Free World Apocalypse Series (Book 2): Citizen

by T. K. Malone

  “So,” she said, “what next?”

  “Next?”

  “Yeah. Do I go in there and never come out?”

  “One thing I can’t do, Teah, is see into the future. Oh, I can plan for what I think is going to happen, but see into it? Nope, I can’t do that.”

  “So it’s in the cards?”

  “Everything’s in the cards. Tonight, though, you’ll stay near me. I may even get you a warm bath—bet it’s a while since you’ve had one of those—get a medic to look you over, and I’ll feed you. If you’re up to it, I may even get you a drink or two. Then tomorrow, well, we’ll work that out then.”

  Teah gunned the truck and drove toward the wall. Almost immediately, spotlights shone directly at them, forcing her to stop. She heard the click of Briscoe’s gun and felt it nudge her side. “Get out,” he said as the truck became surrounded, and she did.

  A sack was thrown over her head and her arms were grabbed, the sound of handcuffs being secured explaining the bite at her wrists. The familiar feel of a gun barrel in her back prodded her to walk forward, then another metallic click came and her arms were pulled forward, and someone dragged her, no doubt toward the compound.

  Teah was shoved into what felt like a narrow alleyway, hemmed in by rough walls, but just as she was getting into some kind of a stride, the chain jerked, forcing her another way. On and on she was dragged, struggling to stay upright as voices barked their orders into her ears, each lurch making her want to cry out in pain. Then she sensed the walls had gone and she was led in a straight line, the sound of people muttering nearby, some talking, others shouting. This was all left behind when she was bundled up some steps and through into what was, by the mute sound of it, a room, a warm but large room which felt packed with people. Then her hood was ripped off, and in the glare of the unaccustomed light, she found herself being roughly tied to a steel post, by her hands. Staring at its cold blue sheen, she tried to compose herself before taking in where she was.

  When she did, she found herself at the front of a large hall, facing a raised dais at her head, upon which stood a long table. The murmur of a crowd slowly filled the hall behind her, the scrape of chairs letting her know that seats were being taken. The cattleman was plucked from her head, and hands rifled her pockets, probably searching for weapons.

  Briscoe appeared at the side of the dais and jumped up, taking a seat at the center of the table. He’d fixed his face up and changed his shirt, his fresh white T-shirt accentuating a tan she hadn’t noticed before. He sat back and stared at her. She wanted to shout and scream at him, to fight him all over again, even if she were to come off worse, but she understood that a promise to a stranger you’ve only just met is no promise at all. Another man came to sit beside him, carrying two beers, one of which he pushed before Briscoe, whispering in his ear. Briscoe’s smile was devastating, his slow nod appearing to confirm her fate. He banged his hand on the table and then held it up, bringing silence to the hall.

  “Okay, folks,” and his voice carried easily to every corner of the hall. “I know some of you are scared, and some of you are wondering what’s happening. As you know, several nights ago, what we’ve prepared for happened—the reality we dreaded. Governments, especially ones that think they’re all-powerful, will always fail; bloated civilizations will always fail. What we as survivors understand is that in reality government is only good for two things: robbing and killing people. Well, they’ve gone and killed themselves this time.

  “Aldertown is gone, and it’s our understating that Morton Deep has been destroyed as well. This was to be expected. While the government was good at killing, the army is proficient at it. Now is the time we prepared for. Don’t fear it, have faith in yourselves.”

  He took a swig of his beer and stared down at Teah. She stared back, refusing to break her gaze.

  “As a few of you know,” Briscoe went on to say, “I sent Tate out to Morton to get the lay of the land, to find out what the army was up to. As most of you would have heard, too many buses and the like were leaving the town. Well, Morrow never made it back; he was murdered on the road, as was Grizzly.”

  There was a hushed gasp, followed by muttering. Briscoe again held his hand up. “Someone killed them, we’re just not sure who. Thing is: I killed an army man out on the trail today. Seems he’d hooked up with Teah, here.” Briscoe stood. “I don’t believe I’ve introduced her. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Teah, Lester’s prodigy and a great fighter, to boot. Tonight, you must decide her fate.”

  Teah’s heart sank. What kind of mind game was Briscoe playing? But she immediately realized. Spike Briscoe was using her to reinforce his dominion over these people.

  “So, Teah,” he directed at her, “who killed Morrow? Was it dead Ned?”

  She desperately wanted to lie, to tell them it was, but she had a strange feeling running through her. Briscoe appeared to know things he couldn’t possibly know, and she hadn’t told him where Morrow had died.

  “No,” she called back.

  “No?” Briscoe appeared taken by surprise. “No?” but he soon regained his composure. “If not him, then who?”

  Jake, she thought, say Jake. “I did it,” she shouted. “His wallet’s in my coat.”

  Briscoe nodded to someone, and she felt hands rifling through her coat. Morrow’s wallet was soon thrown onto the table.

  “Sorry, boss,” came a voice from behind Teah. “Must have missed it.”

  Holding his hand up, Briscoe sat. “It’s okay, Brad; musta been like searching a snake. So, you murdered Tate ‘n Grizzly.” He inclined his head, as though trying to comprehend what he’d just said. “Why?”

  “The town had convinced me that Jake had put a snitch on me. I went to Morton to see if it was true, spotted them and mistook them for hunters, so I killed them and thought that was that—until Jake told me otherwise. Morrow had Jake’s photo in his wallet. I’m guessing he set me up.”

  “My oh my, well, ain’t that a strange thing to hear. Brad, you had best get that rope ready, and make a decent noose, select a sturdy crossbeam. We’ve got a neck to snap.”

  There was more muttering, more murmuring, almost seeming to reach a muted crescendo, until Briscoe rapped on the table again. “Only trouble with that is: it should be a night for celebration. We’ve got a new barman, and as you all know, barmen are scarce around here.”

  Trip limped up to the table, took a bow and disappeared from view again, never even acknowledging Teah.

  “Don’t much feel like having a hanging when we’ve got a new barman,” Briscoe said, as though mulling it over.

  Teah knew he wanted her to plead for her life, but she wasn’t going to. She thought of Clay, thought he’d be better off without her. If she was dead, how could he then be used as bait? If she was dead, surely he was safer. Saggers would look after him, Hannah too. Teah felt a tear coming but fought it back with everything she had left.

  “One thing,” Briscoe said. “One thing I don’t understand is why Jake would want Morrow dead? Jake the loner; Jake who guards the mine; Jake who crosses the valleys. Why on Earth would he want Morrow and Grizzly dead?”

  “Who knows what that madman wants?” a voice shouted from the back. Briscoe held his hand up to quieten the heckler.

  “Ah, who knows? Teah, here, doesn’t. Teah, here, knows nothing and everything. The thing I’ve come to realize is that Teah, here, is our ultimate nemesis, but also our only chance of survival. Why? Because she has no side but always seems to survive. Now, how can that be?”

  She was at a loss herself now, no idea what he was going on about. Was this a bizarre way of breaking her down, or using her to reinforce his position in this cult of preppers? But that didn’t make sense, either. He needed no reinforcement here. Briscoe sat back and stared at her. “How can that be?” he again asked.

  “She’s a witch,” someone shouted, and they all laughed.

  Briscoe let it die down of its own accord before rising to his feet. “N
ope, no witch, just lucky. And lucky for her she’s lucky. Brad, forget the noose.” A groan went up, the crowd clearly having been rooting for her to dance at its end. “Want to know why?” Briscoe shouted, but no one answered, the room rapidly falling silent. He rounded the table and jumped down from the dais, Teah taking a small amount of satisfaction at seeing him wince. He walked up to her and trailed his finger along the cut on her cheek. “Very lucky,” he said, somewhat quietly, “and you want to know why? Well, I’ll tell you,” and then he raised his voice. “She’s lucky because Morrow was giving away secrets to the army. Morrow had chosen sides, folks—chosen sides. If she hadn’t killed him, I would have.”

  A communal intake of breath washed about the hall. There was no doubt about it: Briscoe had them in his hands. “So,” his voice rang out, “what shall we do?”

  “Hang her anyway,” a voice shouted, and laughter followed.

  But then the doors burst open and the crowd fell silent.

  “You will do no such thing,” a familiar voice rang out.

  6

  Connor’s Story

  Strike time: plus 2 days

  Location: Project Firebird

  The lamps glared in Connor’s face, their heat as intense as their brilliant light. He was sitting at the studio’s desk, attempting to read from an autocue, but stumbled over his words like a drunk ordering the night’s last beer. He knew he had to deliver just to keep the compound sane, but the script Charm had given him had startled and sent a chill through him, and now he wondered how he could possibly spin it to present any hope whatsoever.

  “No, no, no,” said Kenny Holmes.

  Kenny was a bear of a man, six foot, big build, and as hairy as the animal he so closely resembled. He was also Connor’s assistant. How had Charm put it? “Every straight man needs a sidekick”, and Kenny Holmes seemed to fit the bill perfectly.

  There was a good reason Kenny was a day late and had only turned up an hour earlier, though Connor was still struggling to believe the tale Kenny had told him once he’d sat down.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he’d said as he’d clattered through the door to the studio. Connor had looked up from his desk as the man slumped onto the sofa, as if he’d barged in loads of times before. “Had a bit of trouble getting here,” he’d gone on to explain. “Kenny, Kenny Holmes,” and he’d huffed and looked around the room. “Bit spartan, but needs must, eh?”

  Though Kenny was quite distinctive in both looks and build, it was his injuries that had immediately stood out. His arm was in a sling, his hand in one of those strap-on casts, and he had a bandage around his forehead that pushed his curly brown hair up into a bushy crown. Without a hint at what was to come, Connor was already sniggering inside. Kenny had then sighed and proceeded to tell a tale of the utmost misfortune.

  “It’s like this,” he’d moaned. “Peculiar story, really. It all started the day I came here, you know, the day before the big bang…” He’d looked for some reaction from Connor, but Connor had been too bemused by the upheaval of his arrival to say anything. “Well, I was just finishing up at the television studios when I got a message that told me to proceed to the junction of twenty-third and ninth, immediately. Quite naturally, I scrambled around for my gear—no one’s late for one of those—but things went sour pretty quickly.”

  “What?” Connor asked, settling back for what looked like a sizable story.

  “Well, in the confusion and mayhem, I clean forgot where I’d put my glasses.”

  “Glasses?”

  “Glasses; spectacles? You remember them, surely. Aversions: I’ve got plenty of them, and one of them is anyone going anywhere near my eyes with a knife. Avoided correctional surgery all my life—kicking and screaming sometimes, I can tell you.” He nodded, as if to reinforce his point. Connor lit a smoke to try and conceal the smile which was beginning to hatch on his lips. “So,” Kenny continued, “blind as a bat, I stumbled off to the studio’s reception. You see, Harry, the receptionist—well, more of a concierge, really—he always keeps a spare pair for me behind the counter. I can be quite… What’s the word? Clumsy, quite clumsy.”

  “Clumsy,” Connor repeated, mostly just to hear a different voice.

  “So, I was at the counter; that’s when the problems started.”

  “Problems? If you don’t mind… Who are you?”

  “Kenny, Kenny Holmes,” said Kenny. Connor looked at him, bemused. “Your assistant,” said Kenny. “Here at last.”

  “Oh. So, you had some problems?”

  Kenny huffed and his shoulders slumped—as much as they could. “You have no idea. First off: a blurry figure shouts my name. ‘Kenny, Kenny Holmes,’ he says. So, being said Kenny Holmes, I put my hand up. Of course, with a camera in one hand and a stand and all in the other, well, disaster was bound to happen. Slippery floors, I say. That’s where the blame lies.”

  “So, what happened?” and Connor cringed internally as he suspected what was to come.

  “I went over, didn’t I—took the man who’d hailed me as well, and we both collapsed to the floor.”

  “And you broke your arm?”

  Kenny shook his head. “Not then, no. Dusted myself off and bustled out with him; that’s how I clean forgot my glasses. Anyway…” Kenny looked up. “Would you mind getting me a coffee?” and he pointed to his bad arm.

  Connor jumped up and grabbed one from the machine. “Here,” and he backed away and sat back down. Kenny took a sip and immediately spat it out.

  “Hot,” he said.

  “Would be,” Connor muttered.

  “So, outside, there was a bus waiting. Trouble was, they were in a hurry, shoved me on, doors shut, and as I was walking down the aisle, jostling everyone with my cameras and the stand, the bus sharply pulled away and sent me flying.”

  “So I take it that’s when…?” but Connor then scrunched his eyes together, dreading the answer.

  “Nope,” Kenny said. “Fine again—bit battered and bruised, but on the whole, okay, just my dignity ruined. Anyway, one of my cameras bounced down a little stairwell to one side of me, so I crawled down to try and find it. It was the bus’s restroom, and I thought ‘Why not?’ and sat there, out of the way; out of harm’s way—or so I thought.”

  “In the restroom?”

  “Yep, well, after all the trauma, all the bumps and bruises, and what with the gentle lilt of the bus as it made its way to wherever it was going, I fell asleep—at least, that’s what I thought at the time. It seems we were gassed, or something.”

  “Molly said much the same.”

  “Molly?” and Kenny’s eyebrows lofted. “Molly Hunter?”

  “Yes, do you know her?”

  “Met her in the canteen this morning. Nice girl. Helped me out with my tray and the like. So, she was gassed too?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “You?”

  Connor nodded, the lie he’d told Molly now haunting him.

  Kenny sighed. “Guess we all were. Can I have one of them?” He pointed to the smokes and Connor tossed them over. He watched Kenny fumbling around with his one good arm. “Marvellous,” the man finally said. “Had a feeling this habit wouldn’t kill me. Plenty of other things around lining up for that privilege, though. Now, where was I?”

  “Asleep; unconscious; on the can—you were sitting on the can.”

  “Ah yes, so, I woke up with the strangest feeling. I knew instantly I was all alone. I crawled up the stairs and along the bus. Blurred—remember everything was blurred. Oddly, though, seeing as the bus appeared to be parked, the doors were open—they’re normally closed when it’s parked—city regulations, you know. So, I asked it where everyone was.”

  “It?”

  “The bus—don’t you use them? They’ve got quite intelligent computers driving them these days. Anyhow, the bus didn’t answer. My AI was silent, as well—I presumed damaged in my fall. Still hasn’t come back—yours?”

  “No,” Connor said, getting up and grabbing a
coffee for himself before sitting next to Kenny Holmes.

  “Figures. Must have been the drug, then. So, I get out of the bus and into the blazing heat outside. I could smell dry grass, hay, that kind of thing, and see a fuzzy outline of some mountains. Then there was this noise, like a huge convoy, and it was rumbling straight toward me—as far as I could tell from what I could hear. So, I stepped out from behind the bus to hail them and…wham!”

  “Wham what?”

  “Wham, bam, run over, man.”

  “And is that when?” Connor nodded at his arm and looked up at his bandaged head.

  “Yes, at least I think so. Knocked unconscious, and I’d only just woken up. How’s your luck?”

  “So, why no…” and Connor made circular motions around each eye with his fingers.

  “Glasses? Bloody hospital, that’s what happened. While I was out, they accessed my medical chip and fixed everything I’d been avoiding. Eyes, sinuses—you name it. Could even have,” and Kenny Holmes pointed at his crotch, “you know,” then he winked as he got up.

  And so Kenny’s story, Kenny Holmes’ story, had ended, leaving Connor to conclude that Kenny was an odd man, a very odd man indeed, though Connor somehow felt he could trust him. It seemed Kenny Holmes had no other objective than getting through the next ten minutes. Connor had never met another man like him, but although he’d do, Connor’s temper was by now fraying.

  “So, ‘No, no, no, no’ what?” Connor shouted, in response to Kenny’s earlier interruption, then looked across at the man, where he now stood behind one of the cameras.

  “Natural,” said Kenny. “Act natural. Good news, bad news, always the same. You just need a smidge of an upbeat tone if it’s good, and a hint of sombre if it’s bad. So, what’s so bad?”