by Devon Monk
Besides, his color was still pale and a little green. I knew he was in a lot of pain, no matter how hard he was trying to ignore it. I hoped he was a smart enough man to know when to stow his ego.
I swung my leg over the four-wheeler, and he reluctantly got on the back.
“Ready?” I asked.
“I’ll tap on your left arm and point to give you directions,” he said.
“If you feel sick, tap on my right arm, and I’ll pull over,” I said. “We’ll need to talk when we get somewhere safe.”
“Everything okay?” he asked, tensing behind me.
“Yes. It can wait.” I started the engine, revved it, and waited for Neds and Abraham.
To my surprise, Foster was driving, not Abraham. I gave Abraham a look, and he twitched his eyebrow up, unconcerned.
Didn’t look like he cared that he wasn’t in the driver’s seat.
Of course, if they were in danger of getting shot at, I knew Abraham was a deadly good marksman. So maybe it made sense that he ride shotgun. Or maybe they’d done this before.
For how easily they settled in, I thought they’d done it often.
Mercenaries. Killers. Thieves.
And men I was fighting to keep alive. Welton loved Foster. Foster deserved to know that.
Abraham gave me a huge wink and another grin.
Jesus. That man made everything in me collide.
Foster started the engine, and so did Neds. We all gave each other the “okay” nod, and I guided the four-wheeler out onto the street and took off at a decent speed.
I was glad they’d given us the quad. I could tell by how Quinten was holding on that he was more fatigued than he was admitting.
He pointed straight over my left shoulder, and even though there were no intersections or side roads to speak of, I was glad to know I was going in the right direction.
My plan was to get my brother into House Earth and take him straight to Gloria. If she was well enough, she had the medical skills to make sure he wasn’t hurt more than I knew.
Internal bleeding came to mind. Something deep and pernicious I couldn’t scan for.
After Gloria or another doctor checked him out, I’d tell him about the last time slip with Welton.
And then we’d need to come up with a way to stop Slater.
And the plague.
Abraham had said I was a part of House Earth, and Quinten had said that too.
I didn’t point out to either of them that I was also a galvanized, which meant House Earth should be just as suspicious about me as they were about Abraham and Foster.
Although in my time, I had been an integral part of House Brown. We’d done what we could to keep the fact that I was galvanized away from most House Brown notice, not because they thought galvs were killers, but because we thought it was best if the heads of Houses didn’t find out a modern galvanized existed.
We’d failed pretty spectacularly at that.
It wasn’t long before the fields began looking even more tended and the road more traveled. Several vehicles were parked alongside the road, with people working the land. A few nonmotor bicycles passed us, with men and women and a few kids of various ages upon them.
Even though this wasn’t my world, and in many ways it lacked the advancement that had made our lives easier, the people we passed were clean, clothed, and seemed both happy and healthy. The land supported strong crops, the air was clear, and the very real and constant presence of the Houses I’d grown up dealing with and having to avoid and hide from was missing.
Yes, there were ferals, mercenaries, plagues, and dictators who had access to bombs, but my world had been riddled with all those things and had not seemed nearly as peaceful as this world.
Maybe changing time hadn’t been all bad.
Especially if what Welton had said was true.
Not only were my brother, Neds, and Abraham alive in this time, but it also appeared House Earth had profited from the change in how the world was ruled.
It made me feel a lot better about what we had done and what we had all given up to make it happen.
Quinten tapped my left shoulder and pointed to the west. I glanced that way. Beyond the swell of the field were the foothills. Nestled in the valley between two rises was a walled city.
Quinten had called it a compound, but it had to be at least a couple of square miles of buildings, roads, rooftops, trees, and fields, all enclosed by massive stone and metal walls with watchtowers set at regular intervals.
House Earth Compound Five wasn’t a small sheltering of shacks or survivalists hunkering down against a threat. It was a living, bustling, thriving town.
The road swung wide toward the compound, and since Quinten wasn’t telling me otherwise, I followed it. About half a mile from the wall, the road was blocked by a smaller wall, with a lighthouse-looking structure at either side of the road.
Not lighthouse—guard tower. The road was gated, and just outside that gate was another enclosed structure. That appeared to be a checkpoint or tollbooth.
I could see the movement of people with guns behind the glass windows in the lighthouse towers, and knew they had a heck of a view from up there. Could probably see people coming for miles.
Which meant they’d seen us.
And if they had radio with the other city towers along the main wall and road wall, then they had a very nice system in place for keeping people, friend or foe, just where they wanted them.
Quinten tapped on my right arm, the signal for me to stop. I slowed and brought the quad to a stop. Neds pulled up on my left, and Foster and Abraham pulled up on my right.
Quinten got off the four-wheeler and walked toward the booth, his hands causally out to either side. “Morning!” he called out, while he was still thirty feet away from the booth, which was behind the gate.
“Morning,” a woman’s voice answered. “What’s your business today?”
I glanced up at the guard towers. Yep. A single shooter in each tower had what appeared to be very sophisticated rifles aimed at us.
Well, aimed at Foster and Abraham.
“My name is Quinten Case. I’m a farmer, a stitcher, and a friend of House Earth. I came to see Gloria Epris. We’re friends. I also request an immediate meeting with the custodian.”
“The custodian only sees whom he chooses.”
“Tell him Quinten Case is here. He’ll see me.”
She paused. I flicked a glance up at the towers, half expecting to see a bullet already coming my way.
“Names of your companions, Quinten Case,” she said brusquely, “and their business.”
Quinten didn’t step any closer, and his hands were still away from his body and any weapon he might carry there. He half turned toward me. “That is my sister, Evelyn Case, and our farmhand and friend, Neds Harris.
“The two galvanized came to our farm in offer to help us. Foster and Abraham. I will vouch for them inside these walls, and they will be in our company at all times.”
“That’s all well and good, Quinten Case,” she said, “but galvanized do not step beyond this gate. For any reason.”
“Call the custodian,” Quinten said. “He is expecting me. We’ll wait.” Quinten turned and strode—well, walked without weaving; that head wound needed tending again—back to us.
“You know the custodian?” Abraham asked.
“I knew him before he was the custodian.”
I handed Quinten the canteen of water, which he accepted.
“Evelyn?” I asked.
He nodded while he drank, then tipped the canteen down. “Sorry. But no one here knows you as anyone else.”
“Does anyone here know me at all?”
“A few people.” At my look, he added, “We do have friends. Can’t spend a life hidden out on our property forever.”
<
br /> Actually, we could. And we had. Or at least I had, back in another life.
“Not with the Grubens as neighbors,” Right Ned said. “Those people talk, and all the world hears them. Terrible gossips.”
Left Ned grunted in agreement.
“So, how long do we just stand out here in the open?” I asked.
“Until they call the custodian,” Quinten said.
“And how long will that be?”
He swigged back water, then handed the canteen to me. I took a drink; gave it to Neds.
“Shouldn’t be long. He’s been waiting for me.”
Abraham took his eyes off the tower guard long enough to glance at Quinten. “What business do you have with the custodian?’
“Personal business,” Quinten answered.
Funny—that’s the same excuse Abraham had tried to pull on me.
If I were Abraham, this is the point where I’d get nervous. Looking at the situation from his side, he was riding into a House Earth encampment on the word and reputation of a man he’d met only a couple days ago. A man he knew didn’t trust him, and, for the most part, didn’t like him.
Plus, it was a good bet most of the people on the other side of that wall wouldn’t want anything to do with the murderous, thieving galvanized.
Once again, I wondered what was Abraham’s real agenda in following us here. Seemed like an awful lot of trouble and risk to go through.
“We could always wait out here while you go in,” I said.
“No,” Quinten said. “We all go in together.”
“Quinten Case and companions. Please approach the gate,” the woman called out. We all got off our bikes and walked with them to the gate.
“Leave your bikes on the road,” she said.
The woman sat in the booth between the towers, a speaker system set up so we could hear her.
I studied her through what I assumed was bulletproof glass. She wore an official-looking brown jacket with a slash of black across the arm. Her hair was steel gray and cut short, with a swing of bangs. She measured us all in turn, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t writing up a report on our every move.
The gate rolled aside on tracks, and beyond it stood six heavily armored, heavily armed guards. They each wore helmets with face shields, so it was a little hard to make out features, but I’d say they were a mix of light and dark, men and women, all of them strong and very clearly there to shoot our heads off if we got too rambunctious.
I had the itch to walk toward them with my hands up, but Quinten was just making it a point to keep his hands away from his body, though he was carrying the wooden case in one hand and his duffel in the other.
Abraham and Foster looked like they did this so often, it had become boring and tedious.
So I tried to relax and follow their lead.
“Please step into the clean room,” the booth woman said.
The guards surrounded us and marched us down past the booth to another concrete structure that looked blast proof. They opened the door, and we all stepped inside.
The room was lined with benches; no windows, with bare bulbs set in a row down the middle of the ceiling. There was a privacy curtain, which hung open at the far end of the room, but the only things behind it were more concrete wall and wooden bench.
I noted the benches were bolted into the floor, which was also concrete.
I’d seen jail cells with more charm.
All the guards stepped in with us, except for two, who remained outside the door.
Quinten set his case and duffel on the bench, then sat and started unlacing his boots.
Neds sat too, and started on their laces.
“Should I?”
Quinten pointed to the privacy area. “Just take off your shoes, jacket, and weapons. You can stay in your pants, socks, shirt, and bra. Unzip the duffel so they can search it.”
From the way he said it, this was common practice for entering the compound. I suppose it made sense. If you lived in a walled-off compound, you’d want to keep track of what people were bringing into it.
“If I’m staying in my clothes, why do I need a privacy curtain?”
“It’s standard. A female soldier will pat you down. She might require you to remove something.”
Foster and Abraham hadn’t moved to take anything off. I caught Abraham’s gaze and raised my eyebrows. He gave me another wink.
Lord. He was either full of trouble or full of himself.
Maybe a dangerous combination of both.
I trudged over to the end of the building and pulled the curtain. Took off my jacket, which stung a little as my stitches and cuts pulled too tight, then tugged off my boots. I deposited my duffel on the bench and unholstered my revolver, which was out of bullets anyway, and the knife I kept on me.
I sat and waited.
The guards didn’t say anything, but I could hear Quinten and Neds taking off their gear. The curtain hadn’t closed all the way. Through the thin gap I could see Abraham. He was methodically removing his weapons and placing them down with a sort of practice eye for display. I didn’t know if he was trying to impress the guards or just make sure they understood how many deadly things he had on him.
Things he could still easily use to kill them.
Not that he’d need anything more than his bare hands.
Abraham caught me watching him and slid me that crooked grin. Then something about his manner changed. He liked that I was watching him strip down.
And so he stripped down for me. I didn’t know if Quinten and Neds had taken off their shirts, but Abraham did, making sure I saw his bare arms; the stretch of his wide, muscular back puzzle-pieced together with whips of black thread; the hard, carved muscles bunching across his shoulders; and as he turned, his hard chest and stomach with the bandage I had tied there.
Somehow he did it all as if it was just the way he moved, just the way he always took off his clothes when under gunpoint in a blast bunker. But he paused and flexed, catching shadow and light with a photographer’s unfailing instinct, displaying his body for me.
When he bit his bottom lip and slanted me a smoldering look to make sure I was watching, I scrunched up my face and stuck my tongue out at him.
He grinned, a wicked, crooked thing, then glanced over at the sound of the door opening.
Footsteps brought a woman into my limited range of view. She was wearing the same armor as the other guards, but paused outside my curtain.
“I’m going to step in now,” she said.
“Okay.”
She pulled back the curtain, took a quick second to note where I was sitting and everything that I’d laid out on the bench next to me, except for my boots, which were still on the floor next to my stocking feet.
“Are you carrying any other weapons on your body?” she asked as she stepped into the small space with me.
“No.”
“Please stand and face me.”
I did so.
She closed the distance. “I am going to feel down your arms, legs, stomach, and under your breasts.”
“All right. I’m bandaged across my rib cage.”
“Understood.”
She quickly and efficiently patted me down, including running the backs of her fingers beneath my breasts.
“Turn, please.”
I turned. She patted me down from that angle, running her hands over my pockets.
“Step to your left.”
I stepped.
“I’ll be looking in your duffel now.”
“Okay.”
It all seemed so formal and odd. When I had known House Brown, they were more like a big, mismatched family. Odd collections of farms and cooperatives working together to help each other stay beneath the notice of the other, more powerful Houses.
&
nbsp; This House Earth had rules in place, and armed guards the other House Brown would have never dreamed of.
She rifled through my belongings rather quickly, and didn’t seem particularly surprised at any of it.
“All right, you can put your boots back on, and your jacket.”
I did so as she remained right where she was, watching me.
She opened the curtain so I could see into the rest of the room. Quinten and Neds had their shirts on. But both Foster and Abraham had stripped down to their breeches, which were now beltless.
Abraham had on a sort of smile that said there was a good helping of anger simmering right beneath it.
The guards also looked a little more tense, judging by their body language.
“You are free to go, Quinten Case, Neds Harris, Evelyn Case,” one of the guards said.
“What about Abraham and Foster?” I asked.
“They will remain here, under guard.”
I looked at Quinten. This was his chance to say something before I jumped in and explained that that was not going to stand with me.
“That’s not what I agreed to,” Quinten said.
Several of the guards shifted their aim to him, and I could see the wave of tension that rolled through them.
I didn’t blame them. Galvanized were damn hard to kill.
Even with bullets.
Even with a lot of bullets.
And Quinten wanted not just one, but two to walk the streets of this town.
Well, three, really.
The door opened, and a man’s voice called out. “Quinten Case. What sort of trouble are you bringing to my doorstep this time?”
I knew that voice. I’d know him anywhere.
“Profitable trouble, Welton,” Quinten said. “As always.”
The guards moved aside to allow Welton to step forward.
He was alive.
And, yes, I was grinning.
Welton Yellow. I’d known him as the head of House Yellow, Technology. An all-around meddler and ultimate friend to the galvanized and my family.
He looked so healthy here. His brown hair hung over his eyebrows, under which could be seen his wickedly clever eyes. He was as pale as ever, but not sickly, with shadows collecting under his languid eyes. But instead of the yellow T-shirts I was used to him wearing, or the odd, bulky gear he’d had on in the other timeway, he wore a loose brown henley and a pair of ripped-up jeans that pooled into the tops of his work boots.
