by T. K. Malone
Strike time: plus 2 days
Location: The Road To Christmas
Billy Flynn revved up his low rider, then let the revs drop as he stretched out his arms and yawned. He ruffled his hair and planted a smoke between his lips. “Two days long enough?” Zac pointed up the hill at a Free World flag. It was fluttering in the breeze.
“Nathan had a prospect watching that; the wind stayed seaward mostly. All the dodgy shit is now way out there in the ocean. Besides, we’re going away from the city. Going home.”
“Home? Christmas? Long time since that place has been home.”
“Long time.”
“You didn’t have to tell them all that crap about your father. Could have just told them that we were good at working behind enemy lines, good at living a lie.”
Zac laughed, “Guess I just saw the light. Guess I just had a moment of clarity. Maybe that’s what the end of the world does for you—teaches you a bit of honesty. Lies, Billy, I’ve been sleeping on a bed of lies for too long. Besides, now they know who my father is, heck, ain’t no one gonna mess with me.”
“They sure as hell ain’t,” Billy replied, looking around.
Loser rumbled up the road in an old army truck complete with a trailer. He stopped and leaned out of its window. “This big enough?” he hollered, his long, mousy hair flopping all over his face until he pushed it back.
“You sure you can see all right out through them curtains?” Billy Flynn asked.
“See just fine from here. I see everything, Billy, don’t you forget that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Something. Who knows. Say, there a bar in Christmas?”
“Sure was, suppose there still is,” Zac muttered, moving his bike between the two.
“Good. When we get up there, I’ve got a couple of questions for you,” and Loser roared away, up the coast road and toward the freeway.
“What’s his problem?” asked Billy, but Zac just shrugged and pulled away. His mind was on other things. Billy followed him, Noodle and Spritzer falling in behind.
As he rode along the bluff’s twisting road, Zac mulled over the previous night. He’d left Grimes in charge, though after his revelations he could have easily taken control. Truth was: he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to be tied down with the responsibility. If Connor were alive, he’d be somewhere over the valleys. Charm had never been specific, but Grimes had inferred that a lot of work had been going on in one of them—that would probably be a good place to start. And Teah? After ten years, if she were still alive, well, she could be anywhere. Though free of the city, he knew that if he had any chance of finding either of them, he had to follow the plan, Charm’s plan. A plan he’d failed to divulge completely to Zac.
The thought of Charm made him look at the city, or the remnants of it. It was just a line of black, like an artist had struck a fat line of charcoal across a sea view. Smoke plumed up, and Zac thought that some parts must have survived. Fire didn’t feed on thin air. Most of it would be flattened, he knew that, but it seemed parts had prevailed. Some of the citizens may even have survived—if they’d put two and two together. He could only imagine the last few moments that they’d endured.
As soon as The Free World had launched their nukes, the game would have been up, and a city full of the compliant would have known it. He guessed the vast video screens had spent their last minutes pumping out propaganda, showing how Prime had gotten the jump on the Russians, how the world would soon be a safer place, how no missiles were coming from Korea, or China, or anywhere. He saw jubilant celebrations in the streets and in the bars; saw people dancing and reveling in The Free World’s great victory, dreaming of the parades, of the pictures of the enemy’s devastation soon to be shown. And then he saw their faces drop in that brief period, that ever so short period, when they looked up into the sky and realized that The Free World was just a lie. He shook his head as he rode along. What Grimes couldn’t grasp was that it was now in their hands to make a new world, a world where free meant free and wasn’t just a convenient word twisted by a politician’s ambition, where free was a way of life and not simply four letters on a flag of gold and black. That was what Grimes couldn’t grasp, but Zac wondered whether it was just a pipe dream, an impossible fantasy.
They passed under the freeway, Billy Flynn and Noodle messing about as usual, Spritzer riding alongside the truck. Spritzer was an open book, just a big-assed lump who did what he was told when he was told and little else. Loser, however, was a little more of a mystery. He’d been around for a good few years, but when he’d actually got patched, Zac didn’t know. With most of the recent years spent in Black City, most of Zac’s contact—most of his news—had been restricted to fast exchanges in tunnels under the wastelands, or quick meetings in a warehouse just off the freeway. That face; he knew Loser’s face, but not much more.
Loser had a leaning toward what could be mistaken for the miserable, but Zac thought it was more along the lines of thoughtful boredom. The brief conversations he’d had with the man had been meaningless exchanges, but they’d left him with the distinct feeling that a lot was being held back. Then there was his nickname. While you couldn’t exactly pick your own, you could certainly discourage the worst ones. Had he protested too hard and so the nickname had stuck anyway, or had it just not bothered him? More likely the latter, Zac mused and resolved to get to know the man behind the tag. He’d need to trust each of them for the next task, for Charm’s task.
Charm had prepared for every eventuality; every visit to Zac’s bar had been another briefing. In the end, though, they’d run out of things to prepare for. Zac had asked him once if he knew when the bombs would fall, and Charm had responded in the strangest of ways. He’d scratched his chin and ruffled his hair, and looked each way and then up at the bar’s ceiling. Thinking for a while, he’d begun to respond but then stopped, thought some more, and began all over again only to stop a second time. Eventually, he’d said, “When the world becomes so confused that the bombs become the only reality, then I’ll up the preparations, but when central government stops talking to the cities, then I’ll start organizing, and when the protestations come from higher up, when I get told that everything is fine, then I’ll start the engines. Three things Zac, all three things will tell me.”
The precision of his response had been the oddest of it all. Zac would have expected the cities to have been warned, to have at least been given the time to try and run, but no. Zac had concluded that The Free World had decided if it went down, the populace would go down with it. The question was why, and Charm had explained that too. “It’s simple politics, Zac,” he’d said. “If you assume central government endures, the fewer people they have to corral back into their way of thinking, the better for them. A city-load of angry, homeless folk is hardly likely to look kindly on their government as the effects of the apocalypse hit home, so to speak. No,” he’d then concluded, “better that most of them die,” and die they had.
For now, Zac’s crew had food. For now, they had fuel, guns and ammunition. For now, they were comfortable—their position in the new world was looking favorable, and as he rode toward the mountains, he thanked Charm for that.
Christmas town was twenty-odd miles up the valley—a good way away from the devastation. It would be interesting to see how folks there had taken the news; most would have danced in the streets.
A few miles away from the freeway and the foothills fell away, the floor of the valley opening up. There were now fields on either side, overlooked by farmhouse compounds, essential for security even before the annihilation of the cities. Funny thing, Zac thought, maybe the lands outside the city had already been prepared, maybe the lawlessness of the past few years had already geared it up. Not a sole stirred—or showed themselves. The whole valley began to give Zac a strange uneasy feeling. He drew alongside Loser and waved him to pull over. Loser gave him the thumbs up and the truck slowed. Noodle and Billy pulled up, to
o.
“What’s up?” Noodle asked.
“Nothing. I don’t know, just a strange feeling,” Zac confessed.
“There’s a heavy heart blowing the wind,” said Noodle. “Death is still on the air,” then his eyes glinted, and he and Billy laughed.
“I would have thought the noise of the bikes would have roused someone,” Zac said, “that a flag or two would have been waving by now, something, anything.”
Noodle laughed. “It’s been a little while since you’ve been up here, Zac. The world was a place where trust was rarely earned even before the city was annihilated, any odds you like it’s gone now. Nope, that trust is gonna have to be earned all over again.”
“Either dead or hiding,” Spritzer reckoned.
“Okay,” and Zac lit a smoke and passed one to Billy. “Loser, we got a ramp?”
“You want to ride up here?”
“Shotgun. A free pair of hands, in case we encounter any trouble.”
“Sure, I gotta ramp,” and he jumped out of the truck.
Zac sidled up to Billy and Noodle while Spritzer helped Loser with the bike. “What’s his story?” he asked Noodle in barely a whisper.
“Loser? Bit of a loner. Joined about ten years ago. Came down from the north, some northern charter or affiliate—I can’t remember the name. Keeps himself to himself, but always does a good job.”
“So, not much then.”
Noodle took a drag on Zac’s smoke. “You know me, Zac, I only go where the fun is.”
“I take it he ain’t no fun.”
“You seen any sign of it?” Noodle patted Zac on the back before hopping back on his bike. “Enjoy the ride.”
Zac unslung his gun and jumped in the cab. Winding the window down, he rested the barrel on the sill and his boots on the dash. Loser got in and slammed the door before asking, “You set?” and pulling away. Loser soon sat back in his seat, one hand on the wheel, and looked at Zac. “This for security or a chat?”
“Bit of both.”
“Well, we got an hour—what d’you wanna know? May as well spit it out as dance around it.”
“Just want to know how come you got a seat at the table so fast.”
Loser grunted. “Should have probably asked Grimes. He’s the one who invited me to sit.” He leaned over the wheel, arms slumped around it, his chin almost resting on it. “Take into account that it’s no official position,” he glanced over at Zac, “just a seat at the minute.”
“At the minute?”
“Well, you probably noticed we’re a bit thin on numbers…”
Zac hadn’t, but now he thought about it… “I suppose, but then you’ve got to realize it’s a long time since I’ve been to a clubhouse.”
“Ten years?”
“All of that. A few meets in a warehouse, a tunnel, you know, you’ve been to a few.”
“True that. Well, there’re thirty-odd in Christmas, Beat-box, Spit and Bojangles to name but a few—so that’s a good proportion. Then there’s a few over the other valleys, some holding tight and reporting back, others having…molded in.”
“Gone native,” Zac joked.
“Aye,” but not a sign of mirth broke Loser’s demeanor. “Happens to the best of them.” He sighed. “So you see, seats at the table are fairly easy to find.”
Zac looked over at him. He was fairly sure the man wanted to be underestimated, just didn’t understand why. “Grimes would rather have an empty seat than a freewheeler. I’m guessing you earned it somewhere along the way.”
“Guess I just might have,” then he peered through the windshield. “There’s something up ahead.”
The road skewed around a vast rocky outcrop, from the top of which jutted out some broken and buckled metal. A body hung from the wreckage by what looked like seat straps, and as Zac scrutinized the scene, it became clear what he was looking at. “Helicopter,” he muttered.
“Military? Looks wrong for military, though.”
“Military get up in this valley much?”
“Never seen ‘em. Mostly they’re in the valley next to Morton. That’s where they’ve got their bases—old and new.”
“New?”
“Like Grimes said, mighty lot of building’s been going on the last few years. Cement and resin—used up most everything they could get their hands on. Whatever they’ve built up there, it’s been taking all their time.”
Zac nodded toward the wreckage. “So what was that doing?”
Loser pulled over. Billy stopped alongside.
“Want me to go take a look?” Loser offered.
“Why not? Matter of fact, I’ll join you. Could do with stretching my legs.”
Loser reached behind the seats and pulled out an automatic, clicked the safety and got out of the truck. “Must have been the EMP, but why the hell was a ‘copter flying around in the middle of a nuke boxing match?”
Zac looked up at the bluff. It was about forty feet high, a path leading up from the road. He guessed it was some kind of crossing point. Billy had by now skipped off the road and onto the path, climbing up, gun in hand, Noodle following. Zac looked at Loser, who held out his hand, as if to say “After you”.
“Spritzer, you guard the bikes,” Zac muttered as he got out of the truck and started up the path.
The ground was dry underfoot, scrunching, the loose gravel almost slippery. Tufts of grass clung to the broken rock which bordered the path, slips and falls a seemingly regular occurrence. Stronger rock showed through in places, though, yellowed and veined. Zac trailed his free hand along it as he made his way up the path, hunched over, gun in the other hand. Billy neared the top and crouched down, his free hand telling them to slow down, to be silent. Zac crept forward, keeping his breath quiet and even, and nudged past Noodle before drawing alongside Billy. “What’s up?” he hissed.
The outcrop turned out to be the end of what looked like a natural dam across the valley, but one the river had cut its way through on their side. It was tree-covered for the most part, giving way to grazing, fences and corrals holding sheep and cattle. At the center of this, a palisade fence hemmed in a circular compound, punctuated by four watchtowers. A body was plain to see, hanging out of one of the towers, then Zac noticed a few of the sheep weren’t moving and some of the cows were lying down, unnaturally still. At the edge of the other end of the bluff lay another helicopter pilot, clearly dead.
“What the fuck happened here?” Noodle muttered.
Loser stood up and walked past the three of them. “The dead don’t hurt anyone,” he said and marched out onto the bluff itself. Billy held Zac back.
“If he wants to be a stupid bastard, let him.”
Kneeling by the dead pilot, Loser soon called over, “This one’s been shot—long range by the look of it, and I’m going out on a limb here, but no more than a day ago.”
Billy jumped up onto the grass and scrambled to join Loser, then went on to the wreckage of the helicopter and rummaged around, kicking at the debris. “Definitely exploded before it crashed. There’s crap sprayed all about.”
“But it don’t explain them,” Loser shouted, staring down at all the dead livestock.
Billy pointed to a steel tube sticking out of the ground. It was six or so feet long with a line of holes along its length. He grabbed his neckerchief from his pocket and covered his nose, then swiftly marched back toward the path. Loser appeared to grasp the meaning and scuttled around, too. Zac turned to Noodle, but he was already on his toes, racing back to the road.
Billy caught up with Zac, hurriedly bundling him along.
“Best guess,” he said, once they were back at the truck. “Poison. The army was spraying poison,” and Billy tied the neckerchief tighter around his nose.
“You think that’s gonna save you, Billy?” Noodle said.
“It can’t hurt.”
Noodle hesitated, then pulled up his own. He looked at Zac, raising his palms in the air. Jumping back in the truck, Zac fumbled in his own pockets
.
“So, what do you think? The army out to kill us all?” Loser asked as he started the truck’s engine.
Zac pulled his neckerchief down, a few seconds enough for him. He pulled out a smoke instead. Lighting it, he thought, then reckoned, “Culling, maybe that. Whatever they were up to, someone up and shot them down.”
“Makes little sense. Nathan said the wind was seaward.”
“Maybe the army doesn’t know that. Maybe they’re just sweeping a band of land,” Zac pointed out, but stopped himself saying anything more. Guessing was the root of all evil, as far as he was concerned.
“Can’t see a picture with just one bit of the puzzle in your hand.”
“True, that,” Zac replied, and rested his boots back on the dash as they set off up the valley again.
Once past the bluff the valley closed in on them and the road climbed onto its side as the river dominated its floor. The river torrent was now white and angry, its course carved deeply into the bare rock. The road snaked back and forth for a while, gaining height, and at its top, Billy pulled into what looked like a lay-by which was probably once a viewing point for taking in the majesty of the valley’s length sweeping away below.
Billy jumped off his bike and ambled over to a post on which rested a large and heavy-looking pair of binoculars. He peered into them, sweeping them up and down the valley, then beckoned them all over. Noodle took the first turn, whistling as he swung his view up the valley. “Looks like he got a bit of spraying done before getting shot down.”
Zac didn’t need to look. He leaned on the steel rail which kept viewers safe from the sheer drop below the point. “Loser, when did Grimes decide to hole up in the hotel?”
“Last minute…well, that morning. He’d had the place prepared but always intended to go to Christmas.”
“What made him change his mind?”
“He didn’t trust you to get out in time. At first I was just supposed to drop the bikes and then come up here, but he became more and more uneasy about the whole thing. So he just chose the hotel.”
“Didn’t trust me?”
