Ironheart (The Serenity Strain Book 2)

by Chris Pourteau

  While the others wandered around in the debris, Lauryn took stock of what was left on the shelves. Not much. Most of the high-powered semi-automatic rifles and shotguns were gone, though a few .30-.30s remained. Most of the 9-millimeter pistol ammo boxes were cleared out along with the .45-caliber, and the display cases that once housed handguns were broken and empty. The camouflage knick knacks—the key chains and hats and koozies, the stuff that didn’t matter anymore—lay scattered around the store, tossed aside in search of weapons.

  Megan, with Jasper tethered to her belt, withdrew to the back of the store, searching for food. Kneeling behind the counter and digging through what little remained of its 9-millimeter stock, Stavros tossed empty boxes behind him and cursed. The four-letter exclamation points sounded strangely cultured when uttered by a university professor.

  His mumbled grousing grated on Lauryn. It was still early morning and she was already tired of hearing his voice. “You check the back?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound helpful. Anything to stop their breathing the same air. Nothing got on her nerves faster than grown men acting like little boys.

  Another empty box hit the floor behind him as Stavros craned his neck over the counter at her.

  “Um, no. Think there’s anything there?”

  Lauryn shrugged and smirked. “It’s early in the Apocalypse yet. I think you’re more likely to find it back there than out here.”

  Stavros nodded. Logical. “There’s other stuff in here we might can use too.”

  “Like?”

  “Some of the solvents and other chemicals for cleaning guns. Could come in handy. Never know when you might need to burn something. Maybe the owner stocked black powder for Civil War reenactors. Who knows? Worth taking some time to look, anyway.”

  Lauryn’s annoyance fell away, replaced by a dawning awareness of something approaching respect for Stavros. In all the hubbub of the fight on the roof, in the aftermath of her mourning and the exhausting struggle for survival, she’d forgotten a particularly useful detail of that battle. Stavros had led them to the roof and, yes, at first she’d been furious with him for trapping them there. But he’d also provided them with an arsenal of Molotov cocktails made from the acetone stored in the building below. The scientist’s chemistry background had actually proven useful in the real world after all, she had to admit. And maybe it would again.

  “Fair enough,” she said. Still, his whiny voice had a way of teasing her with the dark fantasy of shooting him in the head. “Tell you what, you look for that stuff out here. I’ll go in the back and look for your ammo. Join me after you’ve gathered everything we can use here and you can see what’s stored in back.”

  “Sure,” Stavros agreed. She threw him a camo backpack with a Duck Dynasty logo on it. Grabbing another for herself, she loaded up boxes of .40-caliber bullets and some spare magazines she’d verified would fit Mark’s—her—gun, and headed for the back of the store.

  She’d just begun an almost normal conversation with Megan and was stuffing cheese and crackers in her pack, when she heard Stavros shout out front.

  Then the sharp crack of a pistol shot.

  * * *

  Maggie stepped off the short bus, a combat shotgun slung across her back. Simpson followed, a bit self-conscious about his own choice of weapon. He’d contented himself with a personal sidearm befitting a general. Practical but not ostentatious. Soft-spoken but clear, was the way he liked to think of it. He patted the leather holster at his side. It complemented the biker leathers and denims he wore. Perfectly matched for fashion and function.

  The buses pulled up and parked in columns of two, lining Simonton Street in front of the courthouse. Diesel engines wound down. Air brakes hissed and double doors squeaked open.

  Marsten descended the steps of the Montgomery County Courthouse to meet them. He was stripped from the beltline up, and Simpson heard Maggie’s hungry gasp from his left.

  “About time you’re back,” Marsten said, stabbing his gaze directly at Simpson. “You had me worried.” The Maestro’s tone betrayed no trace of concern whatsoever. Only questioning and doubts of loyalty.

  Simpson regarded him, the old power structure clamping into place over his psyche. He felt Maggie tense at his side too, though they weren’t physically touching. He wondered if she wanted to sling that shotgun off her shoulder and pump Marsten full of buckshot. Maybe aim it straight at that bald pate of his and watch the Maestro’s head disintegrate in a spray of blood and brains and bone. Finish the work the firebomb started, payment for Marsten’s earlier humiliation of her when he’d slapped her down.

  His eyes left the Maestro’s half-mauled face and found the ground as Marsten closed the gap between them. Simpson felt his stomach settle into its familiar pre-flight mode.

  “We ran into some maintenance issues, and some of the boys weren’t comfortable at first driving the buses,” he reported to Marsten’s cool stare. The Maestro’s left hand landed on his shoulder, his right already grasping Simpson’s in a lingering, vice-like grip. A greeting among comrades in arms, newly reunited. But also a promise from an alpha wolf to a beta. “I decided to take my time, get it right. Avoid issues on the way back. Hell, some of the men never even drove a stick shift before.”

  Marsten smiled, the ice in his eyes reflected in his toothy grin. “These kids today, huh? Spoiled by convenience.”

  Simpson felt compelled to meet the larger man’s eyes. There was mischief in them, a tongue-in-cheek quality that scared the hell out of him, especially in that crazy twinkle shining from under Marsten’s blistered left eyelid. What the Maestro’s eyes projected was lack of caution for anyone or anything. A careless confidence in his ability to control everyone and everything. Simpson wondered if that confidence extended to Id herself.

  “Next you’ll be telling me they don’t know how to make a fire without a lighter.” Marsten laughed, teasing an instinctive return smile from Simpson.

  “Baby, look what we got. Jackpot! And we ain’t even in Vegas!”

  Maggie’s voice, dripping wet for Marsten, broke the spell between the two men. Simpson felt the Maestro’s hand clap him one last time on the shoulder before moving off to embrace his main squeeze.

  “Better than that old Barman’s Buddy, huh babe?” she beamed, awaiting Marsten’s blessing. Her fawning enthusiasm, as usual, made Simpson queasy.

  Marsten took the shiny-off-the-shelf shotgun Maggie offered and felt the weight in his hands. “I still prefer my axe,” he mused almost nostalgically, as if speaking of a more civilized time when murder required less noise and more personal contact.

  “Can’t take an axe to a gun fight!” said Cackler. He stepped off the short bus with a sunny smile, sure he’d amused his sovereign with the adapted movie quip.

  Instead, Cackler pulled up short as Marsten’s glare targeted him with its crosshairs of impatient tolerance.

  “I can,” replied Marsten. “And have.”

  The Maestro attempted a wink with his angry left eyelid. The broiled flesh gave the gesture a ghastly quality, and Cackler stared at the filmy orb.

  “Of course, boss,” he sputtered. “An axe in your hands is worth a shotgun close up in anybody else’s any day, and I don’t mean just anybody really, I mean—”

  “Here,” Marsten said to Maggie, reaching behind his back. “This is more your style.” He handed her a knife he’d taken from one of the Weisshemden. He handed the shotgun to one of the lackeys behind him. Maggie’s face fell.

  Marsten turned back to Simpson while Cackler petered out. “You’ve done well here,” he said. This time the Maestro made no physical contact. That’s how Simpson knew he was being sincere, for once. “How many buses?”

  Simpson cleared his throat. “About 35, plus a couple of the shorts.” He waited for Marsten’s disapproval. He knew he’d returned with fewer rides than they’d talked about.

  The Maestro grunted. “Not as many as we needed,” he said flatly.

  “No,” ackn
owledged Simpson, “but—”

  “The boys and girls can crowd together for the trip,” suggested Maggie. She seemed irritated at being left out of the conversation between the two men. “Might even be fun.” She made purring sounds and moved her hips forward and back. Marsten paid her no mind, and her bright smile fell into the scowl of the ignored.

  “That’s how many we could get serviceable quickly,” Simpson finished explaining. “Like you said, Maestro—didn’t want to take more time than necessary.”

  Marsten nodded. “Agreed. Again, General,” he said, “you’ve done well here. Leave the guns on the buses. I don’t want these yahoos armed just yet. We move out at dusk.”

  Simpson nodded curtly.

  “Yes, the guns! I got those!”

  Marsten turned dispassionately to Maggie. “So you did. And I plan to reward you for that.” He once again tried to wink, but the skin of his eyelid, which was starting to peel, wouldn’t cooperate. Simpson felt his stomach lurch. The expression, framed in Marsten’s corrupted eye socket, struck him as perverse, grotesque even. It struck him like thinking of having sex with a dead body made him feel.

  But Maggie’s lips actually parted a little, like she was pre-tasting her prize.

  “Anytime, lover,” she whispered.

  “Now, then.”

  “Oh, yes.” The old harlot’s purr was back in Maggie’s voice. “Right here?” It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had sex in broad daylight on the steps of a courthouse.

  But Marsten was already walking up, heading back inside. “Nah, she likes to watch. And we might as well join in the fun.”

  Maggie seemed not to hear him, the promise of five minutes from now already heaving and rolling rhythmically in her head.

  But Simpson had heard the Maestro and just what Marsten’s mouse had been doing while Maggie’s cat was away. Just what had gone on inside the courthouse last night? Maybe it was still going on. The population mix had been about 10 to 1, male to female, Simpson remembered. There must be lines…

  “Hey boss,” Cackler said in that I-hate-to-tell-you tone of his that made Simpson want to put a bullet in his head. “Boss—”

  “What.” Missing out on the fun inside the courthouse had him irritated before Cackler even started. The scarecrow’s voice was just the cherry on top of that shit cupcake. Then his ears finally picked out the thwup-thwup-thwup overhead, growing closer.

  Cackler swallowed, pointing at the sky. “We got company.”

  Chapter 7: Tuesday, morning.

  The chopper was still far to the southwest, flying northward at moderate speed. Simpson tried to make out its markings. The pilot was maintaining a determined course.

  “Cops?” asked Cackler in a rare moment of focused brevity.

  Simpson put his hand over his brow to keep the sun out of his eyes. It was almost noon, and all the clouds of the previous week had finally burned off.

  “More likely a news chopper,” Simpson said, almost to himself. He could see a logo on the side of the craft, but it was too far away to make out clearly. Looked kind of like the Star Trek symbol. An unusual design for a news organization…

  The helicopter flew closer, true to its course. Simpson closed his eyes a minute and drew a line between himself and the chopper’s position, then another line straight down. He’d never been great at math in school, but visualizing things and mapping geometric relationships in his head came naturally to him.

  Simpson pictured a rough map of what he knew of the area, then stuck the chopper on top of it. “I-45,” he said behind closed lids. He tried to see what the pilot was seeing. The chopper’s flight path paralleled Interstate 45.

  “What? What’d ya say, boss?”

  “He’s reconnoitering I-45,” said Simpson. He opened his eyes. The helicopter was still distant, but he could see the symbol more clearly now. It did indeed look like the arcing arrow-A logo from Star Trek. Apparently, it had been adapted by Houston’s traffic management center, TranStar. He could just make out the agency’s name.

  Seeing the TranStar helicopter flying its mission told Simpson several things. First, Houston’s traffic management center was back online. More importantly, TranStar was on task, working on opening up major roadways again. And for the agency to operate effectively, that meant communications—at least the emergency bands—were back online.

  TranStar’s first job would be to assess the condition of Houston’s transportation network, then help prioritize what routes to clear first. Those would be the roadways emergency service personnel—wreckers, police, EMS—would need to do their jobs. That much he knew from his stint with the California Department of Transportation. The wreckers would open up roadways for National Guard units to come rolling in and help build temporary shelters, triage refugees, and keep the peace. Simpson remembered the news reports of the chaos in the weeks following Katrina, the total breakdown of law and order. How even the police had become more like armed gangs than peacekeepers in some areas.

  Civilization was waking up, he realized. And if TranStar was this far north of Houston, some forty-five miles out from downtown, it meant the interstate further south was likely already being cleared; maybe even traversable again. If the Maestro waited too long—if the cops got a handle on things, if the National Guard started rolling in—Houston would become a much harder prize to capture.

  “—boss,” Cackler was saying. He’d been rattling on while Simpson pieced together their situation.

  Simpson ignored him saying, “Go get the Maestro.”

  “But boss—he, uh, he seemed like he was gonna be busy for a while, and I—”

  “Never mind, I’ll do it myself,” Simpson said, pushing past him. He took the courthouse steps two at a time. We need to get moving now.

  Simpson stepped into the rotunda and found a scene from Ancient Rome on display. Bodies everywhere, writhing and moaning on the cold marble of the courthouse. Even the white of their prison uniforms strewn across the floor recalled the cast-off togas of two millennia past.

  And there she sat, the imperious Id, watching all from her throne in the center of the rotunda. A presiding judge of sexuality. Her eyes, amused and appraising, sought out the interesting among the mundane. When she found it, a smile spread across her face as she drank in the liquid lust flowing like an electric current around her.

  Simpson pulled his eyes away from her, away from all that was going on around him, to find Marsten at the base of Id’s throne. Still mostly clothed, he stood and watched as Maggie disrobed in front of him. She moved seductively under his approving eyes, a modern Salome, the indulgences around them providing the canvas for her personal display.

  “Maestro, we have to talk,” Simpson said as he approached.

  Without removing his eyes from Maggie’s undulating arms, her snake-like charms enthralling him, Marsten waved Simpson away.

  “Not now. Later.”

  Simpson hesitated. His old urge to run climbed up his throat, but his newfound desire to rule even a small pocket of Id’s empire pushed him forward.

  “Not later,” he said. “Now.”

  Marsten pulled his gaze away from Maggie, who’d begun at last, entirely nude now, to descend to the floor.

  “What did you say?”

  Simpson swallowed hard. Franklin had failed to make a stand, and he’d had his face ripped in two. And yet the air crackled with Marsten’s incredulous anger at Simpson’s disobedience. The proper course forward … was what?

  Who cares? Take what’s yours. Do It. Now.

  “I said, this can’t wait.”

  Marsten, who’d been leaning on the base of the sculpture and preparing himself for Maggie’s attentions, stood up straight and pushed her away. She mewed and scowled after him like a kitten that’s had milk stolen right from the tip of her tongue.

  The Maestro quickly shortened the distance to Simpson. His broad, bare chest flexed as his right arm reached out. His large hand wrapped around the back of Simpson’s neck and
pulled the smaller man to him, nose to nose, so Simpson would inhale the air he released from his own lungs.

  “We don’t need to go to the courthouse downtown. In Houston. We need to find…” Simpson winced as the cold, vice grip squeezed the back of his neck. He felt his own muscles tense. “…we need to find TranStar.”

  “Who the fuck cares about—”

  “Why?”

  Id’s voice carried over the crescendo of pleasures around them. Simpson’s eyes—all he could move at the moment, found hers. All the Lady’s focus was on him, the festivities around them all but forgotten for the moment.

  “Because, Mistress…” Simpson thought he might black out soon. He was about to pass into The Franklin Zone. He planted his feet firmer, trying to find his center. If he was going to fight for his life… “The true seat of power is there.”

  On instinct, he reached up and grabbed Marsten’s wrist. It was like trying to wrap your hand around an oaken branch.

  “Release him.”

  Marsten’s eyes bored into Simpson. His left, it seemed, never blinked now.

  “Maestro.”

  Marsten’s hand released. When the blood rushed back, it made Simpson lightheaded.

  “I appreciate your diligence in bringing this to my attention,” said Id. She returned her attention to the undeterred debauchery around them. Apparently, their dramatic scene hadn’t distracted the thousands of otherwise-occupied prisoners in the room. “We will speak more of your suggestion later.”

  Stepping back a foot from Marsten, Simpson said, “But we have to get moving soon, before the National Guard—”

  “The Lady has ordered us to stay until nightfall,” interrupted the Maestro, “to allow her Black Hand to indulge themselves.” With a fatherly tap of his palm on Simpson’s jaw, Marsten resumed his reclining position against Id’s throne. “Good management style, that.” His mood was rapidly improving with the anticipation of what was to come.