A Hole in the Sky (17 page)

Was that where the family was headed? It looked that way. The complex was occupied, because the group was still a half-mile away from the assemblage of stacks, towers, and tanks when a group of three men popped up out of nowhere to intercept them.

She watched their interaction through the Fareye’s scope, taking comfort from what appeared to be a friendly conversation. She continued to observe as the family was hustled off the highway. The people she had come to think of as her friends vanished shortly thereafter, only to reappear hours later as darkness settled over the land. All of which was a clear indication that the people associated with the refinery were very cautious indeed. An attitude that she approved of.

Susan was close by then,
much
closer, and followed along behind as the family was led into the deep ditch that was designed to contain an oil spill, and from there into an open pipe. At that point she thought it best to make herself known, and was about to do so, when she caught a whiff of human sweat and felt something hard nudge the base of her skull. “That’s a .22 Ruger,” a male voice said. “Drop the rifle and put your hands on top of your head.”

Susan did as she was told. A group of people dressed in black clothing and armed with Augers closed in around her. Here was the security team
behind
the security team. And, judging from the efficient way in which they questioned and then released her, they were used to intercepting people who wanted to enter Tank Town. It
was, they informed her, open to anyone who could pay the entry fee. But the price was so steep she almost said no before finally caving in.

Because the truth was that she needed supplies, and needed them badly. She’d consumed all of her food and had used up most of the Fareye ammo. That left Susan with no choice but to part with the Colt, the shoulder rig, and the remainder of her .45 ammo. A few minutes later she had the pleasure of entering a world where there were electric lights, sleeping cubes that could be rented by the day, separate showers for both sexes, self-service laundry facilities, a medical clinic, three restaurants, a gambling casino, and the so-called bowl, where all kinds of entertainment was available. All for a price of course, which was bad news for Susan, who was very nearly broke.

Having found her way into a dimly lit female dormitory, Susan was forced to part with twenty-five Reaper projectiles to buy a much-needed shower, wash her clothes, and rent a locker. Still, it was a thrill to crawl in between clean sheets for the first time in months and drift off to sleep without fear of being attacked.

She awoke feeling refreshed and went in search of a big breakfast. The circular restaurant was crowded with people of every possible description. The common denominators being hard eyes, the fact that none of her fellow diners were over the age of sixty, and that they were all armed. She paid five projectiles for a rib-eye steak, three fried eggs, and several mugs of tea. And the meal was well worth the price.

From there she set off for the casino, where if things went well, Susan hoped to recoup at least some of her losses. The entire complex had been emptied of oil and gasoline at some point. Probably during the desperate days just prior to the big collapse. But the odors lingered. And as Susan followed hand-printed signs through a
maze of pipes, she noticed that the smell was stronger in some places than in others.

The casino occupied a medium-sized tank. It was a simple affair that consisted of twelve tables, two of which were set up for blackjack. The concepts of day and night didn’t mean much inside Tank Town and the facility was about half full. What light there was emanated from cone-shaped fixtures that dangled over the tables. A thick cloud of cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoke eddied around them. A bar had been set up on one side of the tank and a booth labeled “Cashier” was located directly opposite it.

After speaking with the woman inside the cage, Susan learned that she could borrow up to a hundred house tokens in various denominations by using the Reaper as collateral. “And if I lose?” she wanted to know.

“Then we keep the Reaper,” the woman with frizzy red hair replied. “It’s up to you.”

Susan didn’t want to risk the Reaper, but the only other way to make a significant amount of money in a relatively short period of time was to sell her body, and she wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

So she took the money and gave the Reaper over, wishing she still had the Colt. Because if the stinks attacked while she was playing cards she would be shit out of luck. A scary thought indeed, even though she could steal a weapon if she had to.

After scanning the tables, Susan spotted one that had two empty slots and wandered over. A man who introduced himself as Tom was running the table. He was wearing a ball cap and a pair of glasses that had been mended with black electrical tape and was in need of a shave. When she asked if she could play, he looked her up and down and produced a phony-looking smile. “Sure, honey! You sit yourself down and we’ll deal you in. Are you familiar with seven-card stud?”

“I used to play it with my family,” Susan said truthfully. “Dad said I was pretty good.” What Susan failed to mention was the fact that she had spent months playing poker in the Lucky Buckle Mine with a dealer from Las Vegas as her tutor.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tom said condescendingly. “Because we wouldn’t want to take advantage of a pretty little thing like yourself.”

The other men nodded agreeably, and Susan thought she could see dollar signs in their eyes, as she stacked the tokens in front of her. It didn’t take a genius to see that her fellow players thought they had an easy mark. But Susan had a good memory for cards and had an ability to read faces. That was the edge she needed. Or so she hoped.

During the first hour of play, she discovered that Tom was an erratic player who allowed surges of emotion to influence his betting and wasn’t doing as well as the house should have.

The man seated directly across from Susan was very different. His name was Carl. He was smarter than Tom, a lot more patient, and willing to take risks when it made sense to do so. He had a large bald spot surrounded by a fringe of hair that hung down to his shoulders, and he was chewing on a kitchen match.

The third player was named George. His narrow-set eyes had a tendency to blink rapidly when he was going to bluff. A tactic he used far too often. And he had a hollow cough. The kind that kept people from sitting too close.

So those were the personalities Susan had to interact with as rounds were won and lost, the towers of tokens in front of her continued to grow, and those belonging to the others dwindled. George lost the most, and was eventually forced to cash out, followed by Tom an hour
later. That shut the game down and left Carl and Susan as winners.

Susan had 326 tokens by then, which allowed her to pay back the advance,
and
reclaim the Reaper. Then, being more than two hundred ahead, it was time to enjoy a good lunch.

Two hours later she returned to the casino determined to make some more money, buy the supplies she needed, and get the hell out of Tank Town as quickly as possible. Because even though the facility was well run, it was too big to last forever, and she wanted to be a long way off when the stinks brought the party to a close.

Rather than play poker again, Susan decided to switch things up and, being a good card counter, blackjack was the obvious way to go. The objective of the game was to beat the dealer, and there were two ways to accomplish that. She could achieve a total higher than the dealer’s without exceeding twenty-one, or stay below that magic number while the dealer went over it.

The homemade blackjack table stood waist high and consisted of a half-circle of plywood covered with a gray blanket, with mismatched bar stools for five players. The dealer, who was renting the table just as Tom had rented his earlier that day, stood on the other side of the flat surface. There was no shoe, which meant the table was set up for hand-held blackjack. Susan knew that in hand-held games, cards are dealt facedown and the players peek at them in order to see what they have.

Piles of differently denominated house tokens were arrayed in front of the dealer. He had slicked-back hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, and he handled the single deck of cards with the confidence of a professional.

But Susan had seen him sitting at the bar before lunch. And as she took her place on one of the wooden stools,
she thought she noticed a slight slur to his speech. Was the dealer inebriated? If so, that could make a difference. She resolved to keep a careful eye on him.

One man was already seated to her right, and it wasn’t long before three more bellied up to the table. The first few hands went smoothly enough. Susan won three times out of five and felt good about it. Meanwhile, one of the men won
four
times.

His name was Cecil, and he looked ordinary enough, except for one thing. In a time and place when it was very difficult to stay clean, much less pursue the finer points of good grooming, Cecil’s long, slim fingers were manicured. In addition to that his fingernails were longer than Susan’s, filed to points, and appeared to be quite sharp.

Was that a coincidence? Or was Cecil using his fingernails to mark cards? If so, that would enable him to know the value of at least some of the cards that were facedown in front of the dealer. But card marking was a well-known method of cheating at blackjack, so it seemed logical to suppose that the dealer would be watching for it.

But as Susan watched the dealer, and saw the slightly glassy look in his eyes, she was reminded of her earlier observation. If he wasn’t drunk, he was impaired, and it appeared that Cecil was taking full advantage of that fact.

So what to do? Make a public accusation, which could lead to an ugly confrontation? Or watch the cards and try to figure out which ones had been scratched? That would be dishonest, of course. But Susan figured that anyone stupid enough to deal blackjack while drunk was going to get cleaned out anyway.

So she followed the cards, came to the conclusion that all of the aces were marked, and made her bets accordingly. Not with absolute consistency, which would have
been enough to tip off the drunk, but often enough to rake in more money than she would have otherwise.

Cecil had heavy brows, a beak-shaped nose, and thin lips. They were turned down disapprovingly, and Susan could tell that he was on to her. But he couldn’t complain without revealing his own perfidy, so the card shark was forced to settle for less, and share his ill-gotten gains.

But not for long. Once Susan had what she judged to be enough, she excused herself rather than wait around to see Cecil clean the dealer out. Or get shot. Whichever came first. The 112 tokens won while playing blackjack brought her total winnings up to 338 tokens, minus the cost of lunch.

It was time to go shopping.

Capelli was going to fight El Diablo because Master Jack wanted to punish him for trying to escape. But there was a second reason as well—and that was to keep the rest of the donkeys living in fear. So they were allowed to watch from one of the animal pens that fronted the stands as Bam-Bam and Inkskin used their stick-mounted cattle prods to drive El Diablo out into the circular arena. The Hybrid screeched loudly, which was sufficient to claim the audience’s attention as Capelli was forced into the ring by blows from Alfonso’s whip. The runner was naked except for a loincloth, because as Bam-Bam put it, “The audience wants to see some blood.”

Capelli heard the roar of applause and wondered who the onlookers were rooting for. Him? Or El Diablo? They were seated all around the circular arena, but their faces were a blur, as Ringmaster Jack came out to address the crowd.

“Laaadies and gentlemen! Children of all ages! Tonight you are about to witness a battle between a human, armed only with a knife, and the Chimeran Steelhead we
call El Diablo. If the human wins, he will be freed. And if El Diablo wins, he will eat well tonight! Now, settle back, and enjoy the show.”

As Jack left the ring, Inkskin was there to give Capelli the single-edged knife. The blade was about six inches long. “Maybe you should slit your throat with it,” the tattooed man suggested, as he backed away. “The whole thing would be less painful that way.”

Capelli tested the blade with his thumb, was pleased to discover that it was quite sharp, and turned his back to the eight-foot-high wall that surrounded the bowl. He estimated that the arena was about seventy-five feet across. The dirt under his bare feet had clearly been brought in from outside and there were some sizable rocks mixed in with it. A cluster of lights dangled from above and Capelli had to keep his chin down to avoid the glare. He was frightened, but alert, with blood pounding in his ears.

El Diablo was shuffling sideways. The Chimera had a good six inches on Capelli. In addition to six gold-colored eyes, and a reptilian jaw that could open extremely wide, the Steelhead had an animal-like muscularity. Its reactions were quick, it had the benefit of experience, and it was hungry. All of which were advantages.

Could the stink draw on knowledge possessed by the Chimeran hive-mind? Or call on it for help? Maybe, but Capelli didn’t think so, because if the hive-mind knew about El Diablo’s situation, why hadn’t a force of Hybrids been sent to destroy the circus weeks or months before?

No, Capelli figured El Diablo was on its own for some reason, just as he was. So what to do? He could throw the knife, of course. But the ex-soldier knew that the best throwing knives were double-edged, which his wasn’t. And accurate knife throwing requires lots of practice and
a good eye. If the thrower isn’t the correct distance from the target, the weapon can easily hit hilt-first.

No, Capelli reasoned, as some in the crowd booed the lack of action, throwing was out of the question. That suggested stabbing or cutting. Except that according to Bar and the rest of the donkeys, none of the previous attempts to slice and dice El Diablo had been successful. Which was why the big Hybrid was not only alive but seemingly fearless.

The beast extended both arms and charged.