The Final Trade (6 page)

“That sounds good to me. Just one more thing. You in the passenger seat there, you’re making me awful nervous the way I can’t see your other hand. Like you to show it to me,” Ken says.

Zoey blinks, keeping her face averted.

Her fingers tighten on the gun.

She turns her head in Merrill’s direction.

“Oh, he’s a little shy. It’s okay, Steve, show him your hand,” Merrill says. His closest hand points to her, index finger out, thumb up.

Like a gun.

Zoey brings the H&K up, pointing it directly into Ken’s face. The skin around his sunglasses goes slack as Merrill whips up his own weapon, shoving it beneath Ken’s jaw.

The men surrounding the vehicles begin yelling but no shots are fired. Out of the corner of her eye she sees barrels appearing in the Jeep’s windows.

“Don’t move,” Merrill says.

“Sonofabitch,” Ken says. “Not you, Merrill, if that’s your real name. I’m speaking about my good friend Benny up there. I knew I should’ve put a bullet behind his ear the first time I saw him. Well, regardless, I guess we have some things to talk about here.”

“Yes, we do,” Merrill says. “Unclip your rifle and drop it on the ground. Tell your men to do the same.”

“Can’t do that, amigo. I said we’ll talk and see where it gets us.” Merrill pushes his handgun farther into Ken’s neck. “Okay, I’ll start. You—” But Ken pauses as he looks directly at Zoey, really seeing her for the first time. She stares back at him over the sights of her gun. Ken smiles. “You’re in a bad position here. See, you may have gotten the drop on us with old Benny’s help but I have a guardian angel in the nest behind me, and right now he has his crosshairs dialed in directly on your face. Wouldn’t be a problem for him to put a bullet through your eye.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t, but then you die at the same time.”

“Let’s be honest, in all likelihood we’d all die or, at the very least, get wounded. So how about we start over. You hand us your guns and we’ll get you something to eat and we can speak in a civilized manner over some dinner.”

“We both know that won’t happen.”

“No. No it probably won’t,” Ken says, sighing. “I knew today was going to be complete shit. It’s a Monday. Did you know that?”

“Should we waste them, Ken?” the closest man yells. Zoey glances around the clearing, wondering who to fire at first. She glances up at the tower.

The man there has his rifle trained directly on Merrill.

“Not yet,” Ken replies. “Me and Merrill here are having a little discussion.”

“Drop your guns,” Merrill says. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Got one word for you, cousin. Stalemate.”

The wind coasts across the installation, tossing dust into the air.

One of the men readjusts his grip on his machine gun.

A hawk cries mournfully in the distance.

There is swift whining and a sharp crack that breaks the tensioned silence.

Someone yells a curse and Zoey sees pieces of something fly out of the tower before the man’s rifle tumbles to the ground. A split second later the sound of a shot rebounds off the nearest hills and rolls away like thunder.

Ken’s men are screaming, shouting for orders.

Zoey spots the man in the tower, partially bent over, cradling his hand to his chest.

“Lost your angel,” Merrill says. “Now drop your weapons.”

Ken’s lips peel back from his teeth in a snarl, their yellowness shocking. “Disarm!” he yells after a moment.

“Ken, I—” one of the men says.

“I said, disarm!”

Slowly the men do as he says. They place the weapons on the ground and step away reluctantly.

“Now you,” Merrill says. Ken hesitates then unsnaps the sling from his shoulder and drops the gun to the ground.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your lives,” Ken says, teeth still bared.

“Oh I doubt it,” Merrill says. “I’m sure we’ll make worse ones than this. Now let’s have that talk you wanted.”

7

As she steps inside the largest building, stale heated air rushes past Zoey, a warm exhale.

She glances around the space, gathering her bearings.

The building’s entry used to be partitioned in what looks like a holding cell. The empty door and window frames are solid steel, their glass absent. Through the entry is a wide hall with multiple doors branching from it, most of them open. To the right is an area she assumes used to house another guard station. A long desk covered with strewn papers is flanked by a row of computer monitors, all of them tilted downward at head height.

Her footsteps echo in the empty corridor, a mournful sound. Lonely.

She keeps her finger outside the H&K’s trigger guard but holds the gun tightly at her side, ready to bring it up at a moment’s notice.

“Place is creepy,” Tia says. The other woman steps to her left holding a sawed-off shotgun she’s taken to carrying. They move forward in tandem, weapons covering either side of the hall. Zoey moves into the first open doorway, scans the room. It’s a white box without windows, twenty feet square. The walls are barren except for holes that might’ve been made by screws or bullets. They check all of the rooms on the first floor. Some of them are occupied by old mattresses and body odor, but most are empty. They find a kitchen area at the rear of the building beside a stairwell that leads both up and down, and another short hallway ending in a steel door.

They stop to listen to the silence for a moment. Nothing breaks it.

“Benny said there were seven of them here and a woman,” Zoey says. “We got six plus the guy in the tower. Should be empty except for her.”

“Place is big. We’ll need to split up.”

“We go in twos,” Merrill says, striding up to them. Behind him, Eli, Chelsea, and Rita are ushering the men into the building at gunpoint. Ken is at the front of the group. His sunglasses are gone and his eyes are a deep brown that pin Zoey to the floor. Eli checks one of the first rooms and guides the men inside. Several minutes later he appears, jiggles the doorknob, and comes toward them, holding out a ring of keys.

“Their fearless leader was carrying this. Looks like it’ll open any door in here.”

“Is Ian back yet?” Zoey asks.

“No, but I saw him coming down out of the hills and left the gate open,” Eli says. “That was a hell of a shot. I bet it was almost a thousand yards and he blasted the guy’s rifle right out of his hands. Shrapnel tore his fingers up pretty good.”

“We’ll have Chelsea look at him later,” Merrill says. “First we find the woman they mentioned.”

“Place seems empty. I’d say they were telling the truth about how many they were,” Tia says.

“Regardless, we move carefully. Newton will stay and watch the door—”

Bang!

The entire group tenses. Zoey brings up her handgun, pointing it down the short hall at the steel door. There is a pause and then another quiet clanging of metal on metal.

She glances at Merrill, who nods in the direction the noise came from.

They move down the hall together, Eli searching through the keys as they reach the door. Zoey reaches out and tries the knob. It turns easily.

Eli rolls his eyes and puts the keys away, then counts down silently, his fingers closing into a fist.

Three.

Two.

One.

Zoey yanks the door open. Eli and Tia stream through followed by Merrill. Zoey goes last, covering the area inside the doorway.

They spill out into a massive garage smelling of wet cement and oil. The ceiling is high, patched with flickering fluorescent panels. Dirty light streams in through two long windows cut into dual overhead doors that she’s sure a helicopter could fly through. In the center of the space is a huge vehicle the likes of which she’s never seen before: oblong and armor plated, sitting high on four large wheels. Dark glass is set in reinforced squares along its front and sides and its bulk is the color of dark sand. Around the machine is a gathering of red boxes, their tops open to reveal glinting tools within.

And beneath the vehicle a short pair of legs pokes out, scuffed boots at their ends.

Eli and Tia cross the space swiftly, taking up positions on either side of the hulking machine. Merrill walks forward, handgun pointed at the figure, who grunts something. Another clang is followed by a quiet curse.

“Come out from under there,” Merrill says. The figure freezes, the sound of work stopping immediately. Slowly the man scoots free from beneath the truck.

He is older than Zoey expected judging by the ages of the other men, his hair streaked with gray, face round and flushed red from his work. He wears a pair of glasses, frames so thin they’re almost invisible. He sits up, grease-stained hands rising to shoulder level. His eyes flick around to all of them, hovering longest on Zoey.

“Who are you people?” he asks.

“Visitors,” Merrill says. “Stand up and turn around slowly.” The man does as he’s told, knees popping as he rises. After shuffling in a circle he drops his hands to his sides where they open and close spastically.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“That depends. What’s your name?” Merrill asks.

“Lyle. Lyle Partridge.”

“Are you alone in here, Lyle?”

“Yes.”

“How many people live at this installation?”

“Nine.”

“One of the others said there were seven of them and a woman. Why did they leave you out?”

“Because they don’t count me as part of the group. I’m not with them.”

“You said nine counting the woman?” Zoey asks.

Lyle’s gaze, watery and timid, flicks to her. “Yes, counting her.”

“Where is she?” Zoey steps forward and brings up the handgun so it’s level with Lyle’s head.

He cringes. “Don’t shoot me. I didn’t do anything to her.”

“Where?”

“The second floor. Third door on the right.”

“Eli, give me the keys,” Zoey says.

“Zoey, wait. We—” Merrill begins.

“Give me the keys,” she repeats, holding out her hand.

Eli glances at Merrill and sighs, handing her the jangling ring. “I’m coming with you.”

Merrill calls to her, but she doesn’t stop. A sinking sensation is growing in her center. She pushes through the doorway into the hall, not stopping when Chelsea yells to her from the front of the building, the words meaningless amidst the sound of blood thudding in her ears.

She swings right and climbs the stairway, taking the treads two at a time, Eli close behind. She covers her path with the handgun, hurrying, being reckless, she knows, but the inflection in Lyle’s voice set off an alarm inside her.

Zoey turns at the first landing and leaps up the next set of stairs, which empties out in a hallway much like the one below. To the left an open doorway reveals a tiled shower room, complete with a large, freestanding tub. The windows in the bathroom are clouded and covered with reinforced mesh.

She hurries forward, counting the doors.

One.

Two.

Three. She slides to a stop, tries the knob.

Locked. Brings the ring up and gazes at the multitude of shining keys.

Flipping through them, she takes only a split second to study each one. The sixth one she examines is brighter than the others, its serrated teeth polished from use. She slides it into the door’s lock, feeling no surprise when it turns easily.

The smell is the first thing that hits her. The pungency of unwashed skin is so strong it almost makes her eyes water. The mingling of sweat and blood in the air turns her stomach, but it doesn’t make her nearly as sick as the sight.

A woman lies facing the wall on a ragged mattress stained brown and black in places. She is thin, her bones prodding beneath translucent skin veined blue. Blonde hair, scraggly and unwashed, forms a dirty halo around her head. Her shirt may have once been white but is now a dingy shade of yellow, its hem barely covering her waist. A steel cable fastened to the wall with a large bolt runs down and disappears near her shoulder.

Zoey swallows bile and holsters her gun. She walks forward, feeling as if she is in another fever dream. Sounds come from the hallway, voices and footsteps echoing up the stairs. They’re muted, unimportant. She kneels, the smell rising from the mattress and its occupant almost too much to bear.

Gently she reaches out and clasps the woman’s shoulder, which is cool, almost cold, rolling her partially onto her back.

A heavy manacle is attached to one delicate wrist and it is this that the cable from the wall is bound to, allowing only limited movement. As the woman settles into her new position, some of her hair shifts, revealing her face.

Time stops.

Disbelief rockets through her.

A hand touches her shoulder and she jerks, turning to look into Chelsea’s stricken features. Zoey shifts her gaze to the woman again, barely conscious of her words as more people fill the room.

“I know her. This is Halie.”

8

Zoey holds the cup, letting the heat sink into her hands, not drinking the tea within. She sits on a worn chair in a room on the second floor, two doors down from where—

From where Halie was lying. Lying in her own filth, barely alive.

Closing her eyes, she turns the cup around and around. Wind scatters a handful of grit against the window and she gazes out through the steel mesh. How long? How long was Halie in that room? What had she endured? The thoughts make her stomach seize with nausea, and for a brief second she thinks she’s going to be sick. She breathes deeply, trying to cleanse herself of the smell in the room, but it doesn’t want to go away. It clings to her like a parasite.

A murmur of conversation fills the hallway and a moment later Merrill, Chelsea, and Ian appear in the doorway.

“Can we come in?” Merrill asks.

She nods.

They take positions in a half circle around her.

“How is she?” Zoey asks.

“Alive,” Chelsea says. “Beyond that I can’t say. She’s still unconscious, malnourished, dehydrated among other things.”

“Other things. She’s been raped.”

Chelsea’s lips form a bloodless line. “Yes.”

“Beaten?”

“It looks that way. We bathed her, moved her to a clean bed, tried getting some fluids in her. Eli and Tia are looking for medical supplies in the lower levels. If we can find an IV it would really help.”

“Have Rita and Sherell seen her yet?”

“Yes,” Merrill says. “After we got her situated they went in and visited her.” He moves closer, kneeling down so that she is slightly above him. “What can you tell us?”

She releases a shaky breath. “Halie’s a little over a year older than me. She was always kind and considerate. Her best friend at the ARC was Grace. They were inducted a few months apart.” A numbness like the kind that used to inhabit her legs tries to seep into her mind. She almost welcomes it.

“I thought Terra told you that when NOA was done with the women they were killed,” Chelsea says.

“She did.” Zoey gazes down into the cup she holds. “Maybe they said that to frighten her. Maybe she assumed it, I don’t know. The fact is, Halie’s here, which can only mean one of two things.”

“Either she escaped . . .” Merrill says.

“Or NOA let her out,” Zoey finishes.

“Why would they let her out? What purpose would that serve?” Chelsea asks.

“You’re right. What purpose?” Zoey says, mind warring against the invading paralysis. “They always have an agenda, some reason for what they do. How would they benefit by setting her free?”

The room falls quiet for a time, before Ian shifts from where he stands against the wall. “When she recovers, perhaps she’ll be able to tell us.”

“What if she doesn’t recover?” Zoey asks. “What if . . .”

“We’re going to take good care of her,” Chelsea says. “She’s safe now. You should get some rest too.”

“I can’t sleep.” She chews on her lower lip. “Halie had a breakdown before she was inducted. She attacked a guard and they put her in the box. I wonder if she was afraid to leave the ARC. If they’d institutionalized her so much the thought of freedom sent her over the edge. And now look what they’ve done to her.” Zoey takes a shuddering breath. “I want to talk to them.”

“Who? Ken and the others? That’s not a good idea,” Merrill says.

“I need to know.”

“And we’ll find out, but first let’s think about the best—”

“That’s my friend in there, and it could’ve been me,” she whispers, the words almost choking her. “I can’t even imagine the type of suffering she went through. I waited all my life for answers. Please, Merrill.”

His face contorts and he struggles with something before slowly nodding. “Stay out of their reach and keep the door open. We want to hear everything they’re saying.”

“Thank you.”

Downstairs, she finds Rita and Sherell standing outside the room where the men are locked up. Both of them have dried tear tracks on their faces and hollow eyes.

“How . . . how?” Sherell asks, unable to finish the question.

“I don’t know,” Zoey answers. “They must have let her out after induction.”

“Why would they do that?” Rita says.

Zoey shrugs. “That’s what we’re going to find out. Have they been tied up yet?” She nods toward the door.

“Yeah. Eli used some plastic straps to secure their hands,” Rita says, sniffling.

“Good. Did Eli give you the keys?”

“Yeah.”

“Open the door.”

Rita gives her a long look before pulling out the ring and finding the correct key. She twists the knob, letting Zoey step inside.

The seven men sit with their backs to the wall, hands bound behind them to a pipe running the length of the room near the floor. Benny is the closest on the right while Ken sits at the opposite end of the line. Every man looks up and stares as she enters and stands before them. The room stinks of sweat.

“Where did you find the woman upstairs?” she asks.

“Pretty, ain’t she, boys?” Ken says. “Gonna tear her apart, aren’t we?”

Some of the men rumble their assent, their gazes hungry, unflinching.

“I’ll ask you one more time. Where did you find her?”

“The rest of our contingent should be back tonight,” Ken says, giving her a smile. “See, we’re part of a much larger group. They go out on a scouting trip every few weeks and they should be returning any time now. Ain’t that right, boys?”

There is a chorus of “yep” and “that’s right.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’ll all be gathering flies by the time the sun comes up, and we’ll be free.”

“Then there’s no harm in telling me where she came from.”

Ken smiles wider. “No. I guess there isn’t.” He adjusts himself and tips his head toward the door. “Tell you what. I’m thirsty and I gotta piss. You let me out, I relieve myself, get some water, I tell you everything you want to know.”

She glances to the doorway where Merrill has appeared. He shakes his head. “Tell me first, then you can go.”

Ken runs his eyes from her feet to her face. “My hands are tied. You gonna hold it for me?” A few men laugh.

She returns his stare for a long moment before turning toward the door. She gets two steps before he calls out to her.

“Calm down, missy, I was just having some fun. I’ll tell you where she came from.”

Zoey returns to the center of the room. “Start talking.”

“You ever heard of the Fae Trade?”

A tremor runs through her. “Yes.”

“But do you really know what it is?”

“It’s an auction that sells women and any men who try to harbor them.”

“Wrong. It’s so much more than that. It’s a spectacle, darling. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. You know what a carnival is?”

“I’ve read about them.”

“Well the Fae Trade is the most wonderful carnival in the world. It’s been traveling from coast to coast for a couple decades. Comes through once a year. There’s games, good food, entertainment, you name it. But you’re wrong about the auction part.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if you want a woman, especially one as young as our girl upstairs, you put up a bid. But it’s not only a bid of cash, it’s also for your life.”

Zoey frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Let me tell you a little story,” Ken says, his grin exposing his yellow teeth. “There once was a couple who had a little girl that they loved beyond anything else in the world. They raised her the best they could, but the girl, she had a rebellious streak in her, a little fire. So she starts getting into drugs and drinking like any kid does when they’re seventeen or so. But that really wasn’t the problem. Love was. She fell for a guy from the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak. He was charismatic and funny but he also relied on his fists to express some of his innermost feelings.”

Ken pauses, licking his lips. “Now he would beat her up a little and she’d run back home to Mommy and Daddy and they’d be angry but glad that she’d come back. They tried calling the cops on the guy, but every time their daughter would vouch for him, tell the authorities that he hadn’t hit her at all. Needless to say, this was one of those vicious circles that just went round and round and round. And I’m sure it would’ve kept going for a while but something came along that upset the cycle.”

“What was that?” Zoey asks impatiently.

“The Dearth,” Ken says. “See, the lawlessness was just taking hold when the charming boyfriend with the itchy fists went a little too far one night. He beat her to death and left her in his apartment to rot. It was days before her parents found her and by then the guy was long gone. Not that the police did anything about it. They had bigger fish to fry. Riots, fires, civil war. Who had time to look for a guy who killed his girlfriend?”

“What does this have to do with Halie?”

“Halie. Aww, see we never knew her name. She’d never tell us, no matter how persuasive we were. Mmm, Halie. I like that. Slides right off the tongue.” Several of the men laugh again.

Zoey draws her gun and points it at Ken’s smiling face. “Don’t you ever say her name again.” She’s shaking but her aim is steady. “Finish the story.”

Ken clears his throat. “Where was I? Ah yes. The girl’s parents, they didn’t take their daughter’s death well. They were angry, not only at the man that took her from them, but at their daughter as well. She didn’t heed their warnings, didn’t know what was best for her. This couple, they owned a small, traveling carnival and they went on the road. No one really bothered them, because they provided entertainment and everyone needs entertainment, even at the end of the world.

“But see, here’s where things get a little twisted. In each young woman they found, they saw their daughter. Young, rebellious, not smart enough for her own good. So they took each girl in and put her up for bid. I’m guessing they figured any man who would fight to the death for the right to have one of them was a step better than who their daughter had ended up with.”

Zoey lowers the handgun, slowly processing what Ken said. “They let men bid for the women, then fight to the death?”

“You got it, missy. That’s what the Fae Trade is, and the true spectacles are those battles that sometimes go on for days when the woman’s young or pretty enough. You put up the cash, then kill until there’s no one left except for the best man.”

“That’s what you did.” Zoey spits the words. “That’s where she came from. Then you brought her back here and used her.”

“Now, you gotta understand. You caught us at an inopportune time here. See, she wasn’t always in that state you found her in. Normally we treated her good. Fed her, clothed her, mostly.” Ken stops the grin that tries to crawl onto his face. “She was being punished for a little escape attempt a few weeks back. She got the better of your friend Benny over there and managed to get past the fence. Normally she was treated like a queen.”

Zoey spins away, unable to look at Ken anymore. She knows if she stays, she’ll kill him. Kill them all.

“Hey! Sweetcheeks! How about our deal? Still gotta piss here,” Ken says.

She stops at the door, not looking back. “Normally I treat people better. But you’re being punished,” she says, and steps out into the hallway.

Merrill, Ian, and Chelsea all stand outside the door along with Rita and Sherell. Zoey sucks in the open air of the hallway, air that doesn’t smell of men, their pores, their breath. Rita locks the door, muffling Ken’s indignant yells to murmurs.

“You heard what he said?” Zoey asks, scanning the group. They are all solemn eyes, bleached expressions.

“I never thought . . .” Chelsea says. “We always heard stories but nothing like that.”

“NOA must give or sell them to the Fae Trade—that’s the most logical way Halie ended up there. They’re handed over and auctioned off.” Zoey glances at each of them. “And I bet the trade notifies NOA if they come upon a woman young enough for their research.”

There is a stunned silence as her words sink in. She knows it’s the truth even as she considers other scenarios. It’s like a fact in one of Ian’s encyclopedias.

“Fucking monsters,” Rita says quietly. “All of them.”

“What are we going to do?” Sherell asks. “Do you think he’s telling the truth about a larger group?”

“He’s lying,” Zoey says. “I could see it. He’s arrogant enough to think they’re going to get free.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Merrill says. “But it won’t hurt to keep a lookout in the tower at all times. Who wants first shift?”

“I’ll take it,” Ian says. He shoulders his rifle from where it leans against the wall.

“We’ll switch every couple hours,” Merrill says. “I’ll work up a schedule for guarding them too.”

“Where’s the other one?” Zoey asks. “Lyle. Why isn’t he in with the rest of them?”

“He’s still claiming he was a prisoner here like Halie. He said they were using him to get that big vehicle in the garage running,” Chelsea says.

“Which room is he in?”

“That one,” Rita says, pointing at a door across the hall.

“Can I speak to him?”

“If you want. When we talked to him earlier he was scared to death, we didn’t get much out of him. But I think he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’ll open up a little more to you,” Merrill says.

Rita moves to the door and opens it. Inside Lyle sits on the floor with his back against the wall, hands bound behind him like the other men. Zoey stops near his splayed feet.

“Hello. My name is Zoey.”

He is slow answering. “Hello.”

“Who are you, Lyle?”

He swallows dryly, eyes watering behind his glasses. “Nobody. I’m nobody.”

“If you’re nobody they wouldn’t have kept you around. Unless you’re lying and you are with the rest of them.”

“I’m not.” Lyle shakes his head. “You have to believe me.”

“Then tell us who you are.”

He sighs, looking down at his grease-stained knees. “I’m from Boise. Lived there all my life. I was a computer programmer and technician with a software company, NewScan. Ever heard of them?” His voice is almost hopeful as he gazes up at her. “Course not. You’re too young. Everything had gone down by the time you were born, I bet. I lived with my parents. Both of them had diabetes. Had it pretty bad. One day when I went to the pharmacy to get their insulin, it was on fire and there were people shooting one another on the next street over.” Lyle stops, his brow furrowing. “My dad went first; he was always worse off than Mom. Couldn’t quit the sweets. Mom died two weeks after him. Both of them smelled like fruit from the hypoglycemia.” Lyle lets out a small, choked laugh that he stifles by tucking his chin to his chest.