After The Apocalypse Season 2 Box Set [Books 4-6]

by Hately, Warren

  The Council stage dominated the big shadowy theater space. But the bigwigs weren’t in attendance yet. Several technicians stood fussing with the electrics in one of the back-stage uprights, nestled like something medieval between the heavy red drapes. A lone, bored-looking trooper watched them, dressed in a full kit including rifle and helmet, but still more like an actor waiting for his chance on stage than armed security.

  At ground level, only half the lights were switched on. Citizens stood in twos and threes in the dark empty space, giving Tom the sense of arriving at a nightclub too soon. Although there were a number of tall tables and chairs, the other Citizens stood in quiet discussion. There were a few familiar faces, though Tom didn’t know their names.

  He kept moving rather than snag one of the stools that would be highly prized a little later in the night. As he walked, he pulled the radio handset from his blood-stained trousers, grateful for the gloom as Tom tested the signal. He only had to wait a second before Dkembe’s voice came on the line, rich like with reluctance to answer him at all.

  “Dkembe,” Tom said into the radio. “Has Lucas come back?”

  Tom’s worries almost started free-wheeling all over again as his lieutenant paused, then finally said, “No, sorry, Tom.”

  “I’m at Council,” Tom told him. “But radio me when he comes in, OK?”

  “Sure,” Dkembe said, then added, “Over.”

  Tom briefly glanced at the handset as if it might offer a read-out on what was going through his lieutenant’s thoughts right now. Understandably, the young man was shocked, maybe even terrified, fearing as even Tom did that Walter’s bloody execution might turn the Ascended against them in that moment. The religious nutters had – as they proved through acquiescence – the perfect means to dispose of unwanted corpses, after all.

  Tom’s circuit of stage right yielded onto the side corridor leading to backstage and the cargo entry he knew from before. Yet again as if the Rules didn’t apply to him, he moved past a wall of black curtained scaffolding to continue, but a trooper with night vision goggles on her helm stepped out from a backstage shortcut and blocked his way.

  “This area’s off limits,” she said.

  Trooper Drake set the goggles up onto her combat helmet as she nodded to Tom in recognition.

  “Tom Vanicek,” she said. “I thought they assigned you to Foragers?”

  Tom barely remembered the woman from his family’s induction to the City.

  “Didn’t get the memo, huh?” she prompted.

  “I suppose not.”

  “You probably don’t remember me.”

  “I do,” Tom said. “You were as kind as you could be to my children. I appreciate that.”

  Trooper Drake nodded her way through the compliment.

  “I knew there was something about you the day you came in,” she said.

  Tom chuckled. “Do you say that to all the guys?”

  Drake’s grin split open as she chuckled, more than a little of it appreciation for Tom’s manly charms. But she also quickly let it go, the face of officialdom sliding back in.

  “I know you’ve made a few headlines since you came in, Mr Vanicek,” she said. “This area’s still off-limits. If you’re trying to get through to the Councilors, I can pass on a message.”

  Tom smiled a nod.

  “I was just poking around,” he said. “All good.”

  “Are you sure?” Drake asked. “I can pass on a message.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Thanks. Drake, right?”

  The trooper nodded, formalities concluded. Tom blew out his cheeks and strolled back the way he’d come trying not to look like a fool.

  More people entered the small auditorium. Their chatter showed the anticipation of some. It was the first public meeting since the Uprising more than a week ago, and there was a lot for people to digest: first, the insurrection itself; and second, the whole of what Delroy Earle insisted on calling the Greenland Files. Their world was getting bigger even as it felt like it was closing in.

  A knot of young female officials joined the gathering crowd and Tom spotted Lilianna among them, his daughter’s hair almost silver in the half-working lights. He advanced at a pace, helping himself past several groups of people and not noticing until too late that his daughter was accompanied by Carlotta Deschain. Although Tom wasn’t sure of the reason for it, he anticipated bad blood between them. He cooled on his heels, finally approaching the group with a more casual gait.

  “Councilor,” he nodded to her.

  “Ex-Councilor, remember?”

  Tom nodded now that he did. He shot a smile to Lila and she checked with Deschain who mutely nodded. Lilianna grabbed his forearm and he drew her away from them.

  “That’s pretty weird,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” his daughter replied. “What’s weird? Asking permission to leave?” Lilianna gave a hesitant, ironic, throaty laugh that she agreed. “Technically, I’m working. It’s not like I need permission to see my father.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “Everything’s pretty busy,” Lila said. “It’s taking some getting used to.”

  “Feel free to change your mind,” Tom said and winked.

  “Not yet,” Lila said. “I don’t rule it out though.”

  “Good.”

  “I didn’t realize being surrounded by people all the time. . . .”

  “It’s not what you’re used to.”

  “No,” Lila said affirmatively. “And it’s kind of new and . . . weird. Is that what you’d call ‘politics’? The way people squabble and. . . .”

  She glanced back tellingly at one of the other young women in the group, a self-assured-looking creature with a graceful neck, despite the tattoos adorning it. The young woman glanced their way almost at once.

  “Politics, yeah,” Tom said. “You can call it that.”

  “Well, it turns out I’m not that good at it.”

  Tom smirked. “I call it ‘people shit’,” he said. “You might’ve heard me talk about it, through the years.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Lilianna replied. “It’s just different, when you’re actually in it, you know?”

  Tom offered her a fist bump. She giggled, then at once coltishly looked back at the dark figure of Deschain.

  “Lila,” Tom said. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen your brother?”

  “No. Where is he?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering,” he said and regretting giving his son such a long leash.

  “I hope he’s OK,” Lila said. Her frightened tone held Tom’s attention as she added, “There’s a friend of mine who’s gone missing.”

  “Since when?”

  “Overnight.”

  “I saw Lucas with Kevin this morning,” Tom said.

  Lilianna looked genuinely worried, but Tom fought off any shared panic. He regretted giving Luke so much freedom, but that was the point of the City. They were violent streets. Tom knew that. Sheltering Lucas from it wasn’t the answer. But the answer Tom’d chosen felt increasingly wrong as well. He’d taken enough hits to his nerves for one day and didn’t need more worries, nor to let them overtake him.

  He wanted to ask Lila more details about her gig with Deschain, about what the former Council woman was doing now, about life inside the “Bastion”, even how things were with Beau – all the while wondering why someone who wanted to be left alone was so goddamned curious about everything – but Lilianna kissed her father’s cheek instead and hurried from his side still wearing a haunted look.

  *

  “TELL ME THAT’S your daughter,” a bemused voice called out loud enough for Tom to hear above the growing crowd noise as more and more Citizens found their way in and the emergency lighting clicked up a notch. People were fast finding the last few seats, or places with a good vantage on the upcoming stage antics, as Tom glanced over to find Magnus grinning at him.

  The silver-hai
red ex-philosopher wore an expression of comedic risk at his joke, but Tom didn’t think anything of it. They shook hands.

  “Yes, that’s my daughter,” Tom told him. “She’s started work in the Enclave now.”

  “My eldest was nineteen when it all happened,” Magnus said and sighed.

  Somehow he still wore a smile. He inclined his brows as if there was something to peer at

  on stage and Tom dutifully looked to his left even though the newly laid-out tables only had a few of the City’s middle managers at them. In the future, Tom mused, the surviving Councilors should come out to their own theme song like wrestlers did of old.

  They would’ve earnt it.

  “You look like you’re having dark thoughts, Tom,” Magnus said. “Be more like the young. Your daughter looks like the happiest person I’ve seen the whole time in this City.”

  “I can’t take much credit for that,” Tom said.

  “That’s alright,” the barkeeper said. “I wasn’t giving you any.”

  He laughed then, encouraging Tom to see a joke in it. Whatever darkness he’d discerned, though, remained unabated.

  “What’s troubling you, Tom?”

  Tom declined even to consider using the barman as his confessor.

  “I was just thinking about this ludicrous Council,” Tom said. He also decided not to mention the part where he’d nearly betrayed them all to Ortega as he added, “The Lefthanders murdered Aileen Leng in her wheelchair. They tortured Shakes Ben-Gurion, and very nearly killed him.”

  “If not for you.”

  “That’s kind of irrelevant to what I’m saying here,” Tom replied. “People have died for this thing. The City. Maybe a lot more than any of us realize, us ordinary Citizens, you know?”

  “Again, Tom,” Magnus said. “I’m not organizing a fan club for you any time soon, but you’re not exactly an ‘ordinary Citizen,’ huh?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “I nearly got killed too. Several times. It’s not exactly the keys to the City, you know what I mean?”

  “People are expecting you to step up on Council,” Magnus said.

  Part of Tom just wanted to finish the paragraphs in his head bemoaning the madness – and the necessity for it – in the risky venture they called the sanctuary zone. But the philosopher barkeep’s blunt statement caught him off guard.

  “I don’t. . . .” Tom eyed his friend slightly closer. “What do you know about the elections?”

  “I imagine we’ll hear more about it tonight,” Magnus said. “You know, provided there’s not another gunfight or a fucking suicide bomber or something.”

  “I don’t want any Council role,” Tom said firmly. “I’m busy.”

  “But you would do it well, don’t you think?”

  “I would try, if I had to,” Tom said. “That’s how I’m wired. It’s fucking annoying. That’s why I can’t get involved . . . or let myself get involved. If I find out you’ve drafted me onto any ballot, I’m coming for you next, got it?”

  He gave a gorilla’s smile, more unconscious threat than anything else. Magnus cooled slightly, nodded, and withdrew.

  “You’ve got more company,” the ex-philosopher said. “I just have to go burn some paperwork. See ya.”

  Magnus winked at his own joke and vanished as Tom turned to intercept Ernest Wilhelm.

  The Councilor was back to wearing suits again. He was dressed to the nines for the evening and Tom uncharitably wondered which Forager gang found his outfits for him.

  “Tom!”

  There wasn’t much chance to avoid the enthusiastic handshake. Whatever their enmities, and their terse earlier discussion, Wilhelm was surrounded by people, and far too many of them knew the Councilor was talking to Tom Vanicek for it to mean anything other than his usual hi-octane showmanship. Tom did his best to deny Wilhelm the social credit. He out-stared a couple of gawkers, who withdrew, leaving him and the Councilor their illusion of privacy.

  “Tom,” he said. “I thought I’d see you back-stage?”

  “Why?”

  Wilhelm’s smile was anxious and awkward by turns. Before he could frame a reply, Tom cut him off again.

  “I don’t want anything to do with the Council,” he said. “You know, nothing personal. Any announcements you’re making tonight, leave me out of them.”

  “Jeez, Tom,” the other man said. He clearly had nowhere left to move. “I don’t understand your belligerence.”

  “It’s not ‘belligerence,’ Ernie.”

  Tom growled to himself, and sank in the boot anyway. He prodded a thumb in Carlotta Deschain’s direction.

  “You’d have better luck with her,” he said.

  Wilhelm’s political demeanor wilted. There was a brief male solidarity acknowledging the challenges of the female of the species, but their armistice didn’t last long.

  “Ernest,” Tom said. “Keep me out of it. You’ve been warned.”

  Tom didn’t make the remark with the voice of a man who’d already committed stone-cold murder just a few hours before, but if the reality of the act lingered at all, it was in the hard sheen of his eyes as he waited for Councilor Wilhelm to acknowledge his death stare.

  Wilhelm sighed and laughed and threw up his hands.

  “I’m not the one pushing for democratic elections, Tom,” Wilhelm said. “You sure you don’t want to come back stage anyway? Ringside to the whole show.”

  Tom shook his head with finality and Wilhelm bowed to the inevitable with as much grace as he could muster. One moment, he hung his head in defeat, and then he pushed back into the crowd hailing a handsome young black man with corn rows forcing a way through the masses ahead of them.

  Tom only watched the politician go. He looked around for his daughter and Miss Deschain and couldn’t see either, and moments later the last lights came up over the stage. Wilhelm was there already somehow, moving across to his seat as Dana Lowenstein, carrying an armload of paperwork to the table, arrived followed by several more middle managers who took their seats around the conference table with the air of veteran rock stars getting ready for just another night’s performance before it began. Beyond the Council table, and peering through the drapes, Tom spied trooper Drake speaking with Denny Greerson as they in turn looked out on the crowd beyond the edge of the stage, and fortunately not at him.

  *

  THEY SETTLED INTO Council business after the President made a brief statement, and within ten minutes of Question Time it was like the events of the last fortnight happened years ago.

  The City’s agri-hub manager fronted the mic, frustrated no one had answered his radio contact in the past week, and a lean older woman spoke of fire and brimstone if the City didn’t get its respective houses in order. The leader of the City’s deep ecologists told the meeting the City had grown too unsafe.

  “We came here to harness a better life,” she told them. “Now my people and I wonder if we wouldn’t be better off in a community of our own, outside.”

  That tone underscored the next few speakers. Magnus took a turn at the microphone too, questioning whether anyone considered the outcome of the recent Greenland mission if it turned out bad. Two more Citizens asked about the death of Edward Burroughs and what had been done to find his killer. The second speaker told of a dangerous split within Burroughs’ de facto gang – and not just a split, but a splintering of the special interests which bound the men together under Edward’s leadership

  “What about trooper patrols?” the lean-faced man almost howled. “You’re abandoning the outer neighborhoods. We need troopers for our protection too, not just the Enclave.”

  President Lowenstein arose with an ecclesiastical gesture that quickly hushed the crowd.

  On her feet with the wire microphone at her cheek, she said, “We are all deeply saddened and in shock at Mr Burroughs’ death. Troopers are investigating . . . and without much success. The Council was also very saddened to lose the support of most of the members of the Brotherhood, immediately af
ter their leader’s death. I would like to urge all Brotherhood . . . brothers . . . to reconsider supporting trooper patrols for the sake of law and order. This City is a shared enterprise.”

  For all Tom knew, Lowenstein spoke with the Brotherhood’s male supremacists in absentia, and the morose look on her face showed she knew it. Watching her, Tom could see the lines of defeat around her eyes, her downturned mouth. It was like she physically couldn’t keep her chin up. It surprised him that she even continued to speak.

  “And that’s what we have to talk about tonight,” Lowenstein told the crowd.

  “The City is a shared enterprise. We have suffered losses. All of us. And there will be more hardship. We never intended to become a welfare state, or promise anyone anything about . . . anything, really. In the aftermath of all that’s happened, including the Uprising, we asked you here tonight so we could decide together . . . to decide what is to come.”

  At least three hundred people crowded the theater now. Tom abandoned any hope at snagging one of the columns to rest against, and gently elbowed his way closer to the stage and the PA speakers relaying the President’s voice.

  “You know the Council itself suffered heavy losses,” Lowenstein said. “We mourn Aileen Leng, and our hearts are with ex-Councilor Ben-Gurion and ex-Councilor Deschain and thank them for their service.”

  A heckler’s voice broke into the hush.

  “And you still call it a Council!”

  Lowenstein drooped rather than fire back any response. She gave the slightest glance down the table to Ernest Wilhelm, who in turn slowly shook his head and was ignored as Dana Lowenstein stood properly once again.

  “We have a diversion of views on that issue,” her amplified voice rang out. “And since there’s no agreement to be had, maybe it’s time to pass it over to all of you.”

  The crowd at once broke into open speculation, whispers profligate while the officials on stage looked among each other – and somehow through the crowd, Ernest Wilhelm’s eyes found Tom and bored into him.

  *

  WILHELM HAD A gavel of his own he used to hammer for quiet, taking his turn to stand as if at the President’s leisure, waiting a little while longer as the crowd noise slowly fell aside.