Free World Apocalypse Series (Book 2): Citizen

by T. K. Malone

  “Me? Have a little fun.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Well, Switch will be riding with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t trust you, Zac, and I trust Switch. Your friends will be at Gerald’s—he’s a wily old fox—you’d do well to keep him onside. Go to ground zero, carry out Charm’s instructions and let Switch report back to me.”

  Zac got up to leave.

  “Before you go, know this, son of mine: if you hurt one hair on Switch’s neck, deviate in any way from the path I’ve set out, I’ll kill something you love. Just a warning.” Cornelius turned to Wesley. “Shall we play a game?”

  “Anything you want, boss.”

  “I think I feel like brushing up on my chess. You never know when an accomplished visitor will come a-knocking.” He gave Zac one more look, then picked up his sunglasses and pushed them on.

  “Man, I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Zac thought as he opened the ornate wooden door.

  14

  Zac’s Story

  Strike time: plus 4 days

  Location: Christmas

  The town of Christmas had never lived up to its name, and certainly never marked the festive day. Even in Black City it had been a day of celebration. Zac understood the whys and wherefores behind it—perpetuated by The Free World because it gave them an advantage, and in more ways than could be measured in credits alone. It was a great day to bury bad news, and an equally fortuitous one to celebrate good. Though as free as The Free World might have been, perpetual war brought questions to even the most asleep of minds, but Christmas—the holiday and not the town—shoved those thoughts to one side for a day, maybe two, then three, and grumbles were soon forgotten as the simpler things in life were celebrated.

  Christmas itself—the town—survived on little more than grumbles. If it rained, it was too wet; if it snowed, it was too slippery; and if the sun shone, it was too hot. Celebration and Christmas did not go together, but to Zac it was home. A home that had one road in and one out, that had once been a proud mining town where each resident, new or old, had had a purpose, a reason to live, a function in life. But long ago, those reasons had diminished to a bottle or a pipe, and black lung had become the way to die.

  Zac’s club had changed all that. They’d brought in money, smuggling money, but money nonetheless, and in return what residents had been left had adapted to older ways. At first it was just a few stills here and there, and operations like Zac assumed Saggers had going, but it grew and progressed as things have a tendency to do. Now, though the town looked much the same, what had been the head of a mine had become a brewery, its shaft a warehouse, and what used to be an abandoned warehouse produced some of the purest pills in The Free World. Smokes, booze and powders, all the things the gridders couldn’t get legally, and the bread and butter of a new economy. Christmas had begun to get that country glow again, and Zac’s hometown had begun to flourish, though maintaining a very low key. Slowly, those frowns had turned to grins, and Christmas learned to celebrate once more.

  Every new building that had been built, every extension, had been made to look abandoned, derelict, designed to deter interest from any surveillance from above. Orbiting satellites would glean nothing among the redwoods other than what they knew to be there anyway, and that was a Free World Dystopia, one that was a no-future wasteland. But, as Zac rode along behind Loser and Switch, he had a smile on his face, for he was on his way home, a home he hadn’t been to in an age. He signaled to Billy Flynn; the big man nodded and swerved across the road and up a small, seemingly disused muddy track.

  They pushed along through the overgrown trail, the darkness of the forest not slowing them in the least. This was familiar ground, home turf, and either of them could have ridden it blindfolded. It wound around as it climbed the valley, over a brook and its jarring bridge, then a few more turns and another judder until they came to a small clearing, an old dilapidated house standing at its center. Zac pulled up. Billy drew alongside.

  “Wouldn’t take much to fix up,” said Billy.

  “Nope,” Zac said, “but it would be wrong, somehow, and don’t ask me how. Too much, Billy, too much went on in those four walls.”

  “Was he that bad?”

  “The old man? He was his own unique self. I know I should have talked about it last night, but out there on the road, once we’d got away from Gerald, I was happy just to look at the stars and forget all about it.” Zac looked at Billy. “I just couldn’t face talking about it, about him, and about how he self-justifies everything he’s done.”

  “But you’re going to have to.”

  “Yeah,” and Zac took a long breath. “If I told you he’s got a couple of thousand men at his disposal, more I think, and that he sees himself as a player now—what would you say?”

  “I’d say ‘Noodle’; I’d say ‘Spritzer’; and I’d even say ‘Loser’. Numbers, Zac: most of those residents were code violations, moral violations—just examples. Probably boils down to a couple of handfuls, a few who’ve got the nuts.”

  “But even a fool is a dangerous fool with a machine gun in his hand.”

  Billy scoffed at that. “Then you’re going to have to be cute.”

  Zac smiled. “I haven’t been called cute in an age.” He took a breath and got off his bike. “They bury her out back?”

  “Think so—where you asked.”

  Zac went up to the old house. It was a ramshackle affair, flat roof as was the norm for dwellings in Christmas, small porch, and shutters which had seen better days and now hung askew. The yard was patches of grass broken up by loose gravel, the trees and bushes kept at bay by some secret gardener—probably a rabbit or two. He kicked at stones as he approached the house, hands in his front pockets, then made his way around the back.

  Later, they sat on the roof, dangling their legs over its edge, smoking a Saggers.

  “Someone’s been tending the grave,” Zac said.

  “Folk got a lot of respect for what you’ve done, Zac.”

  “We.”

  “Nah, I’m along for the ride, but no more than that.”

  “Nonsense, Billy Flynn, nonsense. Respect, eh? After what the old man did? How can they have any respect?”

  “How many secretly cheered when the nuke hit the city, Zac? You think, after everything the city folks have done to those out here, you think they give a toss about a few indiscretions?”

  “Indiscretions? I’ve heard murder called a lot of things, but not that.”

  “And murder can be a lot of things, too. Doesn’t have to be bloody. The walls went up, Zac, the gridders made their choice. They voted for it. Took their hospitals with them, their education, their opportunity, and they murdered, too. They left the folk out here to die, black lung, measles, you name it, it kills—that’s murder, too; corporate murder. So you think folk here really care he took a few gridders down. Heck, they’ll probably kiss his feet if he ever comes by this way.”

  “They were girls.”

  “They were gridders, Zac, and they cared only about themselves. Good riddance, I say.”

  “Are we going to do any better?”

  “Better than what? Better than turning your back on your own people to fight a war no one cares about, or better than grabbing kids from the countryside to fight that war for you? Yeah, I think we’ll do better. That is, if we want to be in charge.”

  “What else we gonna do, Billy?”

  Billy Flynn jumped down from the roof, looking up at Zac as he backed toward his bike. “Whole new world out there, Zac, miles of open road. Doesn’t it tempt you?”

  Zac smiled and jumped down, too. “Sure does, Billy.”

  In a pause, he heard an out-of-place crack echo around the valley, followed by a few distant bangs and muffled thumps. He scanned the ridges around the valley.

  “What the hell was that?” Billy said, spinning around.

  Zac was trying to see through the trees, peering up into th
e sky. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get somewhere with a better view,” but Billy was already pointing.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” and billowing, black smoke was now clear to see, even through the trees.

  “Coming from over Morton way. Army cleaning shop, maybe?”

  “Someone getting a toehold in a war which hasn’t happened yet,” Billy grunted.

  “Gotta feel sorry for the poor bastards in their way. Let’s get going, just in case it spooks Switch.”

  They arrived in Christmas proper just as the sun had reached its zenith, and just when more explosions sounded out, and more black smoke filled the sky. Zac could only conclude that Aldertown was also now no more.

  The little town of Christmas looked as though it had been set in a circle around its sole stone bridge, to defend it from marauders, the kind of protection Zac suspected they themselves were soon going to need.

  There was an old garage which hadn’t seen any diesel in an age, but its rundown workshop looked useful for storing cargo made ready to roll, and its forecourt seemed handy for spinning trucks around. The hardware store still survived, but it sold next to nothing now and repaired almost anything. Zac pulled up next to the community hall and parked his bike in rank with the rest as the muffled beat of rock music spilled from within. He took a breath before jumping up the steps and into what was sure to be another piece of mayhem.

  What was once the center of Christmas’s community, a place to swap tales of a day’s work, to tell of a memorable catch from the river, of a bear that was roaming the forest, now resembled a frat party that had disturbed a hornet’s nest. There was dancing, falling, fighting, and roasting; there was indeed mayhem, and Zac wondered when they’d become so feral.

  “Yo, Zac, Billy!” Noodle’s voice carried over the music. He stood by the bar, a stained-wood, L-shaped counter tucked by the side of what looked like an impromptu stage. Zac changed course and made his way toward him.

  “What the hell is going on?” Zac asked.

  “End of the world party—it’s been going on for three days now. Meet Cindy, she’s real friendly.”

  “Hi, Zac,” said Cindy. Zac scowled.

  “Where’s Loser and Switch?”

  “Went to check the warehouse out. Chill out, Zac boy. It’s the end of the world.”

  Looking around, Zac recognized a couple of faces, and guessed that Cornelius was a few days away from getting his guns. The barmaid came over, all smiles and flesh, her enthusiasm for the rock and roll lifestyle bubbling out of her like a shaken up beer bottle.

  “Drinks? We got ale or a bucket of punch. Calling it Gridder’s Graveyard: it’ll bury you like a nuke. Say, I haven’t seen you around before. Name’s Jerry, you?”

  “Billy,” shouted Billy over the bar, easing Zac out of the way. “Don’t mind him, he quite liked them.”

  Zac grabbed a beer and looked around. Maybe he was getting it all wrong, he thought. Maybe it was time for celebration. Maybe he should let his hair down and enjoy the day. He pulled out a Saggers, lit it and took a puff. Maybe. “Maybe” was his problem, a road with too many forks and no sure route. He gulped his ale down. Maybe it could all wait until tomorrow, and if the army came and blew the place to bits in the interim, maybe he wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

  “You all right, man?” asked Noodle.

  “Just gonna get me some air—won’t be long.”

  He grabbed another beer and made for a side door, straight out into a yard a garbage dump would have been proud of. Sitting on the edge of a small stoop, he smoked his smoke and wondered when he’d lost the ability to let things go and just enjoy himself.

  “Fed up with the party already?”

  Zac looked around. Sitting right by the door, feet resting on an empty planter, the owner of the voice looked out from under an old cowboy hat. Her face was in its shade, though dark glasses and a frame of long, brown hair gave the impression of cool surety.

  “Never had time,” Zac said. “Was just sitting here wondering when I forgot how to enjoy myself.”

  “Couple of Gridder’s Graveyard’s’ll shake that out of you. Say, you got a spare smoke.”

  “Sure,” and he passed her one. “How come you’re not celebrating the demise of the city?”

  “Black City?” and she shrugged. “Way I look at it, we had things pretty sweet up here. Things were getting better, folk were starting to smile again, and money, well, there’s enough to go ‘round. We could buy the food we wanted, brew the ale we needed, and if anything, sit and wonder what we wanted next. Turns out, when you live up here, you don’t need a lot.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “By who?”

  “Something Nathan Grimes told me: he said the man who makes these smokes—some legend called Saggers—just sells ’em and throws the money behind his old sofa.”

  She whistled. “Nathan Grimes, cowboy; you do move in high places. Don’t much care for the idiot myself.”

  “Nathan? Idiot?”

  “I ain’t a great one fer cussing,” she said. “These are mighty fine smokes.”

  “No, between you and me, Nathan Grimes might actually be a fool. He has certain mannerisms that are quite doofus-like.” Zac grinned and laid back on the deck. “Very doofus-like.”

  “So,” she said, “I take it you’re not one of his little militia?”

  “Militia?”

  “You don’t know about that? Jeez, man, where have you been? Him and his goons come up here from the hotel every now and then. Crack whips, shout and holler, tell everyone they have to buck their ideas up and generally act all lordy. Some of his henchmen get a bit out of hand, but generally there’s enough locals around to make sure nothing goes too far.”

  “Cracks whips? Here in Christmas?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. Almost like he’s more fearsome than a—”

  “Than a half-wit?”

  She cocked her hand and fired a shot at him with her finger. “You got it, cowboy.” Reaching down, she groped around for her beer. “I’m all out. You want one, or you going back in?”

  “No, I’ll take one—the company is a little easier out here.”

  Standing, she tipped her glasses down her nose, looking over their top. “Easy?” then she grinned and went back inside. Zac let his eyes linger a little too long before turning his attention back to the yard.

  From everything he’d learned in the last day, Grimes wasn’t fit to lead, but Zac questioned whether he himself wanted to. Plus, there was the small matter of his father. The real problem was: he couldn’t see that much of a future for the club, not if everything settled down. Their money had come from smuggling, but their power had come from fear. Christmas manufactured their gear because of it. Sure, in return they got to eat, but now there were no laws, there was nothing to stop them carrying on without Grimes, without his father, and without him.

  Sitting on that stoop, he began to wonder if without mayhem and conflict, fear vanished. Without laws only they were able to break, the club would become redundant. A free, unregulated market, now that would be a disaster for all in power, and quite a possibility now. “Shit,” he muttered, not understanding if he was abhorred or excited by the prospect.

  He heard the door swing to behind him, and then she was sitting on the stoop.

  “All that talk about Nathan Grimes: that was all it was, you know; talk.”

  Zac shrugged. “You can say what you want. Man’s only as good as what people think he is.”

  She took out a pack of smokes and lit one for Zac. Taking out another, she paused, then let out a long breath. “Sorry, they told me who you were, and I thought…”

  Zac scoffed. “I ain’t no lord you gotta worry about.”

  “No, no, I reckoned not, which is why I was surprised when they told me who you were. Figured you for a brainless banger with zero personality.”

  Zac hesitated, then she smiled, leaned into him and banged shoulders. She raised her bottle. “To
strange times—to starting over again.”

  “Strange times,” Zac said, and they both took a swig of their beers, and both looked out over the yard.

  “How do you see this shit playing out?” she asked.

  “Me?”

  “Well, I don’t see anyone else around.”

  For some reason he felt nervous around this girl, then amended ‘this girl’ to ‘any girl’ and remembered he’d hardly been near a woman since Teah had left. Gridder women never wanted to know carnies—a slang name for anyone who lived in the city but not on the Grid, and city women not ensnared in the Grid had no interest in a known smuggler and owner of one of the most downtrodden bars on the block. Indeed, most were surprised he hadn’t been arrested. Folk on the streets always knew the truth of what others did, and so his experience of small talk had been restricted to a few drunks and Billy Flynn.

  “Way I see it,’ Zac said, “you got four groups. You got the army, you got the preppers, you got the criminals—that includes us at the minute—and you got the rest of the world. What could happen? The army: well, they could wipe out the preppers and the crims, then bugger up the rest of the world.”

  “So we’re gone?”

  “Yup, but there is a second scenario. The preppers: they could take out the army and the crims, then bugger up the rest of the world.”

  “Dead again.”

  “Yup.”

  “Third scenario?”

  “The crims beat the army, eradicate the preppers and then—”

  “Bugger up the rest of the world.”

  “That’s about the size of it. Whichever way you look at it, the rest of the world is buggered.”

  “So, nothing’s changed?”

  “No, ma’am, nothing’s changed, not while someone’s in power.”

  She looked around, taking her sunglasses off and tapping the end of one of their arms against her lips. “Why do I get the feeling you aren’t happy with that… What’s the word?”

  “Status quo?”

  “Two words, but they’ll do. Why do I get the feeling you aren’t happy.”