World in Tatters Ch. 4

“What’s going on Steven?” says Jason, returning from his chores.

I pull the bounty book from my pocket and thumb to the right page. “This. We were being hunted.”

“Yeah. You mentioned that back at the house.” Sniped Rachel. “For what? By whom?”

“I’m getting to that. It says that it’s the Atlanta Alliance.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” chimed Jason. “They’ve never used bounty hunters before.”

“I know. I don’t think it was actually them. I don’t know who it could be, but this isn’t their modus operandi. President Falstrom was a friend of our parents. I can’t believe that she would sanction a bounty on us. Even one geared specifically to bring us in alive.”

“Maybe, but it’s been years since last you met. Even when your parents died, they hadn’t spoken to President Falstrom in almost a year.”

“Maybe. But they were close. Rachel, you may not remember her very well, but she was mom’s best friend when we were growing up.”

“Yeah, of course I remember Aunt Nora. She would always give me cookies behind dad’s back. Maybe we should ask her.”

“Easier said than done. Getting into Atlanta would be difficult. Getting to the President would be next to impossible. Especially if this bounty did come from her office.”

“Brother. I’m not suggesting that we go to Atlanta. I think we should send a message. You know, the way our parents used to.”

“Coded letters. It’s not a bad idea, but we have no way of getting it to her.”

“I-I might have a way,” chimed Chris. “I know some people in Picayune that might be able to help.”

“No one asked you.” Rachel snapped “We can’t trust him. He was with those psychos back there.”

“He was their horse keeper. I don’t believe he is one of them. Besides, I’m not trying to get you to trust him. Hell, I don’t trust him yet. Not completely. However, he does know a lot more about this area than any of us.”

“I can take you to them. They aren’t the friendliest of folks, but I’ve known them for a long time. They’ve helped a lot of people like me.”

“Anyway, we were already heading to Picayune. It’s not like it’s out of our way. We’ll check it out. How much longer before we reach Picayune?”

“Um…a few more hours. We should be on the outskirts of the city before sundown. We won’t be able to get inside the wall until morning. But my friends can get you the entry papers you’ll need.”

“Do you trust them?”

“As much as I trust anyone. If you want to be discrete getting in and out of the city, they’re really the only ones I know that might be able to help.”

“Alright.” Blurted Jason, seeing the daggers in Rachel’s eyes. “Well, at any rate, if we’re going to make it by sundown, we should get going.”

“He’s right. Mount up. Clear the camp. Make sure we leave nothing damning behind.”

*****

We didn’t arrive in Picayune until well after dark. Approaching from the north, we had to circumvent the main parts of the city edging our way around the twenty-foot-high steel and brick fence topped with razor wire. The main gate and Chris’ friends are both on the south side.

The more I think about it, the weirder it is to that the Alliance would send anyone after us. We haven’t done anything to piss them off. At least nothing that I can think of. Rachel’s right. We need to get a message to Aunt Nora. Luckily, I have an idea.

The Heralds.

The Heralds are the messengers between the city-states. Basically glorified mailmen. They’re supposed to act as delegates, but the privileges their diplomatic status affords them tends to cause some issues wherever they end up. They’re all the rough-and-tumble type: beards, brawn, heavy weaponry. They have to be to survive out in the dead zones. Not all are men, but most are. They ride in pairs, delivering messages, gifts, declarations of war. They exist as an entity outside of the individual states. An organization whose only function is middlemen. No one really knows much about their leadership. They stay pretty mysterious.

I’ve had a couple of run-ins with some of their couriers. A few months ago, Jason and I were in a small village in search of supplies. I stepped into a saloon for a quick bite to eat, when one of the couriers, a large burly woman with legs like tree trunks, arms of wrought iron, and hair like dried straw, bellied up drunkenly to the bar from the edge of the room. She demanded another drink. The bartender, knowing full well who he was dealing with, refused to give her any more alcohol. Naturally, this mountain of a woman did not take that news very well. She started beating the bar, and grabbed the barkeep by the collar, pulling him over the bartop. Obviously, since I am so very kindhearted, I couldn’t let this poor bartender at a dismal backwater saloon get annihilated by this drunk, entitled psycho. No one else would do anything about it. Lawkeepers can’t touch the Heralds, so that just left me. Me against a mountain.

Now, I’m not a small guy, but this woman stood a good six inches over me. I tapped her on the shoulder, thinking I could calm her down and convince her not to throttle this sad sack now sprawled on the bar. Definitely a poor decision on my part. I didn’t think this one through, although, on the bright side, she did leave bartender alone.

I don’t remember much after that. Jason tells me that she grabbed a bottle and swung it at my head. I dodged and countered, but she got in a few good shots. All I know for sure, is that I woke up a few hours later with one hell of a headache and more than a few bruises.

By the time we reach the southern outskirts of the city, all four of us are ready to drop. There are few buildings in the outskirts. Most everything is made up of tents haphazardly strewn around the fence line. What buildings are there appear to be run down, used only by squatters. All except for one. It appears to be some sort of hospital. Torches line the makeshift streets, lending dim light to this forlorn hamlet.

At this hour, I expected silence. I expected the people of this slum to be clear of the streets, hiding out in their dank little tents. However, what we found was a bustling village. Campfires burn with families gathered around gleefully singing and dancing about. Young children run around chasing each other or fighting with sticks. The smells of cooking meats waft across the camps. That did it. My stomach starts growling, accentuating the fact that I haven’t eaten almost all day.

“Chris, do you know how to get us to these friends of yours from here?”

“Uh…yeah.” Looking around. “It’s not far.”

“Good. Let’s get close, then find something to eat. I’m starving.”

We dismount our horses, and tie them off to a tree outside town, taking only our side arms and knives.

“Jason, I’d like you to stay here. Keep an eye on the horses and supplies. We’ll be back tomorrow morning to sell the spares.”

“Okay. Just be safe. Please.”

“This way.”

Chris starts down one of the paths, leading Rachel and me between tents, keeping us in the dark just outside the campfire lights. We walk for a good half-hour before turning up at a large tent next to a set of stables.

“This is where you worked?” sensing the sudden tension arising in Chris.

“Yeah. I-uh… Let’s keep going. It’s just around the corner.”

Chris takes us behind the stables, off the trail and into the darkness. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. After that, it is only a few moments more before we arrive at a fair-sized but unassuming tent off the beaten path.

“This is it,” Chis whispered, gesturing to the matted canvas. “Let me go in first and see if they are amenable.”

I nod in agreement, as Chris turns and enters the tent. There’s a small commotion inside. A breaking bottle, a thud, a thundering, slurring voice shouting about being awakened. We hear a second voice from within. A lilt, maybe a young woman. The voice is… familiar somehow, but I can’t place it. It’s muffled from the canvas, but I swear, I know that voice.

Before I have time to really think about it, Chris comes out of the tent. “They said they’ll talk to you. But just you. Rachel and I will have to wait out here.”

“Did you tell them who we are?”

“No. Of course not. I just told them that you needed to get into the city, discretely.”

“Good. Chris, if what you told me earlier is true, you should stay out of sight. Take Rachel back to Jason.” Pulling a pouch from my back pocket and passing it to Rachel, “Take this. Pick up some food on the way back. Get it cooking. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone!” Rachel protests.

“Yes. You are. I can find my way back just fine. Just make sure there’s some food left for me when I get there.” Gesturing to my sidearm and combat knife. “Plus, I’m not unarmed.”

“Fine. But I don’t like it.” She pulls me into a hug, a rare occurrence to be sure. She’s shaking. I can’t really blame her, after what happened this morning.

Hugging her back, speaking softly. “I’ll be alright. And I won’t be long. We’re in town now. It’s unlikely that anyone would attack here. It’s too exposed.”

“I know. I know.” She mutters, pulling away, and starting off into the night.

“Go, Chris. Please.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

I try to steel myself against my emotions, but the way Rachel reacted broke my heart. I turn to the tent, steady my breathing, and enter.

*****

As I duck into the tent, I notice a few things right off. First, that there is now only one person in the tent, a burly, bearded man with wiry black and grey hair down to his shoulders sitting on large chest. Beside him lies a sword. Not a saber, which are fairly common among militia cavalrymen, but a broadsword. It looks like something I read about as a kid in history and fantasy. The sword of a knight. Which is kind of amusing, considering that the man in front of me is a far cry from the pretty boy knights portrayed in my books. That thought alone brings a brief smile to my face.

A quick glance around reveals several more weapons strewn about the tent. A hunting rifle leaning against a bed, an array of knives rolled out on the mattress, another sword and an axe laying on a pile of bedrolls, a bow and full quiver nearby. These are not people to be trifled with. That is, if they know how to use these tools.

Most notably, however, is a second exit. It’s not much, just a slit in the canvas, tied at the bottom, and mostly hidden behind the bed. Not something one would notice unless they were looking for it.

“So, I hear that you can help me get into the city. Is that true?”

“Ah, quiet down,” grumbled the old goat, swigging from the bottle of who-knows-what in his hand.

With no more warning than a rustle of canvas behind me, I feel a sharp tip of cold metal pressed against my spine. This isn’t exactly the first time my life has been threatened, and I can’t exactly say I didn’t expect it.

“Who are you?” came the woman’s voice from behind me. This time, I’m sure I recognize it. Though I’m not sure how she ended up here, of all places. I assumed she would still be back in Atlanta, working with her mother. One thing’s for sure, this definitely explains all the knives. Strange how the world works, sometimes.

“Alice? Is that you?”