Why so quick to judge? A crack of thunder preceded the passenger’s next words. We used to be one of them, remember?
Ethan gritted his teeth. I was never one of them.
The imaginary slam of a gavel striking its block in a California courtroom said otherwise.
Ethan glanced up as fat droplets of rain began tapping his Rangers cap. The abandoned husk of Tallahassee’s airport was just ahead.
We’re here. Ethan weighed his options. He could enter the city immediately and take his chances in daylight or wait until dark when most of the streets had cleared.
“If, for some reason, you should cross paths with one of the Kings’ representatives,” Kendall had said, “do exactly as they say and don’t ask questions.”
That gave Ethan an idea. “Hey, bud. How do you feel about a snack?”
Tonka nayed and bobbed his head, yes.
Steering toward a nearby patch of brush, Ethan guided the horse off the highway until the two entered a clearing framed by magnolia trees and dense thickets of palmettos. There, Ethan dismounted and began scouting for places to dig a hole, while Tonka munched on carrots from Ella May Russo’s garden.
As the last vestiges of day turned to night, Ethan hurried to finish his task.
It’s not too late to run, ya know, the passenger said. This ain’t your fight. It’s his.
Ethan kept digging.
Why can’t you just live, dammit? It’s what we do!
“Yeah, well, he didn’t, you vicious son of a bitch, and that’s why we’re here!” Ethan blinked—muscles taut, heart pumping—and spotted a visibly confused pinto staring at him.
“Sorry, bud.” Ethan patted the horse’s neck. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just…what I am, I guess.”
Tonka nudged his owner’s palm as if to say, “We’re cool,” then returned to his carrots.
Ethan had never fancied himself an animal person. It wasn’t that he disliked them. His job had simply kept him too busy to justify owning one. There and then, though, he was grateful for his pinto’s companionship. Good boy.
When his hole was complete, Ethan reached into his saddle bags, pulled out the box bearing the Lumi-Tech logo, and dropped it into the opening. After that, he covered the space with some leaves and Spanish moss he’d pulled from the brush, then mounted his horse to move out.
The streets of Tallahassee were unlike anything Ethan had seen in the new world. Much of the old college campus was in surprisingly decent shape, as were the capitol and downtown areas. Granted, the city was a far cry from its former self, as evidenced by the litany of dark buildings, abandoned cars, and barrel fires which lined its streets. But it also wasn’t the scorched-earth war zones Ethan had witnessed during his travels.
A trio of vagrants clad in tattered coats stood huddled around a barrel fire outside an abandoned burger joint as Ethan passed astride Tonka. One of them gave him the eye, but Ethan just tipped his cap and kept moving. Soon after, the vast silhouette of the old football stadium appeared ahead.
Hard to believe they used to pack 80,000 people into that place. Ethan kept his focus on the empty parking lot as he passed the facility’s outskirts. He then hooked a left onto a side street and started toward something called Ruby Diamond Auditorium.
“Greetings, Ranger,” a man said in a tinny voice.
Ethan saw nothing save for an abandoned brick building that reminded him of a castle and a concrete fountain filled with rain water.
“I said, hello there, Mr. Texas Ranger.” This time, a figure followed the voice out of the shadows. Tall and gangly, the man wore a top coat with a hat and appeared to be somewhere in his early sixties.
“Evenin’.” Ethan doffed his cap.
“Strange.” The old man leaned against the fountain. “You seem familiar. Have we met before?”
Ethan shook his head. “Nope. This is my first time passin’ through.”
“I see,” the old man said. “What brings you to our fair city?”
“I’m here to see somebody,” Ethan said. “A friend of the family, as it were.”
The old man drummed his fingers on the fountain ledge. “Will you be staying long?”
“Not if I can help it,” Ethan said. “I mean to see my friend and be gone, Mister…”
The old man tipped the brim of his top hat. “Templeton is my name, and it’s probably for the best that you’re not staying. Still, there remains the matter of our toll to resolve.”
“Toll?” Ethan had expected as much, but he thought it wise to play dumb.
“Indeed,” Templeton said. “You and your four-legged compatriot have just wandered into Tallahassee’s Central District, which resides under the control of my benefactor, Mr. Giles. Those who wish to cross said district must pay a toll.”
“Uh huh.” Ethan chewed his lip. “What sort of toll are we talkin’ about?”
Templeton pointed to Ethan’s duffel. “The contents of your bag for starters.”
“I’m sorry, they ain’t for sale.”
Templeton’s gaze narrowed as four men armed with bats and blades joined him from the shadows.
“I will, however, make you a counter offer.” Ethan eased up a hand, as if asking permission, then slipped it into his shirt pocket. He pulled out a tube the size of a marker.
“What, sir, is that?” Templeton asked.
Ethan grasped the tube by its ends and twisted, releasing an audible crack. Within seconds, the entire space was bathed in a bright, neon green.
“They called these chem lights back in the day,” Ethan said. “Their shelf life is typically only five years or so, but a chemist friend of mine in Louisiana found a way to juice some extra time from them.”
“Interesting,” Templeton said. “How long do the lights last once they’ve been cracked?”
“About an hour. Two tops.”
Templeton nodded slowly. “And I presume you have more?”
“I do,” Ethan said. “I’ve got three in my pocket, plus two dozen more stashed in a case outside of town. Allow me passage through your district, and the whole lot’s yours.”
The old man’s expression turned curious. “Back in the old days, we called that an insurance policy.”
“Call it whatever you like,” Ethan said. “Do we have a deal?”
Templeton grinned. “We do. Once your affairs are in order, you’ll return here, at which time my men and I will escort you to your cache of chem lights.”
In truth, Ethan meant to be gone long before then. However, it was best not to show up in the woods emptyhanded if it came to that.
“Done.” Ethan tossed the light to his inquisitor.
“You do realize,” Templeton said, “that if you attempt to violate our arrangement by running, I will instruct my scouts to kill you on sight.”
“I’d expect nothin’ less,” Ethan said.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” Templeton gestured to one of the others, who produced a walkie talkie and spoke into it. “I didn’t catch your name, by the way.”
“Ranger’s fine. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Templeton. I’ll see you shortly.”
“Indeed, Ranger,” The old man grinned. “Until then.”
Ethan nudged Tonka forward to the next intersection where the duo turned left under a sign that read Tennessee Street. From there, they headed west for a mile, then turned north past an abandoned school named for someone called Godby. That was the landmark Ethan had been given in his directions.
I reckon this is the place. Ethan studied the neighborhood ahead and shuddered. Lord help me.
As one of the oldest residential zones in Tallahassee, the area was blanketed by towering oaks and huge plumes of ivy. By day, this likely made it a pretty sight to behold. At night, however, such landscapes equated to loads of potential hiding places for marauders and highwaymen.
Ethan proceeded with caution. Nudging Tonka ahead, the two rounded the block past a firebombed duplex, then hooked right down
a steep hill toward a small brick home surrounded by weeds.
2106. Ethan spied the number on the mailbox as he climbed off his horse. This is it.
Ka-chunk.
Shotgun.
“Don’t…move,” a woman ordered in a thick Georgia drawl. “You tell Mr. Giles I already paid my tribute for the month. If he didn’t get it, then I suggest he take that up with that greasy old beanpole, Templeton.”
Ethan raised his hands, all the while wondering if the shotgun behind him actually had shells. “Sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know Mr. Giles.”
“Tommy?” The woman gasped.
Ethan dropped his eyes.
“Is that you?” The suddenly anxious voice was followed by pattered footsteps as its owner came into the light. Short and frail with nary an ounce of fat, the tiny woman in her mid-fifties wore stained turquois pants and a long-sleeve floral blouse. Her flowing, silver hair was tucked into a bun behind her head.
She was pretty, Ethan thought, in an elegant, regal sort of way.
“Tommy!” the woman exclaimed.
Before Ethan could respond, she dropped her shotgun and threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, my boy,” she sobbed. “It’s you! It’s really you! Thank you, dear, sweet Jesus for bringin’ my boy home.”
Ethan wasn’t sure how to respond, so he let the woman have her moment, false as it was. Once she’d finished crying on his shoulder, he pulled gently back from her and gulped. “Ma’am, I’m real sorry to have to tell you this, but my name ain’t Tommy. It’s Ethan.”
The old woman blinked. “I…I don’t understand. You’re Tommy.”
“That may’ve been true once, but it ain’t anymore. For what it’s worth, though, Tommy is the reason I’ve come.” Ethan wasn’t sure whether it was his clean speech or the muscle weight he’d put on in recent months, but he got the distinct impression from the woman’s abrupt shift in posture that she believed him. Mothers are always quick on the uptake like that.
“Who are you?” the woman asked in a firm voice.
“My name’s Ethan. Ethan Garrett. I’m here because your son sent me to find you.”
The woman studied him. “Your accent’s different. Texas?”
“Good ear. Can we talk?”
The woman’s stare narrowed. “I’m gonna ask you this one time, mister. Are you an Agent?”
“Not as you’d expect, no,” Ethan said. “But, it’s complicated. I promise I’ll explain everything, but I’d rather not do it out in the open.”
The woman scoffed. “You have the nerve to waltz onto my property, wearin’ my son’s face, then ask permission to enter my home?”
Ethan nodded. “I swear, Ms. Stevens, I mean you no harm. All I need is five minutes. After that, you’ve got my word as a gentleman that you’ll never see me again.”
Jenna Stevens did a slight double-take, most likely due to Ethan’s use of her name, which she’d clearly not given. “A gentleman’s word don’t count for much these days. Not in this Fallen World.”
“No, ma’am, it does not. Nevertheless, I’ve got a real good feelin’ you’re gonna want to see what I’ve brought to show you.”
Stevens scooped up her shotgun and pondered the request. “Come on.”
Ethan scanned the rest of the street as he walked to a nearby elm and tied off Tonka’s reins. From there, he followed the woman inside her house.
In stark contrast to the place’s exterior, Stevens had kept the interior of her home in surprisingly good shape. Consisting of a ranch-style floor plan with three bedrooms on one end and a small common area on the other, the house felt remarkably cozy, smelling of fresh herbs and lilacs from the garden out back.
“You said you’re from Texas,” Stevens said from the galley kitchen. “What part?”
“Galveston.” Ethan swept each room for privacy then moved to the sofa. “My daddy was a welder from around Dallas, and my mom was a school teacher from Corpus Christi.”
“You come from real blue-collar stock.”
“Yes ma’am. I’ve always been proud of that, actually.”
Stevens emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of water. She gave one to her guest. “You mind if I ask when you were born?”
Ethan usually dodged that question. Not today. “August 16, 2016.”
“Two-thousand-sixteen, huh?” Stevens made a face. “Technically, that makes you twenty years my senior.”
“Yes, Ms. Stevens. I reckon, in the strangest of ways, it does.”
Stevens sipped her water, seeming to consider something. “I suppose it’d be alright if you called me Jenna.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am, but I must respectfully decline.” Ethan removed his hat. “I ain’t earned that right, and to be honest, I doubt I ever could.”
Stevens regarded him past the rim of her glass. “I stand corrected, Mr. Garrett. You are a gentleman.”
“You asked me outside if I was an Agent. How much do you know about them, and specifically, their origins?”
Stevens shrugged. “Same as most from our day, I’d expect. Shortly before helping bring about the damned apocalypse, the Obsidian Corporation developed a program that allowed them to copy a person’s neural profile. Memories, skills, temperaments. All of it went into Obsidian’s database for download into another human subject via an imprinter. If the company needed a spy, they’d copy the CIA’s best. If they needed a pilot, they’d copy an ace. Hell, if they wanted chimichangas, they’d dial up Bobby Flay, then turn him loose on a grill. That’s the way imprinting worked. You’d pick a profile based on the job that needed to be done, then xerox yourself a pro, or Agent, to handle it.”
Ethan was impressed. “That’s where I come in.”
“But you said you’re not an Agent.”
“Agents, in their prime, had enhanced abilities in addition to their counterfeited skills, things like augmented strength and healin’ ability. I don’t have those things because the nanite technology that installed those traits was lost in the Fall.”
“I thought the same could be said for the imprint tech.”
“Not all of it.” Ethan sipped his drink. “By the start of the Corporate War, Obsidian maintained operations all over the East coast. Some of those offices housed imprinters for Agent recruiting.”
“And you’re saying some of those imprinters survived?”
“One did, at least. As the story goes, it showed up in New Orleans about fifteen years ago, but was believed lost in a fire. Turns out, one of the local warlords salvaged the imprinter from the rubble and jury-rigged it back together with the help of a scientist for use with the only profile they could retrieve from the system.”
“You,” Stevens said.
Ethan shook his head. “No, it was a basic brute profile. A brawler. The warlord used it to create foot soldiers for his army to use against his rivals.”
Stevens rubbed her face. “I don’t understand. What does my son have to do with any of this?”
“About a year ago, you and Tommy gave shelter to a drifter from Jackson, Mississippi,” Ethan said. “He was older, about seventy or so, with stringy, gray hair and a lisp that impaired his speech.”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “Mr. Landry. He was a strange, old bird. At least, I thought so. Tommy, meanwhile, took to him right off because of…well, you know.”
“The drifter’s name wasn’t Landry,” Ethan said. “It was LeBeau, Dr. Abel LeBeau. He was a developer with Obsidian on the Agent project in the years before the Fall. He’s also the one responsible for nursin’ the New Orleans imprinter back into service.”
Stevens’ eyebrows crinkled. “Really? Mr. Landry was a weirdo, sure, but he never struck me as a warlord groupie.”
“He wasn’t,” Ethan said. “Dr. LeBeau was captured in the field and told, ‘Do this or die.’ He did what he had to, then split town at the first opportunity. That’s when he met your son.”
Stevens regarded her glass. “Tommy always cared for others, no matter w
ho they were or where they came from. As his mom, it’s one of the things about him I was always proudest of. In spite all of Tommy’s challenges, from his size to his disability, he never ceased to be a kindhearted boy.”
“I get that about him,” Ethan said, “probably more than you know. And for what it’s worth? Becky knew it, too.”
Stevens snapped her head up. “How do you know about her?”
“It’s probably best that I show you.” Ethan retrieved the duffel he’d been carrying since New Orleans. From it, he pulled a scarred device the size of a shoebox.
“What is that?” Stevens asked.
“It’s called a camcorder.” Ethan slid his palm through the hand-strap. “Folks in the twentieth century used these to record things before the world went digital.”
“What sort of things?”
Ethan inserted a tape into the camcorder and pressed the play button. He then directed his host to the scratch-marred screen on the device’s side.
“Hey, Mama,” a tearful Ethan began. Only, it wasn’t Ethan.
“Tommy,” Stevens whispered.
“I’m suh-suh-sorry for leavin’ you like I duh-did,” the boy said through a severe stutter. “But I had to. I cuh-cuh-couldn’t just let Bray Giles and those buh-bastards get away with what they done to Becky. I just cuh-couldn’t, Mama.”
Tommy spent the next minute recounting Ethan’s tale of Dr. LeBeau. “I tuh-told Mr. Landry about what happened. He wants to huh-help. Turns out, there was a suh-second profile in the imprinter that he duh-didn’t tell the warlord about. It was duh-derived from a man in the old world, a man with the skuh-skills I need to get my revenge. Mr. Landry gave me this man’s pruh-profile and tuh-told me how to access it with the imprinter.”
The visibly heartbroken woman closed her eyes. “Damn you, Thomas Stevens.”
“I’m goin’ to nuh-New Orleans,” the boy continued. “I know you won’t luh-like it, and I know you’d try to stuh-stop me if I tuh-told you. But this is something I’ve gotta do.” Tommy paused as fresh tears welled in his eyes. “Becky was everything to me, Mama. She was my whole world, and those buh-buh-bastards took her from me. I know what you said after duh-daddy died about tuh-turnin’ the other cheek, and I’ve tried to live my luh-life in a way that honors that. But, Mama?” Tommy wiped his face. “Sometimes you’ve gotta fight to be a man, and that’s exactly what I mean to do. I love you, always, and I hope you’ll fuh-forgive me.”
From the Ashes Page 31