From the Ashes

by Chris Kennedy

  Tiny houses and huts lined the sides of the street as they entered Somerset. People crowded the streets moving about on unknown errands. Some stopped to look at the passing cart with an unusual face riding next to a familiar one.

  “I thought you weren’t taking refugees,” Hugo said. Some of the people wore little more than rags.

  “We aren’t now, but we did for a time. Occasionally, exceptions are made for the families of residents. And anyone can petition the administration.”

  “Administration? Is that what Olchern calls it?”

  “It’s a free trade zone, not a warlord’s territory.”

  They climbed a low hill, the cart’s motor straining under the weight of its four passengers. Past The Tower, Hugo could see where the land curved to the south, revealing hills covered in gardens. It wasn’t how the pictures looked. Those hills used to be covered in houses and apartments. Lee saw his gaze.

  “Yes, we are crowded, but not as much as many think. Every rooftop is a garden, or a rain catchment. We cannot afford to waste space in such a world. No food will come from the mainland, as you know.”

  “They wouldn’t send it if they had it,” Hugo said, and Lee nodded. He marveled at how many gardens there must be and what it took to grow enough food to feed the multitudes in Bermuda.

  Lee brought the cart to a stop outside a building. Hugo was amazed to realize it was a functioning hotel. How many visitors did the island get to need even one small hotel? “I thought I was to see Tam Olchern?”

  “Eventually, perhaps. For now, enjoy our hospitality while I pass this along.” Lee held up the package. “You’ll hear from us soon.”

  “You aren’t worried that I’m armed?”

  “Many people are armed in Bermuda,” Lee said and winked. “Best to remember that.”

  After his host drove off, Hugo entered the hotel. The lobby was empty except for a single bellhop sitting on a bench and a man behind the counter. There was room for a hundred people at the tables in the restaurant. The man behind the counter bowed his head as Hugo approached.

  “We have your room ready, sir.”

  “I hope I have a view,” Hugo said sarcastically.

  “A fine view of the Great Sound, sir.”

  Hugo blinked in surprised as the manager slapped a bell, and the bellhop leaped to his feet and trotted over. Hugo handed him the small backpack he carried, and the bellhop headed for the stairs. Hugo moved to follow, then stopped.

  “How do I pay you?”

  “Sir, your room is taken care of by the Free Trade Zone. Enjoy your stay at the Hotel Bermuda.”

  * * *

  Hugo came down in the early evening, hungry and curious to see what he could find. There was a single waiter in the restaurant who spotted him as soon as he stepped off the stairs. The waiter bowed toward him and swept an arm toward a table.

  “Would Mr. Legrand like to dine now?”

  “Uh, sure,” Hugo said. “What’s the trade rate?”

  “Meals are included in your stay, sir.” When Hugo sat down, the man handed him a menu. There were three meals to choose from; fish, chicken, and eggplant. He chose chicken. The food arrived in less than five minutes.

  The waiter placed a large plate of mashed potatoes with a light gravy, two generous slices of chicken (one white, and one dark meat), slices of carrot, and a small salad of greens without dressing in front of him.

  “Enjoy your meal, sir,” the waiter said. Hugo dug in with vigor. He hadn’t eaten anything except fish and bread for a month. When he was done, the waiter appeared beside him. “Dessert?”

  “Of course,” Hugo said. The waiter presented Hugo with a scoop of orange sherbet in a shining silver bowl. Hugo blinked in surprise, taking a second to let things sink in. It was a frozen confection. In Bermuda. In the summer. He tried to savor the dessert but failed badly.

  “Did you enjoy your meal, sir?” the waiter asked as he took away the silver bowl.

  “Very much so,” Hugo said. “I know the meal is included, but allow me.” He placed a silver coin on the table—a 5 franc piece with 1940 embossed on its worn surface.

  “I’m sorry sir, but I am not allowed.” The waiter backed away from the coin as though it were a viper. He seemed quite afraid, so Hugo took the coin back. The man’s face showed obvious relief.

  “I believe I will go for a walk,” Hugo said.

  “As you wish, sir.” The waiter bowed as he continued clearing the table.

  As Hugo passed the front desk, the manager watched him without comment. The sun had set, and Somerset was slightly cooler, though not much. A trio of men passed by, pushing a cart. The two-wheeled machine had once been a truck, but now the rusted remains were muscle powered. Its cargo area was heavily laden with potatoes. The men were wearing ragged shorts and handmade leather shoes, and sweat ran off their ebony skin in rivulets. Clearly, these people weren’t living in the lap of luxury.

  He walked along the avenue until he had a better view of The Tower. Electric lights glowed from many of the windows, including a suite of rooms high up near the roof. An occasional low-power LED streetlight provided some illumination. It looked like The Tower used more electricity than all the streetlights on the island combined.

  He reached the fence around The Tower and could see the park which surrounded the government building. Formerly Springfield & Gilbert Nature Reserve, it was now a quiet park and had no public access. More LED lights lined the winding paths which were only being used by guards with big dogs, further reinforcing the exclusive feeling of the park.

  Hugo spent another minute ambling along the fence line before turning and cutting across the street into an older residential area. He let his instincts direct him for a time, using the clear night’s stars to guide him. Compared to places in Europe, Bermuda seemed more like a picture postcard. Of course, looks could be deceiving.

  “Hello da’ outlander,” a voice said in the accented English common of Bermuda natives.

  Hugo turned his head slowly, allowing his peripheral vision to take in the scene. He saw a man so black he was nearly invisible. The man’s eyes glowed in the dim light. Hugo caught a glint from something held down at his side. He glanced in the opposite direction. There were two more there. He nodded.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Fine evening for a walk, no?”

  “He sounds like a Frenchie,” one of the men said.

  “Not such a nice night for you, maybe?” The one who’d spoken first asked.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Hugo said and reached into his pocket. “I have a proposition for you.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, Master Legrand.”

  Hugo looked up from his toast and saw a tall, light-skinned black man dressed in a fine suit standing a short distance from his table. His teeth were as perfect as his diction. The only thing that didn’t appear real was his smile.

  “Good morning. You would be?”

  “I am Elan Olchern, Tam Olchern’s son. He sent me to speak with you.”

  “Oh?” Hugo asked, popping the last bit of toast into his mouth and washing it down with a sip of tea. Lord God, real tea!

  “Yes, of course. I trust you’ve enjoyed the hospitality of the Hotel Bermuda?”

  “Perfectly. But I thought I would be seeing your father.”

  “No, no,” Elan said and shook his head. “I’m afraid you need to go through me before you can see my father.”

  “Oh, well, in that case…” Hugo stood and wiped his mouth with a perfectly starched napkin before walking over to the younger Olchern. “Where shall we talk?”

  “The market is wonderful in the morning,” Elan said and gestured toward the front door. Hugo nodded and followed him out.

  There was a slight breeze off the ocean which made the day pleasant, despite the increased heat. It was obvious that many of the menial laborers were kept off the streets and avenues during daylight. Bermuda’s more affluent citizens owned the day. They didn’t wear r
ags or sweat under heavy loads. They rode bicycles, were pedaled about on rickshaws, or, in a few cases, had electric carts like the one he’d ridden from the docks.

  When Hugo was out the night before, there had been no market. No stalls. Hugo nodded at the work that had been done on his account. Impressive maskirovka.

  “Are those oranges?” Hugo asked at a small stall run by an older woman.

  “Have one,” Elan said.

  “What’s the price?”

  “Nothing, for you.”

  Hugo looked at the stall owner who wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  “Take it, Hugo Legrand.”

  He took an orange and ripped into it with his teeth. It was amazing. “My thanks,” he said around a mouthful of pulp. Elan nodded, and they moved on.

  “Your island is as amazing as I was led to believe.”

  “We thank you,” Elan said and gestured around him. “My father accomplished much after we got rid of the corporate bastards.”

  “I’ve heard tales about how you rid yourself of Obsidian. You did it with so little loss of life and property.” Hugo looked at the avenue lined with houses that were many centuries old. “How did you manage?”

  Elan smiled slyly. “I wasn’t very old when father did it. He’s never told me everything. I do know he was friends with the administrator and somehow took advantage of the friendship. The nukes had just flown. Ships full of burned people were fleeing from America, many in vessels so radioactive you could cook your dinner on the hulls.”

  Hugo nodded. He was old enough to remember the nukes, the dying, and the crackling hell that followed.

  “So, what have you brought us?” Elan asked.

  “Same as I gave your customs man,” Hugo said.

  Elan produced the wrapped package from his suit coat pocket and held it out. Hugo nodded. Elan unwrapped it and revealed a plastic vial. Hugo noted it was now half empty. “Potassium chloride with 10% urea.” He shook the vial and watched the light react to it. “Not commercially made.”

  “No,” Hugo admitted. “My people made a living by making fertilizer at an abandoned chemical plant near Brive-la-Gaillarde. We had a couple of chemists in our group and several farmers. The mixture isn’t perfect.” He nodded at the vial. “It has too much urea, not enough selenium and other elements.” He shrugged. “However, here? You’ve been using human and chicken shit, trying to compost, and you’re still having troubles, aren’t you?”

  The look on Elan Olchern’s face spoke volumes. Hugo had guessed all this from secondhand accounts of travelers. Most who passed through Bermuda weren’t treated half as well as he had been. Most weren’t treated at all.

  “There is some truth in your statements,” Elan said. “We have difficulties getting fresh nutrients. The farm supervisors beg for fertilizer. Needless to say, shipments are hard to come by.” He glanced in the direction of King’s Wharf. “Until now.”

  “Until now,” Hugo nodded.

  “How much do you have on that very large ship?”

  “I think the better question would be, what do I want?”

  Elan’s face became cautious in a split second. He examined Hugo with a hooded gaze for a long moment before speaking. “Go ahead.”

  “Fresh water is most important.”

  “Of course, but we get all ours from rain.”

  “It’s been pretty rainy this spring.”

  “Agreed,” Elan said with a little nod. “What else?”

  “Food. I have a lot of refugees on the Vichy.” Elan watched and listened. “Some would like to stay here.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Even if we can bring more fertilizer?”

  “I-I can’t make that sort of commitment.”

  “Your father can.”

  “That is true. However, my father is careful about who he meets with.”

  “I understand. However, considering what I have to offer?”

  “Yes, considering…”

  Elan was interrupted by a man stepping out of a side alley and smoothly putting a knife against his throat. “What ‘ave we here?” the man asked.

  “You don’t know who you’re messing with,” Elan said.

  “Oh, sure ah do. Now back up here slowly so we can haz a little talk-y-talk.”

  Hugo lifted his hands before he spoke. “Hey, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Won’ be no trouble,” another man said, pushing a knife tip against the small of Hugo’s back. “If’n you follow your friend there.”

  Hugo glanced to the side where a third man waited, a small, but lethal-looking, skinning knife held in his left hand. “You follow them into da alley,” the man said. Hugo followed.

  “Listen,” Elan said, a catch in his voice. “You guys want stuff? Food? Girls? I can get it for you. You’re from St. George’s, right?” The one holding the knife to his throat grinned. “Yeah, you’re that group of refugees been there since just after my d—” He swallowed. “Since just after Tam Olchern took over. Tough area, no power, not much—”

  “Shut ‘da fuck up,” one of the others said and backhanded Elan across the face. The impact rocked him backward, and the blade at his throat bit flesh. His eyes widened, and a trickle of blood dribbled down the blade and onto the knife-wielding man’s wrist.

  “What ya got?” the man with the skinning knife asked, pushing in close to Hugo. He used the knife to push Hugo’s jacket open and stopped suddenly when he saw the shiny handle of Hugo’s pistol tucked into his waistband. “Hey—” he started to say, then Hugo drew the weapon and fired.

  Hugo moved the pistol upward as he pulled the trigger three times. The bullets hit the man in the groin, solar plexus, and neck. He staggered back with the first two shots, a look of surprise on his face. He opened his mouth to yell something, but the third shot tore his voice box out, along with his carotid artery. He fell backward, eyes wide in shock.

  The man on Hugo’s other side snapped something unintelligible and grabbed for the hand holding the pistol. Hugo didn’t stop him, instead drawing a sheathed dagger from behind his back with his left hand and sweeping it up and across. The man’s right arm opened like a book, from his wrist to his armpit, and blood poured out.

  “My God!” he screamed. Hugo moved the pistol across his body and fired, the bullet tearing the man’s jaw off. Amid the spray of blood, his tongue flapped horrifically.

  “Stop it!” the man holding Elan screamed.

  Hugo was drenched in blood from the gunshots and knife slashes. He turned hard eyes on the last man who, despite seeing the damage to his two cohorts, still held the knife to Elan Olchern’s neck. The cut grew even deeper and significant blood flowed.

  “What are you doing?” the man demanded. Hugo slowly lowered his knife and gun to his side. “If you don’t let me leave, I’ll kill him!”

  “That’s what I thought,” Hugo said. He threw his SAS commando-style dagger underhanded with a tight flick of his wrist. It spun twice before punching through the man’s eye and out the back of his head. The man jerked, his arms encircling Elan’s chest and his throat flying outward. His knife fell from dead fingers.

  Elan fell to his knees, and Hugo was there in a flash. “Let me see,” he said, prying the man’s bloody fingers away from the wound. Blood flowed, but didn’t spray.

  “H-he tried to k-kill me,” Elan stammered.

  “Yes, he did.”

  The sound of running feet made Hugo look up as a trio of uniformed men raced into view. As soon as they saw Hugo, covered in bright blood and holding a pistol, they froze and raised their rifles. Oh fuck, Hugo thought.

  “Stop!” Elan shouted and stepped between Hugo and the men.

  “Mr. Olchern!” one of the new arrivals yelped in surprise, lowering his rifle.

  “Yes. I’ve been attacked, and this man saved me.”

  The three uniformed men, troops belonging to the government, looked dubious but were unwilling to doubt the word of their boss’ son. They walked around with
their weapons held low and examined Hugo’s handiwork. Hugo observed them. The man he’d shot three times and the man with the knife through his eye were obviously dead. They stopped at the last one, the man with the gash in his arm and the missing jaw. He was gurgling and looking around, his eyes as big as dinner plates. His tongue waggled as blood pumped and gurgling sounds came out of his shattered mouth.

  “What should we do about this one?” the soldier asked.

  “Fuck him,” Elan growled and spit onto the bloody cobblestones.

  “Allow me,” Hugo said. He holstered his pistol, walked over and put his foot on the last thug’s face for bracing, and pulled the SAS dagger from the man’s head with a sickly schlikt. He walked over to the jawless man who was watching him. Hugo knelt in the blood and drew the knife across his throat in a quick, smooth motion. A few seconds later, the man was dead. Hugo wiped the weapon clean and sheathed it.

  Elan focused on Hugo and gasped. They’d been two well-dressed men out for a walk a short time ago and, now, Hugo was drenched in blood. “Sir, are you injured?”

  “Not in the least,” Hugo said, looking down. “However, I could use a change of clothes and a shower.”

  “My men will take you back to the Hotel Bermuda.”

  “I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” Hugo said. “And I’m not sure it’s safe.”

  Two carts screeched to a halt, each overloaded with six armed men.

  “I can assure you, there is no reason to be concerned.” Elan turned to the new arrivals. “I want a force assembled immediately to go to St. George’s and round up these scum!”

  “Sir, that will take a considerable force.”

  “I…don’t…care! They assaulted me. Do you understand? Here, within site of The Tower, our home, these scum from St. George’s assaulted me. If not for Mr. Legrand, I would probably be dead.” He turned back to Hugo. “Please, sir, I will have clothes brought to you. Go. Let my men escort you back.”

  “As a favor to you and your family,” Hugo said and affected a tiny bow. “If you are well?”

  One of the newly arrived men was already looking after the cut on Elan’s neck. “I am well. Go, clean, rest. We will talk again soon.”