When I pat the last bit of frozen soil down, I kneel and close my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing Carina’s metal chain between my fingers.
Then I rise up and walk inside, where I find Evelyn hard at work, hacking apart a chair.
“Needed it for the fireplace,” she says. “And then I figured…”
I walk around the table, so that her work isn’t clouded in shadow.
It’s a cross, small and slightly asymmetrical.
“Neither of us care, but she thought God was looking out for her.” Evelyn shrugs. “Guess she was wrong, but still.”
“She would’ve liked that.”
Before the ground freezes again, I walk back out and push the cross into the soil.
I don’t believe it, but I say, “Maybe death is a better fate.”
Then I head back to the house and shut the door.
Because, for some reason, I still want to figure out how to stay alive.
20 | Borders
It’s funny how quickly the human body adjusts. When morning comes, my thick clothes are stuck to my skin from sweat. The stove’s glowing embers are almost dead, but I still want to strip everything off. It can’t be more than zero degrees.
Evelyn is still asleep, huddled in one of the few chairs we didn’t sacrifice to the fire.
Careful not to wake her, I sneak past into the house’s foyer. The stairs leading to the second floor have rotted away from decades of abandonment. Whatever secrets remain up there, I won’t ever find them.
I look past the stairwell, towards the kitchen. Dawn light filters in through the streaked windows. Before the kitchen, there’s a door leading to a cellar. We briefly entertained the idea of exploring it last night, but going too far from the fire was a non-starter for us both.
I push the door open, the hinges creaking. White paint flicks off and crumbles when I touch the surface. I take the steep stairs one at a time, cautiously putting about half my weight on each to test the structural integrity. They groan and protest, but I manage to make it down with breaking an ankle.
Thin slivers of light cut through a dirty window in the corner. The floor is unfinished concrete, stained by dirt. A washing machine and dryer sit idly, rust gnawing at their edges. Nothing moves, and I get the impression that I’m the first living creature to set foot down here in years.
Methodically, I work my way around the basement. The pantry shelves are bare, nothing but empty bottles and barren sacks of grain. Behind the washer I find a rusted shotgun. It’s probably no good, but I take it anyway.
A scream cuts through the morning tranquility. Clutching the flaking metal firearm tight in my hands, I pound up the stairs—caution be damned—and race towards the living room.
“You bitch. Nice girls don’t bite.”
“I’m not a nice girl.”
A dirty, feral looking man has his hands gripped around Evelyn’s throat. She’s kicking and gasping, but he’s got a wiry sort of quickness that allows him to get out of the way.
He looks at me, and the shotgun, and then lets go.
“All right, all right,” he says. “Don’t shoot me in my own home.”
“This isn’t your home,” I say. I don’t raise the shotgun. He must know it’s useless from its appearance. But I think he’s decided that two of us is too much to handle.
At least for now.
A patchy beard graces his face. With the wisps of hair and sheer volume of dirt caking his skin, it’s impossible to tell what he actually looks like. White eyes stare out at me, as if from behind holes in a curtain.
He gives an easy laugh. “All right, all right. Martin saw the house and wanted to take a little look.”
His clothes are threadbare—holey jeans, boots with the soles coming off. A jacket that’s not fit for a chilly fall day, let alone the temperatures here.
“You with Blackstone?” I step forward, brandishing the shotgun like a club. It might not fire any bullets, but it’s still a heavy chunk of metal.
“Who the hell’s Blackstone? Man, Martin don’t know any Blackstone.” His eyes are nervous, now. I’m more of a wildcard than he predicted. Evelyn rubs her throat and spits out a little blood.
“You okay?” I say.
“Better before this smelly bastard was around,” Evelyn says.
“No need for name calling, bitch,” the man says.
I catch him in the jaw with the shotgun stock, and he crumbles to one knee. “If you’re with Blackstone, or Slick, or Daniels, or any of them—”
“I don’t know anything, man,” he says. “Fucking hell, I saw smoke, came in to see if I could steal some food. Your girl came outta the corner and tried to hit Martin with a damn chair leg.”
I glance over, beneath the table. There’s a splintered piece of lumber sitting at an odd angle. Evelyn shrugs, still massaging her neck.
“Why didn’t you call me up,” I say.
“Thought I could handle one piece of shit,” she says.
“Again, with the names, bitch.” I raise up to hit him with the shotgun again, but he waves his hands. “All right, all right. I’ll change my ways. Martin knows how to survive.”
“Who’s Martin?” I say. “Where’s Martin?” The thought of two crack-heads scurrying around does not have me excited.
“Me,” he says, getting to his feet somewhat unsteadily. “Martin von Amsterdam the 6th. Got a little king’s blood on my momma’s side, way back.”
Martin’s lying, but he gets points for spinning an amusing yarn. “Okay, Martin. Why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t leave you tied up for the wolves?”
Panic bursts across his face. “I, uh, I—well, you can’t kill Martin.” His yellow teeth flash an uneasy smile. “Martin can be pretty helpful, if you know what you’re looking for.”
I walk slowly across the room to help Evelyn up. Low, so Martin can’t hear, I say, “Get packed.”
“What are you gonna do with him?”
“Just get packed,” I say, keeping my eyes on Martin. He’s watching us with intense curiosity. Can’t blame him. His life depends on whatever I decide.
“You know who he is, right?” Evelyn says, her lips close to my ear.
I give Martin an unfriendly smile, then shake my head. “She’s not pleased about your entrance.”
“She tried to kill Martin, though,” he says, wringing his hands together. Blackened swirls are visible around his cuticles. Tough to tell whether it’s just grime, or indicative of a larger problem. He’s got the waifish constitution of someone who hasn’t been eating much.
“He used to be in that pop-rock band,” Evelyn says, low. “Ran off the road, high on coke. Killed the lead singer of his band in the crash. They deported him, when the Frozen Wastes were still Canada.”
Martin’s sunken, unblinking eyes yearn to hear our conversation. He’s so fucked up that the poor bastard probably thinks he can do it through sheer force of will.
“Any good,” I say, in a low voice.
“What?”
“His band?”
“The Rhinoceros Pioneers,” Evelyn says. “They had that song, “Need You, Love You, Can’t Have You,” which was decent.”
I nod—not that this trivia changes the current situation. I wink at Evelyn, indicating that she should get packing.
Then I say, “You need to apologize to my friend.”
“Martin is so sorry,” he says, dropping to his knees, his voice taking on a pathetic whine. “I’m so sorry.” He crawls on the floor towards me boots and places his head on the leather, rubbing it like a loyal pet. “Please don’t kill me.”
He looks up at me with the most pathetic hang-dog look. The pupils are pinned as hell, which is when I realize that Martin has no idea that this gun doesn’t work. He’s barely here. Shame he got deported before HIVE was a thing. This guy is living the analog HIVE existence. That has way more side effects, judging from his appearance.
Somewhere, Ramses barks. I ignore the halluci
nation, gripping the rusted shotgun tight.
“You said you can be helpful.”
“I can’t be helpful,” Martin says. “But Martin can be helpful.”
I don’t have time for his rock-god alternate ego thing.
“If Martin doesn’t cut the bullshit, he’s gonna be left for the wolves, okay?” Evelyn slips past through the hallway door. A frigid burst of wind streams into the room, making me shiver. Martin barely seems to notice, but then, he’s already shaking like a leaf in a storm.
“Yeah, um, sorry man,” he says, with this far out kind of vibe, “it’s just that, if I think about it too much, my head hurts, you know?”
“Think about what?”
“My life,” Martin says with a sad look. Then he pukes on my boots. I kick him in the ribs and shake off my feet.
“Aw shit, come on.”
“Martin’s sorry,” he says between groans. He holds his stomach. “Morphine, man, just a little taste.”
“You don’t get shit.” I’m not going down this road again. One assisted suicide is enough for one month. I step over his body and head towards the door.
“Wait,” Martin says. “I know this place.”
“A junkie rock musician and an outdoorsman,” I say, pausing in the doorway. I stare at an off-skew portrait of the owner of this house. She has a severe look, no make-up, a constipated expression across her lips. Definitely wouldn’t approve of her current boarders. “You’re a regular fucking renaissance man.”
“Hey, just cause your piece of ass tried to beat Martin’s ass and he defended himself—”
I wheel around. He sloshes into his vomit, moving at what, for him, must be the speed of light.
“You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” I say. “You know that?”
He breaks down into sobs. “You can’t leave me. That’s the same thing.”
“You made it here. You’ll make it out.”
“Man, Martin’s been wandering for days,” he says between sniffles. “I did my last bump when I saw this place. This is the end of the road.”
“Better use those outdoor skills.”
“They’ll get me,” Martin says. “Don’t leave.”
I stare at this wasted wreck of a man, remembering Sid’s cryptic words about another faction. Then again, if these are the only two sources I have, that doesn’t exactly constitute irrefutable evidence.
“I might have a couple meds in the truck,” I say. “Maybe.”
“I tried to steal it,” Martin says. “I won’t lie. But I can’t hotwire shit.”
“Let’s focus on who’s trying to get you.”
“They don’t care about Martin,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s about the world, man.”
“Who.” As much as I want to continue this conversation well into the afternoon, we need to get on the road. If the soldier Jana tortured was telling the truth, a scout party is already looking for the Gifted Minds Research Institute. When they find it, it’s much game over.
“They’re settin’ up in the South,” Martin says. “All over the world.”
“Forget it,” I say. He’s clearly talking gibberish. The rest of the world was wiped out in the floods over twenty years ago. No one’s heard anything from the other continents since the North American Circle formed in 2026. Hard to communicate when you’re drowning in the rising tides.
I walk over and kneel beneath the table. Pick up the busted piece of furniture. Martin cowers like an abused dog, but I just walk past and toss it in the stove. The dying embers hiss and spark, before greedily beginning to devour the new fuel.
“Have fun by yourself,” I say. “We see you again, we’ll shoot you on sight.”
“The Oceanic Coalition,” he whispers. “They’re coming for everyone. They’re already in the Gray Desert.”
I pause before I shut the door to the wood stove. “How do you know about the Gray Desert?”
“Martin knows about lots of things,” he says, scrambling to his feet. “He can be useful.” I wince as he stumbles closer, the pungent aroma of puke, piss and rancid sweat mixing with the scent of wood smoke.
“Just, uh, just wait over there.”
“But Martin can tell you—”
“Martin can tell me from where he’s standing,” I say, covering my mouth to stifle a gag. The front porch creaks, but I don’t take my eyes off the decrepit rock star. Evelyn enters the room.
“We’re all ready to go.”
“Martin told me something interesting about the rest of the world,” I say. “Maybe Sid wasn’t lying about another faction.”
“He’s been doing hard drugs since he was fifteen, Luke,” Evelyn says. “His brain is toast.”
“Martin takes objection to that diagnosis,” he says. Then, with a smile, channeling some long-lost charisma, “But you can play nurse with me any time.”
“I’ll pass.”
“You know I wrote that song,” Martin says. “I could see it in your eyes.” He does this weak kind of rock ‘n roll pelvic thrust that, once upon a time, probably worked real good. Here, in a frozen and abandoned house at the fringes of a ruined world, it’s about as useful as a dog capable of standing on its hind legs.
“Focus, man,” I say, snapping my fingers. His eyes trace back over the room slowly, finally settling on me. “The Oceanic Coalition.”
“They’ve got a coupla outposts up here,” Martin says. “They’re planning an assault from all sides.”
“How do you know this?”
“Most people like Martin a lot more,” he says. “They talk to him. Give him food.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” I say.
“We need to move out,” Evelyn says, tapping an invisible watch on her wrist. “Over a thousand miles to go.”
Martin practically leaps at me before I’m able to react. Tugging at me coat, he says, “You’ll need Martin to make it across the Frozen Wastes.”
“I don’t think anyone’s needed Martin for a long time, now.”
“I can trade,” Martin says. “I know things about the Oshies.”
“Clever name.”
“Martin can’t take credit for it.”
“How magnanimous of him.” I shoot Evelyn a look. This guy’s craziness could be viral. I’m starting to think I’m talking to two different men, instead of one schizophrenic disaster.
The fire pops and crackles. There’s a long silence, then Martin says, in a surprisingly even and sane tone, “I can help you survive. I looked in your truck and you don’t have enough fuel to make it a thousand miles.”
I raise an eyebrow at Evelyn. “Your call.”
“He’s right,” she says, and then brings her hand to her throat. “On the other hand…”
I grimace and sigh. This is what it’s come to. If the Remnants were the lowest rung of ally, Martin, king of his own imaginary paradise, has to be in the basement below the ladder.
“Trial run, man,” I say. He looks about ready to hug me. “One condition, though.”
“Anything, Martin will do anything.”
I bet he will.
And that’s what I’m afraid of.
21 | Barter
After we heat up some water and clean Martin up—like hell we’re going to give him new clothes smelling like this—we get on the road. He’s not pleased about the conditional nature of travelling with us, something he makes us well aware of by banging on the truck bed.
“He might freeze,” Evelyn says.
“We gave him enough blankets. He keeps his head down and wrapped tight, he’ll be all right.”
“There.” Evelyn points at a ring of smoke in the distance. I slow down, the truck’s tires slipping a little bit on the icy highway. I weave around an abandoned car and peer through the cracked windshield.
“We got a backup plan, this thing goes south?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Great,” I say. “This time, you’ll die and I’ll be all alone with this fuck.”
S
he shoots me a withering glance, but says nothing. I realize I stepped in it, a little too late.
“I wasn’t saying it was your fault—”
“But you kinda just did.”
“I’m just tired. You know what I meant.”
“I do,” Evelyn says, and closes her eyes. With all the cracks and breaks in the windows, wind streams in past our canvas patches. Her blonde hair flows about her face, shielding it from view. I open my mouth, then decide to let the matter alone.
Up ahead, the highway narrows into a single lane. That’s because whoever’s established this fine settlement has organized the cars in such a way that I’m forced into the left lane. The arrangement makes me nervous, so I stop before the point of no return.
I leave the truck idling and step out. I grab the rifle for show, even though I have no bullets. I walk around to the bed and rap my fingers on the tailgate.
“Martin.” There’s no answer in the frozen silence. Maybe I did kill him. “Martin.”
“I was having the nicest dream, man,” Martin says. “It was from our London show, the last one we did in 2024. These two chicks, man, one of them was eating my—”
I punch the truck, denting the metal. It has the intended effect. Gets him to shut up.
“Come out for a second.”
“Can Martin ride in the front?”
“No, Martin can’t ride in the front until he proves himself,” I say. “Remember?”
He whines sullenly, unbefitting of a man over forty. “All these rules.” But he emerges from the canvas, his stringy hair plastered to his pale lips. Hard to determine whether he looks worse than when I last saw him.
Cold therapy does wonders for some people. Or so I’ve heard.
He peeks out over the front of the truck, holding his arms out like he’s teetering on a balance beam.
“This is it,” Martin says, nodding with intense vigor. “They’ve traded with Martin before.”
“What’d they give him—you?” I roll my eyes slightly and remind myself not to get sucked in to the craziness. Luckily, my own hallucinations don’t feel the need to chime in. The sooner I’m rid of Ramses, the better. Solve your own issues before helping others, right? Or just solve your own issues because they’re the only ones you really give a crap about.
Ruins of the Fall (The Remants Trilogy #2) Page 12
