Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) (13 page)

In the absence of windows, hanging on the walls were gilt-framed oil paintings of what he imagined must be copies of Russian classics. They were good copies too, all of pastoral settings. One depicted a beautiful-looking dacha and garden on a summer’s day, another showed an ox plowing a field driven by a farmer in his cart holding a clay pipe in one hand, while in yet another painting, a nobleman sat astride a large gray stallion.

At the far end of the room, a bespectacled man in his fifties and wearing a dark, crumpled suit sat behind a counter. He stared at Brogan impassively, his slightly hooded eyes giving nothing away.

“Good morning,” Brogan said, walking over to him. “Me and my friends here got some gold we want to exchange for dollars. Maybe leave some of it for safekeeping too. How do we go about doing that?”

“Depends. We got two options,” said the asset broker in a voice that matched the look on his face perfectly.

“How about you run through them for us?”

“First option. If you’re looking to deposit your gold for safekeeping, there’s a ten percent fee. That’s up front,” the broker replied, speaking in a strong New York accent. Brogan guessed he was from Brooklyn where, before the war, most Russian
bratva
members originated. Ever since the Chinese had toasted the city, any scavenger daring to enter the place had to suit-up head to toe in radioactive protective clothing.

Brogan whistled. “Ten percent? That’s kinda steep.”

The broker shrugged. “Try keeping it under your pillow.” His tone suggested he’d been doing this forever. “For that charge, you get to store it here as long as you like. Keep it for five years, ten years, whatever…no extra cost.”

“What happens if I die unexpectedly, like all of a sudden?” Staunton cut in. “I hear that happens a lot around these parts. Don’t tell me you get to keep it all?”

“Nope. It goes to whoever you deem as your beneficiary. You’ll need to bring them in here first so we can identify them properly. We don’t go handing out money to strangers.”

The four considered the implications.

“I think I see a problem with that,” Brogan finally said. “They don’t issue death certs in the Outzone, right?”

The broker gave him a humorless smile. “Consider yourself lucky to get buried.”

“So how do you know when I’m dead?”

“No need to. It works like this,” the broker explained after receiving four blanks stares, “we won’t release your holdings until twelve months from your last visit here. You need to make sure you come back once a year, and we push back the release date another twelve months. Simple as that.”

Brogan frowned. “What if my beneficiary kills me?” he asked. “Does that mean all he needs to do is wait a year then swing by and collect my money?”

“Happens all the time, mister. Means you made a piss poor choice in friends, that’s all.”

Brogan looked across at the others, an amused look on his face. “Can’t argue with that,” he said. “Next option?”

“Option two, the most popular option, is currency exchange,” the broker continued in his deadpan delivery. “In exchange for your gold, we issue you dollars. The Zhiglov dollar is accepted everywhere in the city, and even beyond.” He pulled open a drawer from beneath the counter and took out a crisp fifty dollar bill, handing it to Brogan.

It was an impressive looking note, printed in deep crimson hues with the picture of an imperious-looking man on the front whose face looked vaguely familiar. On the back of the note, sketched in black ink, was a beautifully drawn bear. Brogan held the note up to the light, admiring the complex watermark.

“Nice,” he said. He pointed at the picture of the man. “Tell me, who is he when he’s at home? Is that Mr. Zhiglov?”

“No, that’s Vladimir Putin. Each denomination has a different Russian hero on it,” the broker said, gazing at Brogan as if daring him to challenge his assertion.

“Impressive. Mr. Zhiglov must be a cultured kind of guy…the classy notes, the paintings, the dead presidents,” Brogan said, handing the note back. “So what’s the deal for the Zhiglov dollar? How does that go down?”

“Simple. For a seven percent charge, your gold or any other valuables are converted to dollars. Money up front, like the first option. Only this time you no longer own the valuables you exchange. We do. But now, since you’ve exchanged it for cash, you get to take out whatever money you need, leave the rest deposited here for safekeeping.”

“Just like a bank,” said Karen, who had been paying close attention. “What interest do you pay out on deposit?”

The broker allowed a small smile to appear on his lips. “None, lady. And no, this is not a bank.”

“Let me guess, it’s the other way round,” Brogan said. “There’s a charge each time we come back to take out more, right?”

“A one percent charge per transaction. Bear in mind your money will not be lent out to others at interest. We’re not a bank, and we’re not moneylenders.”

“No fractional reserve banking,” Brogan said.

“Exactly.” The broker stared sharply at Brogan, surprised he knew of such a thing. “Every dollar issued here is backed by tangible assets, not like the Strata State where it’s propped up by digital smoke and mirrors.”

“And good faith,” Brogan added wryly.

“Yes, and
dumb
faith too.” The broker stared across at the four of them. “Now that you know what you need to know, which one of you is going to show me what you got?”

The four looked at each other hesitantly, before Brogan spoke up.

“I’ll go, seeing as I got here first,” he said. He unzipped the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a money pouch. “Mister, get the scales out,” he said, placing it on the counter. “The rest of you, form an orderly line behind me. No jostling.”

Thirty minutes later, the group exited the asset house and headed back to their hotel. As they walked down 6
^th
Street again, Brogan sensed the feeling of relief among them. Despite the hefty fee, now that their money was safely locked away, it allowed them all to breathe a little easier. Nothing in the Outzone was without risk, but keeping it under a pillow wasn’t a great option, like the broker said.

Next, Brogan intended to show the Hallecks how to keep a little “mugging money.” The city had many hold-up artists roaming the streets looking for easy prey. It would be wise for them to have something to give a desperate man armed with a knife or a pistol.

Brogan couldn’t help but worry about the two women. With her husband dead, life wouldn’t be easy for Karen Halleck or her teenage daughter, though once the two moved to a safer neighborhood, things would improve. The streets around the Plaza de Mentirosas, or “Liar’s Square” as it was aptly named, were full of run-down bars, seedy hotels, and boarding houses, the Hotel Valiente being the best of a bad lot. It was too transient an area for any sense of community. In the more family-oriented barrios, street justice prevailed, and thieves caught stealing in the neighborhood were mercilessly disposed of. Cole had told Brogan he’d seen it happen many times.

They reached the hotel. Taking the stairs to the third floor, Brogan said to Staunton, “Time to find out if our room’s been cleaned out.”

His friend stared at him, a confused look on his face. “How’s that?” he said. “You expecting it to be cleaned already?”

Brogan grinned. “I said, cleaned
out
, not cleaned
up
. We just put a couple of ex-cons, fresh out of the joint, in charge of our gear. Don’t know about you, but that’s a first for me.”

Staunton chuckled. “I think we’re good. I don’t think the brothers want someone like you hunting them down.”

“Or you either, my friend.”

After seeing the women to their room, the two men walked up the hall to their own. Inside, the brothers were resting on the beds with their boots off, watching TV, a rerun of an old Seinfeld show. Brogan chuckled when the door to Jerry Seinfeld’s apartment opened and Kramer made one of his classic appearances, skidding into the room, a wild-eyed look on his face. Even after fifty years, the show was still funny as hell.

The two Fletcher brothers stood up quickly when Brogan entered the room.

“Relax,” Brogan told them, closing the door behind him after Staunton had stepped inside. “Sit back and watch the show.”

“You made it back,” Jake Fetcher said, looking relieved. “The women okay?”

“They’re fine. Megan in particular,” Brogan said with a quick grin. He’d observed how the young man had spent a lot of time staring at the girl the previous day.

Jake’s cheeks colored slightly. “That’s good.”

“How did it go?” Steve asked. “You get a good deal?”

“Good might be stretching it,” Brogan replied. “But we got the same deal as everyone else in the city.”

He went on to explain how everything had panned out. Staunton and Karen Halleck had elected for the currency exchange. Their plan was to stay in the city, so it made the most sense for them. Other than exchanging a few hundred dollars for cash, Brogan deposited half his gold under the safekeeping option. The other half he would take with him when he left Winter’s Edge.

To complete the transaction, each had been issued a private password for their accounts, then they had given several specimen signatures, and after that had been fingerprinted, all ten digits dipped in black ink and rolled over a blank sheet of paper. The practical, low-tech procedure felt somehow satisfying to Brogan. There had been something tangible and real about the process, not just a bunch of ones and zeros stored in a machine.

“Sounds like those guys have their shit together,” Jake said. “I hope someday me and Steve will have something to deposit there too.”

“Frank, last night Dan told us you’re planning on leaving the city soon,” Steve said to Brogan. “Is that true?”

“Yep, in the next couple of days,” Brogan replied. “I’ve got an old friend I’m trying to chase down. I heard he’s someplace south of the city.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Steve said, the disappointment showing in his voice. “Because it sure would be nice if we all stuck together. After everything we went through yesterday, I’d like to think we’ve built a bond between us. You know, a little trust.”

“I’ll second that,” Staunton said. He turned to Brogan. “I know you got your plans, Frank. We all respect that. But Karen and Megan are kinda depending on you. It would be great if you stuck around a little longer until they got themselves set up here.” He grinned. “Sheesh, it’s only been one day and we’re all kinda depending on you, buddy.”

Brogan hesitated a moment, deciding whether he should postpone his plans by a few days. If he stayed longer than he had originally intended, he would have another problem. His upcoming communications from Cole would be encrypted. Depending on the length of the messages, it might take up to thirty minutes to decode them, which meant he would have to find somewhere private to do this. Either he would need to take a private room in the hotel, or work late at night in the bathroom while Staunton slept. Neither option was great. Still, having gotten the Hallecks out of their initial predicament, he couldn’t just leave them in the lurch now.

He also thought about what Steve had said. There was something about helping those close to you. Brogan had no family. After twenty-four hours in the Outzone, this group had become the closest thing he had to one.

“Alright, guys,” he said. “I’ll stay a while longer, until we get Karen and Megan set up. And remember, I won’t be gone for good. As soon as I find my buddy, I’ll be back soon enough.” He turned to the brothers. “How about you two? Are you interested in helping the Hallecks out if we can set something up for them here? I’m sure we can find work for you both.”

The faces of the two brothers lit up. “For sure,” Jake said. “Just a roof over our heads and some food in our bellies will keep us happy.”

“Hey, don’t sell us short, Jake,” Steve said, a big grin on his face. “A little beer money every now and then sure would be nice.”

“I’d be interested in joining too,” Staunton piped up. “I got a little money I need to put to work. Why don’t we see what we can all figure out between us?”

“I’ll talk to them soon, see what they’re planning,” Brogan said, pleased with the arrangement. “I haven’t asked them about it yet. Figured I’d let them recover first after everything they’ve gone through.”

A few minutes later, the Fletchers left the room. Sitting down on his bed, Brogan felt a sense of satisfaction with how everything had transpired. Next he had to sort out getting his messages from Cole. One thing at a time.

The following day, Brogan found an opportunity to get out of the room he shared with Staunton. It came about in an unexpected manner, one that allowed him to move without causing offense.

While the two ate breakfast that morning, the desk clerk, Arturo, came into the dining room and approached their table. He hovered nervously a couple of feet away from them, looking at one then the other.

Staunton gazed up at him. “Art, what’s with the long face? You look like you got something to spit out. We’re up to date with our rent, ain’t we?” he said, winking at Brogan.

Over the past couple of days, the two had gotten to know the manager-cum-desk clerk well; an effusive, hard-working man who lived in one of the rooms on the first floor with his wife and young son. With his slight build and unassuming presence, he was the complete antithesis Brogan had previously held in his mind of what it took to be an Outzoner.

However, all sorts had figured out how to survive in Winter’s Edge. With a quick head for numbers, Arturo ran the hotel efficiently for its owner, a large and gruff Latino in his sixties who spent a few hours each day studying the accounts in the back office.

Occasionally the owner would bellow out to Arturo at the desk, demanding an explanation for some figure or another. The clerk would scurry into the office and patiently go through the entry in question, which eventually would be grudgingly accepted with a brusque reply or a grunt.

From Arturo, Brogan figured out a little more how things worked in the neighborhood. In a game as old as the hills, the Valiente’s owner paid his dues to the local
oficina
each week, so that not only would the hotel not mysteriously burn down during the middle of the night, but all aspects of his business, including his employees, were protected. No one who knew the score in the barrio caused him any trouble. Those that did didn’t live long.