by Anna Silver
Rye put a finger under her chin, and London blushed to have him touch her in front of the others. “London, all I know is, if it was you out there, I’d go looking.”
She took a deep breath and looked at Zen’s dejected face, somewhat renewed with purpose. “Okay. I give. Let’s go find her. But if we all end up dead, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“So where do we look first?” Kim asked.
“We find the Outroaders,” Zen responded.
~
Ernesto was haggling with an older woman in a hair net over the price of an old gas can when they walked up. He seemed glad for the interruption. “’Scuse me, I got real customers to take care of.”
London attempted a weak-hearted smile. “We’re not here for scrap, Ernesto. We need info.”
“Lo, I told you, I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout that netcom site.” Today he wore a bright yellow city-issue button-down with black reprocessed shorts that had to be three sizes too big. London hated the reprocessed fabrics. Some of them looked like melted plastic. His signature bicycle chains were ordered carefully around his neck, and his backwards cap was ornately decorated with old fishing hooks, safety pins, and a chain of key rings that looped from the bill around to the clasp on one side. He chewed his signature bobby pin anxiously.
London clicked her tongue with agitation, “Would you shut up about that. I got a new question this time. Remember when I was here the other day?”
“Yeah, so?”
“There was a band of Outroaders that came through. Did you see ‘em?”
“Maybe.” The gangster raised his chin.
“So what do you know about ‘em? Where are they from?”
“Lo, you know I don’t work for free. But I like you. You’re kinda cute,” he shot Rye an easy, boy look. “You got something for trade? Then I’ll tell you what I know.”
London was prepared for this. She’d gone home and pocketed the only two things she owned that a Scrapper like Ernesto would want: her guitar pick and her razor blade. It wasn’t much, but they were the two things that had given her release over the past year. She’d been thinking she could use them to find out what he knew about Degan and Kingsnake, but now it was more important to find Avery. She held out one then the other and he snatched them right up.
“London—” Rye started to protest.
She put her hand up to stop him. “It doesn’t matter, Rye. My guitar is locked in Pauly’s place anyway. It’s a crime scene. They aren’t going to let me into Dogma to collect it anytime soon. Go on, Ernesto. What about the Outroaders?”
Ernesto grinned triumphantly. “They come through here lookin’ for supplies mostly. Medical stuff. Food. Shit I don’t have. But I did scrap some shoes to a girl for this.”
He held out a folded sheet of yellowing paper, torn across one corner. London unfolded it and looked. It was a map of Capital City from before the migrations, before the Crisis happened and the walls had been built. Faded block letters spelled Houston across the top and down one side.
Dark blue ink scratches outlined approximately where the concrete octagonal walls now circled Capital City, with hash marks at the Interstate Gates, the only chinks in the chain where people could get in or out. Not that many tried besides pit workers and those assigned to transport, like Rye’s dad. But they had a gate-pass. And they usually came and went from the east wall, where men were posted at the Interstate Gates. The ink dashes on this map were dotted through the city to the Ten and westward into the Houselands beyond. Only the Tycoons traveled by that road, the Ten. And no one was posted at its gates unless they were coming.
“She say anything?” London asked him.
“Nah, but the little one with her had a compass, showed it to me. Don’t see those too often anymore. Only something an Outroader would need. The shoes were for him.”
London remembered the blonde girl who looked at Rye. She’d nearly forgotten, but there’d been a short, dark-haired boy walking at her side that day—barefoot. She handed the map back to Ernesto. “Thanks anyway.”
“You got vacation plans, lil’ Lo?”
London didn’t know how to answer him. She caught a look of warning in Rye’s expression. Rye didn’t trust Ernesto. Even if she did, it was better if no one knew what they were up to. “No, just curious.”
She started to turn to leave, but a flash of Ernesto’s forearm made her pause. She caught his wrist in her hand and asked as coolly as possible about his tattoo. “What’s this shit mean anyway?”
Ernesto’s grin broadened at her touch, and Rye seethed with disgust, but London ignored them both. “Dueling Tigers,” he said. “Our crest. Every Tigerian’s got one.”
“Huh,” London pretended. “Looks like a catfight to me.”
“It means we ain’t afraid to eat our own, know what I’m sayin?” the gangster explained.
“No,” London played along, trying to hide the goose bumps that shivered up her flesh at those words. Kingsnake… Maybe Zen and Kim were right. Maybe the Tigerians did have something to do with the murders.
“Once a Tigerian, always a Tigerian. You bail or fail? We take you out like a brother. Nobody kills a Tigerian ‘cept another Tigerian, understand?”
“Oh,” London mused and dropped his wrist. “Sounds barbaric.”
“Ain’t barbaric,” Ernesto defended. “It’s nature. Survival of the fittest. We the fittest. Period.”
~
London, Rye, Zen, and Kim all huddled on a bench outside Zen’s building. It was getting dark, the mosquitoes were stirring, and the streetlights would be on soon. They needed to finalize their plans and get indoors before they were eaten alive.
“Right back here, 7:00 a.m. Understood?” she said. “Your parents will think you’re just going to school. Cram your bags with whatever you can find for food, water, and…hell, I don’t know. Just bring whatever you can think of. But no phones or netbooks. Might be traceable.”
“You think we’ll find them? The Outroaders?” Kim asked.
“They can’t be that far ahead. I think if we just take the road I saw marked on the map and follow it out of town, we’ll bump into them or Avery eventually,” she replied.
“Which way?” Kim asked. “There’s nothing but pits and farmland to the east. And the reprocessing plants.”
London cringed at mention of the pits. “The map is marked westward,” she said.
“The Tycoons always come in and out on the west roads,” Zen noted. “Won’t be anyone posted at those gates this time of year though. Must be why the Outroaders use them.”
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” London remarked.
“What else is there to do?” Zen asked. “Sit here while they pick us off, one by one?”
“You’re right.” London shook her head. “There’s no other choice really.”
“See you in the a.m. then?” Zen asked as everybody stood.
“Bright and early,” Rye nodded.
They started in their prospective directions. Zen waving at the door of his building. Kim stepping into the street. Rye by London’s side.
London turned back, worried that by tomorrow morning, there’d be one less face for her to see. “Sweet dreams,” she called.
EIGHT
Quarantine
London didn’t like admitting it, but she missed Rye’s presence in her tiny room. She found the eve of their departure unbearably lonely. With Pauly gone, Rye was all she had left in the world. He wanted to see his dad before he left. She could understand that. His mom passed from pneumonia three years back. It was just Rye and his dad these days, kind of like her and Diane. Only Rye’s dad didn’t drink. And he had a way cooler assignment than store clerk. Rye’s dad got transport duty. He drove trucks to and from the reprocessing plants southeast of the city, dumping off the trash he collected from the Capital bins during his route and hauling back in flatbeds of city-issue, reprocessed goods. Rye and his dad were pretty close. London had to remind herself that som
e families loved each other, unlike her own.
London was up early. She woke to find her mother predictably passed out on their muted sofa. After a farewell shower, she pulled her favorite black and gray striped sweater over a white city-issue tank. She dragged each leg of her black cargo pants on, buttoning the fly and letting them fall loose on her hips. She threw her boots over a pair of mismatched socks and ran a brush through her thick, coffee-colored curls. Using her hands, she managed to wrangle them into a half-assed ponytail. On an impulse, she tossed the brush in her bag afterwards. Traveling with Rye complicated things. How did one manage to look good on a several-day hike into nowhere with one change of clothes, one tiny bag, and no soap or water?
Setting the khaki drawstring bag on her bed, she added a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, another hair band, a couple extra pairs of underwear, and her last pack of smokes along with three lighters, a pen, and a couple rolls of toilet paper.
In the kitchen, she found an unopened bag of cereal, four leftover hot dog buns, some Dehydrated Dinner packs—beef stew, potato casserole, and spaghetti—and some city-issue cheese, a very sad substitute for the blocks of real stuff Avery’s parents always kept stocked. Damn, why hadn’t I raided Avery’s fridge?
She grabbed her mother’s bourbon bottle—conveniently empty—off the table and rinsed it out before filling it with water, replacing the cap and adding it to her stash.
London stared into the living room where her mother was sacked. She’d not considered this moment until now. She was always bitching about what a loser her mom was, but down deep, in a tiny, locked away, sordid space, were the remaining vestiges of her love for Diane. She was a basket case, but it only hurt because London really wanted more, needed more from her. Now she was saying goodbye. Maybe for good.
She took a deep breath and tiptoed to the couch as quietly as possible in her thickly treaded boots. Setting her backpack down, she pulled out a roll of toilet paper and ripped off a few plies. Then she scrawled I love you across the top with her pen, trying not to tear a hole through the thin tissue. She laid it next to the ashtray on the floor where her mom would be sure to see it eventually. A single tear slid silently down her cheek. A waste, even at that.
London bent and kissed her mother’s head. “Bye, Ma,” she whispered. There wasn’t much left of Diane to miss anymore, and whatever London was losing, she’d lost a long time ago. But still, there was a pain, however dull, in her chest as she rose to leave.
As planned, the others were waiting at the bench near Zen’s place when London arrived. She’d thought Rye would wait for her and they’d walk together, but when she’d knocked, his dad said he’d already left for school. Now, he stood waiting with Zen and Kim, a pair of useless drumsticks in one hand and a grungy stuffed backpack over the other shoulder. She was a little bothered he left without her, afraid he might regret their night together and feel awkward around her now. She tried not to show it as she approached them, hair swinging in its bushy ponytail.
“We ready?” she put to the other three.
“All set,” Zen confirmed.
“It feels weird, doesn’t it?” London asked.
“What?” Kim said, lighting a cigarette.
“This. Leaving. It feels weird to just start walking with no place in particular to go. Where you’ve never been before.”
“Yeah, it does,” said Zen.
Rye smiled at her but didn’t say anything and London felt even more put off. “You okay?” she asked him.
“As good as can be expected,” he said.
She blew off the uneasiness this created in her and said, “So, any dreams last night? Anyone see their Otherborn? Degan?” She didn’t want to say Avery, but they all knew the name was right there on the tip of her tongue. A chorus of no’s confirmed that they were dreaming no more.
London shrugged. “Worth a shot. Let’s do this.”
They moved together through the maze of the city. Capital City was laid out in an urban grid of buildings, towering sentinels and squatty old-timers all squished together like they were in a tin can. It was a long trek down Travis, past the park, and up the ramps that crossed the bayou which ran all the way to Old Green and the west wall. The ramps led straight onto the Ten, but they had to get past the Interstate Gates before they’d truly be on their way. One stop for coffee set them back a bit, and Kim detoured at a corner store to grab a carton of cigarettes, courtesy of Capital City.
When they reached the ramps, they stood staring at the bayou below with bulging eyes. Here it ran thick and disappeared through a culvert in the wall to the north. They were already pushing the scope of London’s territory, and they weren’t even outside the walls yet. She’d only seen the bayou a handful of times before. Kim leaned over and dangled his spit above the steady, deep, brown waters.
Rye chucked a pebble, watching it slip away beneath the surface. “Never really looked at the bayou,” he said matter-of-factly.
“That’s because it’s the color of shit. Not much worth looking at,” Kim said after finally letting his spit fall and mix into the rush. “Look!” he said pointing below. “Now I’m part of the bayou too.” He waggled his eyebrows at London. “We could’ve taken the culverts out.”
“Yeah, if we wanted to drown,” London said. “Morons,” she muttered to herself, though she knew there were Scrappers who braved the culverts all the time. Occasionally, one washed up at Old Green, bobbing on the surface, all bloated and sticky.
She stared up the asphalt and rebar ramp where the Interstate Gates hung, their solid aluminum bars glinting a plain white-silver in the sunlight at their rounded corners. They were offset, one falling just a little lower than the other, its dull metal finish nearly scraping the road. At the middle, they were bound together in chains, a large black padlock looped through each end. The chains reminded her of Ernesto’s necklaces.
From either side, the walls wrapped around the city like giant concrete arms, holding it in a stony embrace. The Interstate Gates were its metal hands, opening and closing at the Tycoons’ will. But the spaces between the poles of the gates were wide and gaping; anyone on foot could slip through them as easily as sand through fingers.
Beyond, the great asphalt snake of the Ten undulated through a thicket of uninhabited, decaying buildings swallowed by trees and overgrowth, their roofs and rafters, beams and walls rising from the flood of foliage like drowning men reaching out desperately for help. The Houselands. Graveyard to the ones who got locked out. A chill ran up London’s spine. What the hell were they doing?
“This is it,” she blinked. It wasn’t a question.
“Yep,” said Zen, turning away from the sight of flowing water. “This is the one the Tycoons always parade in and out on.”
The Tycoons didn’t make appearances often. Actually, they didn’t make them ever. Just their cars. Capital City housed the presidential compound, the last remaining government office—farce though it was. Once or twice a year, their caravan would parade slowly through the streets and circle on its lawns, a centipede of black shining metal and rolling rubber. More often, they traveled by plane or helicopter, which could be heard coming first, their growing rumble a hungry beast in the sky, followed by the sight of flashing wings or whirling propellers. London thought they looked like giant, mechanical bugs.
“That way?” Rye asked, pointing where the trees eventually converged on the interstate. A visible wound in the concrete skin of the Ten exposed steel rods like rusty bones. Beyond the walls, civilization was losing its war with nature.
“Yep,” Zen nodded.
London raised an eyebrow. She hoped she was right about this. Either way, she didn’t want to hang around City Central letting Kingsnake pick them off one by one. And there was nothing east but more Tycoon control—the pits, the plants, the farms. She didn’t exactly feel like visiting her dad’s grave today. They were going west. There was nothing else to do. “No point standing here thinking about it. May as well get started.”
As they approached the gates, London decided she wouldn’t look back at the receding city. Pauly wasn’t there, not anymore. Dogma would become just another dingy hole for city rejects. There was nothing in Capital City for her anymore. Whatever she had of value was tucked away inside a bag of memories or standing next to her now, in the form of Rye and her friends. She would leave her pain, her years of disappointment, and her grief over Pauly at these gates. There was nothing for them back there but death. Course, there may only be the same ahead. It was a chance they would have to take.
“I’ll go first,” she volunteered. No one argued. Chivalry was dead.
She placed a hand on the warm metal, half expecting to get a shock or hear an alarm go off. But there was nothing. Not even anyone below calling, Hey you kids, what are you doing up there? Was it really this easy?
The bars ran horizontally. London threw a leg over one in the middle. Waited. Ducked beneath another. Waited again. Pulled the other leg through. How anticlimactic.
She was out.
An hour in, the road was wide, forlorn, and hot. Now that they were outside, London found it very hard to imagine Avery doing this all by herself. Were they making a mistake? There was no turning back. They could be executed if they were caught sneaking back in. Besides, she was the one who convinced them this is what Avery had done. What could she say? Hey guys, I think Ave’s dead after all. Let’s go home? No. That was not possible.
London looked at her companions. Rye’s face was dotted with needle size freckles and wrinkled in thought. It felt like he’d been avoiding her all day, and she didn’t want to confront him in front of everyone. He was distant. Not holding her hand, not talking much. In the middle of all the uncertainty, she thought he was the one thing she could really be certain of. Now she didn’t know. Maybe he was just embarrassed in front of Zen and Kim, but that didn’t make it sting any less.
