Razor Girl (18 page)

“So, where you heading?” Luke asked as Chase followed him across the street. “You got a destination, pilgrim?”

Chase shrugged. “South,” he said. “Where it’s warm.” That sounded like as good an explanation as any. After all, he might be willing to risk his own life for drugs, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to sell out Molly.

Not that he was risking his life for drugs. Luke seemed a decent enough fellow. Probably just lonely. And dirty. But everyone was lonely and dirty these days. And it was nice to converse with another adult, even if he was a little weird. Chase imagined he probably seemed a little weird himself.

Luke led the way through a narrow, brick-lined alley into what was likely once a gorgeous courtyard. Now it was crumbling and decrepit, the intricate sculpture of an algae-stained stone fountain the only remnant of its former glory. Luke pushed open a door at the far end of the courtyard, and they stepped over the threshold into a dark pit of a home.

“When we first came out after the plague, we thought we’d live in the fanciest house in town,” Luke explained, striking a match and holding it to a gas lantern that had been hung by the door. “But while them things are pretty, they sure aren’t easy to defend, if you know what I mean.”

“From the Others?”

“The Others?” Luke chuckled. “We call ’em Knights of the Living Dead here. You know, like that old zombie sim everyone used to play.”

Chase did know. Though the real-life Others—Knights—were certainly more terrifying than those virtual zombies in the old sim.

As his host turned up the lantern, Chase took a good look around the house. He’d been right about its condition: It wasn’t exactly going to make the next issue of
Better Homes
and Gardens
, if the magazine was still in existence. Green mold clung to the dark wallpaper. Dirty dishes were piled in an even dirtier sink. The sole piece of furniture, a faded, flowered couch, sagged in the center of the room.

“Have yerself a seat, boy,” Luke suggested, motioning. Then he turned to the hallway on the left side of the room. “Helga!” he cried. “Get yer ass out of bed, you lazy bitch, and bring us some booze. We got company!”

A small blonde girl poked her head out. Her hair was dreadlocked and her face hollow, with jutting cheekbones and blackened eyes. Her sticklike arms were covered in bruises. Chase shuddered, suddenly getting a very bad feeling. He’d seen other old horror movies besides the George Romero ones.

“Helga came from the mail,” Luke told him. “Mail-order bride, they used to call ’em. Though she learned English real good, so you can’t even tell. The rich fat fuck she married died in the plague. So I take care of her now.” He grabbed the girl roughly by the arm, gave her a slobbery kiss then pushed her in the direction of the kitchen, pinching her ass in the process. She slunk over to the cabinets and rummaged around there.

“Gotta put these damn women in their place,” Luke
boasted. “I’m sure you know what I mean. You got yourself a woman, boy?”

Chase shook his head. “No. Never have,” he said, doubly glad he hadn’t mentioned Molly.

“You one of them queers then?”

“Er, nope.” Chase shrugged. “Just aren’t that many women to be had these days.”

What a stupid idea, coming here, he berated himself as Helga set down three squat, cloudy glasses and a bottle of The Macallan. She poured the whisky and handed Chase a glass. He took it and watched her pour another for Luke. But her hands were shaking, and her fast pour splashed Luke’s already stained jeans. The dirty man’s eyes grew huge, and Helga cringed, as if anticipating his next move.

BAM! Sure enough, Luke’s open palm connected with her face. She cried out and staggered backwards. “Stupid, clumsy bitch!” the man yelled, and Chase got a weird feeling he was actually trying to show off. “These are my best jeans!”

“I’m sorry,” Helga babbled, tears streaming down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her nose, which was dribbling blood. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey, man, be cool,” Chase said, feeling he should say or do something. “It was an accident.”

“You
are
one of those fancy boys, aren’t you?” Luke growled. “She’s fine. Don’t get your pan ties in a twist.” He grabbed his glass and held it up. “To Band-Aids,” he said.

One sip, Chase decided; he’d drink the toast then make his excuses and get out. It was too crazy here. Too creepy. Even the promise of drugs wasn’t worth staying. But he also didn’t want to piss off his host.

Oh, Chase, why did you think this was a good idea?

The whiskey burned his throat and he coughed. He hadn’t drunk much alcohol in his life, and nothing like this.

Luke laughed. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get you those Band-Aids.” He got up from his seat and walked over to some shelves at the other end of the room. He pulled down a book and opened it. Chase realized it was hollowed out. “I don’t
know why I hide it. Not like some narc is gonna bust me.” Luke chuckled. “Old habits die hard maybe.”

The man pulled out a syringe and a packet of powder. He walked back to the couch and sat down. It creaked under his weight.

Chase glanced toward the door. This was a bit hardcore for him. Luke was pushing up his sleeve and wrapping a yellow cord around his biceps, grabbing a spoon off the table and pouring powder onto it. The process was mesmerizing. Chase didn’t want to be part of this scene anymore…but as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t get up and walk away. His eyelids felt unbearably heavy, and the lantern light was casting strange shadows on the walls. Demons dancing.

“I have to…go,” he said, trying to rise. His body felt as if it weighed a ton. What the hell was going on? From the corner of his eye he could see Luke chuckling. “What…did…you…?” His tongue felt huge and swollen, barely fitting in his mouth.

The man shrugged, at least having the decency to look abashed. “Sorry, man,” he said. “It’s sort of a deal we have. They keep out of my domain and I find them fresh meat.”

Chase collapsed, swimming in blackness. The jewelry box fell from his grip and smashed on the floor. His last thought was how disappointed he was that he wouldn’t ever be able to give it to Molly.

“Okay, you can remove the blindfold now!”

Molly pulled the rag from her eyes and looked around. She appeared to be in some kind of windowless apartment, a cozy living room with Pottery Barn furniture, a narrow kitchen with stainless steel, non-smart appliances behind a breakfast bar. Leading off the main room was what appeared to be a bathroom, two bedrooms, a pantry overflowing with food and some kind of small fitness center with weights and a treadmill. She turned to her father, confused.

“What is this?”

Ian Anderson beamed, walking to the center of the room and twirling, his arms outstretched. “This,” he said, “is our Noah’s Ark.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“I bought it off the old lady who used to own it. Her father originally built it in the 1950s when they believed a nuclear war with Russia could happen at any moment. It’s called a fallout shelter. We’ll use it as a safe house when things get really bad.” He walked over and adjusted a dial. “Of course, I made modifications to the original design. Updated everything with the latest technology. Even installed titanium so that no one can get in here. Not even government agents. We’ll be safe.”

“Do you really think it’s necessary?” she asked, horrified. The place made her feel claustrophobic; the last thing she
wanted was to spend any extended time there. “I mean, the news reports are saying they’re getting the flu under control.”

“Haven’t I taught you anything?” her father asked. “You know the government controls the media. Those reporters are just talking heads and propaganda. Of course they’re saying they’re getting it under control.”

“Right.” She sighed. She knew her father was making sense—at least about the media. She hadn’t seen anything in her town lately that made her feel any safer. She still wasn’t sold on the shelter, however. “So, um, Dad…let’s say things go down as you think. What happens?”

“In the next few days, I want you to bring down some clothes and what ever else you think you’ll need,” he said, not answering her question. “Then, when it’s time, we can get down here in a hurry. Unlock the shelter door with a scan of your retina out front. I’ve set the timer for six years.”

She stared at him. “Six years?” she repeated. “What do you mean, six years?” She felt panic bubbling into her throat. He couldn’t be serious, could he?

“That’s what my friends and I have determined to be the minimum amount of time for any airborne germs to dissipate in case the virus jumps. But don’t worry, there’s plenty of food and water to last you and your mother. I’ve been stockpiling for some time.”

Food was the last thing she was worried about at the moment. “What about you?” she asked. “Won’t you be with us?”

“Of course. That’s the plan. But if for some reason that doesn’t happen, there’s a rendezvous point, a place you two can meet me after the doors open.”

“Where?”

Her father grinned. “Disney World.”

“When’s Chase coming back?” Darla asked for the thousandth time. “I’m hungry.”

“Soon,” Molly replied, also for the thousandth time. “And we’re all hungry.”

She scratched her wrist absentmindedly as worry pricked at her brain. Soon. It’d been past
soon
four hours ago, and it was starting to get late in the day. Had something happened to him? What if he’d met up with a band of Others? Or, heck, anything—who knew what was out here, hovering in the shadows?

She should never have let him go alone. But someone had to watch the children and he’d acted so sure of himself. It seemed okay at the time. Now she wasn’t sure.

She shook her head, trying to free her mind from the dark thoughts that kept invading. It was probably nothing. He probably just hadn’t found what they needed yet and was too damn proud to come back empty-handed.

“When’s soon?” Darla whined.

“I don’t know!” Molly retorted angrily before she could stop herself. Darla stared, wide-eyed, then burst into tears, running across the makeshift campsite and into the arms of Starr. Even refusing to look at her, Molly felt the teenager’s reproachful glare.

Molly felt bad for snapping. After all, it wasn’t Darla’s
fault. She was just stressed and scared. But there was no need to take it out on the children.

She rose to her feet and walked over to the kids. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling awkward. “I guess I’m a little worried about him, too. He should be back by now.”

“D’you think the Others got him?” Starr asked. She looked like she’d swallowed something sharp and it was cutting through her guts.

“No!” Molly said, perhaps a bit too vehemently. “He probably just lost track of time or something. I’m sure he’ll be back any minute.”

“I think we should go look for him,” Torn suggested. She hadn’t realized he was nearby. But then, he and Starr had become nearly inseparable. It reminded Molly of how she and Chase had been, back in the day. They’d been so dumb and innocent once.

“It’s been too long. He must be in trouble,” Torn added.

Molly glanced around and realized all the kids had gathered, concerned looks on their faces. “Okay,” she said. “There’s no use denying it. You’re right, and we need to check it out. Torn and Starr, you watch the kids. I’ll go out and look for him.”

“Shouldn’t we all go?” Starr asked.

“Yeah, if there’s Others I want to be able to fight!” Torn growled. He was fifteen. So young. Weird, to think that when the Super Flu hit, Molly and Chase had been his age. They’d felt grown up then, too.

“No,” Molly replied. “I need you and Starr to look after the little ones and the horses,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.” The children huddled together, looking like lost puppies. She threw them her bravest smile. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I’m sure he just found a toy store and is stocking up for you all or something.”

But that’s not what she really thought at all.

Chase groaned as he swam back to consciousness. How long had he been out? Opening one eye then the other, he tried
to ascertain his surroundings. It appeared he was in some sort of jail. Lying on a stained mattress with a threadbare blanket.

Everything came back to him: looking for drugs in the pharmacy. Meeting up with Luke. The drugged drink. Him crashing to the floor.

This was not good.

“You’re awake.”

He whirled around, realizing for the first time that there were two cots in the cell. On the second sat a skinny blond guy in a white tank top and jeans. He had ugly welts all over his arms.

“Yeah,” Chase replied. Was this guy another prisoner who’d had a run-in with Luke, too? “Where am I?”

“Welcome to the Thunderdome.”

Chase cocked his head. His fellow prisoner laughed.

“The Thunder…?”

“Well, that’s what they like to call it. I hear it’s an allusion to some old film. Mad Mack or something.”

Chase scratched his head, trying to make sense of what the other man was saying. “I was drugged. By a guy…”

“One of their scouts, I’m sure. They hire guys around the city to bring in new recruits. Offer them protection and extra goods in exchange for the service. When people come through town the scouts offer to help them out, get them something they need. That’s how they trap ’em.”

Chase thought of his encounter with Luke and his own particular, rather embarrassing need, and his face burned. He was such an idiot. A prisoner to the itch, and now it’d made him a prisoner for real. He leapt off the bed and headed over to the door, wrapping his hands around the metal bars. They felt solid. Unmovable.

“No use, man,” his cellmate said. “You’re stuck until they decide to let you out.”

Panic flooded Chase. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be trapped like this. Not while Molly had no idea where he was. Not while she was caring for the children
he’d sworn to protect. He imagined them sitting back at the campsite as the sun slipped below the horizon. Would they come looking for him? And what if they ran into Luke or another scout?

He walked back to his cot and sank down, buried his head in his hands. If only he’d just concentrated on his mission, focused on finding food and supplies. Or maybe he should have gone back right away. They’d had enough dried food for one more night, and he could have stopped in the next town, the next
empty
town. Then he could have presented Molly with her music box. He would have been a hero. Instead, he was a prisoner. And he didn’t have a single person to blame but himself.

“I’m Bowie, by the way,” his companion said. “Well, my real name’s Mike but I like going by Bowie now. Like the old twentieth-century musician. He was great. God, I miss music.”

Chase couldn’t believe this guy was babbling like nothing was wrong. His life was over, and this guy was about to launch into a convo about the nice weather they’d been having.

“What’s your name?” Bowie asked.

“Chase. Chase Griffin.”

“Chase Griffin.” Bowie appeared to consider. “I like that. Good fighting name. You should tell them. Maybe they’ll let you keep it.”

“Keep it?”

“Sure. If you have a boring name they’ll change it. They need to impress the crowd after all. Can’t draw people who aren’t interested. Can’t interest people with stupid names. Herbie MacMillan versus Beauregard Goldblum! Lawlz. Hardly going to get a crowd with that.”

“What?” Chase was getting a worse feeling than ever.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Bowie said. “You’re a gladiator now.”

Chase’s stomach roiled. “You mean they’re going to make me fight…?”

“Duh. That’s what they do here. The town is run by this
ex-wrestler named Brutus. He’s a bit crazy—obviously. I think he must have been hit in the head a few too many times. But he brought a bunch of survivors together and formed a makeshift government. It’s safer here than a lot of places. And every other Friday—if anyone really knows when Friday is these days—they have ‘sports.’”

Sports. Great. Bowie likely wasn’t talking about reestablishing the Carolina Panthers. “So, they recruit fighters for the ring?”

“Yup. Well, recruit is maybe stretching things a bit. They grab people passing through and make them into gladiators.”

But that’s barbaric
, Chase wanted to protest, but knew it would do no good. “And we fight other gladiators?” he asked.

Bowie laughed. “No. You fight the Knights of the Living Dead. You know, the changed people. Brutus figures people from outta town brought them down on us; they should be the ones to do the fighting.”

Chase cringed. Knights of the Living Dead. Others. The crazy people of this town wanted him to fight Others in a ring. With screaming fans watching. Awesome.

How had he gotten himself into this mess, again? More importantly, how was he going to get himself out?

“Have you fought?” he asked Bowie.

“Sure,” his new companion said. “I’ve been in the ring three times now. Kicked those Others from here to kingdom come.” He grinned. “If I win five more fights I get my freedom. I get to be one of the people who live here. Course, I gotta kick this broken leg first.” He motioned to his cast. “Damn Knight cracked it last time before I knocked his head off his shoulders with my axe. It was a pretty crazy fight.”

Chase closed his eyes. Crazy? That’s exactly what he’d call it. And a few other things.

He wondered if Molly would come looking for him, then felt another wash of shame. He was the man; he was supposed to be the one protecting her. Now, because of his weakness, he’d fucked everything up again. He’d inadvertently broken his promise to his brother. After all, he couldn’t very well care
for the children if he was clawed to death by an Other in a gladiator ring.

He pictured Molly’s disappointed face as she realized what had happened. How stupid he had been. She had been angry at just finding the pills; she’d never forgive him for getting himself into this mess. And she shouldn’t. He sent up a vow to what ever divinity was listening: If he got out of this—someway, somehow—he’d quit the drugs. Cold turkey this time. No matter how much it sucked. Not that he had much chance of making that happen.

A rattling noise made him open his eyes. He looked up to see a tall man dressed in a tuxedo and top hat tapping on the bars with a cane. “Hey, new boy,” the man growled. “Let’s see how well you do in the Thunderdome.”

Molly headed cautiously down the exit ramp, scanning the scene as she went. So far, no sign of life. Not any animals. Not any humans. Nothing. A completely dead town. So where was Chase? How far could he have gone? What if he’d been dragged off to some Other enclave, never to be seen again?

She shook her head, trying to clear it of morbid thoughts. They weren’t productive, for one thing. Better to stay positive. To believe he was still alive.

She hadn’t originally wanted to bring him along, but now she couldn’t imagine the journey without him. And it would be a lie to say it was just his cooking or the way he was able to effortlessly deal with the kids. It was his quiet company that she appreciated. His smile. His eyes. His occasional laugh. Like it or not, she’d grown more attached to him than ever over the last week. She didn’t want to lose him again.

She sent up a prayer, begging what ever higher power was listening to keep him safe, then did another scan of the surrounding area, trying to find some sign of life. Even with her implants, nothing. Nada.

Molly wandered street after street, searching, seeking, but always coming up empty. It was as if Chase had walked into the Bermuda Triangle, vanished, never to be heard from again.
Discouragement crept into her, and she wondered what she should do. She didn’t want to go back alone, admit defeat and tell the kids that one more person they loved and depended on was likely gone for good. So she kept looking. And looking.

“Psst!”

Molly whirled around, her cyber defenses activating automatically. The razors shot from her fingers and nanos pumped hardcore adrenaline into her veins. She scanned the street. A small girl with stringy blonde dreadlocks, eyes circled by black and bruises up and down her arms had appeared out of nowhere, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Molly lowered her razors. A human! And a girl! Maybe she could help.

“I’m looking for someone—” she said, but the girl put a finger to her lips and gestured for Molly to follow. Curious, Molly nodded once and did as requested.

Down a dark alleyway, through an empty building, up a hill. The girl paused in front of a small stone church and beckoned once again to Molly, then slipped inside. Molly hesitated. Should she go in after her? What if this was some sort of trap? But this girl was the first person she’d seen in this godforsaken town and thus her only prayer for finding Chase. So she sucked in a breath and stepped into the church sanctuary.

It was dark inside. Deserted. Spooky. Dust-caked pews stood empty, led to an equally dusty altar. Obviously the place hadn’t been used for years—likely not since the fear-filled church parishioners made their last useless requests for divine intervention against the Super Flu.

The blonde was already at the front of the church, pulling aside a red velvet, moth-eaten curtain. Once again, she beckoned before slipping beyond.

This time Molly hesitated. “Stop,” she called out. “I’ve followed you far enough. Talk to me.”

The girl came back and frowned at Molly. “You want to know about your friend or what?” she asked, crossing her bruised arms over her chest.

Molly’s shoulders sagged, realizing she was utterly at this stranger’s mercy. “Yes,” she said quietly, lowering her hands to her sides. But the razor blades slipped back out from under her nails. Just in case.

The blonde girl disappeared again behind the curtain. Molly followed, pushing aside the red velvet and stepping through into darkness. She adjusted her night vision, blinking twice to adjust the brightness. They’d entered a small back chamber, maybe once the domain of priests waiting to say mass. It was packed floor to ceiling with relics, and ornate crosses adorned nearly every inch of free space.

The girl was there. And she was brandishing a knife.

Molly didn’t hesitate. She round house-kicked, striking the girl’s arm. Her attacker bellowed in pain but kept her grip, slashing out at Molly with the knife. It sliced through the leather on Molly’s left shoulder.

Gritting her teeth, Molly leaned forward and head-butted the girl. The force of the blow sent the blonde flying backwards into a pile of crucifixes. If she had been a vampire, she would have been a goner for sure. But, mortal, she rallied, leaping back to her feet, and her knife slashed through the air again.

This time Molly was ready. Using her nano-accelerated reaction time, she was able to grab the girl’s wrist and yank her around, pinning her arm against her back. The girl cried out but kept a death grip on her knife. So with her other hand, Molly reached out and grabbed a fistful of long blonde dreadlocks, pulling backward. The girl finally dropped her knife and it clattered to the floor. Molly pushed her forward and grabbed the knife as the girl crashed face-first into the wall.