by T. K. Malone
“So he must have come in from the outside, which means survivors,” Switch pointed out, wiping his brow on his sleeve. “Wherever he came from, he’s gone to hell now.”
“You got religion, Switch?” Noodle asked.
“Prayed for a lot of things in correctional, mostly things not to happen to me. Gotta pray to someone, but don’t have to believe in them.”
“That don’t make the slightest bit of sense, Switch,” Billy protested.
Switch swept his arm around. “And this does?”
Billy nodded. “Underground tube made out of whitewall? True that.”
“Ain’t no whitewall,” Zac said. “Some kind of resin, a bit spongy if anything.”
“Weird,” Noodle said. “Say, we must be able to open that casket now. Must be safe in here.”
Zac shot Laura a look. She held her hands up. “Can’t see any reason why not. Very least, it might give us a clue what to do next.”
The casket sat in between them like an ominous challenge. They all looked at it but no one moved. Thoughts tumbled through Zac’s mind. He remembered back to his escape from the city, to when he wondered if Charm wasn’t cleaning shop—trying to kill him and Billy. He wondered if it was some kind of trick, a booby trap, but only briefly. If there was any kind of double-dealing, it would come after the task was complete. He took his oxygen tank and rad-suit off, tying the top like Laura had hers, then knelt in front of the casket.
It was warm and getting warmer. Sweat seeped into his already damp hair, dripping onto the floor, forming a patch on his T-shirt. He placed his thumbs by the casket’s two catches, hesitated, wiped his hands on his legs, and started again.
The small click was sharp in the silence, distinct, and he was sure he saw Noodle wince, as if he was expecting an explosion. Zac pushed the lid up. Inside, it was full of what looked like cotton batting. He tugged at it, a sheet about an inch thick coming away in his hand. Discarding it, he saw what resembled a small personal information pad. “Here,” he said, passing it to Laura. “Probably another set of instructions.”
Another layer of the white packing peeled away, exposing a silver case about twelve inches by ten. He gripped it either side and pulled it out.
“What the hell’s he up to this time?” Zac muttered, and handed it to Billy. “Stick it on the shelf. Let’s see what else we got.”
He removed another layer of packing, his hand freezing in place at what it revealed.
“What is it, boss?” Noodle asked, a little tentatively.
“A gun,” Zac whispered, and he pulled it out, cracking open its chamber. “One bullet.”
“That’s fucked up,” Noodle muttered.
“That’s Charm.” Zac turned to Laura. “What have we got there?”
“It’s a personal handheld. Just one video on it, by the look of it.”
“Well, let’s have a look.” Zac put the gun on the shelf with the silver case and closed the casket’s lid, slumping down on it. Laura sat next to him. She pressed the play button on the handheld and Charm’s face came in and out of focus, then leaned into the screen and back out as he settled and cleared his throat.
“There, that’s better. Zac!” he exclaimed. “At least I hope it’s Zac, assume it’s Zac. Difficult to know from here, what is now the past… Does that make sense? Never mind.” He paused, leaned a little closer and said: “Zac, I guess you’re a little bemused. If you’re watching this, then a number of things have happened. Hopefully, you’re in my little tube; looks a bit like the inside of a pill, doesn’t it? And hopefully you have a few companions with you. Now, you have some tricky decisions to make quite soon, but a little of that later.
“Anyway, if you’ve gotten this far, Zac, you’ve exceeded my expectations and quite possibly saved Connor in the process—and let’s not forget, that’s been your goal for ten years, longer if you count the unfortunate incidents with your father, who, by the way, is just plain awful at chess.
“To the favor I asked of you. It’s quite simple, really, ridiculously so. Inside the case is essentially a large fuse—I know, archaic, isn’t it? that something so ancient in design can still play a role. This particular fuse is particularly advanced, though. Now, I know I’ve glossed over a few things that might have happened, most notably the small matter of a nuclear strike or two, three, four, however many came our way, and skirted around the fact that I never executed your father, but it’s the future we’re concerned with here, Zac; the future.
“Now, a couple of points, then we’ll get to the crux of this whole situation. Laura Meyers should have somehow teamed up with you; not exactly sure how. Hi, Laura.”
Charm leaned into the monitor, waving. Zac saw Laura raise her hand and then pull it back down. She shot him an embarrassed look. Charm continued.
“If she hasn’t, well, firstly: I’d be surprised you made it this far. And if so, then secondly: you need to go fetch her. She’s the antisocial one in Christmas, usually out back of the bar. In many ways like you, Zac, so I’m sure you will have met.”
“Son of a…” Zac muttered, but Charm carried on roughshod over him.
“In order to understand exactly what’s going on you need to seek out her grandfather and father. Laura will know where to find them. Tell them this: you’ve delivered the Nevada Mead. That’s all. Now, to the fuse.” and Charm cleared his throat. “This is all about choices, and I apologize. The casket itself was merely to protect this little pad. The small case is radiation proof, although by now the radiation should be tolerable—although fatal in the medium term, but tolerable for the fuse.
“At the end of this tube are two doors, or more specifically: one door and one air lock. The door leads to the interceptor chamber, and Zac, you know the way out from there. One hour tops and your home free. The air lock leads to the fuse, or more accurately: a service duct that leads to the fuse holder, and herein lies the problem. It’s air locked because it’s a so-called clean duct and operates under pressure to keep it all spick-and-span. The problem is one of residual energy. The EMP would have knocked out the grid, and with it a very important link I will need. That’s why I had the fuse removed. I need the link backup, so the fuse needs to be put back. It’s a one-way ticket, Zac. There isn’t going to be enough energy in the air lock mechanism or air in the tanks to come back.
“That’s why I included a gun in the casket. I’m sure my colleague outside will have shown you its merits. Remember, Zac: Laura’s grandfather.”
The screen went blank. Zac smacked the floor. “Shit,” he said. “No way is anyone doing that. He picked up the gun. “The sick bastard,” and he looked at Laura, but she was looking down the tube.
“Switch,” she cried.
Billy looked around, Noodle too, and Zac stood up. “Switch,” he shouted, “stop right there.”
Switch briefly looked around, the silver case in his hand, and Zac lurched after him.
“Switch, stop,” Zac cried, barging past Billy. “There’ll be another way,” but Switch was already nearing the end of the tube, and in a flash, he’d pressed a button on the wall beside the air lock and had disappeared through. Zac got there just as the door was sealing shut, the button flicking from green to red. He looked through a small glass window in the lock, and there was Switch, staring back at him.
“Ain’t no good, Zac,” his muffled voice shouted. “Can’t be you; can’t be her, and I’m sick of living. I can’t be under your old man’s thumb no more.” He smiled. “Perfect out for me. Shit, I get to be a hero.”
Zac banged on the door. “No, Switch,” but the man just grinned, then reached behind and pressed another button. “Switch!” An inner door slid open, but Switch checked himself, stroked his skin, then looked at his hand for a moment before grabbing the silver case. “I gotta go,” he shouted, and backed into a small, grey corridor. Then his face dropped. “Zac? That thing I wanted to tell you: it’s about Teah—” but the door slid back across and he’d gone.
“The gun,�
�� Zac barked, hammering on the door. “You haven’t got the fucking gun!” and then Billy was beside him, pulling him away, then Noodle and Laura. The red light on the button flickered and faded, a click sounding out as a fail-safe lock snapped into place. Zac slumped down with his back to the air lock, slowly banging the back of his head against it.
After a few moments, he slammed his fists against the floor and growled, then pushed himself up, past Laura, and stomped back down the tube. Laura had left the pad by his helmet. He tossed it on the floor and brought his foot down hard upon it, then froze for a moment before slumping down on one of the shelves, his head in his hands as he muttered “Charm” over and over.
The others joined him but said nothing; what could they say? Then Zac looked up at them all. “Let’s get out of here.” Sweeping his helmet up, he stood. “Suit back up,” and they all silently nodded and got on with it.
Switch: what the hell had his father done to him? The man had literally run to his death. Black thoughts circled in Zac’s mind, his eyes constantly darting to the air lock, seeing Switch’s face in his mind, and the man had tried to tell him something: something about Teah.
When he again looked at the others, he caught how dour their mood had become, tainted by the ever-meddling Charm. Laura squeezed his arm, made to say something but then refrained. They finished suiting up and he watched her check each of them over. Did she know more? And was she here purely by Charm’s design?
“Ready?” he eventually muttered, and was met by muted nods.
When he came to walk through the exit door, Zac hesitated, one last look at the air lock next to it, then he carried on, finding himself in the chamber where Connor had had his accident—the very same. Looking around, he saw Billy shut the door behind them, the thing vanishing into its perfect camouflage of concrete-colored paint, complete with scuffs, stains, marks and all.
The round chamber had a pool of black water filling its base, a circular path around it. On the other side, they took a branch off, on a route Zac was now sure of, these well-trodden paths having long served his smuggling.
He now felt detached, drained of emotion, but out of his quagmire of confusion came a speck of determination, one which steadily focused his mind, focused it on his brother, Connor. No matter what, he now knew he had to focus on him, for his mother’s sake, and hers alone.
And Teah: what secret had Switch taken with him? What about her had been left unsaid? No, he thought, he had to put that to the back of his mind. Connor was his concern now. That was all. And somewhere along the way, his mind cleared and bent toward his goal. Not a new one by any stretch of the imagination, but a clearer and much more focused one, one where all else faded other than Connor’s face. He remembered that face, the last day they’d been together, across the counter of his bar, back in Black City.
With ten minutes of their air remaining, they finally left the tunnels and hurried over the scorched wastelands, quickly retracing their steps back to the truck. He looked up at Loser, sitting in the cab, and nodded, then jumped on the back with the others, his feet dangling over the edge of the tailgate. When the air ran out, he tossed the helmet off and kept his eyes down, all the way back to the hotel.
Like the undead, they traipsed into the hotel, up the stairs and out onto the terrace. Nathan Grimes was sitting there at a table, drinking and laughing with his cronies—with Zac’s cronies, his father’s cronies. Zac stepped forward and stood before them as they fell silent, still in his orange rad-suit, with its black splashes of mud and charcoal, then he took out a smoke and lit it, all the while eyeing Nathan Grimes.
“Switch is dead,” he finally said, flatly. “Dead by design, and you can tell my old man that Josiah Charm is responsible. Tell him he died well, died for us, died in place of us. You can tell him that, and tell him I’m no longer a member of his club.”
“You’re resigning from Christmas?” Nathan asked, shifting nervously in his seat.
“I’ve been away too long. It’s not a club I want to be in.”
“Resigning? Going orphan?”
“Going citizen,”
“Citizen? What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You can’t just up and leave; not because of one setback.”
“Switch? A setback? A pawn used by my father to liaise with you? Hell, he jumped at the chance of dying, jumped at it, Nathan, because he knew, he understood, that he’d be better off dead than in a club run by you and my father.”
Grimes stood up, half smiling, half grimacing. “You might want to sleep on it—”
“You might wanna shut your mouth. I said you should be leader, should keep the gavel, when we were around our table just the other day. But you never told me the truth, did you? Never mentioned my old man, the way you’d sold out Switch to the feds, just so he could be forced to liaise for you. Never told me any of that, did you? No, but you see: that wouldn’t have happened in my old club. That could only have happened in a club run by a psycho, a psycho everyone seems prepared to forgive because there are worse out there.” He stepped nearer the table and put his filthy boot on it. “Not me, though. You can’t justify his murders, not just because someone else murders more.”
“So you’re going citizen? What the fuck’s citizen?”
Zac smiled, stepped back from the table and took off his rad-suit. “It’s a motorcycle club, Nathan, nothing more, nothing less.” Tossing the suit aside, he pulled a pack of smokes from his jeans pocket. “Just a motorcycle club, and in the morning, I’m going to ride off into the mountains and forget all about Christmas, all about the correctional, and just ride.”
Billy threw Zac his boots, and Zac sat and put them on.
“Way I see it, Nathan, you can carry on being my old man’s lackey till he gets bored with you. Then you might wanna start worrying about his past. You can carry on terrorizing the folks up in Christmas, until one day one of ‘em snaps, and that’s always something you never see coming. You can make yourself the biggest and baddest in the valley, until the army comes, or the preppers, and all your folk get buggered before your body’s cold. I’ve had the conversations, Nathan; there are no winners.”
“So you’re quitting?”
“I’m walking away.” Billy threw him his jacket, and Zac put it on. “It’s a new world, Nathan, or it can be. It can be a free world, not The Free World with the black and gold banner. A new one, Nathan, one to be a part of.”
Zac turned and walked over to Billy.
“What about you, Billy Flynn?”
“Citizen,” shouted Billy, then he turned and pulled his collar up.
“Noodle?” shouted Grimes.
Noodle glanced at Zac. “Citizen.”
“Loser?” and now Grimes’ voice was weaker, faltering a little. Zac walked out through the door.
“Aye, citizen,” Loser shouted and followed Zac.
Laura came into step beside Zac. “Are we going?”
“Went a bit further south than I thought it would.”
“You just quit your club?”
“Meh, hadn’t been fully involved for a long time.”
“Where we off to, boss?” asked Noodle.
“We’ll hole up at the warehouse, just along the freeway.”
“When am I going to get one of them fancy jackets?”
Billy grunted. “All in good time, Noodle. Laura, you ride up with Loser in the truck.”
They stopped at the hotel’s entrance.
“Can’t I ride one of those?” she said, pointing to the line of bikes.
“Sure,” he said.
“Say, boss?” Noodle said, getting on his bike.
“Noodle?” and Zac jumped on his own.
“She gonna be in our new club?”
Zac shrugged. “It’s a free world, Noodle. A good old free world.”
19
Teah’s Story
Strike time: plus 5 days
Location: The Trail To Sendro Verde
“Well,” Jake said, “you look mighty
pissed off for someone who’s achieved so much in such a short space of time.”
Teah glared at him through the bars of her cell. “You set me up,” she spat, her knuckles white, fingers curled around the iron bars, her face pressed against them.
Jake’s lopsided grin told her he was fine with that, and he dragged a stool up. He looked like a gunslinger of old: cowboy hat, long coat like Lester’s and a belt of bullets peeking through. Sitting down, he pushed his hat back and fumbled for a smoke, lighting one and tossing it to her before grabbing one for himself. “You’re pissed at me?” he said, surprise etched on his ugly face. “Why? Look…” and he looked around, “you’re alive, you’re in the prepper’s compound, exactly like you wanted.”
Taking a lungful of smoke, Teah tried to stop herself from screaming. “You lied to me. You said Clay was safe. You said you wanted to kill Briscoe. You said I’d be betrayed.”
“And?” he asked, pushing his hat up, as though confused. “Where’s the lie? Clay isn’t dead—as far as I know. True, his situation is not dissimilar to your own, but heck, there ain’t a vast amount of hotels and motels out here. Ned was army, he could have double-crossed you—we’ll never know now. That we're one mighty shot from Spike, though. And who says I don’t want to kill Briscoe?” He took a drag on his smoke, holding Teah’s stare with his own. “You’ve gotta start thinking harder. What would you have gained by just joining the preppers? A hoe and a plough? A shovel and some seed? Nope, it all turned out just fine for you.”
“Riddles, fucking riddles.” Her back ached from the solid wooden bench she’d slept on, and she was fairly sure she stank—certainly felt filthy, and her brain was mushed with worry for Clay. Teah was sure she’d been played by these bastards, sure they’d used Clay, too. Pushing herself away from the bars, she slumped on the floor, back to the concrete wall, and took another lug on her smoke. “A shovel and some seed, eh? I’m gonna snap your scrawny neck when I get out of here.”
