by Tracey Ward
She laughs. “I said be careful, not good. Nobody expects a tiger to change its spots.”
“Stripes,” Dante corrects her. “A tiger has stripes. You meant leopard.”
Freedom glowers up at him. “Was I talking to you, Dante?”
“No, but you were wrong.”
“And you just had to point it out, didn’t you?”
“If I don’t tell you when you’re wrong how will you learn?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no,” she chants softly, rising up on her toes to get in his face. It’s hard for her being at least four inches shorter but she somehow manages it, her attitude reaching higher than her body. “The day I learn anything from you is the day I walk out that door and offer my ass up to an infected.”
“Ass like that, a Risen could eat for days.”
She shoves him hard in the chest. He chuckles as he stumbles back.
“What the hell does that mean?” she demands.
“I don’t want to speak for Dante,” I interrupt, “but I think he called you fat.”
She shoves him again. “You’re a dead man.”
“You’re not fat! And it was a compliment!” he shouts, still laughing as he backs away from her.
“In what world is that a compliment?”
“In this world where too many girls are skin and bone, stringy is nothing.”
“Hey!” Cobalt and Natalie shout defensively.
“Sorry, but I’m a man who likes a meal, not a snack.”
“You’re sick, you know that?” Freedom demands.
“And you’re grinning.”
She shakes her head, shoving him again, but it’s little more than a swat of her hands. Her shirt slips off her shoulder, exposing the skin underneath. I catch a glimpse of her tattoo.
It’s black and simple. A ‘Y’ that she tells everyone is a tree, but it’s a symbol. It’s her symbol, and if she has any children inside the Hive, it will be their symbol too. Under their clothes, there’s a triangle on Nats’ hip and an oval on Cobalt’s ankle.
There’s half a heart on the inside of Breanne’s wrist.
Freedom smiles laughingly at Dante. “You’re a jerk.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Get a room, you two,” Cobalt giggles.
Freedom’s smile fades faster than lightning leaves the sky. Dante looks nervously at the ground. They walk away from each other without another word, and the light, comfortable feeling that had been building in the lobby goes with them.
Natalie looks at me, her face disappointed. “Kevin,” she says sadly.
“Yeah.”
Cobalt shakes her head helplessly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Forget it. It’s done,” I interrupt, heading for the door. “Are you girls ready? We’re way behind schedule.”
“We’re ready, Vin.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
I nod to Asher at the door on the way out. He offers his ass to Natalie and Cobalt as we pass, and I’m a little relieved to hear them both laughing as they slap it hard. He gives a girlish, ‘oh’ with each hit.
Outside is bright and cold, the early afternoon air fogging around my lips as I sigh with relief. I don’t like being inside. My home is in the outdoors, in the wild, the way it always has been. But the girls don’t go out much, meaning I don’t get out much, meaning I’m going insane. These trips to the Market are the highlight of my month.
Without Far Side calendars and apps on our phones, we have to track the months by the cycles of the women and the moon. It’s a guess at best, but right now we’re all kind of certain that we’re probably entering November. It might snow soon. That’d be a problem for everyone. Game will be scarce and drinking water hard to come by. Gangs will have to trek through the freezing cold to watering holes, hack through the ice, and trudge back home carrying heavy buckets of water threatening to freeze over again. Men will be clumsy and cold, vulnerable. And the Colonies have snow tires.
Then again, it might not snow at all this year. It might just rain for days and days on end, gray skies hovering low over the city like the wings of a weeping angel heartbroken at what we’ve become. You never know. That’s the fun of this life; the spontaneity.
“‘Have fun’?” Nats growls the second we’re outside, her mood changing instantly. The magic of Asher’s ass immediately wears off. “Is Marlow serious?”
“He’s an idiot,” I console her.
“No, he’s not, that’s the problem. He says stuff like that deliberately. He’s a tool, is what he is.”
“He’s not so bad,” Cobalt argues weakly.
Nats scowls at her. “Please. Don’t be patriotic with me today. I can’t handle it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Well, don’t. Just…” Nats sighs heavily, deflating. “Just don’t.”
I eye her closely. “What’s up your ass today?”
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“I’m just not in the mood for people’s shit today.”
“Well, this ought to be fun then.”
“The Market is fun for you, Vin. Not for us. We actually have to work.”
“And what the hell do you think I do while we’re there?”
“Eat free food,” Cobalt answers quietly. “Drink free booze.”
“Fuck free girls,” Natalie adds.
“Hey, I pay!” I cry indignantly.
Nats glares at me sideways.
I roll my eyes. “I pay for the girls.”
“Yeah, and while we’re working, everyone treats you like a god.”
“I’m a legend. I’m not a god.”
“Get over yourself.”
“I can’t. I’m haunting, even to myself.”
“My God, if I didn’t love you, I’d really fucking hate you, Vin.”
I smile, draping my arm over Nats’ shoulders. “Too bad for you, you really fucking love me.”
She fights a smile, losing the battle in the end. “It’s the biggest curse of my completely hexed life.”
Endo wasn’t wrong about the Z pop; it’s non-existent in some areas but swarming in others. It’s like what’s left of them are forming their own gangs, traveling in packs like dogs. Like wolves.
When we’re a couple of blocks away, I hear the sound of drums and guitars coming from what used to be the Hyde tent in the Market. After Seven died and Marlow had the Hydes completely wiped out, we took over their territory. It was either going to be us or the Hyperions, and the Hyperions weren’t aggressive enough or dumb enough to go head to head with Marlow on a vengeance kick, so the resources became ours; including the Hydes’ space in the Market.
It used to be we only sold a few things at the Market. Honey for sure, ‘cause people need their fix. Maybe some meat if we had extra. Yenko has always sold spare parts to buy different ones. A few of the guys make things, tools or even art, and sell them independently. Really, only a few of us have ever taken an interest in the Market. It’s a little beneath us if you ask the wrong people. It’s an untapped resource if you ask me.
I make quick work of the five Risen between us and our day jobs. The girls unsheathe their knives, ready to fight if they have to, but I make sure they don’t. With the careful placement of my knife in ears, jaws, and eye sockets, I drop each one of the melty motherfuckers to the ground where they belong.
“Go around,” I pant, sliding my knife back into my belt. “Don’t get that sludge on your shoes. Neil will bitch at me all night if he has to clean it.”
They do as I say, making a wide circle around the growing puddle of decay lying in the street. We’re heading into winter. The sun is doing little to warm the world, and luckily that means these things won’t stink to high heaven when we’re walking home tonight. It’s one of the few benefits of the colder months. You don’t have to immediately burn your kills.
The Market is alive and throbbing when we finally arrive. A section of street blocked off by wooden walls an
d guarded by a rotation of volunteers from different gangs, it’s like a small city inside the city, butted up against Denny Park in the center of the cluster of gangs that run what’s left of Seattle. It used to be we moved it every time, but eventually it got built up too big to be torn down every month, so this is its permanent home now. It’s carefully kept Risen free, guaranteeing that the only danger inside is human. That’s not to say the Market is safe. If anything, it’s more dangerous than the outside because at least outside you know what the Risen want. In the Market, arguments can break out. Men get stabbed. Women get attacked. One was stolen once. She was taken from the Westies and never heard from again. It’s shit like that that I’m here to watch out for. No one is messing with my girls, and if anyone tries to take one, I’ll take their eyes.
“The Hive is here!” someone shouts from our right.
The chatter in the Market dims, heads turning in our direction. The girls smile. They wave. They’re celebrities here, immediately bathed in a wave of cheers as we walk down the street. I keep my game face on. I’m actually glad I’m red faced from the fight and sporting a little bit of Risen blood on my favorite shirt. It shows I’m not to be messed with, and these young fools need a reminder that they should never step to me.
We make our way past the faded, ripped tents to our home at the end. It’s the largest at the Market even though I bring fewer girls than other gangs selling skin. They bring the whole herd, some as many as five, but it’s a mistake. You’ve gotta rotate, keep the inventory fresh. I keep some girls away for months before bringing them back, making sure there’s a demand for them when they surface again. It’s basic supply and demand, a trick I learned back in the day, not from the drug scene, but from Disney. The Vault was the most diabolical, genius shit I’ve ever seen and I follow Walt’s business model to this day.
When we make our procession down to our tent, I accept the odd offering of meat on a stick or beer in an old brown bottle. Nats watches with her lips pinched tight, but I don’t care if she likes it or not. People give things to me for free to try and gain favor from the Hive, either in the ring or in trade deals in the future. Maybe so they won’t be wiped out like the Hydes were, like I had any control over that. But they don’t know it. All anyone on the outside sees is Marlow and Vin, raising the Hive above everyone else year after year. We have the highest numbers. We have the highest income. We’re the only ones with the balls to deal with the Colonies, so we must be amazing. We must be doing something right, and they want in on it in any way they can get it. Even if ‘getting in’ just means they don’t get destroyed in our wake.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Trent
“It’s Market Day!” Bray shout excitedly into the cold morning. He bounds down the street three strides ahead of us before running back to Ryan and demanding a fist bump. “Market Day!”
Ryan laughs, bumping knuckles with him. “Yeah, man! Let’s do it!”
“This is my favorite day of the month.”
“You don’t say,” I reply dryly.
Bray ignores me. “What are you shopping for?” he asks Ryan.
“Ointment.”
“Gross.”
Ryan is almost always shopping for ointment or herbs. He picked up the habit a few years ago when he started getting into medicine. He trades and talks with the ‘doctors’ in other gangs, swapping stories and remedies. What initially looked like a hobby has turned into a full-blown profession. Especially since he gave up the idea of following in his brother’s footsteps fighting in the Arena. He’s focused on healing instead of killing now. It’s been a nice change, one that’s afforded me a few solid nights of sleep, and I have the mad man in the woods to thank for it.
I don’t know exactly when Ryan met the old man in the park. I happened to see him walking alone one afternoon, heading into the thick of the woods like he knew exactly where he was going, so I followed him. I was curious and I nearly got a foot full of bear trap for my trouble. Around the man’s earthen hut are endless snares of all different designs. I admire them as much as I fear them, and I stay away because I can take a hint. Strangers are not welcome there. As far as I can tell, no one but Ryan and the wild girl are allowed to get anywhere near the place. And that’s just fine by me. Crazy is wild. Unpredictable. And I don’t trust things I can’t understand.
“Yeah,” Ryan laughs at Bray, “talk shit about it next week when you’re chopping wood all day. How blistered do you think your hands are going to get?”
“Brutally.”
“You’ll be thanking me for my ‘gross’ ointment then.”
“Alright, I take it back. It’s not gross.”
“Smart move.” Ryan nods to the small, leather purse dangling from Bray’s neck. It jingles heavily with coins and that’s the reason most people go to Market this way, never trusting to put their money in their pockets. Pockets are far too easy to pick. “Looks like you’re bringing your entire bank. What are you looking for?”
“I need to get a new blade. Mine’s chipped to hell.”
“Who are you buying from?”
“Pikes, if I can. They’ve got the best steel out there.”
“They’re price gougers,” I warn him.
He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but I can see the reluctance in his eyes. He doesn’t want to part with his entire savings. “What can I do about it?”
“Haggle,” Ryan suggests.
“Come on, Ry. The Pikes don’t haggle.”
“Buy from someone else,” I counter.
“Like who?”
“The Westies.”
Bray shakes his head. “You know they don’t sell blades anymore. The Pikes shut them down months ago.”
“They’ll sell if you ask the right man and keep your mouth shut.”
Bray stops moving, coming to a full and inconvenient stop directly in front of me. “For real? Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious.”
“Who do I ask?”
“No one. You have to have an in.”
“Are you an in?”
“Yes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Well, will you hook me up? Get me an introduction or something?”
“No, but if you tell me how much you really want to spend, I’ll make the deal for you.”
Bray glances at Ryan questioningly.
Ryan nods once.
“Okay,” Bray tells me hesitantly. He opens his purse, shaking ten nickels out of the cluster inside. I’d say it’s a little over half of what he has. “Here. If you can get me at least six inches of steel for fifty, I’d be happy.”
I take the money, slipping it straight into my empty left pocket. I step around him to continue walking. “I’ll get you eight inches.”
“That’s insane,” he laughs. “I need a good blade. Not a plastic knife.”
“I wouldn’t help you buy trash.”
“Just trust him,” Ryan consoles Bray. He falls in step next to me, his hands thrust in his pockets. His eyes casually scan the buildings ahead of us, his face totally at ease, and if you didn’t know any better, you could look at him and pretend he was just a normal seventeen-year-old kid taking a walk through town. He’s completely at ease in these desolate surroundings, a fact that would have made Kevin sad, but it churns a feeling in me that’s something close to pride.
“What are you shopping for, Trent?” he asks me curiously.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Don’t you have a ton of money?” Bray asks.
“No one has a ton of money.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I have some.”
“You have more than anyone in the Hyperion ‘cause you never spend it.”
I shrug. “I have everything I need.”
“But don’t you want anything?”
“Something just for fun,” Ryan suggests. “Just for the hell of it.”
Ryan is doing that t
hing he does sometimes; playing interpreter for me. He takes it upon himself to be a bridge between me and the rest of the guys at the Hyperion because they don’t always understand me. They think I’m weird, and I am. I’m fine with that. I know Ryan is too, but he wants more for me. More friends. More acceptance. What he doesn’t get is that I can’t handle more. I sleep on the roof of the Crow’s Nest at night because I don’t like being in a building with so many bodies. I stand on the edge of the crowd because I don’t like putting my back to people. I feel uncomfortable in the center of a room, empty or full. I’m aloof because I want to stay alive and this is how my dad taught me to do it, so this is what I’m comfortable with. It’s not much, but it’s enough. It’s all I need.
“No,” I answer Ryan evenly. “There’s nothing I’d be willing to buy just for fun.”
“What do you think is fun, anyway?” Bray asks bluntly.
I pause, considering his answer. “Watching.”
“Watching? Like, watching birds or…”
“People. I like watching people the most.”
“But you don’t like talking to them.”
“Not much, no.”
Bray chews on that for half a block before asking, “Watching ‘em do what?”
“Every day things. Hunting. Fishing. Fighting. Talking. Interacting, really. It’s interesting. Everyone does it differently.”
“You could buy that.”
I frown at him. “How do you mean?”
“I mean at the Market, you could pay to watch. In the tents.”
“Dude, shut up,” Ryan warns irritably.
“I’m not going to do that,” I tell Bray.
He shrugs. “I would if I had the coin.”
“I don’t doubt that you would, but for me it’s a waste of money. If you’re proficient enough in a thing, you do it yourself. You don’t pay to watch other people flounder at it.”
Ryan snickers, hanging his head.
Bray looks at me with a blank sort of stare that says he has no idea why Ryan thinks that’s funny. I do, but I’m being serious. Why would I pay a man to show me how to strike a match when I know I can build a bonfire on my own?
Ryan starts up a conversation with Bray to smooth over my oddness, going back and forth with him about a comic series they’ve both been reading. Gussy bought a box of nearly pristine copies from a Westie at the Market two months ago and they’ve been devoured by almost everyone in the Hyperion. They don’t have all of the installments, but what they’re missing is made up between them. They’ve even started writing their ideas down. As it turns out, Dylan is something of an artist. He’ll draw panels for them for hours, smiling in the candlelight with charcoal smudged fingers as they excitedly explain each scene to him. I can see the father in him as he does it. He’s happiest when he’s making others happy, and I want to tell Ryan that that is what love looks like. But I worry if I point it out it will make him miss Kevin, and he’s come too far to spiral out again. I can’t stomach doing that to him. Not for anything. I’d bleed every drop of my own blood to keep him from the kind of pain he had to survive when Kevin died.
