Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2) (7 page)

Carter stood straight-backed, not wanting to give Orson the pleasure of taking a step backward. “You’ll see just how effective of a restraint they are,” Carter said with a smirk, returning Orson’s vitriol. “Just you wait.” He motioned for them to pick up the harness. “Let’s go.”

Something about Carter’s exchange with Orson gave Charley pause. He looked from Grigor to Orson and back to Carter, each helping to carry the massive harness as they trekked over the grassy plain and toward a bottle tree that stood in silhouette against the purple-streaked late-afternoon sky.

Charley felt on edge, and not just about the roaming animal combos.

***

“Sit.” A tattooed arm corded with muscle pointed a finger at Sven.

It wasn’t a request. Sven sat.

Inside, Sven fumed. Oddly enough, he wasn’t mad at being ordered to sit down, lined up like so many cattle in their stalls with the other Low Scores; he was used to that sort of treatment in Meritropolis. He was furious at the apathetic way in which Marta’s men had imposed their will on the camp. It was as if Marta’s men knew Sven and the dozens of other Low Scores would comply, as if they didn’t have the capacity for refusing an order; they were just faceless and nameless masses. Guiltily, Sven realized that except for Elena, the girl whose sister had been killed in Meritropolis, he hardly knew anyone’s name himself. Sven pulled his knees up to his chest, glowering under his brows at the tattooed men lazily patrolling. It was demeaning; they weren’t even considered a threat. Sven thought of Charley and Sandy and the other High Scores out hunting. No one would dare to approach them in such a carefree and casual manner. No one gave orders to Charley.

The familiar resentment bubbled up in Sven. Charley was his friend—maybe his only real friend—but it wasn’t easy when everyone could see on their forearms that Charley was more important, more useful, more of a
person
. Sven was just a nobody, a Low Score whose only merit was that his best friend had the highest score. If Charley were here—thinking of this, Sven’s face twisted into a sickening leer—if Charley were here, he wouldn’t sit on the ground taking orders from anybody. If Charley were here, there would be blood.

Sven hugged his knees, keeping his legs and his thoughts close to his chest. The men strolled mere inches by his curled-up feet, not even seeing him, little plumes of dust puffing up and drifting softly onto him. He thought back to the fall of Meritropolis. He had felt something like power then—like he was in control of his own destiny, like he was more than just a Low Score.

He had taken action. He had fought. Flames burning. The oppressive guards screaming out. It was horrendous. Yet Sven knew something deep down inside. He had liked it. It had given him a sense of control that he had never felt before, like he was the one calling the shots while everyone else scattered in fright and confusion.

Sven peeked his eyes out between his knees, looking at the glowing embers in the still-smoldering campfire. He wasn’t Charley; he had to accept that. As much as his soul chafed at being forced into a position of subservience—Meritropolis all over again—with his small frame and lack of fighting skills, it would be suicidal to get up off the ground right now.

He kept his eyes on the fire. He might be a Low Score, but he wasn’t helpless. He just needed to wait, to bide his time. If he was one thing that Charley was most certainly not, it was patient. When the time was right, someone would pay.

***

Marta was strong. Very strong. Sandy fought back a surprising wetness in her eyes, furiously rubbing her shoulder against her cheek to smudge it away. She hated herself for it, she really did. She couldn’t believe she had let this happen—and now she was a crying captive? Maybe Charley was right. Maybe she just needed to know her place: meek, submissive, and content to let Charley lead. Her back stiffened. No way. She was happy to follow Charley, but she refused to be treated like a second-class citizen—that was right back to classifying people by their Score under the System. She would show Charley and the others what she was capable of; she wouldn’t let them down like this. Even more than she already had.

If only she hadn’t been so distracted thinking about Charley and his cocky dismissal of her leadership ability. But she hadn’t even seen it coming. Once she had Sandy separated from the others, Marta had morphed into a different person. The kindly mother act was gone; the transformation coming as fast as Marta had disarmed Sandy and flipped her on her back, gasping for a breath in the dirt.

Now the shackles were on.

Marta tugged Sandy behind her carelessly. Marta’s true feelings were on full display; Sandy was only chattel to her. If Marta’s attitude wasn’t clue enough, the manacles around Sandy’s ankles and wrists cleared up any confusion as to who was now in charge.

“Step pretty now, Pretty,” Marta said, glancing over her shoulder, and yanking on the chain to hurry Sandy forward.

Sandy stumbled, but forced her head high. She needed to be aware of her surroundings, to see if she could warn Charley and the others somehow.

If it wasn’t already too late.

***

Something still seemed wrong. Charley shook it off, chalking it up to his nerves and the eerie shadows thrown off by the setting sun melting over the horizon. Garish dark shapes made from the last remaining rays of the day sliced through the skeleton branches of the bottle tree, transmuting onto the waving grass below, where Charley, Grigor, Orson, and Carter crouched ready with the harness.

They had been in this position for hours—not long at all in hunting time. Each of them had long ago grown accustomed to the cardinal tenet of hunting: you wait, a lot. Of course, hunting in the post-Event world changed this in some important ways. With many of the animal combinations imbued with an aggression toward man, if you were willing to make yourself visible, you often didn’t need to wait long.

However, as Grigor had taught them, the trick was getting noticed by the right kind of animal. They had seen chimpanzelles, stotting and chattering back and forth in a way that unnerved Charley. They had even seen a few of the hedgedogs Jameson had mentioned. Charley had recoiled inwardly when another snurtle wandered not many paces from the bottle tree, not even noticing the humans crouching at the ready. But no zippos.

The rough semblance of a plan was for Carter, or another of Marta’s men positioned in a strategic wide semicircular arc, to give the signal, via a small cone-shaped whistle that all of Marta’s men wore around their neck. That signal meant a zippo, or another form of game adequate for capture, had been sighted and they should begin to collapse inward. Hank would lead the charge by running furiously for the bottle tree and making as much noise as possible. The other men in the hunting party were equipped with great nets and clubs, while Charley and those under the tree had clubs, as well as the harness at the ready.

Charley shifted his weight, trying to increase the blood flow to his right foot, to keep it from falling asleep. He looked straight up, through the scraggly branches of the bottle tree. Was that a flap of wings overhead? He froze, eyes squinting. It was hard to tell through the upraised spines on the tree, each leafless branch with tiny fingers stretching skyward, like roots growing upward. Charley looked at the others; they hadn’t noticed anything. No, it couldn’t be wings—

The whistle blew. A sound like a horn rolled from across the savannah, piercing the stillness.

There was calm and silence for the span of a heartbeat, and then screaming. Rising with the others, Charley lifted the harness in one hand, his club in the other.

The screaming grew louder.

It sounded … human. Charley thought, like someone running for their life.

It was.

Hank pealed over a slight incline, arms pumping furiously, mouth wide open. Screaming. His eyes bulged, the whites gleaming specter-like against the darkening sky.

“Run!” Hank screamed out. “Run!”

“Some kind of High Scores you are training here,” Orson said, looking over at Grigor.

Grigor frowned. “Something’s not right here …”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Carter said. “This is supposed to be your mighty bion hunter?”

Charley looked closer. Hank’s mouth was bloody: red streaked his lips and cheeks. A deep dark mark appeared to be swelling on the side of his face.

“What the—” Orson swore under his breath, and whispered something to Grigor.

Grigor dropped the harness and turned to Carter. Before Grigor could open his mouth, the point of Orson’s sword was at Carter’s throat.

“Let’s talk about this plan again,” Orson said, his eyes appearing to suck in any remaining light in the sky. He nodded his head to Hank, now falling at their feet and babbling almost incoherently. “What in the blazes happened to him?”

Grigor bent over Hank and then rose suddenly, his voice hard. “He has marks on his wrists and ankles.”

Carter swore, looking off to the horizon. “I told Marta that we shouldn’t try for the zippo, too.”

“
Too?
” Orson repeated, his voice soft and his blade still inches from Carter’s throat.

Carter sighed. “If you’re going to kill me, go ahead and get it over with. You should know, though, that Marta likely already has your entire camp captured. If you kill me, I can’t help you.”

“
Captured?
” Charley asked, thinking instantly of Sandy, and then belatedly, and guiltily, about Sven.

“Come on, don’t you guys know anything about Meritorium?” Carter said. “We’re slavers, man. There’s way more money in selling people for the Venatio than in selling combos.”

Charley looked down at the manacles and chains that formed their
zippo harness
and thought back to some of the strange comments Carter had made. Everything clicked. Of course, how could they have been so stupid?

Hank was starting to pull himself together and got to his feet. “It’s true. They had me bound and gagged. I was bait for a zippo, or something, if it happened to come by, but their real plan was to collapse inward on you guys.”

Grigor stepped back, scanning the horizon. “That means they will be coming.”

Carter smirked. “They already
are
coming.” He looked haughtily at Charley. “And we don’t give a rip about finding the czar, or getting revenge on your brother or whatever.”

Charley’s eyes widened, momentarily rendered speechless.

Carter’s eyes locked on Charley’s, seeming to enjoy his discomfort. “What? You didn’t think we’d do a little investigative work and ask around in your camp about why you guys are even out here?” His lip curled up. “Give it a rest, dude. Your brother’s dead.”

Before he could even think, Charley stepped forward. He whipsawed his elbow viciously into Carter’s cheek, dropping him backward onto the ground. For Charley it was a natural reaction; he couldn’t really help it, not that he cared. If pain demanded to be felt, then rage demanded to be expressed.

Charley stood across Carter’s chest, towering over him like a prizefighter, then leaned down close. “Don’t talk about him.” Charley spoke softly. “Underground in Meritropolis, bullies like Hank would
raccoon
people.” Charley balled up his right fist and punched Carter square in the eye. “That’s for Hank.” He punched his other eye. “And that’s for talking about my brother.” The punches, one-two, were staccato fast and hard enough to leave a substantial mark—this he could have avoided, but he didn’t want to.

Charley backed away slowly, the anger draining away, and leaving nothing but a cold sadness in its place. “Now get off the ground.” He looked to Orson and Grigor with a shrug.

Orson looked at Grigor. “I do like your training on this one, though.”

Grigor shook his head. “I did not teach him that.”

Hank grinned crookedly, some of his usual confidence returning. “At least you learned something from me, Charley.” He paused, growing serious. “Thanks, Charley.”

“My pleasure,” Charley said, and he meant it. It was true that Hank was a bully growing up, and quite often still an insufferable jerk, but Charley couldn’t help but think that jerks have feelings, too, or something. Charley drew his blades. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get the others back before it’s too late.”

Grigor held up an outstretched hand. “We should exercise caution. I do not see any of Marta’s men yet, but visibility is very poor and growing worse as the sun sets. They are likely waiting for full dark, since presumably they already know that Hank has warned us.”

Orson stepped closer to Carter, lifted his blade casually, and twirled the tip ever so slightly, like the head of a snake bobbing and swaying. “Think carefully. What can you tell us that might—” the blade struck, poking Carter in the stomach gently, but Orson applied increasing pressure—“help
your
chances of surviving the night?”

Charley noted with some measure of pride that Carter seemed to be fighting the temptation to rub his now dark and swelling eyes.

Carter swallowed. “I’m sorry. You have to understand your High Scores are just too valuable in Meritorium. And this many Low Scores, too, and the Venatio coming up so soon? We had to; really, it’s nothing personal—”

“What is he babbling about?” Charley demanded, feeling the tickle of his temper scratch the inside of his skull again. He pushed Orson’s blade away and stepped in close to Carter. “Just tell us how we can get our people back!”

Carter smiled slowly, looking maniacal with his mask of two quickly swelling eyes. “It’s already too late.” Carter fell straight backward, reaching into his pocket to produce a vial of purple shimmery liquid. Hitting the ground flat on his back, eyes gazing straight up to the darkening star-filled sky, Carter smashed the vial on the ground.

A deep purple phloxy haze enveloped them all.

Charley sank to his knees, slowly. He tried to lift his arm toward Carter, but it remained motionless at his side, unwilling to obey the command his brain was sending. He tipped to one side, unable to resist the insistent coaxing of gravity.

He hit the ground, asleep.