A Route of Wares: An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure: Hollow Island Book One

by Daniel Coleman

  Nash just looked back blankly.

  One of John Wayne’s eyebrows shot up. As he started walking he asked, “She is a girl, right? I mean, you do like girls?”

  “Yes, it’s a girl,” countered Nash. “No wait. It’s not a girl. But yes, I like girls. I’m talking about treating people right and stopping bad guys.” That sounded so juvenile so he had to go on. “There’s a lot of bad in this world. I’ve experienced some of it. I’ve seen a lot of it. And I know there’s so much more out there. And if I can be the guy that’s standing up and saying I won’t let someone take advantage of another person because they’re stronger, or richer, or meaner … then I’ll stand up.”

  “Why not do that on the outside?”

  Nash was just a kid from nowhere on the outside. Somehow he’d been picked out of who knew how many applications to be a Ranger and been given power he never would have had out there. Most Jennies had to pay a lot of money and pass the application phase. Being selected as a Ranger was by far the biggest moment of Nash’s life. He just hoped he could settle in to this world and do what he’d always dreamed of.

  “Here I mean something,” Nash said. “Here I can make a difference.”

  They walked in silence for a while then John Wayne put an arm around Nash’s shoulder. “You’ll make me proud someday, son.” In a lower voice he added, “And that speech will shine like gold in the hollows.”

  Nash could see that. Over the years he’d seen enough vignettes about individuals where they showed snippets of dialogue, or replayed part of a speech they’d given. Or even pulled taglines out of a monologue. He assumed they pulled certain lines out, unless people randomly exclaimed one-liners here.

  “Perfect,” muttered Nash. “My tagline will be, ‘I’ll stand up.’ Without context, it’s pretty unimpressive.”

  “It’s not bad, actually,” said John Wayne. “Especially with the whole white hat act you got goin’.”

  It wasn’t an act at all; it was the opposite of that. He wanted to be the guy making a difference, not the guy in front of the eyes looking like he was making a difference. The less attention he could draw to himself, the better. The white hat thing was starting to bug him, but he knew the best way to cement a nickname was to get mad, so he just ignored what John Wayne had said.

  The intersection ahead was familiar, just outside of the immigrant market. There was the mango tree they’d waited under and across from it was Immigration House, a hostel for new immigrants to get settled in for a couple weeks before going out on their own. Since Rangers got dedicated trainers, they weren’t welcome at Immigration House.

  As they entered the intersection, the street they’d followed Chiel on came into view. Nash got a sick feeling in his gut and hoped this didn’t turn into a repeat of yesterday.

  John Wayne walked right past the mango tree—past the delicious-smelling barbecue chicken stand—and into the bustling market. The entire market consisted of two short rows of close-pressed shops. The live feeds Nash had grown up on made the markets look as big as a city block. Not live feeds, actually. Experts of some sort had done some fancy figuring, taking into account the position of the sun. They estimated the live feeds were usually delayed about twenty minutes.

  Fixing his eyes on a point at the far end of the market, he waited three seconds until his display read 182 feet. That was about forty meters. He wondered how long it would take until he stopped thinking in the metric units he’d been using his whole life.

  “Scan people, range objects,” he said, remembering the words of Instructor Goodkind from training.

  The only visible cameras were posted high up at the four corners of the market, but there had to be dozens more spread throughout to cover the intricacies of the market. Hundreds of people crammed into the space, shopkeepers vying for customers and new immigrants anxious to barter.

  The ocean was just there at the far side of the market, close enough to smell the salt and seaweed. A blend of aromas of cooking meat reminded Nash that his body demanded food.

  “I thought you said everything here was overpriced tourist garbage?” said Nash. If he had money he’d buy more food, no matter the price.

  “It is,” said John Wayne. “And since you’re broke as a swayback horse, it’s safe to bring you here.”

  A few of the merchants were familiar from the hollows. Yesterday, when he had just gotten off the boat, they had felt oddly like old friends. Today, he felt like the ones who weren’t busy with customers were watching and judging him.

  As they made their way deeper into the market, the crowd thinned. It had been a couple hours since the morning ferry had disgorged its passengers, and the new arrivals were making their way out of the market by now. The back parts of the market had cleared out first.

  Chiel’s leather goods booth was at the end of this row, one of the first booths immigrants saw when they got off the ferry. Nash didn’t want to see her again, not this soon, and frankly, not ever.

  A few booths shy of Chiel’s, he spotted a vendor he’d wanted to stop at yesterday, which conveniently gave him a perfect excuse. “I’m just going to check this out.” He detoured as John Wayne continued down the row.

  The booth sold an assortment of containers, mostly pottery. Nash picked up a measuring cup and turned it over. The imprint he expected to see on the bottom was there in the center. Mayhew, written so that it read the same upside-down or right-side-up.

  The shopkeeper piped up. “All of our measuring cups are Mayhew certified. One-hundred percent guaranteed accurate.”

  For some reason, holding this hand-crafted cup in his hand and seeing that symbol grounded him again. This was made by a person, not mass-produced by machines. There were no scientific measurements in this medieval-style world, unless you scavenged old measuring cups or glasses from before. Everything on the table was made by a human, according to measurements calibrated right here on Hollow Island, then stamped with the seal of approval.

  Nash smiled, not understanding and not caring why he suddenly felt like he was home.

  “Isn’t that right, Mongoose?” The voice shattered his semblance of wellbeing.

  He looked over to see Chiel cupping her hands around her mouth and calling to him.

  She went on. “He’s going to save us all!”

  The group of people around her laughed at him.

  John Wayne was right there with her, slapping his knee. “He walked up and tapped his shoulder.” His voice went high pitched. “Excuse me, sir. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind putting these handcuffs on?”

  More laughing and pointing. Nash felt about an inch tall.

  Chiel was saying something he couldn’t hear, except for the tail end of it. “… loser and wannabe hero.”

  Nash looked away and gritted his teeth, reminding himself again to not take the bait. It felt more like he’d fallen down a rabbit hole; everything was flipped on its head. He wanted to come in quietly and help people. Instead he was becoming famous for making things worse for people, in front of the whole world for all he knew.

  Any respect he had for John Wayne was gone. Nash could take the correction in private, but what he was doing now was just cruel and immature. His fingers were turning white on the ceramic cup from squeezing it so tight. Rather than crush it, he set it down on the table.

  Turning toward the group, he tried to think of something scathing to say. He stopped after one step.

  What could he possibly gain by making a scene in front of this group of people who instead of making the smallest attempt at appreciating where he was coming from, only wanted to mock him? There was nothing to gain here. Nash didn’t need any of them. Except for John Wayne, and he could confront him in private.

  Nash walked away from them, past the rest of the booths toward the market exit. The smell of grilled chicken caught him again just before leaving and drove stakes of hunger into his stomach. He mentally searched the flatpack on his back for something of value he could trade for food. He
had some ammunition, Holy Barbs antidote, and a change of shirt. The food smelled better than anything he’d ever smelled. Its smoky aroma sang a siren song to his nostrils.

  Briefly, he considered trading his pocket knife, but that felt too shortsighted. They might open a tab for him, but without knowing where money would come from, Nash refused to go deeper in debt than he had at the tavern last night. Those rounds of drinks had been a stupid thing to waste money on.

  If he stood here smelling it any longer, he’d go crazy. He left the market and considered his options. Immigration House fed people for free, but Rangers weren’t welcome there. Until he figured out how to earn some money, Nash needed to stick with John Wayne. It felt like a hundred eyes were on him—cameras and the eyes of the people in the area. The mango tree looked like as good a place as any to kill time.

  With a good view of the market exit, Nash sat down to watch and wait. He sat right on a mango, then pulled it out to look at it. It was half the size of the green and red mangoes he’d seen in New York. Orange and firm, not rotten, skin intact. The ground was littered with mangoes in various states of decay.

  Nash was almost hungry enough to eat manure off the street, what John Wayne had called road apples. He could definitely try some ground fruit. With his pocketknife, he cut into the mango and hit a pit. He carved out a wedge, and gnawed the meat off of the skin. It was sweet as sugar. Juice ran down his chin and he tried to catch it with his fingers, not wanting to waste any of it.

  His stomach clamored for more, but he didn’t know the best way to eat this thing. He shined part of the mango and took a bite, like an apple. The skin was too tough and had a bitter taste so he went back to cutting wedges out and chewing the syrupy orange flesh off the skin. When he had cut all the wedges he could, he was left with a lump of sticky mango with irregular clumps attached to the pit. He shoved the whole thing in his mouth and chewed what was left off the pit, then spat it out by the trunk of the tree.

  More.

  Changing position so that he sat with his legs spread in front of him, he picked up another one and dug in with his knife. The juice ran down his face and dripped to the grass in between his legs. He watched the market exit for John Wayne as he feasted on mango after mango, collecting a sizeable pile of skins and pits.

  People came and went, but no sign of John Wayne. The only one Nash recognized was a new Legionnaire named Gurpreet Flower he’d chatted with on the ferry the day before. The professional rivalry between Rangers and Legionnaires hadn’t mattered to Gurpreet on the ferry. Today, when Nash jumped up, stepped out, and waved, hoping for more conversation, Gurpreet barely gave him a nod.

  By the time John Wayne strolled out of the market, Nash had lost count of the number of mangoes he’d eaten. He was filled, but still hungry, which was probably something he could look forward to every time he took a beating like yesterday and forced his body to kick the healing into high gear.

  John Wayne was looking around the area, searching, but didn’t see Nash in the shade of the huge mango tree.

  Good. John Wayne might not care about Nash, but at least he felt some responsibility for him. After shoving a couple handfuls of mangoes into his flatpack, Nash stepped out into the street. He and John Wayne met in the middle of the large intersection.

  Nash spoke first. “I know it’s boot camp and I have to take my lumps, but that was a hell of a way to treat a trainee and a damn disloyal way to treat a friend.”

  With a smirk on his face, John Wayne sized up Nash. “I don’t even know where to start with you, piker.” He folded his arms. With a disgusted sigh and a shake of his head, he said, “Next time I hear a hell or damn from you, I’m washing your mouth out with soap.”

  “You can try,” said Nash. “I’ll talk how I want.”

  “Don’t get all butthurt,” said John Wayne. “You look like you’re twelve, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You should have left those words on the ferry. Try maggot pie. Even better, pigsquirmy if you really wanna make some ears burn. Don’t tell me they’re censoring the hollows now.”

  Nash had heard all varieties of swear words on the hollows, but he’d heard the traditional, outside ones too. “I don’t give a damn about that right now. Let’s talk about something important.”

  “Ooh, tough guy,” said John Wayne. “Big mouth don’t make a big man.”

  Nash knew people in the streets were watching them, and he didn’t care. He needed to settle this at some point.

  “Now,” said John Wayne, “you’re gonna learn the lessons I teach or you’re gonna learn somewhere else.”

  “Fine,” snapped Nash. “Let’s talk about my language, but then we’re coming back to the real issue.”

  “If you say so, tough guy. Have you heard the words we use here or not?”

  “I’ve heard the words,” said Nash. “They just feel unnatural.”

  “And what does feel natural? Your mechanical eye?” John Wayne looked around and settled on the barbeque chicken stand in the market. “That Ware paying way too much for a pincho?” He indicated a stocky, hairy man handing coins to the vendor in exchange for barbecued chicken on a stick.

  At the sight of the Ware, Nash’s hand went automatically to his gun, and John Wayne laughed. “Settle down, piker. Even if it was a whole route of Wares, no one cares.”

  Nash blushed, feeling stupid for reacting. His nerves were ready to snap. He kept one eye on the Ware, who crossed the aisle to a jewelry stand.

  Route, he thought, then remembered that was what they called a pack here.

  “Route of Wares,” muttered Nash, pointing at the stalls. “That should be the name of the market. A route … of wares.”

  One side of John Wayne’s mouth quirked up. “You’re funny, kid, but we ain’t cracking jokes right now. Now, swearing like an outsider is the easiest way to mark yourself as a newie, or worse, a nostalgic. Lemme hear some good cussin’.”

  Nash hated performing on demand. Back when he started mixed martial arts people would say, “Show me some MMA.” It was something he did, not something he performed. But he and John Wayne needed to move past this, and he was angry enough to not have to fake it when he said, “Fig you, you swiving pig milker.” He did the hand gesture.

  John Wayne chuckled. “Better, I guess. You got the fig down, but you still sound like a ten-year old using daddy’s words.”

  Nash made what he hoped was a bored face and stayed silent.

  The Ware had turned from the shop, and was walking away as the merchant shouted, “You have to pay for that!”

  Rising up and facing the merchant, the Ware growled, and the merchant cringed back. With a rough laugh, the Ware stomped out of the market gates, holding a thick, silver chain link piece of jewelry.

  “Hey,” said Nash, pointing at the shoplifting Ware. “That Ware just stole—”

  “I don’t care,” said John Wayne uncrossing his arms and poking Nash hard in the chest. “We’re going to talk about your hurt feelings you self-important, whining little girl.”

  “We can’t just let him walk away.”

  John Wayne was on tip-toes, leaning toward Nash. “Are you in charge now? Do you decide what we do? I’ll give you a hint. No. I do. And I say we talk. Now.”

  “Want to talk?” snapped Nash, furious that he couldn’t even stop a crime in progress. “Let’s talk about bringing me to the market just to mock me in front of your friends.” Nash poked him back.

  John Wayne’s eyebrows shot up and he looked down at the indentation on his red shirt. “They kill cowpokes for less than that where I come from.”

  “In China?” demanded Nash. “They kill cowpokes for that in China?”

  His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits and he said quietly, “You’re blabbing secrets that aren’t yours to tell, son, and next time you do it, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”

  Goodkind had told them in training, “Save a secret, save a life,” and Nash felt a little bad about blabbing it. He simply said, “
I shouldn’t have said that, but—”

  “Next time you poke me, partner, I swear on my name you’re gonna lose another finger.”

  Nash did not feel bad about that. The Ware was long gone now, and the shopkeeper was eyeballing the two apathetic Rangers. “I’m willing to do what I have to for this job, even if it means sleeping on the floor. But I’m not the stuff you scrape off the bottom of your boot at the end of the day, so stop treating me like that.”

  John Wayne studied him again. Nash didn’t break eye contact. The world went on around them for at least a minute with people walking past, others shouting to be heard in the market, and the warm Caribbean sun bringing up a sheen of sweat on Nash’s brow.

  Eventually his trainer said, “So you do have some guts after all. I’ll give you some credit for that. But you gotta learn who to stand up to, and here’s another hint—it ain’t me. I’ve said this one time more than I should already, and this is the last time you’ll hear it. Go crosswise of me and you’ll feel like a ton a brick fell on ya.”

  That was something. It only took twenty-four hours but he had finally eked out an ounce of respect. Now if he could just last thirteen days without going crosswise of John Wayne.

  Nash gave a small nod, and they broke the stare down. When John Wayne’s eyes slipped away, they focused on something over Nash’s shoulder.

  “I can’t believe that winnit on a rat’s anus came back,” he muttered as if to no one, then beelined toward the wooden fence of the market. “Ready for your first lesson?”

  Nash had to hustle to catch up. “Yeah.” He was pretty sure that wasn’t the first time his trainer had said that.

  “A Ranger’s reputation is everything. And it starts at the bottom. If you let one piece of garbage street trash stand up to you, you’re done. When you push someone down, they better stay down or it’ll bite you in the butt.”

  They were headed toward a man in dirty clothes sitting in the shade of the fence. As they got closer, Nash noticed that slobber was mixed with dirt around his mouth, caking his scruffy beard with mud. The man’s head hung against his chest, but his hand was outstretched toward the street waiting for coins.