Salvage

by Cameron Coral

  Salvage

  Rogue Spark Book Four

  Cameron Coral

  Copyright © 2019 Cameron Coral

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by James Millington and Patricia D. Eddy

  Cover by Christian Bentulan

  For more information:

  CameronCoral.com

  info@cameroncoral.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  One

  I want one thing in this world, and I’ll mow down anyone in my way to get it.

  Pete’s Bar is the only place around for a hundred miles. This dusty, parched country might be Wyoming, might not. I’m so ravenous, I’m beyond caring.

  I park my motorcycle next to the rectangular, wooden shack just off the highway. The P in the neon sign buzzes with juice but the other letters are spent. Baked, chalky soil crunches under my boots. Pete’s is one discarded match away from a bonfire. Structures like this are rare nowadays. Since the forests disappeared in the 2030s, most buildings are composites of aluminum, steel, and kezite—a new mineral mined on asteroids. Wood is precious, and I’m surprised this place hasn’t been looted for kindling.

  Inside the bar, a few patrons squint against the daylight as I pull open the door. A grim-faced bartender—Pete, I assume—eyes me. The rickety floor creaks under me as I cross the room and take a seat at the bar, rest my motorcycle helmet on the stool next to me, and scan a barely legible chalkboard menu.

  “Where you from?” he asks, cleaning a glass.

  But I almost don’t hear the question because my rumbling belly distracts me. “Spark City,” I mutter. My gaze lands on the one thing in this world that will satisfy me in this moment. “One Hot 'n' Juicy.”

  “Fries with that?”

  I nod as my belly yelps its agreement. “And your IPA.”

  After seven straight hours on my motorcycle, I can’t believe I’ve waited so long to eat. Eager to get to Colorado, I should’ve paced myself, but I want to get this job over with. It’s bad enough I have to stop in Boulder first. I’ll lose several days—time I could spend tracking down Dr. Kenmore—the man who abducted me and genetically altered me years ago.

  As I wait for my meal, I glance at crude signs tacked on the wall behind the bar. Absolutely NO Bots Allowed. I suspected it would be this way. In rural areas, people are scared of anything different. Another sign reads, Mutant-Free Zone, and shows a cartoon of a bear’s head on a human stick figure with a bullseye around it.

  I chuckle. I can’t help it. If only they knew mutants like the ones in Spark City. Most are gentle and peace-loving. Not like the fear-fueled stories of crazed half-beast/half-human monsters who roam the streets devouring children and puppies.

  My gaze lands on a photo of a man with a young woman and a little boy about five years old. It rests in a crude, homemade frame with macaroni shells glued around the sides. I glance at the bartender to be sure it’s him. Happier times. He eyes me warily then glances at the door and starts to pace behind the bar.

  At the far end of the worn, wooden bar top, a patron checks me out as he sips from an amber bottle. I check my hands, making sure my gloves are on. Force of habit. They’re a second skin.

  “Expecting a visit from those hoodlums again, Pete?” the guy asks. Pete grunts in reply.

  A plate appears before me, and I lean in, gobbling mouthfuls of the tasty, thick burger. Meat and cheese and ketchup melt in my mouth. I haven’t chowed down like this since my military days. Days when my squad and I had five minutes to jam food down our throats. Meals were usually bland protein packs that sunk like lead in your stomach.

  The fries are still warm after I demolish the burger. I wash them down with beer just as the door swings open.

  Several men and a woman stride in, and everyone shuts up. I turn and stare at the swagger in the men’s steps.

  The bartender flinches. These must be regulars—and not his favorites. I sneak another glance. There’s a ring leader—the biggest of the men—at least six-foot-three with a meaty chest and massive, tattooed biceps. His hair is closely shaved on both sides of his scalp and spiked in the middle. Handcuffs and a baton hang from his belt. He wears a prominent star-shaped badge like an old west sheriff. Only this guy is not like any cop I've ever encountered. My guess is he's a vigilante. A self-appointed marshal.

  His two companions lack his presence. One man is visibly swaying, like he's been drinking since early morning. The other guy is skinny, weighing maybe 150 pounds, and is about my height, five-foot-nine.

  Stringy hair hides much of the woman’s face, but her smooth skin and wide eyes reveal she’s young—still a teenager. She wears steel handcuffs. The big guy grasps her by the arm and shoves her into a seat at the bar. “Sit and keep your mouth shut,” he orders.

  The bartender places both hands on the counter and nods slowly. “Rex, what can I get you?”

  “Beer for my men. Been a long day hunting criminals,” Rex says as he slides onto a barstool just three feet away from me. His friends stomp toward the jukebox in the far corner. The few, scattered patrons get up and leave.

  The woman lowers her chin and doesn’t move. Criminal? She’s petite and doesn’t look like she could do much harm to anyone.

  After pouring a pint for Rex, the bartender retrieves two ice-cold bottles of beer for his friends.

  “Put it on my tab,” says Rex.

  “On the house.”

  Rex leans back and nods approvingly. “You’re a good man, Pete. It’s folks like you I enjoy protecting day in and day out.” He swigs his beer, then smacks his lips. “Keeping the good people of Wyoming safe from dangerous city folk is what keeps me going.”

  “What she do?” asks Pete, tilting his head at the prisoner.

  “This one? She got caught stealin’ food down at the town square. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?” He slaps her on the back, hard, and I cringe. “Said she was trying to feed her sick little brother.” Rex guffaws. “Man, if I had a dollar for every sob story.”

  I should pay my bill, get on my bike, and continue my journey south. But I can't help it. Men like him make me angry. Arresting this woman on such a flimsy reason, and now flaunting her in this bar. Exactly the kind of guy I'd love to teach a lesson. Am I a terrible person for wanting to bring him down a notch? I know I should leave. This isn’t the time for trou
ble. Not while I’m trekking across the country searching for Dr. Kenmore. And certainly not when there’s a risk I could touch someone.

  Pete eyes me and glances at my drained glass. I hesitate. If I get up and leave now, that might attract more attention. I nod, and he pours me another.

  As Pete slides my beer over, Rex notices me and does a double take. “Well, what do we have here?” he says. “Pete, you been holding out on me? You didn't tell me we had a visitor.” He angles his body to face me. “Where you from, sweetheart?”

  I say nothing and sip my beer. But he shifts onto the neighboring stool. “Cat got your tongue?”

  If he touches my skin…

  “Well, ain't you a pretty thing?” he edges closer.

  Oh no. This is going to get dangerous. I stare at him with narrowed eyes, hoping he backs off. I’ll defend myself if he corners me, but I don’t want to hurt anyone else. And I certainly don’t want to kill the guy.

  Music pours from the jukebox. The drunk friend chooses Walk This Way by Run DMC and Aerosmith, a song I haven’t heard in ages. I nickname him “Drunky.” The thin guy is “String Bean.”

  “Check, please,” I say as I’m nearing the last few sips of my beer.

  Pete pulls a magnetic card from a media screen and passes it to me. I read the amount then hand over a bill. “Keep the change,” I say and rise from my stool.

  “Hey, hold on darling,” Rex says. “Pete, serve us up a round of shots.” He leers at me. “What's your poison? You like whiskey? You look like a whiskey girl to me, don't she, Gam?”

  String Bean nods and flanks my other side opposite Rex. “Yep, Whiskey Girl.”

  “Four shots of Jameson.”

  Pete looks to me for affirmation like a good bartender should. I meet his gaze and offer a half smile to show I’m fine, but I watch the men, careful to keep physical distance between us. Drunky stumbles over and leans against the captive woman’s chair. She recoils and tips her head down, shielding her face behind her long hair.

  Pete pours the whiskey into four small shot glasses and sets them on the counter. Rex raises his glass. “How about a toast? Here’s to our out-of-town stranger.” He holds his glass high, then clinks with the others.

  I decline the toast but toss back the whiskey. They slam theirs and plunk their glasses onto the nicked-up old bar. Then Rex grabs my forearm with his meaty fist. My pulse quickens, and a simmering agitation churns inside me. His palm is clamped onto my arm tightly. My jacket forms a barrier over my skin. I stare at his hand, then meet his gaze. “You have three seconds to take your grubby fist off me,” I say between clenched teeth.

  “Come on, darling. I'm just messing around. Stay for a while. What's your name? Don't you like to party? We want to party with you.”

  “One.” With my free hand, I tap an alert button on my biocuff. I can’t let this escalate.

  “Don't you want to dance? Can you dig this song?” Rex belts out the refrain, then tightens his hold on my arm and leans closer, assaulting me with stale breath that reeks of booze.

  I want to slug him in the face so badly. It takes every ounce of strength not to lash out. But touching him is deadly. I can’t take another casualty on my conscience, even if he deserves punishment. “Two…”

  “Look, we're just trying to have some fun. When you get to three, what's gonna happen?” He laughs and puffs out his chest, glancing at Pete and his friends. “What? Do you know karate?”

  “No,” I say. “I know Ogre.”

  Rex smirks. “Okay, you got me. What's Ogre?”

  The front door to the bar swings open, blinding us. As our eyes adjust, a seven-foot tall humanoid figure wearing dark gray cybernetic steel armor looms in the doorway. The android takes a step inside, and a red pulsating light within its visor scans the room.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. The android from Spark City is my traveling companion. Though its presence doesn’t exactly help me keep a low profile.

  “What is the problem?” Ogre’s monotone voice booms across the dingy room. “Ida, you alerted me. Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine. I was just leaving.”

  Rex's mouth hangs open, and he yanks his hand away, releasing me. “Whoa, what the hell?” He looks to his friends, but they stare at the intimidating android, shaking their heads as they shrink back.

  Behind the bar, Pete raises a shotgun and says, “No robots allowed. Get out now. Both of you. Go back to Spark City where you came from.”

  “Ogre, leave,” I say, not wanting the situation to escalate more than it already has. The android steps outside, sunlight gleaming off its chrome shoulder.

  I throw another bill on the counter and mutter, “For your trouble.”

  But Pete keeps the shotgun held high, his narrowed eyes tracking me as I stride to the door.

  Behind me, Rex spits. “Uptight city bitch. Good riddance.”

  My fingers are poised on the door handle, and I flinch. Of course. The man can’t let things be. He has to have the last word.

  I encountered guys like this in the military. I faced them every single time. Hell, I’ve had to go up against bigger, stronger bullies ever since I was a kid, first as an orphan on the streets in New York, then as I got shuffled between government-run “Youth Improvement” Centers.

  I should shrug it off. March out the door, I tell myself.

  But I can’t help it. Rex is an asshole, and assholes deserve to be taught lessons.

  Outside, Ogre readies our bikes. I grip the door handle, fighting against the urge to leap across the room and kick Rex’s ass.

  I could hurt him. Kill him. Easily. I used to heal people with my touch. If someone was dying, I could fix them—repair their wounds with the nanorobotics inside my body—implanted when I was seventeen. But now… everything has changed.

  I swallow hard, still tasting the lingering grease from my burger. It’s going to be a long trip if I have to back down from fights every time.

  I’m distracted when Pete, now unarmed, strides over. “Hey, you forgot this.”

  He carries the motorcycle helmet I left on the stool. I grab it with my left arm, and before I can reply, he grasps my other hand.

  He deposits something—the cash tip. His hand is big, and his fingers graze the unprotected skin on my wrist. A sharp tingling lights up my arm, and there’s a sound like fizzing, as if ice cubes were dropped into a warm carbonated beverage.

  His eyes grow large, his face goes slack. He stands, frozen in place. Rigid.

  Oh God, this can’t be happening.

  I yank my arm away, and he staggers, then collapses, on the floor. Rex and the others stare with gaping mouths.

  I can barely breathe as Pete’s body flails on the weathered boards. I move toward him, wanting to check his pulse, to help him. But I halt. That’s not me anymore. If I touch him again, he’s finished. I glare at String Bean, who seems the least idiotic one. “He’s having a seizure. Call for help immediately.”

  His eyes are glazed like the others. “Is this a joke?”

  I step toward him, and he recoils. “Call for help or he’ll die.”

  Stealing one last glimpse at Pete, I mutter, “Sorry” and scoop up the helmet I’d dropped. I leave the balled-up cash littering the ground. The stubborn bastard refused my kindness and paid the price.

  I exit the bar and hurry across the baked soil toward Ogre.

  “Is everything A-Okay in there?” it asks.

  Yanking on my helmet, I climb on my bike and kick start it.

  Ogre stares at the shack as if scanning, then looks at me. Above the roar of the engine, it says, “Many humans observed us in that restaurant. Before you said, ‘Ogre, stay out of sight,’ but you called for me to help you. Have our plans changed?”

  I ignore the android and say, “Let’s go. Hurry.”

  We pull away, and I look back at the bar. Rex stands outside the door, aiming Pete’s shotgun at us. Gunfire rings behind us as we speed away.

  I wonder how many m
ore people I’ll end up hurting.

  Years ago, I used to track the number of lives I’d saved.

  Now, I’m racking up a body count.

  Two

  Boulder, Colorado

  Back on the road, the long open stretches of highway allow me time to think. Too much time. I dwell on Pete and wonder if he survived. I picture the photo of him with his wife and son. My heart feels heavy, and I want to scream. Ogre makes small talk over the comm, but I say nothing about what transpired. Nevertheless, the machine is eerily aware and knows something's wrong.

  Pete touching me was an accident. Why did he have to grab my hand? Why can’t I stop hurting people?

  I keep my eyes on the road as mile after mile of asphalt rolls underneath my bike. My mind wanders to Lucy, back home in Spark City. She would know what to say in this situation. I make a mental note to message her later. I'm not the best at keeping in contact over long distances, but she made me promise to ping her every day. Ogre obediently sends her messages like clockwork.

  Then I think about Gatz. I try not to, but I can't help it. I wonder how he’s doing. As Spark City’s mayor, he's surely busy with politics and rebuilding. Does he think about me? I'm probably not his favorite person, and I hope he moves on and meets someone who can make him happy, someone he can be with. A girlfriend who won’t send him into a coma if he kisses her.

  I'm snapped out of my thoughts by a sign that says it’s only ten miles to Boulder. After another few miles, a marker points us to an exit ramp, and we veer off the highway.