Ruins of the Fall (The Remants Trilogy #2) (12 page)

The only words Evelyn and I share for the next thousand miles involve where we should head next. We both agree that the Lost Plains are still the Remnants’ domain, despite the march of the NAS. If we stay, they have a good chance of tracking us down. Now seems like a good time to go where no one can find us.

Heading directly towards the Gray Desert is one option. But with Blackstone’s search party already coming through the wreckage—and maybe a new faction lying in wait—we can’t just waltz across the border. And after what happened, we need time to regroup and plan our next move.

So me and Evelyn agree on the destination. Then I drive straight through. We only stop when the fuel light comes on. Evelyn’s plan wasn’t perfect, but she did the best she could under the circumstances. Still, the guilt is clearly etched into her face. It might never go away.

Periodically, I’ll look over at Carina’s pale face. She looks peaceful, like she’s just taking a nap. Her silver chain rattles with a gentle
clink
every time we hit a pothole or tree branch—which is pretty often. The sound makes a lump form in my throat.

Eventually, we coax the bullet-riddled truck to a dilapidated border station with rows of tollbooths. A sign announces that we should have our passports ready. But as we pass through the ruined gates, no one tries to stop us. Supposedly the only place in the world with any human survivors is the North American Circle—excuse me, the New Allied States.

Which makes the Frozen Wastes as good a place to hide out as any. The place has earned its name. The weather around the waystation high-rise resembled a tropical retreat in comparison to the permafrost chill that passes for weather here. The truck’s temperature sensor stopped working fifty miles ago, but last I checked, it was thirty below. Translucent white ice coats everything.

Once we’re clear of the tollbooths, I pull off a few miles ahead, at an abandon rest stop. Rows and rows of battery pods—to charge electric cars—sit dormant, ready to service vehicles that will never come again.

“I need to patch this window,” I say, teeth chattering as I open the door. I almost slip when I step down from the cab. Evelyn follows me towards the cargo bed, lifting up the canvas so that I can search through our supplies.

“She was a nice girl,” I say. “Carina.”

“That’s all you can say?”

“She wasn’t a church mouse between the sheets.”

Evelyn laughs, although it’s tinged with sadness. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“Life’s a bitch.”

“Nice philosophy.”

“It’s not all bad,” I say, rummaging through a toolbox. Finding nothing, I slam it against the side. “It’s not your fault.”

Her gloved hands squeeze my shoulders. “We’ll have to let it go.”

“I don’t even want to kill Jana,” I say, emerging from beneath the canvas. I’ve found nothing that will help patch the windows. “I should, but—everyone’s just trying to survive. In their own way.”

I glance back at the cab, where Carina’s brown hair, slightly matted with blood, presses against the rear windshield.

“We’re almost out of fuel,” Evelyn says, her voice choked up. “We won’t reach the Gray Desert with what we have.”

“Add it to the list of supplies,” I say. “Some big guns would be nice, too.”

I rub my face and look at the rest stop. It’s covered in graffiti—French, from what I can tell—and doesn’t look particularly inviting. Ramses walks along the frozen concrete, urging me to follow him inside.

“At least she won’t have to see these visions,” I say. “I don’t know how much longer I got, Ev.”

“It’ll be all right.”

But neither of us really believe that. Eventually, we settle on cutting up the canvas. Evelyn lines it with Carina’s parka before we set out on the road again.

I find myself worrying that she’ll be cold.

It’s gonna be hard to let things go.

Two consecutive nights of driving straight through is an unpleasant proposition. With a wordless conversation, Evelyn and I decide to set up camp in an abandoned country house. I pull the truck around back, hiding it behind the skeletal remains of the ruined garage.

After I check to make sure the house is empty, we unload the few things we’ll need for the night.

On our last trip, Evelyn stops before we reach the stairs.

“We have to bury her.”

I wipe my nose and let out a long sigh. It’s a few moments before I can form words. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“She loved you, Luke.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I can’t face her. But from the words, I realize that, over the past month, Carina and Evelyn got close. True friendship, despite their differences. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I’ll start a fire,” Evelyn says. “There’s a wood stove inside.”

“Keep it small.”

She nods, then walks up the stairs without another word. I head towards the cargo bed and grab a shovel. After trekking into the middle of a ruined field that once bore crops, I slam the shovel against the hard ground.

I might as well be trying to dig a hole through concrete. Two minutes later, the tip of the shovel is bent beyond repair. Unleashing a disgusted stream of expletives, I fling it across the barren landscape.

Despair might not be helpful in a moment like this, but it’s hard to have hope. My last ally has turned against me, killed one of the only friends I had left in this word. A bitter grin creases my cracked lips.

Was Carina a friend?

Is Evelyn my friend?

Perhaps a construct like friendship is antiquated. The modern world is like mercury—it slithers away the moment you think you have it corralled. Alliances between entire factions change with quicksilver ease. What that says about the bonds between individuals, I don’t know.

The pale moon claws through the cloudy sky, casting forlorn slivers of light across the field. As I stare into nothingness, the smell of wood smoke from the house gives me an idea. I return to the truck and rummage through our remaining supplies. This might be a waste of things we’ll need later, but maybe holding on to a piece of your humanity is more important.

Or we could’ve been fooling ourselves all along—maybe we were always savages.

My fingers locate a box of shotgun shells buried in one of the food satchels. These will do.

I return to the middle of the field, shells, a rope soaked in diesel fuel and a book of matches clutched in my hands. Using the ruined shovel, I managed to etch out a divot in the frozen ground. It’s no more than a quarter foot deep, but it feels like a major accomplishment.

In this hole, I pile the shells over the end of the fuel covered rope. Then I unfurl the rope until I’m a safe distance away. After a few false starts with the matches, I manage to get one lit. I drop it onto the rope. An orange flame greedily sprints across the fuel-soaked fibers. It’s not long after that before a small explosion erupts.

Evelyn rushes out of the house without her jacket. She’s holding a .38.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I stare at the dying orange flame. “Burying her.”

It takes a moment for her to put everything together. Then she simply says, “Dinner’s waiting when you’re done.”

The soil isn’t forgiving, but the explosion has widened a hole and warmed the ground just enough for me to actually dig. It’s a shallow grave, but it’s the best I can do. Deeper down, the cold earth simply won’t give at all.

When I pat the last bit of frozen soil down, I kneel and close my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing Carina’s metal chain between my fingers.

Then I rise up and walk inside, where I find Evelyn hard at work, hacking apart a chair.

“Needed it for the fireplace,” she says. “And then I figured…”

I walk around the table, so that her work isn’t clouded in shadow.

It’s a cross, small and slightly asymmetrical.

“Neither of us care, but she thought God was looking out for her.” Evelyn shrugs. “Guess she was wrong, but still.”

“She would’ve liked that.”

Before the ground freezes again, I walk back out and push the cross into the soil.

I don’t believe it, but I say, “Maybe death is a better fate.”

Then I head back to the house and shut the door.

Because, for some reason, I still want to figure out how to stay alive.

It’s funny how quickly the human body adjusts. When morning comes, my thick clothes are stuck to my skin from sweat. The stove’s glowing embers are almost dead, but I still want to strip everything off. It can’t be more than zero degrees.

Evelyn is still asleep, huddled in one of the few chairs we didn’t sacrifice to the fire.

Careful not to wake her, I sneak past into the house’s foyer. The stairs leading to the second floor have rotted away from decades of abandonment. Whatever secrets remain up there, I won’t ever find them.

I look past the stairwell, towards the kitchen. Dawn light filters in through the streaked windows. Before the kitchen, there’s a door leading to a cellar. We briefly entertained the idea of exploring it last night, but going too far from the fire was a non-starter for us both.

I push the door open, the hinges creaking. White paint flicks off and crumbles when I touch the surface. I take the steep stairs one at a time, cautiously putting about half my weight on each to test the structural integrity. They groan and protest, but I manage to make it down with breaking an ankle.

Thin slivers of light cut through a dirty window in the corner. The floor is unfinished concrete, stained by dirt. A washing machine and dryer sit idly, rust gnawing at their edges. Nothing moves, and I get the impression that I’m the first living creature to set foot down here in years.

Methodically, I work my way around the basement. The pantry shelves are bare, nothing but empty bottles and barren sacks of grain. Behind the washer I find a rusted shotgun. It’s probably no good, but I take it anyway.

A scream cuts through the morning tranquility. Clutching the flaking metal firearm tight in my hands, I pound up the stairs—caution be damned—and race towards the living room.

“You bitch. Nice girls don’t bite.”

“I’m not a nice girl.”

A dirty, feral looking man has his hands gripped around Evelyn’s throat. She’s kicking and gasping, but he’s got a wiry sort of quickness that allows him to get out of the way.

He looks at me, and the shotgun, and then lets go.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Don’t shoot me in my own home.”

“This isn’t your home,” I say. I don’t raise the shotgun. He must know it’s useless from its appearance. But I think he’s decided that two of us is too much to handle.

At least for now.

A patchy beard graces his face. With the wisps of hair and sheer volume of dirt caking his skin, it’s impossible to tell what he actually looks like. White eyes stare out at me, as if from behind holes in a curtain.

He gives an easy laugh. “All right, all right. Martin saw the house and wanted to take a little look.”

His clothes are threadbare—holey jeans, boots with the soles coming off. A jacket that’s not fit for a chilly fall day, let alone the temperatures here.

“You with Blackstone?” I step forward, brandishing the shotgun like a club. It might not fire any bullets, but it’s still a heavy chunk of metal.

“Who the hell’s Blackstone? Man, Martin don’t know any Blackstone.” His eyes are nervous, now. I’m more of a wildcard than he predicted. Evelyn rubs her throat and spits out a little blood.

“You okay?” I say.

“Better before this smelly bastard was around,” Evelyn says.

“No need for name calling, bitch,” the man says.

I catch him in the jaw with the shotgun stock, and he crumbles to one knee. “If you’re with Blackstone, or Slick, or Daniels, or any of them—”

“I don’t know anything, man,” he says. “Fucking hell, I saw smoke, came in to see if I could steal some food. Your girl came outta the corner and tried to hit Martin with a damn chair leg.”

I glance over, beneath the table. There’s a splintered piece of lumber sitting at an odd angle. Evelyn shrugs, still massaging her neck.

“Why didn’t you call me up,” I say.

“Thought I could handle one piece of shit,” she says.

“Again, with the names, bitch.” I raise up to hit him with the shotgun again, but he waves his hands. “All right, all right. I’ll change my ways. Martin knows how to survive.”

“Who’s Martin?” I say. “Where’s Martin?” The thought of two crack-heads scurrying around does not have me excited.

“Me,” he says, getting to his feet somewhat unsteadily. “Martin von Amsterdam the 6
th
. Got a little king’s blood on my momma’s side, way back.”

Martin’s lying, but he gets points for spinning an amusing yarn. “Okay, Martin. Why don’t you tell me why I shouldn’t leave you tied up for the wolves?”

Panic bursts across his face. “I, uh, I—well, you can’t kill Martin.” His yellow teeth flash an uneasy smile. “Martin can be pretty helpful, if you know what you’re looking for.”

I walk slowly across the room to help Evelyn up. Low, so Martin can’t hear, I say, “Get packed.”

“What are you gonna do with him?”

“Just get packed,” I say, keeping my eyes on Martin. He’s watching us with intense curiosity. Can’t blame him. His life depends on whatever I decide.

“You know
who he is, right?” Evelyn says, her lips close to my ear.

I give Martin an unfriendly smile, then shake my head. “She’s not pleased about your entrance.”

“She tried to kill Martin, though,” he says, wringing his hands together. Blackened swirls are visible around his cuticles. Tough to tell whether it’s just grime, or indicative of a larger problem. He’s got the waifish constitution of someone who hasn’t been eating much.

“He used to be in that pop-rock band,” Evelyn says, low. “Ran off the road, high on coke. Killed the lead singer of his band in the crash. They deported him, when the Frozen Wastes were still Canada.”

Martin’s sunken, unblinking eyes yearn to hear our conversation. He’s so fucked up that the poor bastard probably thinks he can do it through sheer force of will.

“Any good,” I say, in a low voice.

“What?”

“His band?”

“The Rhinoceros Pioneers,” Evelyn says. “They had that song, “Need You, Love You, Can’t Have You,” which was decent.”

I nod—not that this trivia changes the current situation. I wink at Evelyn, indicating that she should get packing.

Then I say, “You need to apologize to my friend.”

“Martin is so sorry,” he says, dropping to his knees, his voice taking on a pathetic whine. “I’m so sorry.” He crawls on the floor towards me boots and places his head on the leather, rubbing it like a loyal pet. “Please don’t kill me.”

He looks up at me with the most pathetic hang-dog look. The pupils are pinned as hell, which is when I realize that Martin has no idea that this gun doesn’t work. He’s barely here. Shame he got deported before HIVE was a thing. This guy is living the analog HIVE existence. That has way more side effects, judging from his appearance.

Somewhere, Ramses barks. I ignore the hallucination, gripping the rusted shotgun tight.

“You said you can be helpful.”

“I can’t be helpful,” Martin says. “But Martin can be helpful.”

I don’t have time for his rock-god alternate ego thing.

“If Martin doesn’t cut the bullshit, he’s gonna be left for the wolves, okay?” Evelyn slips past through the hallway door. A frigid burst of wind streams into the room, making me shiver. Martin barely seems to notice, but then, he’s already shaking like a leaf in a storm.

“Yeah, um, sorry man,” he says, with this
far out
kind of vibe, “it’s just that, if I think about it too much, my head hurts, you know?”

“Think about what?”

“My life,” Martin says with a sad look. Then he pukes on my boots. I kick him in the ribs and shake off my feet.

“Aw shit, come on.”

“Martin’s sorry,” he says between groans. He holds his stomach. “Morphine, man, just a little taste.”

“You don’t get shit.” I’m not going down this road again. One assisted suicide is enough for one month. I step over his body and head towards the door.

“Wait,” Martin says. “I know this place.”

“A junkie rock musician
and
an outdoorsman,” I say, pausing in the doorway. I stare at an off-skew portrait of the owner of this house. She has a severe look, no make-up, a constipated expression across her lips. Definitely wouldn’t approve of her current boarders. “You’re a regular fucking renaissance man.”

“Hey, just cause your piece of ass tried to beat Martin’s ass and he defended himself—”

I wheel around. He sloshes into his vomit, moving at what, for him, must be the speed of light.

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” I say. “You know that?”

He breaks down into sobs. “You can’t leave me. That’s the same thing.”

“You made it here. You’ll make it out.”

“Man, Martin’s been wandering for days,” he says between sniffles. “I did my last bump when I saw this place. This is the end of the road.”

“Better use those outdoor skills.”

“They’ll get me,” Martin says. “Don’t leave.”

I stare at this wasted wreck of a man, remembering Sid’s cryptic words about another faction. Then again, if these are the only two sources I have, that doesn’t exactly constitute irrefutable evidence.

“I might have a couple meds in the truck,” I say. “Maybe.”

“I tried to steal it,” Martin says. “I won’t lie. But I can’t hotwire shit.”

“Let’s focus on who’s trying to get you.”

“They don’t care about Martin,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s about the world, man.”

“
Who
.” As much as I want to continue this conversation well into the afternoon, we need to get on the road. If the soldier Jana tortured was telling the truth, a scout party is already looking for the Gifted Minds Research Institute. When they find it, it’s much game over.

“They’re settin’ up in the South,” Martin says. “All over the world.”

“Forget it,” I say. He’s clearly talking gibberish. The rest of the world was wiped out in the floods over twenty years ago. No one’s heard anything from the other continents since the North American Circle formed in 2026. Hard to communicate when you’re drowning in the rising tides.

I walk over and kneel beneath the table. Pick up the busted piece of furniture. Martin cowers like an abused dog, but I just walk past and toss it in the stove. The dying embers hiss and spark, before greedily beginning to devour the new fuel.

“Have fun by yourself,” I say. “We see you again, we’ll shoot you on sight.”

“The Oceanic Coalition,” he whispers. “They’re coming for everyone. They’re already in the Gray Desert.”

I pause before I shut the door to the wood stove. “How do you know about the Gray Desert?”

“Martin knows about lots of things,” he says, scrambling to his feet. “He can be useful.” I wince as he stumbles closer, the pungent aroma of puke, piss and rancid sweat mixing with the scent of wood smoke.

“Just, uh, just wait over there.”

“But Martin can tell you—”

“Martin can tell me from where he’s standing,” I say, covering my mouth to stifle a gag. The front porch creaks, but I don’t take my eyes off the decrepit rock star. Evelyn enters the room.

“We’re all ready to go.”

“Martin told me something interesting about the rest of the world,” I say. “Maybe Sid wasn’t lying about another faction.”

“He’s been doing hard drugs since he was fifteen, Luke,” Evelyn says. “His brain is toast.”

“Martin takes objection to that diagnosis,” he says. Then, with a smile, channeling some long-lost charisma, “But you can play nurse with me any time.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You know I wrote that song,” Martin says. “I could see it in your eyes.” He does this weak kind of rock ‘n roll pelvic thrust that, once upon a time, probably worked real good. Here, in a frozen and abandoned house at the fringes of a ruined world, it’s about as useful as a dog capable of standing on its hind legs.

“Focus, man,” I say, snapping my fingers. His eyes trace back over the room slowly, finally settling on me. “The Oceanic Coalition.”

“They’ve got a coupla outposts up here,” Martin says. “They’re planning an assault from all sides.”

“How do you know this?”

“Most people like Martin a lot more,” he says. “They talk to him. Give him food.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” I say.

“We need to move out,” Evelyn says, tapping an invisible watch on her wrist. “Over a thousand miles to go.”

Martin practically leaps at me before I’m able to react. Tugging at me coat, he says, “You’ll need Martin to make it across the Frozen Wastes.”

“I don’t think anyone’s needed Martin for a long time, now.”

“I can trade,” Martin says. “I know things about the Oshies.”

“Clever name.”

“Martin can’t take credit for it.”

“How magnanimous of him.” I shoot Evelyn a look. This guy’s craziness could be viral. I’m starting to think I’m talking to two different men, instead of one schizophrenic disaster.