The Neo-Spartans: Altered World (13 page)

              Quinn caught a glimpse of Marisol as she sprinted half a block ahead, and disappeared, making a sharp right. Quinn turned on the rocket blasters to catch up with her. She slowed where she saw Marisol turn and suddenly a hand burst from between the buildings and pulled Quinn into a darkened room as another hand quickly covered her mouth. Good God, what now?, thought Quinn. But she realized that the bikers were roaring past and that she would have been caught if it hadn’t been for this whoever it was that had dragged her inside. As her eyes got used to the light there was no sign of Marisol, but the image of a woman slowly developed.

              She was smaller than Quinn, but wiry, tough, and extremely attractive. Her flashing green eyes shone like beacons behind curtains of thick dark hair. In her mid-twenties, she wore a long graceful shawl, bracelets and boots. She might have been Hispanic, or Lebanese, or Turkish—or all of them, the separation of races and ethnicities long since obliterated. What she was, for sure, was a survivor.

              “Who are you?” asked Quinn.

              But the woman didn’t answer. She just walked around Quinn, sizing her up, the way a farmer once upon a time appraised a horse. While the woman appraised Quinn, Quinn appraised her surroundings. She’d never been in a gypsy camp, but this seemed to qualify. This particular hovel was strung together within the framework of a bombed-out building. The floor was cracked concrete. Separate “rooms” were created by hanging different kinds of cloth from the ceiling, but not just any cloth. It was a whirlwind pallet of Indian madras, Scottish plaids, Peruvian stripes, Chinese red. It was like living inside a head scarf. Cracked oilcloth meant to keep things dry hovered overhead. The place was beat up to the max, no question about it, but in its own way it had a breezy charm—and was probably quite literally breezy too, imagined Quinn. There were folded clothes on a dresser. Washed plates in a plastic container next to a spotless basin. Toys were neatly arranged in a corner. It spoke to the idea of care, no matter how poor.

              “Marisol,” said the woman, and the little girl quickly emerged from the folds of a wall. “Is this the one?”

              “Yes, mama, she’s the one.”

              “Great kid,” offered Quinn.

              “Marisol said there was a crazy woman down here without a permit. I thought she was lying, but… that’s not my Marisol.” She smiled sweetly at the little girl, then shifted her laser-like gaze back to Quinn. “So?”

              “My name is Quinn,” she said, and extended her hand. But the woman just looked at her.

              “You’re supposed to shake her hand,” said Marisol in a loud whisper.

              “Yes, thank you, Marisol.”

              “Her name is Magda.”

              “Marisol, that is enough,” hissed Magda.

              “Yeah, but you said to always–”

              “Hush now. Marisol, what you see here is a crazy person. Down here from the outside without an introduction? Without a sponsor?”

              And suddenly things began to take shape for Quinn. “That’s what I’m looking for, a sponsor,” said Quinn.

              Magda huffed and strutted. “These clothes, these manners, a girl alone? You need help down here, big time.”

              “And where would I get that help?”

              “It can be found,” said Magda.

              “I don’t have any money.”

              “Did I ask you for money? Is that what you think this is about? Just go, whatever you think you’re looking for, you just go right ahead.” She pushed open the cloth door and held it so that Quinn could exit.

              “Mama, I like her,” said Marisol.

              “You hush,” she said to the child. “And you go,” she said to Quinn.

              But Quinn was planted. At length, Magda dropped the door closed. Marisol grinned. Magda moved in close to Quinn. “Is it true you took on three Bangers and beat the snot out of them all alone?”

              Quinn shot a look at Marisol. “News travels fast down here.”

              “It’s all the payment I need if it’s true.”

              “It is.”

              “I have just the guy for you to meet,” said Magda. “With your fighting skills…” she said, drifting into imagining it.

              Quinn recalled the report delivered by Lucas about the gang that had taken Gabriel.

              “Is he in a motorcycle gang?” asked Quinn.

              “Everybody here has a motorcycle.”

              Magda looked at Quinn again, sizing her up. Her pretty face blossomed into a smile that led right into her soul. “Good. We’ll show you the way, all the ins and outs. You’ll make sure we’re safe.” She presented her hand. “I’m Magdalena. Call me Magda.”

              Quinn shook her hand, “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

              “But first let’s get you into something a little less like a vid-screen screaming ‘outsider’.”

              Magda began to search through a stack of clothes. Marisol shot Quinn a thumbs up and an angelic smile.

              Magda cracked the back door and stuck her head out for a quick survey of the alley: the usual hectic milling around of Bangers. She pushed the door open and, dragging Quinn by her elbow, merged into the mad, colorful stream of people. Quinn stumbled blindly after her, still self-conscious about the “blend in” outfit Magda supplied her. She had turned her pants into cut offs, exposing her long toned legs, wrapped a ridiculous number of diaphanous tie-died scarves around her hips and substituted her utilitarian shirt with a tight leather vest that barely covered anything. Quinn had protested that there was too much skin showing. Magda retorted that in Bangers’ land there was no such thing as too much exposed skin, but had relented and covered her midriff with a number of skinny, woven thread belts—that in Quinn’s opinion drew even more attention to her semi-nakedness. She looked like a gypsy tramp on sale. Her eyes frantically darted from face to face, afraid that everybody was noticing how ridiculous she looked. But after a few minutes of caroming off this strange human mass flowing down the narrow alleys, Quinn realized nobody was even noticing her. In fact, she was one of the more modestly attired members of this society. She tried to keep up with Magda, who, for a small woman, had an amazing ability to push through the rough crowds and clear a path for herself.

              “So, three guys, huh? Just like that. Where exactly did you learn to fight?”

              “Oh, here and there.”

              “Let me guess, you were in a city gang,” said Magda.

              “Yep,” said Quinn with all the confidence she could muster, hoping to cut short the interrogation. But Madga kept firing her questions.

              “Cobb’s gang? J.C.’s? No, let me guess, Foo’s gang?”

              “Ughhh, yeah, you got it. Foo’s gang.”

              Magda came to an abrupt stop and whirled on Quinn. All her scarves and trinkets shivered and shook with her anger.

              “Damn sucky liar you are, girl! There’s no Cobb or J.C., and sure as hell nobody’s as stupid as to call himself Foo and expect to start a gang. Besides, if you were in a city gang you wouldn’t wind up in the Sanctuary. I told you I would help you, but I want no trouble. Is that clear? There’s only one place that can and will teach somebody to fight the way you did.”

              The blood drained from Quinn’s face.

              “You involved with the Neo-Spartans?”

              Quinn nodded.

              “Did you get hassled for that?” asked Magda.

Another nod from Quinn.
“So you ran away and came here?”

              Nod again.

              “You didn’t bring the cops with you?”

              Quinn vigorously shook her head.

              “And you’re not a Neo-Spartan spy?”

              “Look, this is just ridiculous,” said Quinn finally. “What would the Neo-Spartans want from here?”

              “So what are you doing here?” asked Magda.

              “I want to have some fun.”

              Magda narrowed her eyes, up in a bristle again.

              “That crap won’t fly past my seven year old.”

              “Hey, give me a break, I know I don’t look like the party type, but I want to enjoy life too… whatever’s left of it.”

              Magda mellowed out; the girl had a point.

              “I hear you, a girl needs some fun from time to time.”

              But there was something in Quinn’s eyes, a deeply lodged worry that Magda knew all too well. This was a girl with something more important than fun on her mind.

              “Listen, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I can tell it really matters.” The look of instant shock on Quinn’s face made Magda smile. “Don’t worry, I admire a woman on a mission. And I’ll make you a deal. I’ll introduce you to somebody who’ll take you under his wing because that’s the only way to survive here. It’s all about family, and you gotta belong to one. Without a gang you’re dead meat. The person I’m taking you to is somebody I care about. A lot. Do me a favor, put your mission on the back burner. Fight for him and have some fun. Deal?”

              Quinn tried to compute everything Magda put on the table as fast as she could. Her gut told her she could trust this colorful whirlwind of a woman, but her guard was still up.

              “What’s my end of the deal? I gotta know what I’m getting into,” said Quinn.

              “I already told you. Fight like crazy and have some fun.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

              As they approached the sports arena, its crumbling bulk blocked the sky. Quinn slowed down, taking in its size. It was huge, despite the advanced stage of dilapidation. It reminded her of the ancient Coliseum. Magda hurried her along the disintegrating steps to an underground level. It was stuffy and stinky. Fear, aggression, and testosterone mixed with burned rubber and grease wafted down the corridor. Soon the corridor ended and opened up into an actual arena. The large space had been repurposed to accommodate a kind of campsite and an actual fighting space. The grunts of fighting and the din of everyday life reverberated throughout the place. Quinn looked up, and her eyes couldn’t take in what used to be the upper levels bleachers all at once.

              Each level had been converted into makeshift living quarters. The whole place looked like a barbarian settlement. Guys were hanging around, blasting their eardrums with loud speakers, barbequing hotdogs on open fires and arguing with tough looking, heavily made-up girls. Or was that flirting? Quinn couldn’t tell. She scanned the area trying to figure out how many more females were there and what their purpose was in this strange gang. There weren’t many. A few were hovering around a bunch of motorcycles parked on the ground floor off of the arena. The sparring groups lacked any female presence.

Magda read her mind and grinned. “Girls don’t sign up for fight club that much. Cuts and bruises don’t heal easily, and the whole drop-dead-from-exhaustion thing is not usually high on their agenda.”

              “I thought you Bangers didn’t care about that,” said Quinn.

              “We don’t. But we do care about squeezing the maximum amount of fun into a minimum amount of time—while looking good throughout all of it.”

              “So what do they do here?”

              “Oh, there’s plenty of dangerous fun to be had around these boys.” The cheeky grin Magda had on her face sent Quinn spiraling down a different venue of worries. Earrings and bracelets tinkled with Magda’s laughter.

              “Aren’t we a squeamish flower?! I didn’t mean that kind of fun, though there’s plenty of it going around. The chicks that hang around here do some impressive daredevil stuff that will make your hair stand on end. But don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. Come on.”

              Magda unceremoniously pushed her way through some guys and got to the central fighting area. Leaning against the railing marking off the perimeter was Nico. Flanking him were two of his Vaqueros, the one known as Padre, for the ancient nylon baseball jersey he always wore, and Ogden, known as Scrap-Iron, notorious for trashing the gang’s bikes with his crazy aerial stunts. Nico pushed off the railing and marched to the sparring duo.

              “You’re putting me to sleep! Fight, damn it! Make it interesting!” said Nico.

              “Yeah,” shouted Padre. “Come on, Crowbar, don’t be such a stiff!”