by Oliver Atlas
Maplenut almost suppresses a satisfied smile. “I am head of the hiring committee, with final say on candidates. You are hired, Mr. Prose. Excuse me, I mean, Ranger Prose. Show your badge at any store for unlimited credit or over any dead body to walk away from arrest.”
I can’t help bursting out in a half-pained, half-disbelieving laugh. “Mayor, I may have helped save your life, but this is too much. I’m not the stuff Rangers are made out of. I told you: I’m nearly a pacifist, I tend to break laws more than I keep them, and I’m bound for Portland to help run a tea shop and write folk songs.”
“Yes,” says Maplenut, nodding patiently. “I remember your passport application. But before you make it to your brother’s tea shop, you appear to be bound and determined to cross paths with one of the ten most dangerous persons in the Territory. When you arrive in Portland, resign your position if you like. Until then, a Ranger’s gear will give you all the help your deputy badge was to bring, only a hundredfold. What’s more, if you are forced to kill Yaverts, that badge is about the only symbol of authority able to provide you immunity from federal extradition, trial, and execution. Yaverts, after all, is a federal plenipotentiary and practically above the law himself. I’m sure he bragged as much to you.”
“He did,” says Milly. “That hypocrite. He blathered on about how he hated feds!”
The Mayor sits down behind his desk, clearly signaling an end to the meeting. “Yaverts is sly as a sidewinder, Ms. Ruse. Please do not let our favorite Ranger here forget that. You both have my deepest thanks and best wishes.”
We’re already through the doorway when the Mayor calls after us. “Oh . . . and Mr. Prose?” I duck my head back in the office. “If you do get a shot at Yaverts, remember this: shooting his hand off will not do. You will probably only get one shot. So shoot to kill.”
Chapter Sixteen
Kissing Goodbye
By the time Milly and I have smiled and nodded our way ten blocks through an adoring public to Goodman’s General Store, my watch reads half past eleven. Goodman’s is a giant red barn, oddly out of place with New Pokey’s generally urban Victorian feel.
Outside, it is the only building we have seen with a parking lot. Horses and mules are lined up by the dozen on hitching posts. Another dozen carriages sit in a neat row. At the end of the row there is even a truck, wide and green with a tall, transparent, plexiglass canopy over its bed. Beside the truck stands an armed guard, seeming to stare into nowhere.
Inside, Goodman’s is a maze of silver shovels and copper pipes, fertilizer sacks and salt licks. We pass rows of washers and screws, hammers and two-by-fours, jerked beef and pickled pigs’ feet. Farmers and carpenters, housewives and tourists, hunters and street kids—the place is jam-packed. I had hoped getting off the streets would provide a moment’s rest from our new fame, but I quickly learn my hope was foolish. Before we know it, Milly and I are in a corner of the produce section, signing balsa airplanes, bags of rice, and shirt backs. One portly woman asks me to sign over her shirt’s breast pocket, but I spot a watermelon in her cart and sign it instead, my face stuck in a moronic rictus.
“Let’s get out of here,” I hiss in Milly’s ear.
She giggles. “You’re doing so well.”
“I see how it is,” I say sardonically. “I nobly pass up a balloon ride to Portland in order to watch your back and now you’re going to heckle me.”
“You’re just uptight about being late for Yarely,” she says, punching my shoulder. “We’re fine. The Western Gate is three blocks away. Now calm down and follow me. This store ought to have a special department for ODOZ agents—and,” she winks, “for Rangers.”
At the back of the store we find a doorway barred by a floor-to-ceiling turnstile. An armed guard stands beside it eating a bagel with pink cream cheese. “I.D.?” he says, holding out a hand.
Milly hands over her passport and he ushers her forward.
I hand him mine.
“Sorry, sir.” He rubs some cream cheese off his upper lip. “No civilians.”
I sigh and produce my black cobalt badge. With a gasp, the man fumbles his bagel, juggling it right onto my boots. With a stifled shriek, he drops to his knees and starts trying to spit shine them with his sleeves.
“Whoa!” I say, stepping back and hoisting the man up by the collar. “It’s all right! They’ll be caked in prairie soon enough. May I go in?”
The guard won’t meet my eye, but he bows. He bows.
Milly has been waiting for me at the turnstile. She’s grinning from ear to ear.
On the other side is a completely different store, full of survival gear, all-weather clothing, weapons, and gadgets. Most everything is still steam-tech, but that’s to be expected. Milly trades out her dress for dark green pants, a black long sleeve shirt, and a tightfitting charcoal rain jacket. She will stick out like a sore thumb in the Territory, but, she insists, that is her equivalent of my badge. Although many of the locals despise ODOZ, the majority of people—the hunters and immigrants—fear and respect them.
I’m most interested in rations—lightweight, long-lasting, nourishing food. Still, even after I’ve sorted through all their best stock, I can’t imagine packing more than a few day’s supplies. On foot, it’s at least five days to Bentlam. I’m doing my best Milly impersonation, chewing at my lip next to a barrel of freeze-dried salmon when a mousy young woman approaches, blinking at me shyly through her round glasses.
“Um . . . sir? Excuse me. My name is Dora. I work here. May I . . . help you?”
“Thanks, Dora. I’m just trying to make some hard choices about how much food to carry.”
“Yes, um . . . well, did you know, sir, that . . . well, we have a special supply of gear for . . . er, Rangers.”
My eyes dart back toward the turnstile door, but it’s a few aisles out of sight. “Your friend at the door told you?”
Dora nods and her glasses slip down her nose. She pushes them back up and smiles. “I’ve never met a Ranger.”
“Me neither,” I say, trying to set her at ease. My watch reads 11:45. “Would you show me the special gear?”
Without a word, Dora heads through the store, toward a counter along its back wall. She punches a code into a small lockbox, takes out the key and unlocks a larger safe. From the safe she takes a slip of paper, reads it over, closes her eyes, lips moving silently, and then shreds the slip of paper. She kneels down behind the counter and I hear the faintly clicking whir of a combination wheel. A moment later, Dora’s head pops back up behind the counter and she waves me around to her.
“I need your help,” she says, pointing to a round, airtight hatch in the floor.
I lift up the hatch, revealing a silvery staircase that descends steeply into a small, rubber-smelling vault that’s lit with a phosphorescent blue. “Now we’re talking,” I murmur, intrigued.
Dora looks at me with a nervous half-smile. “The ledger says we’re only carrying three items currently.”
I shrug. “Show me.”
Below, in the sleepy blue, we find mostly empty shelves. Even though I’ve been warned, the three items we find are disappointing: a brown camouflage backpack, a ten-inch Bowie knife, and a palm-sized GPS. Sure, the GPS is high-tech, and even outside of the Territory they cost a fortune, but I’m already good enough with line-of-sight navigation that it feels frivolous. I sigh and check my watch.
“Don’t worry,” says Dora, trying hard to offer me a full smile. Her round face and flat brown bangs make her age hard to guess. She could be twenty or forty, for all I can tell. She pats me on the arm and climbs back up the ladder. When we’re out, she reseals the door and covers it with a floor mat. “Um. Thanks,” she says.
I cock my head. “That’s it? Didn’t you say something about this being special gear?”
Her face brightens. “Oh—thank you, I forgot! I know how one of these works. Here, look!” Dora grabs the backpack and nearly runs for the barrel of dried salmon packets. She unzips one of the bag�
��s pockets and starts throwing in salmon, packet after packet. At first, I’m about to lose my patience. Not only am I anxious to go meet Yarely, I’m disappointed at the perks of being a Ranger. So far, they hardly outweigh the pains of being famous. But then, as Dora continues scooping salmon into the bag, it dawns on me it should be full by now.
“What the?—it can hold anything?”
“Not anything,” says Dora, breathing hard with exertion and excitement. “But at least more food or guns than you’ll ever need. It folds space, making its volume—” she stops and checks a tag inside the pocket of the bag, “—equal approximately to a ten meter cube. That’s divided by five, though. Each main pocket shares in that space in proportion to its apparent size on the bag. I hope you like fish.”
Dora starts scooping again. I burst out laughing.
When Milly finds us, we’ve moved on to water canteens. No matter how much we cram into the bag, its weight stays the same—5.5 Ibs, as listed on its tag. It’s already five past noon, but I’m feeling a little addicted to cramming things into the magical bag.
“We’d better go,” says Milly, looking both amused and striking. She has pulled back her hair and the charcoal tones of her jacket set off the deep blue of her eyes and the dark flame in her elven eyebrows.
Dumbly, I nod.
After I’ve thanked Dora and we’re about to pass through the turnstile, a tall, handsome man with pale skin and black hair calls out from a few aisles away:
“Great to see you again, Pam. Sorry,” he laughs, “I mean, Milly! If you ever need anything—and I mean anything—you know where to find me.”
“Who was that?” I ask as we’re leaving the store.
“An old friend from college. I bumped into him when you were palling around with Dora.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“He came out to work with ODOZ two years ago. He’s been promoted five times already. I think he said he’s now liaison to the Mayor.”
“Does he have a name?”
Milly squints at me. “My, my. You’re so curious. Are you jealous?”
Am I jealous? My gut says not to answer too quickly if I want to be honest, but I manage a compromise. “Maybe a little, but I’d say I’m more suspicious.”
Milly isn’t buying it though. “Suspicious of an old ODOZ friend I met in the ODOZ store?”
I can tell my mistrust of the guy isn’t a line of thought that will get very far, so I drop it. We turn a corner and the western gate pops into sight, standing across the empty fifty feet of warning track between it and the nearest buildings. Yarely Frickle is sitting in the middle of the track atop a large, four-horse wagon, looking fidgety.
“Blake!” he whoops, whipping his battered hat in circles. “Let’s go! Let’s go! We’re already ten minutes behind schedule!”
We cross the track and climb up with Yarely on the wide wagon seat. He takes our bags and sets them in the storage bin behind the backboard.
“Hello, m’Lady!” he cries, giving Milly a hug whether she wants it or not.
“Hello,” she laughs.
“Milly, this is Yarely Frickle, my brother’s good friend and courier. Yarely, this is Milly Ruse, my good friend and . . . ”
“Temptress,” teases Milly.
“Aha,” chuckles Yarely. “I don’t believe it. Your face is too honest, Milly. And too beautiful. You know you don’t need to tempt anyone. Either they’ve got eyes or they don’t.”
Milly and I share a glance. I’m not sure either of us knows what Yarely means, but it sounds meaningful, maybe even gallant.
“And now,” he says, “off to Bentlam.” He gives the reigns a light crack and the horses start trotting for the big steel gate ahead.
“Bentlam?” Milly grabs my arm. “Didn’t I tell you? Yaverts took her north, to Union Powder. Josie said he had pressing business there.”
My heart somehow finds a way into the pit of my stomach. “No,” I say. “No, you didn’t tell me. Yarely is heading west, to Bentlam, then Portland by way of the main road.”
“Whoa!” yells Yarely, bringing the wagon to a halt. “Ms. Milly, did you say Yaverts? As in Rickard Yaverts?”
Milly stands up, her hands clasped awkwardly in front of her stomach. Her eyes are too bright. “Yes,” she murmurs. “Yes. Rickard Yaverts.”
Yarely whistles.
“What do you say, Yarely?” I stand up with Milly, trying to reassure her, but not certain I can or should. I’m suddenly anxious about how this mix-up will play out. “Do you think you could drive us up the road to Union Powder?”
Yarely looked anguished. “Oh dang, Blake . . . Blake, I’d give my good kidney for you, but that road is for nothing but armored trucks and fast, fast horses. Union Powder is . . . it’s not a place for us. Besides, I have to get back to Portland. I didn’t tell you this before, not wanting to worry you, but your sister-in-law is sick. And she’s with child. I’m here a week earlier than I’d normally be in order to get a shipment of medicine from the train. Now I’ve got the medicine, but it’s a good eight or nine days getting back to Portland, granted the roads are clear. I need to get going. And I sure could use a hand. I’m about as good with a gun as I am with a razor and you can see what I mean!” Yarely’s lively fingers fluff out his ratty beard. “I’m so, so sorry I can’t help, Ms. Milly. But you see, I’m already helping my dearest friends. And Blake, if you need to stay with Ms. Milly, I understand. I’m sure Casey and Kaite will understand. Of course, we’re talking about Rickard Yaverts—who’s killed more folks than a Screamer—but maybe if you’re really careful and take an extra—”
“Yarely Frickle!” I cry, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Give us five minutes.”
I help Milly down and study her face.
“I think I have to go with Yarely,” I say. “My sister-in-law . . . ”
Wiping away a tear, Milly nods. For a moment, I think she’s going to weep, and if that happens, I know I’ll join her, but then she laughs, an ironic, salty sound. “I don’t know why I’m so sad to lose you. We just met. You’re moody. You’re a bore. You won’t shoot anybody. You won’t even give me a proper kiss. You’re not much use at all, Blake Prose.”
“This is true,” I confess, taking her hand. “I wish I could come along. We’ve already had some crazy times.”
“Oh, yes. And we never got to finish our conversation about living into deeper desires.”
“No,” I say, surprised that she’d bring that up. “We didn’t.”
“Well, if you have to leave, you have to leave.” She yanks down on my hat. “I do feel a little betrayed though.”
“Milly, I—”
“I’ll be fine, Blake. You’d probably get me killed coming along, anyway. Rangers are moving targets. Idealistic hipsters, even more so. This way I’m just another temperamental ODOZ scientist, free to move around collecting samples and making the locals bristle. Nope—put your wallet away. I’ve got everything I need.” She winks at me, her eyes sad, maybe a touch angry too.
“Hold on, Milly. I can speak with the Mayor, get you an escort. If he won’t help, I can hire you one. I have money, Milly. You’d be surprised. Let’s go check. Yarely can spare another few hours.”
A corner of her mouth twinges up. “Do you remember the Rubies who set themselves on fire, Blake? Real Torchers look just like that. Do you know how it happens? We’re not certain, of course, but the best theory is that it’s an allergic reaction a very small number of people have to airborne zombie flesh. The living dead slough skin too—even if it never grows back. Well, these peoples’ bodies react so strongly to the perceived threat, they don’t know what else to do besides combust. It’s all an overblown chemical reaction.”
Milly truly smiles now—a hurt, sweet, genuine smile. She closes her eyes and leans forward. I close my eyes too. Her kiss breaks all the rules, landing on my mouth, slow, and soft, and stunning.
By the time I open my eyes, Milly is already walking away.
Chapter Seventeen
The Road and a Rant
The sentries atop the Wall at the western gate must fire over two hundred rounds of ammo to clear a path for us.
“There’s a lot of meat-heads out there today,” apologizes one of the four gatekeepers, wiping sweat off her brow. “Sometimes the heat draws them toward the Wall. Nobody knows why. I think we’ll be able to clear all in sight, but if you want to wait for tomorrow, I’m sure it will cool down and cut your risks. Mid-September is usually really nice around here.”
“Thanks, Ma’am,” says Yarely. “But we need to get going. You give us a window to get through the thick of ‘em and I’m sure the Road will do the rest.” He yanks on his beard and offers me a concerned frown. “Blake, are you sure you don’t want to chase Ms. Milly? I can find another hand to ride shotgun. Kaite will be just fine once she has this medicine.”
I acknowledge Yarely’s kindness with a nod, but I’m a petulant rock, my eyes fastened on the impenetrable doors in front of us.
Milly? Are you really going to go north alone? Are you really going to face Rickard Yaverts? And for what?—the fact that you don’t trust him? Jenny will be fine, a lot safer with a man like that than with either of us. I laugh bitterly and that earns a troubled sidelong glance from my companion. But Yarely is wise enough to let me be.
A humongous CLICK snaps us to attention. The doors begin swinging outward, slowly, even ponderously, as though a space-lock or a portal between dimensions. Beyond them is a long corral made of two inch bars, spaced at six inches and stretching twenty feet high. It juts outward fifty feet toward lightly forested hills and open sky, until stopping at another barred gate. We drive through the Wall’s steel doors until we’re parked at the end of the corral, already on the clean black pavement of Highway 84, the Main Road. On either side of us stand large piles of bodies. Zombie bodies. Dozens and dozens of them. A few are still twitching. One is still crawling toward us. He’s twenty feet away to the right. Milky eyes, chipped teeth, half of his chin blown off because a past shooter had been off target. He smells us and starts wriggling with surprising speed, straight for our barred enclosure.