, why would he peddle such a ridiculous story?
So Brendan leaned against Krystal’s house as she circled the car and ran her fingers along its surface.
“I have to say,” Krystal said. “I thought I knew my cars, but I’ve never seen one like this. What’s the model?”
“Does it matter?” Samson grunted.
Krystal shrugged. “I guess not.”
When she came to the rear of the car, she froze, her finger on a spot just above the back tire. She lifted her head, eyes wide.
“Is this what I think it is?” she asked.
Samson didn’t respond, only stood with arms folded.
Krystal pressed the surface, and a small, round door swung open. She laughed, as much from surprise as joy.
“It is!” she exclaimed. “It’s a gasoline tank!”
Brendan took a couple steps closer, his interest piqued. It had been a long time since cars ran on gas. They’d given way to models that ran on the natural electricity of their passengers well before he was born. If this was a gas-powered car, it was ancient. Gasoline was almost non-existent now. Vehicles like this had long since been either harvested for parts or abandoned in the mess of empty highways crisscrossing the world.
“Where do you find fuel for it?” Krystal asked.
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