Ashes of the Fall (12 page)

With a flourish, he throws open the rusting steel door. He steps aside and gestures for me to look. Inside the room, stacked almost to the top of gridded windows, are dozens of crates. One is open nearby, a little drone nestled in the straw.

“I have the resources to help you make Matthew’s vision a reality.” I take the little chunk of metal death from the crate and turn it over in my hands. Its lifeless, insect-like eyes stare back at me. Just waiting for confirmation from its master to slit my throat—or whatever this model does. Maybe it incinerates you.

“So you want to be king,” I say. “And this is your shot.”

“It’s more what I do not want. And I do not want
this
.”

“What’s
this
, exactly?”

“Instability. Anarchy. The stagnation that chaos brings.”

“No one wants what they currently have. That’s why there’s progress.”

He laughs at the party line. I continue to stare deep into the eyes of this little machine. It’s been years since the Circle has used them—but today’s attack could be the first salvo in a very, very bloody war. Placing the drone back and then leaning against the crate for support, I look up at Director Blackstone. He meets my gaze with his piercing blue eyes.

“You weren’t born yet,” he says in a soft voice. “Nor was Matthew. But I remember what it was like before.”

“Before what?”

“Before the fall,” he says in an almost reverent tone. Maybe this old man isn’t a stone-cold operator like the rest. Maybe he can be conned, just like anyone else. Suits me fine.

“So where do I come into all this,” I say, jerking a thumb towards the dormant arsenal. “Looks like you’re doing fine without my help.”

“With you, we have a story.”

“Doesn’t sound like much.” I don’t mention that everyone thinks I murdered my brother. That can’t make for a rousing battle cry amongst the downtrodden. I can see the posters now:
Support a filial backstabber!

“And,” Blackstone says, blue eyes shining—with greed or benevolence or lust, I don’t quite know, “a story is what creates the hero. And the hero is what changes the world.”

I say, “So about my leg.”

Blackstone walks away, out of the room. “Someone will be in touch. I believe you know him quite well.”

“What else was ‘required’ of me, anyway,” I yell after his retreating footsteps.

But Blackstone leaves me alone, to wait with all his expensive toys and all the questions left unanswered.

I shiver in the cold
, unheated warehouse, waiting for my mysterious benefactor to arrive. Trucks pull up outside, and I hear the rhythmic pad of boots against the broken concrete. It feels like it’s been hours, but that’s because the incessant throbbing in my leg won’t leave me alone. In reality, it’s only been thirty minutes, maybe less, since I was dragged from the jagged windows of the Hyperloop.

All that adrenaline has dissipated though, and in its stead is a dull fear. I’m a wounded animal, reliant on the charity of others. If these aren’t Blackstone’s men, the punishment will be more painful than any public hanging could ever be.

Voices filter across the warehouse. I press my back against the wooden crate, wondering about my options. My mind saves me the mental gymnastics by settling on the truth: there aren’t any. Shadows approach the doorway, one voice cutting in above the others.

“Stokes,” the man says, “you in there?” His voice is musical, high-pitched, melodious and warbling like a songbird’s.

I almost piss myself with joy. But then I wonder if it’s a hallucination. “Slick? That you, Slick?”

“You beautiful bastard,” Slick says, entering the doorway. I take him in, dressed in all-weather gear, only his eyes visible beneath his bandana-covered face. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

“You wish.” I groan as he rushes in for a hug. He’s not a big guy, but he’s got power. He drags me up from the floor and his barrel chest crushes me in its all-encompassing embrace. His momma must’ve seen that coming, because she named him Alfred—Alfred Knute, built like a dwarf from the pages of a bad fantasy novel. But everyone calls him Slick, just because he’s more of a wrecking ball than a smooth guy. “I—you’re alive.”

“I am,” he says, releasing me. “You planning a rebellion, are ya?”

“Courtesy of the good Director,” I say. “The others, they with—”

A dark look falls over Slick’s face and he shakes his head, cutting the question short. The crew is dead and he’s the only survivor.

“Most didn’t make it,” he says. “It was like snow, except it choked your lungs, couldn’t breathe. And then the quake…I drove as fast I could, hunkered down in one of those trucks when I ran out of gas. Had to dig myself out by hand afterwards.”

“Jesus,” I say. “And how’d you hook up with Blackstone?”

“Straight to business,” Slick says with a grin.

“A lot of people been fucking with me the past week,” I say. “I want to know where we stand.”

“I heard,” he says. Slick beckons for one of his guys—a man I don’t recognize—for a medical kit. “Guess you can either trust me or die, bud. Up to you.”

“I just want to know how Blackstone tapped you.”

“He found me and we came to an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement,” I say, watching him pull out a very large needle. It’s like a supercharged version of the one in the coin hidden in Matt’s apartment. “Tell me that’s for you.”

“They put these criminal HoloBands in deep,” he says. “Wedged them in there real good.”

“Don’t tell me that.” The needle’s gotta be three inches long. Plunge that in as deep as I think he’s saying, and he’ll destroy my spinal column, leave me eating out of a tube. Or probably just leave me here to die of dehydration amongst all of Blackstone’s drones.

“Sorry, bud,” Slick says. “Turn over.”

“Like hell I will.”

He takes me by the arm and flips me over like he’s dealing with a rag doll. I squirm, my injured leg banging against the concrete, but I’m more concerned about being paralyzed than a little bit of pain.

A searing hot sensation courses through my spine as the needle slices through my skin. Claw-like tendrils spring from the end of the needle. I can feel them in my neck, grasping at the HoloBand, tearing at its wiring like some sort of spider. Each neural link that’s broken sends my vision crashing into darkness.

Just when I think I’m going to pass out from the pain, the needle retracts, followed by one final burst of almost unbearable agony. The HoloBand tears through the skin, too big for the needle’s hole. Blood and spinal fluid drip down my breastbone.

Slick yells for something, but I’m too busy wondering if I’m a cripple to hear him. There’s a minor burning, and the smell of smoldering flesh.

Then I hear his voice. “Move your arm, bud.”

In my trance-like state, I do as I’m told. My nose pressed up against the concrete, I see a slight twitch in my hand. Then two fingers moving.

“Good. That’s it.” A pair of tweezers cuts into view, holding a bloodied HoloBand. It’s at least twice the size of the other ones I extracted—the criminal control model is no joke, it would appear. “Extra nasty edition, bud. You’re lucky we got it out before all the neural links formed.”

“What happens then,” I say, the words mush in my mouth.

“You talk like that forever.”

Good to know Slick and Blackstone gave me a list of potential side effects beforehand.

Slick flips me over, propping my head up with a bundled jacket. Half the down is missing, but it’s an upgrade from using the crate as a pillow.

“We’re not done, bud.” Slick disappears for a few minutes. The dull sting at the back of my neck distracts me from the burn in my leg. I’m left alone to wonder what this plan is, and what my part is.

Furthermore, what role I can possible play given my status as the most hated man in the NAC. I haven’t seen any newscasts since I left, but I can only imagine the pitchfork mobs in New Manhattan. Threats to safety must be eliminated swiftly and without hesitation.

He returns bearing a clumped handful of white gauze, bottle of grain alcohol, and a tool that resembles a blow torch a little too much for my liking.

“Grabbed what I could on short notice,” Slick says, noting my expression. “It’s gonna hurt.” He offers me the hard liquor. I take it and start drinking immediately, tears streaming down my cheeks from the noxious burn.

“All right, save some for me, would ya.” He yanks the bottle away and then unfurls a switchblade. Before I know it, the soaked bandage below my knee is stripped clean, and I’m staring at a red, angry wound.

I gag a little bit, but that might be from the spirits.

Slick gives no warning—he just dumps a stream of grain alcohol on the leg, pressing down with his free hand to stop me from kicking him in the face. It’s like a clamp I can’t escape from, despite my best efforts and wild jerks. Sweat begins pooling on my forehead.

“Lemme go, you bastard,” I scream, trying to hook him with my left hand. He ducks and then finally lets go. I curl my leg up to my chest and guard it with a vengeful stare, lest he try to get near it. It feels like battery acid is corroding my femur. “You’re fucking fired, man.”

With a sympathetic smile, he reaches into his pocket to pull out a foil pouch. The writing is too small for me to see. Besides, the alcohol is beginning to kick in on the edges of my vision, and the pain still commands most of my attention.

“This, along with the alcohol, will kill any infections,” he says. “Get you healing right.”

Tossing the pouch in front of me, he says, “You can do the honors.”

With a tentative peek over my knees, I take a closer look at the pouch’s label.
Dr. Jameson’s Antibody Solution—Cures Ailments in 24 hours or Less!
I’ve seen those ads on television. The billboards. Dr. Jameson doesn’t have what I would call a trusting face.

“Any side effects?” I say.

“Maybe,” Slick responds. “But you wanna know something, bud?”

“Not really.”

“Clock’s ticking here,” he says. “We gotta bug out in five minutes, before Tanner’s men pick up the trail. You don’t take that and the wound gets a little gangrene, you’re not gonna be nearly as good with the ladies sporting a single leg.”

Growling to show my displeasure, I rip open the foil packet and pour it into the wound. Immediately, a foam—like when you combine baking soda and vinegar—begins sizzling like a steak in a pan.

Needless to say it freaks me out. “Get it off,” I yell. “Come on, this isn’t funny.”

Slick is heaving up against the wall, practically crying, and I can hear the rest of the guys, thinking this is hilarious, too. Bastards. See what it feels like when they get shot, stuck in a cattle car and shipped off to their public executions.

Maybe my pain tolerance isn’t as high as it normally would be, given the stress of the situation. But I get no points for extenuating circumstances. I stop yelling and grind my molars together, dampening any noise from my throat. The laughter, after a minute, subsides to periodic snorts.

“All right, you done hollering?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says. “This is gonna hurt.” Taking the cauterization torch in his dominant hand, Slick flicks the switch, a bright blue flame hissing softly at the end. As it approaches my skin, I start to pour sweat. “Don’t move too much, otherwise I’m gonna burn your damn leg off, bud.”

This time, I don’t make a sound as the torch sears the bullet hole shut and the smell of my own flesh envelops the room.

Then I pass out.

When I wake up
, I immediately project vomit on to the floor. Head spinning, it takes me a couple minutes to get my bearings. When my vision finally comes into focus, I find that I’m in an old motel room with cracked walls and a ceiling fan with three blades broken off.

I’m lying on a cot, completely alone. A floor lamp flickers and buzzes next to a tube TV sitting precariously on a flimsy nightstand. By the layer of dust on the screen, I’d say it hasn’t been used in years.

My stomach turns again, and I heave, but nothing comes up. When the retching finally stops, I realize that I’m in a pile of my own sick, sheets drenched in yellow sweat.

“Damn side effects,” I mumble, trying to roll out of bed. I end up face first on the rough carpet. Stumbling towards the bathroom, I find that a brackish, rust colored water tumbles from the leaky faucet.

Given my level of dehydration, it tastes amazing. Even if it comes right back up.

The door opens and I stand bolt upright, heart beating.

“Jesus, bud.” My shoulders sag and relax. It’s only Slick. “We’re gonna have to burn this place, once you’re done with it.”

I limp back into the main room, where Slick stands near the entrance—clearly avoiding direct contact with the warzone. Wiping my mouth, I hobble to the bed and sit down. Ancient springs on the cot groan.

“You’re the one who gave me the antibodies,” I say.

“You drank the water? Brave man,” Slick says with a grin. Then his expression turns serious. “This is a safe house. For now.”

“How long I been out?”

“Almost a day. The nausea should subside, although you got hit worse than most, judging by the impressionist art on the floor.”

“Put it on my tab,” I say. All I really want to do is go back to sleep. Lying in my own puke doesn’t even bother me. Everything hurts.

“That’s why I came,” Slick says. “Your tab.”

I lie down and stare at the ceiling. So that’s how this new world’s gonna be. Everyone coming for their pound of flesh, paying tit-for-tat. Even the man who practically raised me. If things were bad before, I don’t know what to call this.

“You keeping a ledger, Slick?”

“Medicine, gas, none of it comes free,” he says.

“How
did
you escape, anyway?”

“Deals,” he says. “You trade and barter and survive. Nothing’s free, bud. I’ve told you that before.”

“So what’s my life worth,” I say, an edge coming into my tired voice. “Blackstone want me to do this, is that it?

“This is between you and me,” he says. “Man to man. I saved your ass, and you’re gonna do me a favor in return. Who I owe is none of your concern.”

So it is for Blackstone. This is the Director’s way of working me over, trying to convince me that he’s the right horse to back.

“How do you know Blackstone, anyway? Not like you two bumped into one another shooting pool at some dive ass bar.”

“I got picked up along the border by a Circle patrol, where Oklahoma used to be,” Slick says. “They scanned my band, found it was fake. Checked the records, figured out who I really was. I was sent down here almost as soon as I escaped the ash cloud. Spent a few days in jail, waiting to be sentenced and processed into the Otherlands. And then Blackstone came to me, said he would wipe the slate clean if I agreed to help you survive a jailbreak escape. Said it would be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship.”

“I bet.”

“It was a lot of risk, bud,” Slick says. “You owe me. You owe
him
.”

“What can I do you for?” I say in a sarcastic tone.

Slicks fold his arms, his long sleeves rustling together as the fabric tightens to his chest. “You’re one of the only ones without a HoloBand installed.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

“When the time comes,” Slick says, “and you’re healed, you’re gonna go on a little expedition for me. Because I want to settle up with Blackstone as soon as possible.”

Great. Getting in the midst of a little power struggle. My silver tongued charm has me now caught in the middle of the Circle, Blackstone’s defectors, the Lionhearted, and whatever group Slick is assembling.

“Yes sir,” I say in a mock tone, my eyes growing heavy. “Absolutely sir. Where to, sir?”

“Into the Lost Plains.”

Fuck.