Ashes of the Fall (16 page)

As I rub my arms, I realize that Vlad’s more appreciative than I thought. The generator is a luxurious gift for an exile like me.

“Jesus Christ,” I say, startled by a distant howling. I sit dead still, enduring the cold in agonizing silence. The window is shut and the door is cracked, but I don’t feel safe. If those wolves are anything like the rats or the Remnants…

After enduring a long period of frozen quiet, I finally start moving again.

I don’t know what makes me more uncomfortable—the sub-zero cold, the howls of wolves, or the fact that the wolves quit howling all at once. Now the only thing I hear is the sound of my own breath, short and lonesome. When I look out the window, there’s nothing but tents and midnight, forever and ever and ever. Like tombstones in a graveyard.

I clutch the blankets closer, but the cold still slices through like a razor blade. I manage to work some feeling into my fingers. I grit my teeth together and stand up, moving stiffly towards my backpack. First I take out the whiskey. Then I find the pad of paper and pens.

Knew these would come in handy.

I write down my first request: More blankets. A wood burning stove, if possible.

As I write, the whiskey setting in, I realize what I’m doing. I’m making this place my new home.

Blackstone, Matt, Olivia and the rest of them might need a hero with a good story. But they’ll have to find him somewhere else. Whatever cure-all elixir Matt peddled—then drank himself, all too literally—is horseshit. If they’re all so damn smart, seeing eight moves ahead, they can all lay claim to the hollow fiefdom while I fade into the landscape, out here where no one will come.

Drunk by the time I head back out to the truck, I stumble to the gatehouse, two QwikSet patches and the blowtorch in my arms. I drop them in a pile on the dirty floor, placing the folded note on the small counter.

Staggering back, teeth chattering, I smile with grim resolve.

Fuck ‘em all.

Because I’m gonna make it on my own.

My beard itches, and I have
to bite down hard on my lip to keep from sneezing. I haven’t spent three hours hunkered behind a rock to go home hungry. Besides, Jana said during our last barter session that if I could get her four pelts, she’d bring me something really special today. Like hell I’m going home without this four-legged bastard.

I peek out over the rock, where a lone wolf sniffs the desolate plains twenty yards away. Steadying the .38 on the hard surface, I aim down the sights. This beast is hunting me, following my scent. Its green eyes glow, even in the relative brightness of midday. Its ears prick up when a crow caws.

Shit.

Now’s my only chance. I squeeze off a shot, and the wolf crumples in a heap. It doesn’t move.

Both hands on the pistol, I edge out slowly, watching for any sign of life. I’ve made that mistake before, not being sure, and it cost me a couple nasty scratches down my left leg. That was about a month ago, after I got sick of eating protein powder and freeze dried potatoes. I still have plenty of both, but wolf is a delicacy by comparison.

I’m practically salivating when I reach the kill. I nudge the warm body with my boot, finger still on the trigger. No response. Blood pools beneath the wolf’s shiny silver fur, running into the cracked earth.

After I skin and field dress the beast, leaving its entrails for the buzzards, I start walking back. I could’ve driven—it’s only five miles—but gas doesn’t come cheap from the Rems. Last time I asked for a gallon canister, they wanted ten of these friggin’ pelts. Fuel’s the most valuable thing left in this dust-swept land besides condoms and penicillin and whatever Circle meds that might trickle their way down here. Painkillers might edge in on that list. Soap that doesn’t smell like a pig’s asshole also comes at a steep price, so I’ve stopped bathing.

You don’t do it for a while, you get used to it.

The Rems don’t give discounts on anything—not even for rescuing the leader’s daughter. Jana comes to the gatehouse for our weekly trades, and she’ll even speak to me plenty now. But I can tell she’s still offended, even after six months, because I called her out for being a weirdo that night in the truck. It’s a sore spot amongst the Rems, being different. I’ve learned the reason why I have the FEMA camp—and all its untouched supplies—to myself: this was where they lived.

And where most of them died.

Other than Jana, I don’t see any of them. Just occasional puffs of dust on the horizon. I thought I’d miss the interaction—the talking, the chatter, the grift. It was my life for twenty-three years, if my Pops’ stories about him teaching me the art of the con in the cradle were true. But, truth is, I don’t.

There’s a calm in these plains, a distinct, gentle cadence interrupted by moments of stark harshness. Screams in the night—human, animal—remind you why no one comes to the Lost Plains if they haven’t been cast adrift.

I break a sweat on the way back, despite the fall chill in the sunny air. When I arrive at the FEMA camp—which I now call Chateau Stokes, with the matching repainted sign acting as proof of ownership—I drop the pelt off in the gatehouse. It joins the three others. One’s getting a little mangy and smells slightly rank.

Jana’s gotten on me about this, about how I don’t know how to treat the fur. I told her to get me a book on the topic, send me a teacher or shut the hell up.

Thus far, I haven’t heard back on that front.

Afterwards, I take the wolf meat to a fire pit I’ve built in front of the former administrative office—now my home. I get a good, hot bed of charcoaled wood going, putting the rib meat on a spit over the heat. Head about twenty miles north, and there’s no shortage of ruined trees dotting the landscape. They’re ugly, but they burn nice.

While the meat’s cooking, I check the generator. It’s been acting up lately, which has me concerned with winter knocking. Those final days of March were brutal, and I’m not looking forward to a colder experience. Last week, Jana told me that it was October 21st. I asked why the Rems even bothered to log the dates, and she just gave me a funny look and said, “Because we’re not savages.”

It’s amazing how fast your social skills deteriorate when you live alone with a bunch of skeletons for half a year. If I remember, I’ll have to ask Jana how I can prepare for the coming winter. But I’ll probably forget over the next few hours.

All the dead used to freak me out. After a couple months, I started rooting around in the tents. Tons of stuff there—but almost every one had a skeleton. Thousands. I dug a couple of mass graves outside the camp’s fence. Sometimes I’ll take the truck, give ‘em a burial.

It’s not much, but it seems better than the fate they got.

Usually, though, I leave them behind, just cover them with the tattered canvas. There’s too many for me to bury. And the Remnants sure as hell aren’t going to come and help. I don’t know what they paid that guy to drop the generator in on the first night, but I haven’t seen one of them inside the gates since. It even makes Jana uncomfortable to come to the gatehouse.

Thus far, Kid and Adriana haven’t ventured out to find me. I’ve heard no news of Blackstone, Tanner, HIVE or any of the alleged drives that Matt dropped off. I just let the issue die. The world can stay the same. Although I doubt it has, with the quake and the eruption.

I pull the charred wolf ribs off the spit just as I spot a dirt bike kicking up a storm in the distance. I look at the position of the sun and mentally note Jana’s earlier than usual arrival. Walking and eating at the same time, I manage to hit the gatehouse the same time as her.

She removes her helmet, her short hair standing on end from the sweat.

“Hope you brought that bonus,” I say.

“They could be some forks,” she says. “Seriously, Stokes.”

“What?”

“Look at yourself.”

I take stock of my greasy hands, bloodied jacket. Along with the smell, the beard, the raggedy hair, it’s probably quite the scene. Luckily no one has to deal with me except for me—Jana’s weekly expeditions notwithstanding. But I saved her life, which means she can put up with my questionable personal hygiene.

“What, I got a gala to attend later?” I say, stuffing more meat in my mouth. She puts the helmet on the dirtbike’s handlebars and lets out a long sigh. Then she removes a leather satchel from the back.

Jana doesn’t look at me as she heads into the gatehouse. “You actually got them.” She doesn’t bother to hide the surprise. I guess that’s one benefit of telling her off—she doesn’t lie to me, or hide things. Honesty can be quite refreshing.

“I told you I would.”

“This one’s rotting,” she says, holding up the slightly maimed pelt up with an index finger.

“I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.”

“It’s just a formality, really,” she says. “We can find plenty of them on our own. My father just says we owe you. And your brother.”

“In that case, I’ll use those formalities to keep warm tonight,” I say. I don’t move. I’m trying to strip every last piece of sinewy meat from the ribs. “Besides, you said someone was hurt. Got a couple supplies in there.”

Bluff called, she begins unloading the satchel. Pint bottle filled with gasoline. Couple bags of jerky—from unknown sources. Could be crow, vulture, maybe a little mouse. Doesn’t matter. Tastes better than protein powder.

“Who was it,” I say as she drops a handful of shells on the counter with a
clink
.

“Who was what?”

“Who was it that got hurt?”

“You don’t know them,” she says, like I don’t care. And she’s right. I don’t, not really, I’m just curious.

“How’d it go down?”

“Someone stole a key to one of our vaults,” Jana says. She looks up, green eyes shimmering. “Wasn’t you, was it?”

“I was out hunting Buck the wolf, feeling the call of the wild, so no.”

“I didn’t think you could read,” Jana says. She finishes with a couple pills used to decontaminate water. I don’t know what the hell Damien Ford did down here, but drinking the water straight is a bad idea. I’ve gotten a bit of a tolerance to it—enough, at least, to eat the wolves that drink the water—but first time I did it, I was laid up for three days.

Jana begins stuffing the pelts in the satchel, along with the medical supplies.

“I don’t see any bonuses,” I say.

“It’s on the bike.” She doesn’t look at me, just keeps moving. “Grab it quick, I gotta head back.”

“In a rush, are we?”

This time Jana looks up, honing in on me with those green eyes. “Someone’s dying, Stokes.”

“Right, right.” I walk over to the dirt bike and rustle through the side pockets.

“Bottom one,” she says. “Don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to you.”

“The old man should tell you to be nicer,” I say. “Build a better customer-service relationship, here.”

“Vlad lets me decide how to handle you.” She always calls him Vlad, never Father or Dad or Pops or anything affectionate. Wonder why. “So far, we haven’t had any problems.”

I crouch in the cracked road on one knee and open the bottom pocket. The silver button pops slightly as it unhooks. Digging my hand in, I touch what I think is paper and a pen.

“I already got plenty of office supplies,” I say, taking my hand out.

“Just look at it, Stokes.” Jana hoists the satchel on to her shoulder and walks briskly towards me. “Or leave it. Doesn’t matter to me.” She gets on the bike and fires up the motor. “Last chance. I don’t think he meant to leave it behind, but I figure, you know, he would want you to have it.”

With an unenthused expression, I reach back down and take out my prized bonus. A plain metal pen is hooked over the cover of a small black leather journal. As the dirt bike speeds off, leaving me in a cloud of dust, I turn the pen over.

It says
Property of Matthew Stokes
.