by Ric Beard
What can I do? Where can I go? Think!
He was tagged. The truck was tagged. He should have left the damned thing outside town.
He looked at his backup handheld, having just finished the sync from the old one. He tapped a contact page.
“This is Carson.” The voice answered.
“It’s Sean.”
“Are you fuckin’ crazy calling me, man? DF is all over your ass!”
“Yeah. Did you put them there, Carson?”
“I’m going to forgive you that one insult, Sean. You’re in the middle of some stressful shit and you’re panicked. Just this one time I will pretend you didn’t suggest that.”
“The wounded act isn’t playing, Carson.”
Now, he’ll deny it.
“It wasn’t me. Hell, Hoss, I’d be bragging at this point, rubbing the shit in your face. There ain’t jack you could do. But you’re one of my best customers. What good would it be for me to fuck you like this?”
Carson was smooth, there was no doubt of that. But he was also put off by Sean’s attitude about working for Alexandra back at the warehouse. For whatever reason, probably a reason that included a very handsome payoff, Carson needed Sean to do a job, and he found a way to make him do it. As much as Sean had racked his brain, that was what he’d come up with. It had to be Carson. He must have thought Sean was an idiot.
The question is, what kind of job would they need done where it benefitted them for the doer to be tagged in the city.
“You’re all heart.” He began pacing five steps in each direction. He baited Carson. “What do I do now? I can’t start over here. I ain’t going back outside.”
“Well, let’s stop and think for a second.”
Sean tapped his fingers against the wall, waiting for the shoe to drop.
“You have that pretty truck I gave you at the warehouse?” Carson asked.
“DF surrounded it when they arrived.”
And isn’t that convenient for you, Carson?
“So, no ride. Unless you still got that piece of shit you call a car. But that thing ain’t gonna last long on the road.”
“You’re right.” Sean willed his voice to stay calm and waited to hear details about Uncle Carson’s solution for his woes. But he’d just given Sean a hint. The Road. They wanted him to run something outside the city. Suicide.
“Oh shit!”
There it is, ladies and gentlemen! So predictable.
“What?” Sean asked with no enthusiasm.
“Damn, you gotta be the luckiest son of a—”
“What about my current situation makes you think I’m lucky, Carson?”
It’s almost like reciting lines in a play. I pretend I don’t know what’s going on and just say my line, then he says—
“Alexandra!” With that, Carson positioned himself indelibly at the top of the suspect list.
“Great!”
“Shut up and listen to me, man. You don’t have a lot of time—”
Or you don’t, if you want me to get out safely so I can do the job. What a cunt.
“—Alexandra is looking for someone to do a transport job. She’s been trying to find someone willing for a month. But no one is crazy enough to take it.”
Ding ding ding ding!
“Transport job? To where?”
“Triangle City. Out East!”
“Dude. I know where Triangle City is.” And boy, did he. “Everyone knows at this point. Do you know how much badlander territory I would have to go through to get to Triangle City?”
“You feel like you have a lot of other options right now, Hoss?”
Thanks to you. Sean seethed.
“Well—”
“Sean. This makes the job we were offering you before look like peanuts.”
No, this was the job you were offering me before.
“This is what I call real money. You get half up front, rest on the other end. You could take that job and set up in Triangle City, Hoss! Fuck OK City!”
Finally, a sentiment upon which they could agree.
“I hear Triangle is nice. Clean-like.”
“Maybe,” Sean said. “But it’s also over a thousand miles—”
Carson cut him off.
“Is this a solid number for you now?”
“Yeah, for now.”
“If I was you, I would go see Miss Bingham. See if you can get that job, make it a one-way trip.”
“Sounds easy.”
“Funny guy. Even when the world is raining shit on you. I respect that. Look, the road crews have been out there for more than two years. Half your stretch would be on open interstate—maybe more. This could turn out good for you.”
“I don’t see I have much choice.”
“Look, look, go and talk with her. We’ve been on this line too long. See what she has to offer. I’ll even introduce you.”
Singin’-baby-Jesus, was this guy generous! Oh, Mister Carson! You’ll introduce little old me? Mother fucker.
“All right. I’ll meet you at 11:30 tomorrow morning. You got a place to lay low?”
“11:30? That’s not—”
“Perfect, see you then.” Carson ended the call before Sean could start yelling again.
Shit.
Chapter Fifteen
Flapjacks
Day 3
Thursday, Mar 21, 2137
The spheroid’s shadow shrouded the wet street from above as Sean crossed over, its ends sloping into points on either side. Sean looked up at the giant blimp that resembled a fat silver football. Of course, the footballs Sean remembered did not bristle with antennae, dishes, and the protruding ends of heavy cannon. This blimp was probably launching after having taken to the ground in light of the storms the previous night.
The flying fortresses tipped the balance of the conflict against The Horde in the city’s favor as they floated out of range of most small arms fire while raining destruction down on the unfortunate combatants below. They were a major reason the number of engagements dwindled each year as The Horde turned its resources to winnable conquests. They owned most of the Midwest and the West Coast, anyway. OK City wielded a small fleet of the beasts to ensure they never owned the city.
Sean daydreamed about manning one of the zeppelins and longed to remember what the world must look like from up there. He had flown out to Utah in his early twenties, over 100 years ago, but his memory of the view from the sky was a distant echo. Though his chest tightened at the thought of being in tight quarters, he surmised the discomfort was worth the opportunity to redraw that image in his mind. But he couldn’t be sure. His mind, as they said, had ideas of its own when it came to cramped spaces. Either way, the quarters on one of those beasts were still probably better than a prison cell.
Well, I’ll never get the chance to find out, now.
Sean heard rumors that The Horde was having recent success developing shoulder-fired rockets. Last month a rocket forced down a blimp that was transporting a full patrol force about 200 miles north of the wall. That was a lucky shot if he’d ever heard of one, but if The Horde got cocky and decided to make another run at the city…
Maybe it’s not such a terrible thing to be forced out of OKC now. I don’t want to get sucked back into that kind of shit-show!
Sean called his thoughts back to the ground and matters at hand, the first of which was caffeine. Even though it was unusually early for him—not that he’d slept much—the combination of a groggy head and a rumbling stomach brought cravings of coffee and what the people around here called ‘flapjacks.’
He’d spent a long night holed up in the barren room, hoping that local Defense Forces wouldn’t stumble upon him as they prowled the city for their contraband dealer. The quantity of Green Packs he’d divvied out to his team for distribution to users of the powerful stimulant carried a minimum of twenty years, and fleeting images of the view from a prison cell brought with them a racing heart, weak knees, and pulsing temples. Everyone knew that the governme
nt held exclusive rights to the amphetamines used to keep the working man working and someone like Sean showing the nerve to undercut them on price was intolerable.
As the darkness had enveloped the city outside, the room’s walls crept inward toward its lone occupant. Though leaving the room was a risky prospect, he’d given in to the forceful urge to escape the claustrophobic space so he could stretch his muscles several times in the fresh air. Despite everything, he sometimes missed life outside the city walls. The freedom, his ability to go wherever he pleased, as long as he kept his head low. He never wallowed in those thoughts for long, though. His good senses always returned before he entertained any stupid ideas.
When a whistle sounding a change in factory shifts shrieked nearby, Sean swung his head around and started scanning. The streets would be crowded with the incoming and outgoing workers and he needed to keep a low profile. A glowing green sign above a nearby hovel read, ‘Restaurante de Garcia.’ It was a new place in the neighborhood. It might lack the desired flapjacks, but the promise of warm food, coffee, and seclusion drew him like a bee to honey. Luckily, the exterior was too nice to be the kind of place frequented by Defense Forces or factory workers, and the fewer people, the better. The storefront seemed out of place in this shit hole.
The interior was the right kind of dark. The prominent light source was a wide mirror reflecting the morning light seeping through the bay window at the front of the place. His shoulders relaxed a little when the aroma of coffee and hot oil enveloped him as he strode through the door.
He was greeted at the front by a small man with an earthworm-sized mustache trimmed neatly off the top of his lip who seemed plenty happy to see his first customer of the day. Sean picked a seat in a dark corner near the back and watched as the factory workers lumbered by in both directions while he sucked down coffee and ate pancakes until his hands shook and his ass felt heavy. Intimate knowledge of what it was like to go hungry encouraged a voracious appetite when his mug was on the Defense Force’s warrant list. Once the factory workers had cleared the street, he ordered a cup of coffee for the road. Knowing he didn’t want the waiter to remember too many details if the DF came calling, he entered only a slightly-above average tip into the handheld.
Chapter Sixteen
Incessant Ear Pollution
Sean walked back into the morning sun and looked around for any sign of the authorities. He spotted a cluster of street teens at tables in a cleared lot and weaved through to the wall behind them. They were good cover while he sipped coffee and observed his building across the street. He stood with his back and the sole of one boot pressed against the wall as he watched for anyone who seemed out of place. Only a couple hours remained before the meeting with Carson, and after a long, claustrophobic night in that shit shack, he wasn’t about to screw up due to agitation or impatience. Sean gulped the last swig of coffee, took a deep breath and shoved off the wall just as his handheld beeped in the belt holster.
“Dammit,” he said to no one in particular as he reached for the device. His one word, however, baited several teens around him to give him baleful looks. Though they didn’t strike him as the types to subscribe to the sudden religious revival in the poor sections of OK City that made the 1800s look like a state fair, one could never tell. The odd thing was most cussing didn’t even bother these new religious types but damning something… now that would ruffle their feathers. He waved the looks away with a free hand before glancing at the message.
Mind your own damn business.
“Be sure to be on time, pardner,” the text read.
Really, Carson? You’re spelling ‘partner’ wrong to sound like a cowboy in text too?
Sean shook his head before typing his reply. “I’ve got two hours. Keep your spurs on. When have I ever been late?”
He slid the computer back in the holster and made his way to the squat adobe style building. Indiscriminate. Dingy exterior. It looked like all the others on the street, which were among the first to be reclaimed after the world took a shit on itself. Now they were considered low rent by those who could afford to live away from the industry. It was working class all the way, a place where people minded their own business, contrary to the ganders of the kids before him.
Instead of entering the building, he passed underneath the breezeway and through the gate leading to a walled-in communal space beyond the stairs. He imagined the place had been used as a community garden or some such hippy shit in the old world, but no one bothered with it now, except the occasional Green Packer coming to get his fix, and that bunch was either at the factory or still passed out at this hour, depending on their shift. He looked around as he made for an old, detached fire escape ladder in the back corner of the area. He pulled the ladder to one side, fished a metal pipe out of an overgrowth of vines, and pried up a steel grate which he’d camouflaged with packed clay. He stuck his hand inside, grabbed the pack he’d hidden there and headed upstairs for home.
The cracked and faded wooden stairs creaked as Sean climbed up to the second story. A baby wailed from one of his neighbors’ rooms on the second floor. It was the Temples’ little girl, Emily. He’d know that annoying, ear-piercing warble anywhere. The damn child seemed to do nothing but complain. Why would anyone bring children into this world? Hell, maybe that’s what Emily was asking with her incessant ear pollution. Sean remembered thinking the sleeping child was cute when the delirious parents brought her around six months ago to meet everyone in the building, but that sentiment was long past.
His key still worked, but when he slid it into the lock the door creaked open, revealing the busted door jam. He’d missed the dent next to the knob and cursed himself to pay attention. When Sean pushed the door open and peered in, his heart sank. The accumulated contents of his life were unceremoniously strewn about the floor. Either the DF or one of his guys trying to cash in on his poor turn of fate had lain hands on everything he cared enough about to stow. The bed leaned on the frame at an odd angle on the opposite side of the room. As he walked over to it, he saw that most of what was tossed away had rolled across the mattress to pile up in this corner. He made for his dresser and yanked it away from the wall, exposing a cubby he’d carved.
It was empty.
He cursed. Why would they take his book of mementos? Scraps of news, pictures and other things from his family and friends? All the little things he’d collected during his long travels, gone.
Sean found the only chair in the room, flipped it upright and sat. He swept his eyes across the litter strewn about. No weapons he could see, but they had left his clothes. Other basics here and there. At least there was that.
He grabbed a rough canvas rucksack he’d received as a gift from a DF officer who’d been assigned it as part of his gear pack for when he went on expeditionary missions outside the walls. The monster of a backpack held most of what the intruders had left him.
Whoever had given him up very likely gave up the location he called his warehouse in town. That meant DF were probably still there taking pictures and cataloging everything for which they would imprison him, if they didn’t just string him up.
He stopped at the door and looked back at his apartment. It was the first place he’d lived when he arrived at OK City. Home. He left without pulling the door closed or bothering to turn off the light.
It wasn’t like he’d be around to pay the god damn bill.
Part Four
Jenna Clark
Old Interstate 40, The Badlands
Chapter Seventeen
Sanctimonious
Day 3
Thursday, Mar 21, 2137
Jenna was starting to think her crew was going to spend the rest of their lives on Old Interstate-40 staring at the inside of their pods. Three straight days of downpours had relegated them to their cube-shaped sleeping quarters to plot and plan how to make up time, while the rusted-out cars, trucks, and larger rigs that had littered the highway for over 120 years remained idle.
Bursts
of lighting punched the rolling hills from steel gray clouds to the north as she stared through military-issue heavy goggles from her perch on the back of the equipment truck. She’d been watching this same front for fifteen minutes and would’ve sworn it hadn’t budged.
“Well, shit,” she mumbled to the clouds. “Are you coming, or what?”
No point sitting around waiting for it. These guys are getting cabin fever and, if there’s one thing this god-blasted highway offers with consistency, it’s work.
Jenna pulled the band from her loose ponytail and brought it around her neck to tighten it up. It was more of a moist brown than sunny blonde today, but loose hair was unsafe around heavy equipment regardless of the wet, muddy, and miserable conditions. There was an example to be set and as the crew leader, she was the one expected set it. She’d rolled her tactical coveralls down to her hips and tied the arms at her waist. They were grimy like the rest of her gear. Looking down and flicking something black off her tank-top—as if it would make a difference—she dismounted the equipment truck and strode toward Patty’s working end.
Patty was a massive rig adorned with various heavy construction equipment fused to its bed and storage blocks on its underside. Jenna mounted the bed of the rig and peered over the edge.
“Scruff?”
The big guy was underneath Patty turning a wrench to tighten down one of the storage containers. Jenna could hear a nut surrendering its final squeak as Scruff wound it tightly to the associated bolt.
That box isn’t going anywhere.
Scruff’s hair-covered face popped out and looked up at her. He was painted in layers of at least three shades of mud.
“Front’s stalled,” she said. “But we’ve got a couple hours tops before the next storm cell rolls in. Damnedest weather patterns I’ve ever seen.”
