DustRoad

by Tom Huddleston

  For Rosie,

  my travelling partner

  and my destination

  Prologue

  The car’s engine growled like an animal on the hunt, painted steel gleaming beneath the crescent moon. Lynx shifted gears as stone buildings rose on either side, their roofs broken open to the sky. Empty doorways were heaped with rubble and the rusted shells of vehicles lay peeling on the cracked tarmac street. A hot wind blew, and through the open window Lynx could taste dust and desert sand, and just the faintest salt tang of the sea. They would soon run out of road.

  Brick dust ground beneath the wheels as the car skidded into a turn, the motorbike up ahead leaning so steeply that its rider’s knee almost scraped the ground. Lynx’s lip curled with satisfaction. It wouldn’t be long now. The Wildcats would run their quarry down and haul her in for justice.

  Lynx’s car was painted the same mottled black-and-dun as the desert cat that had inspired its owner’s name. It was a low-slung speedster pounded together from the scavenged parts of other vehicles, custom-built for speed and raw power. It had a snarling mouth scrawled across the front grille and gleaming eyes on the headlamps. Its throttle barked like a wild thing.

  Hearing the screech of brakes, Lynx glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the others following. Leo’s vehicle was big, a hulking mass of gold-sprayed steel topped with a mane of rusted metal mesh. The sandy-haired boy hunkered low behind the dashboard, slamming the stick forward, high wheels jouncing over piles of strewn stone. Behind him came Tigress, her night-black car streaked with blazing orange stripes. She overtook Leo on the inside, grinning through sharpened fangs as she scraped past his front bumper and swung in behind Lynx.

  But Lynx didn’t smile. This was no time for games. If they allowed the traitor to escape, their bosses would not forgive them. And as group leader it was Lynx’s responsibility to ensure that things went smoothly, that the woman up ahead on the silver motorbike was run down and brought back. The Wildcats’ reputation, their growing notoriety as the most dangerous pack of road hogs this side of the Rockies – all of it was on the line.

  Then Lynx heard a sound and felt a thin shiver of glee. It was a low rushing roar, steady and close. The wind blew stronger, cooler, as the buildings opened out to reveal nothing beyond, nothing but the high moon and the distant stars, and the glittering black expanse of the sea.

  The bike slowed, the rider’s helmeted head jerking anxiously from left to right. She’s taken a wrong turn, Lynx thought. She’s backed herself into a corner. And she knows it.

  The biker twisted the throttle as she turned north, following the tumbledown seafront. The road was old concrete, parts of it subsiding into the risen ocean. The bike weaved smoothly around these open sinkholes but Lynx was forced to slow the car, feeling the way forward. Leo leaned on the horn and Lynx made a rude gesture, sure it could be seen through the rear windscreen.

  The motorbike was heading for a long steel pier that branched from the waterfront and out into the dark waters of the Gulf. Beyond it a flickering orange haze lit the horizon, low clouds reflecting the glow from the old city of Houston. The city itself was broken now, an empty, flooded ruin. But The Five had rekindled the oil refineries north of town, their flames burning day and night, their generators gleaming against the dark. To Lynx it was almost magical, an echo of the days when the whole skyline would’ve been lit up like the sun. Before civilisation fell, and the continent went dark.

  The bike turned on to the pier and Lynx could hear boards rattling under its wheels. What was the traitor doing? She’d intentionally put herself at the Wildcats’ mercy, with nowhere left to go. Lynx weaved around the last of the potholes and followed her on to the pier, where steel struts groaned and the weather-worn hulks of old burger stands and amusement arcades framed the wide wooden walkway. Clowns and elephants watched with flaking eyes as the Wildcats fanned out, blocking any chance of escape. But the motorbike had stopped, its rider twisting to face them. She removed her helmet, glanced briefly at the comwatch on her wrist, then held up a hand.

  “That’s far enough,” she called, her face pale in the moonlight. On her back Lynx could see a bulging canvas pack, stuffed with all the contraband medicine she’d taken from The Five’s stores. “You’ve got me.”

  The three vehicles slowed and Lynx scanned the circular platform at the end of the pier. There appeared to be no other exit, no hidden walkway or stairs. The only way out was the way they’d come. The Wildcats slid to a halt, switching off their engines to conserve gasoline. For a moment all was silent, just the lapping of the waves and the tick of cooling metal.

  Then Lynx unbelted and opened the door, straightening with one hand on the roof. The traitor watched with dark eyes. “You ran me down,” she said. “I thought you would.”

  Lynx frowned. “Did you honestly imagine you could get away clean? You must think we’re dumb as a box of rocks, us and The Five.”

  The thief shook her head. “Not dumb,” she said. “Just … busy. The Five are overstretching themselves, Lynx. Between the pill factory and the refinery and the farms, not to mention this crazy scheme about bringing the states together… It felt like a good time to get out. I only took enough to help me get started.”

  “People rely on those meds,” Tigress put in. “Insulin and antibiotics – those are lives you’re playing with.”

  The woman snorted. “Come on, you don’t care about that, and neither do The Five. They care about profit, and they care about power. They just want to be in charge, to tell people like us what to do. Well, not me. I don’t need those freaks telling me what I—”

  “Hey,” Leo barked, slamming his door. “We don’t use that word.”

  The thief’s face broke into a smile. “Freaks? What other word is there? I don’t know why they are like they are, but Brad, you know as well as I do that it ain’t natural.”

  The boy’s face flushed. “Leo,” he growled. “My name’s Leo now.”

  She snorted. “Oh right, I forgot. Sorry, pussycat.”

  “Quiet,” Lynx snapped. “The Five told us to bring you back. They didn’t say in how many pieces.”

  The thief laughed. “I’m sorry, I just… I know you think you’re tough, and there are probably a few folks out there who are actually scared of you. But when I look at you, I just see three kids. Three kids with ridiculous hair and stupid names who, one of these days, are going to get themselves in way more trouble than they can handle.”

  “Shut your mouth!” Leo snarled. “We’re the Wildcats – what are you?”

  The thief glanced at her watch, and back towards the sea. Then she shrugged, smiled and winked at them. “I’m leaving,” she said, replacing her helmet and firing up the bike.

  Lynx cursed and dropped back into the car, turning the key. The motorbike was already moving, gunning towards Leo just as his engine rumbled into life. There was a space between the cars that the bike might just slip through, but Lynx knew it was pointless; the Wildcats were still faster, and there were three of them.

  Then something unexpected happened. The bike twisted again, wheels squealing as it made a sharp spin in the centre of the platform. Lynx watched open-mouthed as the thief hit the throttle, making straight for the end of the pier. There was a gap in the rusty railing and the traitor aimed for it, seemingly determined to throw herself headlong into the ocean. The bike cleared the pier and shot out into open air, wheels spinning furiously.

  Then over the rush of the sea Lynx heard another sound, the low moan of a foghorn. Leo had already jumped from his car, sprinting to the railing and looking down in disbelief. Lynx joined him, gripping the cold steel with both hands.

  A battered fishing boat chugged from the shadow of the pier, waves slapping against her hull. The motorbike lay o
n its side in a tangle of green nets, the woman sprawled beside it on the deck. As they watched she picked herself up, raising a hand as the boat rumbled away into the dark.

  Lynx pounded on the railing so hard it hurt. “I should’ve seen that coming.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  The dark-haired man crouched, frowning coldly. The scar above his right eye gleamed in the low electric light. Behind him on the wall was a huge, featureless painting, black like the mouth of a cave.

  “You should’ve guessed she’d have a plan,” the second man added.

  “You should’ve anticipated her moves,” said the third.

  “Instead you let her make a fool of you,” the fourth added.

  “You let her make a fool of us,” the fifth finished bitterly.

  Lynx wanted to protest, but what was the point? The Five were right, as always. The thief had escaped and the Wildcats had been powerless to stop her.

  The black-suited brothers took their seats, the long table framed by painted slabs of pure darkness. Even after three years, Lynx could barely tell the men apart – one had a scar above his eye, another a few grey hairs, but in all important respects The Five were completely identical. And that was precisely as it should be – they were united, unassailable, they wore one face and spoke with one voice. They were the ultimate power in the city of Houston and far beyond.

  “We’re good to you, aren’t we?” One leaned forward, his face gleaming like polished plastic.

  “We feed you,” one of his brothers chimed in.

  “We clothe you,” added another.

  “We give you our trust.”

  “We don’t question your … lifestyle.”

  Lynx flushed, but it was true. The Five’s support had never wavered, even when the girl who had been their best driver had come to the realisation that they weren’t a girl any more.

  “We encourage you to be whoever you need to be.”

  “We’re on your side, no matter what.”

  “And all we ask in return is that you and your friends are loyal.”

  “That you do your best.”

  “And this, tonight … this doesn’t feel like your best.”

  “Is that a fair assessment?”

  Lynx nodded slowly. “Maybe, but—”

  “No buts, Lynx.”

  “No excuses.”

  “There’s only one thing for it.”

  “One way to fix this.”

  “Don’t you agree?”

  Lynx sighed. “You want me to bring her back. And the goods too.”

  The Five smiled in perfect unison and Lynx had to suppress a shiver. Sometimes their behaviour was so synchronised that it was downright uncanny.

  “The goods aren’t important.”

  “Or at least, they’re less important.”

  “We want the thief.”

  “We have to make an example of her.”

  “Prove to everyone that you can’t steal from The Five and get away with it.”

  They leaned in, their elbows on the table.

  “This is an important time for us, Lynx.”

  “Big things are happening.”

  “There’s going to be a gathering.”

  “Out in the desert.”

  “A great celebration.”

  “A grand unification.”

  “And we’d like you to be there.”

  Lynx nodded. “Sirs, I’d be honoured to—”

  “But you can only come if you bring a friend.”

  “A guest.”

  “You know who.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Find her.”

  “Bring her.”

  The first leaned in again, so close that Lynx could see nothing but his emerald eyes, flecked with gold, the white scar shining above the right one.

  “Or don’t come back at all.”

  1

  The Tower

  The red-brick hall was streaked with sunbeams, shimmering down through the water and illuminating the faces of beasts and men and gods. In the flooded gallery the silence was deep, just the whisper of the waves above and the soft shifting of silt and sediment on the flagstone floor.

  Joe had visited many such places in recent weeks, drowned museums and sunken palaces, vast and old and elegant. He wished he’d been able to see them before the Wall broke and the water came, when these halls were full of sound and people. London had been a living city then, one of the last in the world. Now it was just like everywhere else, flooded and broken and washed away.

  But there was still beauty here, if you looked at it the right way. The walls of the gallery were almost bare, stripped clean by the first salvage crews to pick through the flooded city. But a few paintings still hung in place, waterlogged beneath cracked panes of glass. Figures and landscapes bled into one another; painted eyes leaked colourful tears as drop by drop the sea absorbed them.

  Shouldering his pack, Joe kicked through an empty window and angled up towards the surface. He could see the outline of the skiff overhead, a black oval surrounded by floating flotsam, the crust of rubbish and loose soil and plant matter that covered the still, brackish water inside the Wall. He broke through, spitting out his mouthpiece and taking a lungful of fresh air.

  Kara sat up in the boat, rubbing her eyes and sweeping back her lank yellow hair. Joe swam towards her, objects bobbing in his face – a blue teacup, a wad of matted paper, a lump of earth with grass still clinging to it. He pushed them aside, taking hold of Kara’s outstretched hand and climbing over the skiff’s wooden gunwale.

  “Having a nice snooze?” he asked, sipping from a bottle of chemically filtered water to wash the salty taste from his mouth. “Dreaming about how wonderful I am and how much you lurve me?”

  Kara raised an eyebrow. “I was just catching up. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  Joe snorted. “I know. You kicked me six times.” They didn’t really need to share a bed any more – they had their own place now, with two whole rooms. But they still did it, mostly out of habit. “Are you worrying about something?”

  “I’m fine,” Kara said, a little too quickly. “You were taking your time so I dozed off. What’s so fascinating down there anyway?”

  Joe looked up at the sheer face of the museum, the high brick wall throwing the skiff into shadow. He shrugged. “It’s just an interesting place. A bit old and spooky, but I like it.”

  Kara got to her feet. “This whole City’s old and spooky. And I don’t like it at all.”

  She stood in the prow, gazing out over the filthy, encrusted water. Buildings jutted from the brine, concrete towers and church spires and chimney-topped terraces, all silent and shadowy under the shifting sky. There was no sign of any other boats or salvage teams, but that was hardly unusual. The first days following the Flood had been a free-for-all, the rescue efforts hampered by a mad scramble as looters and City refugees came in and grabbed whatever they could. But in recent months, order had been restored – the new authorities had locked London down, and now the only ones allowed to dive inside the Wall were those with an official licence and a signed permit. Both of which Joe had, largely because the person the Shanties had chosen as their new prime minister happened to be his old schoolteacher, Miss Ella King.

  “Well, we’re not here on a sightseeing trip,” Kara said, turning back. “Come on, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Joe opened his backpack, tipping out the objects he’d been sent to find – four metal sculptures, misshapen and abstract, with appendages sticking from them almost like arms.

  “What are they supposed to be?” Kara asked, wrinkling her nose. “They just look like more junk.”

  Joe crouched, studying the bronze blobs. “I think they’re sort of cool. Like, I don’t know, like thoughts or something. Ideas you haven’t quite finished having.”

  Kara rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I just don’t see why our buyer would pay so much for them.”

  “Maybe she thinks they’
re cool too. Not everything’s about money.” Joe squinted up at her. “How much will this bring us up to, anyway? Have we saved enough for Canada?”

  That had been Joe’s dream for as long as he could remember – to escape the hectic floating slum they called the Shanties to a place of trees and mountains and peace and quiet.

  “Not quite,” Kara said without looking at him. “Soon, though.”

  “Maybe we should’ve gone with Nate,” Joe mused. “It might have been fun to see where the Mariners live.” The Ark Neptune had set sail the day before, under orders from the Mariner High Council to return to its home port of Frisco, thousands of miles away on the far coast of America. Their friend Nate had wanted them to come along, but Kara had flat-out refused.

  “Fun?” she snorted now. “I’ve had enough of those floating loonies to last a lifetime. I know, I know, they’re not all bad. But I still don’t think I’m ready for a whole city full of them.”

  “It’s just that you said we could leave the Shanties,” Joe complained. “But we still haven’t.”

  “We’ll go when the time’s right,” Kara snapped. “Stop pestering me about it.”

  Joe felt a quiver of unease. Kara had always had a quick temper, if someone deserved it. But recently it seemed like she was annoyed at everyone, even Joe. He supposed it had something to do with growing up; Kara was sixteen now and he’d heard people got in funny moods at that age. Joe was still only eleven, or at least that was his best guess. His parents were the only ones who’d know for sure, and he hadn’t seen them in quite a lot of years.

  “Hey, that’s weird,” Kara said suddenly. “D’you think they’re meant to be up there?”

  She was gesturing across the water, between the towers to the concrete Wall on the horizon. The Wall was a perfect oval, a smooth, sheer-sided bowl enclosing the entire City. Once it had kept out the rising water but now there was a huge crack in it, a ragged cleft where the bomb placed by the Mariner terrorist Redeye had torn out the foundations. It was towards this gap that Kara was pointing, and as Joe shielded his eyes he saw dark figures up there, scaling the shattered stone.