She flung his arm off with so much force he nearly lost his balance. “Eadie,” he said. “Look at me.”
She looked at him. A chill ran through Dok and he shuddered, almost staggering. He yielded, not realizing that he had stepped backward until she walked through the place he had been standing. She headed for the fire escape.
12
On the roof
Old Fart caught only a brief glimpse of Eadie’s face as she passed him, but that was enough. The sense of dread evoked by her expression brought back memories of childhood fears: specters, goblins, black corners of dark basements. Kel followed closely behind, muttering to himself. Dok followed them both down the ladder, biting his lip and shaking his head.
The Prophet rose too, seeming almost to float across the roof and down the fire escape. Old Fart and Lawrence reached the ladder at the same time.
“She’s joining that huge fight down there,” Lawrence said.
“So I gathered.”
They descended without another word. Old Fart let go of the ladder and ran out of the alley toward the fight. He saw Eadie already confronting the outermost members of the white gang that surrounded the Latinos. Two of them fell with bashed heads before the rest of the gang even knew she was there. Kel joined the attack, his keys and wire shooting out at strange angles as his arms and legs flew furiously in all directions. Lawrence made frantic sweeping and stabbing motions with his big knife without seeming to hit anything. The Prophet drifted amid the chaos, oblivious to the random blows that struck him.
Old Fart picked up a bottle lying next to one of Eadie’s first victims, rushing over to where she and Kel were still cutting their path. Kel reached the older Latin boy.
“Who are you?” The boy asked in a thick Spanish accent.
Kel spun his sharpened keys into a face. “Don’t matter, man.”
“Why are you helping us?”
“Don’t know.”
Pain shot through Old Fart’s shoulder. He turned just as the gang kid smashed his stick down into the same spot again. Old Fart swung the bottle but his target jumped back too fast. The stick hit Old Fart in the jaw and the kid brought it up again, ready to swing.
Something flashed across the kid’s face, leaving his eyes bloody. Kel’s keys. Old Fart clubbed the gang member with the bottle, hitting him a few more times after he collapsed to the ground. The bottle broke. The jagged end he held was sharp but very short.
The Prophet fell to the ground next to him. The pipe Kel had taken from his neighbor’s place rolled from the Prophet’s clothes. Old Fart picked it up, but it was so wide his hands would not close around it. He stood, still holding the bottle neck, bracing himself for the next assault.
His whole body shook and his breathing was ragged. One punk zeroed in on him, running toward him with a table leg as long as his arm. Old Fart threw the broken bottle neck into his face and tried to hit him with the big pipe, but something shifted inside it and threw off his aim. The kid jabbed the table leg into Old Fart’s stomach, doubling him over.
Old Fart collapsed to his knees. The kid’s face was bloody from the bottle but his eyes were still fine. Old Fart hefted his heavy pipe, which seemed now to be full of sand and maybe rocks—too heavy to throw, too awkward to swing. The table leg zipped down. Old Fart blocked it with the big pipe but the table leg smashed into his two smallest fingers. The gang kid swung again, sideways, right for Old Fart’s head. He dove for the ground, spreading himself flat.
The table leg fell next to him, and then its owner did, too, his eyes staring blankly. Kel lowered his leg from the high kick, then stomped on the kid’s head. Kel disappeared behind another body.
Old Fart tried to turn the cap on the pipe but it was stuck. The table leg was too big and heavy for him to use as a weapon. He tried the other end of the pipe—if he could get it open, maybe he could throw its contents.
It turned! Another gang member came at him, this one with a bat. He threw the cap but the kid ducked away from it. Kel was nowhere. He reached into the pipe with his cupped hand, curling his head down to avoid the bat, which crashed into the concrete. Old Fart felt something cold and heavy. He looked down and recognized the object in his hand with a thrill of shock and amazement.
A gun!
He pulled the trigger. It fired. The shot echoed off the surrounding buildings. The bat clattered on the concrete. Its dead owner collapsed on top of it. Both gangs of white kids scattered like roaches, disappearing into the night.
Fiend territory
“You still look confused,” the man said. Brian squinted at him as he kept talking. “It’s understandable. The ordeal with the Divinators can bring Unity—it does in about ten percent of the cases, and from what I hear, they were especially hard on you. It’ll take a while but you’ll eventually be back to your old self.”
Brian laughed, closing his stinging eyes. “I’m not so sure.” He forced them open again. “So you are Patrol Leader Coiner? And I’ll be working for you?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Normally you’d start out as just a rankless Element, a foot soldier. But the Divinators insisted you be made a Rounder, which has never happened before with anyone brand new. You’ll lead a Round—a small unit—in one of my Fronts, at the command of a Frontman. The Frontmen all answer directly to me.”
“Coiner …” Brian said, shaking his head.
“Yes?” Coiner leaned forward, his head cocked to one side. His voice had a hard edge now. This army was real, and this man took his rank in it seriously.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Brian said, reverting to habits he had learned as a boy in school. He lowered his face, hiding his set jaw and tightened expression. Being forced to call this man “sir” rankled so much that his hands had clenched, claw-like, almost to fists. He willed his jaw open. “I didn’t realize I was speaking out loud, sir. It’s only that I’ve never heard that name before.”
“Oh.” Coiner relaxed his posture a little. “It’s just what they started calling me here. I have this habit of leaving coins on the bodies of those I’ve killed. Not metal coins, of course. Just bits of plastic about that size and shape. Elements tell me how wasteful it is, and I know it’s stupid. Even plastic, they’re worth something. And they’re just going to be picked up by the next Wild One who comes along. But, it’s like … helping them pay their way into the land of the dead, or something. Some ancient superstition I picked up from an old history lesson. I leave bigger ones with fighters I’ve come to respect.” Coiner took something from a shirt pocket and flipped it to Brian. “Never fought with a soldier who deserved this,” he said.
Brian caught it, looked, laughed once. It was gold-colored with a picture of a woman’s face. “On the street they call this a ‘fake bitch.’ Can you imagine that much gold in one coin?” He handed it back to Coiner.
“Yeah, I know. I got it scavenging after a battle. I suppose it’ll end up with the one who kills me. Best way to earn it, I guess.”
Brian wiped his forehead with the back of his battered hand, sweat soaking into the cloth bandages holding Dok’s splints in place. The angry, crazy thoughts that had washed over him that excruciating day in the mist came flooding back, a tsunami striking inside his brain.
Idiot. Someday I’ll be the one to kill you, Coiner, and every other dirtball in this place.
He slowed his breathing again but the thoughts kept coming. I’ll kill you and your Divinators and Top Dog and all your worthless followers and I’ll dance in the bloody mess that used to be this despicable army. You will pay. You will all pay and I will make you pay and it will never be over because I will make the whole world pay for what has been done to me, and I will only accept blood as currency.
His flesh felt heavy and spongy, as if its own weight would tear it from his bones. The rancid smell of the filthy oil in the lamp between them—really just a broken, lidless porcelain kettle with a rag wick sticking out the spout—made his stomach cramp.
“Here’s what you need to know abo
ut the origins of our organization, Samurai,” Coiner began. “Before the New Union, Wild Ones here were just like the Wild Ones you’ve always known: wild. Hunting and killing each other for whatever they carried.” Coiner threw up his hands. “Sure, they were strong, individually, and in their little bands of five or eight or whatever, they were as tough as anyone. But toughness alone could only get them so far in the struggle for survival. Though there was a constant flow of new people into this territory, a few even being born here, their numbers never increased.
“That was where Top Dog’s genius came in. He knew how to end the chaos that was killing us off. He rounded up the wild animals, gave them structure and order and common goals. Kept them safe from each other. He founded the New Union, and now we’re the most powerful force around.”
The samurai’s memories included several mentions of the New Union’s cultish leader, “Top Dog,” who had turned anarchists into an army. Brian blinked his heavy eyelids and discovered they would not open again. He feigned rubbing them to pry the lids apart.
Coiner was staring at him with narrowed eyes. “But I guess this all makes perfect sense to you. The Divinators say they’ve never seen anyone who believes in our system as much as you do. That’s why you’re already a Rounder. Most Elements take years to become a Rounder.”
“Years?” Brian asked. His voice sounded dry and weak. He cleared his throat but it did no good. “How long has the New Union been active?”
Coiner smiled. “They really wrung you out, huh? We just talked about that. Top Dog came here about five years ago but the New Union became a powerful force over the last three years or so. It took some time to get it all organized.” He pointed a finger at Brian.
Brian bristled inside but managed to appear indifferent.
“Another thing, Samurai. We’re starting to recruit from the other areas—Mexicans, Chinese, other races. Top Dog is serious about everyone being treated equally. Only rank in the New Union matters; racial issues do not exist here. We can’t waste time and resources on stupid shit like Elements fighting between themselves or disobeying their superiors because of skin color. The New Union is the only affiliation that means anything.”
All races bleed the same. They’ll bleed the same when I give back all that pain! Red, red, red blood washing across every surface. I’ll make the world slimy with what’s beneath your skin, Coiner. I will take it from you all.
“Three years,” Brian said, licking his cracked lips. “That’s about when the first raids into other parts of the Zone started, and then the suburbs … Is the New Union the group that’s been raiding the suburbs?”
Coiner’s eyes widened. His mouth froze open with the lips curled back. “Of course. Isn’t that why you wanted to join us?”
Brian cleared his throat quickly. “Of course it is, Patrol Leader. What I meant was, are we the only ones who do that?”
The man nodded slightly. “We’re the only ones who can do it, Rounder Samurai. There are some other groups trying to achieve our level of organization now, mostly as a defensive move, hoping to keep us from wiping them out. But they could never accomplish what we have. They don’t have the discipline, or the appeal of already being the baddest group in the territory.” He shrugged. “Think about it. Why would a Wild One join with some helpless beginner outfit when we’re the reason the territory is changing so much?” He leaned forward, hovering over the lamp, his eyes shining in its foul, smoky glow. “Thanks to us, there are more Wild Ones living in this area than ever before. There’s nothing much to live on around here—and we’ve got an army to support. All these Elements have to eat, wear clothes, find weapons, all of that. Those other groups don’t have the power to provide for their own the way we do.”
Brian turned his head, the action causing his neck, shoulder, and abdominal muscles to strain like overstretched rubber bands. Other than the old assault rifle in the corner, the pile of rags next to it, and the lamp, there was nothing in the room. “I have another question, if I may, Patrol Leader.”
“Of course. That’s why you’re here. You need to get caught up with all you should have learned before gaining the rank you have. Ask freely.”
“Thank you, Patrol Leader, but I’m afraid my question’s just about you rather than the whole New Union.”
Coiner nodded.
“You mentioned history lessons,” Brian said. “I have noticed that you have an unusual manner of speaking. It sounds … well, it sounds educated, Patrol Leader. You don’t seem to be from the territory, or even from the Zone at all.”
Coiner chuckled. “Neither do you, Rounder. I was born and raised in Prairie Knoll.”
Prairie Knoll was a suburb of moderate means that had arisen late in the city’s history. It had been among the first areas to succumb to the dust storms, consumed by grit and grime as the Great Midwestern Desert spread, years ago. Brian nodded. “I grew up in Elm Village.”
Coiner sighed. “It’s gone, now, too?”
“Yeah,” Brian said. “Suburbs out that way are blighted all the way in to Dasche Creek now, I’ve heard.”
Coiner closed his eyes and pointed his face toward the ceiling. “I went to a pre-university school,” he said. “Couldn’t stand it. Dropped out, got into drugs, ran out of cash, you know the scene, I’m sure. I joined up with a group here or there, fought for what I needed, managed to cheat the Unity for a long time. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was my own corpse being stripped of everything.” Coiner raised his palms, cocked his head. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m as much a Wild One as any other Element. I don’t fear the Unity. But I did want to eat better. And live better.” His chin was down, the lamplight illuminating his face as the smoke trailed past it. He rolled his eyes up to stare at Brian.
Brian nodded quickly. Moving his head made his vision swim.
“And then one day I saw what the New Union could do. They wiped out two different bands in my area without losing a single Element. I saw that I could be living like that. I wouldn’t have to be hungry. I could get what I needed—even what I wanted. And so, like you, I came to join the New Union.”
Brian nodded again, tensing his jaw and his shoulders, hoping it would help him feel less dizzy. “I … I have many other questions, Patrol Leader. I want to know about the movements of the groups, the clicking noises that keep them together …” He tried to swallow but his throat was dry. “I need to know more about the weapons and the way the New Union operates …”
So I can kill you all. As painfully as possible.
“Of course you do, Rounder. You want to know so much, I might believe you were a spy if the Divinators hadn’t sworn you weren’t. But the Divinators are never wrong. And they loved that stuff you said about life being an opportunity to meet Unity with honor.” Coiner laughed to himself. “You’ll be leading your own Round soon so you’ll need to know all of those things. And much more, too. But you won’t learn it from me. We have a school here.”
Brian felt the blood drain from his face.
“Don’t worry, Rounder.” Coiner said. “I can tell you didn’t like school any more than I did. But this school isn’t like that. There’s no homework, no essays to write. Just a lot of useful information.” He shrugged, turning away. “And of course, a whole lot of discipline.”
In the Zone street
“There’s nothing I can do for that eye,” Dok said to the young Latino boy. “I’d like to check the pressure there but right now I’d only be able to do it by feel, and I don’t want to disturb the tissue any more.” The older Latino boy translated and the younger nodded.
The elder boy gestured toward the bloody eyeball with his fingers, as if to cover it with his fingertips. “A … a bandage, maybe?”
Dok shook his head. “The bleeding is inside. Putting a bandage on it would probably look better but it wouldn’t help it heal. And anyway, I don’t have a bandage. It should get better on its own after a while, though. We can try and find some ice for it, for now, then may
be some warm compresses tomorrow. If the pressure gets really high, we can find a bactro stand and maybe try some cannabinoid drops.”
The older Latino boy translated into a few words of Spanish. Dok started to say more—there was no way his meaning could have translated to those couple of bits—but it wasn’t worth taking the time just then. He could explain again when they were someplace safe.
Kel stood up from one of the bodies, holding in his hands a small biscuit tin, a cheap knife, and a jacket. Under his arm was a pair of sticks. “I think that’s all of ’em,” he called, coming back to where most of the others had gathered around the kid with the bloody eye. The elder Latina girl sat apart from the group, kneeling by the other young Latino boy, who had not survived the fight. Eadie was the farthest away, still clutching her weapon as if she were about to square off with another opponent. “You’re a hell of a fighter, man,” Kel said to the eldest Latino, handing him the two sticks he’d just scavenged. “I’m Kel.”
“You also fight very well,” he said. “I am Arrulfo.” He gave a sheepish smile, then pointed at Dok’s patient, who was lightly touching the area around his red, bulging eye. “That is Ernesto, my … my cousin.” He nodded in the eldest girl’s direction. “That is Rosa. She holds Marcos, Ernesto’s friend. And the little girl, she is Mari.”
Kel did the same, pointing and saying names. “Dok, Old Fart, Some Student Fuck …”
“Lawrence Williams the Seventh,” Lawrence said. The Latin boy squinted at him. Lawrence nodded, shrugging. “You can call me Sett.”
Kel’s nose wrinkled. “Set? What kinda fucked-up name is that?”
Dok turned away, walking to where Eadie stood.
“Eadie? It’s okay. It’s over.”
She did not look at him. Her eyes kept scanning the alleys, doorways, rooftops, and dark hiding places. “Gangs have guns, Dok. They keep ’em where they live. Now they know we’ve got one they might come back and try to get it from us.”
The Book of Eadie, Volume One of the Seventeen Trilogy Page 20
