The Woman They Kept (3 page)

Bertrand took the photograph and
studied it for a long time, his face scrunched in concentration. “I
cannot help you, the woman has never been in our employ.”

Gideon's face fell. He thought
he would be used to hearing that by now, but each time weighed on
him. How long would he be doing this?

“
My only advice would be
to follow the track, though,” Bertrand leaned in close and
whispered, “I would be very careful about how you ask these
things. Others in our line of work may not be as polite as I am.”
He smiled then, and it was not the smile of a man showing wares.
There was something vaguely paternal about that smile.

Bertrand guided him back to the
elevator, and as he was leaving the young girl dropped the act of
seduction and simply waved to him. Gideon had to look away.

...

He was on the road to Elsinore
before he allowed himself to process anything, weaving over the
shifting earth and between abandoned transports. There were no
storms, no acid rain nor gusts of wind to blow him off the road, all
he had to worry about was the trash that blew by like tumbleweeds
and the skeletons of buildings from long ago. The trash was
terrible, with mounds of it built up between bubbles. Most places
simply pushed all their garbage far enough away for them not to be a
problem. In a way, he was thankful for that. The trash did not
allow him to concentrate on any one thing for too long.

Bertrand had not been the first
person to allude to the track. It was always the same advice,
follow the track, follow the track. In everyday terms the track was
simply the path that led from bubble to bubble used by large
transport vessels or, more rarely, by little motorcycles like
Gideon's. There was more than just food on some transport vehicles,
though, and that was what the track really meant.

Gideon accelerated around a
corner and allowed all those thoughts to fall behind him. This was
the most relaxed he felt these days, he reached a curious state of
nirvana when he was gunning along the dirt trails and dodging piles
of trash. He couldn't let his mind think about any one thing for
more than a few seconds or he would make a wrong mistake and be left
for dead out here between bubbles. The time between cities was his
vacation, dodging puddles of acid or oil and rusted hunks of metal.

After a day of riding his back
was sore and his forearm was cramping. He knew he would never get
to Elsinore in one day. He parked at the top of a hill and set up
his grey tent against an outcropping of rocks, making it appear as
though his tent were just another misshapen rock amongst the
landscape. A tin from his bag provided the meal for him that night,
a little bunson burner heated the brown slush up and made it
slightly more appetizing. From the outcropping he could see the
road stretching out jaggedly below him on the horizon, a thin brown
line against a sea of grey and black.

The stars came out overhead,
shining brilliantly. A breeze blew along his neck, sending a chill
down his spine. He rubbed at his arms and pulled his biometric suit
close. Though he knew it was stupid, he packed the used tin back
into his bag. With piles of trash all around him, no one would ever
notice him adding to it, but he found he just couldn't.

The thoughts came to him then,
strongly. All the things he had been able to let slide right over
him while he was navigating through the hills and valleys away from
Kitswitch. His breath caught in his chest as he thought of the girl
waving to him, the woman who he had paid, the old man with his
wedding ring. He thought that he was desensitized to this by now,
but he wasn't. Every night he tried to get as close as he could to
exhaustion, it made it easier, but some nights he had more energy
than he liked. A solution lay hidden in the bottom of a compartment
mounted to the side of his motorcycle. He tried to save it for
nights like these. He fished out a small flask and took a tentative
sip.

This was no regular drink. It
was alcohol mixed with powerful sedatives. A single drink from the
flask was usually more than enough to quiet things down enough to
fall asleep. He closed the flask back up as the liquid burned his
throat. After a while his vision softened around the edges, his
thoughts quieted, and he was able to crawl into the tent and fall
asleep.

...

The low rumble of an engine
startled him awake. It was still dark and a chill was in the air as
he stuck his head out. Below him on the road a set of headlights
plodded along while the whine of several small motorcycles
accompanied it, swarming around a large transport caravan like flies
buzzing a pack animal. Riders.

Gideon had heard rumors that
transport caravans were starting to hire riders for protection along
the roads, but it was possible that whatever clan of riders this was
simply owned the bigger vehicle as well. He kept low and pulled his
revolver from his pack and checked to make sure that it was loaded.

As the caravan edged closer and
closer to the outcropping where Gideon hid he held his breath,
knowing it was ridiculous but not being able to help himself. The
fear he felt was very primal, sitting low and heavy in his gut,
making his legs tremble and sweat break out in beads on his
forehead. If they continued on the road they would pass under
Gideon in a few moments and then he would be safe. They were close
enough that if they were to look up at the outcropping above them
they would see him.

The low rumble of the caravan
was cut and Gideon's heart fell. They were camping down below him.
The motorcycles all lined up to one side of the caravan and people
filed out.

Floodlights were set up around
the perimeter of the encampment, giving Gideon a little more shadow
to hide in and allowing him to see their group better. There were
seven riders who had lined up their motorcycles around the edge of
the caravan and one great fat driver who stepped out from the
transport wheezing and lumbering his way along. The riders were
dressed in leather armor and wore helmets with gas masks attached to
the front. There were no markings that Gideon could see that
indicated which clan of riders they were from.

The driver opened the back of
the caravan and led several huddled figures out to sit by a fire one
of the riders was making. The figures were all chained together,
clinking as they moved.

When the fire began to hiss and
pop their faces came into view. They were young women, somewhere
between eighteen and twenty, and though they were covered in dirt
and filth, some even having straw clinging to their hair, they were
all very beautiful. Gideon's heart raced as he tried to get a good
look at each of their faces. He frowned. Rolanda was not among
them.

The fat man slopped some sort of
paste into bowls and passed them out to the women. They grimaced
but wolfed it down eagerly, shoveling it with their fingers up to
their mouths and finishing it quickly. Even from the height he was
at Gideon could see how skinny the girls were.

“
Pandam, I know we already
got dinner,” one of the older girls said, she had a fiery mane
of red hair that stuck out in kinks. “But is there enough for
us to just have a little bit more?” She looked up at him with
large, pouting eyes.

Gideon watched in fascination as
the fat man, Pandam she had called him, smiled sweetly down at her
and stroked her cheek. The smile never faltered as he raised his
thick hand and brought it down swiftly with a sickening sound across
her face. “Krissen, dear. You know enough that there's a
better way to ask.”

Krissen's face fell and she
hesitated a moment before nodding. Pandam disconnected her from the
chain and led her to the back of the caravan. The other riders
smirked and leered at the remaining women as the caravan began to
rock back and forth with a low moaning emanating from it. The
youngest looking of the women, a dark haired girl dressed in rags,
began to cry quietly.

After a few minutes Pandam
exited out the back of the caravan, struggling to buckle the top of
his pants over his bulge and a red flush on his face. Krissen
limped out after him, keeping her head low. Even in the meager
light of the fire Gideon could see red hand prints around her neck.
She sat back down with the others and was re-chained. The other
girls didn't look at her.

“
Well, since Krissen has
learned how to properly ask for treats, all of you shall get a
second helping.” He smiled largely as they passed their bowls
back to him and he placed a spoonful more into each of them.
“Listen well, ladies. If you want to make your life easier,
learn to use your assets, it's the only thing you have in life to
make things better for yourself.”

After a while the encampment
settled down and the riders took turns watching the girls while the
others slept. Gideon kept his revolver close to him the whole night
and woke at every little sound. His drink had long since worn off.

...

The road was slow going from
there. Gideon was forced to stop every time he heard the low rumble
of the caravan. He couldn't take the chance to pass them, the
riders were well armed and there was no alternate routes he could
take. It was either go slow or don't go at all.

His motorcycle putted along at a
few miles per hour. Luckily the weather held, large caravans might
not have to worry about the rain or the dust storms, but he sure
did.

A little after noon he stopped
and camped between two large slabs of rock that jutted upward
together against each other like two hands joined in prayer. Gideon
wasn't a religious man, but he figured it couldn't hurt to have a
little help now and again. After he turned off his engine and set
up his tent he built a fire. He wasn't cold and he didn't need to
heat his food, but it was something to do. A bare tree had fallen
just outside the rocks, Gideon broke one end of it up for his
kindling.

It was worthless, just sitting
there, but what else could he do? He eyed the compartment mounted
on his bike before averting his gaze. It wouldn't do to get stoned
midway through the afternoon. There was the possibility that
someone would come along, and there wasn't anyone he wanted to meet
out here, but that wasn't the only danger. He had heard rumors
along his travels about the animals between bubbles, he had heard
that some animals adapted to this toxic environment, thrived even.
Gideon wasn't blessed with the best imagination in the world, but
even he could see how a five foot long cockroach would be
terrifying. Still, what were the chances that anyone or anything
would come across him?

He took out the flask and
uncapped it. The sun was glaring green through the gas clouds
overhead. It couldn't hurt to just sleep the rest of the day, could
it? It's not like he would be able to travel any faster to
Elsinore. He took a drink, and then another, deeper one. Soon he
was snoring lightly on the tree trunk, oblivious to everything
around him.

He woke to his windpipe being
crushed and a man kneeling on his chest.

This was not, unfortunately, the
first time that a soft spot for religion had gotten him in trouble.

Months before, just after
Rolanda had intially been taken, he had no idea how to even go about
looking for her. His face had yet to heal from the beating he had
taken and he scared most people who he showed the photograph of
Rolanda to. He decided to only look in the bad parts of cities,
feeling less out of place with his healing face. He found himself
one night at a bar called the Church Key. Seeing the words,
'Church' and, 'Key' in the same place had given him a sense that
someone, somewhere was trying to tell him something. It even looked
like a church from the outside, with stained glass windows and wide
oak doors. He slid into the smokey bar and ordered a drink.

“
There's a tip in there if
you've seen this woman,” he said to the bartender, a kind
faced old man with a wisp of a beard, as he slid over the photograph
and some money.

The bartender laughed. “If
I was a less honest man I would just lie to you for the money.”

Gideon reddened. “I
thought, with the religious name of this place...”

The bartender smiled and slid a
drink over to him. It was sweet and felt cool on his throat. “Kid,
you got a lot of hard lessons coming to you, if that's the way you
think.” He pushed the money back over the bar. “I'll
give you the drink for that. It'll be my act of charity for the
day.”

Gideon left the money on the bar
but took the drink. “I don't need your charity. I pay my own
way.”

“
Relax, kid. It's
alright. In a way, I suppose you're right, bars and churches got a
lot in common. Some people come to celebrate and some come to
mourn, some to be together and some to be alone.” He spread
his arms wide. “We offer comfort at bargain rates. But no, I
haven't seen the girl.”

Gideon drained the drink and
left, not thinking anything of the sour look the bartender had on
his face as he went. He walked alone down an alley and began to
relieve his bladder, unaware that he had been followed. Two large
men accosted him from behind, turning him around, his pants still
unbuttoned and his penis hanging out. They were riders, large ones,
wearing leather armor and smelling of engine oil. One had a beard
and smelled strongly of liquor, the other had scars across his neck
and face.