“Your objections are duly noted.”
I point at her gun, and Kid walks over, kicks it back to me, too. I pocket the two extra firearms and then try to decide what to do. The blood’s beginning to pool around Jackson’s head, running deep through the road’s crevices.
“Keys,” I say.
“Are you out of your damn mind, Stokes?” Adriana yells. “Where ya gonna go? There’s nowhere you can go we won’t find you. You owe Blackstone. You owe Slick.”
“I can tell you where you’re going, you don’t give me the keys.”
She winces as she slips her hand into her pants. The keys jingle as she holds them out. Then, finally taking me seriously, she tosses them through the air. I catch them easily.
“Think about this, Stokes,” Kid says, his hands in the air, “you’re all alone out here. How long can you survive?”
“How long am I gonna survive with a target painted on my back in the Otherlands,” I say. “Move.” I gesture toward the side of the road. Kid begins walking and I clear my throat. “Her too.”
“Like hell I’m moving,” Adriana says.
“It’s either that, or get run the fuck over,” I say. “Better deal than old Jackie was offering.”
The injured woman behind me moans, as if to agree.
When Kid finishes with Adriana, I nod backward. “Now, you’re gonna load the woman in the cab.”
“I can’t carry her.”
“Oh, I think you’re a man of many hidden talents,” I say. “Your eyesight’s gotten a lot better over the past weeks, for instance.”
Covered in dust and grime and blood, he looks nothing like the meek-minded nerd I thought I met on the Hyperloop train. Kid is a chameleon. I’ve seen only a few of his guises, but it’s enough to understand that this man is far more capable than even his boldest persona lets on.
Which makes him dangerous.
I track him with the gun as he walks by. He asks me if I’m gonna help. I answer by pointing the gun right at his head.
The woman moans and thrashes lightly as Kid wraps his arms around her. Despite his slight stature, he lifts her over his shoulder without issue. A trail of bloody droplets follows him as he walks toward the smoke.
“No,” I say. “Around.” I gesture toward the long way, through the mud.
“I’m not carrying a sack of feathers here, Stokes.”
“Tough shit,” I say. “I make the rules now.” I don’t want to lose him in the crackling wreckage.
He obliges without grumbling. I follow, watching as he loads her into the cab.
“Where’s the FEMA camp?” I ask when he’s done. “Look, I know you know.”
“You’re not gonna shoot me to find out.”
He’s right about that. After Kid crafts a makeshift tourniquet to staunch the woman’s bleeding leg, we return to Adriana, who is still cursing my name beneath her breath.
“One of you is gonna tell me what you were looking for,” I say. “You do, I give you some meal packs from the back. Water. You don’t, you can both try your luck out here. Heard the vultures and crows were real nice this time of year.”
“Go to hell,” Adriana says.
“Kid,” I say, turning to him, “you’re a practical man.”
He glances down at Adriana, who gives him an expression saying don’t even think about it. With a resigned shrug that I’m sure is calculated, he says, “We’re trying to find the leader of the Remnants.”
“Why haven’t I heard of them?”
“You spend much time in the Lost Plains before today?” Kid says. “What goes on out here doesn’t exactly reach the ten o’clock news.”
“Where’s this FEMA camp? Don’t lie to me.”
“Just keep driving. You can’t miss the signs.” Kid pauses. “You know the woman’s lying. Vlad won’t be there.”
“You just worry about yourself.”
I make him follow me to the back of the truck and unload two crates. That leaves another dozen and a half for me—and the woman, if she makes it. Enough food for a half year, if I rationed correctly.
“Give me a toolkit, too,” Kid says, when he’s brought the two crates back to Adriana. “And a packet of Jameson’s Antibodies.”
“Maybe, if you stop sandbagging,” I say.
Kid says, “Word came down that your—”
Adriana cuts in with, “Don’t tell this weasel prick anything.”
“You wanna die?” Kid says. “You die, then I’m left out here without a driver and navigator, which means I die. Math’s pretty simple.”
“He’s a backstabber,” she says through gritted teeth. “He shot Jackie.”
“Jackie was not a good man,” Kid says. Then he looks at me. “Apparently, your brother came through these parts a week before he died. Rumor has it, he dropped something off for Vlad. That HIVE business Blackstone has you looking for.”
“Who told you that my brother came here?”
“Blackstone.” His eyes and mine meet, and there’s a certain unspoken understanding there.
“Thanks.” I don’t really have time to process what this new information means. We exchange the antibodies and spare toolkit, and then I get into the cab. The truck starts without any problem. The woman in the seat next to me groans, her eyes half-open.
I pull out, gingerly navigating through the smoke and dying fires. I’ve never driven before, but it’s easy enough to pick up, if a little jerky. From the corner of my eye, I see Kid and Adriana sitting on the side of the road, near the ruined median, but I don’t even give them a full glance.
Once I’m free of the cars, I floor it.
As we’re headed to Nashville, the woman murmurs, “Gunpowder Hills.”
Her green eyes glow, staring at me from behind the torched fabric. Then she’s quiet, making the journey lonely and silent.
19 Desert Rose
About nine miles up, I finally cut the engine to take a closer look at my new travel companion. She’s asleep now, those radioactive green eyes shut tightly. For a minute, I think she’s dead, but when I press my fingers to her cloth covered lips, she murmurs and I can feel her soft, hot breath pouring through the fabric.
Making sure the .38 is fully loaded and ready to go, I hop out of the cab and head back to the cargo. From the medical kit, I take out a packet of Jameson’s Antibodies, a QwikSet wound patch and some burn cream.
I don’t know if it’ll be enough. But it’s better than the vultures.
Halfway back to the cab, I return into the cargo to get a few syringes of morphine. Worst comes to worst, I can send her off into the next life real easy.
The sun hangs above the empty highway, about to start its descent. By the time it’s dark, I need to be off the road—clearly there are marauders around here in droves. And since I can’t exactly roll up to this FEMA camp and introduce myself as an ambivalent, non-threatening third party, I’ll have to come up with another solution.
When I climb back into the cab, the woman is saying something.
“W-w-water…”
I take a plastic bottle from beneath the seat. It’s got little flecks of chewing tobacco in it, from Adriana’s backwash. Beggars and choosers and all that…so I pull down the scarf, exposing her lips. To my surprise, she’s younger than I first thought. For some reason, the way Adriana was screaming about freaks—and living out in the wasteland—I figured she’d be leatherfaced.
I tip the bottle toward her mouth gingerly. She takes a few sips and then spits it out.
“Eww.” The word is barely audible, but the disgust is clear.
I’m forced to head into the back to retrieve a fresh bottle.
How had I never officially heard of the Remnants before today? Guess I was part of the Circle’s machine more than I thought, a state-sanctioned rebel. I was so busy thinking I was hot shit, flipping the finger to the system, that I never stopped to think about what happened off the grid.
But Matt knew about the Remnants. Enough to pay them a visit
and—what, give this Vlad character a chunk of HIVE? Somehow my brother crossed the Lost Plains without catching a bullet. That’s impressive enough by any measure. Even more impressive is he met with these Remnants and struck some sort of accord.
No wonder Kid, Slick and Blackstone kept me in the dark. Because, it would seem, their idea of uniting the factions and fixing the system differs quite a bit from Matt’s.
But I’m free of all that crap if I figure out a way to make nice with these so-called Rems. I can live out here where no one cares if I supposedly killed my brother. And, as an added bonus, Blackstone doesn’t get what he wants—but neither does Tanner. HIVE stays hidden.
Unless.
A slight sinking sensation rattles in my stomach as I reach for a fresh bottle of water.
Unless Blackstone gets Kid, Slick and the rest of the crew to come back and kill this Vlad character, take the drive from him.
Not my problem anymore.
I hop down into the broken road and walk back to the cab, cursing my luck. When I climb in, a strong hand latches onto my throat.
“Who the hell are you?” the woman says, her voice still raspy, but plenty demanding. “You gonna kill me?”
Her hand is wrapped so tightly around my neck that I can barely breathe. Her scarf has fallen away from her head completely now, revealing short, dark black punkish hair, a tattoo running from her right temple to her cheekbone and a row of shockingly strong, white teeth that look poised to rip my jugular open. Heart shaped face that would probably be attractive if it wasn’t smeared in soot and belonging to someone who was about to kill me in a feral rage.
Veins bulge from her neck, the skin turning red as she squeezes. I drop the water on the seat.
“Oh,” she says, and then relaxes. I suck in wheezing, choking gasps of air. “Water. I asked for water.” She breathes heavily, like she’s under strain. “Damn, my leg hurts a lot.”
I take the bottle of water and hold it out as a peace offering before I get in. With a slight smile, she takes it and drinks the whole thing without stopping.
I study her tattoo. When she was bundled up, I thought it was just some dirt or a smudge of gunpowder. But as I look at it, I can see that it’s actually a flowing series of vines, all done in black, painstakingly rendered with flowers growing out from the tangled expanse.
She drops the empty bottle on the floor and inhales deeply. A tiny cry accompanies the exhale.
“You gonna kill me if I try to help you?” I say, rubbing my sore neck for emphasis.
“No,” she says, “I promise, I won’t…” Her eyes flutter shut, voice trailing off. I think she’s joking or pretending, but after a minute, she doesn’t wake up. Whatever burst of insane adrenaline seized control of her, it’s gone.
With a cautious hand, I reach over and flick the bottom of her pant leg. When she doesn’t try to murder me, I lift it up to expose the wound. The makeshift cloth tourniquet is soaked. When I undo it, a steady trickle of crimson droplets begin to beat against the metal chassis.
It’s a through and through, by the looks of it, which is good, because I don’t know how to pull out a bullet. The burns on her legs and hands look worse, actually.
It takes me twenty minutes to treat the wounds as best I can. The QwikSet patch amply wraps around both holes, bonding nicely with her shockingly smooth skin. I tell myself to focus, that this is one girl I will never, ever lie to or try to pull a move on. Every few minutes I expect for her to snap my neck, but she remains unconscious.
After dumping the waste on the road, I fire up the truck again and continue toward the FEMA camp. A couple exits before Nashville, which lies dead and lifeless in the distance, a rusted sign points me toward FEMA Camp 2287—another fifty miles onward, toward Memphis.
I run out of gas about twenty miles in, and have to refuel with one of the reserve canisters in the back. That’s one thing I failed to take into account—there are only two of them back here.
One now, as I tip the remaining droplets into the fuel tank.
I return the empty canister to its spot in the back and then head back to the cab. Moment of truth. I admit to some skepticism as I try the key, but to my pleasant surprise, the engine immediately roars to life.
No one is immune to propaganda. Even I view old technology as dangerous and temperamental. And I’m one of the only ones who can see the con. I press my foot down on the pedal and continue the journey. Nothing explodes, and I shake my head with a grim smile.
Everyone’s a mark.
Then I jump a little when the woman says, “Hey, why are you smiling?”
With a cautious glance to the periphery, I can see her green eyes latched onto me, intensely focused. She’s sitting tall, straight, showing no sign of any weakness. Emanating pure curiosity, like a cat.
“Uh, nothing,” I say, not wanting to poke what may be a grizzly bear in the passenger seat. “Just happy to be back on the road.”
We pass a sign for the FEMA camp and she says, “I told you about the Gunpowder Hills. Before I passed out, I whispered it to you.” I nod. “I lied to them. Vlad isn’t at the FEMA camp. No one is.”
“Why not?”
“We have our reasons,” she says, still holding the intense gaze, “no one wants to live there. Bad memories.”
She shudders.
“You need me to drop you off somewhere, then, Miss…”
“Jana,” she says. “Jana Rose.” Then she points to the tattoo on her face for emphasis. “Have you ever seen one, Luke?” She registers my surprise, because then she adds, “I heard the others say your name. I have a good memory.” She pauses. “You were facing the one called Kid. Telling him to put the gun down. Smoke and wind crackled. I could taste gasoline. And then you told him, ‘You gonna tell me what we’re doing out here?’ and he said—”
“I get it,” I say. “You remember stuff.”
“Eidetic,” she says. “That’s what they call it.”
Explaining it to me like a proud five-year-old.
“Thanks for that.”
There’s a long silence.
“Lots of us are,” she says. We pass a sign indicating that FEMA camp 2287 is about eight more miles down the same road. “It’s a side effect of the experiments.”
“Wonderful.”
“You’re not in a very good mood,” Jana says, stating the obvious. “You never answered me about the rose.”
“Flowers don’t really grow where I’m from.”
“Where’s that?”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
“I’m trying to figure out if I can trust you,” she says.
“You can’t.”
This provides me a brief respite, but then Jana says, “Your friends could die. If those cars can’t be fixed—”
“Then they die,” I say. Seven miles. This sign is vandalized with the words God Will Punish The Unclean. It must be from twenty years ago, because I can’t see any member of the Lionhearted being stupid enough to venture out here these days.
“Why’d you save me?”
“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to regret it,” I say.
“Why?”
“Lady, you gotta chill the hell out.”
This does not happen. All through the remaining seven miles there’s non-stop chatter, followed by my terse replies. Observations about the wasteland—how cold it can get at night. She mentions that our crew caught the ambushing Remnants totally off-guard. Gives me a lengthy explanation about how to cultivate roses when sunlight and heat are problems.
Finally, in the middle of her explaining how to build your own greenhouse, I say, “Goddamn, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Her eyes get real big and, for the first time, she doesn’t have an answer. “Nothing.”
“I saved your life,” I say. “That doesn’t make us friends. That doesn’t mean I give a shit.”
“I talk a lot,” she says. “If that’s a problem, then I can leave and walk from here.”
Up ahead, in the dusk, the high beams carve a path toward a larger sign—Welcome to FEMA Camp 2287. There’s a little booth in the middle of the road, on a patch of dirt that was probably once grass. To check in all the refugees.
“You think you can walk?”
“We’re pretty resilient,” she says. “Look at your neck.”
“I’d prefer not to,” I say, briefly wondering if that’s a threat. My pistol is at my hip. I wonder if I can draw on her before she mauls me.
“It’s harsh out here,” Jana says. “Talking about nicer things is a little vacation.” She shrugs. “But I guess you’re like your brother. You just want to know about the ugly stuff.”
She gets out before I can stop her. Jana walks with a hitched limp, but moves surprisingly quickly for someone who was on death’s door two hours ago. She ventures off the road, away from the FEMA camp, giving it what seems like a deliberately wide berth.
I hop out of the cab and run after her. “Wait.”
She doesn’t stop. “I’ll tell Vlad you saved me. That should buy you some goodwill. You’ll need it, since you’ll be living out here.”
“What did my brother want?” I’m jogging to keep up with her, but she doesn’t slow down. There’s pain on her face, but it’s overridden by determination. “Look, I’ll drop you off.”
“My people will find me,” she says, and I slow down, allowing her to head off. Before she’s out of earshot, she yells, “He wanted to unite everyone. Form a new democracy where all of us got a say.”
I watch as she disappears into the dying light. As I head back to the truck, I swear that, somewhere in the distance, I hear the sound of dirt bikes, already coming to pick up the strange woman.
One of her half-answered questions sticks in my mind as I climb back into the truck.
Why’d you save me?
The real answer’s selfish.
I couldn’t bear the responsibility of another decent person’s death.
20 FEMA Camp 2287
The truck’s reinforced grille blasts through the automatic arm, shredding the cheap wood without slowing down. The halogens shine against an official government sign, stamped with the FEMA logo and what must be the Tennessee state flag. I catch only the faded text as I roll past. FEMA Disaster Relief Camp 2287.
[The Remnants 01.0] Ashes of the Fall Page 13
