Dark Blue Monstropolis

The thing about Simon was that you heard him coming long before you saw him.

The taxicab hovered around the corner, giving a bit of a terrible lurch and belching a small cloud of inky smoke as it did so. As Argo listened and watched the vehicle struggling to come closer to them, he could swear that the cab was actually chugging in their direction. He didn’t think it was possible for a sky vehicle to chug.

The cab touched down in front of them. Simon pulled himself out of his driver’s side door and sat in his open window, folding his arms on top of his own roof. He was a relatively small man with blond hair and a van dyke that was an orange-red. It was impossible to tell which was his natural color.

“Threnody!” he called out, grinning. “Hullo, love! Might I say that if you were looking any better, you’d be against the law?”

To Argo’s surprise, Threnody smiled at Simon. “Well, you’ve already said it. So I guess we’ll just have to cope somehow, won’t we?”

Simon gave a bark of laughter and slapped the top of the cab, making the poor thing shudder violently. Argo and Mayster exchanged a look. The question passed between them silently, We’re really going to climb into that shitpiece, aren’t we?

They threw each other a mental shrug.

Simon turned his attention to Welsh. “So, what’s the story, big man?”

Welsh grunted and pulled out another cigarette. Where the hell does he get all the smokes? Argo asked himself.

“Home, Si,” Welsh said simply.

Simon gave a sweeping gesture with his hand and the trunk lid rolled back. The four travellers stowed their gear and moved to enter. Mayster turned to Threnody. “Front seat?” he offered.

Threnody shook her head. Was she actually touched at the chivalry of it? She was smiling, after all. “No, go right ahead. I don’t like to sit up there. The door’s up there.”

Mayster shrugged and moved to take the place up front. Argo climbed in back with Welsh and Threnody, wondering, This thing has four doors…what the hell is she talking about?

With everyone in and strapped down, Simon popped in. He pulled his harness in place across his orange-padded jumpsuit and stepped down on the accelerator while pulling his steering wheel backwards.

The cab, with a protesting groaning squawk that sent forth another plume of smoke, rose into the air and into a through-lane, gaining speed.

“There we are, love,” Simon told the cab, patting the steering column with some affection.

“I’m amazed,” Mayster began. “When I first saw this thing I figured it wouldn’t do over seveeeeeee AHHHHH SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?”

Mayster had thrown his arms up over his head and was leaning back into his chair as far as he could.

Argo strained to look over, as he was sitting right behind Mayster. Welsh and Threnody didn’t seem to be reacting in the same way, neither was Simon, so whatever it was it couldn’t be too serious.

Sitting in Mayster’s lap was a gleaming silver robot, resembling a cross between a small dog and a huge beetle. It was sitting up in Mayster’s lap, as though begging for a treat. It clicked its mandibles together in something that Argo supposed was a greeting, seeming to disregard Mayster’s reaction to its presence.

Simon glowered at the thing. “Go on, you little bastard: get to work,” he called.

And the thing did. It disappeared back through the cab’s dashboard through a small door, moving swiftly on chittering legs.

Mayster looked at Simon, incredulous. “What…the fuck was that thing?”

“Popbot,” Simon said. “He’s my mechanic popbot. They’re supposed to last for a year but I swear I can only get seven months out of them.”

The popbot in question was now moving across the hood at a high rate of speed. Argo had noticed some rattling going on there. Only stopping for a moment at each connecting bolt, the popbot threw out a leg, snapped a tool into place, and then tightened the bolt.

“Disposable robots for specific tasks,” Welsh explained further. “Simon’s cab is a hunk of shit, so the popbot’s all that keeps him in the air at times.”

“He’s only joking, honey,” Simon said, stroking the steering column again.

“You coulda warned me!” Mayster complained.

“Lady said that’s where the door was,” Welsh said, forcing back a smile.

Argo watched as the popbot finished ensuring the front of the cab wouldn’t fall off, then disappear under the vehicle, where he heard rattling and whirring take place. Seven months, he thought to himself. Amazing.

Then he looked out across the Atlantic Union, which, as he understood it, was nothing but buildings from here to the ocean. Incredible. And the air here was alive with information. He could almost imagine the open spaces around them throbbing with it, every machine passing data to every other machine, tying them all together. Once he understood that the Internet had evolved as the primary means by which the world communicated, over all manner of copper wire and fiber optics. And now that all of that infrastructure was gone, all everyone had was each other.

He let his visor flip over to watch all of the traffic that he was filtering out and all the traffic that was, even at this speed, driving stories above the ground, passing through his pack and to the rest of the Union.

“How about some music, Si?” Welsh asked.

Argo almost missed it, but a look passed between Simon and Welsh. Simon smiled and threw Welsh a wink in the rear view mirror. “Coming right up. Let me just find it.”

Mayster noticed it first. Argo took a second because he was almost hypnotized by the stats of what his pack was passing. “This is Circus Eclectica out of Richmond,” Simon said, then turned up the volume.

“Holy…” Argo began and Mayster finished it for him in the front seat, “…shit.”

The song coming out of Simon’s speakers was “Open 5 A.M.”

In the end, it was everything they expected and yet, it was nothing like they had expected. Indianapolis had possessed very little in the way of multi-story buildings. If you had a five-floor building you were doing fairly well, to be honest. What the Exodus hadn’t destroyed, the violent weather of the Bowl had finally eroded and whittled and pushed until they collapsed. The building Argo and Mayster called home–had called home, he corrected himself–had been five floors not counting the dome. And that had been pushing it.

Even though he had never seen a skyscraper before–not in real life, anyway–it wasn’t the tallest of the giant gleaming towers off in the distance that caught his eye first. Even on street level, you could see them above the tenements.

It wasn’t the buzz of skytrawlers and airseds using the roads overhead while their slower, treaded cousins moved in less auspicious ways below.

It wasn’t the people, or even the feeling of the people. While the bustle of humanity was slim here right inside the borders of the Atlantic Union, there was the overwhelming feeling of being in a real city, a real honest to God megalopolis. Argo couldn’t tell what formed that picture, that intuition of the millions of people who lived between here and the ocean. Maybe it was the smells, maybe it was all five of his senses telling him the same thing that his pack’s firewall was: Holy shit, man, what the hell?

They stepped out into the light, left the underworld of I-75 behind, and right in front of them was a tenement building. Up one corner of the structure was the most godawful shitcobble of an antenna Argo had ever seen. It was this that drew his eyes first, and then followed it down to something that looked incredibly out of place.

It was a Nodebooth. Significantly less beaten up than the one in their hometown, but it was virtually identical. And behind it, two men were stacking cases. There was a hodge of different types of cases, but a good number of them were strikingly similar to the metal storage container that they would see turn up at the Nodebooth they frequented.

“That’s right,” Welsh said, following his gaze. “Welcome to Sneakernet at the end of the world. This is where things are converted from Sneakernet 2.0 back down to version 1.0.”

“File sharing the old fashioned way,” Argo said.

“The old old fashioned way,” Welsh countered. “Hang on a second, would you?” He reached into his right coat pocket and produced a small device that looked like half of a silver pen. He held it up to the side of his face. “Yeah,” he said and paused.

“Yeah, we’re back,” Welsh continued, and Argo quickly realized he was hearing half of a conversation. “Right outside the I-75 tunnel. Yeah. Okay, well come on.”
He put the device back in his pocket.

“Cell phone?” Argo asked.

“What?” Welsh looked at him. “Oh. No, not a cell phone. There’s no cells anymore. And not a satellite phone. Because God knows there aren’t any satellites anymore. Well. Mostly. No, it just does voice over IP.” He pointed to the shitcobble antenna. “Reception’s great standing right here.”

Welsh nodded over to Threnody. “That was Simon. He’s on his way.” Threnody merely nodded back and stayed standing as she was. Argo noted that when something was going on that didn’t concern her, Threnody almost seemed to become very easy to overlook–a statue, almost. A statue that can come to life and kill dozens of skinheads while breaking very little sweat, he reminded himself. The picture in his mind of her soaring over the heads of the crowd back at the Lodge was quite clear.

Argo looked over at Mayster, who had been very quiet since stepping out of the tunnel. Argo had chalked this up initially to the shock of finally being where they had always wanted to end up.

Instead, Mayster had his visor on and his earpieces in. He looked through the readings on his visor at Argo, brow furrowed. “I’ve been tweaking my firewall. They have music on demand channels here, man. A minute ago I was listening to somebody playing some fucking twenty-four/seven polka station out of his bedroom. And then I finally found some live DJs spinning from a club over in Boston.”

“Yeah?” Argo asked.

“Yeah,” Mayster said gravely, “place is open twenty-four seven. Spinning all day and all night. Then I switched over to something called Sonic Sphere One, playing trance mashups. And then I switched to a station out of Tampa, Techno Wall to Wall.” Mayster stopped talking. Argo guessed another station was coming up.

“And?” Argo finally demanded.

“Most of it is shit,” Mayster said. “Most of it is absolute fried shit on a bun with a side of fries.” Mayster put a hand on Argo’s shoulder. “We got here just in time. This place needs us, man.”

Welsh, who had been watching all of this from behind a halo of smoke from a recently lit cig, chuckled to himself. “We’re on a mission from God,” he said.

Neither Argo or Mayster knew what the hell to make of that and Welsh, of course, refused to explain.

The tunnel, wide enough to allow for large service vehicles, dipped down to what must have been the first sub-level of I-75 and then began to slant back upwards again. The four walked in the middle of the space.

Argo noticed that they had sealed off the rest of the sub-level, which was for the best. If you grew up anywhere near an interstate that was still standing, you couldn’t help but go exploring. He had heard some of the old stories about how people used to believe that houses could be haunted. His friend Rik had even found half of a shit-quality video on a simputer–some television special on the subject.

Interstates were easy replacements. When the Exodus happened, most interstates were positively packed with vehicles, the slower ones going in excess of eighty miles an hour on the higher levels. When everything Heavy decided to get the hell out–either in one way or another–the passengers in these vehicles found themselves travelling in a system that was no longer smart enough to maintain the three-foot safety space between each vehicle. These were people, of course, who didn’t have implants which had already committed suicide deep within their skulls, taking most of their involuntary physical systems down with them.

As a result, the interstates were a graveyard of twisted metal guaranteed to make children piss themselves, nowhere moreso than below the ground. The lower levels were self-contained and designed for those making the long haul cross-continent. You could drop down and push your speed up to two hundred miles an hour easy. You could take a nap and let your vehicle drive itself, waking you up just to inform you that your destination was coming up at the next exit. If you could get down to such a level, you could easily find crumpled vehicles still carrying the jumbled and fractured skeletons of their occupants. The meat was all long gone, of course, and very seldom did you find anything other than fragments, but it was an experience you never forgot.

The ten-year-old Argo had managed to get a door open on one moss-covered grayish-green vehicle, only to have what must have been three skeletons tumble out and become dust at his feet. In the light from his electric torch, he saw that the upper half of a skull’s face had remained intact, with both of the empty sockets staring up at him…

Argo shook his head. No need to keep thinking about that.

He did wonder absently if anyone still thought about haunted houses anymore. He thought probably not.

The whole world’s fucking haunted now, he told himself. Why bother?

As they started up the slope, Argo heard a pinging coming from his pack. He reached back, slipped on his visor and saw that his firewall was holding steady, but being positively savaged. A quick glance to Mayster showed the same thing happening there.

Welsh was watching them both, one eyebrow cocked, smiling. “Firewalls, right?”

Argo nodded.

“Well, they should be fine for the short haul,” he said. “We’ll upgrade you when we get home. That way it’ll go from denial of service levels to a dull roar. But you never get rid of it.” He spied a piece of masonry lying in the dust and snatched it up. As he placed it in his left trenchcoat pocket he remarked, “Some of it’s just Sneakernet traffic and harmless. Most of it’s spam, though. Just for fuck’s sake don’t accept any pop-ups or attachments if anything gets through.”

At the end of the tunnel was a large metal door with a ring in the center of it.

“Well, boys,” Welsh said, “welcome to civilization. Or the closest thing we could approximate.”

Then he pulled the door open and the lights came streaming in.

Stefan couldn’t sleep. He wondered idly if he would ever sleep again.

He had never worn pain blockers before. If he closed his eyes and didn’t look, he could very well believe that he had lost his right leg from just below his hip on down. But they hadn’t taken the leg. They had merely blocked the nerves and then wired up his knee. He could be jogging again in three weeks, they had told him.
The dull ache on his forehead where the son of a bitch had smacked him with the shotgun was another story. No pain blockers could be used above the neck. And the pills did shit for him.

Sure, he could put his insomnia off on the odd feeling of not-leg that he was experiencing. He could put it off on his near-concussion.

But it was the idea of what he had done while in that temple. The meals he had had. And the things they had called upon.

Stefan didn’t believe in any of that shit, of course. And he had never seen anything like you could find in a horror story lurking in the shadows during the services. It had just been a feeling. A feeling of dread. He remembered when he had still had parents, and they had all attended that church on 10th Street. Sitting there crammed in with a bunch of fellow believers–that high feeling, of belonging, of being secure in one’s belief in a high power. Mountaintop experience, they called it.
Maybe it had been the same thing in the Lodge…just entirely in the opposite direction.

Stefan adjusted himself in his bed harness. He hated it, but it kept him reclined and his leg sticking straight out so that the macromeds outside his knee could conduct their work on the inside. They hummed on a very strange frequency.

He managed to put it out of his mind. He zoned in on the hums of the little machines doing their business, helping him. That was a comforting thought. He stopped thinking about the taste. The mess, Jesus, always a mess.

Stefan’s eyelids flickered and he had almost started to slip when…

…voices.

He had thought that having this two-person clinic room to himself was a blessing when he had regained consciousness. Now he was wishing there was someone else–even someone asleep–in the bed next to him.

How had these people gotten into the room with him? Had he fallen all the way asleep without realizing it?

“Sole survivor,” a male voice said. “Very lucky.”

“Yes,” a female voice replied, “lucky for us. He can tell us things.”

“Things we need to know,” another voice said–female, yes, but this one was quite young, by the sound of her. “We have to follow.”

Stefan could see the young girl walking softly, could make out her shape moving in the gloom, could hear the footsteps echoing around the chamber. How many were in here with him?

Then he could see the man walking in the opposite direction. Heard him speak: “Yes, he will help us stay on the trail. Won’t you, Stefan?” The man turned to look at him. Stefan’s skin goose-pimpled at the mention of his name and then went icy cold at seeing the man looking at him. In the gloom, he had no eyes. He looked wrong.

The woman’s voice again, as she walked by the window. A glow from somewhere outside illuminated a side of her face. A glimpse of scarred skin…an eyepatch. “We know you’re awake, my dear. Why don’t you tell us about your friends…the ones who left you alive.”

“They’re…they’re not my friends,” Stefan protested as the woman slipped back into the gloom. Foosteps echoing all around him, always footsteps. “We had a deal.”

“Tell us about your deal with them,” the young girl said, leaning forward at the foot of his bed. She was in her pre-teens, pretty, but with eyes that flickered cold.

“I gave them information about…about the Lodge,” Stefan blurted. He’d tell them anything, just get out of his room. He felt so crowded. Too many people. “Then they were supposed to leave me alive. Crippling me was never part of the deal.”

He looked down at the girl but she stepped into the gloom.

The woman moved past the window again and came over to his bedside. “I think there’s only one thing we need to know from Stefan. One last thing.” Her voice was so soft and soothing that it almost took Stefan’s mind off of the thing glinting in her hand–a blade. A very large blade that she was turning this way and that. Her one remaining eye was cruel and humorless. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Front?”

The woman’s features rippled, shifted and changed. A second later it was the man standing there with the evil-looking blade. The sound of footsteps had ended.

“Quite right,” Mr. Front said, then leaned in close, using the flat of the blade to reflect some light from outside into Stefan’s face.

“Do you know,” the man with the knife said, “where they were going next?”

The border to the Atlantic Union was never supposed to be I-75. For that matter, there was never supposed to be an Atlantic Union. Until the Exodus, the thought that the United States of America–which had weathered many threats, both internal and external–might one day collapse virtually overnight was fairly laughable.

But it had, and something had to be done to keep the riff raff out of what had risen in its place. And there weren’t many other eight-story structures running the length of the continent to fall back on. Thus, I-75 found its second life.

As the van tottered east, eventually the interstate became visible. This was nothing new to any of the vehicle’s passengers. Threnody and Welsh had come from here, of course, and Argo and Mayster had both seen I-75 before–at least this side of it.

Both of them, as kids, had wandered far and wide, spending as much as a week travelling out of Indianapolis in all directions. The dojo where Mayster had studied had been built inside a collapsed ramp structure several miles north of here.

What they had not done before, however, was what Welsh did: drive right up to the gate. Two guards, both lizardmen, stood watch. A small ramshackle enclosure sat against the wall of the interstate, underneath the faded red and blue shield that still bore the weathered numbers “75.” Next to it sat a large pile of what looked to be compost and other junk. Argo thought to himself that the stench from that area must be nearly visible.

One of the guards made his casual way over. Lizardmen were a perfect fit for this job: strength and love of heat all in one package. This one had stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of beaten khaki shorts.

“Welsh,” the guard said, “took you damn long enough.” He nodded to Threnody in her place on the passenger side, then looked in the back to see Argo and Mayster. “These your guys?”

Welsh nodded, “That’s them.”

Lizardman nodded again. “Mind if they step out so we can check them for their shots?” He gave a shrug. “You know I gotta.”

Welsh smiled, “Mickey, I would never dream in standing in the way of your job.” He leaned back. “Gentlemen, Mickey here is just going to check you out. No worries.”

The door slid back and Argo and Mayster stepped out. As they did, there was the sound of a gunshot careening off the interstate. A small puff of dust indicated where the bullet had hit. Argo and Mayster winced, ducking. No one else seemed to pay any heed.

Another lizardman came out of the shack and called out, “Welsh, you bastard. You said you’d just need my van for just a day.” This one was wearing a pair of black shorts and sunglasses. The orange lenses looked strange on his face.

“I’m good for it, Geoff, you know I am,” Welsh called back. “Quit your bitching.”

Mickey, in the meantime, had pulled out a small device and asked Argo and Mayster to offer up their wrists. “This is going to feel odd,” he cautioned, “but it’s harmless. Just checking to make sure you’re not carrying anything nasty inside with you.” He pushed it against the inside of Mayster’s wrist first, and Mayster’s eyebrows went up.

Argo was next and as the device began humming against his wrist, another gunshot rang off the concrete structure behind them, far high and to the right. He tried to duck but Mickey put a restraining hand on him. “No, no, don’t jerk around–it’ll screw up the reading.”

Mayster looked around at them. “Um, are we being shot at? Or is it just me?”

Welsh chuckled. “I was wondering that myself. I thought the mosquitos out here must be huge and pissed off.”

Geoff strode over, his tail dragging behind him, “We were waiting for your ass to get back. I forgot I left Betty in the cargo hold.”

Mickey let go of Argo’s wrist. “You’re good. You’re both good. Thanks for your patience.” He gave a salute with the device and slipped it away again.

Another gunshot, this one pounding against the roof of the shack.

“What a dumbass,” Geoff remarked, pulling open the back of the trawler.

“Who?” Argo asked.

“Every once in a while some idiot will find a rifle in the Bowl and decide to start taking potshots at us,” Mickey remarked as another gunshot screamed into the concrete about thirty feet up. “Usually it’s some asshole who got denied entry. Normally we take them out pretty quickly but this guy’s a ways out. We don’t have the range on anything here to get him and we’re not about to get close enough to let his aim improve. Because at this range, he sucks big time. So we needed Betty.” He jerked a thumb towards Geoff. “But numbnuts over there left her in the van.”

Geoff grumbled something under his breath, felt around in the hold and knocked twice, hard, against the metal floor.

Mayster looked out and shielded his eyes a bit. “How long has been doing this?”

Mickey shrugged. “Sixteen, eighteen hours. He doesn’t get bored easily, apparently.”

Mayster considered. “Not much else to do out there, though.”

Mickey smiled. “Point taken.”

Geoff came out from behind the trawler with Betty. Welsh got out of the van to take a look himself.

“Betty is gorgeous,” Welsh commented, whistling.

“What is it?” Argo asked, “Fifty caliber?”

Welsh nodded his head before Geoff could answer, “Oh yes. My friend, this is a Barrett M99. Anti-personnel with unbelievably sweet range. Kicks like a son of a bitch but it’s all right if you know what you’re doing. May I?” Welsh held out his hands.

Geoff handed Betty over, beaming with pride of ownership.

Welsh hefted the weapon and turned it over, its slate black metal gleaming in the sunlight. “You don’t see many of these anymore. Especially not in this good a shape.”

Geoff nodded out towards the Bowl, “We keep Betty around to deal with mosquitos like that jackass.”

Welsh considered for a moment. “May I?”

Geoff looked at Mickey. A shot rang high off of the wall behind them and they both shrugged. “Go for it,” Geoff said.

Mickey brought a pair of binoculars from the shack and handed them to Welsh, who had extended Betty’s bipod and laid it down on a chunk of concrete that appeared to have been set up for just such an occasion. Welsh nodded thanks and then scanned the distance. “There’s the son of a bitch,” he breathed. “I make him about sixteen hundred yards out. The sun’s winking off of his scope.”

“He’s shooting like this with a scope?” Mayster asked.

“See? What a jackass,” Geoff remarked.

Welsh handed the binoculars to Geoff who trained them on the target. Welsh then setup Betty on the chunk of concrete, crouched behind the gun, leaned into it and took aim. He looked up after a moment at Argo, who was standing five feet to one side of the muzzle. He motioned for Argo to step back. “The shock might hurt if you stand there,” Welsh explained.

Argo did not need to be told twice.

Welsh crouched down again, and after three seconds, squeezed off the round, bracing for the recoil. In the boxed in area by the interstate the sound was like a thunderclap.

Welsh looked up at Geoff who gave a thumbs up after a second. “Mosquito swatted. Nice shot.”

Welsh smiled. “Thanks for letting me use your Betty.”

“Well,” Geoff smiled, “she’s an easy girl, but we love her out here.”

They walked back towards the interstate. The guard by the gate opened it up for them to pass through. Argo and Mayster grabbed their gear while Threnody finally stepped out of the van. She carried a rucksack over one shoulder.

Mayster looked at the guard and nodded over towards the heap of trash. Argo had been right, it was pretty rank now that the wind had kicked up. “What’s the deal with the above ground sewage?”

The guard grinned. “Attracts rats,” he said simply. And then when Mayster gave no reaction he grinned more broadly. “Finger foods.”

Mayster nodded as Threnody walked up to join Welsh.

“Done playing man games?” she asked him.

Welsh had drawn out a cigarette and now lit it. “For the moment.”

“Can we go now?” she asked.

“But of course,” he grinned and blew smoke from his nostrils.

“Good,” she said, a smile sneaking in at the corners of her mouth.

When Welsh told Argo and Mayster to wait in the van, they didn’t argue. It was not their place to step outside for this.

As Welsh and Threnody climbed out in front of the small one-story dwelling, Argo and Mayster looked at each other, sharing the unspoken exchange “This is a van?”
The only Airtrawlers they had seen prior to this one had been at the local junkyard. No one had the patience or the skill anywhere in the region to create skycraft that could tolerate the environs of the Bowl. The particles would get into just about any engine or hovereye and eventually clog it to the point where it would chew itself to pieces trying to compensate for the loss in thrust.

Airtrawlers were good for one thing–moving a few thousand pounds of goods from one place to another. Normally this was done through flight, but someone had taken the short, stunted wings of the ‘trawler off and mounted the entire cab and storage area onto a set of large tank treads. The end result from the outside was one of the ugliest land vehicles either of them had ever seen and was a cobble only a few steps above shit, but out by the Bowl, utility was key. And it easily carried them and all of their gear out towards the city limits where Jeni’s parents were waiting.

Whoever put this vehicle together had also done a decent job of sealing the cab itself. One could always tell how well your seals were working when you tipped your vehicle one direction or another while on a hill…the sand would run together and slide to one end of the vehicle, following the pull of gravity.

Here, in this Airtrawler-van, only a few bits of grit skittered around the inside as they moved. Mayster nodded his approval.

The man and woman, Jeni’s parents apparently, had been waiting outside of their home as the “van” pulled up. The man was old, though how old they could not have said–his face showed heavy weathering from the Bowl’s constant storms. He was wearing a disheveled military uniform that looked as though they had tried to unwrinkle it as best they could.

The woman, much younger than her husband, perhaps early thirties–had laid her head against the crook of his remaining arm. Her face was a twisted mask of misery and the dust on her face had been cut through by her tears.

The man’s right arm was missing from the shoulder down. His uniform’s unnecessary sleeve had been folded up to the shoulder and attached there, the neatest fold anywhere on his person.

Welsh walked up and put one hand on the woman’s shoulder and the other against the man’s side–a gesture of comfort. Neither of them inside the van could hear what words were spoken, and that was a blessing, they thought.

Threnody approached bearing the box that contained Jeni’s remains. They had found the box for her, the general consensus being that a bag was not the best way to return the poor girl to her home.

Threnody had asked for a piece of twine, which they had managed to find amongst all of Mayster’s stored shite. She had run it from one side of the box to the other, creating a makeshift handle.

Her foresight was commendable, for as the woman looked up to see the box coming closer, she broke free of her husband and ran into the house, her hands covering her face.

The man watched her go and then turned back to Threnody, bowed his head a little–perhaps saying thank you–and then he grabbed the box by the twine handle, holding it a bit by his side.

He looked down at his burden and even from here, Argo could see his face change. He shifted it a bit at the end of his good arm and Argo said aloud what he was thinking, “He’s…thinking how light the box is.”

Mayster ran a hand back over what little hair he allowed himself. “Okay, I’ve seen enough. I’m going to…” he looked back into the storage area of the van “…do anything else. Let me know when they’re headed back here.”

Welsh could obviously tell it was time to go and let the two bury their daughter. A hand went to Threnody’s shoulder. She stepped forward, said something else to the grieving man, and then gripped his lessened shoulder in support. Then she started back to the vehicle.

“It’s breaking up,” Argo called back.

Mayster did not answer. Argo knew that Mayster had buried a child himself, but never spoke of it.

Welsh patted the man on his arm and then turned to go.

Threnody took the passenger seat up front. Welsh got into the driver’s space. Both of their floorboard suction units removed the sand and grit from their boots as best they could.

Mayster came forward into the cab, rubbing at his eyes. They were red, but he said nothing.

Welsh started the van up and moved forward past the house, waiting until they were good and clear before picking up speed.

Argo watched in one of the mirrors. The man stood out front for a while, holding the box containing his daughter. Then he walked inside his house with the movements of a man who has nothing else he can possibly do.

Argo blinked once, twice, hard. He was still sitting on his bedroll and leaning back against one of the concrete islands on the roof. Above him began a row of hydroponics. He looked up at them and then around, reorienting himself.

He must have dozed off, but for how long he could not say. He was about to flip down his visor and check the time, but there was a nagging realization: something had woken him.

The low roar outside was not it–for someone born and raised in a Bowl city, that was just background noise one often forgot was there. No, it was something else. Argo glanced up and over the rim of the concrete island and the something else in question walked into view.

It was Threnody, moving almost silently across the surface of the roof. She was dressed only in what appeared at first to be a set of shorts and a tank top. Another moment and he realized it was one piece and bearing pads of impact fiber in several key areas.

Argo wasn’t sure, but he thought it must be the kind of undergarment that mech pilots used to wear, back when there was such a thing as a mech pilot. It left her arms and neck bare, as well as most of her legs. It was a faded white, and the contrast with her light brown skin was a sight to behold.

The metal staircase that led to the roof–the bottom steps creaked, no matter how stealthy you tried to be. God knows Mayster had tried to sneak up on him while sparring enough times that he knew what to listen for, even asleep.

The only sound she made now as she walked was the faintest of padding noises as her bare feet touched the concrete. She walked slow and with the way she moved, Argo was reminded of the great cats that used to exist in the world. He had no memory for their names, but the gist was all that was needed: he was watching a predator in motion. Even though he was behind the island and she had not once even come close to looking his direction, Argo was certain his presence there was known. Whatever she was doing, though, it did not concern him. He was not worth notice, he felt.

He took some kind of unnamable comfort in this.

She reached the fountain and cocked her head a little, perhaps studying it. It was a movement he had seen domesticated dogs perform, when they were curious about something they had run across.

As she paused, Argo noticed something underneath the garment. Across the backs of her shoulders, which were only partially obscured by the fabric, appeared to be a tattooed design of some sort. It fanned out across her shoulder blades, and led down below the back of the garment.

Then he could see no more of it, for she turned to one side and knelt on the concrete.

She placed her hands on her legs, sat up straight and he could see her chest expand as she inhaled deeply. Her eyes closed. She took her time with her breathing, slowing it down, slowing it down.

She stayed like that, seemingly meditating, for what must have been five minutes.

Just as Argo was deciding to turn in for the night, her lips moved the smallest amount. She had said something, a word, but he was too far away to hear it properly.
One of her pistols appeared on the ground at her knees in response to her summons. Argo eyed it as best he could; the last time he had seen her pistols with their wide open mouths they had been busy, speaking invisible words that reduced men to wet ribbons.

As Argo watched, she picked up the pistol in her left hand, opened her eyes–

–and brought the muzzle directly up under her chin, with her finger on the trigger.

He was on his feet before he realized what he was doing, but the shout died in his throat when he felt the hand grab his arm.

“Easy, hero,” he heard Welsh saying softly. “Stand down.”

Argo turned to see him standing there, trenchcoat and all. Then he looked from him to Threnody and back again. “But she–”

“–won’t do it,” Welsh finished for him. “At least she hasn’t yet.” He studied Argo’s face for a moment and then pulled him down behind the concrete island again. “Let’s let her have her private moment, shall we?”

Welsh sat back against the island and fished in his pocket, producing a cigarette.

As Welsh lit it, Argo half-asked, “She’s done this before.”

Welsh inhaled and nodded, “Countless times.”

Argo digested this then continued, “Every night?”

Welsh shook his head, “Only on nights where she’s killed a bunch of people. A little meditation, some pranayama, and she makes her peace with Death.” He gestured with his cigarette. “That’s how I interpret it, anyway, I’ve never asked. I’m just always on hand in case she needs me.”

Argo looked at him. “Has she ever?”

Welsh smiled. “She hasn’t yet.”

Argo rubbed his fingers against the stubble on his chin. “Those pistols she has. I’ve never seen what they can do to people.”

“Ah,” Welsh tapped two fingers against one of his temples, “that’s because they weren’t designed for use on people.”

This clicked something home for Argo. “They’re anti-mech weapons, aren’t they?”

Welsh kept smiling and nodded a little, impressed. “That they are. I’m surprised you could recognize them. Even when they were standard issue for pilots, I’m sure you didn’t get much of them in this part of the world.”

“And your weapons…you use folds to store them, don’t you?”

“Again, you are well-read,” Welsh answered. “Yes, they sit in folds until we need them. Easier than carrying them around.”

“Welsh,” Argo said, “all of that’s heavy tech.”

Welsh nodded. “You’re just full of answers tonight.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Yes, sorry. I’m always cranky when I have to wake up and stand suicide watch. Yes, they’re heavy tech weapons.”

“But no one uses heavy tech anymore,” Argo said. It was such a patently obvious thing to say, but he had to say it regardless.

Welsh smiled and shrugged, “No one but us.”

“How is that possible? It should all–”

“–go batshit and wreak untold havoc? Perhaps it should. But it doesn’t. The people we work for have made some…arrangements.”

Argo’s confusion must have been plain on his face, for Welsh kept going. “Look, here’s what you need to know, although most of it you’ve probably already figured out. Threnody’s not just a singer. I’m not just her manager. We’re not just running around on a musical tour. We have a job to do and we’re doing it. The job gets crazy more often than not, but the whole world’s crazy now.” Welsh studied him for a long moment. “How old are you, Argo?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Welsh chuckled. “Twenty-seven. Jesus, I’m old. Listen–you’ve never known anything but the way things are now. But when I was a kid…it was always about the future. We were always so excited about the future. The future was coming and everything was going to be easier, faster, better. That’s what we believed. But now…well, the future has come and gone. And all of us that managed to survive it leaving…we’re all just making do with the ruins and remnants.”

Welsh held out his hands and Argo realized that he had been holding the metal ball this entire time. Argo handed it over.

“This your ammunition?” Welsh asked.

Argo nodded.

“It’s a ball bearing, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”

“It’s from the giant automated tractors they used to use in the Bowl before…well, before it was The Bowl.” Argo explained, “They’re hollow. So I cut them in half and then punch holes in them. I put a timer inside that counts five seconds from when I launch it and then it sprouts these.” He pulled a small metal rod from within his pack. “Helps it hit what I aim for and stay there instead of bouncing and ruining my day. Once it hits, the charge I put inside explodes.”

Welsh nodded his approval. “I like that. I like that a lot. You rogue the ball bearings from out in the Bowl?”

Argo took the ball back. “Mayster and I go out every once in a while. When it’s calm for a long stretch. Grab what we can and then get out before the storms kick up again. It’s hard to miss the tractors. They’re broken into pieces and the paint’s been sandblasted off of them, but they’re there. Like the film reels of when they used to find animals’ skeletons buried in the ground. You just dig forward through the Bowl and suddenly they loom up out of the nothing.”

Welsh finished off his cigarette in two long drags and ground it out against the concrete island. “You know,” he said, “I wasn’t entirely truthful with you. About why we’re here.”

Argo sat up a little straighter. Whatever secret mission Welsh and Threnody were on, he was suddenly unsure he wanted to know details…although he knew it was far too late for that. “Share what you know.”

“We had been thinking about heading out here for a while, so when our friend got word to us about Jeni and the Lodge, that just stepped up our agenda.”

“What agenda is that?” Argo asked.

“Finding you and Mayster,” Welsh stood up.

Argo blinked. Whatever answer he was expecting, that was not it. “Finding–? Are you fucking with me?”

“No. You’ve been sending songs back across Sneakernet for…how long?” Welsh asked.

“Almost eight years,” Argo managed to say; his mouth seemed very, very dry.

“We heard one of yours about a year ago. ‘Open 5 A.M.’, it was called. You and Mayster had worked on it together. Eight minute track. It was great. Thren and I talked it over and decided we needed to head out here and audition the two of you.”

Argo didn’t know what to say to that.

Welsh stood up and put a hand on Argo’s shoulder. “I know, it’s a bizarre concept, isn’t it? You fire stuff out into the ether for years and have no idea who’s listening to it, or if anyone’s listening at all…but what do you know? Someone is. And someone responds. You think about it and know it’s going to happen, but when it does…it’s just a strange feeling.” Welsh smiled. “And there you have it.”

Argo blinked. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Welsh said. “I need to get up in a few hours and I haven’t slept at all. We’re going back across into the Union tomorrow, so I need you somewhat rested. Get some sleep, kiddo.”

Argo nodded, “Yeah. Sure thing.”

Welsh walked off. Argo stood up as well and noticed Threnody was gone; perhaps back downstairs and sleeping now that she had made her peace.

“Hey, Welsh,” Argo called.

Welsh turned around.

“Thanks,” Argo said simply. It was insane to try and think of something else.

Welsh smiled. “Great,” he said. He then reached over, grabbed a few pieces of loose concrete from the wall and placed them in his pocket. Then he was gone.

Argo laid down and tried to calm his mind, though it kept racing around in all directions. They were leaving Indianapolis. In the morning.

That thought wore a groove in his consciousness and wore it down until he finally began to nod off. His last thought before he finally fell asleep was: when Threnody left, I didn’t hear the stairs creak. At all.

Argo looked to his log. He had been absently making and undoing a single change to a single music file for the last five minutes.

He sighed, flicked his visor up and sat for a moment, thinking. Or giving the air of one who is thinking: his mind did not want to go anywhere but back down into the bowels beneath the Fellowship Lodge.

He reached into his backpack and produced a small metal ball. He unscrewed the two halves of it and produced a pocket acetylene torch. Then he went to work on it. There was no undo feature when you were working with metal. At least he could only go forward.

It had taken Argo’s mind a moment to process exactly what he was seeing. Out of the corner of his eye, Mayster appeared to be experiencing the same thing.

Welsh had taken a look up and around, digested for a moment, and then walked on down the passageway, wisely leaving them to do the same in their own time.

In the moment before he registered was he was seeing, Argo thought, Right next to where they slept? Jesus, they kept this right next to where they slept?

Bones. The long hallway was filled down each side with human skeletal remains. Mounted to the wall were sometimes complete skeletons, sometimes only skulls. At any point, no matter where Argo looked, he could easily pick out the remains of twenty individuals.

As Argo stepped forward to examine a skull that was sitting on a shelf at his eye level, he noted that they each had writing, positioned in the middle of what would have been their foreheads.

NORTON, AUG. 2192

“They identify them,” Argo said to himself, feeling his skin crawl. “They write their names and the date for each on them.”

“How long has this shit been happening?” Mayster asked. He had picked up a skull and was looking at the date on it. “June 2181,” he read off.

“How long has the Lodge been here?”

Mayster blinked. “No idea. It was here when we got here.”

Argo stepped away from the skull. “Exactly.”

“This damn thing goes on for miles and keeps spiraling back down under itself,” Welsh said, walking slowly back down the hallway towards them. A fresh cigarette was clamped between his lips.

“Where’s Threnody?” Mayster asked.

“She’ll be along. She can cover ground faster than we can, we’re best just waiting here.” Welsh held out his hands and Mayster instinctively tossed him the skull. Welsh examined it. “They played it smart. Mostly. As smart as a pseudo-religious cannibal cult could be considered to be, I guess.

“They’d take people who wouldn’t be missed. Like musicians dumb enough to leave the Atlantic Union and tour beyond the Wall.”

“How did you find out about this?” Mayster asked. “They’ve been here forever and no one in town knew.”

“Peg Leg,” Welsh jerked a thumb back towards the dorm, “or whatever he’s going to be calling himself now. He made a supplies run, and we found him. We talked to him. He traded information for his life.” He flicked ashes off the end of his cigarette and drew from it thoughtfully. “We don’t like to go into anything without knowing what the shot is first.”

“I know what you mean,” Argo scowled. He wanted to get royally pissed about being on the dinner menu without his knowledge, but couldn’t. It wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened to him in his life, regardless.

Welsh smiled. “If you had known, would you have come along anyway?”

Mayster grinned, “For a paying gig?”

“Of course,” Argo had finished for him.

“Good lads,” Welsh said.

“Why the hell did you get involved with this in the first place?” Argo asked.

Threnody appeared behind Welsh so suddenly that even Welsh was startled.

Argo distantly felt glad that the guy who constantly snuck up on them was able to be snuck up on himself.

Threnody was carrying what looked to be a pillowcase. From the shape of what she had inside it, it was easy to guess what it held.

Welsh took it from her and looked into it. He nodded. “This is Jeni. She was eight years old. She was the daughter of a friend of ours.” He dropped his cigarette and ground it to death on the floor. “And that was when they ceased playing it smart.”

From there, Welsh had asked Argo and Mayster if they might bunk down with them for the night. They had a room booked with a hostel, but there was the threat of retaliation. Perhaps there were other members of the Lodge at large. Perhaps Peg Leg would sound the alarm and bring those other members running. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Argo had protested that their apartment was not much. Welsh laughed. “Whatever it is, we’ve seen worse and slept in it anyway.”

Mayster had offered Threnody his room but Argo had pointed out that Mayster’s room was a labyrinth of crap. Mayster had fumed, but he couldn’t deny it. Anything Mayster couldn’t fix, he felt honor bound somehow to keep–and thus monoliths of parts and gears, circuit boards and old monitor-visors littered the entire room. “Shithenge,” Argo had named it long ago.

Argo had offered up his room instead. Threnody smiled a little while she thanked him, before turning in for the night. Mayster had seen the smile and once Threnody was out of earshot, he proceeded to mutter terrible things about Argo’s parents under his breath while he busied himself getting ready for bed.

Welsh had taken the couch, but not before telling the both of them that they wanted to move at first light. Then he had handed them each a small device that looked like an EPROM. “Inoculations,” he explained.

You couldn’t enter the Atlantic Union’s borders without a sponsor. And even without a sponsor, you had to have myriad shots that cost a fortune. Word from the other side of the Wall was that anyone living in or near the Bowl was suspect from a health perspective. Everything west of the Wall was a festering pit, they believed.

They were half-right, anyway.

Mayster and Argo had looked at each of the small devices. “All of them?” Mayster had asked, impressed. “All in here?” Back in the Lodge, all the members of that fine establishment had ample reason to kill them. Now, half the population of Indianapolis would gladly kill them for what they were holding. To get all the treatments one needed to cross over…in one fell swoop? Fucking priceless.

“Yeah,” Welsh said, lighting up again from his apparently endless supply of smokes. “Best to slap it against your upper arm, almost like a TB test. Just a little harder.”

“A what?” Argo had asked.

Welsh was already shaking his head. “Never mind,” he chuckled a little. “Just dating myself. Listen, go ahead and do them now. Those are the last two of those I have.”

They did. Like little pinpricks, ice cold pinpricks, moving slowly around the perimeter of the devices. It tingled more than it stung, but he could tell it was there. The look on Mayster’s face was more confusion than anything else. “Worth more than both our lives put together and it’s over in five seconds,” he commented.

Welsh smiled, “A lot of things in this world are like that, I’m afraid. Both done then?”

They nodded.

“Great,” he said. He laid down on the couch, trenchcoat and all, and threw an arm over his eyes. “Now fuck off, would you? I’m exhausted.”

The wind howled outside the rooftop dome, which Argo had tuned to full opacity. The duststorm was going full force, so that even the sound dampeners they had installed were overwhelmed. They managed to reduce the howling to a droning undercurrent, like an animal somewhere far away crying on and on and on.

His earpieces played a series of songs at him, and every once in a while his gloved hand would twitch and change something, but the music was just a failing attempt to distract himself.

The dome was one of the best kept in the entire city. Without it, the top of their tenement would look like the blasted wasteland that most other buildings crowned themselves with. Instead, this building boasted a rooftop hydroponic garden, good soil being too hard to get this far west. Mayster had even found and restored a faux stone fountain, and it gurgled in the midst of the foliage.

Their handiwork was the reason they could afford to keep such a nice apartment. The landlord loved them, because between the two of them they could manage to fix just about anything. They kept the seals working, the dome intact, their rooms soundproofed and the tenants happy–and that was their bartered rent.

Argo shut his eyes behind his visor, head swimming. What a night, he thought absently and changed up a song with his fingers without looking.

After the massacre at the Fellowship Lodge had concluded, Argo and Mayster had packed up, as instructed. The ringing in their ears had subsided to a dull roar when Welsh called for them to follow him. Welsh stepped through the doorway that Threnody had disappeared into.

Immediately on their right through the doorway was a heavy metal door that led to a caged in area. The door was quite locked.

“Hey,” Mayster called, “hold up a second.”

Welsh looked through the doorway at the opposite end of the room and then back at the metal door. He nodded. “Just make it quick.”

Mayster grinned and dropped into a crouch in front of the doorknob. “Quick I can do,” he said, then reached down into his boot. Seconds later he had produced his lockpick kit, and exactly one minute later, the metal door swung inwards.

He and Argo stepped in and Mayster whistled.

The room, as they could tell from outside looking through the chain links, was an armory. The far wall was covered with a variety of sharp-edged instruments: swords, makeshift poleaxes, machetes. Down along the counter was a series of guns, mostly pistols. There must have been a dozen, and Argo and Mayster had never seen so many firearms in one place before. Ammunition was rarer than clean water. Some people preferred to make their own, but it was much easier to just walk around with a knife or sword since they never needed reloading.

Mayster scanned the wall and did not find what he was looking for.

He grunted his displeasure. “Talk to me,” he hissed under his breath, then a tall woven basket in the corner caught his eye. Mayster bounded to it and threw off the lid. Inside was a bouquet of rather nice swords, most of them in their scabbards. He reached down and plucked from the center his own katana blade and, smiling, kissed it in the middle of its scabbard. “Hey baby,” he cooed, “miss me?”

Welsh had stepped into the doorway and was surveying the stash inside. He palmed a small pistol seemingly at random, inspected it, and then dropped it into his left trenchcoat pocket. “None of the rest of this shit is worth taking. I say leave it and let’s move.”

Mayster strapped his blade to the side of his backpack and nodded. “This is what we look like when we’re moving.”

What had followed was an unguided tour of hell.

Beyond that first room there had been another, loftier room with a high ceiling. A quick inspection led them all to the unspoken agreement that it was a chapel of some kind. A lectern stood near the front, next to a large concrete bowl of some sort with undecipherable ideograms carved across the sides and the lip. The inside of this bowl only Welsh peered into, and the look on his face made it clear that it was not anything he wanted to share. The dark stain that ran down the bowl’s side and onto its base was enough for Argo.

Mayster hmmed and counted pews. “Small,” he observed aloud. “Too small to hold all the skinheads at once.”

Welsh nodded. “Multiple services.” For some reason, that made the hair on Argo’s arms stand at attention under his jumpsuit. Second time that evening. He wasn’t fond of the feeling. “Keep moving.”

A metal spiral staircase descended into darkness lit by flickering light bulbs. Mayster attached the light to the side of his visor and turned it on. Argo followed suit. Welsh was content to march along in semi-darkness. “What are we looking for?” Mayster finally asked.

“Threnody,” Welsh answered from ahead of them, “and what we came for. Wait,” he said, holding up a hand.

He had turned a corner and found himself at an open doorway. He poked the muzzle of the shotgun inside and then stepped in after.

Argo and Mayster came in just in time to hear the whimpering cry from a bed in the corner.

“Aw, shit, no, don’t…”

The room they had entered was a sleeping area. Bunk beds filled the large room. Mayster did his counting again and nodded: this was where they all stayed, big enough to fit them all. The lights were low in here and the room was deserted but for the three of them…and the one skinhead on a bottom bunk in the corner.

This skinhead was younger than his dead fellows topside had been. He was also breathing, which was unique for a skinhead in this building. And, finally another singular thing: he was wounded. Both of his hands were gripping at the crimson remains of his right knee. His pants leg had been shredded all the way down, and below what was left of the knee, his leg leaned at a disturbing angle. Tears streamed down his face.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he whined through gritted teeth. “You said…you said…”

Welsh crouched down in front of the skinhead. “I said if you told us what we needed to know, we’d leave you alive. You talked; you’re alive. You’d rather be up in the main hall awaiting burial?”

“She came in and asked me. I told her where to find them but she did this anyway,” the skinhead threw his head back, “Oh GOD, please help me…”

“God already helped you. I can’t remember the last time she left anyone alive,” Welsh said flatly. “Speaking of God, His son is supposed to have the market cornered on cannibalism, or are you too stupid to have read that book?”

Argo and Mayster exchanged looks. They had run across a lot of crazy, disturbing shit in their lives together. Out in the Bowl, any kind of justice was scarce, so mankind got to play out all manner of little atrocities. But this was a first even for them. Argo felt his stomach turn over.

“I had to eat. And they would’ve killed me if I left,” the skinhead complained. “No one ever leaves. Ever.”

“And you almost got killed staying,” Welsh pointed out. “Enough chit chat. Which way to the storage area?”

The skinhead nodded towards the far end of the room as best he could. Sweat mixed in with his tears. “There. She went there.”

Welsh got up and turned away.

“Hey!” the skinhead cried. “Hey, don’t just leave me like this! Help me, you fucking–”

Welsh turned back and brought the butt of the shotgun into the skinhead’s forehead in one swift movement that was almost elegant, it was executed so perfectly.

The young man’s skull jerked back and connected with the wall behind him, then he slumped forward, unconscious.

Mayster was impressed despite himself. “You didn’t kill him,” he pointed out.

Welsh turned and started walking, presuming they would follow. “No, the deal was he got to live. The only help I could give him was to knock his whiny ass out so I made sure I honored my part of it.”

Welsh stopped at an archway which the skinhead had indicated to them. He turned back to them. “You don’t have to come any further than this. You can wait here for us to come back. This isn’t yours to do.”

Argo looked back to where the skinhead lay sprawled, blissfully concussed on the far end of the room. “No, we’re in this,” he said, and Mayster merely nodded.

Welsh nodded. “Good lads,” he said. “Okay, then. Come on.”