Crossing Bedlam (20 page)

As the stolen vehicle swerves around the corner, Lloyd leaps into a dumpster and hides until he sees the Half-Dead run by. The assassin is still chasing Cassidy, which gives the black-haired man enough time to sprint for the jeep and scramble inside. He notices that Katie’s sports car is no longer in its space, the warlord having already left for a quieter location. A small wave of stubborn vindictiveness washes over him, the sight of the pickup truck going by giving him time to duck out of view of their enemy. In order to make his friend sweat a little bit longer, he adjusts the mirrors and puts in a CD that he claims to love because Cassidy despises every track. The saccharine pop music makes him shudder and rethink his method of friendly ribbing, but the thought passes when the blonde goes by and curses at him. The Half-Dead never hears her and fails to notice that Lloyd is in the jeep even though his hand is out the window to flip off his companion.

Honking his horn instead of trying to avoid people, Lloyd speeds toward the southern section and jumps the curb. The jeep barrels through the glass entrance and races toward the other side of the mall. Performers and vendors struggle to get out of the way, several pieces of merchandise and food splattering against the windshield. Turning on the wipers and headlights, Lloyd skids the jeep into the parking lot as Cassidy is going by. He gets alongside the truck and puts the passenger side window go down after hitting the button for every other one. The young woman clambers through her own window while trying to control her vehicle, a metal rod having been lodged in place to keep the gas pedal down. Without hesitating, Cassidy leaps into the jeep and lets the pickup careen in a random direction. It flips over several parked cars and lands upside down, the wheels helplessly turning as the engine tries to run.

“You do realize we could have taken the long way around the building since the Half-Dead had no idea where we were hiding, right?” Lloyd asks, noticing that the assassin is still chasing them. With a frustrated snarl, he stops the jeep and throws it into reverse at full speed. The sound of the vehicle hitting their pursuer reminds them of a baseball bat slamming into a bag of wet garbage. “And now it’s slowed down and we can keep moving. Sometimes I wonder if you make these kinds of plans to prove you’re smarter than everyone around you. Either that or you have some kind of luck-based power, which is a terrible thing to put into a story. It’s like cheating, but you can’t really explain how it works without sounding like an idiot. Things fall into place or good motives make the power work. Utter bullshit that should translate to those characters being undefeated. What was I saying again?”

“You were asking for an apology,” Cassidy replies, removing the CD and snapping it in half. She rubs her aching neck, the muscles locking up from too much tension in such a short period of time. “Sorry for making your life harder than it should be. Guess I’ve been having to come up with crazy schemes so often that I go directly to them. I’ll listen to you more often as long as it isn’t something I know will get us killed. So we’re off to Iowa, which means we need to stop before the border and put Neddy’s decal on. That way we don’t have to work to pay our way through, which means my mom’s funeral would be delayed even more. I’m already feeling bad about carrying her into so much trouble.”

“I think I miss Katie already.”

“Me too.”

“Really?”

“Those were some beautiful guns.”

“I agree . . . We’re talking about two different things, right?”

“Probably. Wake me in an hour.”

“I was thinking of tits.”

“Shut the fuck up, Lloyd.”

Business, Bad Blood, & Bart

“Ah, Des Moines and its beautiful, scenic cows,” Lloyd says as the weary travelers slide out of the jeep. They watch a herd of dairy cows cross between them and an old coffee house, the wranglers apologizing for being in the way. “So Iowa decided to go Frontier World? I hope we get to see a gunfight at noon or visit the local saloon. One of my dreams is to use a spittoon, so thank you for bringing me here.”

“You’ll be disappointed. A few of the Midwestern states are focused entirely on agriculture and not recapturing the Wild West days,” Cassidy explains for what feels like the ninth time. For several hours, she has been hearing her friend complain about the constant stops for tractors and livestock. “Iowa is one of the big ones and Des Moines is where most of the people live. They work in multi-family enclaves, so they switch between roles every month. If we didn’t have the decal then we’d have to gain passage by working for whichever farm is short-handed. Another option would be to put in some time with the border guards. Kansas and Nebraska cause trouble from time to time. You know, this is one of the few states I’ve visited more than once because my mom always found work here. Though we tended to take a different route, which I fully understand the reason for now. So let’s meet with my friend before some of the unsavory parts of this place find us.”

“You still haven’t explained Nebraska.”

“You still haven’t told me what your pills are for.”

“It will lead to a pleasant surprise.”

“So will Nebraska, now come on.”

Lloyd holds his nose as they cross the parking lot, the aroma of the herd lingering in the humid air. The coffee house has tinted windows, making it impossible to see anything more than a few silhouettes. Several wires run from fenced off generators to the building and a large shipping container that has several air conditioners installed on the roof. A fly-infested dumpster is at the far end of the lot where two people in biohazard suits loudly argue about who has put in the most hours. Lloyd chuckles when the workers pick up their shovels and have a brief duel that ends with the appearance of their similarly dressed supervisor. The man shouts and jabs a finger at the nearby river before knocking the tools from their hands and helping them push the dumpster away. A wheezing laugh draws the killer’s attention to the roof where a team of engineers are resting after a day of maintaining the equipment. They wave at the visitors, but remains perched on the eave like a flock of coffee-sipping birds.

Cassidy clears her throat while holding the door for Lloyd, which he guesses is more a reaction to the stench than him being distracted. Their noses are greeted by every type of body odor and the scent of rotting food, which they can see piled around many of the chairs. There is one cracked window that lets in a breeze, but it does nothing to ease their suffering. Surrounded by air fresheners, a portly woman sits behind the counter and politely takes the orders of the few customers who are on their feet. A pair of hard-working baristas operate the coffee machines, which keeps them in a tiny envelope of delicious smells that they refuse to leave until it is time to go home. Noise from the kitchen heralds the appearance of a chef, who knocks several people out of the way with his cart of treats. Delivering it to his wife, he steals a kiss from the hostess and hurries back before the stench of the dining area damages his sensitive nose.

Most of the customers ignore the commotion and public display of affection, their attention locked on the computers in front of them. The machines are bolted to the tables and armed with tiny explosives that will destroy the hands of anyone who attempts to steal or open the equipment. With all of the abandoned technology around the country, the coffee house owners have found it fairly easy to find replacements and they know a new customer will always take the place of an injured one. Those who are waiting patiently for a computer to open up can be found sleeping on the floor or prowling around to see if any of the current users are about to drop. Getting up from your seat is a high risk endeavor, which is why many do whatever it takes to hold onto their spot. For some this means dying at the keyboard due to starvation, exhaustion, or dehydration.

“This is a Wi-Fi Den,” Cassidy whispers, noticing the confused look on Lloyd’s face. She puts a bag full of mugs, air fresheners, and computer cables on the counter to pay for coffee. “I should warn you that there are shots of rum in these. My mom always had her coffee this way and I guess Matilda knows I like it the same. I used to do it with tequila, but that stuff makes me act . . . funny. Anyway, there are places around the country where programmers and engineers got the Internet back up. My friend can explain the limitations, but the revival is enough to make people flock to these locations. Somebody once said it reminded them of opium dens, which is where the name comes from.”

“That brunette might be dead,” Lloyd says, pointing at a young woman slumped over her keyboard. Hearing his words, two of the greedy lurkers rush to hurl the body away and claim the open spot. The brief fight ends when one of them collapses to the ground, a fork jammed in his ear. “I feel dirty being in here. Not only the smell, but it feels like the place is suffocating all of my senses. Hey, that guy has the same shirt I’m wearing. Think I can go back to the jeep and change to avoid association?”

“Trust me when I say that you don’t want to keep coming in and out of here. Your nose will be ruined for at least a week by the constant shock,” the blonde warns while stepping out of the way of the corpse removal team. A figure in the back corner waves for the travelers to join them, but Cassidy ignores the friendly gesture. “Quiche should be around here somewhere. He has his weekly bath and basic medical exam on Mondays, which is the only day he leaves the Wi-Fi Den. Guess he moved his station out of that corner. Not sure how he would do that considering he’s booby trapped the area to the point where even the owners couldn’t touch it without his permission. You know, the machine does look like his and that flailing jackass’s face is vaguely familiar.”

“I lost weight, you unobservant gun whore!” the information broker shouts, grinning at Cassidy. He winces when she arrives to punch him in the arm, the limb going numb as he shakes Lloyd’s hand. “Forgot how strong you are. First, you have my deepest condolences about your mother. She was an amazing woman and I’ll never forget the times she helped me out. I’m sure you’re going to do her proud, kid. Now this must be the infamous serial killer you’ve been running with. Have to say that you two are making an impressive name for yourselves. Means I’ll be willing to trade information with you instead of taking my usual payment. Unless you brought me my favorite and then I’ll take both.”

The plain-looking man smiles with porcelain teeth that make it clear he is serious about dental hygiene. It stands in contrast to the odd smell that reminds Lloyd of cooked eggs, which he doubts he can ever eat again. The unique stench makes sense when Cassidy hands Quiche a refrigerated case that she picked up before they left Illinois. Putting on glasses that are missing their lenses, the strange man tenderly opens the container and practically drools at the food inside. Grabbing a fork from the table, he takes one bite of the quiche and blissfully melts back into his chair. Taking a large sip of water, the information broker points at a large beanbag that Cassidy claims as a seat. Swiveling on his own chair, Quiche brings up a few windows on his computer and takes another bite of his delicious payment. He pauses for a second to sniff the collar of his dark green pajamas, the clothes showing signs that they will need to be replaced soon.

“You don’t seem like an addict,” Lloyd mentions while taking a seat on the windowsill. He gives up balancing on the narrow ledge and slides down to the sticky floor. “By the way, I was promised an explanation of how the Internet is back. Don’t bother with the why because we both know it was to get access to porn.”

“A bunch of us built servers to give the country limited Internet access points . . . and porn did end up being the second thing that someone uploaded after the picture of a cat wearing silly glasses,” Quiche explains, the shame in his voice hinting that he knows the culprit. Typing with one hand, he pulls out a map with shifting colors and takes a few seconds to study it. “You see, the whole thing still exists. We’re simply blocked from most of it by the rest of the world. Using what little we have, my friends and I have recreated enough for people to use email, utilize a localized social media platform, and see what’s going on within our borders. At least if somebody reports the news. By the way, Cassidy, I have to warn you that Nebraska is going to be very stormy during the next week. I’d say even the next two, but I don’t have weather maps that go beyond the next seven days. Not without it being very shaky information. You can still go ahead, but please keep your eyes out for tornados.”

“Always do, you irritating mother hen,” the young woman replies while enjoying the feel of the beanbag chair. She rubs her locket and stares at the ceiling, a lone Halloween decoration dangling from a pin. “I also wanted to know if you could tell me where Bart is. Too many bazaars in this region to check all of them and not rack up a big delay, so I figured you’d be the man to see. That old goat is probably sticking around his home turf, but I want to be sure. Also, I need a device to handle long distance communication. One for me and another for a new friend in LaSalle, Illinois. Ended up making a business partnership on this trip.”

Quiche chuckles as he skims through several forums for information on Bart and wracks his brain about her request. “I’ve been hearing some interesting stories. You ran with the Metal Minstrels, eliminated Amur, and messed with the Border Collies. If your new partner is in LaSalle then I assume it’s Katie, who I’ve worked with a few times. Nice woman, but we disagreed too much on food and she tried to shoot me in the foot. Good thing I don’t hold a grudge. Now word is that somebody crippled the South Bend drug trade soon after people reported you getting out of the nearby plague swamp. Funny thing is that the cartel that would have taken advantage of that situation lost all of their lieutenants during a fight over a poker game. Supposedly a warning for them to leave the area was written with their body parts being duct taped to the wall.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lloyd interrupts, slurping down the rest of his coffee. He pulls his new knife out from behind his back and uses it to pick his nails. “You can’t write legible messages with organs and limbs. It was in blood. The hacking, slashing, and bludgeoning was only because those goons put up a fight instead of working with me. In my defense . . . Uh . . . I got nothing.”

Feeling nervous around the serial killer, Quiche finishes his research and jots down Bart’s location for Cassidy. He whistles to get everyone’s attention and holds up three fingers, warning the other users that he is about to use the printer. The old machine sounds like it is about to explode as the yellowed paper goes through and gets jammed. Stuffing two bites of his payment into his mouth, Quiche hurries to fix the problem and retrieve the weather maps that the travelers will need for Nebraska. Realizing he forgot to set any of his traps, he whirls around to see a lurker heading for the computer. The bug-eyed woman skids to a stop at the sight of Cassidy aiming a gun at her knee and Lloyd waggling his knife with a demented smile. Obsessed with playing social media games, the addict bravely continues toward the chair and screams like a wild animal at the travelers. The threat of death does nothing to dissuade the lurker, who thinks the pair are bluffing. She never finds out because Quiche returns to take his seat and casually shoots the woman with a tranquilizer dart. Foaming at the mouth and shuddering, the ambitious thief collapses to the ground and is dragged away by the cleanup crew.

“These are really high dosage, so she might not be okay,” the pajama-wearing man says, his voice loud enough to act as a warning to others. Handing the papers to Cassidy, he pulls a cockroach-shaped ticket out from under the table and gives it to Lloyd. “Bart is in the Gold Route Traveling Bazaar, which is at Coon Rapids for the next five days. You have plenty of time, but that Half-Dead means you shouldn’t stay here for long. The bazaar will be heavily defended, so you can send me my precious information by writing it down and leaving it with Bart. Don’t lose the tech ticket, Mr. Tenay, because it will solve your other problem. You won’t get it for free, but it will give you a discount with a guy named Cricket who can give you working satellite phones. I wouldn’t trust him to ship one to Katie though, so that’s something you have to figure out on your own.”

“I’d say I owe you, but we stopped keeping score long ago,” Cassidy replies, forcing herself to get out of the comfortable chair. “Hopefully we get to spend more time together when I come back through. Before she died, my mom had some stories for you. She would have mailed you letters, but she said it would be better for you to hear them in person. Think you can survive long enough for me to return?”

“I’ll be fine. My new diet and daily exercise regime has made me healthier than everyone else here,” Quiche proudly declares, waving at a toned woman who glares at him. She crushes her mouse to intimidate the smaller man, a pained expression on her face when she realizes what she has done. “Maybe not everyone, but I do think I’m the smartest. Anyway, good luck with the rest of your journey. Look me up for any big questions, Mr. Tenay. I always have our world at my fingertips.”

Lloyd strokes his chin before leaning close enough to get an unhealthy whiff of the other man. “Do you know why the collapse happened?”

“There are many rumors,” Quiche answers while searching for the conspiracy theory forums. He does his best to hide the fact that they are bookmarked, which is something he knows Cassidy would tease him about. “Some think aliens while others think inside job. The most popular theory is that this has happened to every country by a secret global organization. People cite various disappearances as proof of this. A local goes hunting for the truth, claims they know what really happened, and then they’re never heard from again.”