After The Apocalypse (Book 6): Resolution

by Hately, Warren

  “You can wait outside,” he told them.

  The Kansas farm boys nodded and left. They were remarkably short on words, which the Council man also appreciated. Amsterdam asked too many damned questions anyway, so maybe his exit was just as well.

  “Where are we going?”

  Sandler grunted the question before Wilhelm even greeted Locke like the genial host he pretended to be, though the Brotherhood man’s voice pitched somewhat high as always. Hard to ignore. Wilhelm did it anyway, favoring the newcomer instead with a smile he hoped was welcoming without looking too much a fool. Despite his expensive suit, Finnegan Locke – apparently known to others as Fagin now – looked every bit the predator. He stepped into the meeting room with athletic grace, handsome with the silver flecking his beard matched in the fabric of his suit and not at all detracted by the gruesome scar cutting a trail through the stubble from his mouth to his neck.

  They shook hands.

  “Good of you to come,” Wilhelm said.

  “I didn’t expect an invitation.”

  Locke looked towards the three shabbily-dressed men each hunched around the table, and for an odd moment, Wilhelm thought the newcomer might explode in violence. The Councilor’s cock hardened. He fought his grin, motioning towards the table instead as he sat again, adjusted his black combat pants, and rested his elbow on the table turning his discomforted grimace on the others.

  “I thought it was time we met,” the Councilor said to the late arrival. “You came at a good time. These men are here, like you, to consider an offer from the City.”

  “From the City, or from you?” Locke asked.

  Wilhelm sighed as he mimed depression.

  “The truth is, it could be said I am the City right now,” he said. “After the chaos wrought by Madeline Plume, the Fury attack on the Council, and the difficulty we have had reigning in the chaos since then. . . .”

  He motioned open-handedly, and turned the gesture towards his three Brotherhood guests.

  “Sandler, Zardoz, and Mr Romano and I were just discussing an extension of the City’s security arrangements, and the need for loyal men.”

  “That sure makes me wonder what the hell I’m doing here then,” Locke said. He didn’t looked fazed by it – more like a shark, awaiting the meal he knew would come.

  “I think you have a part to play, Mr Locke.”

  Sandler sensed the pause in the conversation and mistook it as his cue to assert some kind of dominance. He nudged a belligerent chin towards the newcomer, unaware what little threat was in it.

  “You’re the dude with all those kids,” he said.

  Surprisingly, Locke favored Sandler with an engaging smile, though it was a little too American Psycho for Wilhelm’s taste.

  “They call me Fagin,” Locke said. “You’d be surprised the places kids can go, us adults can’t.”

  “Exactly why I wanted you here, Mr Locke,” Wilhelm said to interrupt any other reply. “I hope you will excuse me that I resist calling you ‘Fagin’. It is a little derivative, right?”

  Locke shrugged. “Not many kids left reading Dickens.”

  Wilhelm nodded, and dropped his hands flat on the table and opened his palms because he read an article online once saying it was a trustworthiness cue inherited from mankind’s primate ancestors. Locke merely sniffed in his direction as the Councilor spoke.

  “The Brotherhood has agreed to support the City’s efforts to maintain order in any way possible, and I am making the same offer to you, Mr Locke.”

  “It’s an offer, is it?” the suited man said. “It sounds like a request.”

  Wilhelm smiled as if Locke said exactly what was scripted for him in this encounter he’d planned.

  “Certainly, it is a mutual agreement,” Wilhelm said. “But I think you will see quite quickly, once I have explained, there is more here for you and your ‘Urchins’ than I will get in return.”

  Shark-like, Locke only furled an eyebrow.

  “You are a . . . niche provider, Mr Locke,” Wilhelm said. “I respect a businessman. You saw a unique opportunity, and you went with it. How many of these children do you control?”

  “I don’t ‘control’ anybody, Councilor –”

  “Oh please don’t talk nonsense,” Wilhelm cut in. “If these Urchins are not under your control, then maybe there is no point in any discussion after all. Winter is coming, Mr Locke.”

  Wilhelm winced at the cliché coming unbidden from his lips, and raised a hand he didn’t need to, as if to stop Locke writing a mean tweet. But the self-styled Fagin only watched him with a bemused, yet somehow unamused expression.

  “It really is coming,” Wilhelm said. “You were not here last year. How do you propose to feed all those little mouths once the Citizens learn we are restricting the Rations supply?”

  “‘Restrict’?”

  “The ambitious project of the City is in a shambles, Mr Locke.”

  “Call me Fagin, for fuck’s sake.”

  Wilhelm nodded, smiling like a Buddha.

  “We stumbled through last winter, and it got very difficult,” the Councilor said. “We no longer have anything like the stability or goodwill we enjoyed a year ago. Forager teams, and disruption and loss of life among workers in a number of agricultural projects, mean we cannot possibly feed everyone through the winter. We cannot magic up supplies that do not exist.”

  He felt the steel of Zardoz’s gaze on him and refused to look – though he couldn’t fight off a flashback to the man’s cannibalistic remarks of only a few minutes before.

  “You’re offering supply?” Locke asked.

  “Oh, I am offering a lot more than that,” Wilhelm said. “That is the reason for today’s little bus tour.”

  He smoothed down his pants and stood as Sandler and the other Brotherhood men only now noticed he was dressed for the outdoors. The Councilor caught the look and smiled disarmingly.

  “Oh no, I have some other urgent business,” he said and smiled again to reassure them. “My household guard will drive you.”

  “Drive us where?” Sandler asked.

  “I would say it is a surprise, but you probably still cannot believe I have your best interests at heart,” the Councilor said as if it wounded him.

  He gave a little downcast look, then brightened, playacting at best, and playful enough now to let the others see it, like he might be a fun boss to have around after all.

  “It is a present – part of what I am offering to you,” he said. “Now that our talk today is finished.” To Sandler in particular, he added, “You will liaise on logistical support directly with my Safety Chief Denny Greerson, understood?”

  Sandler nodded slow. Beside him, thin but rangy-looking Romano asked, “What about uniforms or somethin’? When we were backin’ trooper patrols under Burroughs, we had armbands.”

  “I think it will be better for everyone if your support is a little more low key than that.”

  Wilhelm smiled, hoping he didn’t need to elaborate. Before they could ruin his fantasy, he motioned towards Finnegan Locke.

  “I just need a word now in private, with Mr . . . with Finnegan, here,” Wilhelm said. “You will find my men waiting at the front door of the chambers. I will talk with the three of you tomorrow, after your tour . . . and you can tell me what you think of my hospitality then, OK?”

  Bewildered, the three Brotherhood men shuffled out as asked. Wilhelm swiveled back to Fagin, who’d never ceased watching him the whole time with cat-like suspense.

  “I have some whiskey,” the Councilor said politely. “But I am short on time.”

  “Whiskey and not wasting my time are two of my favorite things,” Locke replied.

  “Good.” Wilhelm almost steepled his hands, though they were standing, which gave him nowhere to rest his elbows. “I think we are going to get along famously. Please, come back in.”

  He re-entered the meeting room and only then noticed the lounging Brotherhood had also drained his meager l
iquor cabinet as well as stubbing their cigarettes out on the floor.

  *

  LOCKE SETTLED INTO the chair he’d not taken during their previous chat, and though shortness of time was on his mind, Wilhelm gratefully took his seat as well. Under the table, he massaged his aching thighs and tried not to translate it into a pained look as he politely grimaced at the vagabond gentleman opposite.

  “Our ‘friends’ helped themselves to the remaining whiskey,” he said weakly.

  “Broken promises already, Councilor,” Locke said. “Not a good look.”

  “These are not the times they once were,” Wilhelm said. “But a little booze is the least I hope to offer you, Mr Locke.”

  “There’s that ‘Mr Locke’ again.”

  “Would you prefer Fagin?”

  “I don’t use my own name for a reason.”

  “Hmmm, and why is that?”

  Locke clasped the arms of the wooden chair and it seemed to Wilhelm like the temperature went up a notch, the handsome man across from him chewing on the reply he kept to himself. Wilhelm gave him a moment, but Locke sniffled, a gangster through and through.

  “I figured you invited me here because of Vanicek,” he said softly. “Am I close on that?”

  Wilhelm’s smile already betrayed him.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Let’s not do this,” Locke told him. “Playing games? I imagine Vanicek’s some kind of problem for you.”

  “From the trooper report, it sounds like he’s a problem for you.”

  “Yeah, he tried to kill me.”

  “And you . . . reported that to the City?”

  Locke eyed him levelly, now the one playing games.

  “That’s my right, isn’t it?” he asked. “As a Citizen?”

  “You’ve seen the Rules.”

  Locke inclined his head, much better at concealing his smirk. Wilhelm enjoyed the sound of his own voice as he continued.

  “I think we can probably rip up the rulebook, now,” the Councilor said. “Seeing what has happened, you understand?”

  “Be straight with me.”

  “Our winter will look a lot better without Tom Vanicek in it,” Wilhelm said. “I can tell you where he lives.”

  Locke sniggered. “I already know where he lives,” he said. “He lives with other people. They have a compound. Security.”

  “I thought you said before, I would be surprised the places children can go that we adults cannot, Mr . . . Fagin?”

  Wilhelm smiled like the name pained him, but at least he was seated again and could steeple his fingers together dramatically, elbows wide on the polished wood. The noise of a servant setting out cutlery echoed down the hall outside.

  Locke stared back steadily, and Wilhelm couldn’t tell if it was thoughtfulness or animosity he saw. The man-shark’s face stayed blank.

  “Send my Urchins in there?”

  “Under cover of darkness, yes, while everyone is asleep.”

  “And his children?”

  “It is only the boy,” Wilhelm said. “I have . . . promised the girl to someone else.”

  Locke blinked at Wilhelm’s candor, then snorted.

  “Nice,” he said. Then he returned his measured study to the Councilor’s eyes. “Sounds like I’d be doing more for you than anything you’ve offered me, so far.”

  But Wilhelm only smiled and shook his head.

  “Nice try, Fagin,” he said. “But I know you well enough already to know . . . you will do this anyway. I just wanted to let you know you have a clear path.”

  And he stood, paused a moment, then offered a businessman’s handshake.

  “I promise you, next time, I will not leave the Brotherhood alone with the liquor.”

  *

  A GIDDY SENSE of urgency drove Wilhelm from the building and into the gathering storm, pulling on his jacket and nearly pulling it over his head as the wind whipped across the vast, half-vacated courtyard. Teams of men and women worked with tools and sheer grit, methodically removing big sections of useless paving already exposed by the disassembly of the Bastion’s long-standing tent city. A heavy vehicle slowly reversed towards one of the crews, premature with a truckload of City-made compost for future vegetable beds.

  The Humvee and driver stood waiting for him on the side road. Lopez straightened as the Council man hurried across. Both of them knew this was some seriously shady business, but the young trooper’s belligerent grin as he welcomed the Councilor and even moved around to open the door for him showed it wasn’t troubling his conscience much, if at all.

  “The Chief radioed through just now,” the young officer said. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “Success?”

  “I believe so, Councilor.”

  “Good.”

  Wilhelm folded himself into the vehicle, always conscious of hitting his head. Lopez jogged back around to the left, the repurposed ethanol Humvee already thrumming with the motor running. Lopez carried himself as brisk and no nonsense as any Uber driver of old, even checking his side mirror before hauling the vehicle around in a tight arc and carrying them at once along the side road around to the front gates. The crews there only needed a glimpse of the Councilor through the smeared windshield and the gates immediately started open.

  “Patrols sayin’ there’s people settin’ up in the University district,” Lopez said.

  Wilhelm looked across at him like at an exhibit. The unexpected small-talk forced his thoughts back from a million miles away, anticipatory scenes playing such a visceral fantasy in his mind that it was almost a jolt to find himself seated in the slowing Humvee in the awkward pause before the gates fully cleared. The Councilor cleared his throat, restrained flaring nostrils, and nodded vigorously as if that would fill the gap.

  “Parasites,” he managed to say.

  “Refugees, that’s for sure.”

  Lopez adjusted the crank and they started forward and through.

  “Refugees from the City, though, you know what I mean, Councilor?”

  “Yes.”

  Wilhelm inhaled heavily and looked out his window as they trudged up and into the thickening human flotsam crowding the slight ascent from the Bastion. Lopez indicated, as was the custom in the sanctuary zone, window open, half-leaning out and waving as a last resort before needing to yell. He wheeled the vehicle to the west, gunning the chugging Humvee up onto one of the old roads running parallel to The Mile and not quite as crowded. A remaining few pedestrians jumped out of their path.

  “That is why I call them parasites,” Wilhelm said as they continued along. “They survive in the shadow of the City, but give nothing back. If that is how they want it, they are very literally not our problem, Miguel.”

  “We’re gonna hold firm this winter, Councilor.”

  “I know that.”

  He looked askance at the young driver and remembered his charm.

  “You and me, anyway. And those with us.”

  The driver nodded, and looked duly grateful. Wilhelm returned his eyes to the crowded road and Lopez didn’t know to quit when he was ahead. He added, “I was sorry to hear about you and Miss Deschain, sir.”

  Wilhelm’s jaw tightened.

  “So was I.”

  It was only a minute later they sighted The Dirty Vixen.

  *

  GREERSON’S MAN YUSUF opened the stout drinking den’s door, Ak47 in one hand as he all but ignored Wilhelm and did his job, making sure the approach outside was completely safe and the Councilor came to the venue uncoerced. Lopez gave his fellow trooper a cheery thumbs up, the frosty last minute of the cab ride teaching him nothing. Yusuf saw his comrade and winked, fancying himself the hero of the hour or something as he ushered Wilhelm through and into the dingy light.

  Blood dried across one of the table booths, and the stools at the bar were all knocked flat. Other than that, there wasn’t much sign to show forced entry, and the Councilor nursed an almost professional curiosity about how Greerson’s
team had done it, despite more pressing matters at hand.

  “There’s a keg room, Councilor,” Yusuf said as he resecured the outside door.

  Wilhelm merely waited, and once the task was done, the dark-featured man gestured ahead of himself even as he led the way through the warren of the small bar. Greerson’s man Slinky stood eating a handful of ingredients he’d sandwiched together into some kind of ungodly mess, boots wide apart as sauce and condiments dripped onto the floor. Unlike the others of Greerson’s core gang who treated the Councilor with the due deference he expected, the bullish, strangely handsome man only nodded and kept wolfing down his meal as Yusuf chaperoned the Councilor expecting him to ignore the scenery in their haste to get through.

  He was right. Fantasies and giddy imaginings were colliding at rapid pace with the reality of the present moment as the scuffling, sobbing noises reached Wilhelm as he strode as if carried along on a wave of enchanting perfume, straight on into the utter depravity of Carlotta sweating and gagged and bound and shrieking between the twins Milo and Otis, Greerson with Chesterton and the lone female trooper McGill holding the barkeep Magnus in a similar hold nearby.

  Wilhelm’s entrance brought an instant renewing of muffled screams from Carlotta. She writhed in a mix of fury, panic, and disbelief that instantly transported Wilhelm towards his catharsis. Carlotta took one look at his beatific face and her noise cut out at once, mouth agape despite the soaked cloth filling it, eyes glazed and unfocused among pooling ripples of cosmic horror.

  “Ernest,” Magnus groaned a bark at him. “Please.”

  Wilhelm moved equidistant between the two captives. Magnus hung limp and beaten in the troopers’ hold. Gray-haired arms and the torn-open, cut-open mess of his bloodied shirt showed he had no fight left. He managed to focus his lone unswollen eye.

  “Wilhelm. . . .”