by Eric Wood
"This is the place that can prove our gold is real?" Sam asked. He figured they were past the point where he needed to be seen and not heard. And he was anxious to get this over with. He wanted to determine exactly how he was going to locate the red-haired Ravager and the data drive. Less urgently, he really wanted to investigate the city further. It was the most fascinating, alive place he had ever seen. "Burt obviously takes the safety of his goods pretty seriously."
Elena scrunched up her face and sort of winced her head to the side, shrugging her shoulders slightly as she did so. Behind her, within Burt's, a masked man stood up and braced an extremely large, belt-driven machine gun on the cement wall. The cavernous black barrel pointed right at Sam.
"Now that we're safely beyond earshot of Roosevelt's soldiers," Elena said, "it's time for a bit of bad news. I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you."
Beside him, Abigail looked up and to the side. A moment later, Sam registered movement in the corner of his eye and saw that more gunmen had taken up positions on the balconies all around them. If he and Abigail had felt surrounded on the way here, well, now they could upgrade that to feeling completely surrounded. Ahead of them, Elena smiled, pulling a pistol free from a belt holster. "Of course, honesty is a two-way street. And the two of you have been less than truthful with me. Isn't that right, Beverly? Or am I wrong, Herbert?"
She smiled and pulled a folded piece of paper from one of her jacket pockets. She gripped it by the corner and flicked her wrist, and the paper unfolded. She held it up for them, and Sam's heart dropped.
On the paper was a large photo of a face. His face.
"Maybe you prefer to go by Sam," Elena said. Abigail's hand moved toward her belt: all around them came the sound of cartridges being chambered. Elena shook her head, clucking her tongue at them reproachfully. "I wouldn't do that. Madame Ki was quite insistent on the extra guns, though after seeing you this whole thing seems more than a bit over-cautious. Madame Ki isn't some backwater despot, ruling over a stack of dirt. She deals in information, and her sight extends far beyond the city walls. Some very powerful, very rich people are looking for you, Sam. You and your little girlfriend." She carefully refolded the paper and returned it to her pocket. "Now, as you may have guessed, we didn't come here to check out your gold. I knew it was real as soon as you put it in my hands."
"Then why are we here?" Abigail said, her voice flat. Dangerous. Sam glanced around at the many, many guns that surrounded them. He really hoped Abby wasn't planning on something stupid. He couldn't, unlike her, heal from the wounds that would result from that course of action.
"Now, that part I didn't lie about. I told you I was taking you to Madame Ki, and that is exactly what I am going to do." Elena smiled again, and this smile was far crueler than the one she had worn earlier. "She very much wants to meet the two of you."
13
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Roach awoke without nausea. Without the debilitating bone-deep muscle aches that had been her constant companion as of late. She felt, she realized with some amusement, almost human.
That didn't mean she was entirely comfortable. For one thing, her head felt like it had spent the last few hours rolling around in a cement mixer. But once she remembered that her headache came from taking a rifle butt to the temple, and wasn't yet another effect of Deacon's damned serum, she reassured herself that she would indeed recover.
Her thoughts turned to her surroundings. Wherever it was her captors had stashed her, it was apparently lit by the brightest, whitest lights in existence. Now that she was awake, even squeezing her eyes shut did her no good, as the glaring bone-white of the cell's ceiling was merely replaced by the bright pink-red of the back of her eyelids trying pitifully to stop the unrelenting assault of light.
The sound of dry retching finally motivated her to sit up and investigate her surroundings. Her back spasmed and protested as she straightened, apparently unhappy to have spent the past few hours on the cold metallic hardness of a pallet. She was unsurprised to see that the apparent ex-Howler Rend was sharing her bright, shiny cell. And despite her best intentions, she wasn't entirely unsympathetic to his current condition. She was all too familiar with the overwhelming awfulness he was going through.
At least he's only dry-heaving, she thought, sighing with relief. This is a bad enough situation without having to smell his puke. She could only imagine how bad Howler puke must smell, considering what she assumed was a mostly raw-meat-based diet.
Roach could smell something, though. A gross rotten scent. Turning, she looked into the cell opposite theirs. She blanched as she saw a dozen or so Howlers: dead ones.
Their chests were held open by pieces of medical-looking metal, tubes and other things still hooked into them, white sheets draped over their faces and lower bodies. Still, by the look of the clawed hands and feet, as well as the size, there was no mistaking what they were. She wondered if Rend had known them. She tried not to wonder if she was going to eventually share their fate.
She opened her mouth to say something encouraging to him, but the words died on her tongue. What would she say? She realized she had never actually said a comforting word in her entire life. Not long ago that realization would have given her a swell of pride. But now? She felt a cold, sad feeling that she could only assume would be described as regret. She shook her head, disgusted at her new softness. The movement of her skull brought a fresh wave of pain just behind the spot where that dick of a soldier had struck her. Man, I really, really, really hope I see him again, she thought.
So, instead of trying to offer Rend some sort of empty words that he probably didn't want to hear, Roach instead surveyed their cell. Say one thing for whoever was holding them: they weren't messy. The floor of their cell was a sort of smooth steel buffed to an almost mirror-like shine, and the outer walls were an unblemished white. The ceiling was equally white and equally clean, studded with those damned white lights, each shining like an electric noonday sun, spaced out every few feet. The front wall of the cell was transparent, undoubtedly some kind of unbreakable Old World plastic rather than very breakable glass. Across the room, separated by a narrow aisle, was a third identical cell which was currently empty. It looked like she and Rend were today's guests of honor.
She stood, grimacing at her pulsing headache, and walked over to the cell's outer wall. She reached back and threw an overhand right, striking the barrier at eye level. Her fist hit with a dull thump and a bloom of pain, followed immediately after by a quick shock of numbness that rushed up to her shoulder. The wall, of course, was undamaged. It was worth a shot, Roach thought, returning to her pallet with little more than a sore fist to show for her effort.
Bits and pieces of the previous night — or was it the previous morning? — returned to her. She had floated back and forth from the blackness of unconsciousness as the soldiers had brought her down from the forest's edge and into the city. She remembered being dumped, roughly and unceremoniously, into some sort of cart that was pulled by a foul-smelling pair of horses. She remembered high walls and razor wire fences. She remembered wide roads and columns of identical gray concrete buildings, each as uniform and square and boring as the last, each with identically dressed soldiers ranged in front of them. And she remembered bright, white lights high overhead — lights as painfully, infernally bright as the ones currently doing hard work making her headache all-the-more horrific.
She was in one of the Free Cities, that much she could gather. Deacon had spoken in hushed, almost reverent, tones about the cities to the west, packed with riches to plunder and wealthy sheep-men to kill. Now, Roach had found herself in the bowels of one of these decadent metropolises — more of Deacon’s words — seemingly in the clutches of someone powerful, someone who commanded an army.
Now, what that actually means, Roach though, I have no idea. Seeing as her brilliant plan of smashing through the cell wall had somehow failed, it appeared she had little choice but to sit here and
wait, trying her best to ignore the sounds of Rend's sickness.
She didn't have to wait long.
Maybe a minute after she sat down the jail's outer door opened and two black-masked soldiers, each carrying identical Old World sub-machine guns, entered and took up positions on either side of the cell's clear-plastic door. A pressed button turned the cell wall on the opposite side of the room dark, blessedly hiding the dead Howlers. Rend scooted over to the back wall and tried not to look sick, though Roach thought he was going to have an awfully hard time covering up the sea-green tinge his face had taken. For her part, Roach just stared contemptuously into the nearer guard's reflective eyeglasses. After a few moments of this silent exchange, she loudly cleared her throat and spat a wad of phlegm in his direction. The faceless guard stood as impassively as ever, and Roach imagined how satisfying it would be to beat a reaction out of him.
The outer door opened again, and two more figures entered the room. Unlike the soldiers, these two had exposed faces, and though they were both carrying equipment, neither of them seemed to be armed. One of them was a tall, aging, and sickly-pale man wearing a white coat. He was carrying some sort of pistol-gripped tool — clearly Old World tech — in his latex-gloved hands. The other one was a surprisingly young man — barely more than a child — carrying what looked like a handheld computer screen, along with a small, cylindrical black object. He wore a similar white lab coat, which contrasted sharply with his dark skin, and wore wire-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose. I don't know if I've ever seen someone wear actual glasses, Roach thought. At least, not ones with actual working lenses. Occasionally members of her War Band would find welding goggles and the like and take to wearing them, always realizing too late that while they might look cool, they did nothing but obscure their vision. That life is over now, she realized once again, and it's never coming back. She found that she seemed to miss it less every day. I wonder if some morning in the future I'll wake up and my life — my old life — will seem like little more than a dream?
Of course, that assumed she actually had a future, a possibility that was very much in doubt at the moment. The inner cell door opened and the two white-coated men entered, slowly and hesitantly. Behind them came the two guards, and each of these moved to take defensive positions, training their weapons at their two prisoners.
"Sit on your bunk," the older one commanded Rend. He turned to Roach. "You, sit up straight and put your hands in your lap. Do not think to act aggressively, or we will be forced to use severe force."
He seemed to be trying quite hard to convey a sense of authority, of command, with his words and his tone. He was failing miserably. What he probably thought was a stern and intimidating voice was, in fact, stilted and uneven. It was like listening to a small child doing an impersonation of his daddy. She chuckled and shook her head, which only made the pale man more flustered and angry. His face turned a bright beet-red, and he began to sputter out more ridiculous pseudo-threats.
Roach spoke before he could get the words out. "I certainly wouldn't want to seem aggressive, sir. Would you consider pulling your left arm from its bony, muscle-less socket aggressive? Or would removing the right be more aggressive?" She spat again, this time aiming for the older man's shoes.
This set off a fresh round of flustered stuttering, and the nearer of the guards took a step toward her. The other lab coat, the kid, raised an arm, and the guard halted.
"I'm sorry for any miscommunication," he said. His voice sounded no less nervous than the first man's, but it lacked the other's anger and contempt. "We just need to do a couple of quick tests. They won't hurt, and they won't take long. Then you can rest."
"And if I say no?" Roach said.
"Roach..." Rend said.
The young man shrugged, which sent his glasses sliding down his nose. "There's not really much choice, sorry to say." He pushed the glasses back to their original position with an upturned thumb, a gesture that made him look even younger than he likely was. "I guess you have a choice of if you want to be shocked by the guards before we do the tests, but I wouldn't recommend that option. I've been told it’s quite painful."
If the older one had said anything, Roach was certain she would continue to argue. Maybe even try her luck with the whole arm-ripping plan. But he stayed silent. And she was tired, and just wanted to be left alone so that maybe she could try and get some sleep that wasn't the result of a blow to the head. She shrugged and sat, putting her hands in her lap.
"Alright. Do your little tests," she said. She glanced over at Rend, who nodded to her before seeming to choke back another dry-heave.
The older one started with her, while the younger one moved over to Rend. The tool that the older one carried was apparently some sort of fancy syringe, which he pressed to her exposed shoulder, pulling its trigger. She felt a quick pinch and saw a finger-sized clear tube at the center of the device fill with red. Well, maybe these fancy-dressed idiots can tell me what the hell Deacon stuck me with, right before he caught a bullet in the skull and got himself blown up, Roach thought. It’s either that or they clock me as a Ravager. And then I'm the one getting the bullet.
She couldn't resist giving the older lab coat a quick growl, snapping her teeth at him. She timed it so that his body obscured the guards' view, and then smiled when he gave a yip and a small jump. I could have killed you just now, silly man, she thought with some satisfaction. And don't you forget it.
He straightened, apparently done with his test. Trying to look as casual and unafraid as possible, he smoothed his coat and switched positions with the kid.
This one didn't have to bend over nearly as far to come to eye level with her. He offered a weak smile and raised his small, black, cylinder-shaped tool to the side of her head. "Don't worry," he said, his voice somehow reminding her of a mouse. "You won't feel a thing."
That might have been true if he hadn't put the thing to the exact spot where she had been rifle-slapped. She pulled her head away and swore, attracting the attention of the guards. "Sorry," she said, raising her hands in a gesture of apology. "Just a little tender. Courtesy of your friends."
"Its fine," the kid said. "I'm sure this is all quite frightening."
She laughed. "Kid, I don't get scared. I might be pissed, and more than a little confused, but I'm not scared."
"Of course. Sorry."
The device, whatever it was, was starting to feel warm against her temple. Hopefully, this polite young lab worker wasn't cooking her brain. "Look, how about you just tell me what this is all about. What are you doing to us, and why? And where the hell are we? I slept through most of the trip here."
He seemed to consider her questions as he watched data scroll across his handheld computer screen. He opened and closed his mouth twice, like he was about to say something and reconsidered. He's trying to decide what he's allowed to tell me, she realized. The bald one's older, maybe he's the boss. She was about to repeat her question, much louder and angrier, when the kid spoke.
"You're in Cheyenne," he said. Like that's supposed to mean something to me. "You're in the Lawbringer's Headquarters. Or below it, really. That's why...there's no windows, see? And the test? Orders of the Lawbringer. He's the only one who can tell you why. Really, I shouldn't even be talking to you. In fact —"
"In fact," a new voice boomed from outside the cell, "I'm the one you'll want to talk with."
Distracted as she was by the kid and his tests, Roach hadn't heard the others enter. Outside her cell, flanked by two additional guards, stood a broad-shouldered, heavy-bellied man in a clean pressed Old World military dress uniform. The two lab coats and the two original guards turned to face him and bowed their heads.
The big man flashed her a wide smile, his teeth a blinding white beneath an exceptionally thick mustache. "Greetings, my new guests. I am the Lawbringer, and I would very much like to speak with both of you."
14
Elena led their group east, deeper into the domain of the my
sterious Madame Ki. The goons that surrounded Abigail and Sam continued to hold their weapons casually, but unmistakably inward, in case either of them somehow forgot they were now prisoners rather than guests. The streets continued to grow more and more narrow, and the husks of the Old World structures all around them became increasingly barnacled with slap-dash new constructions. Additionally — and this surprised Abigail — the streets also became increasingly festooned with electric lights. She noted strings of bobbing yellow bulbs stretching across the roads, buzzing white sodium panels set inside dirty door wells, blue and red and green neon lettering over shops and taverns and other, less reputable establishments. More electric light than she had ever seen in one place. Far more. There was no way it was all being run off of individual generators; the amount of gasoline that would take would be astronomical. No, this much power could only mean one thing: Cheyenne had a working power plant.
That was one explanation for the plumes of black smoke they had observed hanging over the city. When she had first glimpsed them, Abigail had assumed they were little more than the results of burning trash and maybe an occasional house fire. Perhaps she had judged the city too harshly. Perhaps, rather than simply an overgrown pile of refugees cowering behind their high walls, this place was something approaching real civilization. Abigail began to almost look forward to meeting Madame Ki: if she was able to provide this level of infrastructure, perhaps she was something more than the half-domesticated Wilds warlord Abigail had assumed.
Movement to her left caught her attention. A pack of soot-faced children chased what was either a very small cat or a very large rat into an alley. Beyond the pursuit, a gap-toothed old man was selling dried dung from a cart that looked to be missing a wheel. A line of customers stood waiting their turn, many of them dressed far nicer than she’d expect for prospective buyers of animal feces.
This whole place was different than she’d been expecting. She heard laughter and young voices and other sounds of life coming from the modest apartments that they passed. Sounds of cooking and cleaning and arguments ranging from friendly to furious. These were sounds of people living out real lives, rather than the hard and slightly frightened sounds she was used to hearing from the dwellings of the Wilds. Whatever else this place might be, it was unfamiliar, and it intrigued her. More familiar were the dozen surreptitious watchers she had clocked in the windows and alcoves they had passed. She was used to being watched, used to these half-hidden, furtive types. She knew informants and spies when she saw them, and these blocks were lousy with them.