Flight of Shadows: A Novel

by Brouwer, Sigmund

  Razor was effectively trapped in the small, bare room.

  “Strip down,” Swain’s voice commanded from a hidden speaker. “Leave your clothes behind.”

  Razor hesitated.

  “There will be clothes waiting for you on the other side,” the voice said.

  Yes, Swain was observing him.

  Razor saw no choice. As he hung up the final piece of clothing, the inner door buzzed. He pushed through it to a second and equally small room with tiled walls and a tiled floor. In the center was a drainpipe. On the other side, a third door.

  He waited for it to be unlocked.

  Instead, there was hissing. Razor glanced upward at the sound, and saw mist released from a series of nozzles. It was acrid, the first touches of it burning his eyeballs. He lowered his head and covered his mouth with a hand, coughing.

  “We don’t talk until you’re disinfected.” Swain’s voice again.

  It had been hot outside, but this chamber was chilled. The mist fell long enough for Razor to begin to shiver as he hacked for breath, still shielding his mouth from pesticide. Razor wasn’t worried about his tattoo bleeding away from the chemical, just about getting any into his bloodstream. His blood was whacked out plenty, and he didn’t want to invite more of a cocktail swirling through his veins. Finally the mist stopped. Then began again, with more force. It was cold water. When this stopped, the inner door buzzed and opened automatically. The backside had a set of hooks. On one hook was a towel. On another hook, disposable brown paper clothing and paper slippers.

  Razor dressed quickly. The fibrous paper soaked up the water he’d missed with the towel. It was a familiar feeling, that of being a commodity, and his anger steeled him. It took effort to hang his head and slump his shoulders as he finally left the disinfecting room. It could have been worse; some Influentials only allowed Industrials into the house if all their head and body hair was shaved.

  On the other side was a larger hallway, where a man with silver hair sat in a chair, about four paces away. Beyond, the hallway led to living areas, with walls decorated with large framed paintings and hardwood floors with luxury rugs. Razor doubted he’d be invited there; the silver-haired man held the leashes to two Rottweilers panting on their haunches, staring intensely at Razor.

  “Far enough.” The voice identified the man as Swain. It wasn’t enough that he was an Influential and Razor the Industrial. Or that he’d forced Razor to strip and endure a disinfectant mist. Or that Swain was restraining two attack dogs. Swain underscored the lopsided power balance by wearing immaculately tailored clothes and sitting with one knee over the other. He appeared fit, his face handsome with lines softened by expert plastic surgery. “Don’t move. Talk.”

  “She says you are a friend of her father, Jordan. She says you are expecting her. To help her. With surgery. She has a letter from her father to you.”

  “The letter. It’s in your clothing outside?”

  Razor kept his head bowed, aware of the breathing of the Rottweilers. “She made me memorize it.”

  “I want to hear it then.” Swain leaned forward. Razor was acutely aware of the shift in the man’s body language. The intense interest in what Razor had to say.

  “Hugh, I trust you now as I did then,” Razor said in a monotone. “She’s not a number now. She’s my daughter. Arrange the surgery that will let her live a normal life. Help her escape. When she’s free, I’ll send you the code to the funds we diverted. The money will be all yours. Signed Jordan Brown.”

  Swain took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He absently patted the head of the closest Rottweiler. A man who cared for his animals but saw Industrials as commodities.

  “Why did she send you?” he asked.

  “Before she puts herself in your hands, she needs to know if she can trust you.”

  “Tell her she can,” Swain said. “Her father believed in me. She can too.”

  Sure, Razor thought. A man who keeps Industrials home at night to suit his needs. Again he fought a shiver against the images that threatened to overwhelm him.

  “She has questions,” Razor said.

  “Tell her I will answer them. For her. Not for you or anyone else.”

  “Until she trusts you, she wants me to ask them.”

  Swain blinked a few times, assessing Razor. “What questions?”

  Here was Razor’s opportunity. Caitlyn, of course, had not sent him here, nor did she even know he was intent on learning all he could about her. But Swain had no way of finding out that Razor was running a bluff. As long as Razor’s questions were ambiguous instead of specific, the bluff could continue.

  “She wants to know about her past,” Razor said. He’d given thought to his questions. “Things that her father wouldn’t tell her.”

  “Like what?” Swain was immediately impatient. “I’m not going to spend hours explaining things to you.”

  This was another tipping point. Razor had taken this chance under a couple of assumptions. The first was that Caitlyn’s value—obvious by government pursuit—would also have value to Swain. His gut told him that Jordan’s trust in Hugh Swain, implied in the letter he’d read before returning it to Caitlyn, was misplaced. He doubted that Swain would be motivated to answer Razor’s questions out of wanting to help Jordan or Caitlyn. He assumed Caitlyn would be a prize of some kind to Swain, either because he knew enough about Caitlyn to understand her value to the government, or as the letter implied, the code, whatever it was, would be enough reward.

  “Caitlyn says she wants to know why the government wants her so bad.”

  Swain scowled. “Does she know why Jordan fled to Appalachia?

  ” Someone who was fast and sharp and dangerous would have no problem dealing with a question like that. Razor hid his confidence though. “I don’t know what she knows. She sent me with questions, not answers.”

  Swain made his irritation obvious. “I hope you’re not as stupid as you look. I’ll start from the beginning. You tell her every single word. And in a safer place than this. Understood?”

  His gamble that Caitlyn was irresistible bait had just succeeded. For Razor, it was the sensation of feeling the final tumblers click into place.

  Razor kept his face blank and nodded. “Understood.”

  “And one more thing,” Swain said. “I’m going to tell you where she can meet me. If you can bring her, I’ll make sure you are well rewarded.”

  Razor, for the first time, looked directly at Swain. Like he was a greedy Industrial, finally comprehending something. “Maybe you’d better explain exactly how much reward you mean.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Since perching on the hill of computer monitors, Mason Lee had adjusted his approach.

  Thanks to the information he’d enjoyed forcing out of the young thugs, Mason now knew that Billy and Theo usually worked at the far end of the Meltdown, at the lowest status place possible. Given that, he no longer thought of himself as a soaring hawk needing to startle them into movement. Now he was a stalking mountain panther. Mason was very familiar with the animals of Appalachia and had a memory of a mountain cat that never failed to stir him. The cat had sprung out of deep grass, pouncing on a deer from behind, raking its front claws across the hind end as the deer tried to flee, pulling the deer down and snapping its neck with powerful jaws.

  To stalk properly meant to blend in to the background. Mason realized his white face was a liability. So, walking away from the four shirtless men he’d left nearly dead at the pile of monitors, Mason had reached into a mound of cooled dark ashes and used his fingers to smear black lines like swirls of blurred tattoos across his cheeks and forehead. He’d also taken a kerchief from one of the fallen men and tied it across the bottom of his face.

  Weaving among the piles of the Meltdown to his destination, he drew far fewer glances from the hordes of scavengers and guessed the attention he did get came because of the eye patch.

  He didn’t mind.

  Like deer unaware of an upwind
mountain panther, Billy and Theo, first of all, had no way of knowing that the great Mason Lee had departed from Appalachia and was on their trail. If they did spot him, he was wearing the kerchief like any other scavenger, and it would be next to impossible to link his smudged face to that of the famous bounty hunter who had nearly eviscerated Billy and Caitlyn in a barn. The eye patch was something they had not seen on him before either. No, when he’d been hunting them, Mason had had use of both eyes.

  The thought quickened his pulse with a stab of renewed anger. If they hadn’t helped Caitlyn, she never would have escaped, nor left him to die—in hated darkness—where a rat could puncture his eyeball. Billy and Theo were just as responsible as she was for blinding him. No doubt they’d share in her punishment. No doubt at all. Mason had a knife in his pocket, the one he was saving to slice the eyes of the whore. Maybe he’d use it on their eyes too. Taser them at moderate strength, just enough to paralyze. Then describe what he was doing as he ran the blade. Be good if their eyes were closed as he did it. He’d be able to cut through their eyelids at the same time, maybe even peel the eyelids off like the skin of a pearl onion. But it was important to let them live. Blind. That was worse than death.

  These were his thoughts as he reached a mound of glass bottles as high as a three-story building. When he rounded the base of it, the sight of the scavengers feeding the glass smelter broke him out of his pleasant reverie of revenge.

  This was a bootleg operation on a large scale. Dozens of boys and men were working. Some to tear wooden skids apart as fuel for the smelter. Some to smash bottles. Others to shovel the shattered glass in.

  Mason stood sideways and pretended to be examining some of the bottles nearby. He made sure he stood so that his good eye was nearest the operation and scanned back and forth between the bottles and the scavengers.

  He saw Billy first. Large. So large he was unmistakable. He had stripped down too, his massive upper body shining with sweat. Billy didn’t have the type of build that showed muscle definition, but Mason had learned that his hand was strong enough to knock down a horse with a single punch. Mason would have to be careful. Billy wouldn’t stand against the Taser, but there were too many others around for Mason to make a bold, open move.

  He saw Theo next, rummaging through a bottle pile, sorting clear glass from green bottles. Beneath his kerchief, Mason smiled coldly. Theo was small enough; maybe Mason could pull an arm off him like a wing off a fly.

  This is good, Mason thought. These two would give him Caitlyn.

  All he had to do was keep stalking.

  In his memory, Mason saw the mountain cat, nearly hidden in tall grass. He knew he could do the same.

  Mason moved forward and found a makeshift shovel.

  He stepped among the men, picked up a length of dirty cardboard, and began scooping up broken glass to feed the smelter with them.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Wednesday night

  At first, because of the tattoos on his face, Caitlyn didn’t recognize Razor. When he’d stepped into the shanty, she thought he was just another Industrial. Until he spoke.

  “Not surprised,” she said.

  “To see me again?”

  “That you look the way you do. You must live and breathe deception.”

  “You learn fast,” he said, grinning, his teeth white against the dark tattoos of his face. “Not even interested in how I manage this?”

  “Don’t care,” Caitlyn said in a flat voice. “I just want out of this prison.”

  “Think of it as protective custody.” The web of tattoos on his face blended into the shadows, and Caitlyn couldn’t read any expression there.

  “What gives you the right to decide I need protection?” Caitlyn exploded. “And if I did, what right do you have to decide you’re in control of it?”

  “Those questions prove how much you need my help. Outside the city wall, nobody is given rights. Not to air, water, shelter, or even life. Outside the city wall, all rights belong to the strong and the smart.” His voice, in contrast, was mild. Almost amused. And certainly smug.

  This angered her even more. “Get it into your head. I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t want your help.”

  “You’d rather be dead?”

  “I’d rather be free.”

  “Then you will be dead. I suppose that’s a form of freedom.”

  “I’m a survivor.”

  “Tell me what you know about life outside Appalachia.”

  Caitlyn had been ready to stand and leave. That one word froze her. Appalachia. She’d never told him about Appalachia. Had she been betrayed by Emelia? She didn’t want to believe that. Not betrayed. Again.

  Razor continued. “Don’t be so shocked. It makes sense. The missteps, the odd questions or statements. You don’t understand this culture. You haven’t lived in it. And because you haven’t lived in it, chances are it will kill you.”

  “I’ll learn.” This was an admission of sorts. But would it do any good to deny her background?

  “Here’s some history for you. Generations ago, when America was flooded with illegal immigrants, the lawmakers at best ignored them. At worst, they persecuted and killed them. Hundreds of thousands of families essentially lived underground, out of sight. But not without value to the established. Those illegals needed to live. From my great-grandparents down, to survive we’ve had to perform menial tasks for little pay. We became too important to the economy. As much as politicians postured, getting rid of the people without citizenship became unthinkable. Making them legal wouldn’t work either, because then they’d have rights too. Persecution, however, played well for the economy. The fewer rights, the more those illegal immigrants became commodities. Powerless people are worth a lot to people with power. And lawmakers, the early Influentials, only reflected the will of the people. All the people. Because to remain silent in the face of injustice is to be part of the injustice.”

  Razor sneered. “Your Appalachia? The religious freaks? Those who tried to rule people in the name of Jesus? Where were they to help the so-called downtrodden? Just as silent.”

  Caitlyn had no answer. Jordan had never talked to her about this.

  “Then came the Wars,” Razor said. “America needed water. Canada refused to sell. America took water. Countries chose sides. America turned to their illegals for help as soldiers. But the illegals, for the most part, refused. They weren’t citizens. Think that created more of a barrier between the haves and the have-nots? At the same time, the government used the war as an excuse to erode civil liberties, promising to return them at the end of the war. They didn’t. When the war was over, this is what evolved from the anarchy. Influentials at the top. Descendants of illegal migrants at the bottom, without citizenship but willing to accept cheap labor like their parents and grandparents to survive. Industrials. Marked by tattoos. Those who refused tattoos became the bottom-of-the-bottom, the Illegals. But that far down, you’re free again. Unlike the Industrials, who became slaves.”

  He paused. “It’s become ancient Rome.”

  Caitlyn cocked her head. “Ancient Rome? How do you know all this? You’re an…”

  She caught herself, but too late.

  “An Industrial?” he said. “A brainless hive worker bred to serve Influentials? Or an Illegal who paints himself like an Industrial when it suits his purpose? And someone who reads voraciously because knowledge is power and knowledge gives the power to sustain illusions?”

  When she didn’t answer, he continued, smiling coldly. “Or am I truly the lowest of low? One of the Illegals who lives beneath the city.”

  Caitlyn smiled just as coldly. “Illusion is your life. Maybe you don’t even know who you are.”

  “Influentials leave us to feed ourselves, shelter ourselves, and govern ourselves. They only care about us in terms of preventing revolt. Heard of Spartacus?”

  “No.”

  “Invisibles don’t fight for power. They are laptops to the Influentials, protected by them.
In the other three worlds—Influentials and Industrials and Illegals—the strong rule. Survival of the fittest. It’s that simple. If you don’t understand, when you leave here, you’ll be eaten.”

  “So your lecture is over? I can go?”

  “Why are you so determined to refuse help?”

  “Your lecture isn’t over. But still, I go.”

  Caitlyn stood. She stepped toward the entrance.

  “I know what your father did to you,” Razor said, stopping her. “I know how you got your wings.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  As he walked through the well-lit common area of his apartment complex, Tim Merritt patted his back pocket. He had a wad of cash there and liked the sense of power it gave him.

  His Industrials, the ones who came through his gate into the Swain neighborhood, all expected to pay the daily toll he charged to let them through without hassle. He kept it affordable—no sense killing the goose to get the golden egg—and didn’t care about their openly hostile resentment. What could they do? That’s what gave him just as much satisfaction as the cash. His power; their powerlessness.

  Yeah, he lived in an apartment complex. But it was inside the city wall. Influentials had their world. Industrials and Illegals had theirs. Merritt didn’t mind at all living somewhere in the middle.

  There was always the cash. And what it could buy.

  Long hours of boredom as guard were lessened by the fantasies he let drift through his mind. Fantasies he was able to purchase.

  One of the Industrials who passed through his checkpoint was a chubby one, a little old, but desperate. She’d be waiting at his apartment as instructed, willing to do all that he instructed, just for a portion of the cash he’d already taken from her and the rest of them.

  Merritt ran through the fantasy one more time, careful to construct it just so, imagining the sequence of events that was waiting for him once he opened the door. He’d instructed her to leave the lights off. In the dark, he could fool himself into believing she wasn’t quite that old.