Frozen hod-1

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Ah, shut up already,” Shakes said, uncharacteristically edgy.

  Wes shook his head at Daran; he was too tired to be angry. He turned to Nat. “You’re bleeding,” he said, motioning to the side of her head.

  Nat put a hand to her scalp, surprised to find her hair covered with blood. “Funny, I didn’t feel anything.”

  “Shakes—stop the truck. Zedric—get your brother bandaged up, that cut might get infected, and bring me some of the antibio when you’re done,” Wes ordered.

  They stopped at an abandoned parking lot of what used to be a shopping mall. Nat leaned against the hood while Wes cleaned her wounds with a sponge. “Pop-can must’ve got you after all,” he said. “Huh.” He stared at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I guess it wasn’t as bad as I thought—I was ready to stitch you up, but it looks like it’s almost healed.”

  “I told you, I didn’t feel anything,” she said. “I’m okay.”

  Wes could have sworn he had seen a deep, ugly gash, but when he pushed her hair away, it was nothing—a surface wound—the blood had slowed to a trickle. He didn’t want to think about what that meant and decided to ignore it for now. Maybe she hadn’t been hit that badly. Yeah, right.

  “Nice crew you got there,” she said, rolling her eyes toward the Slaine boys. Daran was yelling as Farouk and Shakes held him down while Zedric rolled a canvas cloth around his middle.

  Wes shook his head, his jaw hardened. Now why did she have to go and say something like that? He didn’t like it when anyone insulted his boys. “They’re all right. Not my first choice, but it’s a dirty job, taking people through the Pile. Not many would want to do it,” he said, looking at her pointedly, as if to say, If they weren’t here, you wouldn’t be, either. “Dropouts are all I could get.”

  “Right,” she said, chastened. “I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. “You know how it goes.” He wasn’t sure if she did, but she had to have been in Vegas long enough to know that dropping out of the military was like dropping out of society. The army was the only game in town for the likes of them. Without an honorable discharge, there was a slim chance of being hired for any decent work.

  “Leaving the military’s no joke,” he told her. “So when they end up with me, I try and teach them to be better soldiers. There’s no room for heroes or horseplay in this line of work. When it comes down to it, a soldier’s only goal is to stay alive, nothing more, nothing less.” He frowned and continued to clean her wound, trying and failing to ignore the spark between them as his fingers touched her forehead. “A guy goes off and starts shooting randomly, it’s my duty to take him down a notch, put him back in line. I did Zed a favor when I busted his nose. It might save his life one day, the next time he thinks of doing something that stupid.”

  “So why’d you leave, then?” she asked. “Shakes said you won a Purple Heart and a Medal of Honor. He said you could have been a general one day, maybe.”

  He sighed, placing a bandage on her head, pressing it down so it would stick. “I didn’t have it in me to be a career man, I guess, let’s leave it at that. How about you, where’d you serve?” he asked innocently.

  “I didn’t,” she said.

  “Oh, right, you got an upper school pass?”

  “No . . .” But she didn’t elaborate. “I thought you said you had me checked out?” She smiled, but her tone was guarded.

  He gave her a long look. “No questions.”

  “Thanks for this,” she said, pointing to his work.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Boss, we gotta move,” Shakes said, coming up to them. “Farouk picked up a seeker signal on the radar. They’re two clicks north.”

  Wes nodded, hiding the wave of nausea he felt from the news. “Let’s go, maybe we can lose them.”

  They climbed back on board the LTV and Wes took the wheel again. He stuck to the back roads, plowing the truck through front yards and rough earth, forcing the truck to go as fast as it could. The team was quiet, tense, and even the Slaines were subdued. They knew Wes was angry with them for giving away their position.

  “What happens if the seekers find us?” Nat wanted to know.

  “Let’s hope they don’t,” Wes said.

  “You keep saying that. Will they kill us?”

  “There are worse things than being shot and dying quickly,” he said tightly. There was no use frightening everyone. Either they would be caught or they would be able to evade them. Life or death, but wasn’t it always? Military prisons were notorious for their brutal treatment of captives, and Wes sure hoped they wouldn’t end up in one. He’d been lucky so far; maybe his luck would hold.

  “If it looks like they’ll be able to take us into custody, just shoot me, okay, boss?” Shakes whispered next to him. “Promise. I’d rather die at your hand than theirs.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Wes said testily. “Cut that self-defeating chatter.”

  “Go faster,” Nat whispered from behind him. Her breath was almost at his ear, and he felt his skin tingle.

  “I’m giving it all she’s got,” Wes said.

  “I think we lost them,” Farouk said, looking up from his scanner.

  Nat exhaled, but it appeared the young soldier had spoken too soon. She looked up just as Wes hit the brakes and the truck screeched to a halt.

  A pair of white-camouflaged Humvees were blocking the road.

  The seekers had found their prey.

  17

  THERE ARE WORSE THINGS THAN GETTING shot and dying quickly, Wes had said just moments ago. Even he had to admire his own bravado. That was a good line. He willed his fear away. Maybe there was hope yet, since the Humvees hadn’t shot them on sight.

  “It’s fine, leave it to me,” he told Nat as he turned off the engine.

  Zedric’s fun with explosives in the hills had brought the seekers directly their way, just as Wes had warned, and running into the rebar and the caravan hunters hadn’t helped. They were trapped now. There was no use running; the trucks were too close to them and heavily armed. Even if he tried, there was a pair of drones circling above that would fire on command.

  A soldier wearing officer stripes on his jumpsuit got out of the nearest Humvee, followed by a team of his men. They all had rifles slung over their shoulders, but no one made a move to attack.

  Daran gripped the top hatch and drew his weapon.

  Shakes moved to follow, but Wes stopped him. “Sit tight, boys, I’ve got this one.” He kicked open his door and jumped down onto the muddy, snow-covered road.

  “What are you doing?” Shakes wanted to know. “Those aren’t some fool tour guides you can bullshit, those are RSA boys, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, and so was I once,” Wes said. He got out of the truck, his heart beating in his chest, but his walk as smooth and languid as ever. He kept a lazy grin on his face as he approached.

  The officer was leaning against one of the Humvees’ front grilles, its engine rumbling behind him, making clouds of steam rise from the truck’s warm hood.

  “Morning, sir,” Wes said.

  There was no reply. The soldier just stared up at the cloudy white sky and waited for Wes to come closer.

  I hope I’m right about this. Wes kept his cool as he walked toward the seekers. He saw that both of the Humvees had their long guns trained at his head, the massive barrels rotating slowly to follow his progress. He noticed that the group of soldiers hanging back had a marked one with them, a boy his age, his red eyes gleaming with hatred, the mark on his forehead like a third eye. Wes had heard those who bore the third eye could read minds. The seeker team had probably used him to sense them. That program was supposed to have been shut down after Santonio, but knowing how things worked, Wes should not have been surprised to find it up and running.

  He deliberately kept his thoughts blank.

  “Explosions that size are pretty hard to miss around here,” the officer drawled, breaking his silence at la
st. “Next time just radio us your location. It’ll make all of our lives a little easier.”

  “Sorry about that.” Wes smiled. “I hate to inconvenience you.”

  “Don’t your guys know better than to play around in the hills?”

  “They’re just kids,” he replied.

  “All the more need to keep them safe.” The officer stared him down.

  Here it comes, thought Wes.

  “I hear you runners make a good living hauling illegals through the Trash Pile. What’s a trip fetching these days? Five, ten thousand watts?”

  Wes stared at the red-eyed soldier. “Five.” It was a lie, but Wes made himself believe it was true.

  The boy did not argue.

  Wes was relieved; maybe it had worked somehow, since he’d kept his poker face on, his mind clear.

  The officer smirked. “Well? Hand it over. I’m cold and my men want to get out of this godforsaken junkyard. Then you can be on your way.”

  Wes just shook his head as he reluctantly gave the officer one of the platinum chips from his pocket. “You guys are making it hard out here for an honest smuggler.”

  The officer grinned broadly as he took the chip from Wes. “Next time, just wait for us at the border and I might cut you a better deal. Rather not dig for gold if we can help it.”

  Wes tried to laugh, but the whole thing stunk. He needed those credits and so did his guys. He thought about clocking the smug bastard on the chin, but then he remembered those t-guns. Both barrels were still trained on his head, and the marked boy never took his eyes off him. He didn’t put it past them to shoot them still, or drag them away to one of their prisons.

  He turned and jogged back to his truck and slipped into the driver’s seat. “What did I tell you guys, we’re fine,” he said, revving up the engine.

  “They’re just going to let us go? Just like that? What did they want, then?” Nat asked as the boys exhaled.

  “Entrance fee at the toll booth,” Wes quipped. “Look, we’re finally in K-Town.”

  18

  THERE WAS NOTHING ACROSS THE LINE— that’s what the government said—what they wanted you to believe, anyway. As the LTV drove down battered Wilshire Boulevard, Nat saw signs of life everywhere—buildings dug out from the snow, with flashing signs in Korean and textlish, the symbols almost interchangeable. The streets were teeming with people of all kinds, a cacophony of noises and a variety of smells. This was more than a tent city; if there was such a thing as the capital of Garbage Country, this was it.

  Wes put a hand on her arm as she stepped out of the truck. “Watch your step,” he said, and she nodded to let him know she understood; he meant not just her footing but to be mindful as she moved around the area. This was a lawless place, populated by all manner of criminals—scavengers, slavers, vets, refugees, and illegals.

  The Slaine brothers and Farouk disappeared into a nearby building with a pharmacist’s symbol painted on its door. Oxygen addicts. The clean-air craze.

  “Lunch?” Shakes suggested.

  “Is food the only thing you think about?” Wes chided him.

  “What else is there?” Shakes asked, and it was a good question.

  Nat realized she was starving; she hadn’t eaten much since the night Wes knocked on her door. She wondered now when anyone would notice she was gone. What would happen to her apartment, to the books she’d shoved underneath her bed? She had thrown her lot in with Wes and his crew without looking back for a moment; there was only the way forward.

  But what if Wes—and everyone else—was right? What if there was no such thing as the Blue? She waited to hear the voice in her head protest—but there was nothing. Maybe because it knew it was too late for her to turn back now. They weren’t very far from the coast, and with enough gas, they could probably get to the pier tonight. She fingered the stone around her neck, thinking it wouldn’t be long now.

  Shakes led them into a dark building, down the stairs, into a bustling turo-turo restaurant in the basement. At a turo-turo (Nat knew it meant “point point” in a forgotten language), all a customer had to do was point at the food they wanted to eat since hardly anyone could read a menu. There was a big lunch counter with steam tables featuring an array of dishes of varying ethnic origins. But unlike the corporate mash-ups, the food was singular and unlike anything she had encountered before.

  There was a vat of fish ball soup, a doughy concoction that didn’t look like fish at all, but tasted delicious; charred meat skewers—pork from the smugglers who worked in the heated enclosures—almost impossible to find and incredibly expensive in New Vegas, but available here; fragrant rice dishes stuffed with real vegetables; and slippery noodles filled with slivers of real garlic and ginger, steaming and tempting.

  “Does it all come from the runners?” she asked, as they pointed to their choices and accepted heaping plates of rice, noodles, and meat.

  “Most of it.” Wes nodded. “But some are military rations that the cronies unload here, trading food stock for weapons.”

  “Military rations! But that would mean—”

  “K-Town wouldn’t exist without the military’s permission,” Wes said. “They need to keep an eye out in Garbage Country and have a place where they can conduct business with slavers without anyone knowing.”

  “So the food shortages aren’t real either,” she said. The lack of resources was the reason every citizen was given a Fo-Pro card. Unless you were rich and could eat from the tiny but luxurious private sector, every aspect of the food supply was rationed, given out piecemeal.

  “Who knows, but there’s food here,” Wes said.

  “While we starve on slop.” Shakes shook his head.

  “Five centavos,” said the cashier behind the counter.

  Nat was surprised to find the girl had bright burgundy eyes, and the girl stared back at her with a languid, almost bored expression.

  Wes paid for their lunch with a real silver coin. “They don’t take watts here—only the old currency from Before.”

  But Nat was still staring at the girl. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that the marked girl was moving about so freely, without anyone noticing or caring.

  “A lot of marked refugees get stuck in K-Town,” said Wes, bumping her elbow to move her along. “They save enough watts to get past the border, but have nothing left to go anywhere else. So they work, hoping to earn enough to pay for transport out of here. But most of them never do.”

  “And no one cares?” she said, looking at a few military personnel scattered around the place.

  “Not here at least.”

  They settled down to eat their meal. Nat marveled at the texture—she’d never had vegetables like this before, never had meat that hadn’t been processed or wasn’t just tofu made to taste like meat. It was a revelation. Still—just as in New Vegas—everyone drank Nutri. Clean water was rare, even in K-Town.

  Wes took a swig from his cup and motioned to a bearded man seated at the next table. “Howie, you know if Rat still runs the table? Is that game still going on? Slob happen to be around? Or any other of Jolly’s boys?” he asked, wiping his lips with a napkin.

  “Should be. Doesn’t change. You in?”

  Nat pushed away her plate. She felt ill after eating such a huge meal. “There’s a casino?” she asked, feeling a gambler’s excitement at the prospect.

  “Better yet—there’s a high-stakes poker match,” Wes replied.

  She raised her eyebrows. Things were starting to get interesting. “What’ve you got in mind?” she asked.

  “For one thing, I need to get my ship back.”

  She stared at him. Did he just say what she thought he’d said? “What do you mean, get your ship back? You don’t have a ship? How are we going to get across the ocean?”

  “Relax, relax—I have a ship—just not right now. But that can be rectified.” He shrugged.

  She goggled at him and turned to Shakes. “Did you know he doesn’t have a ship? And you guy
s took this job anyway?”

  To his credit, Shakes managed to look sheepish.

  “I thought you didn’t gamble,” she accused Wes.

  He shot her a Cheshire cat smile. “What can I say? Easy come, easy go.”

  Shakes guffawed. “How? Once the Slob sees you, he’ll leave the table. He knows you’ll be after it. He’s not going to risk having to give it back after you won it from him in the first place.”

  “I’m not going to win it,” Wes said, pointing at Nat. “She is.”

  19

  THE PLACE WASN’T A CASINO EXACTLY. It was just another crowded subterranean basement room with a few roulette tables, card tables, a craps table, and a bar. Nat found the noise and the smell of sweat and smoke overwhelming as she walked into the room, a little unsteady on her high heels. She was dressed as a tai tai, a rich Xian trophy wife, slumming in K-Town on her way to Macau.

  With the help of a video blog and a few silver coins from Wes’s stash, she’d managed to find an appropriate costume. She was wearing a tight red cheongsam, her long dark hair was held back in a bun with two sparkling chopsticks, and the blue stone remained looped on a chain around her neck, masquerading as a decorative bauble. Farouk had outfitted the dress with a fake fusion battery, which blinked red at her collar. She’d protested she would freeze before she got inside the door, but Wes had been adamant. The tai tais did not wear bulky layers of any kind; they slithered around the city flashing their bare legs as a sign of wealth and ease.

  “You look good,” Wes had allowed before she left the shelter. “You think you can do this?”

  “Watch me,” she’d told him. Even if she was nervous, it was too late to back out now, and he knew it, too. Besides, of all the things she could do in the world, she could play poker.