by Mia Strange
The Ash Lands, great stretches of abandoned towns and freeways, yawned from city to city. The only reliable thing that kept us all connected, were the rails. The miles and miles of rusting corroding rails.
The infrastructure of old was nothing more than a memory. Cities were collapsing under the weight of fear and greed and a fight as old as time. The fight to survive.
Under the weight of a government that refused to recognize that unless something changed, unless we changed, unless we were all willing to share in the magic, there would be nothing left. Nothing but the ticking clock of humanity. A clock that was about to wind down and stop. Forever.
The arrival of the rotting dead was just icing on an already crumbling cake. That was the reality of our world. And just like melted icing, the zombies made the problem that much stickier.
And bloody.
And horrific.
Inky darkness and the phenomena of sea smoke, a mixture of cool steam rising off warmer water, hid The Madison well. We were out of bounds, traveling in areas of the city that were off limits.
In short, we were breaking the law.
Not really a first for the Troupe. We often ventured into territory that hid too many secrets and covered too many lies. Territories where the possibility of Gov spies lay around every dark corner, hiding in every black shadow.
Their mechanical rats, as large as the feral cats that ran everywhere, scurried and watched. Fitted with infrared lenses in hollow eye sockets, the rodent robots gave the term, “ratted out” a whole new meaning.
Dr. Dark was not the only one who could build automatons. The Gov could too. And lately, they were getting better and better. Rumors flew. Whispers found a louder voice. Stories passed from city to city. There were stories that they too, had a mad scientist of their own. A brilliant young Tinker born in The Rust, named Jacoby Cane. But was he as mad or as talented as Dr. Dark? Not possible. Was it?
But why did we go so far off—map? That’s what we called it when we traveled outside the lines. The Gov lines that is. Why take the risk?
Because tonight, I was told, it was the quickest way back to our train. And the quickest way was important.
We had been gone too long.
Trouble followed us tonight, and Dr. Dark knew that only two Academy grad students, both who were powerful and cunning, and wise beyond their years, remained behind to guard our train, our home, and the younger Academy students we left behind. And I knew that with the events of tonight? That even Traveler Hale and Turk may not be enough.
Dr. Dark had chosen the route back to our train carefully.
Quietly.
Inconspicuously.
And “stealthy.” Which was my word, but no one seemed to want to hear it. Not even The Bone Man who sat next to me holding my hand.
Guess it was the morphine Dr. Dark had administered through my I V, because I thought “stealthy” was funny. Especially when I asked him if I could join Pilot on top of The Madison to spy and get ‘stealthy’ together. Of course, he said no.
I had tried to make my case by mentioning that Pilot was stealthy.
And hot. Which he was.
Not my fault I’d told Dark. Hot is hot. He’d answered that by rolling his eyes, and leaving.
I didn’t think I was to blame. It was the power of the morphine made from Dr. Dark’s laboratory. The same laboratory that held many curious and mysterious and outlawed things.
Things like opium.
And absinthe.
And arsenic.
And the occasional batch of butterscotch candies for Phil.
Things forbidden to us by both The Gov and Dr. Dark. Unless? Unless it was one of Dark’s own medical concoctions. Concoctions that like tonight, when administered for pain and suffering, can make a girl go loopy . . .
Still.
Pilot?
Hot.
Wrapped in old, baby—soft camp blankets, I rested on a makeshift cot, tucked safely inside the bowels of The Madison. A warm glow from a wall mounted, candlelit lantern illuminated an antique compass housed in a polished, cherry wood pedestal. Shadows from lit candles danced against gleaming copper walls, walls that were trimmed in polished mahogany and draped with curtains of rich, burgundy velvet.
The curtains were for effect, there were no windows, a safety issue. But the thick, lush fabric framed detailed oil paintings of steam engines of eras long past. All the locomotives had their own names. There was The Ashton Court, The Big Boy, The Avalon, The Berkshire. Even one called Bull Moose. They all had their own characteristics, idiosyncrasies and personalities.
But I liked the painting of ours the best.
The Dark Horse, so appropriately named, was by far the most beautiful. With polished jet—black iron and high gloss steel, our locomotive bore the best personality of all. It portrayed the curious persona of Dr. Dark himself.
The Madison, unlike the Dark Horse, was all hammered steel and distressed iron on the outside. Built for exploration plus the occasional battle, she was surprisingly beautiful on the inside. A fitting tribute to our Maddie. Dark had made sure of it.
The brass urn, that lovingly held her ashes, bore all our final goodbyes. Each message was engraved in the metal by our own hands. The urn, which traveled with us always, was cradled in a cherry wood stand of its own. Our Academy shield had been stamped into the ornate lid, the Dr. Dark family crest, so to speak. The same design that was tattooed on all of us.
A simple but elegant shield that adorned the underside of our left wrists and served as a reminder that we now all belonged to each other. That we were family. That no matter what, we would find our way back to each other to ride the rails, even in death.
Dr. Dark had worn the symbol from the very beginning. And one by one, each of us, in our own time and at our own pace, had joined in. Now? We all wore the tat. All but our newest member, the strange and spooky, Traveler Hale. At least I thought he was strange. And most assuredly he was spooky. And I wasn’t the only one who had concerns.
Even Zombie Phil wore the symbol. He was tattooed at our annual Halloween Party. While we bobbed for apples, a treat we got only once a year, Phil bobbed for his favorite, raw chicken. Jin had just finished turning Dagger into a zebra, and taking advantage of Phil in his bending over position, she sprayed the symbol on. Unfortunately, Phil had been bending over at the time wearing his saggy jeans. Jeans that sagged lower and lower each day due to you know, basic zombie deterioration. Jin used this to her advantage, telling us that her best shot, or ‘canvas’ as she had told us using air quotes, had been on his ass.
After that night, after a little hot pink DUCT tape repair, The Bone Man had switched Phil into overalls. A big improvement. For all of us.
But tonight, even with the tat symbolizing Academy unity, I couldn’t help but know the harsh truth of our situation.
It was my fault that we were out here. My fault that we were exposed, vulnerable…in danger.
And was it my fault that Jin was now leading the way through these dangerous, mean streets of Seattle. I wasn’t so drugged that I didn’t recognize the truth.
Yeah. My fault.
Entirely.
I looked up at The Bone Man who squeezed my hand. “Jin?” I asked him, letting her name be all the words the question needed.
“Leading,” he said. “As always.”
“With a can of spray paint in her hand—”
“And an attitude and a pack of bubble gum in the other.”
I nodded. Jin wouldn’t use a flare, she wouldn’t risk the light. And without a flare in her hand, the paint was useless. Still, for Jin the paint was a security blanket, she was rarely without it.
The Madison jerked, and ground to a halt.
“A reading?”
The Bone Man nodded.
With Dark by Jin’s side, they would each be holding a copper Egyptian styled scarab cupped in their hands. The size of a small human palm the scarabs were complex, delicate machines. When wound, paper thin me
tal wings would slide to each side and emit as little, or as much light as the holder wanted.
I swear, sometimes I thought the glow was powerful enough to reach to the moon, wrap around it and race back down again. And yet, their light could be just quick enough for a blink, a blip, a spark, a light so faint, that you would swear it was all in your imagination. Unless, like us, you knew the light when you saw it. Like a quiet whistle in the dark, the beam of a scarab was a signal we all knew to look for.
Jin would be holding hers close. By now she would have put the can of paint down and she would be reading. I had seen this hundreds of times, and never once did it get old.
Jin is a reader. An interpreter of symbols and signs and long—lost dialects.
She was our reader. And as near as Dr. Dark could tell, there was no one better.
Her magic lay in colored words and painted phrases. In marks and numbers and letters that were born from the language of the streets.
Born from urban decay. From rebellion.
Rising from desperation and fear and lies and secrets . . . little Jin could decipher them all. She could read emotions from scratches of chalk, from chipped and flaking paints, from scripts written in blood. She could tell their tales. She could read any form of graffiti, no matter how old. No matter how strong the wards were that coated them.
Jin had saved our lives on more than one occasion. Not to mention finding out where the bad guys were hiding. And the monsters and ghouls. And those damn Gov rats.
The railcar lurched and started underway once more.
“Guess the reading is over.” I smiled up at The Bone Man. Even sitting he towered above, casting me in shadows.
“You look disappointed, he said softly. “Looking for a message on the wall out there?”
“Only who to call for a good time.”
The Bone Man shook his head and chuckled. “Skye? You will be the death of me, you know this. Right?”
I didn’t want to point out that tonight I almost was. Still, I took his laughter as an opening. “So.” I paused for a moment, a moment that seemed like five minutes. “You forgive me?”
“Let me think on it.”
“Where’s Phil?” I asked. I wanted to change the subject. Right now. Before my hurt feelings became well, more hurt.
“He’s outside. Bringing up the rear. Why?” He narrowed his light eyes at me and I could tell he still wasn’t over the fact that I had locked him away with Zombie Phil behind a wall of magic. A wall that had tumbled down, along with the building next to it. Well what can I say? That’s me. Skye St John, changing skylines, one building at a time. And ya know what? I wasn’t proud of that. Not one bit.
“Well,” I looked sheepishly at him, “I. That is we— we, went to a lot of trouble to save his gray butt tonight.”
“So. Jin’s right?”
“About?”
“Phil. Is it like a high school crush, or something more serious?”
We both started laughing which ended up with me yanking my hand away to hold my ribs and gasp. I knew right then, right at that moment that The Bone Man, my best friend in this, entire shitty, screwed up world, had forgiven me.
And it felt better than the morphine coursing through my veins.
The heavy iron door of The Madison slammed open. The plates of iron groaned under protest, and the entire railcar shook as the weight shifted.
Dr. Dark stood on the running board.
And just damn it.
He still wasn’t smiling.
13
I can’t imagine what could be so humorous you two, on a night such as this.” Dr. Dark stepped off the running boards and into The Madison. He carried with him the sharp scent of fresh night air, the scent of old—world incense, of sandalwood, sage and musk.
He smelled wonderful.
He looked…old. Ancient even.
And yet? What. Dangerous.
That was the word. The man with the bent back, gripping his cane, looking feeble and exhausted, still managed to look dangerous.
The heavy door slid to a close behind him, clanking loudly into the iron latch. He slammed the large handle down into the locked position and leveled a look at The Bone Man.
“Locked,” Dr. Dark said. “You must keep it locked.”
The Bone Man tilted his head and looked at me. He raised his white eyebrows in question. He looked back to Dark. The two stared at each other, until The Bone Man shrugged his thin shoulders, and nodded.
We all knew the Troupe rarely locked The Madison’s door. Too heavy for the rotting dead, too well guarded for just anyone to enter, the door almost always stayed unlocked. Most of the time Troupe members were on the outside, scouting, reading, or like me, sightseeing. And why lock the door now? With members outside the railcar, I couldn’t bear the thought of locking them out to face all the unseen monsters.
Dark yanked the copper spool of trace wire from his arm and let it clatter to the floor. He pulled off long fitted gloves made of leather lacings and tiny links of steel. Dark tinkered with all types of armor, but chainmail fascinated him the most. He loved the weaponry from the Middle Ages and had fashioned his gloves out of hundreds of tiny metal links. The gloves could scroll out copper wire at lightning speed. The gloves could save his fingers should one get caught or tangled in a bird nest of sharp copper line, spinning out of control.
Shoving the gloves into his pocket, Dark threw his cane into a corner. He turned to face us.
Standing at his full height, at just under six feet he no longer stooped. His frail frame no longer looked bent and broken. When he moved, he no longer limped and fixed each step with caution. His movements were now fluid, quick, and filled with grace.
Dr. Dark encompassed the space as only a larger than life character can.
Imposing.
Intimidating.
Scary.
His shadow yawned across the floorboards, stretching out and out, until the darkness reached me. Gobbling up the existing shadows, soon there was only one cast on the floor. And it was his.
I wasn’t easily intimidated, but after all, tonight I was the one in trouble here.
Still, the man tonight was a character. A showman. An actor. I could deal with him.
It was the man behind the mask that had me worried.
The Bone Man bent over to pick up his top hat from my cot. He stood, and even though he towered over Dr. Dark, there was no contest as to who would call the next shot. Dark radiated power. His very shadow pulsed with it. Dark nodded at the thin stick figure looming above him.
“Jin,” Dark reached for the handle. “She—”
“I’ll walk with her,” The Bone Man interrupted. “Dagger near?”
Dark gave a sharp nod and handed him the scarab from his pocket.
The Bone Man cupped the scarab in his large hands and began to stroke the smooth metal wings. “Anything to read out there?” The small wings began to part and soft ambient light filled the room.
“Yes.” Dark took off his hat and set it on the end of my cot. “Trouble.”
The Bone Man frowned and turned to go. As he walked past, I reached out and let my fingers brush against the back of his hand. He paused and looked down at me. I knew my eyes were pleading, sending a message my raw voice didn’t want to utter.
Don’t leave. Don’t leave me alone. With him.
The Bone Man smoothed my hair and planted a kiss on my forehead. “See ya soon, Skye. Feel better.” He picked up his velvet hat, slid the massive door open, and stepped out into a dangerous night. As the door clanked closed, the warm amber light left with him. I was left alone, with only Dr. Dark and candlelight for company.
Dark once again locked the door behind The Bone Man. Lost in thought he stroked his beard, shook his head, and rechecked the lock. He paused and checked it again. An all too familiar chill of fear ran through my body.
What was it that had the fearless Dr. Dark checking and rechecking a locked door?
Dark didn’t speak
as he removed his long elegant duster, hanging it up on a coat rack that doubled as my I V stand. Removing the shiny gold cufflinks, he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, and closed the distance between us. Checking my I V line, looking at my pupils, taking my pulse, Dark went about his work without uttering a word.
I didn’t speak either. It’s not that I didn’t have anything to say, I always had something to say. And tonight? With the discovery of magic hiding in the steam, I had a whole lot to say.
But not before I said. . .I’m sorry.
Sorry for the frantic search. Sorry for the dangerous rescue. Sorry for the rushed trip back to our train that had us going off—map, taking a route, a shortcut that we would normally never risk. And mostly? Sorry for being such a huge pain in the ass.
Again.
Dark pulled up The Bone Man’s stool and sat. With elbows resting on his knees he held his head in his hands. With the exception of the creaking wheels of The Madison, nothing but silence lay between us.
Reaching out, he took my hand and with his head still bowed he held my palm to his cheek. He didn’t talk. He barely breathed. He just sat. I could feel his disappointment circling, closing in on me. I felt suffocated, lost…heartbroken.
I’d been so stupid. So selfish. I’d risked us all. I had risked him. And the worst part of my actions is that I knew he would come after me. He always came after me. He would battle any monster. Move any mountain, cross the Ash Lands, back and forth, and do it all over again, if it meant saving me…if it meant saving any one of us.
Would I do the same for him?
Of course.
We were connected in ways that sometimes, even I didn’t understand. I guess we always would be.
I felt the threat of tears pressing behind my eyes and I fought back, desperate to keep them at bay. “I’m sorry,’ I whispered.
I lost the battle. A tear rolled down my cheek. Then another and another. This was not acceptable. I’d done enough crying tonight. Hell, I’d used up my quota for an entire year.
Blinking hard, I pulled my hand from his and turned away to stare at the wall.
