Eden's Embers Page 6

  Here I am, Mom and Dad. Walking the tarmac you walked.

  “What’s this one called?” Alana wondered, as the skyscrapers grew taller and taller with every step that brought her closer to the edge of town.

  “We call it Haven,” Finn said, “but back in the day, I think it went by Sea-something.” He hunted for the name but couldn’t seem to dredge it out of the depths of memory. He looked to his mistress. “Leona?”

  “Seattle,” came the answer. “It was called Seattle. Quiet, now. With that horde on the move, we don’t know what’s hiding in the debris.”

  Alana watched her slide her machete out of its scabbard and promptly fell silent. She didn’t take much more convincing.

  * * * *

  They made their way through city streets in pious silence. Alana winced whenever her boots scraped the dusty asphalt too harshly or when debris caught underfoot. At least with the rubber soles between her scored skin and the tarmac, there was little chance of getting her sores infected.

  She slanted a glance at Jackson, whose feet were bare on the uneven ground. The smattering of broken glass and pebbles must have been more than a little painful, yet his face remained studiously impassive, as though he felt nothing at all. He didn’t show the slightest discomfort. His stoicism astonished Alana until she recalled that drifters were used to roughing it and that he didn’t do it for her comfort.

  No doubt for Jackson the past few days had been business as usual. Were he any less hardened, surely he would’ve lost hope by now.

  Alana wondered how much of that was true of her kind. Living under the council’s iron fist had been no more natural than traipsing through the woods, at the mercy of the elements. She had been born in New Eden, though, and that was all the normal she knew.

  Once not so long ago, tall cement towers and motorized transport had been par for the course for her ancestors. Now the towers were crawling with ivy and bird droppings, their windows shattered to let in the odd flutter of wings. Automobiles lay abandoned wherever their tanks had finally run dry.

  The farther they penetrated into the city, the more Alana felt the tangible desolation of the place seep into her bones.

  Jackson was right. This place was nothing like New Eden. Even at its worst, her hometown had been a place of lush greenery, golden wheat fields and noisy chicken coops. There were children laughing and couples fighting behind paper-thin screen doors. None of this mournful silence, this sense of time standing still until the denizens returned from exile.

  “Up ahead,” Finn said, stirring her from her thoughts.

  Alana followed his gaze to a single lumbering figure—human-looking, but not a person. “Walker?” Alana murmured, Leona’s warning still ringing in her eardrums.

  Beside her, Finn nodded and reached for his bow. Alana watched him notch an arrow and take aim.

  “Save it,” Jackson said, stopping him short.

  “What? But it’s coming right at us—” Alana started to protest. She gave up the attempt when she saw Jackson pointing to the rooftop of a nearby building. It wasn’t very tall, only a couple of stories. A pair of crooked signs advertising ‘Authentic Greek Cuisine’ dangled from their fixtures on the crumbling plaster wall.

  She didn’t know how Jackson had spotted the figure on the rooftop. It wasn’t moving. For a second, Alana worried it might be another walker, but then it fired its crossbow, piercing bone with a single bolt.

  “You want to take a look up close?” Finn asked her. “They look creepily like us… Sometimes you can get decent loot, too—things like gold teeth, pocket watches. Wedding rings and cigarettes and stuff.”

  Alana considered the offer but shook her head. “I’m good, thanks.” She was curious, but not curious enough to take another step without the firm knowledge that Jackson would be with her.

  She followed him instead of Finn, hanging back as Jackson shook hands with their crossbow-wielding savior.

  “Took your sweet time, huh?” Jackson flashed one of his rare smiles. “I told ’em not to put you on watch, but Gideon never listens…”

  “Next time I’ll just let the walkers chew you up a bit, Idaho.” The man glanced over Jackson’s shoulder, his smirk widening. “Who’s this?”

  Alana bit back the urge to recoil, locking her knees.

  “A friend,” Jackson said, much to her surprise. “Alana, Ophelyn. Ophelyn, Alana… I, uh, burned down her town.”

  “Ah.” Ophelyn held out the hand that wasn’t holding the crossbow. “Caravan got back couple of hours ago. They mentioned something about you taking the scenic route with your new conquest. Now I can see why. Hello there…”

  “Hi,” Alana murmured warily, slotting her palm into his larger grip.

  Ophelyn was slightly shorter than Jackson, but his skin was the color of pitch and his lips full, like Alana’s mother. He had a scar on one cheek that looked more like someone had tried to take off his head and missed. Alana felt a mixture of apprehension and reassurance as he pumped her hand, but he seemed to know his strength. He didn’t hurt her.

  Perhaps that was the reason why she quickly found her voice to ask, “What caravan?”

  “The one that brought in the spoils from New Eden,” Jackson explained. He arched a brow. “What, did you think we put a torch to the town for the sake of a nice bonfire?”

  I thought you did it because it’s in your nature, Alana mused, but forced herself not to speak. She was his thrall and he didn’t like it when she gave him lip. She had to remember that.

  Finn and Leona joined them after a perfunctory study of the walker, their hands empty. “This one didn’t have anything good,” Finn said, shrugging. “Happens.”

  Alana wondered how many bodies he had fleeced for plunder, how many of those walkers and how many just unfortunate, innocent victims, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Something jagged stuck in her chest at the thought. Had someone done the same with her father?

  She was glad when they finally moved out of the open road. Jackson and Ophelyn took the lead, with Leona closing up the file behind them. Finn walked with Alana, but that didn’t make her feel any less like a prisoner being escorted to her newest dungeon. The sentiment persisted, put down roots, until Ophelyn opened a heavy steel door that led down into a black, shadowy well.

  “We’re going down there?” Alana breathed, too uneasy to bite back the high-pitched query.

  Ophelyn smirked, showing a flash of white teeth. “Don’t worry, sweetheart… We’ve got light.” He produced a flashlight from the folds of his trench coat and switched it on. Instantly, the well was flooded with a warm, golden glow brighter than any gas lamp.

  Alana gasped.

  “We scavenge for batteries,” Ophelyn explained as he started down the stairs. “And ammo… Hell, we scavenge for loads of things. If we can’t find it, it’s either buried, destroyed, or folks like you hoard it.”

  “So you go in and steal it from them?”

  Leona let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Sure we do. Not our fault your people can’t defend themselves worth shit, sweet pea.” She nudged Alana with a knuckle between the ribs. “Hurry up, I gotta pee.”

  Alana stumbled forward, but caught herself with a hand on the banister before she rammed head first into Jackson. She could feel the hot burst of aggravation sparking in her chest, quick as a summer torrent. This was one quarrel she knew she wouldn’t win. She forced herself to silence, swaddling her wounded pride like an infant.

  At the foot of the stairwell, another corridor opened, with one door marked Garage and another, less enticing, flanked by two women playing cards by candlelight.

  “Look at that… The prodigal son returns!” said one, throwing her arms around Finn. “You got me those comics I asked for?”

  “In my backpack,” Finn answered, grinning toothily.

  “Atta boy.”

  The other woman said nothing, only grabbed Leona by the lapels and pulled her into a rough, wet kiss.

  “And who�
�s this?” the first woman asked.

  “The conquest,” Alana interjected before anyone else could speak. “Either that or a distraction with big tits. Depends who you ask.”

  It took her a moment to realize what she’d said. There was no hole big enough to hide her. Evidently being treated as though she was dim and deaf had taken its toll, but Alana had always prided herself on knowing when to shut up—namely, when the alternative was getting smacked over the face for her troubles. She bit her tongue, started to recoil.

  Much to her surprise, the woman snickered. “Oh, I like you. You’re going to give him hell, aren’t you? Good, someone oughta… I’m Maity.” She seized Alana’s hand in a meaty grip, which Alana returned as best she could.

  “You know,” she said to no one in particular as they were finally let through the doors, “the handshake thing is almost starting to feel normal.”

  A moment later, she felt ready and willing to retract the statement.

  There was nothing remotely familiar about the concrete vault she’d stepped into. It was easily as vast as the commercial quarters of New Eden, but from what Alana could see, it also went down into the crust of the Earth for many, many hundreds of feet.

  At its heart lay a circular platform on which six trucks marked US Army were being discharged by brawny, coarse-looking men and women. The caravan, Alana thought, wondering how the vehicles had been brought this far down underground. She recognized the canvas bags being lobbed from hand to hand between the workers—they had been sold in the market not two weeks ago, six pounds of flour for three coin pieces.

  “Welcome to Haven,” Jackson whispered, his warm breath gusting over her ear. “Also known as Operation Final Frontier.”

  He was a solid wall of muscle at her back and Alana didn’t think twice before rocking back on her heels until the shelf of her shoulder was pressed up against his ribcage. She welcomed his quiet strength. She needed an ally because more than one of those beefy warrior types was throwing her leering glances.

  * * * *

  The room she was led to had been stripped of its door, a bead curtain put up instead. “There are no secrets here,” Jackson said by way of explanation.

  “No privacy, either, huh?” Alana shook her head. She had to learn to let things go. You’re a stranger in a strange place. The goddamn door wasn’t an argument worth having.

  She glanced around at the modest furnishings—a double mattress in one corner of the room, a silent brazier in the other. No tables or chairs, but a tall wardrobe that had seen better days had been squeezed against the opposite wall. With its many ornate curlicues and twin brass handles, the armoire didn’t look like standard military fare.

  Alana wanted to ask if this, too, was loot, but the question stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had more pressing concerns.

  “So is this where I will be staying too, or…?”

  If Jackson said he wasn’t interested in claiming her, would she be thrown out of Haven? Or would she be expected to find another protector? How did drifters handle an outsider who knew how to penetrate into their lair? Alana forced herself not to think of the third option—the last thing people who lived in secret and cultivated enemies like farmers did crops could possibly want was for their location to become public knowledge.

  Not much united the disparate townships that had sprung up all over the coast, but a common enemy would surely help settle old disputes.

  Jackson only sneered. “Not up to your standards, is it? If you don’t like it, you’re free to look elsewhere.”

  “I’m your thrall,” Alana noted, for want of anything better to say. She was too tired to argue her way out of this one.

  “Only when it suits you.”

  The charge came out of nowhere, prefacing a violent shake of the head as Jackson made for the door.

  “What you do is no concern of mine,” he threw over his shoulder, as piercingly clear as one of Ophelyn’s bolts.

  He stormed out on that note, leaving Alana alone in his room, his boots still on her feet. Part of her wanted to curl up in a corner and weep until all the sorrow was leeched from her like pus from a wound. The rest knew that there was nothing to be gained from giving in to weakness. Finn had said something about food and baths. There was no separate washroom in the room, so Alana gathered up her courage and went off in search of the necessary amenities.

  It was a bitter thought, but had she remained in New Eden—had the town not been destroyed and picked apart by vultures—this was how she would’ve prepared herself for her wedding night to the sheriff.

  The only difference was that here she had to guess her way around, constantly afraid of what might become of her if she attracted attention. Without Leona or Finn to help her out, she returned to the men and women discharging the trucks, approaching them tentatively. She was determined not to look at the loot emblazoned with familiar seals.

  She asked for directions in a voice more timid than she would’ve liked. To her surprise, no one questioned her purpose. No one put her on the spot.

  They all seemed to know she was off limits.

  It was easy to find the baths with their help. The slapping noise of bare feet on tile guided her the rest of the way once her directions ran out.

  There were no tubs, unlike what she’d known in New Eden, but there were showerheads that dribbled warm water and soap dispensers that didn’t even have to be pressed by hand. The marriage of high tech and utterly ancient was nowhere more visible than in the rickety benches laid out between the shower stalls, clearly built by hand by a carpenter who didn’t quite know what he or she was doing.

  Alana would have killed for a shower curtain, but just like Jackson’s room had no door, so too did the shower offer any and all passers-by a clear view of her behind. She kept her back turned out of some lingering sense of modesty, though all around her women were talking over the sound of running water, paying her no mind.

  She hadn’t brought a towel, so she made do with the clothes she had, wringing as much water out of her damp hair as she could before pinning it up into a messy bun. She washed her clothes in the shower, too, trying to scrub them as clean as possible under a thin spray of cool water.

  Putting them back on was far from ideal, but it would have to do. She shivered in her damp dress on the way back, hoping against hope that by the time she reached Jackson’s quarters, he would have returned.

  No such luck. That sad, impersonal little room was just as barren as Alana had left it. There was no sign of her captor-cum-protector. She tried to wait for him, but hunger quickly got the better of her. This time, she didn’t need to ask directions. She merely followed her nose down the winding passages of the underground city until she hit a long line made up of men and women of all ages.

  She started when she felt a hand grip her shoulder.

  “Well, don’t you look just like a drowned cat?” Leona tittered. “What happened, Jackson toss you into a bath?”

  “No,” Alana said, pulling free of the other woman’s hold.

  Who was she kidding? She wasn’t thrall material. She wasn’t even wife material. There was no way she’d survive the week at this rate. She opened her mouth to apologize—to say what, precisely, she didn’t know, but it would come to her—when Leona rolled her silver-gray eyes.

  “He’s still an idiot for not telling you how this works. Scouts and their thralls get to jump the line. We don’t queue.”

  “We don’t?” Alana asked, stupidly, because she didn’t trust Leona as far as she could throw her.

  The blonde shook her head. “Perks of risking our necks in the badlands. Come on, I’ll show you.” This time when she grabbed Alana’s upper arm, at least Alana was ready for the indignity of being dragged around like a wayward imbecile.

  The two men ladling a murky porridge into bowls didn’t even blink when Leona elbowed her way to the front of the line. One of them looked Alana up and down.

  “She’s Jackson’s?”

  Leona hel
ped herself to a slice of bread, nodding. “He’s all kinds of smitten. Poor fool.”

  “Better claim her soon,” the man said, winking at Alana over the metal counter between them. “Before someone steals her from under him.”

  Alana gripped her tray with both hands, jaw tensing. She heard the threat, all right. She knew what a man looked like when he was weighing risk and reward.

  “Pay these clowns no mind,” Leona scoffed. “They said the same about Finn, back in the day.”

  Alana held her tongue until they had put the throng of people awaiting their supper behind them. “Do most men sleep with men here?” She had seen Leona with that woman before they’d entered the city. The image was forever etched onto her retinas—not unheard of, even in New Eden, but certainly not something to broadcast loudly.

  Leona hitched up her shoulders. “Some do, some don’t. Did we shock your virgin eyes?”

  “They’re not so virgin,” Alana muttered, still warring with the urge to lash out against these people for no better reason than misattributed guilt. She had no room to blame them for what they’d done—they were raiders and thieves. Destruction was their trade.

  Alana was the one who’d perverted her purpose by clearing out of New Eden as it was crumbling to dust.

  “Jackson tells me you’re smart.”

  “Does he?” It seemed unlikely that Jackson would have noticed. Whenever she spoke her mind, he told her to be quiet.

  “Mmm,” Leona confirmed, “but if you’re truly clever, you’ll show him you’re just as interested in him as he is in you.”

  A bead of icy water trickled down Alana’s spine, making the slow peregrination back to the room that much more unpleasant. “Or else what?” she sighed. “You’ll sell me to the kitchen boys? I’m sure they’ll appreciate my tits too.”

  Leona rounded on her with a wide grin. “Wow… That really got to you, didn’t it? I’m impressed. You know, there’s a reason we never take thralls from the towns we hit.”