by T. K. Malone
It made sense, except the wind hadn’t changed and these folk had died, anyway. Zac wondered if Christmas had survived. He also wondered whether Grimes had been looking out for his own ass, as well as his. More to the point, had he and Billy just been a convenient excuse? Zac looked at the man; he appeared to be deep in thought, too.
“What do you think, Billy?”
“I think that someone who knew that our base was up here came a-looking for us, and I think we were mighty lucky we had a switch of venue. And I’m not usually that lucky.”
“I’m thinking that, too,” Zac said.
“And I’m wondering whether we’ve got any brothers left in Christmas,” said Spritzer.
11
Zac’s Story
Strike time: plus 2 days
Location: Sendro Verde
They came across the first one ten miles from Christmas, face down, half in, half out of the road’s storm runoff: a male body dressed in an orange jumpsuit with the words “Black City Correctional” written across his back. Loser skidded to a halt, tapping on the steering wheel nervously while Billy Flynn kicked the body over. The man’s face was covered in scrapes, the front of his suit torn.
“A banger, no doubt about it. Thrown from a truck or something. One shot to the back of the head. Execution, I’d say,” but Zac’s mind was racing, and so he’d hardly heard a word. Black City Correctional, the liberal name for a hellhole. It was the very first and the very last place he should have forgotten about.
“Shit,” he muttered, and fished for a smoke. “Now, that’s an army we haven’t accounted for.”
Billy rounded the truck and leaned on Zac’s door. “Dare I ask if the old man’s still alive?”
“Mine?” Zac managed a rueful smile. “No, that psycho must have been ghosted long ago. What we have here, I’d imagine, is a bunch of lags running around the countryside, wondering what the fuck has gone down. Add to that some score settling, and you have what we have, mayhem. Spritzer!” he called.
Spritzer ran up to the truck’s cab. “What’s up, Zac?”
“Any of ours in there at the minute?”
“Black City? Only Switch, I think. Recently, anyway, he got caught outside one of the tunnels and was hauled off, but by a bunch of feds not stiffs, so we couldn’t get to them.”
“Feds? Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Charm’s jurisdiction doesn’t run to the feds, so we didn’t bother you. Grimes was reaching out to them from the inside, making sure he’d be comfortable while we worked out what to do next.”
“Shit,” Zac again said. Billy punched the truck’s side.
“You know what this means,” he muttered.
“Yep. Loser, you know the way to the lockup?”
“Never had the pleasure, but I’ve spied it on my way to Christmas. They’re going to be armed, disorganized, no doubt drunk, and looking for fun. What are you thinking?” but he had the look of a man who knew perfectly well, but just didn’t like it.
“I’m thinking we need to take a look. This one obviously got away early but had a falling out.”
“Like I said,” Loser muttered, “high and crazy; a lethal cocktail. Guess the power went off and the EMP blast took out the backup.”
“A few thousand in there, I heard,” said Noodle. “Mostly code violations and ninety percent gridders—well, half-gridders—bit like you, Zac. Bastard gridders; that what they call you all?”
“I actually prefer carnie to that, but there ain’t none of those left, either.”
“You can call anything anything, you can build your utopia, and guess what, you still get the same percentage of nutters living in it,” Noodle went on to say, his voice tapering off in direct relation to the intensity of Zac’s bemused stare.
“You done?” Zac eventually said.
Noodle looked at his boots. “Doesn’t mean it runs in the family. I mean, just because your father was The Drone Slayer, doesn’t…” He looked up.
“You done?” Zac again asked.
“I’m done.”
“Guess what, Noodle.”
Noodle took a deep breath; sweat had christened his brow.
“What, boss?”
“You get to lead.”
Back in the truck, Zac looked on as Noodle pulled away, Billy Flynn tight to him. Some shadows don’t fade in the sun, and his father’s legacy was the blackest of them all. The Drone Slayer, that’s what the gridders had nicknamed him, though it wasn’t quite accurate. Cornelius Clay had terrorized Black City for months, his modus operandi being quite unique, quite the show, if that could be the word for a serial killer’s art. If suspending his victims from a drone in a very public place wasn’t bad enough, adding in sun cells and booby traps so they couldn’t be removed for an age had been the icing on a very terrifying cake.
“How many?” Loser asked.
“How many what?”
“The old man, how many did he end up killing?”
It was a question that had no definitive answer, because Cornelius Clay had never divulged the extent of his crimes, but he had been put in the picture for more than the nine drone victims. “Nine confirmed, but everything points to many more. The stiff in charge…damn, what was his name? Lester something, that was it. He told us the drone killings were just the tip of the iceberg; that they were his cry to be caught.”
But Zac did remember, he remembered Lester Avery Savage like the man was tattooed onto his retina, because he’d met him on more than that one occasion. Loser flicked him a look which said, “Whatever, man”, and not for the first time that day, Zac wondered how much he really knew.
“What about you?” Zac asked. “What’s your story? Seeing as my life is fast becoming an open book, how about we all enter this impromptu group therapy?”
Loser laughed, banging hard on the steering wheel. “Me? Man, my past is dull, dull, dull. No dead women strapped to drones, no manhunts, no refuge in the city. Nope, I’m just from up the coast, had a few too many one night, told a few too many home truths, and had to hit the road. There ain’t nothing to me but beer, bikes and broads. Probably best.”
“Best?”
Loser winked at Zac. “One celebrity family in any club is enough. Heck, if times were different, we might even be able to get some sponsoring—a bit of advertising.”
Zac laughed, “Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, something like ‘Sun cells, suspending women over The Free World Fountain for months’.” He reached for a smoke, sliding the roll across the dash. “Give me time, I’ll think of more.”
“Nah, don’t stress it, you won’t top that,” Zac muttered, and grabbed one.
What had he been? Sixteen? Seventeen? and ripped from his life because his old man was a sick SOB. Christmas, the whole town, had shunned them back then, like they’d got the plague. Front door splashed with red paint, “Murderer” daubed on their fence. The rumor that spread was that the family must have known, must have been involved. How could a bootlegger from Christmas be responsible for all those killings without help? It was a question Zac had asked himself, and one Lester Savage had put forward on more than one occasion, but one thing the stiffs had all failed to realize was the extent of the organization which smuggled goods into Black City, and how much power Cornelius Clay actually wielded. Zac knew Lester had grasped it in the end. Too late for him, but he’d grasped it.
And things had soon calmed in Christmas. The hatred for the gridders had slowly turned Cornelius from a pariah into a folk hero. Something that was only enhanced when the money had started to flow into the place once more.
They were through the trees now and up into a higher part of the valley. Called Sendro Verde, the river here was wide and looked still and placid, glinting white in the morning sun. Just up from here, the now broad valley split in two, one part headed up to Christmas, the other the prison, along with some of the most stunning scenery in the whole region. Farmland made up most of the valley floor, roads cutting th
rough it alongside the river. It looked peaceful, Zac thought, it looked like nothing had happened, but looks could lie, he knew that all too well. Loser reached behind and brought out an automatic and rested it in between them. Next, he pulled out a handgun, checked the magazine and popped it in the door pocket. Another automatic followed, then a shotgun.
“Expecting trouble?” Zac asked, but Loser didn’t reply, just kept reaching in the back.
Noodle slowed down. He unslung his own automatic and checked its magazine, Billy following suit. Spritzer rolled alongside. “Should I ride with Billy?” he asked.
“Trouble is gonna come from that direction,” Zac reckoned, and so Spritzer rolled on.
Noodle pulled forward, and they moved into the valley.
The first farm showed no signs of life. Zac assumed they were either dead or hiding. At least the livestock was still standing. That was one good sign.
“Maybe the helo didn’t get this far up,” Loser wondered.
“Prisoners being freed, slaughtering, I can understand that, but the helo? No, man, we’re not catching something there. There’s no way the army was dusting the populace, that’s just false flag nonsense.”
“How do you explain the pipe? The dead livestock?”
“I dunno. If I did, it’d be pretty incredible. Thing is, we don’t know everything that was happening at the time. What if it had been killing the livestock just in case it was…I dunno, radioactive? There’s more than one army out here; could have been the federalli just doing their thing.”
Loser shrugged. “True that; could have been a lot of things. Could have been them trying to cull the opposition on the sly. Could have been that, too.”
Noodle had the wind in his curly black hair; Billy and Spritzer were side by side and behind, forming a small arrowhead, the truck the shaft. As they approached a small town which straddled the river, fifteen-odd dwellings on one side, much the same the other, Noodle pointed.
Someone was waving a white flag out of a ground floor window. Zac pointed toward it as Noodle looked around. He nodded and turned up a gravel path leading to the house, kicking up dust as he went.
It was a square box of a building, flat roofed, white-washed walls, part-fixed trellising hanging off in places, a skinny vine just budding in the sun. The yard was a mishmash of old farm machines, like something out of a horror story, all blades and sharp-angled metal. Over the rumble of their little convoy, Zac thought he heard a dog bark.
“Pull over there,” he said to Loser, and pointed to a mound of old sand splattered with tufts of grass at the start of the path, a shovel still embedded in it beside an upturned metal wheelbarrow which glinted in the sun. The truck came to a halt. “First sign of trouble we can’t handle: reverse around in front.”
“You want me to stick here?” Loser asked.
“That’s exactly what I want.”
Zac jumped out of the truck, automatic in hand, and stretched his legs. Only the idling of the truck’s engine broke the stillness of the valley—the dog now quiet. Noodle, Billy and Spritzer had stopped outside the house, waiting for Zac. He motioned for them to stay on their bikes and walked up to the door, tapping on it with the barrel of his gun. Hurried whispers came from inside, then the click of a lock and an old man poked his head around the slowly opening door. He had a lengthy white beard, drips of a tan-colored substance appearing to come from the corners of his mouth. His hair was drawn back tight against the sides of his head, leaving a bald dome on top, and his thickset eyes darted around suspiciously.
“You with the boys up in Christmas?”
“Sure are,” Zac replied, resting his gun’s barrel on his shoulder.
The old man nodded. “Eh, then,” he muttered, “turn around so I can see your colors.”
Zac inclined his head. “Really, you’re giving me orders? Seems to me that I got more men than you.”
“Eh? But you ain’t got Martha, and she’s a deadly shot.”
“Martha?”
“You-hoo,” came a voice from above, and Zac saw the twin barrels of a shotgun pointing down at him from the rooftop.
“Eh?” said the old man. “Like I said: you haven’t got Martha.”
Zac held his hands up, gun and all, and noticed Billy and Noodle tense. “Easy boys,” he quietly told them. “No need for no firefight with me in the middle.”
“Citizen, eh?” the old man said. “What kind of colors are they?”
“Christmas’s own Black City offshoot.”
“I like it,” then he called up, “Martha?”
“Yes, Gerald?”
“You like the colors, eh?”
“I like the big mushroom cloud. Hey, you, big fella?”
“Ma’am?” said Billy Flynn.
“You the Flynn boy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The nozzle of Martha’s gun withdrew. “They’re no harm, Gerald. I’ll put the kettle on the stove.”
“Guess you can come on in, then. Eh?” said Gerald, and pulled the door all the way open before shuffling off down a narrow hallway. “Tell your boy in the truck to keep his eyes peeled,” he hollered over his shoulder. “Convicts on the loose, army on the loose, scavengers on the loose. I’m a-telling you, would have been easier to deal with a horde of groaning zombies, eh? Damn human race, can’t even do a good job on their own annihilation.”
Zac forced his grin away before it could bloom fully on his lips. “Will do, Gerald.”
“You want tea, or something with a bit more kick?”
A creak from above made Zac stop in his tracks. Behind him, Billy Flynn’s frame had obscured all the light coming in through the door from the yard. Noodle, just behind Zac, brought his gun up.
“I wouldn’t do that, young man,” said Martha. “I still got my safety off, but y’all still got your boots on. Gerald? You forget to tell them to take their boots off?”
“Eh?”
“Boots off?” said Noodle. “Now, I don’t take my boots off just to come in—”
“Just to come in where, young man?” Martha leveled at him, an ominous click coming from her gun.
“Boots off,” Noodle muttered before setting his gun down and bending to the task.
“You too, Billy Flynn,” Martha said. “I knew yer mum, and I know she taught you better.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Billy, his voice, Zac noted, more than a little bemused. Zac set his own gun down and bent over. He glanced at Noodle; the fool’s shoulders were shaking. Even under the aim of Martha’s cocked gun he was laughing.
“Man, my feet stink,” he murmured.
Billy Flynn sneezed out a laugh. Zac shook his head. Spritzer turned in the doorway and disappeared, howls of laughter resounding from outside. Martha frowned.
“Seems your boys aren’t housetrained,” she said, her words directed at Zac, and she climbed down the rest of the stairs, barging past them. “And yes, young man, your feet do stink, like the bowels of a dead pig.” There was a thump from outside as Spritzer collapsed. Noodle blushed but managed a wink at Zac, who cursed under his breath, but in truth he was glad to be back among them.
They spilled into the kitchen, hovering by the doorway as though the floor was a minefield. “You might want to go on out back,” Gerald said, looking up from the stove. “There ain’t enough room fer one of you in here, mind four. Say, that fella out front: want a cup?”
Zac edged around a table in the middle of the little kitchen. “No, he’ll be cool,” and went on outside.
The backyard was scruffy and mostly given over to a chicken run, a tethered goat and a lazy, old dog that was lying on a deck. A couple of old, wooden deck chairs faced the morning sun, parted by a small, round iron table. Billy Flynn dropped down by the dog, his attention welcomed with a small measure of interest. Noodle wandered up to the goat, and Spritzer sat on the edge of the deck. The old man came out with a tray of teas, bade Zac to sit on one of the deck chairs, and sat down himself.
“Martha wants to k
eep an eye out. She doesn’t trust that man of yours outside. So, what brings you folks up the valley?”
“Traveling from the coast. Was in the city up until last knockings.”
“Black City? I guessed it was all gone; mighty big bang—even up here.”
“You stay low? Cellar?”
“My age; if I got down there, I doubt I’d get back up again. No, we weathered it out. Both agreed: if we came down all nauseous or itchy—I heard tell that was a symptom—well, we were just going to…” He looked down at his gun. “We wouldn’t have suffered for long.” He leaned toward Zac, regarding him from the corner of his eye. “Say, you wouldn’t have a smoke on you? Martha won’t let me, thinks it’ll kill me.”
Billy fiddled in his jacket, pulled out a smoke and threw it toward the old man.
“Martha was from Christmas, long time ago. Got your measure…Billy was it? Eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Billy.
“You’re all good boys. How’s the tea? No, strike that, eh? What do you need to know?”
“Need to know?” Zac asked.
“Well, you wouldn’t have come in if you didn’t need to know something. Eh? Now, would you? It’s okay, son, I know. We ain’t got nothing to rob, and Martha’s past her prime for you to be after her affection, so I’m guessing you need information. Eh? Am I right?”
Zac lit his own smoke. “Guess you’re right.”
Gerald again leaned forward. “So, what do you want to know…”
“Zac.”
“What do you want to know, Zac?”
Zac shrugged, “Well, why not just tell me what’s been happening around town? You’ve got your guns out ready, and you waved that flag for a reason.”
“What do you think’s happened up here? Eh? Where d’ya want me to start? Two days in and so far a bunch of the Black City’s less favorable residents have descended on the valley—most of the idiots headed back toward the place, though, probably resembling boiled tuna about now. Some tried to enjoy the pleasures of this little place and died fairly quick, but I hear tell that most are still in the prison, no doubt under some form of chaotic command.”
