Chapter 23 Chapter 23: Getting Out
The heavy casino door swung shut behind me, muting the clatter of chips and the low hum of conversation. I stepped into the grimy alley, the cool air a shock after the stuffy, gin-soaked atmosphere inside. And there he was. Rebel stood by the door like a stone pillar, a monolith of unwavering patience in the shifting chaos of the sector. A wave of relief so potent it felt like weakness washed over me. For a mad, fleeting moment, I almost hugged him, craving the simple, absolute safety of his colossal, uncomplicated frame.
“Hey, Rebel,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “I’m so glad to see you.” The genuine warmth in my own words surprised me.
His massive, horned head tilted. He attempted a smile, a gesture that pulled at the tough, red hide of his face in a way that was both endearing and slightly terrifying. It made me wince in sympathy.
“Eng-lish… sec-or no good,” he grunted, his voice a low rumble like grinding stones. His huge hand gestured vaguely at my bruised face and battered body. “Illy… hur-.”
“It’s okay, Rebel. I’m fine,” I lied, the words tasting like ash. The throbbing in my ribs and the coppery taste of blood in my mouth said otherwise.
He looked down at me, his deep-set eyes holding a pleading, earnest expression. “I s-ick like glue… to Illy, now. See Na-e?” The request was clear. His orders were to stick to me, and his loyalty to Nate was the compass that guided him.
I hesitated. Trust was a currency I was nearly bankrupt of. But I was bruised, alone, and heading into a fight that was getting bigger by the hour. I needed allies, and maybe, just maybe, Nate could still be one. “Yeah,” I sighed, the decision settling on my shoulders like a weight. “We’ll go to Nate now, Rebel.”
Despite the pain painting my body in shades of purple and yellow, the walk through the winding streets of Sector 2 was mostly uneventful,or at least, as uneventful as it gets when you’re trailed by a two-meter-tall, red-faced, horned mutant. His presence acted as a natural crowd-parting mechanism. That all changed when we reached the Sector crossing.
The checkpoint was a nightmare of compressed humanity. It was clogged with wooden carts, their drivers shouting obscenities, and a thousand angry, sweating bodies jammed into the narrow sluice between the sectors. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, spoiled vegetables, and collective frustration. Everyone was shoving, everyone was shouting, and no one was moving an inch. Rebel, utterly unfazed, simply ploughed through the press of people like an icebreaker through a frozen sea. A few started to protest with sharp elbows and sharper words,until they turned and saw the source of the disturbance, their complaints dying in their throats. I stuck close behind him, a small ship in the wake of a battleship, weaving through the chaos he created.
Then I spotted the source of the blockage: an old potato cart, overturned right in the mouth of the gate. Its humble cargo, hundreds of dusty tubers, was spilled across the cobblestones, creating a slippery, chaotic obstacle. The cart’s owner, a red-faced man with despair in his eyes, stood helplessly by while two Sector guards harassed him for obstructing the entrance. The crowd around them roared its impotent anger, a beast of a thousand voices pushing and yelling, yet not a single person bent to help.
As we neared the cart, a security guard, his face pinched with petty authority, shoved a baton in my face, blocking my path.
“Hold it right there, citizen.”
The rage, so carefully banked since leaving the casino, flared white-hot. I forced it down. “I think my friend and I can help,” I said, my voice tight.
The guard opened his mouth, no doubt ready to snap back with something vicious, but Rebel was already moving. With a grunt of effort, he wrapped his huge hands around the cart’s side. Muscles corded beneath his red skin, and with sheer, brute mutant power, he began to haul the heavy wagon upright.
The guard’s attitude shifted instantly. “Right! You, and you help the Mutte!” he barked, suddenly the picture of efficient authority now that the work was being done for him.
Bruised and aching, I mustered the last dregs of my strength to help steady the cart as Rebel lifted. My muscles screamed in protest. Just as the wheels hit the cobblestones with a loud, final crash, a familiar, grating voice cut through the noise behind me.
“Tilly!”
I turned halfway, my body protesting the movement, to see Max hobbling toward us from the edge of the crowd, that stupid, crooked grin plastered on his face.
“Tilly! Knew you’d be alright. That’s our Tilly,” he said, as if he’d been there the whole time.
The sight of him, whole and unbruised, was the final spark. “Max, face me. Where’s my fa-?” I began, my voice a low snarl.
The guard jabbed his baton into my already sore ribs. “Move along,” he commanded, his patience gone now that the path was clear.
I wanted to pull my gun. I wanted to drop the guard where he stood for touching me, then break Max’s teeth for good measure for his betrayal. The violence of the thought was a warm, comforting pulse. But I swallowed the rage, a bitter pill and shoved forward through the now-clearing Sector port, Max and Rebel trailing behind as the grateful crowd surged around us.
By the time we broke into the familiar, foul-aired confines of Sector 1, the press of bodies had thinned. I wheeled on Max, who was still wearing that idiotic, oblivious grin.
“You prat.” My voice was a chilled steel blade. “Look at me.” I gestured at my face, the mottled bruises standing out against my pale skin. “Do I look ‘alright’ to you?”
Max’s grin vanished, replaced by a panicked gulp. “I couldn’t do anything, thought I’d fetch help”
“Help?” I seized him by the throat, not enough to choke, but enough to make his eyes go wide. “Where is it, then?”
Tears welled in his eyes. “I couldn’t get through, Tilly, I’m a cripple!” he whined, gesturing wildly at his leg. “One leg. I tried-” His voice cracked into pathetic, performative sobs.
And then it came to me, unbidden, the words rising from the deep well of my childhood indoctrination. The Eighth Day, Chapter 2, Verse 3: Man is weak and feeble; he roars like a giant yet cowers like a mouse. Do not hate him, pity his pride. He plays God as children play house, only to learn, when the game ends, that his make-believe world burns.
The fight went out of me. What was the point? He was exactly what the verse said: weak, feeble, and proud of nothing but his own survival. I let him go with a shove of disgust. “We’re seeing a friend. Come or don’t.”
“Tilly, then-” he started, sniffling.
“Enough,” I cut him off, the word final and absolute. “Walk or bleed.”
The walk from the Sector port to the Wastelanders’ tower was short and silent. I followed Rebel up three uneven, concrete steps into the heart of their base, a cavernous, open-fronted entrance hall that smelled of gun oil, stale beer, and sweat. Makeshift weapon racks lined the walls, holding an arsenal of salvaged and custom-built firearms. A battered sofa, leaking stuffing from a long gash in one cushion, sat against one wall. I made a beeline for it and slumped into its dusty embrace, the exhaustion hitting me all at once. A scarred wooden crate served as a coffee table, littered with empty bottles and cleaning kits. Max, looking small and shifty, perched on a threadbare armchair like a wary bird ready to take flight.
Rebel spoke in low, rumbling tones to the room’s two other occupants: a hulking man who could’ve been his twin in size and sheer presence, and a sharp-eyed woman with cropped, shockingly pink hair who watched everything with a predator’s stillness.
As they talked, I tuned out the words, curling up on my side on the lumpy sofa. I drew my knees to my chest, making myself small. The world narrowed to the ache in my bones and the low murmur of voices. For the first time all day, surrounded by the armed, dangerous company of possible allies, I felt safe enough to close my eyes and grab a few minutes of desperately needed rest.
“Nice he-” Max began from his chair, his voice an unwelcome intrusion into the fragile peace.
“Don’t,” I cut him off without opening my eyes, my voice thick with impending sleep. “Don’t say anything. I need a rest.” I was so hurt, so drunk: The silence that followed was beautiful.