by Sean Platt
The crowd had given them wide berth, and everyone was watching.
Willem threw his hands in the air and yelled, “Are you fucking stupid?”
The Ranger backhanded him across the face, dropping the old man to the dirt. The other Rangers ran towards the pair.
Pascal raced to intervene.
Though Willem had fallen behind his table and Pascal could no longer see him, he watched the first Ranger raise his foot and kick the man.
No one yelled for their comrade to stop, so surely they must be rushing to join him.
“Halt!” Pascal shouted.
Everyone in earshot turned to Pascal.
The Rangers stopped, the first to strike Willem red-faced — anger or embarrassment of being caught, Pascal wasn’t yet sure.
“Stand down!” he said, closing in on them.
Two of the younger Rangers moved to intercept — Pascal was out of uniform and likely being seen as yet another threat. He didn’t recognize either of the men, and that lack of identification went both ways.
One of the two young Rangers raised his sword.
The third was an older man named Alex. Recognizing Pascal, he yelled for the younger men to stand down.
The Ranger reluctantly sheathed his sword.
Pascal approached Willem and offered his hands, helping the old man to stand. He pointed to a big bruise under Willem’s left eye. “What happened?”
“He didn’t show his license when asked!” answered the blond in a high-pitched voice.
Pascal looked from the blond to Alex, who rolled his eyes.
He turned back to the blond and poked him in the chest. “We check licenses at the gate. Why are you hassling this man for his? He’s been coming here longer than you’ve had hair on your sack.”
“I was just doing my job!”
Pascal smacked the kid across the face. He appeared stunned, angry, then humiliated as he looked to his mates for help that would never be coming.
“Since when is hitting and kicking an old man part of your job?” Pascal challenged him, spittle flying from his lip. “Was he a threat to you?”
“You weren’t here. You don’t know what happened.”
The blond flinched as Pascal grabbed him by the throat and soaked into his memories, feeling the rush that accompanied his uncontrolled rage.
Pascal saw the entire incident. Willem had done nothing, unless insulting the Ranger was a genuine offense.
“I was there,” Pascal said as he let the kid go. “And I also saw the supplies you stole from Fortress, which I’ll be passing along to your superiors. You are relieved of duty, Jimmy.”
Jimmy looked at Alex. The older Ranger shrugged.
His face twisted up into an ugly snarl. “Fuck you!”
Pascal punched Jimmy in the throat, sending him back, gasping for air. Then he turned his back on the former Ranger and spoke to Alex. “Make sure that Willem is okay and that Jimmy is gone from Hope Springs by the time I walk back by here.”
“Yes, sir,” Alex said.
Pascal left Jimmy whining, walking past the onlookers, citizens and mostly nomadic merchants at their stalls, headed toward the permanent storefronts.
He entered the small shop, passing shelves and cases displaying weapons and light armor, until he reached the counter in the rear where he could see through to the back room where Declan was standing over his workbench, replacing a crossbow’s arrow retention spring.
“Hey, Declan.” Pascal made his way past the counter and into the back.
Declan stepped away from his work to shake the Ranger’s hand. “Hey, Pascal, did you have an order for the cadets?”
“I came about something else.”
Declan nodded: Go on …
“I know you had that girl Charlotte working on your wife’s wedding ring. She’d come here the other night but we were still on lockdown so I couldn’t let her in. She’d fixed the piece, though. Was quite proud, in fact. But the next morning she and her father wore robbed.” Pascal looked down. “They killed him.”
“Gods! Is she okay?”
“Yes, but I think Mary’s wedding ring is gone.”
Declan swiped at the air with his oversized hand. “It’s okay. Mary never much liked that one, anyway. I’ll make her another.”
“Listen, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”
Declan nodded. “Sure thing. What do you need?”
Pascal arrived back home to find Val and Charlotte sitting in the living room. Val was on the couch and Charlotte was curled up on the love seat, buried to her neck in a blanket.
Back before The Event, people could congregate in the living room passing time while watching TV. But now sitting in silence together was less common. People preferred to talk or play games. Or, in some cases, read.
Pascal carried the gift, which he’d had wrapped in butcher paper, to Charlotte. “Someone wanted me to give this to you.”
She looked up at him, a glint of curiosity in her eyes as she reached up and took the long, narrow package.
She tore at the wrapping, saw the dark oak staff, and smiled. Realizing it was the exact staff she’d been eyeing, her eyes moistened with tears.
“But I lost his wife’s ring.”
“It’s okay, Declan said he’d make her another.”
She held the staff in both hands, adjusting her grip. Pascal could feel the slightest shift, Charlotte perhaps grasping for her first attempt to reclaim the power that had been taken away from her.
Val came over to stand next to him. “Pascal can teach you to use it. He trains all the Ranger Cadets.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Pascal said.
Charlotte bowed. “Thank you.”
Twenty-Two
Olivia Freeman
Olivia saw Elijah off to school as Richmond finished his morning meditation with Brother Serenity in the monastery garden.
After Elijah left, Olivia did her morning routine, running along their neighborhood streets. Richmond would be upset that she had gone out without an escort. Things had been getting ever more dangerous. But living with omnipresent security made her look weak. Plus, few Rangers could keep up with her speed.
She’d run all her life, and hated when people slowed her down, by idle conversation or gait.
She carried a blade, but wasn’t too worried about being attacked. And if someone meant her harm, they’d probably come at her strong — a lone Ranger wouldn’t make much of a difference.
It was best to go out on her own.
Jogging alone had the added benefit of helping Olivia to clear her mind. She ran hard, and liked to push herself. She wasn’t just chasing the runner’s high, there was a clarity that only followed the exhaustion of a run.
She laughed, thinking of all the time Richmond poured into meditation and prayer with Brother Serenity. Years spent worshipping the Ancients, imaginary Gods. Sometimes she wanted to ask him why he prayed so hard; what had it ever gotten him?
But she didn’t want to disrespect his faith. Richmond had always been religious, thanks to his father, even before The Event. Prior to the world ending, religion had almost blinked from existence. It was seen as superstition at best, exploitation of the desperate at worst. Religion had been diluted over the decades, at first by belief in New Gods, then by the Reason Movement, of which Olivia was a proponent.
After The Event, the desperate ran to their old ways and older gods. The monks went from weirdoes in robes to exalted leaders that people believed could communicate with the Ancients. As if that would somehow return their loved ones.
Worst of all, the monks had gotten a foothold in the Coalition Cities’ government. Brother Serenity’s influence on the Small Council had thrown a wrench in her plans to push for a more direct approach with The Slums. Olivia wasn’t as hawkish as General McTaggart — that man was hellbent on declaring war with The Slums — she didn’t like sitting around passively as bandits attacked them.
She wanted to be saf
e. That’s why Richmond’s father started the Coalition Cities, to form a network of towns that would work together against the savages that had sprung up after The Event.
Richmond was a good man, and a good husband. Even if she felt some part of him didn’t love her as much anymore, he was a good father to Elijah. Better than his own had been. Richmond Senior was a tough man who didn’t believe in coddling his son, nor expressing love ever, really. Maybe that was why Richmond had trouble communicating. Why he seemed to be withdrawing more and more into Pillar, instead of facing their marital issues head on.
Sometimes she wished that Richmond could be more like his father. He lacked drive. He took peace for granted because he’d never had to attain it.
Olivia wasn’t sure if he truly understood how terrible people could be, or if his drug of choice was making him lazy.
As she ran along the farthest west wall, through a wooded park, Olivia’s anger at their present situation pushed her to run even harder. Anger not just at Richmond’s inability to get information from Slum Lord, but also anger that it was her station to back his public positions.
She hated always having to slowly work him behind the scenes to finally land on the proper point of view. She shouldn’t have to politic her own damned husband. He didn’t even want the damned job.
Olivia should be mayor.
She pushed herself even faster, anger fueling her to go harder and faster, a rage she was tired of burying for appearances, or for her marriage.
By the time she got back home, Olivia had made up her mind — she was going to stop burying her frustration. She would be more direct with Richmond, in private and in public.
And if he didn’t like it, well …
What was she going to do, leave? She loved him, even if she was no longer in love. Even if she had nothing in common with the man she once knew. They were family and they had a son together. They were running the city in tandem, arguably the most influential of the Coalition Cities. With such an uncertain future, the things they did in the rebuilding phase of society mattered more than ever.
They were creating history that would be talked about for hundreds of years — assuming The Ruins didn’t spread again and destroy them all. Assuming there would be more children and generations to follow. And given the infertility problem that had begun long before The Event, future generations were already iffy.
She’d heard of people in the shanty town and in The Wilds having more luck, which seemed like some kind of cosmic joke. That the people least able to care for their offspring had better luck procreating than those living in the more civilized parts of the world.
She entered the house to find Richmond in the kitchen, dressed in his suit.
“What’s going on?”
“Where’s your escort?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“Don’t start.”
“Olivia, we—” Richmond stopped, knowing it was a pointless argument. His expression turned serious. “We’ve got a meeting.”
“I don’t recall a meeting.” Had there been another attack?
“We have a visitor. From Stratum.”
Twenty-Three
Wolf
Old City
* * *
Hooves echoed along the cracked road and off the buildings as Wolf and Brother Truth rode down the center of Main Street.
Old City, once a shining metropolis of commerce and the state’s wealthiest area, was now a ghost town, and part of The Ruins. It started working its way into memory a moment after The Event. According to local legend, everyone inside had instantly vanished. Wolf couldn’t remember dick about The Event or his life before it.
Cars packed the streets, exactly where they’d been unintentionally abandoned after the vanishing. Wolf and other scavengers had stripped many vehicles, but plenty still remained, waiting to be picked clean of steel, glass, electronics, leather, and whatever else they could mine from the old metal husks. Nature had reclaimed the world and scrubbed humanity’s handprints away. Vegetation bled through cracks in the concrete, taking over large swaths of roadside and creeping up the buildings.
Storefronts with window displays were smashed to bits, likely among the first buildings to be sacked by those brave, or dumb, enough to enter The Ruins. The first scavengers mostly became part of The Lost.
Skyscrapers towered above them, lost in an amethyst mist as the streets stayed eerily silent. They had yet to see wildlife, let alone people — or used-to-be humans.
The Lost traveled in packs, and were often stuck in alleyways or holing up in buildings, walking in circles like shambling idiots, trapped in some ancient wired routine that had stopped mattering ages ago.
In his past ventures into The Ruins, salvaging or escorting folks, Wolf had mostly passed by the still-breathing abominations without incident. So long as no one looked into their eyes, The Lost weren’t much of a threat.
“So,” Wolf said, “why Truth? Was Brother BigCock already taken?”
He shook his head. “I do not wish to tell that story.”
“Okay, Scoob. I can appreciate a good mystery.” Wolf patted his horse on its mane. “Say, Wilbur, why do they call you Wilbur? Is it because of that shitty TV show?”
He answered for his horse in a whinnying voice. “My name is Wilbur, not Mr. Ed, asshole.”
Wolf looked thoughtful. “True. But Mr. Ed’s name wasn’t even Mr. Ed. It was Bamboo Harvester, and there was a stunt double named Pumpkin.”
He glanced at Brother Truth. The monk was clearly unamused, and equally unimpressed.
“So did all you fri-guys take a vow against laughter? Not a single one of you assholes can fuck with a joke.”
No response.
“What’s with all the tattoos? You lose a bet? Hate your parents? I once dated a girl who hated her daddy enough to ink the words ‘slut puppet’ on her forehead.”
Still nothing.
That last memory was a surprise. He wasn’t making it up, but couldn’t remember the woman’s name, or where he had known her from. Not even when.
Long before the end of the world, that much was for sure.
More than all those years away, the memory felt like it had somehow happened somewhere else, and to a different version of Wolf entirely. An impossible thought, like most of the knotted hypotheses he tried to untangle.
Wolf looked down Main Street. They had another couple of miles, according to Truth, deeper than Wolf had ever been into The Ruins. Brother Path had last been spotted at a temple where he’d gone off on his own to find some artifact, something Brother Truth had refused to reveal.
“I can keep kicking it with Jay if you’re gonna keep on playing Silent Bob.”
Brother Truth looked at him, and Wolf was sure he had no idea who either of those people were. That happened a lot; it was like half the motherfuckers in and around this place were all suffering from collective amnesia.
“Let me guess … you already talked to someone yesterday?”
After a long moment, the monk finally spoke. “I have nothing to say.”
“Shit, man, they should have named you Brother Words … because you, my friend, are struggling with them. Maybe Brother Speak or Brother Conversation? Brother Personality might work, because fuck if anyone can ever find one.”
Still nothing.
“Alright, I get it, you chill harder than I party. But come on, man, it’s been a long ride and I’m just trying to get to know you.”
Brother Truth looked at Wolf as though he’d finally said something reasonable. “What do you want to know?”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Why’d you become a monk? How old were you when you joined?”
“I was a gutter rat in shanty town, using my powers to steal from an early age, to feed myself and some other kids in the town. But one day I stole from the wrong person and he did this.”
Truth raised the sleeve on his robe and showed Wolf a thick scar on his right wrist. “H
e took me out near The Ruins, cut my hand off and left me to die. Fortunately, I was saved by a monk who took me in and cured me. He offered me a new life, a purpose beyond survival.”
“What is your power?”
Brother Truth opened his mouth, but then he held his tongue. “Perhaps another time.”
“So that’s it, you’re gonna tickle my dick and then put it away?”
The monk said nothing.
“Seriously? You’re keeping that shit to yourself? You don’t think I deserve to know — what if we get into a jam in this place?”
Another long beat of silence until Wolf had to break it. “Fine, then. I won’t tell you mine.”
“I already know yours.”
“Oh, do you now?” Wolf looked at the monk. “What is it, then?”
Brother Truth turned to him, straight-faced. “You can’t shut the hell up.”
Wolf laughed.
And Brother Truth finally cracked a smile.
“Wow, maybe you do have a personality!”
But then Truth’s smile faded and he was back to playing stoic.
Either the monk had earned it, or he was right and Wolf couldn’t stop talking. Either way, he said, “I don’t have one major power like most of the Alts. I’m like a Renaissance man when it comes to my powers. A one-man Justice League. Fuck that, a one-man Avengers. No,” Wolf shook his head, “fuck that, too. I mean the X-Men. I’m stronger and faster and more agile than most, plus I heal like Wolverine. Given the sheer number of times I should’ve died, I might be immortal.”
Brother Truth shook his head. “No man is immortal.”
“Maybe I’m not a man. I’m also immune to whatever is going on in The Ruins. How is it that you monks ain’t affected? Is it because you’re all diddled?”
Truth didn’t respond.
So Wolf begrudgingly corrected himself. “I mean, Touched?”
“We have evolved, similar to you. Not all of us are Touched, and not all Touched may enter The Ruins. Only a select few. But we can all evolve through other means.”
