by Eric Wood
Marcus sat in the waiting room outside of Roosevelt’s office and tried to stop his leg from tapping.
He told himself for the thousandth time that he had nothing to worry about. He had covered his tracks completely, and Roosevelt had no reason nor evidence to suspect that he had done anything wrong. Don’t panic, Marcus. Just stay calm.
“Marcus!” Roosevelt boomed, smiling wide and holding his hands out wide. “Come in, my boy.”
He was out of his normal dress uniform, leaning back behind his over-sized desk with his feet up on its surface. Off to the side, a fire roared within an ornate hearth, casting the room in a dim, dancing orange light. He noticed the crystal decanter on the desk, nearly three-quarters empty. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or bad.
“Lawbringer,” Marcus said, bowing as respectfully as he was able from the doorway.
“Close the door behind you Marcus. I don’t want to look at that hideous fluorescent light. I much preferred the fire, don’t you? More primitive, more primal. Real.”
“Of course, sir,” Marcus replied. He chose one of the leather-bound chairs opposite the fire and sat down, trying his best not to look nervous or guilty.
“Don’t start with that ‘sir’ talk with me Marcus,” Roosevelt said. Marcus’s heart skipped a beat. “You can call me Doug, Marcus. For god’s sake, I’ve known you since you were a baby. I think you can do that much for me.”
“Certainly sir. Roosevelt. Doug, I mean.”
“Bah, I can see it makes you uncomfortable. Maybe just Roosevelt is fine; split the difference. How are you, Marcus?”
“I am well, Roosevelt. As well as I can be, all things considered.”
“Yes, yes. Bad business, these Ravagers,” He swirled his drink around for a few moments, lost in thought. He downed the rest of it and leaned forward to refill it from the decanter. “We will handle them though, don’t you worry.”
Marcus nodded. “We will, sir.”
“Those damned Ravagers are the least of my problems, of course. Do you know the real problem with power, son?”
“I don’t suppose I do.”
“Once you have enough to try and do some damned good, everyone comes out of the woodwork to try and take it away from you.”
“I’m sure Ki isn’t stupid enough to try and move against you, considering the threat that’s coming,” Marcus said. Roosevelt was definitely drunk, which either meant he wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow, or he would, and he would be receptive to advice. It was worth the risk, Marcus decided, if he could do anything to dissuade Roosevelt from conflict.
“Ki is a creature of ambition. In that way she’s predictable. I can deal with Ki, assuming it comes to that. Oh yes, I’ll be able to deal with her. Our work with those two bizarre, filthy Infected is already producing results. Results that are extremely promising. Results you were invaluable in producing, Marcus. I’m glad I have you here, son. You have been invaluable. Important. Just like your father was.”
Marcus felt a pang of sadness hearing his father’s name. It had been nearly ten years since his father died, fighting for Roosevelt.
“God, I wish your daddy was still with us, Marcus. I could use him, in these trying times. My council is full of snakes, my Generals all working against each other and probably me as well. Your father, though, he was one I could rely on. He would know what to do. Yes, he would.” Roosevelt had almost nodded off there in his chair, but he caught himself and seemed to come wide awake again. “Cutter and those damned Company soldiers might be taking my money, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m somehow working for them. I don’t trust that scar-faced bastard one bit, no matter how many big promises he makes. No matter how good his track record.”
The big man’s head began to bob lower and lower, and Marcus started to plot how to best sneak from the room without disturbing his imminent slumber. At the same time, the Lawbringer’s last statement stuck with Marcus. Roosevelt didn’t trust Cutter, and Marcus shared his distrust. The Company had access to too many resources, and they knew too much about too many things to merely operate as a mercenary company. If Marcus could ever gain access to the Company’s computers, he might be able to learn more. Roosevelt shook his head and returned to full consciousness. “I don’t trust those Old World bastards at all, my boy. Now you be sure and stay close, Marcus. I’ll need your help, in the days to come. Can you do that for me, Marcus? Can you help me? Are you loyal to me?”
“Of course, sir. I am, Sir.” Marcus felt frightened and guilty and unsure of himself and Roosevelt all at once. He considered coming clean to the Lawbringer right then, and he quickly dismissed the idea as foolish. He had started out on this course, and he had already decided it was the best way to help the city survive what was coming. He was still loyal to Roosevelt — he still believed in the man even if he was increasingly disturbed by his methods, but Roosevelt couldn’t be trusted to do what was best for the city now. He just hoped that he himself was up to the task. He certainly had his doubts.
“Good, good,” Roosevelt said. He looked like he was starting to fade again. “That’s enough, Marcus. Get some rest. Like I said, I’ll need you at your best. We’ll all need you.”
Marcus stood up, bowed, and left Roosevelt’s office. He truly hoped the city wouldn’t need him. He didn’t know what he was doing. The only problem was it seemed like no one else did either.
33
“I need two of you to head over to Sullivan’s and pick up four cases of his number three whiskey,” Jacinta said.
Before they could respond, she was back out the half-flap door separating the floor of the bar from back, where all four of the group had been working the past week. It was a nice change of pace from the all-day farm work. At least once he was done here, Sam wasn’t too exhausted to take his nightly scouting walks through the market and the border districts. Not that they were working any less hard, per se, as Jacinta seemed to have an almost preternatural sense for when someone was standing around doing nothing. She’d be there in a flash to forcefully ‘remind’ that person of the many number of tasks that still needed doing. Bar work, however, was far less physically tasking than the farm work. It was also blessedly free of goats.
“If four of us go to pick up three cases of the number four whiskey,” Roach called back, “then who is going to wash that stack of plates?”
“That’s not what I said,” Jacinta shouted back, “I said two of you need to pick up four—are you messing with me, girl?” Jacinta was back in the kitchen, her hands on her hips, her expression stormy.
Roach smiled. “Me? I wouldn’t even know where to—”
“Can it. Don’t care which two, just needs doing. Don’t take too long.” And before waiting for a response, she turned, and in a flurry of flapping apron, she was gone.
“She’s going to throw a plate at you one of these times,” Abigail said to Roach, not looking up from the mugs she was methodically drying.
“Nah, she likes it,” Roach said back. “Keeps her on her toes.”
“I’ll go get the whiskey,” Sam said. After spending the past few days making every effort to listen and not speak, he had come to the unmistakable conclusion that Abigail’s present irritability was limited solely to things relating to him. She not only got along better than ever with Roach, who was nominally still their prisoner, but she’d been warm, if not friendly, with Rend, Michelle, and Jacinta. Even the few times when Roosevelt’s computer kid Marcus had stopped by, she had been unusually pleasant, despite the fact that there was still no reason to trust anyone from that organization. And yet, with Sam she had been, well, not angry—not any longer—but still cold. Quiet, standoffish. There certainly hadn’t been any kissing. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he missed that. He shuddered to think how she would react if he tried to kiss her now.
“Abigail, would you like to come with me?” His voice sounded far more tentative then he had wanted. “Or…you can stay here, your decision. I don’t wa
nt to try and tell you what to do. You can decide.” He immediate felt a warm flash of intense embarrassment, and he forced himself to stop talking.
“Roach, why don’t you go with Sam,” Abigail said, still focused on drying her mugs. “You’ve been mentioning how you felt cooped up in this tiny kitchen.”
Sam looked around the room, first up toward the ceiling which couldn’t have been lower than fifteen feet above them, then at the cavernous space that surrounded the three silver beer-brewing tanks past the dishwashing sink. This place had been an auto parts dealership back before the Horsemen, Jacinta had told him, and the kitchen had been a stock room the size of a decently-sized warehouse. Tiny was one thing it definitely was not.
“Are you sure?” Sam asked. “I’d thought maybe—”
She looked up at him without expression, her eyes steely. After a moment, she said. “I’m sure.”
“Ok then,” Roach said brightly. She dropped the dish she had been washing and pulled off her ankle-length apron. Bounding past Sam, she slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Come on, pretty boy, we’ve got booze to fetch. Don’t want to keep the chief waiting.”
Sam looked back to Abigail, who was again intently drying those mugs. He scowled, fighting back the urge to walk over to her and shake her by the shoulders and demand to know what she wanted him to say. It would almost be worth it, even if he was fairly certain it would end with several of his bones being broken.
“Alright, Roach,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s go.”
Sam and Roach walked wordlessly through the edge of the market, which was still bustling even now as day turned to night and the high-up fluorescent flood lamps began to blink to life. Finally, Sam’s frustration got the better of him and he spoke.
“Dammit, I don’t know what her problem is,” he began.
Roach threw up a hand in a ‘stop-right-there’ gesture. “Nope,” she said.
Sam stopped walking. “Nope? What does that mean, nope?”
“What it means is that, nope, I don’t want to hear about whatever it is you’ve been winding yourself up for these past few blocks to talk about. I don’t have any special advice to give you and I don’t want to listen to your whining. I don’t want to help you and little Miss Reaper with your love life, and I don’t want to know any more about it than I already do. So what do you say we just keep walking quietly and pick up that whiskey in peace?”
Sam scowled. “Why would I possibly ask you for any—wait, you know more about…has Abigail told you something?”
Roach barked a laugh. “She hasn’t told me nothing. I don’t know nothing and that’s already more than I want to know about all that messy business. I don’t care; not even enough to pretend I knew something and hold it over your head this whole damned walk. It’s tempting, but then I’d just have to listen to more whining and pleading, and that just sounds exhausting.”
“You’re really not very pleasant, you know that, Roach.”
“Me? I’m a ray of sunshine. You, on the other hand, seem to spend a lot more time brooding and being scowly. Not very pleasant. No it is not.”
Sam didn’t feel like arguing the point. Sullivan’s was just ahead, two of eight letters on its red-neon sign lit up in the dusk gloom.
“You’re brooding and scowly,” he muttered.
He knew how weak it sounded.
“I hardly think this is necessary.”
Abigail scoffed, then tossed Rend the other oak staff.
Another gunshot sounded from the next field over, followed by another string of curses from Roach. Sam had been teaching her to shoot, and though she was no stranger to guns, hitting a target was apparently not one of the Ravager’s strengths. Taking inspiration from this, she decided to include Rend in her daily training exercises. So far, the results had been underwhelming.
“You don’t, huh? What do you think we’re going to be up against in a few days? Strongly worded disagreements? We’ll be facing some very bad people very happy to do some violence, and we’re going to need more out of you than smiling reassurances. We’re going to need the Howler in you, Rend. I intend to bring him out of you.”
Before he could object, she had raised her own staff and closed the gap between them. She brought it down, aiming a stunning blow at his temple, and with a yelp of surprise he was able to raise his own weapon in time to deflect the blow. It glanced off his shoulder, and though most of the strike’s force was gone, the hit was still strong enough to force him off-balance. Abigail spun and brought her staff low, sweeping Rend’s feet out from under him and putting him on his back.
“Not good enough,” she said, spinning her staff to a one-handed reverse grip and turning away from him.
“You didn’t say we were starting,” Rend whined from the ground.
“You know better than that.” She turned around, flipped the staff, and swung a vertical strike at her downed opponent’s chest. He’d learn from her words, or he’d learn from his bruises. It was the same way she had been taught, and he could take it. If a seven-year-old girl could learn from her wounds, then a fully-grown man could do the same.
Faster than she had expected, he rolled out of the way of her swing and was on his feet, his own staff back in his hands. He jabbed the near end of it at her exposed ribs.
Faster than she had expected, but not fast enough. She moved back just enough to let the staff’s tip pass before her chest. She freed one hand from her weapon and grabbed his staff, then wrenched and pulled Rend forward and off balance. Using her neck as a fulcrum, she spun her own staff around, let go with her other hand, then re-grabbed it on the backspin, and used the momentum for a one-handed swing. It landed with a meaty smack on his upper arm. He yelped in pain, and she pulled his staff the rest of the way out of his hands.
If she had been Solomon, this would have been the point where a final blow to the head would have ended the day’s lesson. Instead, Abigail danced a few steps away and then stuck both staffs into the ground, then folded her arms behind her back and gazed down at Rend, giving him a version of the same serene smile he was so fond of flashing everyone else.
“I saw you move before, at Roosevelt’s” she said. “You’re better than this. Faster, stronger. What are you waiting for? Do you want to get yourself killed? I might be able to live with that, but you might get me killed in the process. That I can’t accept. You—we—need the Howler in you to come out if we’re going to survive what’s coming.”
“I don’t understand how it works,” Rend said. “I don’t know what I did, nor why I can’t do it now. Maybe if we just stop and consider—"
“Maybe I keep hitting you until you decide to actually fight back.”
“This is pointless. Your own anger isn’t going to make me do anything I don’t know how to do already. The best thing—”
“Have it your way.” She pulled up her own staff, spun it casually around as she loosened her muscles, then swung.
Rend’s hand snapped out and grabbed to weapon, stopping it in an instant. The impact sent a stinging wave back into Abigail’s shoulder. She looked at the hand that had stopped her strike, and she smiled.
A set of long, ivory-white claws were dug into the dark brown wood. She looked to Rend and saw that his face was scrunched up in an angry grimace. His irises were an amber color that seemed to glow.
“Well hello there, Mr. Howler” she said. “It’s about time.”
They spent the next hour alternating drills and sparring, and though he only had sporadic success re-summoning what she thought of as his beast-form, it was enough progress, and enough of a workout, that both of them considered it a promising start.
“I’m beginning to better understand my new nature,” Rend said as they walked back toward the farmhouse. “I’ll spend the evening in meditation, and in that, I expect to further deepen my understanding.”
Abigail shrugged. She didn’t particularly understand the value in such practice, but she could see that Rend did, and she nodded in agree
ment. “Well, you’re not completely useless,” she said, and then remembering that people didn’t always appreciate her sarcasm, she offered him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
“I am trying,” he said. “And I appreciate that you see that. No doubt others are trying, in their own way. I’m sure they’d also appreciate you seeing the same things in them.”
She could think of some less generously sarcastic things to say to that. But she knew he wasn’t entirely wrong, so instead she just scowled and continued walking.
“Let’s just make sure we’re not late for dinner,” she said.
As they passed out of the fallow field and into the outdoor growing lands that surrounded Michelle and Jacinta’s farmhouse, they met up with Sam and Roach, who were just finishing what sounded like a long and unresolved argument about the value of target practice.
“You don’t need to aim when they’re right in front of you,” Roach said. “And if they’re not right in front of you, then what’s the point. You’re still talking like I’ve never shot someone.”
“You know, I still try and pretend you haven’t,” Sam replied. “The less I remember that you used to be the craziest of Deacon’s crazies, the less insane I feel about giving you a gun in the first place.”
“You’ll be singing a very different tune if I’m the only one standing between you and one of those same crazies.”
“Not if you still can’t hit the side of a barn with that rifle.”
“Things went well, it seems,” Rend called out, smiling.
“Pretty boy here thinks he’s something because he can kill a soda can from a hundred yards,” Roach said. “I tried to tell him I’ve never been very scared of a soda can coming after me, but sometimes smart words just don’t have the right audience.”