Chapter 20 Chapter 20: The Line
We headed there, and I scored a decent deal on a knee-length hooded cape, seven Chids, I think. Having Rebel looming beside me with that menacing scowl probably helped.
The line into Sector 2 was shorter than the crowd flowing the other way, traders hauling their wares, bodies slumped with exhaustion. My tag worked fine, but when Rebel presented his, the screen flickered, flashing MUTANT in glaring red. A guard stepped forward, but Max straightened up.
“He’s with us. Labor.”
The guard hesitated before waving us through.
The stench of sewage here was different from Sector 1, older, mustier, like rotting compost. Otherwise, the street looked much the same, except for the wares on display: unfamiliar fruits and vegetables piled high, more food carts and restaurants. The people, too, stood out, most men wore top hats or sixpence caps, while mutants and ferals roamed in greater numbers. Traffic was heavier, though not from foot traffic (that remained about the same), but from carts, some even horse-drawn, laden with food and goods.
Just like in Sector 1, a chain-link fence separated Sector 2 from Sector 3-Tech, with the same stacks of electric cars and rows of tech shops beyond.
I kept my face hidden under my hood, but between one-legged Max and the horned, red-faced Rebel, the three of us stuck out like a boxer in a ballet.
This place is a maze how are we supposed to find a restaurant here without being noticed, let alone get out alive? I thought to myself.
I turned to Max. “How well do you actually know this sector?”
He grinned. “Like the back of my hand. I’m basically an honorary Brit; these guys love me.”
I clenched my fist, forcing myself to stay calm. “Is there a Russian restaurant here? Or better yet, a Russian district?”
He stared at me like I was an idiot. “You what? No Russians here, this is Brit Land.”
I took a slow breath. “Max, I need to find a Russian restaurant. And I don’t want to be seen. Right, let’s get off the main road. Find a café or something. Do they even have coffee in this town?”
Without waiting for an answer, I nudged us down the next side street, mostly workshops and storage houses, but quieter than the main drag. That suited me just fine.
About halfway down, a man with a two-wheeled cart had set up shop. Coffee, his sign read. Real Acorn Coffee - 1 Chids. He had two stools and a crate for seating. Rebel took the crate.
“Three coffees, please,” I said, handing over the exact change.
“Right you are, lass! Coming right up-three of the finest Scots coffee you’ll ever taste.”
“Thanks. It’s been months since I’ve had a proper cup. Don’t think I’ve tried Scots coffee before.”
“Ah, the Scots were the world’s greatest coffee makers before the Fall! Legends say they had these ancient jars – Nescafé - some claim the taste was divine. ‘Nes’ was a famous town in Scots-Land, you know.”
He rambled on about coffee history, how Scots-Land once ruled the world, and I could barely get a word in.
“Fascinating,” I cut in, “but what I’m really missing is Russian food. You wouldn’t happen to know any Russian cafés, would you?”
He chuckled. “Can’t say I know much about Russians. But most foreign joints are in the poor quarter, northeast of the farms. You’ll smell it before you see it.”
We kept to the backstreets as we moved northeast. The Brit Sector’s non-citizens were just as poor as those in the Irish Sector, but the air here crackled with something else, a desperate energy. Gambling ruled these streets. Betting shops lined every corner, card games spilled onto the pavement, and dice rolled over cracked concrete, each toss selling the same lie: a promise of a better, richer future.
I remembered a diagram from The Eighth Day; a winged sword, a ribbon across it. He who dares wins. The Sisters had trained me, but was it enough? Should I risk my meagre 12 Chids for a shot at survival? My pulse kicked up. Maybe just 9 Chids, not dice, though. Luck was a fickle bitch. Cards, then. A fair game.
As if summoned, one appeared before us.
Four men hunched around a rickety table, too absorbed to notice me. Sweat-glazed glasses glistened under the sun, empty bottles like fallen soldiers. I watched from the shadows, studying them like a dealer reads a deck.
The Chip Leader drummed his left pinkie against the table, impatient, weak hand. Opposite him, the Slurrer mumbled a bet, vowels drowning in whiskey. To his left, the Dealer jittered like a live wire, knee bouncing, eyes darting, too still, too eager. Monster hand. And the Sweater, all-in with nothing, proved me right when his bluff collapsed. He stormed off, chair screeching.
I stepped into the vacancy, fingertips brushing the chair back. “Hi, gents. Mind if a little woman like me buys in?”
The Dealer smirked. The Slurrer hiccuped. The Chip Leader’s pinkie went still.
Three hands later, my stack eclipsed theirs. The Dealer’s tells became a roadmap, leg stilled? Bluff. Eyes flicked left? Second pair. The Slurrer folded face-up, revealing a drunk man’s desperation. And when the Chip Leader finally stopped tapping, I shoved with ace high. He called.
His pair of eights hit the felt. My kicker played.
“Guess size doesn’t matter,” I said, raking in the pot-64 Chids richer.
Rebel waited, patient as ever. Probably why I walked away without trouble. “Rebel, good day. Now, where’s Max?”
His attempt at a smile made me wince. “Max had business. Said no- -o wai-. He’ll find us.”
“Perfect,” I muttered. “Let’s move.”
As we walked, the streets narrowed into tight alleys that branched into even smaller passages. The crowds thickened, cutthroats, thieves, children, and beggars swarmed around us. I was grateful to have Rebel by my side; his sheer, menacing size forced the flow of foot traffic to give us a wide berth.
After about ten minutes, Max came hobbling up the street from the opposite direction. “I’ve done it again,” he said with a smug grin. “You can always trust good old Max, aye-”
I grabbed him before he could finish. “Where in the Blessed Mother’s name have you been, Max?”
“Hey, wait up, I found the Russians!” He gestured eagerly. “Not far, just up this alley here. Come on!”
He nearly pulled me off my feet, but just as he had said, a small square lay waiting up the alley, surrounded by food stores and restaurants. A thousand spices from nearly as many lands fought to mask the underlying stench of stale compost. On the corner stood an open shopfront, or rather, a café-bar, serving Russian cuisine.
I headed straight there, and we took a seat at an open table for four. Handwritten menus lay on the table, so I began browsing one. Before long, a server approached, a large, blond-haired guy in a black tracksuit with three white stripes down the arms and legs. The chest bore a crown symbol with the word Adidas beneath it, and around his neck hung a gold chain as thick as a desert snake.
Before he could greet us, I asked in my best Russian, “What’s today’s special?”
In a distinctly English accent, he replied, “Say again, I’m not sure I heard you right.”
I looked up and smiled apologetically. “I thought you spoke Russian.”
“Uh, not me. Maybe Dmitriy, my cousin,” he said before shouting Dmitriy’s name.
A guy who must’ve been Dmitriy came running over, a shrunken, faded copy of his cousin. His stripes looked painted on, and his gold chain was thinning in places, revealing cheap metal underneath.
“’Sup?”
“These guests are Russian, can you take their order?”
“I know hello, goodbye, and a hundred swear words, but if you want real Russian, you’ll need my gran. And she’s not working today.”
“Is your gran the only one in town who speaks Russian? I’d love to use my mother tongue again.”
“Yep, afraid so. The only real Russian thing here is the vodka, and even that’s made out back.”
“That’s a shame. I’d love to meet your gran.”
I hadn’t noticed, but while we were talking, the café had emptied along with the square. Rebel’s deep voice cut through the silence.
“Lots of not-good people.”
I looked up. Sure enough, we were surrounded by about ten gun-toting men in top hats and sixpence caps.
“Top of the morning to ye!” said a cheeky-looking Brit in a sharp suit, his cap pulled low over his blond locks. “Now, we’re sorry for disturbin’ yer breakfast, but seein’ as ye seem to be enjoyin’ our town, we thought we might take ye for a little walk, maybe introduce ye to me boss.” He and the others laughed. “I think me boss’ll like ye.”