Bounty Hunter: Dig Two Graves Page 5

  With that, Joe weaved the junker around heaps of old appliances, automatons, and vehicles, out of the junkyard, and headed east across the Midlands. The drive took twelve hours—twice as long as it would’ve taken in Monster. He reached Clearwater after dark. The cutter never broke down, much to his surprise, though the ride was in no way pleasant. The interior had a funky odor, the seat had a bad spring that poked at his leg, and the cutter’s shock absorbers had long since surrendered to acidic sand. He avoided driving through Clearwater—he knew Sloan’s murcs would be thicker than cockroaches there—and followed Val’s geotracker past town, past the lake that was no longer a lake, to an area dense with bluffs. He used his suit’s night vision instead of the cutter’s headlights to navigate, reducing the risk of being noticed.

  When his armlet claimed he was within a hundred meters of Val’s location, he parked behind a boulder and stepped into the cool night air. His exoshield maintained a constant, comfortable temperature, but he still got a sense of the air outside through his suit’s filtration system.

  Exoshields were custom-built to the owner’s exact measurements, making them both expensive and rare. Joe had acquired his during the Revolution, and held onto it after the war. Through the years, he’d added patches and upgrades for improved protection against blasters and knives. His helmet was basic: eye slits with night vision, ear cuffs with hearing enhancements, and a breathing mask with a basic filter. Everything on his exoshield was functional except for the three crimson stripes painted on his helmet and his crimson cape. Those were a declaration: who he was and where he’d come from. Three stripes for three wars, and the cape was the banner of the Raven squad he’d served with during all three tours.

  He used the enhanced vision to scan the area and saw nothing but dirt and rocks.

  “That’s not your cutter.”

  Joe spun to see Val standing behind him, wearing a dark cloak that made her nearly invisible in the dark to normal human eyes.

  “Monster’s sitting under a mountain in the Salt Flats,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to say something, then clamped it shut. “Doesn’t matter. This cutter should be okay where it’s at—no one should notice it here. Follow me.”

  He grabbed his bags and followed her. They walked close to a half of a mile before he saw where they were going. A low, overbuilt concrete shed, camouflaged by boulders.

  He frowned. “I didn’t know there was a silo near Clearwater.”

  “No one does,” she answered, and the door opened. Light spilled from the opening, silhouetting a bent figure.

  Joe dimmed his night vision as he approached the doorway. He smiled when he recognized the old man. “Grundy Campo. I can’t say I expected to see you out here.”

  Grundy clapped Joe on the shoulder. “Val needed some extra experience in getting this silo operation running. Thought I could lend a hand. Good to see you again, Havoc.”

  “You know that you can call me Joe.”

  “I know.”

  Realization dawned. “Wait, is this the refugee camp?”

  “It is,” Val replied. “I already let the Swintons know that you’re on your way. I’ll take you to them.”

  He smiled. The day had improved.

  She held up a finger. “After we discuss my plan.”

  His smile faded.

  Chapter Nine

  Roderick Sloan stood before the fifteen tank crews in his courtyard.

  “President Darville allocated you and your equipment to the Midlands for wargame exercises but also because we’re facing an insurrection across this zone. In the past two years, four MRC administrators have been killed, one of which was my dear brother. These insurgents have made no demands, let alone stated their platform, which has led me to believe that they are youthful rebels trying to find their place as the first generation born on the surface. While the MRC believes in autonomy and self-governance, we will not stand for lawlessness, which is what this riffraff seems to crave. That’s why you’re here.”

  Sloan nodded to one of his personal guards, who began handing out information packets to the tank captains.

  “There are twelve established towns in the Midlands, not including Clearwater. I’m sending one tank and crew to each town, and keeping three tanks with me here in Clearwater, where I believe the heart of the insurgency lies. The packets each captain is receiving has information about the town you will monitor, along with your instructions. I’m also sending a full squad with each tank crew as an additional show of force. Simply put, this is a peacekeeping mission. We do not expect any violence, but you have the authority to respond if these insurgents are foolish enough to attack. President Darville has made it clear that we must not be seen as the aggressor. Our goal is to prevent what happened in Shiprock or, worse, in the Wilds. We will show people across all the zones that the Midlands responds promptly and fairly to unrest. This is the MRC’s chance to show that we—you and me—are working hard to make life better for everyone in the wastelands. Given time, perhaps we’ll even shed the moniker—wastelands—and become known as a fruitful, prosperous nation.”

  Sloan had a hard time saying the last bit without snickering. The wastelands were so far beyond hope of being made fertile, but people liked to delude themselves, and he had no problem feeding their delusions.

  He finished with, “You have everything you need. Ready your tanks to move out in three hours.”

  As the teams dispersed, Boris stepped closer to his boss. “That was quite a speech. Think they bought it?”

  “Of course. After all, I didn’t lie to them.” He smirked. “Much.”

  Chapter Ten

  Tension tightened Joe’s muscles as he and Val descended into the silo. He hadn’t been in an elevator since he’d emerged from Silo C-10—its residents were called the Cyclone tribe, a moniker loosely derived from the silo number. Even though he’d been born hundreds of feet below ground, silos gave him claustrophobia. Maybe it was the horror story he’d heard as a boy about an equipment failure that caused a silo to flood, or the one about an earthquake that crushed a silo like a tin can. He didn’t know if either story was true, not that reality mattered to a scared kid.

  By the time he was born, Zenith State had long since united the silos across the continent, using automatons and trains to repair Earth’s surface. He’d grown up with unflappable hope that reaching the surface was possible, a belief he’d been hellbent on making a reality. When the time came, he’d sworn he’d never go down into a silo again.

  It seemed time had proved him wrong.

  They stepped out of the elevator on the forty-sixth level, and he paused to take in the atrium that was the center of the silo. He could see people on several levels, but a silo the size of this one could easily support a hundred times the number of refugees staying there.

  Visible on each level was a stylized gold Z, the emblem of Zenith State, the government entity that had morphed from savior to oppressor before being obliterated during the Revolution. He frowned. “I thought Zenith State came from the Z-bunker in the Tidelands.”

  “It did,” she said as they stopped in front of what was clearly her quarters. “It’s safer to talk in here.”

  “You don’t trust the refugees?” he asked.

  “I don’t trust anyone,” she said before unlocking the door and entering. Inside, she pulled off her cape.

  He removed his helmet and set it on the table while he took in the cabin. It was small, much like the one he lived in as a boy, except these walls and floors weren’t dulled, dented, and scratched from generations living in its confines.

  “Has this apartment been remodeled?”

  She shook her head. “It’s new. The whole silo is new. Well, it’s older than we are, but brand new by silo standards.”

  His jaw slackened. “How is that possible?”

  She grabbed a couple of glasses, poured blue liquid into each, and set them on the table as she took a seat. “Zenith had the surface to themselves f
or quite a few years. They were busy.”

  “But why would they build silos?”

  She shrugged, light glinting off a brass pendant at her throat.

  “How’d you find this place?” He took a sip, and was disappointed the beverage was an electrolyte blend rather than liquor.

  She glanced at him over her glass before she took a drink. “I have my ways.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I’ll sleep better at night knowing there’s a safe place for refugees in the Midlands.” He chuckled. “Funny that it’s right under Roderick Sloan’s nose.”

  She leaned back in her chair, and he motioned at her pendant. “What kind of bird is that?”

  “An albatross.”

  “I’ve never heard of that kind of bird before.”

  “It’s mythical. I don’t know if they ever existed. If they did, they’ve long since gone extinct. The legends say that if an albatross shows up on a ship, it brings good luck for the voyage. My great-great-great-great-grandfather”—she counted each great on her fingers—“sailed the seas, and he wore a pendant just like to this one. He said that it brought him luck, and he gave each of his children a copy. After that, every baby in his bloodline received the same pendant. My father gave it to me, and my twin brother had one.”

  “I didn’t realize you had a twin.”

  She gazed at her pendant. “He was killed eight years ago when he tried to stop a robbery on the road outside Clearwater.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The thieves were never apprehended, even though everyone knew who was behind it. He was the sheriff here, and it’s why I became sheriff—so I could stop something like that from happening again.” She downed her glass. “But I didn’t call you here to talk about jewelry and law enforcement. We need to talk about Sloan’s war.”

  Joe adjusted to the abrupt change. “What do you know so far?”

  “He has fifteen tanks and two hundred-plus murcs out at his farm. With numbers like that, he means to start a war, because nothing else makes sense.”

  “And you think the two of us can go up against numbers like that?”

  “Well, I was hoping you’d show up with your Raven friend, or that annoying caveman.”

  Joe shook his head. “Kit took a beating in the Salt Flats and is out of commission, and Rex is keeping an eye on him. He’ll head out here if and when Kit stabilizes.”

  “I hope he recovers.” Disappointment flickered on her face before she continued, “As long as there’s at least two of us, my plan should work.”

  “And what, exactly, is your plan?”

  “In a nutshell? You’re going to infiltrate Sloan’s ranks to get proof of his plans so we can broadcast them across the wastelands. We need to show the people what the MRC is allowing to take place here.”

  Joe stared blankly at her before bursting into laughter. “That’s not a plan. That’s a suicide mission.”

  She gave him a dark look. “I have a plan, and it’ll work. There are so many murcs coming and going from that farm that you’ll blend right in.”

  “Why not just take him out? That was our intent a couple of months back, and a straightforward approach is always the best. Why not use the same strategy now?”

  “Because if he dies now, the MRC could pin the blame on us ‘rebels,’ just like they’ve blamed us for the death of every administrator for the past few years.”

  “Well, we were responsible for Gabriel Sloan’s death,” Joe said.

  “We were in the right to execute him for his crimes, but at the time I thought the Sloan brothers were running their own game, separate from the MRC. Now, I know that’s not the case. The MRC is backing him with tanks and soldiers, so we have to assume they’re as much a part of it as he is. That means that any move we make against Roderick is a move against the MRC. We have to be careful.”

  Joe didn’t say that, technically, any assault on an MRC employee was an assault on the MRC, with or without her new information, just as them killing Gabriel Sloan in Cavil was an attack on the MRC, even though she didn’t seem to think of it that way. He sighed. “Okay, so let me get this straight. Me, a known fugitive, is going to waltz onto Sloan’s farm, and he’ll show me all his plans, then let me get away without any of his, oh, two hundred armed soldiers gunning me down.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What will you be doing when I’m performing these miracles?”

  “I’ll be in the shadows, working with you every step of the way.” She sighed. “Listen, I’d go in if I could, but Sloan and half of his murcs would recognize me. Also, Sloan thinks I’m dead. I think we can use that to our advantage.”

  Joe wasn’t convinced. “Even if we’re successful—and right now I don’t see how that’s possible—you broadcast proof of Sloan’s, and the MRC’s, overreach, what do you think will happen?”

  “The MRC will be forced to answer to the people. They can do that either with violence or—I hope—offer reparations. You fought in the Revolution. You can’t tell me that you don’t see the MRC heading in the same direction Zenith was going right before people rebelled. People will bear oppression for only so long before they stand up and fight. Many innocent lives will be lost if that happens. It’s my hope that the MRC will do the right thing.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then I know of at least one faction ready to fight.”

  “And which one’s that?”

  The doorbell buzzed, and Val checked the image on the screen on the wall before opening the door.

  A woman Joe didn’t recognize stepped in. “Twelve of the tanks have just moved, and it looks like at least half of the squads, maybe more, packed up and headed out with them.”

  Val met Joe’s eyes. “Your visit with the Swintons will have to wait. We’re out of time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I can’t believe you talked me into leaving my exoshield behind,” Joe grumbled as he fidgeted with the dark blue MRC uniform in the morning heat. The material was dirty and smelled of old sweat, but he supposed that was part of the disguise.

  “The shield gives you away, hunter. Plus, Sloan’s seen you in your shield. He’d recognize you,” Val said.

  Her assistant, a refugee from the silo named Paul, nodded.

  Joe continued to balk. “Who’s to say he won’t recognize my face? After all, I am a fugitive who tried to kill him once already. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has my mug on a wanted poster hanging in his office this very moment.”

  “No one in the world would expect to see a fugitive hunter without his exoshield if he had one.” She shrugged. “But play it safe and steer clear of Sloan.”

  “You don’t think he’d want to meet any new murcs who arrive under his command?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t. Boris handles the troops. Sloan has a few personal guards, but other than that, he addresses his soldiers en masse. If someone does happen to recognize you, then the mission’s scrubbed, and I’ll get you out of there.”

  “You’d better.”

  “I will.” She gave him the barest hint of a smile as she stepped forward and pressed a small black dot under his collar. “This second tracker will help me find you in case something happens to your armlet.” She backed up. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” He gave her his back and felt the restraints being fastened around his wrists. His cutter was parked next to Val’s, outside a building that had been standing since before the world went down the crapper. That this structure, built of old pale stones, still stood impressed Joe. After over two hundred years of disuse, most buildings had rotted away. This one had survived the wars and fallout.

  “Remember, I’m dead, so you didn’t see me,” Val said.

  “I remember. Wait, who’s that talking? It that a ghost? It sounds familiar, but it can’t be Val because she’s worm food,” Joe said.

  “Ha, ha. Point made,” she said drily.

  She nodded to Paul, who led Joe to a door that was litt
le more than wooden boards, and shoved him into it. It swung inward. Joe stumbled and nearly fell onto the rough cobblestone floor. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see he was in a single open room with barely half a roof remaining. One prisoner sat on a long bench with his wrists chained to a line that dropped down from a wooden beam. He wore a murc uniform that looked even dirtier than Joe’s, and hung from his skinny frame. He watched Joe without blinking.

  In each corner sat a pail, one of which emitted plenty of foul odors. Joe wrinkled his nose. “Is this what passes for a jail around here? I have to tell you; I’ve seen better.”

  “Clearwater had a nice jail until you murcs blew it to smithereens.” Paul pushed him toward another chain hanging from the beam. “Face the wall, Polo.”

  He did as he was instructed. The chain rattled as the security guard connected it to his restraints. “Hey, when do I get that vid-call?”

  Paul didn’t answer.

  “I need a vid-call. It’s my right,” Joe said and turned around.

  “No way. You’ll call Boris, and he’ll shoot me if I don’t release you, and I don’t like the sound of that,” the guard said. “I’ve had enough of you murcs taking advantage of the good people of Clearwater. I have a new policy. You stay here until I decide you can go.”

  “But it was all a misunderstanding,” Joe said. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  Paul’s brows rose. “Sure you didn’t. And I’m Julius Caesar.”

  “Who’s that?” Joe asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.” He walked to the door. “I’ll leave you two to get to know each other. Try to play nice. You’re both going to be here for a long time.”

  “Wait. Don’t I at least get something to eat?” Joe asked.

  The door swung closed behind Paul, leaving Joe alone with the other prisoner. He had to give the guard credit—he could act.

  “Water’s in that bucket over there.” The man pointed. “They drop off slop at dawn and dusk.”