Dark Blue Monstropolis

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.

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.

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?”