The Final Trade (16 page)

“You messed up, Brad. You killed the woman. The only thing we came here for.”

“The hell was I supposed to do. Bitch shot me in the fuckin’ hand. Blew off two fingers. Hurts like a bastard. Besides, there’s no one else here. Fuckin’ kid was full of shit. Ain’t no girl. Ain’t no military truck.”

“What am I supposed to tell the Prestons?”

A long quiet filled only by the breeze. “You tell ’em we didn’t find nothin’. Buncha guys and that’s it.”

“See, there’s where we run into the problem, Brad. Everyone else saw what happened same as I did. And someone will tell the Prestons when we get back to the trade, and if it’s not me, then I’m the one in a shit heap.”

“We’ll think of somethin’. Come on, man, my fuckin’ hand is killin’ me.”

“Here, let me help you.”

The click of a hammer being drawn back is loud and the injured man’s shocked cry is drowned out by the gunshot. Zoey flinches and Merrill’s fingers dig into her shoulder. She gazes through the grass surrounding them but can’t see the remaining man, though she can hear him clearly. He hawks and spits.

The minutes pass with agonizing slowness.

Finally the grass rasps with his departure, footsteps growing fainter each second.

“Burn it!” the executioner yells in the distance. An engine rumbles to life and after another span there is a woof of yellow light that grows exponentially, gradually gilding the tips of the wilting grass gold.

Engines howl. Gravel crunches and sprays, rattling off stone. The mechanical rumble decreases, flowing away as if the volume of the entire world is being turned down, leaving only the static hiss of flames.

Zoey slowly sits up, Merrill rising beside her.

The stone house’s roof is ablaze.

The few windows that line the sides are broken, flames licking out and upward like orange tongues. She can feel the heat from where she sits.

“Come on, Zoey. Let’s go in case they come back.”

She doesn’t move, only stares at the growing inferno, fire leaping twenty or more feet into the sky.

“Zoey. We have to go.” Merrill lifts her from the ground, holding on to her arm. He tries to guide her away but she yanks free of his grip, forcing her traitorous leg to hold her.

“We should’ve done something,” she says, not looking away from the flames.

“We were outnumbered, outgunned. They would have killed us.”

“It was them, wasn’t it? It was the trade.”

A long pause. “Yes.”

“They’re close.”

“Yes.”

Zoey turns away from the burning house, tears evaporated by the heat. “Then let’s go find them.”

23

Wen stares at the meat sizzling in the small frying pan, eyes unfocused, hands hanging by her sides.

“You’re going to burn those,” Robbie says from the other side of the trailer.

She comes out of her stupor and stabs the steaks with a two-pronged fork, flipping them. The smell that wafts up from the pan is enough to make her salivate. She hasn’t eaten beef in months.

“You mind your own,” she says, not looking at him.

Robbie finishes chopping the last potatoes, dropping them into a stainless steel pot, and brandishes his knife. “I’ve killed for less.”

She smiles wanly. “You’ve never hurt a fly.”

“No. Not a fly I guess. But some big damn spiders that I used to find in my apartment. And don’t get me started on cockroaches.”

Wen removes the pan from the heat, covering it to let the steak rest for a minute. She moves the two plates onto the gas cookstove’s stand, the sides of the Prestons’ meals already in place. She lets her gaze become fuzzy again, everything fading into a blur. She could live this way, all things out of focus. Nothing substantial enough to recognize. But maybe she already is.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” Robbie asks.

“I’m sorry, no, I wasn’t.”

He finishes wiping down the narrow work counter mounted to the trailer’s wall and moves to her. Bending down a little so their eyes meet, he grasps her hand. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. We haven’t got a choice. In all the time we’ve been planning this, we always knew we wouldn’t be able to take anyone from the containers with us.”

“I know that.”

“Then nothing’s changed.”

“I promised him. I looked him right in the eyes and promised that I would get him and his wife out.”

“And I promised Luke from marketing that I’d call him after our first date twenty-five years ago. Sometimes things don’t work out.”

“Robbie . . .”

“I’m sorry, trying to lighten the mood.” He sighs and squeezes her hand. “I know how much this kills you; it’s one of the reasons I love you, but no new angles have presented themselves to us in the last few days. Nothing’s changed. Our only option is the one that you came up with originally, and it will be a miracle if we’re able to pull that off.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, maybe when the king and queen are dead, things will change. Maybe the trade will die with them and the women and men in the containers will be set free.”

“You know as well as I do that will never happen. Someone else will step into their place and continue their work.”

She turns from him and transfers the steaming steaks from the pan to the plates. Covering them, she starts for the open doorway at the opposite end of the trailer.

“Nothing is ever perfect. You know that,” Robbie calls after her.

The air outside is cooler now, even in the bright sunshine of midday. The highway the trade sits on is partially hemmed in on the north by an encroaching forest of pines. To the west the land drops away into rolling hills dotted with bunches of homes, all quiet and empty, their occupants long dead or moved on.

She walks up the line of vehicles and trailers similar to the mobile kitchen she cooks out of during the day while on the road. Second in line behind an armored semitruck and trailer is a large recreational vehicle, its paint a dusty brown highlighted with worn gold swirls that have lost their sparkle. Two guards stand outside, rifles hanging from slings. One of them pats her down, his hands surprisingly gentle. He touches her only where he needs to before ushering her inside.
One of the decent ones
,
she thinks, climbing the few stairs into the vehicle.

Sasha sits in the nearest seat beside one of the long windows, what looks like a tall glass of water beside her. But Wen knows if she were to take a sip from the woman’s drink she would taste pure vodka. Sasha flicks her eyes to the plates then away, one long finger running around and around the lip of her glass.

Hemming stands at the far back of the RV, cadaverous eyes watching her come down the aisle. Elliot sits at the largest table across from a man with long, dark hair tied back now in a ponytail. James Horner glances at her as she approaches and she has to stifle the shock that tries to crease her features into a grimace.

“Ah, lunch. Thank you, dear,” Elliot says, motioning for Wen to set the plates on the table. He draws off the covers and immediately the scent of cooked steak fills the air. “My goodness. You’ve outdone yourself this time.” Elliot inhales the steam coming off his plate and smiles at her. “What a fortunate occurrence it was to meet that man with the heads of beef.”

“Not for him it wasn’t,” Wen says.

The smile slides from Elliot’s face. “Sasha, darling, lunch is served.”

“I’m not hungry,” Sasha says from the front.

“But dear, you have—”

“I don’t
have
to do anything, darling.” Sasha takes a long drink of liquor and looks away out the window.

“Traveling always affects her appetite,” Elliot says. “My dear, if you please?” He motions at both plates and Wen comes forward, cutting off a slight chunk of each steak. She puts them both in her mouth and chews, taking samples of the roasted potatoes and black beans as well. James watches her intently the entire time.

“I was just telling James here how much of an asset you are to the entire troupe. Without you I’m sure most of us would have died of malnutrition or simply killed ourselves from the lack of culinary variety.”

“I do my best.”

“And we are thankful. Just as we’re thankful for our new doctor.”

Wen blinks, eyes moving from Elliot to James and back again. “What do you mean?”

“Without James here we never would have known what killed our captain, would we? A terrible thing, not knowing. Afterward I invited James to stay on as our resident doctor since we were in great need of one, and he embraced the position gladly.”

“I’m not really a doctor,” James says, smiling up at Wen.

“Nonsense. In this new world we are all what is needed of us. Entertainment is in Sasha’s and my blood. None of us could exist without purpose. It would simply be chaos. Don’t you agree, James?”

“Oh yes. Most definitely.”

“Choice is sometimes a very dangerous thing. Logic and common sense will always be the true north of humankind’s compass. It is those that fly in the face of rational decisions that suffer.” His expression changes as if he’s tasted something sour. “Those that never listen or heed competent warnings. They are life’s greatest folly.” He sits silently for a moment, staring through his meal, through the table. At last he comes back to the present and nods. “Yes, I believe deep down we were all meant for something, and to deny our calling is to deny what truly makes us human.” Elliot slides his plate closer and picks up a knife and fork. “Since Sasha isn’t feeling up to it, would you like to partake, James?”

“Oh, no thank you, sir. I actually should look in on one of the guards who is down with the stomach flu before we continue,” James says, rising from his seat. “Out of curiosity, when will we be arriving at the next community?”

Elliot places a large chunk of steak in his mouth and chews before answering. “It depends on when our latest reconnaissance party returns, but we should make Southland by tomorrow evening and be set up by midnight at the latest.”

“When will, um, the contests begin?”

“The following day. I trust you’ve made your peace with this?”

James draws in a deep breath and finally nods. “Yes.”

“Good. You’ll see, James. Your life will have so much more meaning doing what you’ve been made for.”

“Yes sir.”

Elliot gestures at the door and Wen files down the aisle, past Sasha, who has downed most of her drink, and out into the open air. She moves by the two guards, walking fast toward the kitchen trailer. When she’s a dozen steps from the door, a hand grasps the inside of her elbow, slowing her. She stops and turns, using every ounce of willpower not to strike James in the face.

“Now you know where you stand,” he says quietly. “I’m sure you thought you’d be able to slip away with me locked in the container, but now things are a little different.”

“We were going to take you with us.”

“You’re lying, but I can’t expect anything else. From now on you’ll include me in any deviation or new step in the plan. Or I swear to God I’ll tell Elliot, and I don’t think he’ll be impressed with your skills anymore once he knows what was going to be in his and his wife’s food.”

“Okay. Okay, keep your voice down,” Wen says, glancing past him up the highway. Three guards are meandering toward them.

“When are we going?”

“Tomorrow night after I serve them dinner.”

“And how are we going to get my wife out of the container?”

“I don’t know yet.”

His fingers tighten on her arm. “We don’t have much time.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

One of the guards glances at them and says something to the other two.

“Let me go or they’re going to shoot you.” James releases her. “I’ll let you know soon.”

“I’ll be waiting outside the nest tomorrow night after it’s done. And if anything isn’t kosher, I will scream at the top of my lungs what you did.”

She steps away from him as the guards come even with them and lowers her head, ignoring the muttered comments from the three men. Her mind rings with James’s words as she hurries to the kitchen trailer and climbs inside. Robbie is putting supplies away in the cupboards mounted to the floor and looks up at her when she enters.

“They made James the doctor,” she says, barely able to get herself to utter the sentence.

“What?”

“They made him the doctor and now he says he’ll be waiting tomorrow night when setup begins, and if we don’t break his wife out, he’ll tell everyone what we did.”

Robbie looks shell-shocked, face paler than usual. “Now what? It’s over. When we thought he’d be locked up it wasn’t going to be an issue, but now . . .”

“I know. Let me think.” She paces through the tight space.

“I have to go,” Robbie says, moving to the door. “We’re heading out soon.”

“Can you get us a gun?”

He stops dead with his hand on the doorknob. “You know I’m not allowed to have a gun.”

“Can you get us one?”

Robbie’s head tips back and he exhales loudly. “Maybe. Fitz might be able to sneak me one. But a single handgun isn’t going to get us past all the guards at the containers. Especially with everyone milling around during setup.”

“I know.”

“Then what do you want one for?”

“Because. I’m going to have to kill him.” She meets Robbie’s wide-eyed gaze. “I’m going to have to kill James.”

24

I am a comet.

The thought has gone through her head so many times in the last twenty-four hours it is nearly meaningless. The trailer hits another bump, making things rattle in the cupboards and drawers. Wen takes another drink of the moonshine, wincing as it plummets with a fiery trail down to her stomach.

She’s not drunk, but she isn’t entirely sober either. She’s been in a semi-fog since the prior day, when Robbie left the trailer and the caravan began its lumbering trek once again, slow at first but picking up speed until the entire trade howled down the desolate highway like a runaway freight train off its tracks.

She recalls reading about one of the only comets to come into contact with the Earth when she was a girl still dreaming of going to space. Millions of years ago it had detonated above what would become Egypt, the explosion so hot it had melted the sand into glass for thousands of square miles.

Such destruction, nothing could stand against it.

Wen sets down the mostly empty glass and picks up the other item on the table. The small leather sack still has the name of the whiskey distillery etched into its side, letters worn but legible. She turns the bag over in her hands, feeling the texture slide across her fingertips. It looks as though it should be heavy, its sides full and bulging as if it still contains a bottle. But it is light, nearly weightless.

She opens the mouth of the sack and peers inside. The bag is stuffed full of cotton she extracted from the lining of a winter coat she found the night before in one of the supply trucks. The fluffy interior begins to expand, trying to escape the confines of the bag, and she cinches it shut again, imagining how she’ll have to jam the gun’s barrel into the opening.

It isn’t a perfect silencer, but it will have to do.

The trailer hitches, sending her rocking back on her chair as the truck pulling it slows. The engine’s growl drops in pitch and she stands up, moving to the window.

They’re here.

The town of Southland sprawls to the west in the center of a wide valley. Before the Dearth it had been a quaint community based mostly on tourism and a fluctuating timber industry. She had driven through the streets as a teenager several times on her way to the coast, the luxuries of meandering past candy shops, catching the earthy aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drifting from an open door, and watching a flock of geese paddle soundlessly across a central pond not yet lost.

Now she looks at possible escape routes. Where will they hide after everything goes down?

She scans the streets, the hills beside the looming mountain range in the distance. There is a large lake to the south and what looks like a narrow county road twisting west around it. Beyond that the beginnings of a tree line rise up, a spattering of pines and deciduous alike. Maybe there. If they are able to slip away without being seen immediately, they could get to the other side of the lake and into the trees. After that the trade would be hard-pressed to track them. But where will they go once they’re free?

“It doesn’t matter,” she says quietly.
Anywhere but here.

The trade flows down a gentle grade leading to the town’s main street like a swarm of locusts descending upon a ripened crop. The only thing the Prestons love as much as magic and entertainment is an entrance.

She gazes out at the first buildings, their slumped shapes only suggestions of what they once were. Slowly the town straightens and inhabited storefronts appear, their signs obscured by time but with the occasional face appearing at a grimy window, eyes wide and full of wonder as the trade passes by. Some of the drivers honk their horns and men start to emerge from houses along the street, hands held aloft, mouths open in yells, some of them clapping.

At the end of the main street the trade turns left and cruises through another neighborhood that has fallen into disrepair though there is life here as well. A dog barks from a canted porch where a man sits drinking something out of a tall tin can. A figure waves from the far end of a small garden, the last of the harvest stacked in a wheelbarrow beside the road. A man urinates on a street corner, barely looking up as the vehicles blast by him, ruffling his dingy jacket and hat.

They turn once more and come out of the shade of a dilapidated timber mill and pass into the greater shadow of Scrimshaw Mountain.

It rises above the western edge of the town like a giant shark’s tooth, its very top dusted with snow. She can make out the main ski run that cuts straight down its side and empties out a half mile away. The white paint of the chairlift towers has partially flaked and peeled giving the steel
T
’s studding the mountain a mottled look against the browning grass. A broken lift chair halfway up dangles like a hanged man fifty feet above the ground.

The trade swings wide into a large clearing at the end of the street; trucks holding the components of the nest and the coliseum taking up positions in the very center while flatbeds carrying rolls of chain-link fencing spread out around them in a loose perimeter.

The trailer shudders to a stop and Wen moves to the door, stepping outside.

Already the work has begun. Guards move outward, creating a perimeter. Men from Southland approach the camp, steps fast and eager. The nest’s walls rise from the back of a flatbed, thirty or more workers racing around the structure. All at once, the movement and noise is too much for her. It assaults her senses, boring into her eyes, ears, even her skin.

Pounding.

Yelling.

Colorful flags snapping in the wind.

The leather bag full of cotton inside the trailer.

A hand grasps her shoulder and she spins, bringing up a fist.

James stands there, eyelids fluttering as he holds his hands up.

“Calm down. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.

She exhales, shooting a look around the immediate area. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

“We talked enough yesterday.”

“No, I mean, I want to apologize.”

She studies him, watching his eyes to see if they say anything different. “This way,” she says, leading him to the opposite side of the kitchen trailer. Several workers stream past them carrying lengths of rope and electrical cables. Wen moves to one of the large tractor-trailers that hauls the tents for the midway, and ducks behind it.

“We’ll only have a couple minutes,” she says.

“I know. I’m sorry for how I’ve acted, how I’ve treated you in the past several days. But I’m desperate. If I don’t find a way out of this for Amanda and me . . .” He falters, looking at the ground. “I want to thank you for helping us.”

Her stomach churns. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You kept us fed when our rations were low. And you’ve given me hope. For that I can’t thank you enough.”

Her mind flits to the leather bag. The drawstrings pulling tight. “It’s okay,” she finally manages.

“So what time are you doing this?”

“The Prestons normally eat at seven sharp.”

He gestures toward the looming peak. “It’ll be mostly dark by then with the mountain in the way. There’s normally four guards stationed outside the containers, sometimes only three.” He pulls out a small, wooden-handled knife from the inside of his coat and quickly puts it away again. “If I climb onto the women’s container and drop down on them, you could come around the corner at the same time, and with a little luck we can take them out, especially if everyone’s distracted by what’s going to be happening in the nest.”

It’s an insane plan. One that is almost completely hopeless, but the look in his eyes tells her everything she needs to know. He won’t be talked out of it. She has no choice.

“That might work,” she says.

“Can you sneak a knife from the kitchen?”

“Yes.”

“Where should I meet you?”

Hating herself, she licks her lips and drops her gaze. “The back of the sideshow tent. There’s usually no one behind it.”

“I’ll be waiting there.” His eyes narrow slightly. “But you taste their food. I saw you do it yesterday. How—”

“Let me worry about that.”

“But—”

“Hey, cook!” a voice yells.

They both spin in the direction of the truck’s front end. Three guards are striding toward them, gazes feral, hands gripping rifles.

Oh God, they heard us. They heard us talking. This is it. Years and years of planning and all for nothing.

Wen tries to keep her features placid, tries not to let the terror leak through the mask she’s built over time.

The men stop several paces away and the lead guard gestures with his rifle. “You making that beef stew again tonight?”

For a moment she’s completely lost, the cogs of her thoughts freewheeling. But then they catch hold and she nods. “Yeah. That’s what’s for dinner.”

The guard grins. “Good deal. Can taste it already. Come on, guys, let’s go.” They stride past and disappear around the back of the truck, and Wen feels herself physically deflate, the drop in tension leaving her weak.

“Seven,” James says, sidling away, almost as visibly shaken as she feels. “I’ll be there.” He rounds the truck out of sight and she sags against the trailer, the coldness of the steel soaking through her jacket. She stays that way for several minutes before feeling steady enough to head across the field that is quickly taking shape into what will be the midway.

The nest is already erected, its generator humming, guards standing before the entrance. She gazes up at the second-floor windows, a tremor of fear going through her as she sees Hemming staring back down at her. She looks away, moving in the direction of where the mess area is customarily situated. When she arrives the workers have assembled the low building and are partially done setting up the seating out front. She weaves her way between them and enters the kitchen, shutting the door behind her.

Everything is in its place, the cabinets where she always has them, the stove somewhat off center from its customary spot, but all else seems organized. Wen moves to the lowest cupboard and drops to her knees. She pulls open the door, reaching back past a stack of hot pads, fingers finding the lipped ledge.

The canister isn’t there.

Her heart does a funny half beat before double-timing.

She drops lower, reaching from one end of the ledge to the other. It must’ve slid while the men were reassembling the kitchen. But it isn’t on the ledge at all. The lip is empty.

The first inklings of panic start growing in her like seeds freshly watered.

Someone found it thinking it was something valuable and took it. They’re going to open it and see what’s inside and tell the Prestons. Maybe they already know.
She sits up straight, listening past the sounds of the workers finishing the seating outside. She sinks back to her hands and knees, lungs heaving now with a constricting sensation that’s getting stronger with each second.

So stupid! It wasn’t safe here, wasn’t safe to leave but wasn’t safe to take either.
The hot sting of tears fills her eyes at the same moment she catches a glint of silver behind one of the pans.

She shoves the heavy pots out of the way. There it is. The little canister with the blue top. She snatches it up, gripping it so tight she’s sure she’ll dent it. It fell down in transit, that’s all. Fell down off the ledge. Why hadn’t she thought of that? But it’s plain to her now.

She’s losing her hold on everything.

Losing the grip she’s always kept, even when the trade found her originally. Found them. And . . . and . . .

Wen squeezes her eyes shut, blocking out what comes next in the memory.

The door to the kitchen opens and she nearly screams.

With a swift movement she slips the poison into her jacket pocket and slams the cupboard door shut even as a shadow falls across her, pinning her to the floor.

“What the hell are you doing down there?” Robbie asks.

“You asshole. You scared the hell out of me,” she says, reaching out to him. He grabs her hand and hauls her to her feet.

“Wow, it’s great to see you, Robbie. How’s it going risking your life trying to get a gun?” he says, mimicking her voice.

“I’m sorry. A little on edge today.”

“Welcome to the club. So everything’s a go?”

She turns and starts gathering ingredients for the beef stew she’ll be serving that evening. “Yes. It’s a go.”

“Even the . . . ah . . . thing with James?”

She pauses in her movements and glances at him. “Yes. Even that.” Robbie begins helping her, pulling out and arranging spices that have fallen over during setup. They are quiet for a long time, moving around each other in the way they do. Finally she breaks the silence and says, “Did you get it?”

“Not yet. Fitz says he’ll have it ready tonight when I bring him the last of the supplies for the truck. Where do you want me to meet you at after you leave the nest?”

“Next to the main water tank. You can give it to me then.”

“And after that?”

“James will be waiting behind the sideshow tent.”

He nods. “Lots of noise coming from there.”

“Yeah. It’ll help cover the . . .” She lets her words trail off and loses herself in the food preparation. But after a time a niggling memory surfaces and she freezes, her hand nearly losing its hold on the long wooden spoon she’s stirring the stew with.

Robbie notices her expression and touches her arm. “What?”

“Sasha didn’t eat her lunch or dinner yesterday.”

“What? Did she eat today?”

“She just picked at it while I was there.”

“Well, what are we going to do? Sometimes I think she’s the worse of the two.” Robbie lowers his voice to less than a whisper. “If she’s not dead when we run, she’ll never stop looking for us.”

Wen moves past him to the far side of the kitchen, fumbling open one of the two small barrels in the corner. She frowns, putting the lid back on before opening the one beside it. She reaches inside and brings out a handful of ripened apples, their skin beginning to soften.

“I’ll have to make something she can’t refuse,” she says.