by R. K. Weir
Thirst overpowers any sense of manners, and before I've even thought to thank him I've lunged for the bottle and am pouring its contents down my throat. I don't even stop to consider if accepting his offer is a mistake, I just gulp down mouthful after mouthful until the bottle is drained. The hangover must have dehydrated me more than I thought, because now that I've got liquid in me that isn't going to come back up, I feel immensely better. "Thank you," I say.
He nods at me. At a closer distance I can see more of the aged lines carved into his skin. If I had to guess, I'd place his age as being somewhere in the late forties or early fifties.
My gaze drops down to the desk that separates us and catches on the pump action shotgun lined up in front of the keyboard and monitor. He notices me looking.
"Can never be too careful," he says with a wink.
I'm about to respond when someone behind me clears their throat. "You h-have electricity?" Gale mumbles. I turn to look at him, curiosity lighting his eyes instead of fear.
The Gas Man shrugs. "Gas generators, I usually only have them on at night, or when I have customers."
Customers. That rules out any hope of him giving us fuel for the sake of being a good Samaritan.
"Did you notice my little trick with the door?" he asks, "automated door hinges. Installed them myself. Can open or close the doors from anywhere in the museum."
Pride shadows over his words but it seems like a pretty useless feature to me. "Impressive," I say.
His smile manages to grow wider. "Well I do love to make an impression. But where are my manners? I haven't even introduced myself yet! I am the Gas Man. I presume it's my name that convinced you to seek me out?"
"It played a part," I admit.
"My reputation precedes me then," he says, still smiling. "I'll presume you also know that I'm not in the business of handing out things for free?"
I swallow. "I figured as much. Maisie said something about you buying your friends?"
His gaze flickers to Maisie. "Did she now?"
"She did."
"I'm afraid that offer is only available to those . . . staying, in Las Vegas. Considering I haven't seen you lot before and you're looking for gas, I'll make an educated guess that this doesn't apply to you?"
I nod. "We don't really have anything to trade though."
If he has a shotgun I doubt he'll want a pistol. And he looks too well fed to want the scraps of beef jerky and dried fruit we can offer. Despite this, his smile remains unfazed.
"Well that's not true at all, now is it? Everyone has something to offer."
As if to prove this point, Gale begins to rummage around in his bag, bringing out a bottle of whiskey I didn't know he had. "We have a-alcohol," he says, holding the bottle out to be inspected.
The Gas Man nods at him and then at me. "You see?" he says. "Everyone has something to offer. Unfortunately I'm not much of a drinker." He notices the disappointment that falls across Gale's face. "But don't despair! I deal with more than just tangible possessions!" His gaze returns to mine. "How would you feel about doing me a favor?"
"Depends on what it is," I say.
"Nothing too strenuous of course. A large group of people have taken up residence not too far from here. I've been keeping tabs on them and it doesn't look like they have any plans on leaving."
My mind flashes to the bandits. "They aren't staying in a hotel, are they?"
He hesitates. "No. They're staying in a shopping center, actually. I'm sure they could benefit from what I have to offer. All I ask from you is that you tell them about me."
"That's it?" I ask.
"That's it," he says. "Reputation is a powerful thing, even more powerful when it spreads on its own. Even if I do have to nudge it a little, there's a sense of authority behind it. I live alone in this museum, I need them to think I have the power to defend it."
"But you don't actually have that power?"
"Oh I do," he says, giving the shotgun on the desk an affectionate pat. "But I'd rather not demonstrate it."
A moments pause breaks itself between us, and then he says, "I'll give you enough gas for two full tanks."
"Two tanks? Just for telling them that you're here?"
"You're surprised by my generosity? Ensure you emphasize that to them, won't you?" He gives a small chuckle.
It all seems too good to be true.
"What's the catch?" I ask, eyeing him warily.
"No catch. You can ask Maisie yourself, she's been here enough times to know that I'm a man of my word."
I glance back at her. She's staring off into space, but when she notices me looking at her, she begins to nod her head enthusiastically. "Man of many words," she says.
I'm not entirely certain how to interpret that so I look at Rocket and Stella for their opinions. Neither of them look too convinced, a shrug and a raised brow is all they offer, so I turn back to the Gas Man.
"Alright," I say, "we'll do it."
"Wonderful!" He claps his hands together. "But just one more thing. These people in the shopping center, they're highly cautious and a group of five people is certain to spook them. I rarely ever get company. Why don't some of you stay back here? Rest for a bit? I'd love to hear your stories."
The offer seems friendly enough, makes sense too, but something about it doesn't sit right with me.
"These two ladies here haven't spoken much, I'd love to hear what they have to say." He holds out both his hands, gesturing towards Rocket and Stella. The fact that he's singled them out only multiplies the uncertainty in my gut. I'm about to refuse when Rocket's voice stops me.
"Okay," she says.
I turn back to look at her, bewildered and concerned.
"What?" Stella asks, "upset that you're the errand boy this time?"
That must be a reference to Aaron sending her out to set off the fireworks, and her trip to the supermarket and hospital. I want to scoff at her that it's not about the delegation of work, it's that I don't trust the Gas Man and I don't want to leave them alone with him. Something about this whole situation just feels . . . off.
"I don't think—" I begin to say when Rocket cuts me off.
"No it'll be fine," she says, "you won't be gone long anyway."
Noticing my hesitation, she adds, "We'll be fine."
"Yeah, we'll be fine," Stella echoes.
I look to her. She holds my stare for a moment, and that's when I see it. A small, imperceptible nod of her head. I don't know what to make of it, but it's clear that she has a plan of some sort. Still, I hesitate at the idea of leaving them in danger. But she nods again and I decide to trust her.
"Fine," I say.
The Gas Man claps his hands together again, exclaims another, "Wonderful!" and then jumps into giving me directions to the shopping center. He goes over which road we should approach from so as not to startle them, and has me repeat it all back to him three times before he's satisfied.
When it's finally time for us to leave, I turn to Stella and Rocket.
"Have a nice walk," Stella says, before throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me into an unexpected hug. "Don't let your guard down," she whispers in my ear.
When she pulls back I give her a nod.
"You better be here when I get back," I tell her. The corners of her mouth tug into a smile.
"I'll see how things go," she says, and then walks off to talk to Gale. My eyes linger on them for longer than necessary, because I'm unwilling to meet Rocket's gaze just yet. There's so much I have to say to her that I've been putting off and yet, I don't know how to say any of it.
When I finally turn to look at her, I swallow it all and instead only say, "Be careful."
Her brows furrow. "Yeah," she says, almost disappointed. "You too."
The honey in her eyes begins to boil again, hardening with a glare I'm becoming all too familiar with. I give her a nod before quickly diverting my gaze and moving towards the open doors. Maisie and Gale soon join me, and together we step outside
. I don't realize how cool it is inside the museum until I feel the sun on my skin again.
As we start walking down the steps, the doors close behind us and I have a gut feeling they won't be opening so easily the next time we knock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Logan
Despite being told the directions in great detail, and repeating them back three times over, we still manage to get lost. In the time it takes to get back on the right path, we have four arguments, three whimpers from Gale and one occasion where Maisie looked to be on the verge of tears. Needless to say, these two are not my ideal companions. If the task at hand involved anything more than talking I would have insisted that Stella and Rocket came instead.
Talking. That's all we have to do. It really does seem too good to be true, but I suppose when you have all the gas in Las Vegas it must lose some of its value. What's gold to us is nothing but copper to him. I should be glad that he's willing to give it away so freely, but I can't shake the feeling that something more sinister lurks beneath his offer. I pose the idea to Gale.
"There's definitely something we're missing," he says.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
He takes a moment to think about his response. "I'm not s-sure, but I don't think he was telling us e-everything."
"You think these people he's sent us to talk to might not be friendly?"
"Maybe," he shrugs, the movement forcing the bottles in his bag to clink together. I don't have much in my own bag, but I can imagine how heavy his must be. We should have left them back at the museum.
I turn to Maisie next, unsure if her opinion carries any weight but wanting to hear what it is regardless. "But you think we can trust him? Don't you, Maisie?"
She's looking down at her lamp, gently stroking it. "I trust him. I don't know if you can."
Her answer pulls me up short, because it's definitely not one I was expecting from her. Like usual though, I have no idea how to interpret it. Does an answer lurk somewhere in those words? Or is it just more nonsense. I hope for the latter, because otherwise her statement carries insidious undertones that I'd rather not think about right now. I feel uneasy enough as it is.
Instead I focus my full attention on the task at hand, thinking out all the variables, planning for what could go wrong. The sun has passed over us but it's still high enough in the sky that I'm hoping we'll be done and back at the museum before nightfall. At least we should be if we arrive at the shopping center soon. The directions the Gas Man gave made it sound like it was relatively close, but that's proving to be untrue.
What else has he said that's untrue? I quickly push the thought to the back of my mind. The sooner we get this over with the better. I'll be glad to leave this city behind. I quicken my pace slightly, urging Maisie and Gale to do the same. This has already taken too long. My unease swelling, I'm about to suggest that we give up and head back to the museum when we come to a stop at the end of an arcade. A narrow strip with shops lining each side and one lane for traffic snaking down the middle. On the right side, a little further down, I can just see the wall of glass, red letters plastered across its surface announcing it as the Westgate Shopping Center.
Now my pace slows almost to a stop. With the Gas Man I had an idea of what to expect, even if that idea was fed to me by a mad girl. But these people I know little about, and I'm almost certain that what I do know has been fed to me by a liar. He probably wasn't lying about them being easily spooked by strangers though. I can't imagine anyone not being cautious.
"Hello?" I call out. We haven't quite reached the entrance yet, but I figure there could be some people milling about in the shops of the arcade.
The howling wind is all that responds.
By the time we do reach the shopping center doors I'm certain that the street is deserted. Gale is swiveling his head around everywhere. I'm sure if someone were here he would see them.
Satisfied with him as our lookout, I turn my attention back to the shopping center. The automatic doors, deprived of power, are stuck half-way open. No guards and they've left their doors wide open? These people don't seem nearly as cautious as the Gas Man made them sound. Or maybe there's not enough of them to domineer the whole shopping center and they're only occupying a single shop somewhere inside.
I peer inside for any signs of life before prying the doors open further. Almost the entire roof is made of glass, allowing sunlight to shower down and lighten the insides of every store. This calms me down, knowing I won't have to worry about anything that hides in the dark.
"Is anyone here?" Only my voice echoes back to me.
In a way I'll be relived if we don't find anyone here. I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to say. Somehow mention the Gas Man in a way that doesn't sound like we've been sent here by him.
The air inside is stale, growing warmer the deeper we go. Despite the sunlight pouring in from the skylight the bottom floor of the mall is still shrouded in a hazy darkness. If there's anyone here I doubt they would be down there. I don't particularly want to go down and look so I lean over the railing and shout another "Hello?" When nothing but silence reverberates back I decide that we won't be going down there unless we have proof there's life lurking somewhere in those shadows.
So far though this place looks to be as dead as a cemetery. It would be quicker to scour the place over if we could split up, but Gale is sticking so close to me that he's practically treading on my heels and if I send Maisie off I doubt I'll ever see her again. So we stay huddled together, creeping further in and stopping every now and then to peer into a shop window. It isn't until we move a floor down that we find something.
Scorch marks blackening the white tiles. Usually I wouldn't think twice about a dirty floor, but the rest of the floors are practically pristine, save this small patch. Like someone had set up a small fire here. I kneel down and run a finger across it. It doesn't smudge, doesn't even leave grime on my finger. Whoever left the mark has done so awhile ago.
"That looks comfy," Maisie says. I look up and follow her gaze to the shop in front of us. A camping store. In the middle of it is a large tent, probably big enough for ten people. It's far too large to have been a display model, someone would have had to have set this up.
I enter the store cautiously. "Is someone in here?" I shout. The tent is zipped up but the store has definitely been lived in. A small camping stove sits in the corner with a pot of dirty water beside it. On the other side of the room lies a torn open medical kit, its contents strewn across the floor. The place looks abandoned, and judging from the state of it, I'd say they were in a hurry to leave.
Even though I'm sure no one's inside, I still find one hand snaking round to the pistol in my back pocket. My other hand unzips the tent and holds open its flap. Save several pillows that have been stacked up and formed into a make-shift nest, the inside is empty. I'm about to turn away when something catches my eye. A black square, tucked in among the white pillows. At first I think it's just a smaller cushion, but when I duck inside and pick it up, I find that it's a small journal.
"Come on, let's look at the other floors," I say, weighing the small book in my hand.
As we start walking I begin flipping through it. Almost every page has been scribbled in. None of the entries have dates though, so it's impossible to tell when any of it was written. But the pages aren't too worn, and the ink isn't too faded. I flick to the first page and skim the first entry.
Marshall suggested that I start writing down everything we do here. What a complete waste of time! At least that's what I thought before Emma chimed in, saying it would be a great way to keep track of our progress. Her eyes even lit up at the idea. As soon as I saw how much it meant to her I went out and got this book. I almost got chomped on getting it, too. Las Vegas is crawling with biters. But maybe if I do this for her, she'll start to notice me more. . .
With my attention focused on the book, Maisie has taken the lead. When I see that she isn't about to guide us somewhere dangerous, I tu
rn back to reading the journal.
We've only just managed to set up camp in this casino and Marshall already has these crazy plans going through his head. He wants to flip the whole city. Turn it into some sort of sanctuary. He calls it: The Restoration of Las Vegas. A chance for the living to reclaim what was taken by the dead.
Can you believe it?
It's the stupidest thing I've heard in awhile. But I've kept that thought to myself, because Emma seems pretty optimistic about the idea. Her entire being just radiates with this infectious enthusiasm whenever she gets excited about something. I don't have the heart to tell her how improbable the task is.
After all, there's only six of us, and we're gonna need a lot more than enthusiasm to reclaim a city.
I briefly lift my eyes from the pages to find Maisie leading us down to a lower level. I'm so engrossed in my reading that I step on the extension cord of her lamp several times. She gasps and glares at me every time I do, then proceeds to coo soft, reassuring words while petting the shade. Honestly, she's making me feel like I've actually stepped on a dog's tail. I tell her to coil it up and wait until she does so before I continue on to the next entry in the journal.
I almost died today. Phase one of Marshall's plan to retake the city began this morning. And all that phase one involved was to kill as many biters as possible. I knew it was a bad idea. I didn't even want to go in the first place. Had an excuse planned out and everything. But then Emma volunteered.
I wasn't about to look like a coward in front of her, so like the idiot that I am, I demanded that I be put on the front lines along with our two best fighters. If it weren't for them I'd be dead now.
Even I underestimated how many biters are in Las Vegas. They just kept coming and coming. It was like fighting that monster from Greek mythology. The one where you cut one head off and two more grow back. In no time at all we were swarmed. I'm surprised we all managed to make it back alive.
It wasn't all in vain though. Emma called me brave! Even said I was a good fighter! I'm sure she was just being nice though, because in reality I probably looked more like a headless chicken with a knife glued to its wing. Still, she called me brave! I think that might have been our first full conversation as well!
