Palmer’s sister had warned him to steer clear of men like this. Instead of obeying her, he now steered toward the man. Palmer set his gear down near a stack of crates and a barrel of water or grog. There were eight or nine men standing around a flimsy table set in the middle of the tent. A lamp had been hung from the center support; it swayed with the push and pull of the wind on the tent frame. Thick arms plastered with tattoos were planted around the table like the trunks of small trees. The tattoos were decorated with raised scars made by rubbing grit into open wounds.
“Make room,” Brock said, his accent thick and difficult to place, perhaps a lilt of the gypsies south of Low-Pub or the old gardeners from the oasis to the west. He waved his hand between two of the men as though shooing flies from a plate of food, and with minimal grumbling, the two bearded men pressed to the side. Hap took a place at the waist-high table, and Palmer joined him.
“You’ve heard of Danvar,” Brock said, forgoing introductions and formalities. It seemed like a question, but it was not spoken like one. It was an assumption, a declaration. Palmer glanced around the table to see quite a few men watching him, some rubbing their long and knotted beards. Here, the mention of legends did not elicit an eruption of laughter. Here, grown men looked at hairless youths as if sizing them up for dinner. But none of these men had the face-tats of the cannibals to the far north, so Palmer assumed he and Hap were being sized up for this job, being measured for their worthiness and not for some stew.
“Everyone’s heard of Danvar,” Hap whispered, and Palmer noted the awe in his friend’s voice. “Will this lead us there?”
Palmer turned and surveyed his friend, then followed Hap’s gaze down to the table. The four corners of a large piece of parchment were pinned down by meaty fists, sweating mugs, and a smoking ashtray. Palmer touched the edge of the parchment closest to him and saw that the mottled brown material was thicker than normal parchment. It looked like the stretched and tanned hide of a cayote, and felt brittle, as though it were very old.
One of the men laughed at Hap’s question. “You already are here,” he roared.
An exhalation of smoke drifted across the old drawing like a sandstorm seen from up high. One of Brock’s sausage fingers traced the very constellation Palmer had been staring at dizzily just moments before.
“The belt of the great warrior, Colorado.” The men around the table stopped their chattering and drinking. Their boss was speaking. His finger found a star every boy knew. “Low-Pub,” he said, his voice as rough as the sand-studded wind. But that wasn’t the name of the star, as Palmer could tell him. Low-Pub was a lawless town to the south of Springston, an upstart town recently in conflict with its neighbor, as the two wrestled over wells of water and oil. Palmer watched as Brock traced a line up the belt, his fingertip like a sarfer sailing the winds between the two towns and across all that contested land. It was a drawn-out gesture, as though he were trying to show them some hidden meaning.
“Springston,” he announced, pausing at the middle star. Palmer’s thought was Home. His gaze drifted over the rest of the map, this maze of lines and familiar clusters of stars, of arrows and hatch marks, of meticulous writing built up over the years in various fades of ink, countless voices marked down, arguing in the margins.
The fat finger resumed its passage due north—if those stars really might be taken to represent Low-Pub and Springston.
“Danvar,” Brock announced, thumping the table with his finger. He indicated the third star in the belt of great Colorado. The map seemed to suggest that the buried world of the gods was laid out in accordance with their heavenly stars. As if man were trapped between mirrored worlds above and below. The tent swayed as Palmer considered this.
“You’ve found it?” Hap asked.
“Aye,” someone said, and the drinking and smoking resumed. The curled hide of a map threatened to roll shut with the rise of a mug.
“We have a good guess,” Brock said in that strange accent of his. “You boys will tell us for sure.”
“Danvar is said to be a mile down,” Palmer muttered. When the table fell silent, he glanced up. “Nobody’s ever dove half of that.”
“Nobody?” someone asked. “Not even your sister?”
Laughter tumbled out of beards. Palmer had been waiting for her to come up.
“It’s no mile down,” Brock told them, waving his thick hand. “Forget the legends. Danvar is here. More plunder than in all of Springston. Here lies the ancient metropolis. The three buried towns of this land are laid out according to the stars of Colorado’s belt.” He narrowed his eyes at Hap and then Palmer. “We just need you boys to confirm it. We need a real map, not this skin.”
“How deep are we talking?” Hap asked.
Palmer turned to his friend. He had assumed this had already been discussed. He wondered if the wage he’d been promised had been arrived at, or if his friend had just been blowing smoke. They weren’t here for a big scavenge; they were here to dive for ghosts, to dig for legends.
“Eight hundred meters.”
The answer quieted all but the moaning wind.
Palmer shook his head. “I think you vastly overestimate what a diver can—”
“We dug the first two hundred meters,” Brock said. He tapped the map again. “And it says here on this map that the tallest structures rise up another two hundred fifty.”
“That leaves …” Hap hesitated, waiting no doubt for someone else to do the math.
The swinging lamp seemed to dim, and the edges of the map went out of focus as Palmer arrived at the answer. “Three hundred fifty meters,” he said, feeling dizzy. He’d been down to two fifty a few times on twin bottles. He knew people who’d gone down to three. His sister, a few others, could do four—some claimed five. Palmer hadn’t been warned they were diving so deep, nor that they were helping more gold-diggers waste their time looking for Danvar. He had feared for a moment there that they were working for rebels, but this was worse. This was a delusion of wealth rather than power.
“Three fifty is no problem,” Hap said. He spread his hands out on the map and leaned over the table, making like he was studying the notes. Palmer reckoned his friend was feeling dizzy as well. It would be a record for them both.
“I just wanna know it’s here,” Brock said, thumping the map. “We need exact coordinates before we dig any more. The damn hole we have here is a bitch to maintain.”
There were grumbles of agreement from the men that Palmer figured were doing the actual digging. One of them smiled at Palmer. “Your mum would know something about maintaining holes,” he said, and the grumbles turned into laughter.
Palmer felt his face burn. “When do we go?” he shouted over this sudden eruption.
And the laughter died down. His friend Hap turned from the dizzying map, his eyes wide and full of fear, Palmer saw. Full of fear and with a hint of an apology for bringing them this far north for such madness, a glimmer in those eyes of all the bad that was soon to come.
Copyright © 2014 by Hugh Howey.
Excerpted from Sand by Hugh Howey.
Published by permission of the author.
All rights reserved.
No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.
Hugh Howey is the author of the acclaimed post-apocalyptic novel Wool, which became a sudden success in 2011. Originally self-published as a series of novelettes, the Wool omnibus is frequently the #1 bestselling book on Amazon.com and is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller. The book was also optioned for film by Ridley Scott, and is now available in print from major publishers all over the world. Hugh’s other books include Shift, Dust, Sand, the Molly Fyde series, The Hurricane, Half Way Home, The Plagiarist, and I, Zombie. He is also the co-editor, with John Joseph Adams, of The Apocalypse Triptych series of anthologies. Hugh lives in Jupiter, Florida with his wife Amber and his dog Bella. Find him on Twitter @hughhowey.
NOVEL EXCERPT:
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br /> The Milkman: A Free World Novel
Michael J. Martineck
Chapter One
To Edwin McCallum, every act of insubordination was a work of art. Charcoal sketch thefts. Abstract expressionist assaults. A smuggling operation could have all the intricacies of an oil landscape. Despite this, he considered very few policy transgressions to be masterpieces. No one put the time in. Most insubordination spawned from opportunity, passion or a bottoming out of IQ. But this one. This fresco. He saw something more.
The girl could have been his daughter, had his life unfolded into a different shape, if he’d creased and bent this side instead or that, leaving him in another space, not on the street, in the cold, staring at a face turned and pressed to concrete, beautiful if you imagined it asleep, if you ignored the puddle of cold blood and the jagged hack marks in her flesh.
McCallum threaded his fingers and thrust out his arms, bending his wrists back, stretching, stimulating blood flow. He had no extra pounds and used his various muscles frequently and hard. When the cold started poking around, he felt reminders of every indiscretion, lack of good judgment, and bad luck his bones had suffered over the years. His face had found some of the creeks and rumples he noticed on other men his age. Only some. His walnut hair showed maybe two strokes of grey. For the most part, he only noticed the middleness of his age in his joints, and on nights like this one.
“Geri Vasquez,” the uniformed operative reported. Brick red pants and cap. Black leather everything else. One of mine, McCallum thought. “24, lived up on West Ferry Street, grade 15 Marketing Field Researcher.”
“Grade 15.” McCallum snorted. Was there a grade higher? Newborn? “Anything off her cuff?”
“Waiting for the advocate.” The uniform op couldn’t be too much older than the victim, but he seemed to have his buckle polished, as his old boss used to say. McCallum liked him.
“This an India Group pub?” McCallum pointed a thumb at the large, frosty picture windows.
“Yes sir,” another uniform op answered. Black pants and jacket. An India Group patrolperson. Not one of his. She stood close to the pub door, helping to keep a safe perimeter around the body.
“Anyone come out?” McCallum asked.
“No sir,” she answered.
“You go in?”
“Waiting for an inspector.”
“Really?” McCallum looked into the windows. Faces filled every inch to about the eight-foot line. People used bar stools to get over the first row of viewers and look into the insubordination scene. He hated the lookey-loo part of human nature. This poor girl had been pretty, with nice clothes, a decent haircut; she would not have wanted them all to see her this way. Still, the ghouls served a momentary purpose. Everyone in the pub knew a dead girl lay outside. Someone inside waiting for her would have stormed out by now.
“She died at the door?” McCallum asked himself. “Why’s an Ambyr girl trying to get into an IG place without a buddy?”
“Don’t know, sir,” the female op answered. “Maybe fleeing her assailant?”
“Lots of maybes,” he mumbled.
An India Group detective would be here any second. McCallum wondered who was on tonight. The lazy one, the well-dressed one, or that guy who lost a hand disarming a small explosive a few years back. He was pleasant enough, quiet, but never—
—he never expected to see her.
• • •
Sylvia Cho didn’t care for the choice of restaurant. It was the kind used to woo people—clients, actors, investors, whomever. Sylvia didn’t like to be wooed, schmoosed, ass-kissed, or sucked up to. At least … most of the time. She believed in merit. She judged people and projects on their value and expected the same. No one should ever need to be sold on something. She also understood that here, in Hollywood, in this belief, she was quite alone.
Adorned in miles of bamboo and white cotton, lit with millions of tiny candles, the place had appeal. She didn’t deny that, it just reminded her of a great-looking guy who knew it. The kind that aimed his smile, prying a rise out of you. The town was full of them, many trying to get this very spot, at the top of two small stairs, peering out for a well-juiced producer.
She didn’t feel out of place. She kept herself fit, her obsidian hair current, and paid attention to fashion. Sylvia had chosen a pencil skirt and sheer top for this meeting. She knew the effects of tight clothing. She also knew her way around a restaurant. She had found herself in most of the Los Angeles catchment’s finer places, at one time or another. That was, after all, how things were done. She hadn’t had a meeting in an office or conference room in nine years, since that impossible year after college, when she thought she’d have to club someone in the head to get any attention. Club several people, actually. One murder didn’t turn heads.
Gavin Stoll sat in the center of the room, smiling. Black suit, white silk T-shirt, over a near-perfect body. He was the unnatural offspring of a cheetah and a penguin. He gave Sylvia a quick flick of the hand. Sylvia smiled, using her forceful, professional grin. The mask, she called it. The face that fooled all the boys, and some of the girls. Gavin stood as she crossed the room.
Good God, she thought. What the fuck was he going to want?
“So happy to see you,” he said like he meant it. Maybe he did. She didn’t know him any better than he knew her. “Tobacco Road was a blast. Loved, loved, loved it.”
Thank God for the mask. She doubted this guy saw, saw, saw her last film.
“Thank you,” she replied. “It’s done better than I expected.”
“You’re too modest. Refreshing, but useless. Revel in your success.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“So how does it feel?” They both sat.
“Stunning.” She didn’t like to lie if she didn’t have to.
Gavin laughed. “I knew the movie tested well, but it hadn’t prepared me for … the explosion. With no disrespect, I don’t think anyone foresaw your peculiar demographic draw. You’ve had more females 18 to 34 down your picture than any other documentary in decades, while holding on to the boys. Hybrid demos, sister. Those frost the cake, eh?”
“Mmmm, cake,” Sylvia said.
“You’ve come to the right place.”
The waiter stood next to the table. Sylvia hadn’t seen him approach. Creepy.
“I’d like the St. George,” Gavin said. “And hope you don’t make any mistakes back there.” He locked eyes with the waiter and waggled his head.
“Excellent choice, sir.” The waiter gave a conspiratorial smirk and padded away.
“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for us.” Gavin leaned over the table and dropped his voice to loud whisper. “They have a St. Germain pinot noir here, accidently delivered by an IG truck. It’s exquisite. I’ll cry when they run out.”
“Perhaps there’ll be another accident.”
“I can only pray. IG has so many choice vineyards, I’ve been tempted to jump ship.”
Sylvia laughed politely. She didn’t want to encourage Gavin’s pretentions. When it came to wine, she wasn’t a hair-splitter. She could tell the difference between good, bad, and awesome. Further subdivisions held little interest to her. Comparing vineyards outside the company held even less. The taste of forbidden fruit? There were probably two India Group people dining right now, pining for Ambyr wine in hushed voices.
“What’s the deal?” Sylvia said.
“A movie. Funding is locked up.”
“Already?” Without a director? she decided not to say out loud. “Who’s attached?”
“No one,” Gavin said. “I’m hoping you want to come aboard.”
There is a formula in Hollywood. Good director, good cast, good script. You can only afford to take a chance on one. Everyone knows this rule. Nobody puts up money without two absolutes. The fact that Gavin didn’t have a director or cast, but plenty of money, didn’t all mesh. This scene wasn’t working.
“This must be one Hell of a script.”
Check, please, she yelled in her head.
• • •
Emory Leveski drove his blue Mazda sedan. Somehow. He couldn’t see the black and blue night, the spots of light from other cars, street lights, sconces over house numbers, and ground-level lanterns releasing the last of their solar charge from the day. His body remembered how to keep the car in the lane and the peddle at the right angle and when to turn left and right. His conscious mind had no part of it. It refused to process any new information. That last chunk, with the stabbing and shrieking and collapsing body … that plugged up the pipelines. He was lucky he remembered how to breathe.
Chapter Two
“Operative McCallum,” she said as a simple statement of fact. No question, no surprise, no rise in volume to get his attention.
“Operative McCallum,” he said back, trying to match the flatness of her tone.
“Effchek, now. Again.”
“Back to your maiden name. That’s tough to do.”
“I know people,” she said. “What we got?”
Her uniformed operative gave her the rundown. McCallum watched. Rosalie Effchek. Now. Great. He knelt down next to the dead girl. Blond, in great shape, save the six deep lacerations in her back, clear through her coat. A weird coat. McCallum couldn’t recall ever seeing one like it before. Orange fabric, covered in a kind of transparent jelly. The blood oozed off it, like rain on wax.
“She was cute.” Rosalie squatted down next to McCallum.
“Congratulations on the promotion,” he said.
“Thanks. I guess. Nights like tonight …”
“I know.”
McCallum stood. He watched the egg back up, a mobile forensics lab. Looking more like a bread loaf, and officially called a Mobile Evidence Processing Unit, he had no idea how it got its nickname. Didn’t make any sense. So much about this job failed to make sense.
Lightspeed Issue 46 Page 20
