by J. L. Smith
This time, the man responded, his voice a little nasal, “What do you want with me?” His nose twitched as he spoke, reminding me of a rat. He had dark, almost black, thin, wispy hair, adding to the effect. The others pulled up beside us, catching the last of his question.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Saffron replied tensely. “I will say it once more. Out! Now!”
Looking at her, it was obvious that she meant exactly what she said. I was fairly certain that were he to ignore her this time, he would suffer for it. I was not sure whether she would actually kill him in cold blood, but, then again, I did not really know her. It seemed that the man before us was trying to decide the same thing, for he hesitated, eyeing her cautiously.
“I’d get out, if I were you,” Rayder said, sounding almost bored. “Before she starts showing off her temper.”
The man looked from Rayder to Saffron, evidently making up his mind whether to believe Rayder. Then, he opened the door of the truck, his face covered in resignation. “I can’t climb out from this angle,” he complained.
He had a point. The truck was lying oddly in the sand, causing his side of the vehicle to be angled towards the sky. “You’re a big boy,” Saffron scoffed. “Jump.”
He did, but not before glaring at her. He landed in the sand, falling to his knees with the impact.
“This way,” Saffron said, beckoning him forward with her gun.
He walked slowly towards us, his eyes darting nervously. I tried to see it as he did – a bunch of leather-clad riders armed to the teeth, aiming their weapons at him. My own heart was hammering and so I could only imagine what he must be feeling. What were we going to do to him? Was this the custom – to extract information, before killing him?
“Stop,” Rayder said, causing the man to halt midstride. Rayder’s voice rang with authority and I could see the moment when the man realized who our leader was. His gaze lingered on Rayder, taking me in only briefly. “What are you transporting?”
“Supplies,” the man replied vaguely.
Rayder looked at Saffron and nodded. In response, she fired off another shot, hitting another tire. It burst, hissing violently as it deflated.
“Answer me like that again and you’re done,” Rayder said, his low voice threatening.
“Fuel,” the man all but spluttered.
“For Balen,” Rayder said, making it apparent that it was not a question, but a statement.
The man nodded quickly, looking anxiously between Rayder and Saffron.
“And is it just fuel you transport?” Rayder asked dangerously.
The man nodded again, adding hurriedly, “I swear, I don’t buy kids or nothing like that.”
“So, you’re telling me if I looked around in your truck, I wouldn’t find anyone?” Rayder probed.
Shaking his head, the man practically pleaded, “I swear it. I only ever move fuel.” When Rayder was silent, he continued, “Look at this truck, man. It’s a fuel tanker.”
Rayder gave a brief nod, “You got a name?”
“Jim,” the man replied hastily. I was not at all sure whether he was lying, but I got the distinct impression that Jim would give up anyone, anything, just to cover his own hide.
“So, Jim,” Rayder drawled his name, “it seems you’ve got a choice.” He paused and it struck me that it was probably the most dramatic behavior I had ever seen from Rayder. “Either, you give us something we want, or you die.” The words were so blunt, ringing so true, that I shivered, despite the sweat lining my skin. What did I really know about The Lost Kids anyway?
“What do you want?” Jim asked quickly, his nose twitching again, his hand tapping his thigh restlessly.
“Here’s the fun part, Jim,” Rayder said. “You tell me.”
He was playing games with the man, a cat toying with his prey, making Jim visibly more nervous. The man wiped sweat from his brow and I could see that his hand was trembling. “What do you mean?” he stammered. “I don’t know what you want,” he whined, sounding very like a child.
“It’s simple,” Rayder replied. “We want Balen. Now, you tell me how you can help us and you get to live.”
Jim’s mind seemed to be working overtime, his face pinching as he thought over his predicament. To betray Balen was one thing, but it seemed that Jim had no choice. Everyone was ominously silent, so strange, when I was used to their jokes and chatter. But, a mission was different. A mission was life or death.
“My brother runs a bar,” Jim responded. “There’s a weapons depot under it. Balen’s going to be there in five days. I’ll get you in.”
Rayder was quiet and I noticed the way the others looked to him, waiting for his signal. He looked at Saffron, then at Kieran, all of them seeming to communicate without speaking a word.
“We’ve heard this all before,” Saffron said, more to Rayder than to Jim. “It always goes to hell.”
“We need to infiltrate,” Kieran argued. “It’s the only way.”
“It hasn’t worked in the past,” Saffron replied.
“Yeah,” Kieran countered, “but, it doesn’t mean it won’t now.”
Jim followed the argument, his eyes moving between Saffron and Kieran, as if trying to work out the dynamics of the group. “Balen’s been to the depot a lot,” Jim piped up, looking a bit more confident now, his voice less annoying, but just as nasal. “He has meetings with the runners in the area there. I know the guys on the door. I’ll get you in.”
“Yeah,” Saffron sneered, “and then what? Balen gets to off us with an audience.”
Jim seemed on the verge of attempting an answer, when Rayder spoke, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Jim’s head snapped in Rayder’s direction, and he nodded sharply, “You won’t regret it, man.”
“Make sure I don’t.” Saffron started to protest at the same time, but Rayder silenced her with a mere look. Under ordinary circumstances, this would not have worked. But, with Jim as our hostage, things were far from ordinary. “Kieran, search Jim and then he can ride with you.”
“Jim,” Kieran said cheerfully, reminding me more of the way we usually conversed, “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, so I’m going to tie you up real tight.” Susie laughed at this, making me relax a little, while Jim shrugged, almost admitting his lack of character. “What do we do about the truck?” Kieran asked, directing his question at Rayder. “Siphon it?”
“It’s going to blow,” Rayder said casually.
“You sure?” Kieran asked. Rayder looked at Neal, who nodded.
“Why are we still here then?” Jim asked, clearly bewildered, and I had to agree with him.
“Better let us check you for weapons fast,” Saffron said.
Jim could not have been more compliant, as Kieran patted him down, searching for any concealed weapons. Susie and Stef helped tie Jim onto Kieran’s motorcycle, while the smoke from the hood came faster and faster, the fumes becoming darker.
“Why are we still here?” I asked Rayder quietly.
He simply shook his head.
It seemed an eternity before we got going, Jim fastened helplessly to the back of Kieran’s bike. By the time we were on our way, the smoke was becoming menacingly black and we flew across the sand, coming to a halt a safe distance away.
“It’s a game,” Rayder said softly, as he cut the engine before the others arrived. “Like chess. Moves and countermoves.”
“So, we stayed by the truck just to scare him?” Rayder nodded. “Tell me,” I asked boldly, desperate to know, “what would you have done if he’d refused to help us?”
Rayder responded cryptically, “But, he did.”
“Yeah,” I said impatiently, “but if he didn’t?”
“What do you think?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Just then, Saffron arrived, putting an end to our conversation. I sighed, frustrated. As the others joined us, we watched from relative safety as
the truck began to catch on fire.
“And, now,” Neal said quietly, as the truck exploded. Even from our distance, I could feel the heat.
“Sorry, Jim,” Susie said, apparently not sorry at all, for I could hear the humor in her voice, “that must be a real blow for you.”
Kieran, Stef and I laughed, while Jim glared at Susie, already mourning the loss of his truck. There was not much to do after that, any attempt at siphoning fuel or collecting weapons now useless. We left that spot, the smoke and flames, the dead man, behind us.
It was just as the others had departed, as Rayder put his bike into gear, that he turned his head slightly towards me and said, almost inaudibly over the sound of the engine, “For what it’s worth, I don’t kill in cold blood.”
I could make out the anger in his voice and I felt slightly defensive. I could hardly be blamed for my confusion, given how ruthless he so often seemed. “Sometimes, I don’t feel so sure what you would and wouldn’t do.”
He seemed on the verge of answering, but then evidently thought better of it, sending us careening over the sand at his usual breakneck speed.
Chapter 7
“Jim’s the worst!” Susie declared two days later. “I mean, I hate him, but he’s also sort of funny!”
Jim, who was lounging in a hammock, his ankle chained to the pillar supporting the structure, called in response, “I heard that! And right back at you, sister!”
I laughed, muttering to Susie, “I’ve got to tell you, I couldn’t agree more.”
“If it’s not his endless nagging that’s making me laugh because it’s so freaking dramatic, it’s his ridiculous lack of morals,” Susie said loudly, smiling cynically. “He’d have no problem sticking a knife in my back, or my front, for that matter.”
“Like I said,” Jim shouted across to us, “I can hear you. And, don’t worry sweetheart, I’m a stab-you-in-the-front sort of guy!”
Susie and I rolled our eyes simultaneously, while she replied, “Thanks Jim, you’re a real gem of a hostage!”
He had been with us for two long days – days where we had taken turns to watch him, despite the fact that he was either chained up or, in the case of restroom breaks, under strict supervision. His stream of complaints was endless, from nattering about the vulnerability of his chained ankle, to expressing outrage that we would not allow him to smoke a cigarette at least once every half hour, to alleviate the boredom. Like Susie, I found myself thinking he was both utterly annoying, yet a little amusing, reminding me of a particularly spoiled child. Saffron and Rayder, on the other hand, could not tolerate him, causing both of us to find it all funnier. Saffron would breathe in very deeply as he complained, evidently fighting her desire to do him some violence, while Rayder would simply walk away, barely talking to him at all.
While there were moments of comic relief, these were generally few and far between, as we readied to leave camp again the following day, to make the two-day journey to the weapons depot where Jim promised Balen would be meeting with his runners. The plan was still a little hazy, relying too much on Jim’s loyalty, in my opinion.
Considering this, I said to Susie as we walked away from Jim’s spot in the hammock, “Do you think we should be trusting him?” This time, he did not seem to hear us.
“Not for a second,” Susie said, without hesitation.
“So, why is Rayder doing it? Plus, we’re leaving the other kids to look after themselves.”
Susie seemed to ponder this for a moment, before responding, “First off, the others have to look after themselves all the time.” I was about to point out that we would likely be gone for quite some time, but she read my thoughts. “I know we might be a while this time, but there are some pretty hardcore kids here. Besides, like Rayder always says, most of us have been looking after ourselves since we were way younger than these guys.”
I nodded, conceding her point, “Still, is it worth it?”
“No idea,” Susie replied, chuckling. Just then, Neal walked by, studying a bomb which I hoped was not yet functional. “Neal,” she called, “you’re up!”
Looking up, still half lost in his thoughts, Neal said, “Up for that?”
“Why are we trusting Jim?”
“For that matter,” I added, “why are we trying to infiltrate and join Balen’s runners? I mean, why not bring him down some other way?”
We had his full attention now. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he was thinking about the problem at hand. “It’s a simple cost benefit analysis. The marginal cost of failing to execute this mission is our lives. The marginal benefit,” he smiled, “could be destroying Balen’s empire and therefore saving many more lives.”
“So,” I said, drawing out the word, “in a nutshell, our lives are worth risking, on the off-chance we’ll succeed.”
“Correct,” he said, as if he were discussing mere philosophy. “Although, when one factors in the chances of success, as opposed to the chances of failure, it does complicate things.” He furrowed his brow, counting on his fingers. “Jim is unreliable – a risk. Yet, he will bring us into the vicinity of Balen – a reward. There will potentially be hundreds of runners – a risk, but perhaps also a bonus, as we could go undetected.”
Susie started to laugh, “Basically, we’re screwed if we do and we’re screwed if we don’t!”
Neal laughed a little, “Something like that.”
“But, why now, Neal? I mean, haven’t you guys had years to try this tactic?” I asked, still rather confused.
“We have,” he granted. “We’ve even tried to infiltrate a time or two without success.” He spoke so formally, a gentleman from a bygone era. “It’s like a game of chess. One player moves and then the other. The pieces get fewer, as each player closes in on the king. The same is true here. Rumor has it that Balen is on our trail, although we don’t know to what extent. Both parties are moving pieces about, closing in on their targets. Put simply, it’s time to take the king.”
I nodded, wondering just how much Balen knew about us, while Susie said merrily, “Now, why do I get the feeling Balen wouldn’t mind being called a king?”
“A king with far too many knights,” I said, failing to keep my tone light. “How did he get his army in the first place?”
“Now, there’s a complicated question,” Neal said and I found myself smiling, as if I were a favored student. “Take legislature, it’s largely lacking. We live in an age without national borders, without governments, without any legal body presiding over this mess.” Here, he looked at the red desert, raising his smooth eyebrows somewhat. “It’s essentially a no-man’s land.”
“Gone to hell,” Susie chipped in, “pretty much literally, right?”
“Sure, if you like,” Neal responded.
“Not really,” Susie said good-humoredly.
Neal smiled, continuing, “We have territories and lords, who demand their pound of flesh from their subjects. But, there is no overarching legal body to stop a lord, say, harvesting organs, or building an organ empire, for that matter. Anarchy rules supreme.” He raised a finger and then a second, “Now, take economics. We live in a time of overwhelming poverty, where most barter the little they have in exchange for the bare essentials. Add to this, the waning health of the general populace, the fact that whole villages are wiped out every year because disease is more widespread than during any other time in human history, and you have yourself a set of fairly dire circumstances.”
I smiled, “An understatement.”
“Right, so take poverty, reduced life expectancy, the demand for young healthy organs, in the light of rampant organ failure given the toxicity of our post-apocalyptic, for want of a better word, environment, and what do you get?”
Neal seemed to expect an answer from us and so I obliged, “You get Balen.”
“Precisely,” Neal said. “Why not become a runner for Balen if it’ll fill your pockets, maybe even guaran
tee you an organ, should you need it? And, let’s not forget the role of superstition and the festivals.”
“My favorite part,” Susie said.
I was aware of the grip of superstition across the desert, particularly amongst those with little education. All my life, at the markets, I had come across it. For good luck, things like chicken’s blood sprinkled across your front doorstep or rosemary underneath your pillow. For a lover’s tiff, a dollop of honey, applied liberally behind your ears. My parents had never believed in any of it, dismissing superstition, and the so-called seers who reinforced it, as nothing short of nonsense. Yet, for the lower classes, the uneducated, it was a way of life. As for the festivals of which Neal spoke, I had never been to one, but I knew them to be quite wild, having seen Nita in their aftermath. Although they were meant to be about celebrating with Mother Earth – a solstice, the beginning of harvest season – it seemed to me, it was more about an excuse for a party.
Emerging from my thoughts, I said, “Tell me.”
“Balen uses the seers to keep the runners under his thumb. Mostly, the runners are from the lower classes, lacking in education, implying that they’re usually a superstitious bunch,” Neal commented, as if discussing a scientific equation.
“Easy, Neal,” Susie joked. “Don’t tell Jim that!”
Neal smiled and continued unperturbed. “To appease the runners, who often believe in such things as bad luck from the organ trade, the seers bless the organs which are harvested, which supposedly brings good luck to the runners.”
“So, the seers are an authority on this, are they?” I asked crossly.
“In those circles, yes,” Neal replied calmly.
“And the festivals?” I said, “What’s the point of them?”
Susie grinned, “Those are just for fun.”
“It depends on your idea of fun,” Neal said wryly. “As it turns out, Aria, you might very well see.” When I looked confused, he added, “It’s the winter solstice tomorrow.”
And, so it was, that the following day, I attended my very first festival. It had been an early start, those of us riding out on the mission leaving just before dawn. It was the usual crew – Rayder, Saffron, Kieran, Susie, Stef, Neal and me, together with Jim, who complained bitterly that it was far too cold and too dark to be doing anything other than staying in bed. I found myself worrying about those we had left behind, wondering when it would be that we would see them again. I had watched as Rayder had handed over the baton of power in his absence, so to speak, leaving a trio of youthful teenagers in control. They were too young for such things – we all were. We had left the camp on four motorcycles, to save on fuel, where, this time I shared with Susie, as Rayder was riding with Jim.