The Saboteur Chronicles: Book 2
The Glass Mountains
By: J.V. Roberts
This book is a work of fiction. All the character names, places, or incidents are fictional. Similarities to real people, places, or events are coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of products that are mentioned in this work of fiction.
© 2016 by J.V. Roberts
www.jvroberts.com
Also by J.V. Roberts
The Fall of Man: the Saboteur Chronicles
The Rabid
The Rabid: Rise
The Rabid: Fall
Tower of the Dead
Table of Contents
Also by J.V. Roberts
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
Acknowledgements
1
Lerah was on a beach, looking out over a neon sea. The beach was covered in black sand. Not the soft, burning sand of the Wastes. It was hard. Each grain felt like a tiny dagger, eating through her pants and tearing at the flesh of her ass and thighs. There wasn’t much she could do to alleviate the discomfort. Her wrists were bound above her head behind a sturdy pole planted deep in the earth. There was no give. She’d tried to wriggle loose, repeatedly; the lean muscles in her arms flexed with every ounce of energy they possessed and her ropey veins bulged to the brink of bursting. For hours she tried, until her wrists bled and her short, blonde hair flattened with sweat. So she sat there, staring out over the water, watching it shimmer with ribbons of green and pink; it extended out as far as the eye could see until it kissed the smoke covered sky in the distance. She’d wait until an opportunity presented itself. A new door would open. One of those Rebel assholes would make a mistake. That’s all she’d need, just a little room to maneuver.
No one had spoken to her since she’d arrived on the beach. She’d been attached to the pole and left to ponder her fate. A pair of men watched her from a distance. They had big bellies hanging from open leather vests. As they watched her they chortled and snorted, exposing their crumbling teeth. She didn’t challenge their glares. She stuffed away the soldier’s pride and dropped her head; she was, after all, unarmed and bound to a pole. Wire framed women crunched past in front of her, tugging dirt coated children along by their wrists, looking her over with open hostility. To her, they were more unsettling than the men. The fact that they’d reared children beyond the Glass Mountains meant they were a force to be reckoned with.
“Don’t worry about them,” his voice was timid, his words were so soft they were almost ripped from the air by the noxious gusts blowing in from the neon sea. He was shirtless, standing over her right shoulder, wearing brown pants that were torn at the knees. He was young and unscarred, a mop of brown hair partially concealing his sharp features.
“You’re not the one tied to the pole.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Why do you give a shit?”
He knelt down beside her, another blast of wind tightening the curtain of hair about his face. “I’m Hawthorne. I was born and raised right here on this beach. Sometimes the view gets old, but what’s the point in complaining about something you can’t change, am I right?”
“The view isn’t much better out there,” she said, tipping her head towards the mountains at her back.
“My uncle told me that the heat sucks the water right out of your bones.”
She’d take the Outlands over this. The Outlands meant not being tied up on a toxic beach at the ass end of nowhere, at the mercy of rotten-toothed animals. The Outlands meant home and her father. The Outlands meant…Dominic.
“So you’re Union, right?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“We don’t tend to tie our own—”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Oh, right.” He was surprisingly sheepish. “There’s not really many folks to talk to around here. I tend to miss stuff like that.” There was an unexpected kindness in his eyes.
“I’m Union. Born and raised in Genesis.”
“I heard the fellas that brought you in going on about how you’re some kinda ass-kicker.”
“Can’t say I’ve kicked that many asses, but I’m a Shadeux.”
He scrunched one eye and wrinkled his nose.
“We’re just a special branch of the military. But here I am, tied up, and they’ve probably already got a bullet with my name on it. I suppose I’m not really all that special.”
He nodded, his eyes focused on something at her feet, mouth slightly ajar, a little line of drool escaping down his chin. He wasn’t the quickest finger on the trigger, but he was nice and, right then, nice would do. “Never heard of no lady being in the military. Our women don’t pick up guns unless it’s to defend themselves.”
“I’ve seen a few of your women, I wouldn’t bet against them in a fight.”
His teeth were still rather healthy. A few had started developing a brown film near the gum line, but they were all intact; hell of an achievement for an Outlander. “That they are. Whenever my momma got off on a tear, oh boy, you didn’t wanna be nowhere around that, no ma’am; if she got a hold on you, your ass was in for a tanning.”
She laughed lightly. “The name’s Lerah. I’d offer my hand…”
“Ah, that’s alright.” He reached around behind the pole and squeezed the fingers of her left hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lerah.”
She surveyed the beach. Large groups of tents lined the inhospitable landscape to her left and right. The men seemed to keep to the right (south) and the women and children occupied the left (north). The tents were big and ugly and brown, some flickered with the orange glow of cook-fires. She could see the outlines of the occupants inside, hovering over boiling pots, their shadows dancing like black specters. “What’s next for me?”
He shrugged, picking up a handful of black sand and letting it slowly drain between his fingers. “Can’t say I rightly know. You’re the first prisoner we’ve had on the beach as far as I can recollect, at least in my lifetime. But I ain’t that old, so I dunno, I guess.”
“That’s not exactly comforting.” She’d been keeping a small ball of hope wound tight in her belly. But the longer she sat on that beach, the more it began to unwind. Dominic should have been there by now, slitting throats and popping heads.
Maybe he’s already…
No! Can’t think that way.
Word of her capture had most likely reached Genesis, courtesy of the spies. Her dad, in all of his practicality, would hold a memorial service for her. He’d probably chalk her death up to her serving the Union. He’d eventually push her memory aside, keeping himself busy in order to fill the void, just like he’d done when her mother passed.
Dominic was her only hope.
“I won’t let them get at you, don’t worry.” Hawthorne crunched down beside her, following her eyes out over the neon sea.
“No offense, you seem like a nice ki
d and all, but I don’t think there’s a whole hell of a lot that you’re going to be able to do if they decide to…get at me.”
“I may not look like much, but Silas is my uncle. I’ve got some pull around here.”
“Silas would be?”
“In charge.”
The ball of hope wound a little bit tighter. “Oh, really? Well…alright.” The surf lapped gently at the shore a few feet from her heels, leaving behind an oily sheen in the wake of its retreat. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He was draining another handful of sand between his fingers. “Hmm.” he seemed surprised by the question as if he’d just now realized she was playing for the other team. “I don’t know.” He brushed his hands clean on his pants. “I guess I just didn’t like the way they was roughing you up when they brought you in here. I don’t think it’s right to treat a lady that way.”
“They’d tell you they had their reasons.”
A small group of women passed in front of them, toting blocks of wood towards the north side of the beach. Hawthorne smiled and waved. They were too busy boring holes through Lerah to even notice. Hawthorne waited until they were out of earshot before he spoke again. “And what reasons are those?”
Lerah sighed, figuring her confession would be the end of their conversation. What a shame. She was just starting to get used to the kid’s voice. He had this slurred and drawn-out way of speaking. It was a focus point in the darkness, something to distract her from the monsters. “First off: I’m Union, not a popular title outside of Genesis. Second: I’m a Union soldier, two strikes. Third: I’m guessing you haven’t heard, but I was working with a man that killed some of your people. I don’t think your uncle is going to be too happy with me.”
“Hmm, well, it happens, I suppose.” No shock. Not even a hint of hesitation.
“Really, that’s it?”
“Have my folks killed a lot of your folks?”
“They have.”
“Seems to me we’re all just trying to survive out here. The land is trying to kill us while we try to kill each other. It’s best to take your peace where you can get it, way I see it. You ain’t done nothin’ to me. Maybe, someday, we’ll try to kill each other. But not right now. Why not sit and have a conversation?”
Maybe he was smarter than she’d given him credit for. “I think I like that idea, the conversation part, not the killing.”
“I reckon I do too.”
Lerah saw bags of grain, potatoes, piles of wood, and vegetables drying beneath the shrouded sun. But as far as she could tell, the only signs of life were the people. There was no greenery, no trees, just the jagged black earth, the darkened sky, and the poisoned, neon water. “How do you get anything to grow out here?”
“The settlements supply us. Men go out every couple of days and they bring back what we need.”
“But why?”
“What do you mean? We’d starve otherwise.”
“No. Why stay out here like this? There’s no Union presence in the unknown settlements. You’d have a much easier go of it there.”
“The Union will make it there eventually.”
He had a point. That was Hause’s big plan: Genesis Towers dotting every inch of the Outlands. “It just seems like the cost outweighs the benefit.”
“It’s hard work, that’s for sure. Probably seems like a nightmare compared to Genesis.” He nudged her and smiled. “I heard y’all eat your meals off plates of gold and drink out of chalices with jewels all over them.”
“If that’s the case, then I’ve been missing out.”
“Tall tales?”
“Tall tales.”
“Folks like to talk, especially when they got time on their hands.”
“That they do.”
He jumped to his feet, still crouched at the knees, panting with excitement. “Wanna hear something that’ll knock your socks off?”
“Sure, lay it on me.”
“We built a boat.”
She shook her head, not sure if she’d heard him correctly.
“You know, a boat, it floats on the water?” He brushed his unruly hair away from his face.
“I know what it is. Why are you building boats?”
“It’s just one boat. Uncle said it’s to see what else is out there. He said there are probably other survivors and other lands, just like this one.”
Other survivors. Other lands. She’d given the notion some thought. But what was the point? Planes, cars, boats, trains, everything that had connected the old world had been destroyed when the bombs fell. “What does your uncle hope to accomplish with a boat?”
“I don’t know. Maybe get us away from all the fighting.” The kid was just excited to have a boat; its purpose seemed to be of little concern.
“Wherever there are people there will be fighting.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He fell back on his butt, shoulders slumped, cutting deep rivets in the black sand as he stretched his legs out.
“So how long have your people been working on this thing?”
“Long time. Years. It’s been a process because we gotta collect and haul all the materials across the mountains. We’ve had a couple guys die doing it.”
“Hauling the material?”
“Yep, mostly from falls. Stupid way to go, I guess.”
The image of the bastards scattering their brains across the mountainside brought her a wicked little burst of pleasure. “We’ve all got to go at some point, stupid or not, dead is dead. So, where’s this boat?” She was searching the shoreline, but all she saw were a few raggedy looking Rebel youngsters tempting the poison surf with their toes.
“It’s up a little ways,” he said, pointing north. “Maybe I’ll get to show you at some point. It’s nothing special. Not big by any means, it’s just enough for a few guys and some food.”
“How long before it’s ready for the water?”
The excitement was back. She could see the outline of his ribs through his skin, leaping up and down to the hyperactive tune of his words. He clearly took pride in the boat. One would almost think he’d built the damn thing himself. “Soon, we just gotta finish the masts.”
“Really sounds like something. I hope I get to see it.”
There were a group of men forming at the south end of the beach, trickling from among the tents. They were closing ranks and moving towards them. She counted seven. There was little doubt that the one out front was Hawthorne’s uncle, their glorious leader, Silas. It was in the look: black cargo pants, tucked into black boots, tan tee-shirt, shrouded beneath a dark green jacket with brass buttons and a fur trimmed collar, a short mohawk, a long, braided goatee with beads attached at the tips, and tinted sunglasses. It was in the way the rest of the men gave him two paces of breathing room as if he were made of electricity. It was in the way his eyes set upon her, the intensity emanating from behind the sunglasses, the cold confidence that came from knowing he held her fate in his hands.
Hawthorne heard the approaching footsteps and read the look on her face. He scrambled to his feet and stood beside the wooden post, stuffing his hands away beneath his armpits. “I didn’t expect you, Uncle.”
“Not many do,” Silas’ voice was like a harsh whisper in an empty room. “You’ve been taking pleasure in the company of our guest.”
“No, Uncle, I was just passing the time.”
“It wasn’t a question. The time you’ve spent out here has not gone unnoticed. I’ve received a number of inquiries about your behavior.”
Lerah jumped in with both feet. “I asked him a question, he was answering me. If you want to be an asshole to someone, I’m sitting right here.”
“I’ll get to you, cunt. Until then, you’ll speak only when spoken to,” Silas’ shadow fell across her like a cold blanket as his men formed a leering semi-circle around her open air prison.
She considered biting back. But she smelled the scent in the air, could see it in the way his dogs were resting on the ba
lls of their feet, drooling over her, just waiting for the command to pounce; there was enough pain in store, no need to encourage them.
“Hawthorne, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I think he’s sweet on this little piece of Union ass.” Thick neck, thick arms, thick belly, little brain; typical Outland specimen.
“We was just talkin’. She asked me a question, I didn’t think it’d be no issue to talk to her; didn’t mean no harm.”
“Is it your job to talk to prisoners?”
“With all due respect, I don’t have a set job around here and I ain’t never seen a prisoner, Uncle.”
“Well, now you have and now you know. Keep to yourself unless I say otherwise, we clear?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation with you again. Just because you’ve sprouted doesn’t mean you’re above a beating. I’d be doing a disservice to your folks—rest their souls—if I didn’t take the boot to you from time-to-time.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Silas stepped forward, grunting as he considered her. To him, she was a project, something to be broken and molded. She sucked in a deep breath and exhaled through her nose, trying to slow the pounding in her chest. She didn’t dare to meet the reflection in his sunglasses; she was having a hard enough time holding it together without her own weakness staring her in the face. Her eyes rested on his waist instead. No gun. Just a blade: long, black, leather sheath, scuffed and cracked, with a worn, wooden handle that indicated recurrent use.
“They aren’t what they seem, Hawthorne.” Silas beckoned his nephew with a flutter of his fingertips. “She looks sweet, doesn’t she? Makes you want to take a bite.” Hawthorne flinched as Silas’ arm coiled around him. “But she’s rotten. She’d make your teeth fall out. Do you know what she did?”
Hawthorne shrugged, his shoulders barely rising against the weight of his Uncle’s arm. “She is Union and we don’t like Union?”
“That too, but that’s not the reason we’ve gone to so much trouble. Normally, we’d have just put a bullet in her back and left her to rot. But she’s something special. Did you know she killed Monte? It’s true. My brother, a man you also called uncle, is dead because of her.”
The Glass Mountains: The Saboteur Chronicles Book 2 Page 1
