The ‘Delicate’ Duchess of LaSalle
Honking horns are met with gunfire, the people in charge of the toll booth taking the noise as an affront to their authority. A lavender flag emblazoned with a winged rat symbol has been erected on top of the immense structure, the fabric twitching in gentle wind. To prevent people from going around, there are spike-covered fences running for several miles down the road on both sides of the toll booth. The interstate is flanked by two tanks, each one on a ramped dais raised high enough to let them shoot over the other barriers. Armed men and women walk along the top of the flat building and shout traffic updates to those who are attempting to do business with the irate drivers. People are trading various items for a clearance flag to put on their dashboard, the colorful trinket used in case of a return trip. Only a few people are trading in their roundtrip tokens while the rest are passing through for the first time or have lost the flag during their travels. Even with such a chaotic atmosphere, the line moves fairly quickly and those honking are made to wait even longer.
“This is so strange,” Cassidy whispers, their jeep inching along. Poking her head out the window, she can see another driver arguing with the toll taker. “Almost like it was back in the old days. They’ve even made a lane that curves around the booth, which you can use with a special pass. We might want to look into getting one of those in the future. My mom had one, but I forgot to take it out of the apartment. The roundtrip flag is enough for now. What are you thinking about?”
“Feels like it’s been a while since we had an adventure together. At least two chapters’ worth if I had to guess,” Lloyd replies as he clips his toenails. The look of disgust and confusion he receives does nothing to stop his grooming. “Never mind. I have to admit that this place feels out of place. Unless we stumbled into an old comedy film, but I don’t see any cowboys on horseback. Forget what I said. I’ve seen stranger since you broke me out. This mess is downright entrepreneurial.”
The blonde chuckles as the jeep rolls forward, her eyes squinting at the fuel gauge that is nearing the halfway mark. “Betting they offer fuel up there too. Traffic like this can waste gas, especially during the winter and late summer. There’s a breeze now, but I imagine tensions being high and hard decisions being made if opening the window isn’t an option. Good thing we stocked up in the last town.”
“My first taste of bounty hunting and I was unimpressed,” her companion declares, tossing his clippings out the window. They land on the driver of a convertible who curses at Lloyd, stopping only when a machete slides out of the jeep to threaten a tire. “We caught the guy in an hour. Just went into the bar, said boo, and chased him around town. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were toying with him.”
“He was only a food thief and he had a kid. No reason to make him suffer.”
“That doesn’t explain why you walked after him.”
“Because running a marathon after having the flu is a bad idea. I needed to keep him scared, so I followed with confidence.”
“Somebody watched a lot of horror movies as a kid.”
“Says the man wielding a machete.”
“It’s an easily purchased weapon that is bigger than a butcher knife and less noticeable than a big sword.”
Shouting from the rooftop draws their attention to the armed guards, all of them waving at one of the tanks. Horns blare as progress is stopped and bullets fly toward a van that has been driving on the wrong side of the fence. The shooters are trying to hit the tires, none of them knowing if it is a true breach or an accident. Requests to stop and warnings about the tank erupt from megaphones, but the driver only sticks a middle finger out the window. The sliding door of the van opens, allowing a woman and two children to jump out. A dog follows them and barely avoids getting run over before racing back to the smarter members of its family. With a resounding boom, the nearest tank fires and blows the back end of the van off. The front rolls and skids to a stop, the crazed driver scrambling out of the wreckage. As if unaware of what he has done, the man wanders back to where his loved ones are waiting with the dog. They are swiftly surrounded by guards and brought to the toll booth where they disappear through a dented door.
There are no more incidents and the cars seem to be moving faster than before, the tank’s display of power scaring everyone into behaving. Cassidy turns on the CD player and makes it loud enough for some of the nearby drivers to sing along. Their entertainment stops when they hear a song about a car crash, the topic a little too close to reality for them. Uninterested in the music, Lloyd rummages through their supplies for a snack without knowing what he wants. Like a child, he frowns at whatever he rejects and whimpers a few times in frustration. Sensing that the noise is annoying Cassidy, he throws in an occasional sigh and high-pitched, wordless whining. He grins at the blonde when she taps her handgun, which has become a friendly tease instead of an actual threat. Claiming two granola bars, Lloyd offers one to the young woman and accepts the canteen of cool water that is still dripping from the ice chest.
“I’m thinking of giving them some of the medicine you got for us,” Cassidy admits as they get within one car of the booth. She watches Lloyd swallow a pill from one of his unmarked bottles, the stash kept in a bag beneath his seat. “Not whatever you seem to be taking twice a day. Just some aspirin, cough syrup, and whatever else we have two or three of. Do you mind telling me what you’re enjoying?”
“Mom always told me to take my vitamins and your journey has inspired me to honor her memory,” Lloyd replies with a smirk. The aftertaste of the drug makes him shudder and he scratches at one of his scars. “Good idea with the medicine. That might even get us one of those big passes.”
“Those aren’t really vitamins.”
“Nope, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“You should tell me what they are.”
“Experimental and leave it at that, Cass.”
“Don’t call me that. All those who called me Cass are dead or assholes.”
The jeep rolls into the toll booth where a gate falls in its path with a startling clang. Two heavily armed guards step out to aim their weapons at the pair while a young woman with a clipboard approaches the travelers. She is about to hop onto the side where Lloyd is sitting, but his crooked smile unnerves her. The brunette goes around the front of the jeep to find an irritable woman tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. With a shared laugh, the guards watch the toll taker nervously figure out which person is the least threatening. After half a minute, Cassidy slams her hands on the dashboard and raises her hand.
“Your business is your own,” the brunette declares to avoid a lengthy conversation. She checks her list of needed supplies and peers into the backseat of the jeep. “We require food, water, and ammunition. Those three items will get you the roundtrip flag. The yearly pass can be purchased for half of your battery supply or any useful electronics. For example, the CD player would be much appreciated.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Cassidy replies with a predatory smirk. She grabs a bottle of aspirin and shows it to the toll taker, the other woman’s eyes widening. “We came into possession of some medical supplies. There’s a lot of extras that we’d be willing to give you for a roundtrip or yearly pass. Perhaps we can make a deal that involves us making deliveries and you not sticking us in traffic.”
Having never been prepared for such a deal, the young woman helplessly looks to the guards for advice. One of the armed men ducks into the shack while his companion makes an urgent call on his walkie-talkie. Cassidy and Lloyd are surprised to see the other gates open to allow the congestion to pass through without being stopped. Most of the drivers realize that they are moving on without a flag, but the relief of not having to surrender supplies is worth the future headache. Within ten minutes, both sides of the toll booth have been cleared of traffic. The tanks roll off their pedestals to prevent anyone from approaching the building, their turrets turning to aim at the cor
nered jeep. When the gates slam down, all of the guards surround the travelers and click the safeties off their weapons.
“What the fuck happened?” Cassidy asks, keeping her hands on the steering wheel.
“Maybe they’re Christian Scientists and the medicine was an insult.”
“Shut the fuck up, Lloyd.”
*****
A chorus of trumpets announce the Duchess of LaSalle’s arrival as she steps out from behind an ornamental curtain. Her guests get a brief look at the solid wall at her back, which makes them wonder if she has been hiding there for hours. The fancy woman is wearing a burgundy dress with a large skirt and golden embroidery, the fabric complimenting her dark purple hair. Faint bulges in the clothing reveal the presence of bulletproof padding around her vitals. Using her handgun to adjust the bowler on her head, the warlord takes a seat in front of the two travelers. For a brief moment, the woman seems distressed and takes off her hat to check for the bent raven’s feather that is kept in the emerald-colored band. Snapping her fingers at a servant, she has him retrieve the fallen decoration and reattaches it with the use of the man’s chewing gum.
Having turned the Hegler Carus Mansion into her base, the Duchess carries the air of a noble. She seems at home among the Victorian stencils and beautiful artwork, which she has kept in pristine condition. A small table is between herself and her guests, a lace covering draped over the badly dented surface. Within minutes, a fancy tea kettle is brought out and two chipped cups are filled through a strainer. Milk, sugar, and lemon are placed on the table, but the center is left open for a platter of biscuits.
“No need to wait for me. I have a special brew being made in the back,” the pleasant warlord says, keenly watching her guests struggle to figure out the proper combination for their drink. She shudders at the sight of Cassidy having her tea with nothing added, but Lloyd’s attempt to add milk and sugar puts the woman at ease. “My name is Katie and I’m in charge of this territory. I’m sorry about the rudeness of my people, but they got excited over the prospect of medicine. Such a rare commodity that we tend to lose our head around it. May I ask for your names and how you came into possession of those pills?”
“I’m Cassidy and this is Lloyd,” the blonde replies, keenly aware of the armed guards watching her. There is a lot of tension in the room, most of which seems to be directed toward their host. “I got sick in the Illinois plague swamp and made it to a hospital. They needed medicine, so Lloyd went to South Bend for supplies. Long story short, he killed a bunch of people and made the deal. Pardon my rudeness, but what’s with the tea and the . . . Britishness of the place?”
“Because I’m trying to make this place feel like home,” Katie explains, claiming a few biscuits to nibble on. Her blue eyes light up when she sees a man step into the room, her heart sinking when he turns back around. “I came over here to become an international actress. Easy to do since you yanks love our accent. Got a few small roles and was about to have a big break when the bloody collapse happened. Not famous enough to get out or form a cult or whatever else the big names did to survive, I wandered around the country until reaching LaSalle about five years ago. I used my natural charm, determination, and take charge attitude to become the leader of this town. Now we’re prospering more than Chicago. All because I’m making this place more like my homeland. Left side driving, metric system, tea time, and only getting pizza by the pie are only some of the reasons why we’re surviving here. Not to mention the toll booth, pilfering a military installation for equipment, and hiring a team of engineers to revive the Carus plant. All done in the British way, I assure you.”
“Why don’t you have an accent?” Cassidy interrupts, slurping down the last of her drink. A cold ale is placed in front of her, the manservant figuring that the young woman would prefer it over another cup of tea. “Thanks. Look, I believe nearly everything you say. I’m just not buying the British thing because I don’t hear your accent.”
“Maybe the storyteller sucks at writing accents,” Lloyd interjects, grinning at the blank stares he receives. Taking his tea like a tequila shot, the killer notices that their host keeps trying to examine him out of the corner of her eye. “Never mind. I believe she’s British and it’s rude to question your host. Especially one with tanks and other military-made surprises. Do I have something on my face?”
“Sorry, but I just realized who you are,” the warlord replies, reaching into her pocket for an old printout of her acting credits. Holding it up for Lloyd, she points to one line that makes the man smirk. “I played your third victim in the TV biopic. My first . . . only semi-big role, which I’m very proud of. Although I was alone in the single scene that I had until I was killed off-camera, so I never got to work with any of the other cast members. They were thinking of making a series about a fictional murderer based on you. I was up for a female villain, but the bloody part went to this Oscar winner who wanted a break from movies. Jokes on her since the collapse happened a few days after she signed the contract. So how can I get more medicine from you?”
A man with Katie’s tea hurries across the room, his hair a mess as if he had a battle with the kettle. From the stains on his white shirt, one has to wonder if the manservant knows what he is doing in the kitchen. With an undeserved sense of superiority, the man proudly hands the drink to his employer and takes a step back. Katie takes one sip before immediately drawing a sawed-off shotgun from under the table and blasting him in the chest. Tossing the weapon onto the table, she gets to her feet and pours the disgusting tea onto the bleeding corpse.
“The tea leaves are still in the bloody cup, Jude!” Katie shouts at the body. Hiking up her skirt to reveal polished boots, she leans over and continues yelling at the dead man. “I’ve told you time and again to use a strainer. Also, I know you put powdered milk and artificial sugar in my drink. That shite makes my stomach hurt and I can get a rash. Dammit, Jude, I didn’t want to have to kill you. Yet you insisted on being so stupid. Now, I’m yelling at your corpse in front of my guests. You just keep making things worse for yourself. Guess you’ll never learn how to improve. Ugh, his eyes are still open.” She draws her handgun and puts two bullets into his face instead of closing his eyelids. “Much better. Now we were discussing you two bringing me and my people medicine.”
“I want your babies,” Lloyd mutters low enough only for Cassidy to hear him. The blonde woman elbows him in the ribs and shakes her head, but he scoffs at the warning. “I like a woman who kills without hesitation and makes an entertaining show of it. I mean, it was just so random and surprising with the right amount of flair. Not to mention she has the sexist murderous sparkle in her eyes that I’ve seen outside of a mirror. There’s a vicious fire in her that I want to see more of. Reminds me of you, but not in a little sister kind of way. Oh, and don’t bring up Emily because that’s a different type of psycho. Specifically one that wanted to kill me.”
Cassidy leans closer to whisper, “Isn’t there a rule that you don’t put your dick in crazy?”
“It doesn’t count if the owner of said dick is insane as well.”
“That actually sounds like it would be worse.”
“Depends on which end of the knife you’re on.”
Katie returns to the table and accepts a cup of tea from a maid, the young woman nervously waiting to see if she can get out of the room alive. She breathes a sigh of relief when the warlord nods and waves her away. The three diners remain silent as the body is dragged out and a group of people in biohazard suits arrive to clean the mess. Within minutes, the room is spotless and two more cold beers have been placed on the table.
“I apologize for that outburst, but the man needed to be taught a lesson,” Katie states while taking off her hat and checking it for blood. Only her skirt has been marked with a few spots of gore, which she casually wipes away with a napkin. “Being a woman in charge of such a profitable territory means I have to remind people not to mess with me. Now every person who works in my operation wil
l know what happens to those who continually cross me. Jude could have saved himself by improving his skills and being less of a twat. I’m sure you understand my plight, Cassidy. There’s a lot of people out there who think being a woman in the Shattered States means you’re easy prey. Between you and me, I actually prefer it that way since it means I’m underestimated.”
“I fully agree,” Lloyd answers, reaching out to take the warlord by the hand. Seeing her other hand move for a weapon, he diverts his grip to one of the beers and takes a long drink from the icy glass. “People should respect you for your actions and personality. I mean, so what if a strong woman gets into a relationship? That shouldn’t be seen as a weakness because humans are social creatures. You never hear people complaining that a strong male in a relationship loses his edge or is damaged as a character. Also, what about a lesbian couple? Do both of them become weak because of the relationship or only one of them? Are male homosexual couples simply immune to this social perspective? In other words, I totally understand that you feel like you have to keep proving yourself. Just know that those who really love you will always see your true strength.”
“I don’t have a bloody clue what he’s talking about,” the confused warlord says, turning to Cassidy for an answer. Her face keeps switching from a scowl to a smile, the expression depending on if she is considering the odd speech a compliment or an insult. “There was never a relationship between me and that twat I put a few bullets into. Where did that idea even come from? Do you know what he means?”
“Lloyd has a crush on you and the voices in his head, which he calls the audience, are telling him that a relationship would weaken their interest in you,” Cassidy says as if she knows exactly what her friend is talking about. A pang of shame flickers over her face when she considers that she might be right and can easily decipher Lloyd’s ramblings. “As you can see, he’s not very good with women. Honestly, this is the most romantic I’ve seen him. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Wait, that’s the beer, which I’m going to be mainlining if things get any sappier around here.”
Crossing Bedlam Page 16
