Ruins of the Fall (The Remants Trilogy #2) (6 page)

I’m woken by a pistol’s snout jabbing me in the ribs. I stumble from the truck’s cab without protest, awkwardly wiping sleep from my eyes as I take in the surroundings. Midday light seeps through the gray sky, casting an ominous pall over the bleak horizon.

“So this is the Gunpowder Hills,” I say. Jana’s already gone. Hopefully to grovel to Vlad, and convince him that I’m their one and only hope. But seeing this place, I don’t feel that hope is even in the Remnants’ vocabulary. Somewhere like this, it would be a suicidal ideal to uphold.

“Move it, traitor,” Mirko says with gruff insistence, almost sending me into the dirt. Now acclimated to his rough tricks, I manage to stand upright. “You’re about to get what’s fit for a dog like you.”

I’m herded past a crowd of Remnants leaning up against a section of the outer gate which has been fashioned from two-story crushed cars. They shoot me a look of utter disgust. But there are bigger problems—like what’s inside the gates. Steel creaks and groans, forming an open channel just wide enough to fit a cargo truck. A dirt bike heads my way through the narrow corridor of twisted metal.

I shield my eyes from the high beams. My heart pounds, but I don’t try to dive out of the bike’s path. Been through too much to run and hide. Two feet before the bike kneecaps me, the driver brings it to a screeching kick stop. A shower of rocks bounces off my face.

I blink, but don’t move. The grip on my shoulder tightens as Mirko stands at attention. I know I’m expected to demonstrate the same reverence. But I make it a point not to, even though deep down I’m wondering what the hell it’s like to die. Wondering just why the hell Jana decided to go with option one after all.

Then again, dying shouldn’t be that scary. If death is simply the experience of unreality, then I’ve been well-prepared by the past three years. But philosophical notions die hard when you’re smacked in the face with the stench of gas, sweat and fear.

The rider dismounts. He wears all black, his green eyes shining out from beneath the endless folds of fabric. His outfit is punctuated by a thin red band around his neck that resembles a rugged scarf. The bike purrs behind him. Guess he’s prepared to make a quick getaway if I don’t have what he wants.

“So we finally meet,” the man says, his gaze fixated on me as he steps closer. We’re almost nose-to-nose. He’s a little taller than me, heavier, too. Or it could be the clothing. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble.”

“Don’t tell me I’m the reason this shithole exists.” I gesture towards the compound, past the massive walls of scrap.

“My daughter warned me about your smart mouth.” A gleaming pistol materializes from beneath his flowing garb. But the gun’s pointed the wrong way, the barrel gripped between his fingers. The stock rushes out, catching me in the temple and sending me face first to the ground.

Daughter
.

“You’re Vlad,” I say, my mouth feeling like its full of cotton balls. I reach out to grab his pant leg, but he brushes me away. Blood dribbles from my mouth into the ruined soil. I get to my knees, feeling the coarse dirt mixing with the open wound.

“Consider this your trial,” Vlad says with a detached cool. When I look up, I see black fabric flapping in the gentle wind. I’m suddenly aware that many of the Gunpowder Hills’ citizens have filtered out of the gates.

“Your brother was our savior,” Vlad says, with a shocking amount of reverence. “But we’d be foolish to believe you’re cut from the same cloth.”

“You’re not the first one I’ve fooled,” I say, unable to resist. Bracing myself for the inevitable lash of his pistol, I’m surprised when, instead, Vlad drags me up and dusts me off. His eyes search mine, and I detect the faintest hint of amusement—like this situation has a certain air of tragic comedy that only the two of us have noticed.

“We’re a fair sort,” Vlad says. “You got a minute to explain why we shouldn’t execute you.”

About to topple over, woozy from the first smack to the head, I search the crowd for answers. Hundreds of green eyes stare back at me, some from bare heads, others from behind the thick fabric protecting them from the harsh plains.

No solutions reveal themselves. I look for Evelyn and Carina—or even Jana—but find no respite in the throng of unfamiliar faces. Strangely, my heart doesn’t hammer or skip.

I offer an easy shrug. “I don’t think there’s a compelling case.”

My honesty throws him off. He opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. Finally, he says, “Twenty seconds, Mr. Stokes. Your life could be a short one.”

I stroke my chin. The cuffs rattle lightly. What life awaits me, even if I manage to survive? Constant struggle doesn’t sound particularly wonderful. But then, that’s what life has always been, always will be: a series of insurmountable challenges that just about break us.

Unless you don’t let ‘em.

“Five seconds.”

“Because I have the cure to your disease,” I say. I feel the crowd tense. Years of scraping by has taught them to be cautious. “Not what Ford did to you. What everyone else is
gonna
do.”

A murmur bursts through the crowd at the mention of Damien Ford’s unspoken atrocities. Suffice to say, he’s not revered in these parts. It takes a little contorting, but I remove the paper Atlas gave me from my back pocket. It flutters in the slight breeze when I reach out to hand it to Vlad.

“Zero,” Vlad says with expressionless nonchalance. “Time’s up.”

“Read it.”

“Perhaps you should have stated your case more eloquently.”

“You want to stop running, you better read the fucking paper,” I say, turning around slowly so that everyone gets a look at my face. I brandish the paper above my head, like it holds the secrets to life itself. In truth, I haven’t looked at what Atlas gave me. It could be nothing. Or it could be proof that I’m worth more than an entertaining public spectacle. “Anyone know what that is?
Living
? What you know is
survival
. This is your ticket out.”

And mine too—but that’s irrelevant. When you make the sale, it’s always about what they want. And this, well, it’s what I would call a compelling offer. Door number one—executing me to sate their bloodlust, that outcome is known. The Remnants will continue being hunted by the recently formed New Allied States. But door number two promises change. Maybe disaster, perhaps indescribable joy—either way, life will never be the same.

I set my feet into the cracked soil and stare at Vlad. “So.”

Vlad finally takes the paper and opens it. “Who gave you this?”

“You said it yourself,” I say, “My brother was your savior. This is straight from him. He wrote the code. I’m just delivering the message.”

It’s difficult arguing with your own words. Particularly when you’ve made a proclamation to your entire tribe. Vlad carefully creases the paper down the middle and places it inside a fold in his desert garments.

“This will be taken to the council.” Vlad smiles and gets on the bike. “We’ll have a decision by tonight.”

He revs the engine and speeds away, leaving me coughing. The crowd disburses, everyone throwing hasty glances towards me. I feel Mirko’s rough hands around my neck. Then I’m dragged away, through the narrow metal gates, into the heart of the Gunpowder Hills.

I only catch a brief glimpse of the Remnants’ fiefdom as I’m pulled through the dusty streets. Gas powered lamps flicker in the hazy afternoon light. Generators hum and crackle. A thin smog hangs over the settlement, from all the families in tight proximity.

The scent of life permeates everything. It’s not ugly, but it’s also not pleasant. This is what strikes me as most unreal—and yet, most appealing—about my time in HIVE. Everything smelled beautiful. But alas, life is messier. Far more similar to the third or fourth fuck of the night than the glorious first.

Mirko and his fellow soldiers pull me to the end of one of the narrow streets and toss me inside a single-story residence that resembles the others.

Mirko walks inside and takes a small key from his pocket.

It dangles in front of my nose as he says, “Hold your hands up.”

I offer him my cuffed wrists. “So you decided to let me go,” I say. “Well done.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

The building shakes as Mirko bolts the door from the outside.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Miss me already?” I say. When I squint to look at my dark surroundings, the cut at my temple hurts.

“You best pray,” his gruff voice says with relish. “If that’s your thing.”

Mirko’s buddy says, “The council don’t overturn nothing.”

“You were a dead man the minute you came here, Stokes,” Mirko says. There’s a long pause. “And don’t drink the water.”

With that, they stomp away, leaving me in a square, almost empty room. Haggard beams of light scrape and claw their way in through a shoebox-sized window in the far corner. It’s just as well that the place isn’t brimming with illumination. A rat scurries over my foot as I walk towards the rickety bench along the wall.

I don’t even jump. I’m too tired to be bothered.

“They caught you too, eh buddy?” I say to my four-legged friend.

The rat hisses, its green eyes probing the depths of my tortured soul before it plunges into a hole. Damien Ford, it would seem, did a number on everything in these parts. Or so the books said—the official record can be unreliable at best. It’s hard to believe one man is responsible for laying waste to an entire section of a country.

Aside from the bench, there’s a tiny furnace in the corner and a stack of wood. Some water sits in a pot on the single burner stove. Tasting dried blood, I head to the stove in order to wash up. Touching the water with my cracked fingertips makes me realize how frigid and tired I truly am. Adrenaline dulls the true nature of your surroundings, but it always subsides. Now, I am staring reality in the face for the first time in three years.

The realization is powerful enough that I almost have to sit down. Instead, with shaking hands, I place logs inside the furnace. Take a little kindling from the nearby pile, arrange it just so. Work the striker until the pile erupts into a crackling ball of flame.

I stare into the rusted pot. The water looks normal.

I’m tempted to drink it straight away, but Mirko’s strange warning gives me pause. So I step away and, as I walk towards the bench, I crumple to one knee. Hallucinations jump across my vision.

The pot hisses and spits, boiling over. How much time has passed?
Sizzle
. Steam fills the air.

The bursts of light continue as I clutch my knees to my chest. Ramses, Evelyn, Carina, Seattle— they all pass by in a blur. Matt’s memories—of the Gifted Minds Institute, of his efforts to distribute HIVE—pulse in between the hallucinations. Mostly colors, fragments of a ruined scrapbook. I see a final image, this one clear. An old highway sign. I-5.

When I open my eyes, I’m covered in sweat on the dirty floor. The small space is filled with the acrid scent of torched metal. I stagger over to the stove and take the empty pot off. It burns my hand, and I scream.

The door opens.

“I thought you were dying,” Jana says in a hushed whisper as the ancient hinge creaks. “The guard called me over. You look like hell.”

“See how you look after you’ve been in jail.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” She comes closer. The glow of the dying fire gives the tattoo on her face a little color.

“You come to apologize?”

“Why?” She reaches into her waistband and takes out a bottle of water. Tosses it to me. Even though the throw is slow as hell, I drop it. “What do I have to be sorry for?”

I don’t answer, since I’m busy scrambling for the water. Once I get the cap off, I drink the entire thing in a single gulp. Liquid streams down my chin. I can taste blood and dirt, but it doesn’t matter. This drink is about the best one I’ve had in my life.

When my thirst is sated, I realize how much my palm hurts from the pot. One problem solved, another one immediately steps in to assume the mantle.

“No rest for the wicked,” I say beneath my breath.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Life’s funny.”

“Yeah, it’s hilarious,” Jana says. She scowls when she finds the blackened pot. “You try to burn the place down?”

“Why are you here?”

“I came to explain my plan.”

“Oh,” I say, starting a slow clap, only to immediately regret it. “Since you’re so good at following plans.”

“You can’t just walk up and kill Vlad. There are
rules
.”

“Clearly,” I say.

“That’s not how things work around here,” she says. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Forget it,” she says, and turns to leave.

I rush over, not because I’m so eager to talk, but because I’m thinking about something else. I grab her arm lightly and say, “Sorry.”

“Don’t try this bullshit on me, Luke.”

“What’s that?”

“I saw your little harem. They’re staying across the street.”

“You give me a little too much credit,” I say, dropping my hand from her wrist. “I want to hear the plan.”

“You do?”

“I mean shit, sending you best chance of survival within an inch of the gallows is brilliant. I’ve gotta know more.”

“Fuck you,” Jana says.

“You should trust me.” I put my hand on her shoulder, making sure her eyes are locked with mine. With my other hand, I work through the folds in her clothing. I’m not sure what I’m hunting for, but any tools I don’t have are a good place to start. “I saved your life, remember?”

“But you’re not family.”

“Your family is gonna get you killed.” My fingers snake past a leather scabbard.
Knife.
That could be helpful. But I’m greedy, and keep moving. Because I remember she has something that will force her to go all-in, plans be damned.

The HoloBand.

See, we’re still at the point where there’s still an idea in her head that, maybe, her father was right all along. The plan may have changed—since I’m no longer a tradable asset for anything worthwhile to the Remnants—but the sentiment remains. If the first plan was a good one, then his new plan, to execute me as a message to everyone else, must also be sound.

So I think a little demonstration is in order. Symbolism is clearly big amongst the Remnants, and this will make a clear statement. About what I truly think about the direction their faction is headed.

She moves slightly, and I almost bump into her waist. Instead, I pinch her shoulder.

“Ow, what the hell.”

“I’m trying to bring you back to reality, here,” I say. Got it. The HoloBand, in its little protective case, is in her back pocket. Nothing to it. Easy trick. My fingers pass by the scabbard again, and I can’t resist. I push slightly on her skin with my visible hand, my fingers tracing her shoulder. “Right here.”

“Don’t do this, Luke,” she says, her breath getting softer. “I can’t. I have a plan.”

“You still haven’t said much about that.” I reach my head closer, towards her lips. At the last moment, she pushes me away. I quickly palm the HoloBand as I stumble backwards. A loud expletive masks the clatter of the knife.

I fall on the blade to cover it up, pretending to be hurt.

“You could’ve just said you weren’t interested.” I hold up my arm, where the knife nicked me. Blood runs down. It looks a lot worse than it is. But, then again, that was the plan. I knew she wouldn’t kiss me. Her heart is beating a million different ways, and she doesn’t even like me. That’s a luxury the plains don’t afford.

“I need to go,” she says, her face flushed. She pauses before she reaches the door. “I was going to get Atlas to testify on your behalf. That was the plan.”

“Then you should’ve brought him along for the ride.”

“I didn’t think of it until now,” she says, and then rushes out of the room.

Which is when I realize that I’ve been wrong about one thing.

The Remnants do hope, they do dream, they do imagine, they do plan—just like anyone else.

They’re just not very good at it.

I wipe the blood off my arm and test the tip of the knife. I’m not sure where the blade will land, but I am sure of one thing.

I’m not accepting any verdicts without a damn fight.