by J D Stone
Danna leaned out of the Jeep and said: “Sir, there are bad things in that swamp. Either you trust us and get in or you’re gonna have to pull a spear out of your back.”
The man looked hesitatingly at the Stranger, who nodded affirmatively. He clutched the black garbage bag and moped over to the Jeep. The Stranger ordered him into the front seat, where he was greeted by a smiling Cameron holding up a twelve-gauge shotgun.
“You left your gun in your truck?” Cameron asked with a smirk. “C’mon, dude. How come you’re still alive?”
The man sat there stone-faced as the Stranger climbed into the backseat and stuck his gun into the back of the man’s neck. “Feel that?”
The man nodded slowly.
The Stranger lowered his gun and leaned back in the seat. “Good,” he said, shooting Ben and Danna a quick wink.
Cameron laughed and slapped the man on his shoulder. “C’mon, man, we’re not gonna hurt you. What’s your name?”
“Oswald,” he replied firmly, regaining his composure.
“I’m Cameron; this here’s my brother, Ben; the one-and-only Danna; and this dude forgot his name, so we just call him the ‘Stranger.’”
Oswald turned around to greet them, and he looked past them. “And what do you call them things?” he said, pointing over Ben’s shoulder.
Ben spun around again. Two vagabonds were rushing at them, each armed with two spears. And one of them was the robot that he’d deactivated.
“Hit it, Cam — they’re coming!”
Cameron shifted into first gear and let off the clutch. The Jeep lurched, then it stalled. He looked up sheepishly. “It’s been awhile since I drove a stick!” Putting the Jeep back into neutral, he restarted the truck and gunned it.
“Head for that gravel road,” Oswald exclaimed. “I trust y’all!”
Cameron nodded and elbowed the man. “I think you’re gonna be all right, Ozzy.”
“The name’s Oswald!”
Meanwhile, Ben had taken apart the railgun and pulled a pinch of stringy plant matter out of the capacitors. He rubbed the terminals with a dry rag from his pack, then blew on them to dry them out. As the Jeep got moving, he snapped the gun together. Red light. He grinned as he primed the charger — sixty seconds.
By this time the vagabonds had picked up speed and were gaining on them. Ben looked at the speedometer: 45 mph.
“Faster!”
“This thing’s a dog,” Cameron shouted. “I’m trying!” He passed the shotgun back to Danna. “Here, make yourself useful!”
Danna cocked the shotgun and turned around and rested the barrel on the backseat. She squeezed her left eye shut and sighted on the black-haired vagabond, which was less than ten feet away. She pulled the trigger and — boom! — a lick of flame then the pattering sound of a thousand lead shots hitting solid metal.
The force of the shot tripped up the vagabond, and it lost balance and stumbled to the ground. Getting back up, it began running after them as if nothing had happened.
Ben watched the railgun shift from red to orange to green. The blonde-wigged vagabond picked up speed and was soon within leaping distance.
He raised the railgun to fire, but at that moment a spear whizzed past his head and smashed through the Jeep’s front windshield, but not without grazing Oswald’s shoulder first.
Ben blinked and set his sights on the robot. It wasn’t there. Suddenly there was a smash as the robot landed on the back end of the Jeep.
For a split-second, Ben thought the leering vagabond made eye contact with him, which made it all the more enjoyable for him as he pulled the trigger and watched the robot get plastered with an invisible mass of plasmodic energy.
“I win,” he said triumphantly.
Without a sound, the robot toppled backward and fell into a tangled heap in the middle of the road.
Oswald turned back around to face them. “Nice to meet y’all!” he said enthusiastically. He then winced in pain and clutched his shoulder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Arx
IT WAS MIDDAY now, and the clouds hung low over the land and covered the hills with a pale haze. Ben leaned back, closed his eyes, and took in the wind blowing on his mud-stained face, enjoying the comfort of the ride after so many miles of hiking on foot.
They were on Indian reservation land, and the road passed into a small valley surrounded by low-lying hills. He didn’t care where they were going; he just hoped wherever it was would be as comfortable as this limousine ride.
“Look!” Danna exclaimed, elbowing him.
Ben opened his tired eyes and saw a tall tower looming in the middle of the valley a quarter-of-a-mile ahead. Rubbing his face, he sat up straight and leaned forward. What the—
It wasn’t a tower but an engineering marvel. The entire structure, about one hundred feet high, was a mishmash of mobile home trailers stacked haphazardly on top of each other. Each trailer was a different color — some blue, others white, one yellow — and was connected to the others by a series of winding staircases and metal mesh balconies. And all of it was supported by an intricate system of rusted steel scaffolding and massive hanging wires latched to iron supports in the ground.
Attached to the northern side of the tower were two leaning grain silos and several forest green railroad boxcars. At the top of the tower, hanging from the balcony of the highest trailer, an enormous American flag draped over an entire side of the trailer underneath.
Several mobile homes and RVs were parked at the base of the tower, and the entire compound was surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
As they neared, the Stranger held up his pistol and poked the back of Oswald’s flabby neck as a reminder.
“I know, I know,” the man replied. “Just pay attention here, Cameron. We’re gonna come on in real close so you better slow down.”
“What are you talking about?” Cameron snapped.
“The way in,” Oswald replied, peering and squinting over the dashboard. He held up his hand. “Here, hold up.”
Cameron came to a stop and glared at Oswald.
“Now pull off the road at this rock, nice and steady. Now take a sharp left. Slower! Now you’re gonna come up on this log; drive right up past it and then hang a right and stay straight. Yep, that’s it. Good. Now you can get back on up the road.”
“What was all that for?” Danna asked.
“Minefield,” Ben answered. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead.
Cameron pulled up to the gate. Two armed guards clothed in hunter’s camouflage stormed out of a small trailer twenty feet from the gate and strode over.
“Nice and easy,” the Stranger said quietly in Oswald’s ear. He looked at the other three. “Everybody loaded? Keep an eye out for snipers up above.”
As the men approached, Oswald held up his arms and said in a friendly voice: “It’s all right, boys. Just got ourselves a little misunderstandin’, is all.”
The men stopped just inside the gate and held up their shotguns.
“Oswald’s right,” the Stranger called out. “We came upon his Jeep, thought it was abandoned, got attacked by androids, and we picked him up. We don’t want any trouble.” He paused, then added: “But we’re all armed.”
The men didn’t reply, and one of them looked up at the tower. Ten seconds later, a heavy door swung down from underneath the bottom trailer with a steely clang. A metal ladder slid to the ground, and an elderly man climbed down slowly. As he made his way toward them, Ben saw that he only had one arm.
“What’s going on here?” the old man demanded, coming up to the gate.
He was tall and lean, with a hard face lined with wrinkles of one who has done much and seen much. His eagle eyes were a bright, sharp blue, his nose long and angular, his mustached mouth tight-lipped and grim above a trimmed gray beard. He was bald except for a crowning tuft of white hair that wrapped around his head above his ears He wore a flannel shirt with a dangling sleeve and dirty jean overa
lls.
Oswald repeated what he had told the two men.
After hearing what happened, the old man stood there and stroked his beard. “Where are you folks heading?” he finally asked with authority.
“To the city,” the Stranger replied.
“What in heaven’s name for?”
“We’re delivering aid,” the Stranger said coolly. “That’s all you need to know for now.”
Ben chuckled inside.
The old man scratched his head. “Entire city is a hell-hole,” he mumbled under his breath. “Anyway, my name’s Whittaker — friends call me Whit.” He glanced at the passengers in the Jeep. “Looks like we got ourselves a little situation with you.”
“Indeed. So, what now?” the Stranger asked, shifting from one foot to the other. “Oswald has a wound that needs tending to.”
Whit stroked his beard. “Well, you brought the old dufus back to us, and I see you’ve got kids riding along with you, so I’m gonna take a chance here and welcome you in for the night.”
Ben and Danna rolled their eyes. Kids? Ben wanted to say out loud. We’re holding semi-automatic rifles!
Cameron glanced at the Stranger. “You sure about this?”
The Stranger furrowed his brow; then he nodded. “Yeah. We’ll be okay. They’re good people.”
“We’d appreciate it,” Cameron called out to Whit. “But one condition: we keep our weapons.”
“Oswald?” Whit asked, turning toward him.
“I’ll vouch for them,” Oswald said calmly.
Whit nodded, and the two men swung open the chain gate. Cameron drove in and parked next to a battered light blue ’57 Chevy pickup. He turned off the Jeep, and glancing at the keys, he reluctantly handed them to Oswald. “Thanks for the ride,” he said sheepishly.
Oswald pursed his lips and swallowed. “Sure; anytime.”
At that moment, a tremendous explosion erupted down the road, which sent a tremor through the valley and a high plume of dust in the distance. The four lifted their rifles and assumed firing position.
“What the heck was that, Oswald?” Cameron demanded, calling over his shoulder.
Oswald grinned wryly. “That, my friends, was that other darned robot — stepped on a mine.” He made a wide sweeping motion with his arms toward the tower. “Brothers and sisters, welcome to the Arx.”
As soon as they climbed out of the Jeep, the tower came to life; people moved in and out of trailers and down gangplanks and stairways. Voices of all ages floated out of the windows and from the balconies.
Whit led them to the far side of the tower, and coming underneath a large corrugated metal panel, he tugged on a thin chain. The panel opened, and a ramshackle, grating elevator descended and came to a squeaking halt.
Ben glanced at Danna, and she raised her eyebrows and shrugged.
The four stepped into the elevator, joined by Oswald and Whit, who gave another tug on the chain. With a jerk, they began to move up.
“Who built this?” the Stranger asked.
“We all did,” Whit replied, “but I am — or I was — an engineer, retired ten years before it happened. Took us some time. Plus, we had more people in the beginning.” His voice trailed off.
As the elevator ascended the tower, Ben could hear the sounds of life: knives chopping vegetables, chairs sliding, hammers pounding, people arguing, babies crying. Ben craned his neck. He hadn’t heard a baby cry in ages. In fact, he didn’t even think there were babies anymore.
He shot a darting glance at the others; they were smiling too.
They reached the second-highest level, and the elevator came to a rattling stop. Whit pushed aside the makeshift gate and led them into a large, vinyl-sided trailer. The trailer was one large room, and scattered around it were mismatched furniture, two cots, and a stack of PVC pipes piled neatly in a corner. Though it was musty and smelled of mildew, overall it seemed clean and hospitable.
“Pardon the mess in the corner,” Whit said, putting his hands on his hips. “We just finished installing the bathroom two days ago. You’ll have running water, but there’s no heat, so if you’re planning on taking a shower then know it’ll be a cold one.”
“So, you’re really fine with us staying here?” Cameron asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You barely even know us.”
“Heck, we’ve let worse people pass through our gates,” Whit replied with a laugh. “Truth be told, I can tell by your fearsome looks that you’re good people to have on our side.”
With a bemused smile, Cameron set his pack down. “I can agree with that.”
Whit continued: “We eat dinner down in the mess trailer on the ground; Angelica will ring the bell. So, rest up and we’ll talk more after dinner.”
After Whit had left, everybody was silent. Danna checked out the bathroom, the Stranger began to reorganize his pack, and Cameron sat on a sagging sofa, wiping grime off the muzzle of his M16 rifle. Ben decided to fiddle with the railgun for a bit, but after a while, he grew restless and stepped out onto the balcony.
The sun had come out and burned away the fog. For quite some time he stared out on the narrow valley and the nearby hills, at first appreciating the unique view but then looking for any slight glint of sunlight reflecting off a vagabond.
On the ground below, several people were tending to vegetable garden beds; and he noticed that a large chicken coop stood next to a sheep pen. Pretty sure they don’t let the sheep graze outside the fence, he thought with a smile.
He walked around the corner of the balcony and gazed down. At the foot of the tower, Oswald and a man and a woman were engaged in a heated argument. He leaned closer to try to make out any words. The woman made a wide gesture with her hands and looked up sharply in his direction.
Ben yanked himself back and out of sight. He waited a minute, then ventured another peek. The man and the woman were gone; only Oswald was standing there, looking forlornly down the gravel road.
Two hours later a loud bell clanged for dinner. Inside the mess trailer, about thirty people young and old were eating at two long rows of tables. On the far side was a small kitchen with two large steaming pots, watched by a big-boned woman with golden hair wrapped tightly into a bun.
As soon as they walked in, the room became quiet, then a few murmurings broke out before it fell silent again.
Whit was eating at the far side of the trailer; he wiped his mouth and pushed his chair back to stand. He cleared his throat, and raising his voice, he said: “As y’all know, these are the folks that rescued Oswald this morning.”
Ben glanced at his brother.
“They’ll be staying with us for the night,” Whit continued, “then they’re carrying on their business tomorrow.” He turned to the large woman in the kitchen. “Angelica, fix them each a plate, will ya?”
“All right, c’mon down, folks,” Angelica called out to them in a booming nasally voice. “We’ve got cattail soup and potatoes. Don’t mind these grumpy faces. Some of ‘em like ol’ Bill Fierney thinks y’all cost everyone an extra potato.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, Angelica,” an old man, presumably ol’ Bill, wheezed. “That’s a lie if I ever heard one.”
The quiet chattering resumed. The four guests sat down next to ol’ Bill with hot bowls of Oswald’s cattail soup and listened to the chatter of the latest news and gossip at the Arx. But every time Ben looked up, he saw a dozen eyes staring at him that quickly darted away.
An unusual amount of tension moved throughout the room as if everyone was in on a big secret. He and Danna exchanged glances.
Later that evening, Whit led them up to a small patio on the third level that overlooked the vegetable gardens. Several wicker chairs were placed in a circle, and two kerosene lanterns were hung from shepherd hooks that were drilled into the flooring. The smell of citronella candles was heavy in the air.
Awaiting them was the Arx’s doctor, a British man by the name of Roylott. He was a pleasant-faced fellow, early forties, and short, built
like a rugby player, with a mop of curly red hair and pale skin that pinked at the tips of his nose and ears. He had large, thick-lidded eyes, thin lips, and his cleft jaw jutted out, forming a small knob.
Ben later learned that Roylott was attending a medical conference at a mountain resort when the Surge hit. He spent a month holed up with their other attendees, but soon the meager food supplies ran out, and people started to lose it. Trying to get back to the city, the doctor eventually found his way to the Arx.
Whit sat down in the chair with a pained groan and eased back into the cushions. He took out an old corn cob pipe and lit it. “Running low on tobacco, so I’ve been trying to conserve,” he mumbled with the pipe on his lips. “Figured tonight’s a good night for a puff, though.”
Ben cringed at the smoke, resisting the urge to fan it away. He leaned forward in his chair with his elbow on his knee and his chin resting in his palm. A black and white cat appeared from the shadows and jumped onto Danna’s lap, purring.
“That’s Trixie,” Whit said. “Our resident rodent killer. Although not a good one.” The old man took a couple of puffs from the pipe, then said: “Well, I’m not gonna inquire about your business in the city, but I wanted to give you my final piece.”
“And what’s that?” Cameron asked in a tone that assumed he already knew the answer.
“It’s been a year since it all began,” Whit replied; “and we’ve managed to stay out of trouble. We’ve been taking in people who made it out alive.” He took another deep puff. “One thing’s for sure, though, is that each one of us seen it, in one form or another: the panic, the killings. . . .”
“The very worst of human nature,” the Stranger added.
“More like a monstrous apparition of evil,” Doctor Roylott said gravely. “Retching itself out to participate in the devilry of a world gone mad.”
“Please pardon the good doctor, folks,” Whit said, nodding at Roylott. “He waxes poetic from time to time, especially when he has an audience.”
