by T. K. Malone
The ultramarine sky was dotted with stars, clear and peaceful. Zac pushed himself up and swung his feet out, rolling onto the gravelly ground. The smell of oil was pervasive, coming from an old overturned barrel. Twisted metal, lumps of stone, mesh and muddle surrounded it, the discarded waste of an obese city rising in heaps all around. Zac got to his feet. A quick look around, and he bolted to one of the piles, blending with its haphazard outline. Billy followed, gun at his side.
“We getting met?” Billy asked.
“Aye.”
Zac skirted the pile, then the next until he got a clear view out from the toxic belt of land around the city. He crouched as he looked toward the distant hills and mountains of the redwood forest, silhouetted against the dusk sky. Nearer to them the old freeway ran by—their destination—the intervening ground dotted with flat brush where nature had tried to claim back some dignity from the waste. He glanced behind, scanning the sky for drones against the city’s bright lights.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small, cigar-shaped golden light rising into the air. It climbed for the stars and shortened to a bright sphere diminishing in the distance. It was mesmerizing, even majestic. Another rose, following the same path, then another and another, each reducing to tiny balls of light as they shot away and finally faded.
“Are those what I think they are?” Billy asked, his voice curiously level, as though he knew exactly what he thought.
“Death,” said Zac. They looked at each other. Zac grabbed Billy’s arm. “If we don’t—”
“Yeah, I know,” Billy muttered.
“Now get running, you big lump,” and Zac turned, crouching low, and ran into the brush, his gun held as tight as his breath, Billy on his heels.
“So, who’s meeting us?” Billy shouted.
“Noodle,” and at his next glance back he saw more lights rising into the sky.
The brush was thick, knee deep, sandy colored, almost beautiful during the day, but treacherous at night. Zac didn’t use the flashlight, though, keeping his head down, his eyes peeled. Although the ground was flat, it was riddled with small creeks of almost stagnant water, the brush damp and wetting their jeans as it clung to them, whipping at their boots. Caution and time were now their enemy. The nukes were up, others no doubt coming their way. Prime had had the stones. Halfway to the road, drones broke the stillness as their guns burst into action, raking the ground behind them. Zac zigzagged, then turned and fell to one knee, firing up at them. Billy ran past, shouting “Go!”, as one of the drones exploded.
Zac jumped up, bending low as Billy’s shots zipped past him. Zac hurtled on, past Billy before crouching again and shouting “Go!” as he raised his gun.
“One all,” Billy muttered as he raced past again and another drone exploded, its ball of flame plunging to the scrub.
A burst of fire thudded along the ground toward them, and Zac rolled out of the way, a bullet tearing through his jacket. “Shit,” and he rolled onto his back, bringing his gun up and firing. “We can’t get pinned down,” he shouted.
Billy’s only reply was the rapid fire of his gun, one then two drones falling in rapid succession. “Go!” Billy shouted, and Zac shoved himself up and tore past Billy, now shouting “Three all.” And again, Zac rolled and came up on one knee, blasting away.
One after another of the drones fell as they each pulled fresh magazines out of their pockets, until Billy called, “I’m out after this.”
Just one more drone remained, hanging back. Zac knew it had learned, knew it now understood they’d have to turn and run sooner or later.
Billy sent a quick volley in its direction, but it was out of range. Zac cursed, turned and ran for the road, Billy close behind him. Then the whirr of the drone grew louder, its rotors more insistent, and Zac lengthened his stride, leaping over the bush and splashing through its creeks. The drone began firing, its bullets closing in as Zac leaped into a drainage ditch alongside the road. Billy landed next to him, the drone flying over, spinning around to take another aim. Zac’s final thoughts were of Connor, but he looked at Billy, the big man now staring right past him, the faintest of grins playing on his lips.
A sharp whooshing sound came from behind Zac, and the drone exploded, showering them in hot metal.
“Woo-hoo, now that’s what I’m talking about,” a voice cried.
“Noodle?” Billy said.
“Noodle,” Zac confirmed.
Noodle’s wiry frame rose dark above them, standing on the edge of the ditch, a rocket launcher in his hand. “Now that, gentlemen, is how you do it. But can we please get going? You know, before a nuke lands on our heads.”
Never before in his life had Zac been so happy to see Noodle. He jumped up, scrambled out of the ditch and hugged his old friend, patting him vigorously on the back.
“Long time, Zac,” Noodle said.
“Too long, brother,” and Zac slipped away from him, across the freeway. He heard Billy greet Noodle and thought how good it was to be out of the city again as he picked up his stride toward three lined-up bikes. “Low riders?” he asked.
“Aye,” Noodle said. “Loser dropped them off earlier, but shat himself when the nukes started going up, so I let him crack on out of here.”
“How long have we got?” Billy asked.
Noodle looked at his watch. “About ten minutes to put as many miles between us and that place as possible.” He looked across at the city, then up at the sky. “Tight if you ask me, but then that’s the fun, isn’t it?” and he ran for one of the bikes.
They sped off along the empty highway, Noodle leading the way. Zac smiled as the wind burned his cheeks, feeling the freedom of the open road, even if it was potholed and strewn with loose vegetation. Now one part of the bargain had been fulfilled, it was time to kick start his life again. Staying in the Black City had been pure hell, only made bearable by Billy Flynn and a bottle’s companionship. It gave him a moment to wonder where Teah was. Was she even alive? And Connor, would he make it? Would the gamble finally pay off? More importantly, would it all be worth it? Would the plan succeed? He now realized he was desperate for a smoke.
The freeway hugged the coast, running around the old bay area and its mix of abandoned bars, knickknack shops and restaurants. There were still vast signs, some looking as new as the day they were erected, promising steaks or ices, and all you could eat. Abandoned hotels and casinos nestled into the foothills on the landward side, left to decay, the days of indulgence long since passed from out here to the confines of the city.
Zac knew Noodle would head for the peninsula, but he wondered if it would be far enough away, or if they’d even get there in time. Ten minutes he’d said, and they were belting along as best they could on the broken freeway. Ahead were Billy and Noodle, messing around despite their lives being on the line. But that had always been Billy, had always been Noodle, and it used to be Zac. Josiah Charm had robbed him of that.
It had been a straight deal, no negotiation, no leeway. Though Charm had tried to play a game, Zac’s lack of interest had soon put a stop to it. The bargain? Connor’s life for his own and his friend’s, and, he suspected, somehow Teah’s destiny had also been thrown into the mix. Josiah Charm, Zac pondered as he glanced up at the sky.
Noodle took an off-ramp as Zac thought he would, though logic would have had them speeding straight into the tunnel ahead, away from ground zero, but Noodle had a history of not doing things the easy way. They sped down the ramp and wound under the freeway, then out onto the peninsula itself. Here, steep, narrow and winding roads took them between mansions that looked arrogantly seaward from their cliffside estates.
Zac noticed the others kept glancing back at the city, as he often did, at its jumble of lights across the bay, impressive even in the distance. It appeared tranquil—for now. Then a smile spread across Zac’s face.
The old Angel Bay Hotel was a vast, white-walled building that clung to the end of the peninsula. In its heyday it had been the hotel to b
e seen in. Now, as they rode up toward its entrance, Zac shook his head. Even in those days his little club had had to keep an ever-lowering profile, but they had been one of the few organizations to benefit from the walls of the city going up. They had instilled order in a created void, and now, out here, they were kings. Noodle pointed up into the sky. Two tiny golden dots were racing across it.
Zac now rued the choice of lowriders as he tried to throw his own through the tight bends the winding road had now become. Cars, caked in dirt, lined it on both sides, narrowing its throat yet farther still, its surface treacherous from windblown sand. Then they were onto a straight stretch, racing at breakneck speed toward the hotel gates.
The sky flashed white, a brilliant blast that lit the heavens themselves, then a crack came, as though the earth itself had been split asunder. Zac flinched as he stared ahead, seeing first Noodle and then Billy disappearing into a garage, then Zac was screeching to a halt beside them, a shutter door already closing behind him, soon banging shut. The ground beneath him shivered, the earth seeming to shudder in revulsion. Then someone jumped on the back of the bike, grabbing him tightly around his waist—too tight—and he sped off, down a ramp and into an underground car park.
Ahead were Noodle and Billy, the squeal of their tires still echoing in the dimness. Zac prayed they’d all gotten underground fast enough and reached up to his face, relieved it wasn’t blistering. He now dreaded the silent killer, the stealthy one that could even now be lurking in his tissue and muscle and nerve fibres. The sight of Spritzer’s big, rosy cheeks and Pauly’s olive skin and scar on his cheek pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. Then there was Tictac, Johnny and Blinky, and others he didn’t recognize, who’d all spilled out through a chipboard door in a drywall partition. Zac looked behind him, wondering who had hitched a ride, but two soft hands covered his eyes.
“Guess who?” a voice purred.
It was the wrong voice, Pogo’s and not Teah’s, though he knew the hands had felt wrong, but his heart had hoped. “Pogo,” he said, then shouted to the others, “Long time, guys!” Kicking the stand down, he got off the bike and held his arms out wide as he approached his boys, each greeting special—like a breath of home. He was soon swallowed into their press and hurried through the door.
“What do you think?” said Spritzer, his huge arms drawing Zac even further into his embrace. Spritzer was a big man, big-fat not big-Billy Flynn. He had a wispy, brown beard that was so patchy it looked like cheap cotton wool had been stuck to his face. A sheen of sweat betrayed his nerves. “We figured… We figured, if we gotta live underground for a few days, might as well build a bar.”
Zac looked around the chipboard-lined room, some sixty feet square with a line of rooms down one side, a bar at its end, and tables and chairs scattered around. 'Temporary' was definitely the word. He was pulled away from Spritzer’s grasp and into Billy Flynn’s ever-familiar embrace.
“Touch and go there, Zac. Touch and go.”
“Aye, it was. Kinda makes you wonder whether Charm wanted us out of there or not, doesn’t it?”
Billy swept Zac to the bar and slumped down on it, his attention drawn to a girl on the other side. “Rosie?” he said. The girl was as tall as Billy, but there the resemblance ended. She was a biker girl through and through, all leather and nets, and eyeliner that killed with attitude.
“Well, if it isn’t the legend that’s Billy Flynn,” she said. “Just as I was beginning to think you were just myth and fable, here you are before me, thrown from a nuclear apocalypse. How fitting.”
“Myth and fable?” Another voice rang out, and a girl emerged from under the counter.
“Pebbles?” Billy said.
“Myth and fable—more like pissed and unable,” said Pebbles, “if he’s anything like the old Billy Flynn.” She had a shock of long, blonde hair, her thin lips painted blood red, her blue eyes giving little away apart from intrigue. She flipped two glasses up from seemingly nowhere and Rosie easily caught them, slamming them onto the chipboard counter. A bottle flew through the air and Pebbles caught it, bit the top off in one fluid motion and flipped it to Rosie.
“Do that, could you, Billy Flynn? In that bar of yours, eh? Bet you couldn’t do that?” Rosie slid the drink across the bar, magically producing two cigarettes. “Now, these are a smoke like you’ve never smoked before, and go by the strange name of Saggers’ Smokes, or just a Saggers. Try one.” She lit it and passed it to Billy, slumping to the bar alongside Pebbles, both looking up at Billy, both ignoring Zac.
“Two, Billy?” Zac said.
“Like drones, Zackie Boy: you don’t see one for years, then two come along. Don’t be so sad, though; you get Pogo,” and Billy began bobbing up and down. Another girl strolled along the counter toward them and squeezed between the other two.
“Save some for me, girls,” she said, twirling her long, brown hair, her full-blush lips pouting with feigned sorrow. “A girl’s gotta eat; even in times of death and destruction, a girl’s gotta eat.” All three laughed, starting Billy off, and then more glasses appeared and more liquor was spilled, the night only just beginning.
Zac shook his head. Five minutes—tops. That was all they’d been in here for, and already it seemed like they’d never been away. He took a slurp of his whiskey, grabbed a smoke from Pebbles and sighed.
“A Saggers, you say. What kind of a name’s that for a smoke?”
19
Zac’s story
Strike time: plus 1 day
Location: Angel Bay Hotel
“It’s a new dawn, Zac,” said Nathan Grimes. “A harsh new dawn, and a whole new set of problems.” He shrugged, “And a whole new set of opportunities, I suppose.” Smiling, he raised his crystal tumbler and took a sip of his whiskey. “After all, we can’t be too glass-half-empty, can we?” Grimes held a silver lighter in his fingers, tapping it on the table in front of him, rotating it every time, the only sound in the room after his words had fled. Then he swallowed hard. “Hair of the dog; can’t beat it.”
Zac pushed his fingers through his hair, the fog of the previous night’s mayhem still lingering in the hollows of his mind. He looked at the table, its deep iroko-wood shine so trustworthy in this most temporary of places.
“I see you had the table brought down,” and he brought his eyes to bear on Grimes.
“This table? You know what this is, Zac. This table is the one constant in this world of ours. You can live and die, I can live or die, but this piece of wood will always endure, and so will those who are fortunate enough to sit around it,” and there were six of them. Six grim moods, six set faces, Zac facing Nathan Grimes, end to end. Billy Flynn and Noodle were on one side, both looking worse for wear, Loser and Pauly across from them, Loser looking as relaxed as the previous night, in his own little world. Noodle had said Loser had been shitting himself out there, yesterday, out on the highway. Zac couldn’t see it; didn’t look like anything would concern Loser—not even the end of the world.
“As I said, you got it down here,” Zac said, his eyes still fixed on Grimes, watching for even a hint of a clue.
Nathan Grimes was sitting back, relaxed and in control. His jacket was zipped to its top, as though the man felt cold. He had his black, curly hair cut short and his beard trimmed close to his cheeks, covering a field of weathered pockmarks, every inch of him a match for Zac in power and purpose. Zac knew Grimes would be hard to win over to whatever path he decided to take, and that was the problem: Zac was unsure of the way forward.
“So,” said Grimes, “do you want the gavel now, or when you’re up to speed?”
Zac thought fast. There was no way he could just walk back in and be the leader here, not after he’d given it all up to protect Connor, but he couldn’t exactly explain the 'whys' and 'wherefores' of that, either. “No,” he said. “It’s yours.”
Billy shot him a glance, his confusion clear to see, but an acceptance fast on its heels. Billy’s trust was pure gold to Zac.
“Just like that?” Nathan Grimes scratched at the table top, pulling a roll of smokes close.
“Ten years, Nathan, ten years inside that city. Now, of all times, we need a level head. You need to stay the course while things adjust.”
“Adjust?” Nathan lit a smoke. “What do you think of these?” he asked, twirling the smoke around, pushing the roll across the table.
“Good gear. Where d’you get ‘em?”
“Place up in the valleys—Morton Deep. They call ‘em Saggers. I was going to smuggle you some in; figured you’d have been able to pass them on for a fine profit.”
Zac pulled one out of the roll and flipped it into his mouth. “That I could. So, why didn’t you?”
Nathan grunted, smoke puffing from his mouth. “Ethan Saggers, by all accounts—I have never met him—is not wholly what you’d call an entrepreneur. He produces enough of these cigarettes to get exactly what he wants in life. Our problem is that that isn’t much. I heard tell…” he took a long draw on his smoke and looked up at the concrete ceiling. “I heard tell that he just throws our money to the back of the hovel he calls his home, and there it sits, gathering dust.” Nathan leaned forward, his elbows thumping on the table. “I heard tell of that, and that’s not good for us.”
“So, Ethan Saggers doesn’t care for a rich lifestyle,” said Zac.
“Worse, he doesn’t need money, and that little cancer has spread all around the land we call home. People out here appear to be content with a more simple lifestyle—some at least. And last night, well, we lost nine million-odd of our most loyal, greedy customers. Think what the repercussions of that are going to be.”
A huge surplus of liquor, that was what it meant, of smokes, pills—all the things The Free World frowned upon. Even in their perfect Grid City, safe behind closed doors, the compliant folk had not been quite so respectful of its rules and regulations. Drugs had been synthesized to combat the health monitors, cigarettes that would only make them blink mauve for a few hours, and alcohol that would sneak under all but the most sentient of VPAs. Then there was the small matter of the unwanted food, which would pile up overnight as nine million mouths no longer demanded what the city’s micro farms couldn’t produce.
