Where are they, where are they? Ran thought, desperately trying to get a target, his cross hair scanning the roof of the building frantically.
“Drop your freaking weapons before I put one between your eyes!” the voice screamed again.
Ran continued to scan the roof top with his rifle, watching Nordica crouch-walk towards the front door of the building. If this had been a trap and there were Knights waiting, then they would already be dead. Whoever was on the roof was not part of the CRK.
“We’re looking for our squad.” Ran shouted back. “We aren’t here to harm you.”
“Like hell you’re not; you’re on my property!” the voice shouted again.
“We’re here to meet with the rest of the TDU!” Ran shot back quickly.
“I don’t know of any TDU!” the man screamed again. “You have ten seconds to tell me what you’re doing on my property before I start shooting. And five seconds are already gone!”
Ran looked back at Nordica, his rifle shaking, unsure what to do.
“We’re part of the TDU!” Ran repeated. “You must know of the TDU?” Ran asked, as he began to realize they may have stumbled upon a lonely straggler.
“Like hell I do!” he shouted back.
“Listen, I’m going to put my rifle down, and so will my friends, and we can talk this out. I promise we aren’t here to harm you or steal from you. We were supposed to…” Ran paused, deciding it wouldn’t be safe to tell the entire truth.
“We’re just looking for a place to rest and then we’ll be on our way.”
Ran caught Nordica staring at him and shaking her head.
Silence crept across the compound. Ran knew if Nordica had the chance, she would take the straggler out. With all the killing in the past week, Ran didn’t want to see anyone else die.
“Can we rest here for the night? We have some food and supplies we can trade with you.”
Ran stood completely still, his arms burning from holding his rifle pointed at the roof top. “See, I’m dropping my weapon. And my friends will too,” he said, as he slowly knelt and placed his rifle at his feet. He turned and motioned Tsui to as well.
Ran waited, his eyes darting back from Nordica to the roof. Well, this is it, he thought silently, desperately wishing he could tell his arrogant friend how much he actually cared about her.
“Stay where you are. I’m coming out,” the voice shouted back again.
Ran took a deep breath and motioned Nordica over to him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Nordica asked.
“I think we’ve stumbled across a straggler, not a trap set by the Tin Cans. If they were here, we would already be dead.”
“Where are the others, then?” Nordica snarled back.
Ran frowned. “I think we’re it.”
For a split second, Ran caught a glimpse of sadness in Nordica’s demeanor. It was a rare moment and was interrupted as the front door to the building swung open.
The two soldiers turned to watch an older man walk out into the wind, shielding his eyes from the dust and ash. He wore a tattered old flannel shirt tucked into a pair of denim jeans. It was something neither of them had seen in years. He gripped a shotgun in his right hand, with the barrel pointing at the ground. His face was thinly bearded, with specks of white hair clinging to his wind burnt cheeks. He wore a green cap with an image of a yellow tractor.
“I’m sorry; I don’t get many visitors out here. In fact, I haven’t gotten any in about a year now.”
Nordica and Ran looked at one another, realizing what they had feared was true. They were all that was left of the TDU.
The man propped his shotgun against the concrete wall of the building. “I’m the only one here,” he responded. “Looks like you three will be the first visitors to join me for a meal, in…” the man paused. “Well, in about four years. Since my wife died,” he said, looking down at the dirt.
“Four visitors,” Juliana yelled, approaching the building with her hands in the air. Nordica and Ran turned, while the man picked up his shotgun again.
“It’s okay, sir, she’s with us,” Nordica said calmly.
The man lowered his weapon and approached his new guests, offering his hand to Nordica, who was closest.
“The name’s John,” he said, shaking each of their hands one by one.
“Like I said, it’s been a few years since I saw anyone out here. In fact, the last person I saw I had to shoot because he tried to steal my stash of food. Y’all aren’t going to try and steal my food, are you?” he asked, raising his brow suspiciously.
Juliana looked at the man. “No sir, we’re not here to steal your food.”
The man chuckled, dropping his expression. “I’m just messing with you.”
The four TDU soldiers looked at one another quizzically. They weren’t sure whether to laugh or turn and run.
“Yeah I used to get that reaction a lot. I changed my name to my grandfather’s once I moved out here. I haven’t known anyone named John for a long time, so I thought it would be a good change.”
Ran laughed. “I knew a John a long time ago. He was deported because the Justice Committee thought he was an immigrant.”
“Well, I suppose I should invite you in for dinner,” John said, motioning his guests towards the door.
The four soldiers followed him cautiously into the building. The inside was a single dwelling with two beds against the north wall, a kitchen table against the east wall, and a couch in the center of the room. There was also a bathroom and supply pantry, both in horrid shape, but nonetheless appearing to be in working order.
Nordica followed the others into the house, resting her bag on the worn carpet. In the corner of the room she saw a door slightly ajar, hidden by darkness. She assumed it was one of two entrances to the silo, but decided to find out more information later, after John had gained their trust.
* * *
Dinner was a large plate of spaghetti and canned spam rolled up into meatballs. A bright candle burned in the middle of the wooden table, illuminating the home cooked meal in front of them.
“I raided the best of my supplies to make this meal. I hope y’all like it,” John said with a grin. He didn’t hesitate before attacking his food with a fork, shoveling it into his mouth.
Juliana smiled in pleasure after her first bite. “Wow. You’re almost as good as cook as the one we used to have at our headquarters.”
“I don’t know about that, but these meatballs are better than I’ve had in a long time,” Nordica chimed in.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Ran said, plopping another meatball into his mouth.
“Thanks. It’s been…” John paused and looked down at his plate. “It’s been awhile since I cooked for anyone. So I was worried how this meal would turn out.” He shook his head, changing the subject. “So I don’t mean to pry into your business, but what happened to your headquarters?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.
Ran looked up from his meatball before plopping it in to his mouth. He figured if John invited them in for dinner he wouldn’t be that upset when he found out his home was a rendezvous point for a rebel group in the middle of a war.
“It was discovered and destroyed. We barely escaped,” Ran replied. “I’m sure you’re aware of the wall surrounding Tisaia not twenty miles from here.”
John nodded.
“We’re in the middle of a war with the State, and last week the Council of Royal Knights destroyed our headquarters and killed most of our friends.”
John dropped his fork onto his plate and brought a handkerchief to his mouth, wiping spaghetti sauce from his white beard.
“You all are fighting the CRK?”
“Yeah, so you have heard of it?” Nordica asked.
“Of course I have, I moved out here to escape Tisaia fifteen years ago when things started to change radically.”
“Holy shit, we got lucky meeting you. We were ordered to rendezvous at the Silo,” Ran added.
&n
bsp; John wiped his lips once again with the handkerchief.
“Silo?” he asked.
“Tsui, why don’t you fill John in on what we’re talking about?”
Tsui nodded, placing his fork and spoon down softly on the table. The massive Asian man scooted his chair back from the table so he could cross his legs.
“Our intelligence said that in the year 1965, the United States Army built a nuclear missile silo under this building. The silo was decommissioned in the early 1990s, when the Cold War with the Soviet Union ended. The United States put the silo up for sale to private citizens, but it never sold, and according to our records, it has remained idle ever since.”
“One of our recon teams came across this location a few years back,” Nordica said.
“This place was idle. Idle until I got here,” John said, laughing. “Hell, I had no idea there was a silo under here. Which brings me to my next question, where is the damn entrance?”
“You mean there isn’t an entrance in this building?” Ran asked politely.
“If there was an entrance don’t you think I’d know about it?” John shot back, somewhat annoyed with Ran’s question.
“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry,” Ran replied.
“After you’re all done, I suggest we get some shuteye. In the morning we can start combing the area for some sort of an entrance,” John said, sipping ale from an old wooden glass.
Time: 7:08 p.m. February 22, 2071.
Location: Rira’s Pub. Rohania, Tisaia
The most successful establishments in Rohania were bars. Most Rohanians made very little money, scraping together a living by bartering and selling what they could. At night the pubs collected most of the credits earned by these hardworking people during the day.
Nathar and Creo sat in a dimly lit booth in the back of Rira’s Pub. It was an irritatingly loud joint, and made up for the solitude the two soldiers had grown accustomed to the past couple days.
Picking the pub was an easy decision. Not only was the owner a long time sympathizer of the TDU, he also had several exits in the back.
The two sat comfortably in their newly purchased pea coats hoping they would blend in with the crowd, watching patrons come and go; some drunk were, others were nearing the point.
Rira was a small man in his late 50’s with a booming voice. Those that knew him never double crossed him. He was one of the most honest black market dealers in Rohania, honest as black market dealers came. And he expected his clients to show him the same courtesy. When they skipped a payment or failed to hold up their side of a bargain, he would send his henchman, Lupai, after them.
When Lupai wasn’t breaking people’s kneecaps for Rira, he was selling small arms to anyone with the credits to buy them. The TDU had used him for years and he had shown fierce loyalty to Obi, which is why Creo trusted him.
Tonight Creo wasn’t going to be discussing weapons—tonight his mission was to procure soldiers. And something inside him told him Lupai was the right man for the job.
A thick layer of smoke hovered over the bar, prompting a deep cough from Nathar. He pretended not to care, but Creo knew the man better. It wasn’t often the young soldier voiced his opinion, but one of the things he hated most were watering holes just like Rira’s and the filth that patronized them.
Creo understood. His friend had asthma and smoke inflamed his lungs and he was still recovering from a bad cold he had developed.
The Spaniard did not, however, share Nathar’s hatred of bars. He was used to the people and enjoyed the potent, thick smell of cigarette smoke. He grew up in places just like Rira’s, and felt a strange sense of nostalgia while waiting for the arms dealer.
It was a half-hour before Lupai entered the building, with two equally large men who appeared to be bodyguards. Their eyes gave them away, darting from booth to booth, scanning the shadows for danger.
At first glance Lupai looked like any other Rohanian resident. His facial hair was thick and his mop of dark brown hair hung down to his shoulders. He wore a thick pea coat and pair of worn trousers. What set him aside from the average citizen wasn’t his appearance, it was his wit and charm.
Most Rohanians never received a diploma, and those who didn’t drop out of school to work by the age of 14 didn’t receive much of an education. The schools were old and, like everything else in Rohania, in severe need of routine and major maintenance. They were understaffed and most of the curriculum was developed by the teachers. If a teacher wanted to spend the day talking about the last time they got drunk, there was nothing to stop them.
Creo recalled hearing that Lupai received a formal education in Lunia. His wit, combined with his rough appearance, allowed him to evade the Knights, who had hunted him for years.
Creo and Nathar scooted over in their booth, making room for Lupai and his bodyguards. They approached slyly, eyeing the two TDU soldiers through their sunglasses.
Lupai brushed his long brown hair out of his face and sat down across from Creo and Nathar, cracking a grin full of pearly white teeth. He nodded at his two guards and they disappeared into the dark smoke of the pub, hiding in the corners and waiting to be beckoned again.
“So, I hear you two have had a tough week,” he said, smirking and pulling a half-spent pack of cigarettes from the bowels of his trench coat. “The Tin Cans finally caught up to you?”
“It was only a matter of time,” Creo responded.
Lupai paused, scratching a match against the wood table and lighting his cigarette. He took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke into the air, watching it disappear in the cloud above their booth.
He laid the burning cigarette down on the table and folded his hands. A look of seriousness washed over his face, his smile disappearing in the dim light.
“You have my sympathies, but this is a dangerous time. So let’s get to the details quickly, shall we? How about you two tell me what you need and I’ll tell you what I can provide.”
“We need new recruits, at least half a dozen of them, and…” Creo said, hesitating.
“And we need some explosives,” Nathar piped in.
The brightness in Lupai’s eyes seemed to grow with every pass of the loosely dangling light above their booth.
“We need double the explosives we bought from you last time,” Nathar continued.
“Ah.” Lupai said, sitting back in the booth and folding his arms, his eyes studying the two soldiers across from him.
He took a deep breath and leaned back towards the table. “Your request comes at a bad time,” he whispered, turning to see if anyone was listening.
“Fear runs rampant in Rohania right now. Those who have sympathized with your cause in the past have lost hope. The CRK has been advertising the attack last week everywhere. They say the TDU is gone, eradicated…” he paused again.
“I don’t know if I can come through with this many men. And the explosives, I can’t sell them to you if I don’t know what they’re going to be used for,” he finished.
Creo got up from his seat, Nathar quickly following him. “You know we can’t tell you what they’re for, which is why Obi trusted you in the past. If you can’t meet this request, then we’ll find someone else,” Creo said.
“Times have changed, gentlemen. That stunt you all pulled in the trolley station a couple of weeks ago. It killed a lot of innocent people. I don’t like it when my weapons kill innocent people, but I’m sure we can work something out,” he said, revealing his pearly white teeth again and motioning the two soldiers back into their seats.
“I suppose my policy can be bypassed, if, say, you assure me collateral damage will be kept at a minimum and…” Lupai paused again, his grin getting wider. “If the price is right. Do you get my drift?”
Creo and Nathar nodded in agreement, settling back into the booth.
Lupai smiled again. “I can spare four men right now. That is it. I’m sorry, but until the TDU reemerges with another attack to give this area hope, men will be in short
supply.”
“Four will work,” Creo said reluctantly.
Lupia offered his hand across the table. “We have a deal then. Your men and supplies will be waiting for you at this address,” he said, handing Creo a small slip of paper.
“If you need anything else, you know where to find me,” he said, scooting out of the booth and disappearing back into the crowd.
Nathar and Creo both took another swig of their ale. “Let’s get back to the junkyard. This freaking place gives me the creeps,” Nathar said.
Creo caught one last glimpse of Lupai before he followed Nathar out the closest exit. This guy better be as good as Obi says he is, he thought, heading into the dark bowels of the alleyway.
Time: 7:35 p.m. February 23, 2071.
Location: Immigrant Camp #4. Rohania, Tisaia
Mulia jumped off the back of an old pickup before the guard riding in the bed could push him onto the dirt street below. A squad of Knights marched by him, their armor clanking noisily. It was a sound he had learned to accept, one as common as the morning alarm.
He paused to glance up at the familiar sight of immigrant camp #4. It was dusk, and the search lights on the guard towers rising far above him were already brighter than the moon hovering above them. There was never a moment of true darkness in the camp. Never a reprieve for the exhausted immigrants, rounded up like livestock and forced to live in tents, before being deported back into the Wastelands.
The camp was surrounded by monstrous electric fences and backed up to the great walls. There was no escaping. Anyone that tried ended up dead.
The only way into camp was a 20 foot tall metal gate. It screeched open three times a day. Once in the morning for immigrants lucky enough to have a job; again at three in the afternoon, for any newly rounded up immigrants, and then at dusk, when the immigrants returned from their jobs.
Mulia ran his hand through his greasy, thinning hair, waiting for the gate to open. He watched a pair of Knights striding in unison towards him like a robotic centipede, their armor clanking as they walked.
“Move it,” said one of the Knights.
Mulia jumped out of the way, dropping his hands to his sides and his gaze to the ground. Eye contact with the guards wasn’t forbidden, but for the past four years in captivity Mulia had never looked a Knight in the eye. He knew his role and accepted it. It was this mentality that helped him form a mutual relationship of convenience with nearly every guard in the camp. He did this by showing them respect and following their every command. It wasn’t that he lacked a conscience or respect for himself, he simply wanted to survive. And so far he had done exactly that.
The Biomass Revolution ttc-1 Page 19
