Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (190 page)

A breath of relief escaped Lance as he saw sunlight filter through a dirty window. He picked up a chair inside the room then chucked it through the glass on his sprint. The chair crashed through the window then shattered on the ground.

Lance poked his head outside and saw a pipe that ran from the roof to the alley below within arm’s reach of the window. When he shifted all of his weight to the pipe, a few of the brackets pulled themselves from the concrete wall, jolting him out into the alleyway, but he managed to keep his footing.

The moment Lance’s feet hit the pavement, he sprinted down the alleyway just as the gun dealers made their way to the window, opening fire and redecorating the alleyway’s corner as Lance sprinted out of sight.

A cramp tightened Lance’s hamstring just before he made it back to the crowded safety of the market, and he had to slow his pace. He continued to check behind him, trying to figure out if they would be stupid enough to follow. He didn’t believe they would. With the amount of guns they had packed in that building, they’d hang in the square for their crimes.

The only question was who they were. While Lance knew the buyer who shot at him looked Chinese, he had no idea who the sellers were, but the patch the gunrunners wore looked oddly familiar, like a relic from a past long thought dead.

***

The town hall was filled to the brim. Even with the extra seating, people still stood along the walls as villagers, farmers, merchants, and anyone and everyone that could be affected by another attack by the clans piled into the near-bursting hall. The voices and murmurs grew with every person that entered, along with the hot stink of rage.

Dean Mars watched the scene through a crack in the curtains behind the stage. He knew what they all wanted and what they all believed happened. But all of their wants and beliefs would contradict what Dean would tell them.

Dean had spent the past three hours with his nephews, talking to each of them separately then together. He made them tell him the story over and over, making sure that he knew every angle, every possible detail. With the stakes this high, he needed to make sure that it was the right call. He looked down at his clinched fist, a silver chain dangling from between his fingers. Fred’s bloody pendulum rested inside. Dean looked down to his own neck where an exact replica of the silver sphere that his eldest brother wore also dangled from his neck.

“Uncle Dean, I promise you, that’s what I saw,” Kit said.

Dean looked over the sketching of the symbol a few more times. It wasn’t anything he remembered his father or brothers talking about when he was younger, nor was it the sign any of the wasteland clans wore. However, an itch in the recesses of his mind lingered that he just couldn’t scratch. He’d called for the historian, but he was still a day’s ride away, and the growing mob in the town hall wouldn’t wait that long. If he didn’t address this issue now, then he’d risk the districts taking matters into their own hands, and another war with the clans was the last thing his region needed.

The two boys had come to him in the middle of the night, smudged in dirt, soot, blood, and with the stench of fear on them. Sam hadn’t said a word, regardless of how much Dean tried to coax a whisper out of him. He kept close to Kit, who had bloodlust in his eyes and echoed the same cries for vengeance that the mob outside demanded.

Kit stood there, a granite expression of rage carved on his face, clenching his fists together, his body taut and rigid—he looked just as Dean had remembered Fred did when they were on the battlefield. Dean had never seen a commander like his eldest brother and would never see the likes of again. But with the same eyes as his father, Kit seemed determined to test that belief.

“Kit, I don’t want you and Sam here for the meeting,” Dean said, placing his hand on Kit’s shoulder. “You and your brother will wait back at my quarters. You need to rest.”

Kit shrugged Dean’s hand off and took a step back. “No, you can’t do that. They were my parents. I have more of a right to be here than anyone, and you know that!” Despite a man’s rage, the boy still had the pale look of a frightened boy.

“Your duty is with your brother now,” Dean replied, his words harsher than before. “Now, would you have me speak to you as your uncle, or regional governor? Because I am willing to do either, but it would be wiser for you to heed my words as your uncle.”

Kit lowered his head then sulked over to Sam and scooped his younger brother up in his arms. The boy’s hurting, but he’ll understand these types of decisions when he’s older. Dean instructed his own guards to escort Kit and Sam back to his house and keep an eye on them to ensure that’s where they stayed.

Dean’s advisors had given him what counsel they could with the situation at hand. It was a split decision on whether or not some declaration of war should be provided, but if that were the case, he’d need to speak with Jason. The blood from the last war had barely been scrubbed from their hands. Dean was not willing to throw peace away so hastily.

A short, portly man stepped from the front of the curtain, the crowd reaching a fever pitch behind him. “Governor, it’s time.”

Dean nodded, and his hand found the pendulum hidden under his shirt. When he stepped through the curtains, the clamoring ceased as everyone who was seated stood at attention. Dean gripped the edges of the podium harder than he’d meant to but quickly loosened his fingers and gestured for everyone to sit. “I know all of you are concerned. I’ve spent the past several hours going over the details of what happened and have spoken to both my advisors as well as the district leaders to ensure I have all of the facts in place.”

“It was the clans, Governor! They need to be killed once and for all!” The man jumped from his seat and punched his fist into the air. Angry spittle dribbled onto his beard, and a wave of nods and agreements rolled over the rest of the crowd.

“We have fought with the clans for many years, and our final victory over them sealed their fate.” The room hushed at Dean’s words. While tempers were high, his people gave him the respect that they knew he deserved. “Our agreement with the clans is still in place, and until we have a formal declaration of any type of war, I will be treating this as a death crime.”

Another spasm of disagreement erupted, and Dean smacked the gavel on his podium as sporadic shouts filled the hall. “The evidence we have suggests behaviors of thieves, not clansmen. They wore masks and rode at night. I fought the clans for many years, and so did Fred. There is no one in this room that wants justice for my brother more than me, but we cannot let fear guide our decisions.” The room hushed, and a few of the more boisterous citizens flushed red and downcast their eyes in embarrassment. “I will lead an emissary to speak with the clan members personally, and mark my word, I will find out if they had anything to do with this. Until my return, district leader Mulville will be in charge. Thank you.”

The smack of Dean’s gavel ended the address, and he stepped outside to meet with some of the news writers personally. All of them had pen and paper out, jotting down whatever notes they could. “Gentlemen, I can’t stress enough how important it is to keep a cool head with whatever narrative you spin.”

“Governor, we’re not here to start war whispers, we just want the facts.”

Dean could have given them enough content to fill an entire paper, but in the end, he stuck with the cliffs notes. “I don’t want any citizens seeking out their own form of retaliation. Any who ignore our laws will be punished to the full extent. We’ve spent enough time in the dark ages. There isn’t any need to go back. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to send word to my brothers.”

War had been a constant in Dean’s life for as long as he could remember. His older brothers and father had fought the Chinese and then were thrust into the clan wars at home, with the different tribes squabbling for power and control. Most of them were easy enough to put down, but a few of them were more vicious than any stories that his father had told him about his time in Asia. The clans skinned men alive, tortured them for their own power and pleasure. And while he would ride under the banner of peace, that wouldn’t stop him from bringing a large unit of soldiers with him.

***

The hammer of spikes rumbled the earth for miles. Hundreds of men and women worked along lines of broken railway, scraping what they could still use and burning whatever they couldn’t.

The sledgehammer hit the dirt with a thud as Jason released it from his grip. He pulled the gloves from his hands and rubbed his palms. The soft flesh at the base of his palm had been replaced with hard calluses. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and made his way to the water bucket.

Jason Mars was the youngest brother in the Mars family. Even as a man, the expression of youth was still fresh on his face. His body was muscular, lean. Luckily for him, he’d always been strong enough to fend off the teasing of his older brothers, at least once he hit puberty. He kept his hair long but his face clean shaven. The heat in the southeast was too unbearable in the summer to keep his beard. Once the winter came through the mountains, however, it would be a different story.

The rhythmic clank of hammers on metal spikes was only interrupted by the calls from down the line by the supervisors, where Jason’s absence was noted. All the supervisors spoke of were plans and money. The conversation with the line workers was much more interesting.

“You gettin’ tired, Governor?” Billy asked, smacking another spike into place then moving on to the next. “I thought you’d be done by now considering your big trip.” Sweat rolled down the tip of Billy’s nose as he swung the hammer high over his head and shattered the earth upon impact.

“Well, you looked like you needed the help.” Jason took a swig of water and then dumped the rest over the top of his head. He closed his eyes and let the water roll down his face and back, cooling his skin.

“I guess that’s why I’ve gotten twice as many rails in that you’ve got today?” Billy asked, already moving on to another.

              “Hey, it’s not my fault your father was an ox. I’m still trying to figure out how your mother handled that. I’m sure it was a struggle.” Jason ducked before the old piece of iron nearly took his head off.

Billy grinned. “You prick.”

“Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone.” Jason wiped his face with the cleanest part of his shirt he could find and started his way down the line. He made sure to spend time with the workers as often as he could.

Dust flew up from the side of the railways in the west, and Jason squinted in the afternoon sun to get a better look. As the rider moved closer he saw the courier’s patch on his arm and wondered what type of setback had hindered their operations now. It was bad enough that they were already behind schedule due to the late winter this past year, but the fact that they lacked the proper resources to do their job was even more frustrating.

Most of the railway they’d found was either destroyed or deteriorated past the point of usefulness. They’d melted down what they could, but after cycling out all of the impurities, they were always left with less than half of what they started with. If he couldn’t deliver on the ore they needed during his trip down to Brazil, then the treaty with the clans would be for naught.

“Governor Mars.” The rider sounded winded as he dismounted his horse, even though the creature had done all of the work.

“You don’t have to call me that.” The rider gave an uncomfortable nod then extended the letter. It had Dean’s seal. He had to reread it three times before it finally sunk in. “My nephews?” The letter had no mention of Kit or Sam.

“They are alive, Governor. Staying at your brother’s house while he attends to the clans.”

Jason pinched the paper lazily between his fingertips, and twice the wind almost whipped it out of his hand. It’d been almost a year without any incident with the clans. It wouldn’t make sense for them to go back on the treaty, not with the agreement in place once the railway was finished connecting the southeast and northwest. They’d grow rich off the taxes alone. “Was there anything else?”

The rider nodded then handed him a sketch. A sickle was surrounded on one side by a half circle of stars. The drawing was crude, and Jason didn’t recognize the symbol.

“That was a patch the riders that attacked your brother wore, sir.”

“This isn’t the sigil for any clans in the wastelands.” Jason took a moment, examining it one last time before handing it back to the courier. “Have they found who it belongs to?”

“Your brother sent word for the historian, but it will be some time before he arrives.” The courier pulled some ink and paper from his satchel. “Do you have a return message?”

“Tell my brother I will keep my trip down to the South Americas as scheduled. Give him my regrets that I won’t be able to attend the funeral. He knows what’s at stake. He’ll understand.” And so would Fred. There wasn’t any other man besides their father that held duty and honor higher than his eldest brother did. Though, still, a pain of guilt shot through him as the words left him.

“Yes, Governor.” The rider mounted his horse and took off. Jason crumpled the paper in his hands as he walked back down the line of workers. He picked up one of the hammers along the way and slid back into work. He lifted the hammer high into the air then slammed it down onto the spike. One blow was all it took. He moved on to the next, extending even higher and bringing the face of the hammer crashing into the iron. His muscles burned with each hit, accompanied by a grunt mixed with pain and anger. The other crew members working on the line let him be, with nothing more than a few stares cast in his direction.

Jason pounded away on the railroad tracks long after the sun had gone down and long after the other workers had turned in. He called for lamps and carried the flames down the line as he drove the spikes into the dirt. The lonely clang of iron rung through the empty plains around him.

After hours of work, Jason felt the grip on the wooden handle loosen, and as he brought the head of the hammer down, it slipped from his hands and crashed to the dirt. The muscles in his legs gave way, and he collapsed to his knees. His breath was labored, and he felt the tremors in his arms and shoulders.

Another light shone from behind him, and when Jason turned around, he saw an extended hand with a cup of water. He took the cup from Billy and downed it in one gulp.

“When I thought you’d try to outwork me, I didn’t think you’d be out here this late,” Billy said.

“Couldn’t let you make me look bad, now could I?” Jason offered a half grin and pushed himself up from the dirt. He wiped the clumps of earth off his pants. His legs still wobbled, but he was strong enough to stand on his own.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Billy said.

“Out of the four of us, all he wanted was something normal. He wanted to wake up, farm his land, and never pick up a gun or sword again.” Jason shook his head. “It shouldn’t have been him that died.”

“Governor Dean will find out who was behind it.”

Jason nodded. He didn’t doubt his brother’s ability, but the fact that he wouldn’t be here to help track down the man who killed his own blood wouldn’t make the trip down to Brazil an easy one. If he could send someone else in his place, he would, but the South American president was very particular about the relationships he formed, and Jason had spent the past year convincing him that his country was ready to expand their lines of trade. “I don’t suppose any dinner’s left from the food house?”

“I think Art still has some slop left.” Billy clapped Jason on the back, and the two walked down the rail line. Jason took a moment to appreciate what they’d been able to accomplish and what was still to come. He just wished that Fred would be here to see it.