The Axeboy's Blues (The Agents Of Book 1)

by Andy Reynolds

  “That sounds lame.”

  Julius laughed. “It is lame. All the same, it's best if you stay here and make sure everything is running smoothly. Don't answer the questions of any passerby – you never know who they might be getting information for. No one knows you're an Agent yet, so you can just keep insisting that this is a movie set.”

  “Ok, I'm playing dumb. Got it.”

  Julius smiled. “I'm glad you're one of us, Mars.”

  Mars' heart skipped and she hoped she wasn't blushing. “I'm... uh... thanks!”

  “Hey Mars!” yelled someone behind her. She turned to see Trevor near the entrance to the street, standing next to a station wagon with the entire back seat and beyond full of crackerjacks boxes. “Where do we want these?”

  “Holy shit!” she yelled. “I love you, Trevor Troll! How about under the tarp next to the stage?”

  “What in the hell are those for?” asked Julius.

  “For the Collectors,” said Roman.

  Julius shook his head. “Don't tell me a single thing about it.”

  “Alright,” said Roman. “Mars... why is there a stage?”

  “We've got to keep them occupied, so tonight we're throwing a party. We're setting up a bar and some swing bands are gonna stop by and play for a while. The happier the people are, the less chance that they try to get out of quarantine. You know, like in those post apocalyptic books. Except we're not some evil tyrannical government.” Then she stroked an invisible pointy beard. “Or are we?”

  “Nice work,” said Julius. “And what exactly were you doing before this?”

  Mars shrugged. “Acupuncture. Drinking. Waiting for you guys to freaking recruit me.”

  Julius looked at Roman. “I think she's got this handled. Let's get on our way.”

  “Yeah.” Mars waved them away with her hands. “Shoo! Shoo! I've got work to do!”

  File 45 :: [The Axeboy]

  The Axeboy looked down upon the empty realm of the Tartarus as they descended towards one of the many rooftops, his mother holding him underneath his arms as she flew. Her wings groaned through the air, beating to slow their descent, the wind ricocheting off the rooftop and blowing about his clothes and hair as his boots touched onto the roof's surface. They were in the Tartarus' version of The French Quarter near the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse. There was a pile of trumpets, maybe a dozen of them, laying in one corner of the large, flat roof.

  He looked up at the shimmering sky, the cage of Oblivion that kept his father from him, then at the strangely desolate world around them. Many of the buildings in that area were three or four-stories tall, with the taller buildings towards Canal Street and The CBD. “What happened to the Tartarus? Why is it so empty now?”

  “I emptied it. For you.” She looked up at Oblivion. “For him. So no one will get in the way of bringing him back.”

  “Don't say you did it for me.” He tossed his axe flipping into the air and caught it. “I don't need any of your lies. I know you're doing it for him and him alone.”

  “This is all your plan. This is your show. Every detail – the trumpets, these rooftops, Trumpet Fest, emptying out the Tartarus. All of it so carefully drawn out by you, gone over and over and over again until it was perfected and you were sure that I had it all memorized.”

  “Because we didn't succeed?”

  “You didn't succeed. I wasn't part of this last time. You planned this all out so that I could stop you from failing again.”

  Across the street from them was a grand building he'd never seen before. Most of it was three stories tall, with the center of it reaching up four stories, the massive building taking up nearly the entire width of the block. The bottom was covered in windowed doors with glimmering yellow light trapped within.

  “Théâtre de l'Opéra,” said his mother. “The French Opera House[25]. It burned down in 1919, in one of the battles your father had with The Agents of Karma before they banished him into Oblivion. This is where we will set up the trumpet players, on these rooftops.”

  “I know about that battle, and about The French Opera House burning down. I know it from investigating, asking people and ghosts about it, and reading old newspapers.” He turned and looked at his mother, letting the rage that spread out from his heart eat away at any tears that would threaten to come. “That's how I know everything that I know about my fucking father, do you understand that? None of my stories of him came from you. The most interaction you and I have had is you trying to stop me from freeing him.”

  “I was trying to do my best not to let you end up like him.”

  “What in the hell does that mean?” he asked, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Your father was broken.” She pulled out her cigarette case and lit one up, holding it in a trembling hand. “He was very, very broken.”

  “Oh, and you were trying to 'fix' me by ignoring me? Every six months, sometimes less, I was being fostered or kept prisoner by another living person or ghost or entity. The only time I ever saw you was when I'd run away and you'd find me and drag me to the next place!” He shook his head and pointed in the direction of the lake. “You sent me to the bottom of the lake! What was I supposed to learn from those creatures? How was I supposed to live like that?”

  “Do you know what destroyed your father? I did. He loved me, and I brought him here to the Tartarus to live with me, and this place twisted his mind and his body until he couldn't be fixed. Do you have any idea what that's like? To know that you destroyed the one person you loved?”

  The Axeboy shook his head. “I've never had anyone to love. You saw to that. The closest I've got is wanting to know my father – and having you try and rip that from my hands.”

  She took a long drag and blew out a stream of smoke into that gray world. “Yes, I was a shitty mom. I knew I'd be a shitty mom, so I was trying to give you parents who would be good to you. I was young, I'd watched the man I love descend into madness... and then be thrown into Oblivion. I was shattered. I hadn't been with your father, or anyone for that matter, for years when I realized that I was pregnant with you. It seems that all my traveling through the lands of the dead was pausing my body's functions. Pausing you.”

  “Great – another way that I'm a damned freak.”

  “I couldn't be around you. You look just like him, and when I looked at you all I'd see was his ghost, and how I'd failed him. Unfortunately, you were a reminder that I didn't want to have – something that kept me from healing. Also I was afraid that being around me would just lead you to a similar fate. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I just shut you out.”

  The Axeboy looked back at the pile of trumpets, then leaned over the roof's ledge and looked down at the street. He felt storms of emotion battling inside him, but he gripped onto the hatred that pounded like a slow drum through his veins. “I need to get out of here.” He shook his head. “I need to go walk around.”

  “We have to set up the trumpet players first. That's how the Agents are tracking you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You told me so, after you get sent back. You told me that's how they track you, somehow.”

  He sighed and clenched his eyes shut, then looked at his mother. “What about now? What do you see when you look at me? And don't you lie to me.”

  His mother stood there with her arms crossed, unaware that her cigarette had gone out. “I see your father. I see the great man that you become. I see a child that hates me, that should hate me. And I see a chance – a chance that we can undo what I've done. That we can bring your father back and fix what I did to him.”

  The Axeboy bowed his head and took a deep breath. “Ok. I'll go along with this plan, this plan that is supposedly mine. But after we bring my father back, I'm not going to have anything to do with you.”

  “That's fair.”

  The Axeboy pulled out his axe. It was somehow heavier in his hands in that gray, sunless world. The sounds of jazz spiraled around each other in
the air.

  She looked over at the pile of trumpets. “It's time to let them out of their little prison.”

  The Axeboy licked his lips, feeling the weight of the axe in his hand. Then he gripped the silver head and twisted the wooden handle, over and over, unscrewing it. When it was done, he pulled the handle away and gently tilted the axe head so that the hole faced downward, and from the hole poured trumpet player after trumpet player. He moved the axe head to the side as the musicians toppled onto the rooftop, looking around dazed and sleepy. Some had trumpets, some did not.

  “Do not let them all out,” said his mother. “There are four rooftops. We will spread them around.”

  He let out about a dozen of them, then tilted the axe head up to keep the rest inside.

  His mother looked out at the musicians, who were mostly men and mostly young, and raised her voice to address them. “Each of you has been carefully chosen for your musical gifts. You have been brought to the furthest edge of the lands of the dead, though you yourselves are very much alive. Do not bother trying to free yourselves, because if you do manage to escape, you will never find your way back to the world of the living. Only we can bring you back – and we will do so in a few days. Until then, relax and talk amongst yourselves. You will not need to eat or drink while you are here.”

  Without waiting to answer any questions, his mother walked over behind him and picked him up. The Axeboy was careful not to tip the axe head as they lifted into the air, passing in front of The French Opera House and landing on another roof, where there was yet another pile of trumpets.

  “Why bother lying to them?” he asked.

  She walked to the edge of the roof and peered out towards the rooftop with the musicians they'd just released. “Lies keep order. Especially when they're comforting lies.” She looked over at him and nodded to the axe head. “Shall we get this over with?”

  The Axeboy turned away from her and tilted the axe head, letting the trumpet players tumble out and onto the rooftop. Each one that fell out made him feel closer and closer to meeting his father.

  File 46 :: [Mars]

  The sun was close to setting behind the buildings of The Central Business District, absentmindedly painting the clouds with streaks of violet and orange as it meandered off to other parts of the world. The streetlights flickered to life as an old Victrola played swing music in one corner of the quarantine zone, with the beds and tents all moved to the other side. Near the Victrola, Laura Manning, an old friend of Mars', was teaching half of the time-traveling refugees how to swing dance – the other half of them already knowing how. Mars had known Laura for many years, and had helped her put on a variety of puppet shows and vaudeville-style performances, most of the time helping with puppetry and costuming.

  Across the quarantine zone from the Victrola was a small, one-foot-high wooden stage that Trevor had brought, upon which several musicians were setting up. They were one of Mars' favorite jazz bands in the city – The Loose Marbles. Off to the side of the zone Mars was sitting on a bar stool behind a short bookshelf that she'd made into a make-shift bar. The top of it was covered in bottles of booze, with the shelves below stacked with mason jars she'd brought from home, as well as soda, tonic and other mixers. She had two coolers of ice from Le Croissant Cité, one of which had a few gallons of water inside.

  The leader of the band, Michael Magro, set his clarinet on his chair and walked over to Mars. The rest of the band consisted of a stand up bass, washboard, guitar, banjo, trumpet and trombone. Mars had already asked Adelaide about the safety of the trumpet player, and had been assured that The Axeboy tended to hunt in the alleys and shadows, so to just make sure that she didn't wander off by herself.

  Mars made a grand gesture to the plethora of alcohol before her. “Would you care for a tasty beverage, Monsieur Magro?”

  Micheal smiled and pushed his circular spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “I'm good for now, Mars.” He was tall and thin with dark hair, and wore a button-up shirt with a nice vest. The whole band dressed the part of musicians from the '30s, though they dressed that way fairly often anyway. “You alright? You look tired.”

  “Let's just say I'm sooooooooo glad to be sitting down. I've been awake and on my feet for a better part of the last few days, and my legs are on strike for the time being.”

  He looked over at Laura as she instructed the future dancers, having them rotate from one partner to the next. “So they're really from the '30s, huh?”

  “Yep. Hopefully we'll get them back to 1934 in a day or two. Thanks again for getting your band together and coming out tonight.”

  “Sure thing. It's not every day I get to play for time travelers. And I get to see how people from the '30s like our songs. The rest of the band seems pretty intrigued as well.”

  Over by the Victrola, Laura was wrapping up her class. “You're all doing amazing. Now we're going to have music provided by The Loose Marbles. They're going to start off with some slower tunes so you can practice your steps. Count the beats out loud if it helps, no one's judging you. Your bartender this evening is the lovely Mars.” She gestured over to Mars, who waved at them.

  “Well, that's my cue,” said Michael, nodding to Mars and then walking back over to the stage.

  Laura stopped the Victrola and Michael spoke up. “This is a nice, slow tune for you. It's called This Love of Mine.”

  The playful, dreamy notes began sauntering out from his clarinet, followed close behind by the bass and the washboard just before the rest of the band joined in. Mars smiled and felt the music weasel its way into her bones, massaging her sore muscles. Looking down at the bar, she swore she could just put her head down and take a nap. Some of the '30s crowd came up and she began making drinks, while over by the stage Laura was dancing with one of them.

  Soon more of them joined in the dancing, others talking and sipping from their mason jar cocktails. After a few songs, Laura walked up. She had dressed up for the night, wearing a slender blue dress with a violet shawl, and wore a purple passion flower in her hair. Suddenly Mars felt out of place, not having realized until that moment that she was wearing a white tank top, black pants and boots. Still, she was too tired to care.

  “Quite the little shindig you've thrown together,” said Laura.

  Mars smiled. “Yeah, it turned out pretty great. Thanks for coming out to give lessons – you're really helping make their night.”

  “Of course I'd come help out! They're in a tough spot – I feel bad for them. There's one thing you forgot, though...”

  “Oh, what's that?”

  Laura slapped a dollar bill and a safety pin on the bar. Mars looked at them and scrunched up her face. “What's that for? Your birthday's not for... what... five months...” Then it slowly dawned on her what Laura meant. “Wait! What's the date?”

  Laura raised her hands dramatically in the air. “You're telling me the Aries that goes so far as to call herself Mars and get a giant ram's head tattoo plastered all over her chest, forgets that she's an Aries?”

  “Holy crap! That's why I was asked to be an Agent! I didn't realize it, but it was the city giving me the best birthday present ever!” She looked over at Laura. “I guess you can't be my friend now until you get me a present that's as cool as being an Agent. I'm going to miss you.”

  Laughing, Laura snatched up the dollar and safety pin. “Shut up and let me pin this on you.” She pulled at Mars' tank top and pinned the dollar onto the front of it[26].

  They both turned and gazed over the asphalt dance floor – there were about ten couples dancing, and the musicians were smiling and laughing as they played their instruments and belted out lyrics.

  Laura turned to Mars and motioned for her to get up. “Come on! On your feet, birthday girl!”

  Mars shook her head. “No way. I'm beat, and it's been way too long since I've gone out swing dancing.”

  Laura leaned in closer and put a hand to her ear. “I'm sorry, what did you say? I'm having trouble hearing yo
u over all those excuses.”

  Mars raised her hands in the air. “Hey! In case you hadn't heard, I'm saving the freaking city these days.”

  “Oh, really?” said Laura, feigning surprise. “Well then, by all means, please continue being a pansy. I was just under the impression that saving the city would make you more badass, not less so. But what do I know?”

  Mars scrunched up her face, grabbed two mason jars and slammed them on the bar, then poured a shot of vodka into each one.

  “Oh, is that how it's gonna be?” said Laura.

  Mars pushed one glass toward Laura and raised her own. “Nostrovia,” she said, using the equivalent of cheers in Russian. They knocked their glasses together, tapped them on the bar and then downed the shots. Mars shivered and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, which Laura immediately grabbed and used to pull her to her feet.

  Michael must have seen what was going on from the stage, because the song ended short and he called out to the band, “Orleans Street Beatdown!” He started the song off with the clarinet and the rest of them followed, the rhythm much faster than the songs they'd been playing.

  “Awe, crap,” said Mars as Laura pulled her into a dance. Luckily her body's muscle memory still had swing dancing ingrained into it, and she didn't have to think too much to avoid stepping on Laura's feet or kicking her shins. Laura sent her into a spin and Mars busted out laughing, easily forgetting the aching of her legs and feet.

  She danced more that night than she had in months, though she didn't drink any more in case she was called into action. Laura and her switched off to dance with the others, Mars only leaving the dance floor to make drinks for people. A couple of times, Mars imagined plants growing from of the tops of the dancers' heads and sprouting Wonder, and thought that perhaps there was a Collector or two gathering up the fruit for a night's snack.