Apocalyptic Fears II: Select Bestsellers: A Multi-Author Box Set

by Greg Dragon

  “My money?” Kruger says. This guy gets right to the point, which is fine with me.

  I wave Roc forward. He extracts a paper envelope from his pocket, which clinks as he hands it across. “A hundred Nailins,” he says. “Count it.”

  The guy shakes his head and the parcel at the same time. “No need. It’s all there,” he says, as though he’s done so many shady deals that he can count the coins just by the sound of their clinking. Maybe he can. What do I know?

  Next, Roc hands him some clothes, identical to the ones I’m wearing. A gold tunic, a silver bracelet, brown moccasins. He even gives him a pair of my blue silk boxer shorts, just to be thorough. “Put those on,” I say.

  The guy strips right in front of us—clearly modesty is low on his priority list. I turn away, removing my own clothes and swapping them for a black tunic, black pants, and black boots. While I add a dark hat and sunglasses to my getup, Roc provides Kruger with a similar pair of sunglasses and a floppy, white beach hat. A current edition of a Sun Dweller magazine and a bottle of expensive wine from my father’s personal stash complete the façade.

  With a nod, Kruger slides the money into the magazine and heads for the door. Roc trails after him. We’ve agreed that if the fake me leaves without Roc it will raise eyebrows; Roc goes everywhere with me. I hide off to the side, behind the red velvet drapes that provide privacy at the poolside windows. They exit, and just before the door closes, I see the gaggle of guards surround them. Kruger’s head is tilted slightly downward, so there will be even less likelihood he’ll be recognized as anyone but me. The door closes and I hear Roc’s muffled voice as he explains to the guards that my guest will be resting in the suite while I’m at the pool.

  I’m not worried. They’ll buy the story. After all, they aren’t really trained to question their masters. Plus, they’re trying to protect me from those who might hurt me, not from escaping. I’m not a prisoner—not technically.

  I slip back around the drapes and peek through the window. A few minutes later, the dummy me and my entourage enter the pool area. Because we arrived in the early afternoon, it’s already packed—finding a place to sit would be near impossible for any normal person. But I’m no normal person, at least not to these people. It’s all been prepared ahead of my arrival. A carved-out section of the patio, complete with tables, chairs, a vase of flowers, trays of food. To my disgust I notice a couple of deeply tanned, fake-boobed girls standing ready to fulfill my every desire. No doubt they’re a gift from my father.

  I hope I never see him again.

  Do I really mean that?

  Roc leads the imposter to the reserved area and motions for the guards to stand in a surrounding circle, blocking “me” from view of all the rubberneckers who are already standing up and trying to catch a glimpse of the president’s son. That makes me laugh.

  Before leaving, I run my fingers along the hilt of my sword. Although my father insisted that my training include more advanced weaponry, including various types of guns, I’ve never felt fully comfortable with them. For one, the Moon Dwellers and Star Dwellers have very few guns, which is one of the reasons their rebellions have been quashed so easily in the past. Is that fair? They can never hope to fight for equality if the very weapons they have to fight are not equal.

  Screw you, Father, I think, sliding my sword back into my belt.

  It’s time to go.

  I leave the suite, taking a minute to scan the hallway for any guards who might’ve remained behind, or for any hotel staff who might witness my escape.

  The hall is empty.

  I go the opposite way down the hall from where we entered, intent on using the private exit, specially designed so celebrities can leave without being noticed. It’ll be guarded by one of my men, but that won’t be a problem. He’ll be looking for someone trying to get in, not for someone on their way out.

  I tiptoe down the stairs, cognizant that any scuff of my feet or scrape of my toes might echo to the bottom, thus alerting the guard to my presence. I have to maintain the element of surprise if I want to avoid an ugly confrontation.

  I reach the bottom without so much as a tap of my feet on the stone steps. The thick security door is bolted shut; I raise the lever gently, hoping it’s been oiled recently. When it doesn’t creak, I breathe a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

  I take a deep breath, trying to concentrate. To focus my mind. To prepare myself for swift and decisive violence. To incapacitate, not kill. I have no hatred for my guards, no desire to harm them. They aren’t smart enough to think for themselves. They just follow orders. Maybe that’s not a good excuse, but I let them have it.

  Using my shoulder as a battering ram, I burst through the door, bobbing my head left and then right to locate the guard. He’s surprised, but alert, already reaching for his gun. But I already have my sword out and am ready for combat. Before he raises his arm in defense, the point of my sword is at his throat. I’m not sure if he recognizes me beneath my sunglasses, but in a few hours it won’t matter.

  As soon as he drops his gun, I swing around behind him and clamp his chin between my forearm and bicep, slowly tightening the force on his neck. At first he fights it, but then his feet stop kicking, his arms stop waving, and he goes to sleep. I wait a few more seconds before releasing him, just in case he’s faking it, and then lay his unconscious body to the ground, kindly propping his head up on his hip bag. Before I leave I steal his sword for Roc. I leave the gun; it’s not really my style.

  I slip around the edge of the resort, but no one’s nearby; everyone’s drinking cocktails and splashing around in the pool. In some ways, I envy them. Do I still have time to change my mind? I could go back to the guard, tell him I was testing him—that he failed. In ten minutes I could be enjoying the cool water and cold drinks. Living the life I was born to live. Would that be so wrong?

  Gritting my teeth, I slip around the side of the resort.

  I make my way back to the arriving and departing visitors’ entrance, and stride confidently past the greeters. They’re too busy welcoming some big shot Sun Dweller and don’t even seem to notice me pass by. The dark clothing probably helps in that regard, too.

  I wait for Roc at the mandated location, near the south end of the transporter platform. I hope we’ve timed it right, that Roc will have enough time to meet me. If I have to I’ll leave without him, but I really don’t want to. I tap my toe on the stone platform nervously.

  The ground rumbles as the transporter approaches.

  Still no Roc.

  The transporter bursts through the end of the tunnel.

  Still no Roc.

  A whoosh of air hits me as the transporter rolls to a stop.

  No Roc…and then—

  Roc appears at the other end of the platform, running hard toward me, fear radiating from the whites of his eyes.

  He crosses half the platform and I’m still wondering why he looks so scared. Yeah, the train will be leaving soon, but he’s made it with plenty of time to board with me. The platform is empty; no one else in their right mind would be traveling from the hottest resort in the Sun Realm to the Moon Realm.

  He’s almost to me when his pursuers arrive, charging through the resort entrance and gunning straight for us. Evidently I’ve underestimated my guards, or Roc has done something stupid, or maybe both, but whatever the case, they know they have to stop him. It’s likely they haven’t worked out exactly what’s happening, just that something is going down that isn’t supposed to.

  When Roc reaches me I grab his arm and run with him onto the transporter. To his credit, Roc smartly thinks to hit the door close button repeatedly.

  “Doors closing,” the speaker says. “Nonstop to subchapter six of the Moon Realm.”

  The doors begin closing and we peer through the tinted windows to catch a glimpse of our pursuers. When the doors are halfway closed I think we’ll make it. The guards realize they’re too late and intelligently veer off toward one of the front sections
of the transporter, but they’re still at least five long strides away.

  They’ll never make it.

  One of them dives headfirst at the rapidly closing door, thrusting his arms in the tiny crack and using his elbows like a wedge to pry it open.

  “Damn,” I mutter, as they board the train. “What happened?”

  Roc’s eyes are wild, flitting from side to side, unable to focus on mine. “I don’t know—I just freaked. I tried to sneak away, made some excuse about needing to go to the bathroom. One of your guards said he’d escort me, that he was bored anyway. When I said I’d be fine on my own, he started asking questions and I got flustered and just started running. That’s when they came after me.”

  “Damn,” I say again. I should’ve known Roc wasn’t cut out for this type of work.

  “What are we going to do?” Roc says. His face is as white as a ghost’s. He’s probably been under more stress in the last five minutes than in the last five years combined.

  I glance through the small window in the door at the end of our car. Two cars ahead I can see the guards making their way toward us, transferring cars swiftly, methodically.

  The doors close and the transporter silently leaves the station.

  “Remember all that training we’ve been doing?” Roc’s eyes don’t light up the way they usually do when I mention training. Not this time. He isn’t ready for this. But he’ll have to be anyway.

  I put both my hands on his shoulders, look him in the eyes. “This is gonna be okay, man. I promise. We’ll do this together.”

  I hand him the stolen sword and raise my own.

  The guards enter our car.

  I’m not sure whether they know who I am yet, so I can’t depend on my true identity to protect me from the sharp swords they’re brandishing. After all, they’ve just left the pool, where they think I’m wasting away the afternoon, getting drunk and looking to score with one of my desperate admirers. Not that I ever do that. But they might think there’s a first time for everything. They probably think Roc has stolen something and I’m his accomplice.

  They’ve got guns, too, but they’ve left them holstered for now. One of them is chuckling to himself, like this is a chance for a little fun.

  Anyway, they come at us with blood in their eyes, swinging to kill, or at least maim. I know these guys are out of Roc’s league, accomplished fighters, but I also know I’ll need his help if we’re going to survive the next five minutes—or even the next five seconds.

  I block both their swords with my own, feeling their collective strength as I’m thrown back against Roc. Pushing Roc hard against the side of the car, which is moving faster and faster, already nearing its top speed of two hundred miles an hour, I spin hard to the left, ducking under another sword that wants to lop my head from my shoulders.

  Roc cries out as he slams into the wall, which draws the attention of one of the guards. The distraction provides a short reprieve, as now I’m only facing one guard. I deftly slip under his attempt to gut me like a fish, simultaneously launching my own attack, slashing him hard across both legs. I avoid his chest and head—I still don’t want to kill anyone.

  He goes down like a sack of potatoes, dropping his sword and screaming in agony.

  I turn back toward Roc, who’s also crying out. The other guard has him cornered, slashing at him with short, flashing strikes. Roc’s doing his best to maintain his swordfighter’s stance, but each time he parries a blow, it seems even less likely he’ll be able to block the next one.

  I charge the guard from behind, dropping my sword and tackling him hard to the floor. His sword clatters to the ground next to Roc, who kicks it out of range of the guard’s scrabbling fingers. I swing my elbow hard, crashing it into the back of his head. He slumps, unconscious.

  Turning back to the other guard, who is writhing on the floor in the fetal position clutching his legs, I pick up my sword.

  “No!” Roc cries, when he thinks I’m going to run him through.

  But I’m not going to kill him. I spin the sword around and use the long handle to give the guard a major headache. He stops flopping about, stops yelling. Lies there, silent.

  Roc’s face is even whiter now, like it’s powdered with chalk. “You okay?” I ask.

  Roc seems unable to speak, taking short and uneven breaths, his fists balled and legs stuck firmly shoulder-width apart, slightly bent at the knees—just like I’ve taught him. He’s going into shock. I need to snap him out of it.

  “Roc, stay with me, man. It’s going to be okay, we’re safe now.” I know I have to secure the guards—they’ve probably taken a lot of collective hits to the head over their lifetimes and their recovery time will be shorter than most—but I’m worried about Roc, so I take care of him first.

  I put an arm around Roc’s shoulder and the other on his elbow and lead him to a seat. He’s trembling slightly, his body reacting to the sudden decline in stress. Once he’s seated, I look him in the eyes. “All okay,” I say. He’s staring at his feet, refusing to meet my eyes.

  I try to make casual conversation to snap him out of his funk. “Remember the last time we were in the sixth subchapter, Roc?” He continues to stare at the floor. “We were riding on that float, trumpets playing, people cheering—when it tipped over. You remember that? It was chaos, Roc. A mob of bodies, mashed up against each other, nearly getting trampled to death. But we survived it. And we just survived an attack by two highly trained guards, Roc. We’re just fine. You did great.”

  Finally, his chin rises ever so slightly, and he manages a grin. “You’re talking to me like I’m a child,” he says.

  I laugh. Good old Roc. “I thought you were in shock,” I say.

  “I think I was…or nearly was,” Roc says. “Thanks,” he adds.

  “Hey, what are friends for?” I say lightly. I don’t want him getting all emotional on me. There will be time for that later.

  Luckily, in his haste, Roc didn’t forget the pack that we prepared together. In it is a long coil of rope. Using my sword, I cut off four small sections and use them to bind each guard’s hands and feet. I stuff the bodies under the seats at the other end of the car, as far away from Roc as I can get. Their swords and guns clatter onto the tracks beneath the transporter when I throw them out the door. Roc watches me do all this with interest.

  When I come back and sit next to him, he turns to me and says, “That was my first real fight.”

  “You did great,” I repeat.

  He laughs. “How do you figure? I was screaming like a banshee and on the verge of sudden death throughout the entire thing.”

  “You didn’t die,” I say. “That’s why. And everyone is on the verge of sudden death in a swordfight. All that matters is who doesn’t die.”

  The guards stir halfway through the trip and start yelling. I wrap cloth around their mouths to shut them up.

  Roc is better for the rest of the transporter ride, telling upbeat stories about when we were little, the trouble we used to get into. He might be overcompensating for the way he’s really feeling, but I’m not about to stop him; it’s better than listening to him talk about near-death experiences.

  At some point along the way, the well-lit tunnel dims, as we cross over the border into the Moon Realm. Less electricity is provided to the commoners. Their leaders have signed a contract so it’s okay. Yeah, right.

  An hour or so later the transporter begins to slow, pulling into a dead Moon Realm station. Moon Dwellers don’t travel much; they’re too busy trying to survive. I’m somewhat concerned there will be a welcoming party waiting for us: either Moon Dweller soldiers acting on my father’s orders, or Sun Dweller soldiers who somehow managed to get there in front of us. But there’s no one waiting with guns, or swords, or handcuffs. I dare to hope that perhaps the only guards who know what is happening are tied up in the last car on the train. Despite the low traffic, they’ll eventually be found. We need to be as far away from the sixth subchapter as possible when they’r
e discovered.

  We exit, our swords tucked under our clothing, and Roc carrying the pack. I scan the platform for any signs of trouble. There are only three people in sight. A cleaner scoops rubbish into a long-handled dust pan. An old woman steps onto the transporter a few cars in front of us. There’s no way she is going to the Sandy Oasis. More likely the transporter is headed deeper into the Moon Realm, sending our tied-up pursuers far away from us. The third person is a platform attendant, who eyes us warily—he probably isn’t used to many Sun Dwellers stepping onto his platform.

  I approach him, keeping the cap of my hat low to shield my face. I’m still wearing sunglasses. Although it’s unlikely he’ll recognize me, I still need to take precautions. So I change the tone of my voice slightly, making it gruffer and deeper. I say, “Where can I catch the first transporter to the fourteenth subchapter?”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy, like he’s never heard such a request in all his life. But then he says, “Platform seven. Just around the corner.” He motions in the direction we need to go. He doesn’t offer any information on when the next transporter will arrive, but Roc already checked the schedule. It’s due only ten minutes after our arrival.

  “Thanks,” I growl.

  We round the corner and my eyes widen when I see the next platform. Based on the noise level—which is almost nonexistent—I expected to find another empty platform. Not so. Instead, the platform is packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, back to front, most of them staring straight ahead. No one speaks. They’re like statues.

  I check my watch. We’ve arrived eight minutes late, which means the train will arrive any second. It’s early evening—quitting time. I’ve heard that jobs are becoming so scarce in many of the Moon Realm subchapters that some people commute to other subchapters to work, and then return home at the end of the day. That must be what these people are doing.

  We join the crowd, wedging ourselves between a fat guy and an even fatter lady, trying to blend in. We get more than a few suspicious glances—it doesn’t help that I’m wearing dark sunglasses.