Wasteland Wonderland - Part 1 (4 page)

“She didn’t tell me anything,” I say.

She didn’t get a chance. She was scared. She
said she knew secrets. And those secrets got her killed.
Information and knowledge that she possessed but wasn’t supposed
to.

I’m slowly figuring this out.

I’m slowly realizing that this is big… that
it goes all the way to the very top. That not even the Enforcers
know what’s going on.

They are in the dark as well.

We all are.

“We tracked her here,” the Enforcer says as
he struggles to breathe. “She made it through the tunnels, through
the Long Tunnel. Don’t know how she got out.”

“Wait. Are you saying there are tunnels
connecting this place to Wonderland?”

“Of course there is. How do you think we move
around so freely?”

“Why the hell does no one else know about
these tunnels? Do you realize how much easier it would be to
transport people through an underground tunnel? Would’ve made my
job a whole lot easier. It would’ve saved lives.”

“This tunnel isn’t for Wastelanders.”

“Figures. Typical Wonderland bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit. It’s necessary. We need
to secure the borders. The gates. The more gates we have to secure,
the more at risk we are of being overrun. If we become overrun, the
whole system breaks down. If the system breaks down, then no one is
leaving Earth.”

I see blood beginning to pool underneath him.
The pool is growing. “Look, you don’t have long. Who was she?”

“I… I don’t know. But I do know she was
someone important. She belonged to the Collector. But it makes no
difference. She was the first to leave Wonderland. Things are going
to change now.”

“What things?”

“What do you care? You’re a dead man.”

He’s right. No point in worrying about things
that won’t affect me. “How many Enforcers are in the city?”

“A lot. A small army. Too many for even
you.”

And I think maybe this guy has heard of me.
“Who poisoned her?”

“What do you mean?”

I hold the knife in front of his face. “Do
not lie to me. Do not play dumb.”

“I was just on clean up and containment duty.
Orders were passed down the line. From the top. The very top.”

“Just give me a damn name. I want a name. And
I want a reason. Why was she killed?”

“What are you playing at?”

The Enforcer is genuinely confused…

“I just want the truth,” I say. “Who killed
her?”

“You did! You crazy son of a bitch. You
killed her, you goddamn psychopath!”

The frame is good. This guy still believes
it…

“What did they tell you?” I ask. “What were
your orders?”

“Like I said, we were told to bring you in.
Dead or alive. Preferably alive. Find out if you talked to
anyone.”

This guy knows nothing. He doesn’t know the
why of it and he doesn’t know who the killer is. Hell, he thinks
I’m the killer. I guess a lot of people think I’m the killer. Maybe
everyone. Well, not everyone. Not whoever set this frame up.

“You killed a very important person,” he
says. “A highly prized possession of the Collector. We can’t have
people finding out there’s a leak coming from Wonderland. That she
escaped. That she
wanted
to leave.”

He’s giving away more good intel. I think he
knows he’s dying. And I know he’s telling the truth. He’s telling
the truth because there’s no rhyme or reason in keeping secrets at
this point.

“She escaped?” I ask. “Why did she escape?
What did she escape from?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

I shake my head. “No. Why would anyone want
to escape from Wonderland?”

He closes his eyes. “You really don’t know.
No one knows.”

“Knows what?”

“Trust me, you’re better off not knowing…
you’re better off. Everyone is better off.”

“Who’s the tall guy with the scar over his
left eye?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes. I do.”

I pick him up by his shoulders. He goes limp.
I shake him. But he’s dead. His eyes roll back in his skull, white
and lifeless. There’s a massive pool of blood on the ground.

I lay him down gently because there’s no
point in disrespecting a dead man.

I’m better off not knowing. Everyone is better off…

What the hell was he talking about?

I climb back up into the train carriage, back
into the bar. And there’s no time to think about what the dead
Enforcer just told me, because his partner, the one he warned me
about, is waiting at the other end of the carriage.

The Mercs are still there as well. Still as
hungry as ever.

The Enforcer throws a big and heavy bag on
the floor. The bag lands with the unmistakable sound of clinking
metal.

This is a big bag full of forged steel.

The Enforcer says, “Cut him up. Bring me his
head. The reward just doubled.”

And now the Mercs are armed with hatchets and
axes. Knives and machetes. There were even a couple of swords.

I am always surprised to see a sword. Swords
look awesome, they look fabulous and intimidating and all that, but
down here, in the confines of the Buried City, they are not the
most practical of weapons.

Anyway, the reward just doubled. And the eyes
of the Mercs go so big at the thought of all their problems going
away, with the promise of riches, of food and water and booze and
whatever the hell they want.

It could even be a retirement fund. Maybe
even a ticket for the Shuttle, for a place on one of the Arks.

Most of these guys know me. And I think most
of these guys like me, but a reward is a reward. Payment is
payment.

I understand that it’s nothing personal…

Well, it’s nothing personal until the knife
goes in.

So I take a deep breath, the kind of breath
you take just before you’re about to dive in a pool of water.

My eyes go wide. Pupils dilate. I am razor
focused.

I’m ready for the fight.

Apart from the fight at the hotel, at the
scene of Ruby’s murder, it’s been years since I’ve been in a fight
like this.

Years
.

But I’m ready.

I move through the carriage, breaking limbs,
breaking faces.

These guys are Mercs. They work for hire, for
money and goods and services. Which I guess makes them
professionals.

But they are not professionals.

They are anything but…

And with a knife in their hand, with any kind
of edged weapon in their hand, they become predictable and
pathetic. Most of them swing the weapon with their right hand. And
they don’t bother protecting their head with their left. As a
result, they don’t last long.

None of them put up much of a fight.

I don’t mind. It’s nice just to get the
feeling back, to get moving.

I crack skulls. I crack teeth. I could use
the guns that I’ve acquired to mow these guys down, but I don’t
want to waste the bullets and I don’t need to.

I get my hands on a knife and things get
bloody and messy. Like I said, it’s been years since I’ve been in a
fight.

I’d forgotten how good it feels.

It feels good.

So good.

All the old feelings come roaring back. The
muscle memory is still there. There’s an adrenalin rush that feels
like lightning in my veins. And I can see why I used to be addicted
to this, addicted to violence.

My brother was the one who stopped me from
fighting. From killing. He saved me from myself, from a life of
death. I’d been working for the gangs, for all of them, playing
both sides. All sides. Even in the Buried City, there’s an
underworld, a dangerous underworld full of dangerous people. I
didn’t care who I played or who I crossed. I made fools of them
all.

I thought I was invincible.

And then they put a price on my head.

It’s hard to live in an underground city when
three different crime bosses want you dead.

My brother paid the bounty in full. Cleared
my name. Saved my life. He arranged the Exile. He made sure all the
bosses were happy. They were happy because they all thought I was
going to die out in the Wasteland. Being Exiled is a death sentence
most of the time, for most people.

But I am not most people.

I survived the Wasteland. I survived the
Exile.

When I returned, I began working with my
brother in the transportation business. Carting the good people of
the Wasteland and from the Buried City and from the Canyons off to
Wonderland, one step closer to the Arks, one step closer to
salvation.

And for a while, business was booming.

Sure, we had our fair share of trouble from
the Wasteland Raiders, but nothing me and my brother couldn’t
handle.

Apart from helping people, it felt good to
have a purpose. It felt good to be doing something with my life,
working hand in hand with my brother.

The pay was good as well.

And then five years ago, the work dried up,
just like everything else on Earth.

The word out of Wonderland was that the
Shuttles had broken down. They had been working overtime, they had
been working non-stop for decades. They needed maintenance.
Apparently they were stationed at Mars, the Moon. Apparently the
best engineers were working on them around the clock.

But then the story changed. The story became
that the Arks had moved further and deeper into the Solar System.
The return trip the Shuttles were making was taking longer.

A lot longer.

Years longer.

I don’t know about other people, but I get
suspicious when stories change.

My brother didn’t believe it either. He knew
something was wrong. He knew there was something they weren’t
telling us. But there was nothing we could do.

Nothing to do but sit and wait.

Wait for the Shuttles.

Wait to be processed through Wonderland.

Wait for our number to be called.

Anyway, because the work dried up, because
there was no one being processed, my brother and I were forced into
early retirement. And I was once again living a wasted and
directionless life. I was a man with no purpose. I was once again
slipping into the underworld of the Buried City.

Well, I’ve got a purpose now…

I need to find out who killed Ruby. I need to
make them pay for what they did. And maybe in the process, I’ll
find some goddamn answers. Maybe I’ll find out what Ruby was
running from, the reason she escaped from Wonderland.

I’m breathing hard, smiling, laughing.

I’m standing over a pile, a train carriage
full of dead bodies, dead Mercs. A pile of edged weapons. Apart
from the dead bodies, which in themselves are quite valuable… for
their organs, their skin, teeth, and hair. And other things that
I’m not even going to mention.

All these knives, machetes, hatchets.

The two swords.

This forged steel is another fortune. I guess
Lisa will get a nice surprise when she cleans up this place. It’ll
more than cover the cost of the damage.

I take out the rapid fire gun. I’ve never
seen a gun like this, never fired one. But I want to get a feel for
it. I want to see what it can do. So I aim it at the carriage
door.

The windows on the door have been blacked
out, so I can’t actually see anything. But I’d bet good money, I’d
bet a ticket to Ark America that the Enforcer who supplied all this
steel is waiting in the next carriage. He’ll be waiting right
behind the door.

No need to hide or take cover.

Arrogant son of a bitch. I can’t blame him.
Unlike these poor and desperate and dead fools, he doesn’t know
me.

I take careful aim at the carriage door, at
the blacked out window. I squeeze the trigger.

The silenced barrel reduces the noise of the
gunshot significantly. It probably slows the bullet down as well.
Regardless, the bullet leaves a clean little hole in the reinforced
glass of the window. I hear a shout of pain. A cry of pain. A body
falls to the floor. And just as I suspected, the Enforcer wasn’t
taking cover.

I step through the door, sliding it open.

The Enforcer is dying from a bullet wound to
his neck.

He has two hands wrapped around his own
throat in a completely useless attempt to stop the bleeding.

He sees me coming. One hand reaches for his
gun, but he can’t pick it up, his fingers are covered in too much
blood. The weapon slips out of his hand.

I move towards him.

Slowly.

I see fear in his eyes.

Fear and shock.

He didn’t expect to die today. He didn’t
expect any of this.

I step on his hand to make sure he doesn’t
pick up the gun. I hear bones crunch under my boot.

He opens his mouth to scream. Blood pours
out.

I kneel down next to him and pick up the
blood covered gun. I shake my head in disbelief. I now have three
guns. Three small fortunes.

“So, you need to tell me what’s going on,” I
say. “Why all the desperation? Why all the steel?”

“Get the fuck away from me.”

“Look, I can end your pain. I can end your
suffering. But you need to give me a name. You need to tell me
who’s supplying the weapons. You need to tell me who set this whole
thing up.”

“I’m not going to tell you a goddam
thing.”

These guys have all been trained to say the
same thing. To resist torture. To endure unfathomable and
unspeakable pain.

“I know you don’t really like me much right
now,” I say. “But I just want you to know this is not
personal.”

I say this to try and get on his good side.
It doesn’t work.

“You’re a monster,” he spits. “You’re a
monster who beats people to death and kills women for no good
reason.”

I take the gun. His gun. I press it against
his stomach. I unload two shots at point blank range. He doubles
over in the fetal position, screaming and crying for his
mother.