Ashes of the Fall (13 page)

I stay in bed for another
week, but whatever meds Slick’s men fed me make my leg heal too damn fast. I’ve never wanted a permanently debilitating disability so damn bad in my life. When I feigned that it still hurt earlier this morning, Slick called me on my shit by shocking me in the ass with a cattle prod.

I darted halfway across the motel room before I could even think to lie. Bastard.

I stand next to the diesel-powered cargo truck, nervously tapping my foot. I’m early, first one here, the morning sun barely peeking through the gray sky. The motel’s parking lot is empty—truck not withstanding—and no movement comes from within its rooms. The landscape is absolutely still. Peaceful. Which makes it seem like a prelude to something awful.

This place is a throwback to a low-rise time: two stories, a manager’s office. A little roadside shelter to take a load off while you travelled with a couple kids fighting in the backseat. In the distance, the specter of Atlanta looms, its metallic monstrosity of a skyscape looking like a miniature version of New Manhattan’s. It’s in good shape, considering it hasn’t been inhabited for two decades.

I wonder what this first mission for Blackstone—via Slick—is gonna entail? The Lost Plains don’t seem like the place to send any hero or high value asset. Which makes me thing I’m not as important as they want me to think.

When I travelled to see Matt, I had the privilege of traversing the Lost Plains via the relative safety of the transcontinental Hyperloop. Unlike the transport that took me to the Otherlands, this one had its defenses locked and loaded for the duration of the ride.

The entire hour-long trip through the Lost Plains—until we hit what used to be Ohio—was scored by a chorus of gunfire and missile launches. Frequent reminders from the friendly robotic announcer tried to placate the terrified passengers. Some of them—those used to the assault, having made the journey before—managed to snuggle up and sleep.

Me, I watched a flat landscape dotted with explosions and sudden bursts of
rat-a-tat
gunfire. A couple rounds even hit my window, but the small arms fire didn’t break through the bulletproof glass. Now, I’m about to saddle up and head into fringes of the Lost Plains without the benefit of cover.

The Circle, for whatever reason, gave up on the Lost Plains—about everything east of Utah and west of Tennessee—when they rose to power in ’26. Just too much of a pain in the ass, I guess, to round everyone up. The coasts were obviously important strongholds, given their proximity to natural resources. There just wasn’t enough of an iron fist to go around. Still, the Circle basically relinquished half of the remaining land in the world to outlaws.

Not that I blame them—the Lost Plains even scare me. A familiar voice startles me as I check the clasps on my boots to make sure they won’t fall off if I have to haul some ass.

“Not bad,” Kid Vegas says. He slaps me on the chest, pitching me against the truck. Skinny son of a bitch is stronger than he looks. A pair of goggles are strapped to the top of his head, turning his side-part into a cowlick mess. They’ve got shades built-in.

“Who gave you those?”

“Made ‘em,” Kid says. He presses a button on the right side of the goggles, and the lenses tint even further. “Had some spare parts lying around. Got bored.”

“So Blackstone sent you here, too?”

“I got my own thing going here,” Kid says. He lights a cigarette, but doesn’t offer me one. “Your friend Slick agreed to take out my HoloBand if I went along and babysat. Seems they don’t trust you yet Stokes.”

“What’d Blackstone want from you?”

“Nothing I’m gonna give him,” Kid says, avoiding the question. A week’s growth sprouts from his face, making him look older, wiser than when I saw him last—his name a misnomer.

I snap on the respirator and goggles, tugging on the elastic bands to tighten them. Just as I finish, a man wearing tight, neoprene clothing and running shoes darts up. He has a wrapped note in hand, tied with a red and white ribbon.

“Luke Stokes,” the runner says, jogging in place to keep his heart rate up—or whatever runners do in the cold, “a message from Director Blackstone’s office.”

“You’re a popular man,” Kid says. He scratches his beard and gives me a look.

The runner sprints off towards the city, blazing across the cracked asphalt like he’s got the dogs of Cerberus nipping at his heels. Maybe he does—a dog name named Blackstone. On the horizon, far, far down the road leading into Atlanta, I spot bumper-to-bumper trucks headed north up I-85.

“They’re bringing ‘em in the old fashioned way,” Kid says, blowing smoke towards me. “Tanner must’ve suspended Hyperloop service down here after you broke free.”

They’re all manually driven. I wonder where they came from. “They’re not automatics.”

“Satellite coverage is spotty in these parts,” Kid says. “And with the ash blowing around the country, who knows. Can’t have your self-driving trucks crap out in the middle of the highway when they’re filled with dangerous folks, right?”

The front end of the convoy disappears into the skyscraper jungle. But it hardly seems to make a difference—for every truck that goes in, there’s another one right behind. Chancellor Tanner’s cleaning house, and he’s doing it quick.

“Open your little present from the man in the high castle,” Kid says, pointing towards the rolled paper with his cigarette.

I undo the red and white ribbon, allowing it to flutter to the ground. It lies listless on the broken lot, contrasting brightly with the faded yellow lines.

The note is short and perfunctory. Blackstone understands that I’m better—which is excellent, by his measure, because that means I can get to work on helping him. After I return from my current task, I’m to tell his agents everything I know about Carina Alonso. Any details at all that could be used to apprehend her and recover the stolen 2.5” solid state drive.

And there’s one more thing, too. He needs me to begin rehabilitating my public image. When the time comes for the coup, I’ll need to unite the factions behind him—support his Chancellorship. They’ll listen to a hero.

They won’t listen to a murderer.

“That good, huh,” Kid says, stamping out his cigarette. “You look like someone offered to kick you in the damn balls.”

“Sounds about right.” I roll the note up. Then I decide
fuck it
, and throw it into the calm dawn air. It doesn’t get very far. With a funny glance, Kid walks over and picks it up from the pavement. “Hey, don’t read that.”

“Shouldn’t have tossed it away.” He chews his lip while he reads. “Rehabilitate, huh? I don’t think you’d make a good party mascot, Stokes.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“I figure you probably robbed at least a couple old ladies in your time,” Kid says with a grin. He sparks his lighter and then touches the flame to the paper’s edge. It combusts into a curly pile of black ash in seconds. “There. Job done right.”

“I’ve never run grift on an old woman,” I say. “Forty, forty-five, maybe.”

“You sleep with her?”

I don’t answer.

“You’re a dog, Stokes,” he says. “We both are. Nothing can change that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not your problem.” I stand straighter when I see Slick approaching. He looks funny next to a woman who stands almost a head taller. On his right is a mountain of a man.

“This is your team,” Slick says, nodding towards Kid. “Adriana, Jackson—meet Luke Stokes and Kid Vegas.” There are quick handshakes and nods all around. “Kid’s in charge, as you all know.”

“I didn’t know,” I say.

“You do now,” Slick says. There won’t be any preferential treatment. I gotta pay up and square my tab, just like anyone else. And I don’t even get to be ringleader. Doesn’t he know everyone’s tapping me to be a hero? Guess Slick doesn’t share the sentiment.

“Adriana’ll be your driver,” Slick says. “She’s the best in the business. No one steers a manual like her.”

She doesn’t say anything. There’s a wad of tobacco stuck in her jaw.

“Jackson here is your gunner and support,” Slick says. “He’s survived three dozen trips and counting out in the Lost Plains.”

“Question,” I say. Everyone looks at me, and not in a good way. I don’t suppose I’ve come here bearing the best reputation. “Where’d you meet all these fine people, Slick? Through Blackstone?”

“I’m making contacts,” Slick says cryptically, “these are good men. And women.”

“Kid and Luke, you guys are gonna be the recovery team. You’re clever, can think on your feet. Hopefully not get your ass kicked too bad” —he looks directly at me, which I don’t appreciate— “and get out before there’s too much trouble.”

“What’re we getting,” I say.

Apparently the chorus of questions is too much for even the silent Jackson and Adriana, because the big man comes over and lays a hand on my shoulder that about crushes me into the parking lot and says, “Stop talkin’ so much, Golden Boy.”

With biceps bigger than my chest, he’s the kind of guy you listen to. I nod and watch as he gets in the cab. Adriana goes around the other side, walking with a slight limp.

Slick notices me watching her and says, “See. You should be glad you chose to puke your guts out, bud.”

Yeah, ‘cause being able-bodied means going out the Lost Plains, instead of staying safely within the confines of a truck. But I don’t say anything, because no one wants to hear it. Step one of rehabilitation is adjusting to the new parameters and finding a loophole that I can exploit to my advantage.

I can do that.

Kid heads around to the back and lifts up the black canvas. “We’re riding back here. Hope you dressed warm.”

I didn’t, but I climb up behind him without a word. Then the truck revs up and bounces off towards the wastes, as I sit, teeth chattering, huffing diesel fumes, not even knowing what I’m going to die for.

Kid Vegas isn’t feeling
chatty, so I’m left with just my thoughts during the endless journey. I figure out around the first half hour that the truck’s shock absorbers desperately need replacing. My tailbone takes a beating from every pot hole.

For all I know, maybe Slick’s sending us out to get spare parts.

Through a tear in the canvas, I can see the barren landscape gradually transform. Little flecks of green, a tree or the occasional stunted shrub. As we get further out from the epicenter of Damien Ford’s maelstrom of destruction, the world takes on a little color.

But it still looks bleak as hell.

“We’re nearing the Lost Plains now,” Jackson’s voice gruff says over the rusted loudspeaker hanging in the corner. I wonder why he doesn’t just call out the window. It kind of seems like overkill. “It might say Otherlands on the map, but borders don’t mean shit out here. Keep your guns loaded.”

I look down at the .38 strapped to my hip and think back to the barrage on the Hyperloop. Whatever the hell this pistol is gonna do against the heat the outlaws are packing out here, I’m not optimistic. At least they trusted me with a gun. Hell, Slick could’ve forced me to go full-on scout mode, no firearms at all. Wouldn’t blame him, either, because the old barrel chested fella has to know that I’m looking for any out I can find. He’s probably trusting that the alternatives leave me worse off. It’s not like there’s a National Hall in the middle of the Lost Plains, just waiting for me to stake a claim.

It’d be nice if people trusted me with the actual details of the operation, what we’re trying retrieve out here—but that’s the problem with being a liar and having everyone know it. Trust is already difficult to gain without worrying about prior reputation.

I consider Blackstone’s letter, and how I’m gonna play that—if I stick around for the long haul. Sure, I can give Blackstone whatever he needs to know about the girl—Carina was nice enough, but I have no love for those Lionhearted idiots. But the second half of the deal is a non-starter. Even I can’t convince an incensed, terrified public that I’m a good man. One, because I’m not—although I’ll gladly tell others I am. But two is the more pressing concern—there is no contradicting evidence that I killed Matt.

His body is gone.

The murder weapon was found with Olivia Redmond, who testified that I brought it inside her apartment and threatened her with it. That testimony is on record, and she can’t exactly recant without ending up in a cozy dungeon herself. And that would be if the gallows were full on that particular afternoon.

There’s also no security footage of his death to prove that he committed suicide.

In short, I look very guilty—even without Tanner’s spin about being a threat to peace and order. You could argue that I owe it to Matt to figure it out. But I could argue—compellingly, I might add—that my brother owed me the courtesy of not seeing his brains spilling out on the kitchen floor.

At the very least, Matt owed me an explanation to my face. Trusting that I didn’t have to be tricked and tested and dragged into seeing what was right. Then again, I’m still trying to run—so obviously that wasn’t an option.

The truck rolls to a stop. My tailbone aches, but I like this development even less.

“The hell we doing stopping here,” I say.

Kid says, “I figure we’ll get an update—”

The loudspeaker cuts on, Jackson’s voice blasting through the stillness. “Burnt out wrecks on the road ahead. Can’t go off-road through the dirt ‘cause it rained a day ago. Gotta move the cars.”

With a stiff gait, I climb down to the broken pavement. Miles of empty land, broken highway barriers and cracked asphalt stretch on from where we just came. Sparse tree husks line the side of the road. But if there was a forest there once, it isn’t there now.

Sun’s shining hard, enough that I have to cup my hand over my eyes. I step around the truck to check on the situation. A couple dozen cars are scattered in the middle of the road. We’ll have to move a bunch of them to get by. They don’t look abandoned—fifty yards ahead, the road is clear.

A dull nervousness taps at the bottom of my chest. Someone put them here on purpose. They’re parked at odd angles, arranged in such a fashion that it wouldn’t be possible to barrel through. I pass by the grille of the truck, where Jackson is already working with the winch, clipping a long steel cable to the bumper of a rusted sedan.

He seems to have everything under control, so I walk a hundred yards ahead, where the road is empty again, to a faded green mile marker, half the paint stripped bare to silver nakedness.

It says
Nashville 25 Miles.

“Hey,” Jackson yells, “don’t go wandering off.” Says it like there’s something hiding in the empty plains. That makes me even more nervous—that someone or something could hide out here, amongst the nothingness.

I walk back, watch as Adriana throws the truck in reverse, dragging the first car out of the way. She takes it a couple hundred yards back, leaving me alone with Jackson. Kid must be uninterested in supervising, since he’s still in the back.

Jackson skins an apple while we wait. The winch disengages and the car’s back wheels drop to the ground in a plume of dust.

“How far,” I say.

“We’re already here,” he says. “We’re going to Nashville, Golden Boy. Or somewhere thereabouts. Land of country and heartbreak.”

“That’s still the Otherlands,” I say. “Officially speaking.”

“There’s no North, South, East, West any more with what’s going on. They never existed in the first place. They were all up here.” He points to the middle of his massive head with the tip of his knife.

“What’s in Nashville?”

“Why,” he says, “you trying to get a record deal?” He eats half the apple in one bite, giving me a grin, then leans off the hood, heading to greet Adriana again.

Each winching unfolds in the same mundane fashion. By the time noon rolls around, the sun is blazing above, sweat dripping down my back. Better than the seat digging into my tailbone.

I try to help a couple times, but Jackson shoves me away, tells me I’m just wasting his energy. Instead, I’m told to keep an eye on the horizon, all around. No one even gives me a pair of binoculars to play watchdog with. So I spend two hours with my thumb stuck up my ass. There’s at least two cars to go before we can push through.

“How much longer,” I yell at Jackson, who’s cabling up a minivan. I’ve pretty much given up on watching the horizon. Whoever set up this trap must be long dead or far away.

“You got somewhere to be, Golden Boy?”

“Quit calling me that.”

“You gonna come over here and stop me?”

I silently fume and then say, “Just give me an ETA.”

“When it’s done, it’s done.”

“Come on man,” I say, getting off the back of the truck to stretch my legs, “you won’t let me help, you won’t tell me what’s going on—” I stop, peering off in the distance, past the remaining cars. Could’ve sworn I saw the glint of a mirror or glass. I stand still, staring off into space, but can’t see it again.

“You see something, Golden Boy,” Jackson says, as Adriana backs up the truck. The busted wheel well on the minivan scrapes against the pavement, leaving a deep gouge. Over the racket, I think I hear a gentle thrum.

I turn back to the horizon, looking past the mile marker, which is when I see the flash again. This time, it’s no mistake—a dust cloud moving our way, maybe a mile and a half off.

“Shit,” I yell at Jackson, who has his back turned while he surveys the truck’s backward progress, “they’re coming.”

“Christmas comes early,” Jackson says, cool as can be, and brings up both his hands. Instantly, Adriana cuts bait with the van. It slams to the ground. “You better not stand there, you want to live.”

Engines growl in the distance, but I don’t turn around. I haul ass, covering the thirty yards separating me and the truck in world record time. Jackson is already pressing buttons on the truck’s dashboard as I race up.

“What’s the plan,” I say.

“Shoot them before they shoot you,” he says. A red button is pressed, and a gun turret slowly emerges from the top of the truck. Two of them, in fact. From Jackson’s detached, deliberate air—Adriana’s, too—I figure it out.

They’re turning this ambush on its head. We probably could have plowed through an hour ago, but that wouldn’t have given any time for whatever scout watches this trap to jet back and report to his leaders.

When I head to the back of the truck and look beneath the canvas, Kid is still in the same spot I left him. He cleans his pistol with a rag, polishing the barrel to a shine.

“Someone is gonna tell me what’s going on,” I say.

“You ever stop and think,” Kid says. “That maybe it’s a test.”

“Getting shot in the middle of a dustbowl is a test? Forget that. I steal from people.”

“Tanner says you shoot them, too. Family, even.”

“Man, fuck you.” I clear the .38 from its holster and check the ammo. I got spare rounds in my pockets, but last time I shot one of these had to be when I was a kid. Personal firearms aren’t legal in Circle controlled areas, and it was just too much potential heat to be packing.

Words are better than guns, anyway. Apparently the inhabitants of the Lost Plains don’t subscribe to that philosophy.

“Relax,” Kid says. “You die out here, it’ll be over like that.” He pops a clip into his own pistol and racks the slide for emphasis. Then he hops down from the truck to stand next to me.

The roar of the engines reaches a crescendo, before abruptly cutting off. I peek around the edge of the canvas flaps, up ahead. Men dressed in head-to-toe nomadic Bedouin-esque garb take cover behind their vehicles.

I hear Adriana yell, “Missile launcher, three o’clock.” I watch as a man stands up, about to fire an RPG at the truck. Then an angry burst screams out from our side, shells
clink-clink-clinking
against the pavement as Jackson unloads on the threat. The would-be grenadier collapses in a burst of pink mist.

For added emphasis, he apparently clamps down on the trigger with his last breath. Two of the cars—there must be a fleet of half a dozen, plus bikes—are engulfed in flames. I hear screams, panicked yells. Engines firing up.

They’re already trying to get the hell out of dodge.

I glance at Kid, who nods silently. We won’t even have to fire a shot. A few scattered bursts of distant machine-gun fire come towards the truck, but they’re silenced by the lion’s growl of Jackson’s turret, which keeps going, going, until a
click-click
indicates it’s run empty.

“He’s out of bullets,” I say, almost thankful the barrage is done. I’m done worrying about my own safety and on to bigger and grander things—like what this world is going to be like.

Nasty, brutish and short indeed.

I venture another glance and am greeted by haze of orange flame and smoke. The attacking vehicles are buffeted with bullet holes, some of them scorched by the accidentally detonated rocket. Four of the six don’t move, with bodies either nearby or inside.

Fifty feet ahead, the survivors limp away on flat tires, rims tearing into the ground as the desperate men inside urge their wounded vehicles onwards.

As I watch, a distinct whistling makes my head prick up. A missile screams out across the ruined expanse, parting the smoke before hitting the road with a fiery explosion. A rain of vehicle parts and asphalt cascades down from the gray sky.

There’s a long pause, punctuated only by the crackle of flame and the groan of warped metal. Then, the turret slowly disengages and retracts. Boots on the ground—a heavy step. The spinning of a revolver’s chambers.

“Come on,” Kid says, “let’s see what we caught in the net.”

Acidic smoke and burnt flesh makes eyes water. I bury my head in my arm and push forward, occasionally stumbling on debris. When the heat and flames from the ruined cars subside, I open my eyes again.

Thirty feet ahead, a similarly grim scene greets me. Jackson walks out from the flames, dragging two bodies—one in each arm—along the ruined road. Both weakly struggle against their captor.

I swallow hard, tasting grit and ash, hand on the .38.

He lets go and one guy tries to scramble away. But Jackson stamps his boot right down on the man’s shin so hard that the bone cracks. I can see the other person is a woman, her clothes blackened by the flame. She doesn’t try to escape. Whether she’s too hurt or has resigned herself to her fate, I don’t know.