Love, Death, Robots, and Zombies Read online

  Chapter 2.

  My first thought is a non-verbal oh-shit-I’m-dead kind of thing. I have a terrible fear of guns when they’re aimed in my direction. When you depend entirely on yourself, having someone else determine your fate with a single twitch of their finger brings a soul-crushing terror. I should be angry, but I’m too scared for anger. Or maybe I’m just a coward. As if to confirm it, an uncontrollable tremble sets into my limbs.

  Even so, another part of me is as calm as unstirred ashes. That part knows I’d be dead already if that was the intention. I drop the crossbow. Lectric is growling in a demonic voice I didn’t even know his speakers could make.

  “Tell the ‘bot to stay,” the voice says.

  “Lectric, stay. Stay, boy. Stay.”

  Lectric stays. When I built him, I didn’t give him any special defenses, though he does have metal claws, if things get desperate. My assailant picks up the crossbow.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “I live here. Who are you?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tristan. Can I turn around?”

  “No. Put your hands on your head. What are you doing here?”

  “I told you, I live here,” I say, putting my hands on my head.

  “In that building?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else?”

  “Just Lectric.”

  “The bot, you mean? Nobody else?”

  “Nobody else.”

  He’s silent a moment. Is he deciding to kill me? I didn’t even get to read Volume Seven.

  “Send your bot ahead. We’re going inside.”

  “Lectric–go. Home, boy. Home.”

  Lectric whines but starts trotting ahead. We walk behind him.

  “Does he have a shutdown code?”

  “No, he’s self-aware. He’s not a threat. Don’t hurt him.”

  “Shut up.”

  Am I talking too much? I wish I was more like Conan. He never gets taken unawares, and if he does, he starts killing things. If it was him, he’d whirl around and cut this asshole in half. Then he’d climb through the window and pounce on anyone inside. Naturally, there’d be some half-naked women involved too. But I’m just Tristan, fifteen-year old pushover. Didn’t even hear him coming. Should I try something? A thousand thoughts pass in the short time it takes to reach the Library.

  Lectric enters ahead of us. There’s an uproar. Then I come in and things go quiet. A guy and a girl are sitting by a small fire in the middle of the Library’s largest undamaged room. They’ve piled bricks in a rough circle to control the blaze, apparently not content to use my fire-pit out back. Both are roughly my age. The guy might be a few years older. And is it weird that the first thing I notice in a potentially deadly situation is the tight interplay of the girl’s smudged white shirt against her breasts? Human nature, I guess.

  In the same breath, a dozen other things come to light. A gun in a leather holster on the boy’s left hip. The girl’s shoulder-length blonde hair. The insignia sewn into the boy’s leather jacket: an X made from a shotgun and a scimitar, circled by flames. The girl’s downcast face. The fire painting everything orange and black…

  And a third teen, unnoticed at first.

  He’s leaning against one wall, steeped in shadow, arms crossed, one leg bent so that his heel is flat against the wall behind him. His head is shaved to stubble. His jaw is square. His gray eyes are cynical, malevolent: it’s all a joke, they say. He doesn’t wear an insignia. He doesn’t need one. A bandolier crisscrosses his chest in a parody of the X on his companion’s patch, and he’s wearing an actual shotgun and scimitar across his back. The handles protrude above his shoulders.

  Kill him.

  This is my first thought. Strange, isn’t it? Sometimes our instincts are spot-on. The guy by the fire goes calm, steady, prepared for anything. But the one against the wall has a strange gleam of anticipation in his eyes. He wants chaos to ensue. When the girl looks up, her blue eyes widen. Parched red lips part in surprise.

  “What’s this, Fin?” the guy by the fire asks, measuring my worth. He’s the leader then.

  “Our missing tenant. Found him creeping up with his dog. Had this on him,” Fin says, putting my crossbow on the ground and shoving it with his foot. The leader examines the crossbow and stands up. He asks the same questions Fin did. Then he says:

  “What’s in the pack?”

  Fin starts rummaging. I’m worried he’s going to take Toyota’s gift, but he’s only checking for weapons. He pulls out my bolts and tosses them toward the crossbow. He examines the spyglass but stuffs it back inside.

  “Mostly ‘tronics,” he concludes.

  “More ‘tronics, huh? Where’d you get all this equipment?” the leader asks, jabbing his thumb at the Library’s main desk, which serves as my workstation. Scattered across it are half-built traps, experimental circuits, and unused electrical components.

  “I scavenge for parts in the ruins.”

  “How about upstairs? You’ve got traps, generators, all kinds of crap.”

  “I built them. I’m good with electronics.”

  He grunts, bemused. He doesn’t know what to make of me. You don’t find many lucid strangers living alone on the edge of the wasteland. I myself once encountered a hermit with a shock of white hair in a crumbling house to the north. When I waved at him, he screamed and ran.

  “Good with electronics, huh? Okay. I’m Ballard. That’s Finnigan behind you. This is Echo, and that’s Cabal,” the leader, says. The girl, Echo, just stares at me. She has a three-inch scar running along her left cheek.

  “Now we’re acquainted. Would you like to take a seat?” Ballard asks.

  As if I had many options. I sit by the fire. Finnigan comes into view. He’s maybe seventeen–dark hair, dark eyes, bronze tan. He’s holding a long-barreled pistol, possibly a particle-packet weapon. A hunting rifle is slung across his back. He’s no longer pointing a weapon, but the apparent civility does nothing to reassure me. If anything, it makes me more nervous. Honest threats I can understand. Smiles and secret intentions amplify my paranoia.

  “So. How is it you live out here alone, Tristan?” Ballard asks.

  He has to repeat the question. I’m distracted by Cabal, the one by the wall. His half-smile and glittering gray eyes unnerve me. He knows it too. He drifts slowly along the wall until he’s somewhere behind me, and not seeing him is even worse than seeing him.

  “I, uh … I’ve been here three years,” I say, trying to see through the back of my head.

  “Not really what I asked. Are you from Cove?”

  “Cove? No. No, I hate Cove.”

  Ballard’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “That so?” he asks.

  I nod. Why is he asking me so much? Black body armor is visible beneath his leather jacket. Fin sits down and warms his hands by the fire. The night is turning cold.

  “What do you have against Cove? ‘The last great hope of freedom and equality in the new world.’ Isn’t that what they say? They want to reinvent America.”

  “They burned my village,” I say.

  Ballard chortles.

  “I guess they’re staying true to their intentions then,” he says.

  All three of the guys laugh, like he’s made a clever joke–but not Echo. Her wide blue eyes stare at me through the orange glare of the fire. Ballard looks at her, makes a face.

  “Wait. Do you know him, Echo?” he asks.

  Slowly, she shakes her head, continuing to stare. Ballard shrugs.

  “Must have been one of those towns further south, huh? Well, Tristan, Cove’s made more enemies than just you and Echo here. The real question is: how do you feel about Foundry?”

  “Foundry?”

  Did Cove burn Echo’s town too then? Stupidly, I’d never wondered if they’d burned more than one. Some tragedies are so personal it feels li
ke you’re the only one they could ever happen to. The fact that such terrible things might happen everywhere, all the time, is too cruel and senseless to comprehend.

  “Yeah. You’ve heard of Foundry?” Ballard asks.

  “A little,” I say.

  I’ve heard they’re ruled by a bloodthirsty dictator with cybernetic limbs. I’ve heard he hosts gladiatorial games, crushes men with his bare hands, and has working oil rigs. Toyota has been there. Other than that, not much.

  “Well, you’re about to join Foundry’s army,” Ballard says, stopping my brain from working. He laughs. I can’t speak. Join the army? The words don’t make sense.

  “I wanted to make sure you weren’t some kind of lookout for Cove. That’s what my superiors will ask when they get here. And you’d better hope they believe you. Are you hearing me, Tristan? We’re not raiders. Not anymore, anyway. We’re scouts. There’s an army headed this way.”

  An army. Headed this way. Nope, not making sense.

  “We’re going to burn Cove to the ground,” Fin says grimly.

  “I can’t–I can’t join Foundry’s army. I live here. This is my home,” I explain, because they don’t seem to understand. Don’t they know I can’t possibly leave? Behind me, Cabal laughs. The sound is surprisingly girlish.

  “Not anymore,” Ballard says, though he’s not without sympathy. Unbelievably, he leans in and claps me on the shoulder, like we’re friends now. He’s robbing me of my home and utterly changing my life, but it’s cool, we’re friends.

  “The thing is, we need people like you. People good with ‘tronics. And anyway, I can’t let you go. I’d have to kill you. Do you understand? I can’t leave you behind because the army would find you, and I’d suffer for letting you slip through the cracks. But I can’t send you ahead either, because you could warn Cove we’re coming. So you see? I’m doing you a favor, Tristan.”

  I just stare at him.

  “It’s really not so bad,” Ballard goes on. “If you can make those generators, you’ll make good pay. Better than most of us. And you don’t have to live alone in this rat-hole. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it. Drink?”

  He holds a flask toward me. I stare at it blankly. Doing me a favor, he says. I’d like to put a favorable hole through his head. But Fin is watching with a hunter’s eyes, and Cabal is behind me with his shotgun and scimitar.

  The flask is still out. I shake my head. An hour ago all I could think about was Volume Seven…

  “Do I get to keep my books?” I ask.

  Ballard and Fin look at each other, bemused. Fin chuckles.

  “Whatever you can carry,” Ballard says.

  We’re up a while longer. Ballard tells some kind of story about Foundry, but I can’t concentrate. I’m being drafted into a city-state’s army? The whole idea is absurd. And they’re headed for Cove–we could all be dead in weeks. Come to think of it, Toyota was moving south, probably straight toward Foundry’s troops. I hope they don’t steal his stuff. But he knows how to handle himself. Hell, he’ll probably come out ahead. He’ll have three white oxen next trip.

  At some point, Ballard stands up.

  “Tristan? Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to cuff you to that railing for the night. I don’t want you getting any bad ideas in the night. Bad ideas get people killed.”

  Conan would tell him he was welcome to try, before smashing his face in. I only nod vaguely. My right wrist is cuffed to an old metal railing attached to the wall. Way to go, Tristan. Way to go.

  Of course, it’s impossible to sleep–which would be true even without the restraint. I slump into a sitting position, my pack forming a bulky cushion. The fire burns down to coals. Lectric curls up beside me, whining now and then. Ballard and Echo retire to one corner of the room, only about twenty feet away. Then I notice they’ve dragged my bed down from my room.

  The indignity of this simple act appalls me. I was lucky enough to salvage a halfway decent mattress from the ruins of an old house, and these–these people–are using it! This is my house. That’s my bed. Why am I the one cuffed to the wall? In the darkness I nurse my anger, and it proves volatile.

  Fin and Cabal have their own sleeping bags within sight of each other. Apparently the scouts feel safer staying in one room. Fin lays down holding his pistol across his chest, while Cabal goes outside to take watch. He’ll be in the Spire, no doubt–the remains of a crumbling eight-story building a block from the Library. The Spire is too run down to provide good shelter, but it offers the best vantage point for miles around.

  Ballard and Echo are in my bed now, but they’re not going to sleep. Their constant shifting and soft sounds are impossible to ignore. Privacy is not much of an issue for them. I don’t know why, but it makes me angrier. I couldn’t even look at Echo when we sat by the fire. Why? Because she’s the first girl I’ve seen in three years? Because I wanted her from the first peripheral glimpse? Or because she reminds me of…

  No. No one. She reminds me of no one.

  But memories are closer in the darkness, and soon it’s all breaking open. The dead are rising from the grave of my mind. Berkley, Crispin, Annabel. My best friends. My grandfather’s electronics store. The raiders. The army. The flames.

  Don’t think of it.

  There’s a war in my head as the past tries to break through all I’ve layered on top of it. Everything I’ve done for three years has only been to stabilize what was destabilized that night. And now I’m losing it all again. I can’t let it happen. I can’t.

  I’m rocking and muttering to myself, on the verge of some kind of emotional breakdown, when I notice Cabal staring at me from the open doorway. Pale moonlight surrounds him like a halo. He makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh, shaking his head at me: pathetic. Fin is the next to take watch.

  The night passes in a dark malaise. I’m ashamed and angry at myself for becoming this helpless thing cuffed to the wall. This victim. My self-judgment defeat me further. It’s possible I fall asleep. The next thing I’m aware of is the bluish predawn light and the girl sitting up in bed, staring at me. In that hazy state between sleep and dream, before the mind shutters itself in defense, I see her–really see her–for the first time.

  She’s pulled out a thin steel-link necklace previously hidden beneath her ragged white shirt, and she handles it absently while her wide blue eyes imprison me. The dead certainty of it hits me like cold water: I know her.

  Her hair is shorter, messier. Her clothes are different. She has new scars and she’s older, taller, curvier. I didn’t see it in the fear and firelight last night. But those are her eyes, her lips, her mole on her right cheek. How could I have missed it? She’s been dead for three years, yet here she sits, looking at me.

  Annabel Lee.