by James Harden
Chapter 6
I’m better off not knowing. Everyone is better off…
What the hell was he talking about?
I climb back up into the train carriage, back into the bar. And there’s no time to think about what the dead Enforcer just told me, because his partner, the one he warned me about, is waiting at the other end of the carriage.
The Mercs are still there as well. Still as hungry as ever.
The Enforcer throws a big and heavy bag on the floor. The bag lands with the unmistakable sound of clinking metal.
This is a big bag full of forged steel.
The Enforcer says, “Cut him up. Bring me his head. The reward just doubled.”
And now the Mercs are armed with hatchets and axes. Knives and machetes. There were even a couple of swords.
I am always surprised to see a sword. Swords look awesome, they look fabulous and intimidating and all that, but down here, in the confines of the Buried City, they are not the most practical of weapons.
Anyway, the reward just doubled. And the eyes of the Mercs go so big at the thought of all their problems going away, with the promise of riches, of food and water and booze and whatever the hell they want.
It could even be a retirement fund. Maybe even a ticket for the Shuttle, for a place on one of the Arks.
Most of these guys know me. And I think most of these guys like me, but a reward is a reward. Payment is payment.
I understand that it’s nothing personal…
Well, it’s nothing personal until the knife goes in.
So I take a deep breath, the kind of breath you take just before you’re about to dive in a pool of water.
My eyes go wide. Pupils dilate. I am razor focused.
I’m ready for the fight.
Apart from the fight at the hotel, at the scene of Ruby’s murder, it’s been years since I’ve been in a fight like this.
Years.
But I’m ready.
I move through the carriage, breaking limbs, breaking faces.
These guys are Mercs. They work for hire, for money and goods and services. Which I guess makes them professionals.
But they are not professionals.
They are anything but…
And with a knife in their hand, with any kind of edged weapon in their hand, they become predictable and pathetic. Most of them swing the weapon with their right hand. And they don’t bother protecting their head with their left. As a result, they don’t last long.
None of them put up much of a fight.
I don’t mind. It’s nice just to get the feeling back, to get moving.
I crack skulls. I crack teeth. I could use the guns that I’ve acquired to mow these guys down, but I don’t want to waste the bullets and I don’t need to.
I get my hands on a knife and things get bloody and messy. Like I said, it’s been years since I’ve been in a fight.
I’d forgotten how good it feels.
It feels good.
So good.
All the old feelings come roaring back. The muscle memory is still there. There’s an adrenalin rush that feels like lightning in my veins. And I can see why I used to be addicted to this, addicted to violence.
My brother was the one who stopped me from fighting. From killing. He saved me from myself, from a life of death. I’d been working for the gangs, for all of them, playing both sides. All sides. Even in the Buried City, there’s an underworld, a dangerous underworld full of dangerous people. I didn’t care who I played or who I crossed. I made fools of them all.
I thought I was invincible.
And then they put a price on my head.
It’s hard to live in an underground city when three different crime bosses want you dead.
My brother paid the bounty in full. Cleared my name. Saved my life. He arranged the Exile. He made sure all the bosses were happy. They were happy because they all thought I was going to die out in the Wasteland. Being Exiled is a death sentence most of the time, for most people.
But I am not most people.
I survived the Wasteland. I survived the Exile.
When I returned, I began working with my brother in the transportation business. Carting the good people of the Wasteland and from the Buried City and from the Canyons off to Wonderland, one step closer to the Arks, one step closer to salvation.
And for a while, business was booming.
Sure, we had our fair share of trouble from the Wasteland Raiders, but nothing me and my brother couldn’t handle.
Apart from helping people, it felt good to have a purpose. It felt good to be doing something with my life, working hand in hand with my brother.
The pay was good as well.
And then five years ago, the work dried up, just like everything else on Earth.
The word out of Wonderland was that the Shuttles had broken down. They had been working overtime, they had been working non-stop for decades. They needed maintenance. Apparently they were stationed at Mars, the Moon. Apparently the best engineers were working on them around the clock.
But then the story changed. The story became that the Arks had moved further and deeper into the Solar System. The return trip the Shuttles were making was taking longer.
A lot longer.
Years longer.
I don’t know about other people, but I get suspicious when stories change.
My brother didn’t believe it either. He knew something was wrong. He knew there was something they weren’t telling us. But there was nothing we could do.
Nothing to do but sit and wait.
Wait for the Shuttles.
Wait to be processed through Wonderland.
Wait for our number to be called.
Anyway, because the work dried up, because there was no one being processed, my brother and I were forced into early retirement. And I was once again living a wasted and directionless life. I was a man with no purpose. I was once again slipping into the underworld of the Buried City.
Well, I’ve got a purpose now…
I need to find out who killed Ruby. I need to make them pay for what they did. And maybe in the process, I’ll find some goddamn answers. Maybe I’ll find out what Ruby was running from, the reason she escaped from Wonderland.
I’m breathing hard, smiling, laughing.
I’m standing over a pile, a train carriage full of dead bodies, dead Mercs. A pile of edged weapons. Apart from the dead bodies, which in themselves are quite valuable… for their organs, their skin, teeth, and hair. And other things that I’m not even going to mention.
All these knives, machetes, hatchets.
The two swords.
This forged steel is another fortune. I guess Lisa will get a nice surprise when she cleans up this place. It’ll more than cover the cost of the damage.
I take out the rapid fire gun. I’ve never seen a gun like this, never fired one. But I want to get a feel for it. I want to see what it can do. So I aim it at the carriage door.
The windows on the door have been blacked out, so I can’t actually see anything. But I’d bet good money, I’d bet a ticket to Ark America that the Enforcer who supplied all this steel is waiting in the next carriage. He’ll be waiting right behind the door.
No need to hide or take cover.
Arrogant son of a bitch. I can’t blame him. Unlike these poor and desperate and dead fools, he doesn’t know me.
I take careful aim at the carriage door, at the blacked out window. I squeeze the trigger.
The silenced barrel reduces the noise of the gunshot significantly. It probably slows the bullet down as well. Regardless, the bullet leaves a clean little hole in the reinforced glass of the window. I hear a shout of pain. A cry of pain. A body falls to the floor. And just as I suspected, the Enforcer wasn’t taking cover.
I step through the door, sliding it open.
The Enforcer is dying from a bullet wound to his neck.
He has two hands wrapped around his own throat in a completely us
eless attempt to stop the bleeding.
He sees me coming. One hand reaches for his gun, but he can’t pick it up, his fingers are covered in too much blood. The weapon slips out of his hand.
I move towards him.
Slowly.
I see fear in his eyes.
Fear and shock.
He didn’t expect to die today. He didn’t expect any of this.
I step on his hand to make sure he doesn’t pick up the gun. I hear bones crunch under my boot.
He opens his mouth to scream. Blood pours out.
I kneel down next to him and pick up the blood covered gun. I shake my head in disbelief. I now have three guns. Three small fortunes.
“So, you need to tell me what’s going on,” I say. “Why all the desperation? Why all the steel?”
“Get the fuck away from me.”
“Look, I can end your pain. I can end your suffering. But you need to give me a name. You need to tell me who’s supplying the weapons. You need to tell me who set this whole thing up.”
“I’m not going to tell you a goddam thing.”
These guys have all been trained to say the same thing. To resist torture. To endure unfathomable and unspeakable pain.
“I know you don’t really like me much right now,” I say. “But I just want you to know this is not personal.”
I say this to try and get on his good side. It doesn’t work.
“You’re a monster,” he spits. “You’re a monster who beats people to death and kills women for no good reason.”
I take the gun. His gun. I press it against his stomach. I unload two shots at point blank range. He doubles over in the fetal position, screaming and crying for his mother.
Funny, I didn’t think Enforcers had mothers.
“You don’t die from this,” I say. “The gut shot. At least, not right away. It’ll be slow. It’ll be painful. Extremely painful. I’ve seen it, out in the Wasteland. Trust me, you don’t want to go through it.”
He is crying and screaming and eventually he says, “What… what do you want from me?”
“I want a name. I want to know what’s going on.”
“They don’t tell us anything. We’re soldiers. We’re property. We’re weapons of Wonderland.”
The other guy said the same thing.
I’m just a soldier.
Sounds like they’ve been brainwashed to follow orders and to not ask questions.
To give your life.
To sacrifice yourself.
“What were your orders?” I ask.
“To find you. Find out who you’d talked to. Kill you…”
“Why?”
“Because you kidnapped a girl. You helped her escape. You… tricked…” he trails off because maybe he realizes that everything he’s been told is a lie. “She was someone very important. Someone very close to the Collector. You killed her!”
“Looks like you’ve been played for a fool.”
He starts laughing. And he looks crazy with his blood covered mouth and his blood stained teeth. He’s delusional from blood loss. From pain. “You think I’m the fool? You’re the fool. You’re so dead, you don’t even realize it. You want answers? You better speak to the Mayor of the Buried City. They sent an Overseer with us. An Overseer. You’re so dead.”
“The Mayor?”
I’m starting to realize everyone is in on this.
The Mayor.
The Sheriff.
Wonderland.
Everyone wants me dead. Just like they wanted Ruby dead.
Someone is trying to clean up their mess.
Someone is trying real hard.
Sending Enforcers.
Supplying the Mercs.
Sending an Overseer.
The good people of Wonderland are scared about something.
Lost secrets.
Skeletons in the closet.
I shoot the Enforcer in the head, putting him out of his misery.
I keep his gun.
I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need it.
