THE ZONE
Part 1: STRANGER
Chapter 7 (Wish)
The Biker halted just outside the Duty outpost, and I caught up. He sighed, looking up. It wasn't gray enough up there to mean rain, but there were enough clouds to make what blue was visible look feeble.
"So taking a job here is quite a casual thing," I said.
"There's no paperwork, if that's what you mean."
"So we're going to go find out what happened to those people?"
"Not yet. If you were a veteran, the two of us might be able to go out there, but as it is," he paused, "…we'll probably need another man. It's not personal, but it just wouldn't be good business to go with just a rookie shrimp watching my back. No offense."
"None taken."
"The sooner we get a move on, the better. The trail's already cooling down. Come on." He started away, and I followed.
"The Duty guy didn't even tell you how much he'd pay," I noted.
"Duty pays well," the Biker said grudgingly. He led me back to the bar, and we went right down. He paused at the threshold, and returned the barkeep's nod. He scanned the patrons briefly, then went to the counter.
"Biker," the portly man greeted him.
"Lot of new faces," the Biker looked over his shoulder at the customers again.
"What can I get you?"
"Got a job in the yard, I need another man."
"Ah." The barkeep looked understanding. The masked, hooded man who I'd watched get decked was still in his corner. "Duty's taken more or less everybody to fight at the coast – not many loners left here. I don't think there's anyone you know, unless, you know…" he trailed off.
The Biker raised an eyebrow. "He's here?"
The barkeep nodded. "In the corner." They both turned to look conspiratorially.
The Biker snorted. "That's his new look, huh? Guess I can't blame him."
"Yeah," the barkeep nodded understanding.
"There's no helping it." I moved aside as he stepped away from the counter, and went to the hooded man's table. The gas mask angled upward to regard the Biker unreadably.
"How's your bike?" the mask asked amiably.
"How's your liver?" The Biker pulled out a chair and seated himself, motioning for me to do likewise.
"Getting the job done."
"I like the coat. Not sure about the mask."
"I thought you liked masks."
"I do, but they're just not you."
The masked man shrugged. "Who's this?"
"Stranger – he owes me a little money, so we were thinking of taking a job together. He was at Yantar." The Biker turned to me, and gestured toward the hooded man. "This is," he trailed off, hesitating.
"Ever," the man supplied.
"Ever," the Biker finished lamely. "Anyway, Ever," he put emphasis on the name, "…have you got time in your busy schedule for some work?"
"What kind of work?"
"Duty lost track of some people in the yard, wants us to see if we can find out what happened."
"Why aren't they doing it themselves?" Ever sounded suspicious.
"Too busy with the infection, I'm told."
"True enough," he nodded, picking up the bottle. And he took a drink, though the mask. Apparently he'd slit the filter so that the mouth of the bottle could be poked through. The Biker didn't seem to find that odd at all.
"You in?"
"When are you planning to leave?"
"As you agree. I've got some things to get done, but inside the hour, definitely," the Biker told him. Because of the mask, I could only assume that Ever was deliberating. It was eerie the way it just stared, and the hood made it downright sinister.
Eventually, Ever shrugged. "It's been a long time since I've been up there."
"Where've you been?"
"Yantar, mostly."
There was a lengthy, thoroughly awkward silence. "I'm a rookie," I said at last.
"I can see that."
"Sorry," said the Biker. "Don't let it get around."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Are we going?"
"Yeah. I'll get about my business. Meet at the fence?"
Ever nodded. "I'll look after the kid."
"Thanks." The Biker got up and left. I stared after him for a moment, then looked back to Ever.
"Are you all right?" I asked after a moment.
"Why do you ask?" Talking to Ever was sort of like talking to a robot – I wasn't sure if it was him, or the mask, but it was unnerving.
"That guy hit you pretty hard."
"Oh, that. I've had worse."
"Why are you wearing a mask in here?" I asked this before I could stop myself, and immediately expected some kind of admonishment for my nosiness.
"I'm hideously ugly," he replied.
I stared. "Really?"
"Oh, yes."
He was lying. He was definitely lying. But I didn't ask any further. "You and the Biker know each other?"
"We've crossed paths before." Ever got up. "Come on, let's go. I've been here long enough."
"All right." I also got to my feet. On the way out, the barkeep produced a long, over-under shotgun from behind the counter.
Ever accepted it, and shook the barkeep's hand. "Give him your pack," he told me. I did so. It was clear the man could be trusted. "Take it easy," he said.
"You, too." The barkeep nodded to us.
I followed Ever northward, through the compound. Outdoors, his coat blew about his ankles in the wind, making him look like some kind of grim reaper – that is, if the reaper wore a gas mask. We passed through the northern Duty checkpoint, stepping into a road. Ahead, a bent piece of corrugated metal represented a hole in the stone wall that surrounded the compound. To the right, the road led off, winding into the hills. It was quiet here, on the edge of the settlement. The checkpoint was well out of earshot, and all I could hear was the breeze.
After a moment, Ever reached into his coat, and produced a piece of black fabric. He held it out to me. Puzzled, I accepted it. It was a tactical facemask made of neoprene.
"Put it on," he instructed. "And do something about the way you walk." I looked at him in stunned horror.
"What gave me away?"
He ignored my question. "It would take more than me and Biker to protect you if those men found out, so do as I say. Has he noticed?"
"No." I hastily strapped on the mask, which covered my mouth and nose. "Thank you," I added.
"Once we're out there you'll have to follow our orders very closely, no questions." He held up a gloved fist. "This means stop, and if somebody says down, you can't stop to think about it."
"All right."
There was a footstep behind us, and I turned to see the Biker approaching, his stripped-down 870 slung over one shoulder. He drew even with us, looking ahead toward the hole in the wall.
"I thought you didn't like working for Duty," said Ever, looking straight ahead.
"If this is the guy I think it is, getting him back alive won't be doing them a favor. And they're probably all dead anyway."
"I see." Ever broke open his shotgun, inserting a rifled slug into the top barrel, and buckshot into the lower one.
"May as well use the daylight while we've got it," said the Biker.
Ever snapped the shotgun closed. "May as well," he agreed. And for the first time, I didn't think I was out of my depth – I knew I was.
"Is the yard really so bad?" I asked nervously.
"Hard to say," the Biker shrugged. "We'd have a better idea if someone came back alive once in a while."
"He's joking," said Ever.
