Lizzie had known the East Gate would have a security checkpoint to pass through, but having strangers gawk at her skeleton never got easier.
Vincent had planned the bunker for his little family with plenty of extra supplies for friends who might be lucky enough to make it there, but there were certain Lizzie-specific things that he just didn't have. Fortunately the ARC needed precious metals for making delicate computer components, so they were offering a very generous exchange rate for gold, silver and platinum.
Vincent said he "might be known on sight by certain law enforcement individuals," so it would be Lizzie going into the Fortress with one small silver coin and a shopping list that included school supplies for Harry, paper books for the library, cat toys for the skunk babies, and a neuroleptic medication called aripiprazole.
She tried to distract herself by looking around at all the gadgets built into the walls of the Gate's people-sized entrance tunnel. There were video cameras, small protrusions that looked like gas nozzles, holes for rifle barrels to stick through, bright lines floor to ceiling that must be some sort of laser grid –
'... present Exhibit C, the scans of …'
Her gaze snapped back to the Civilian In-Processing guards operating the metal detector. "What?"
"Sorry?" One of techs leaned around the monitor. "Something wrong?"
"No, I, um … scanners make me nervous."
He nodded pleasantly. "Don't worry. As long as we don't turn up any Cultist tattoos or scarification, you've got nothing to worry about."
"Good to know."
They were very quiet as the machine's half-circle continued up from her knees.
Lizzie sighed through her nose. A few more seconds ticked by. The scanner beeped that it was finished.
Both techs peered at her this time. One of them said, "Holy crap, lady."
"Yeah."
"What the heck happened?"
"Car accident."
"All of that from an accident?"
"Yes."
"Must have been a doozy of a roll-over to overwhelm all the security features."
"Yup," Lizzie lied.
The techs looked at each other. Accidents with personal transport still happened in the 2100s, but they were very rare, and seldom serious.
She told the joke that always made security staff feel better. "When I'm cremated, they'll need two boxes: one for me, and one for all my titanium hardware."
They chuckled, exactly like they were supposed to. One of them pressed a green button, and a console near his elbow spat out a laminated ID card. "This is good for one day. If you want a permanent ID, you'll need to either live or work inside the Fortress."
"Good to know."
"Where are you headed?"
"Hospital, probably. Need meds."
"Pharmacy's right down the street if you've got a recent prescription."
"You're joking. The CVS is still standing?"
"Yeah," the guy said happily. "You'll find there's a lot of things in Denver that have been salvaged or repaired now that the ARC is in charge of resource allocation. If you keep going past the CVS, there's even a street bazaar for non-essential goods."
Lizzie laughed in surprise. "That's kind of amazing."
"I know, right? Supposedly the big-wigs think it's good for morale to keep as many pre-war things going as possible. And with the decreased population, we've got way more than we need right now. The mayor decided having an economy for non-essentials would help 'preserve a sense of normalcy'. So you can spend currency on things like entertainment, art, clothes, delicacies, stuff like that, but basic necessities are free, including meds."
"If I do want to buy some non-essentials, where do I trade for currency?"
"Straight ahead three blocks, take a right, and look for the big yellow dollar sign."
"Thanks. See y'all later." Her Texan accent sometimes slipped out when she was nervous. Lizzie tamped it down to General American again. "You have a good day, now."
The metal frame for the CVS doors was a little warped, and the glass had been replaced with bulletproof plastic, but other than that it was surprisingly normal inside. They even had the little red baskets.
At first Lizzie used her usual tricks to conceal the left side of her face from curious eyes, but she soon realized that a good deal of the other shoppers also had scars, burn damage, or half-healed facial fractures. The guards at the Gate had probably been shocked because her injuries were obviously much older than the war, and because she had so much titanium latticework in her skeleton. Her own disfigurement was no longer remarkable.
There were still too many people around for her comfort, though. Staying unnoticed was a hard habit to break. She wandered into the Dental aisle to wait out the crowd.
"Can I help you find something?" Lizzie looked up at the employee, a man in his thirties with an excessive amount of freckles for a brunet. His red-and-white name tag said he was Kevin.
"Uh … yeah. Um. I need a prescription filled, but there's, uh, too many people standing around."
"Ah." He had kind eyes, but she had learned not to put too much stock in appearances. The vibe a person gave off told you a lot more about them than their face did. "No problem. You wait for a lull in foot traffic, then come on up."
"Okay, thanks."
Twenty long minutes later, it was just Lizzie and Kevin.
Her smile was nervous. His was neutral. Kevin had a more than meets the eye sort of energy. Not anything threatening, but he hadn't always been a drugstore clerk, she was sure of it.
He waited.
"Uh, yeah. My prescription was renewed a few months ago, but obviously I didn't have time to fill it before you-know-what happened."
Kevin started tapping his screen. "Doctor or clinic?"
"Mixom Health Consortium. Dr. Hall."
"And your last name?"
"Khalid. K-H-A-L-I-D. Elizabeth."
"Patient ID?"
"KH-753651-pasta."
His mouth curved up as he typed. "Pasta?"
"They asked me to pick a noun, and I was hungry."
He chuckled. "They wouldn't let me use 'Harley-Davidson' as my noun. Too many letters." Kevin said in a confiding tone, "I think the receptionist was actually a Yamaha fan."
"I take it you aren't." If she made enough small talk, he might forget to question her about why she needed such a powerful medication.
"Not since I served in the Third Amazon War. Vicious bastards," he said without even a hint of bitterness. Maybe he'd worked through his issues from the war a long time ago.
"I didn't realize Yamaha had been one of Amazon's brands. It's hard to keep up with all the divisions that have changed hands."
"Yeah," Kevin said, still without rancor toward his old enemies. "Hostile takeovers are a bitch. Especially when both sides start using virus bombs and world governments have to get involved." He turned to the pharmacy counter and began measuring out her pills.
"Did you fight in the first two wars as well?" she asked to distract him from inquiring about the purpose of the medication.
Before the Santiago ARC had announced a breakthrough in atmospheric geoengineering technology, the oxygen production zones in the Amazon rainforest had been hotly contested resources. They'd drafted people as young as fifteen to fight, so it was conceivable that Kevin might have been involved in those too.
"Thankfully, no," he said, separating the right amount of pills from the pile with a little ruler. "Just the one versus the mega-corps." The government had attempted to brand the conflict as the "UAC-Amazon Police Action", but "Third Amazon War" was too ironic for the public to pass up, and the name stuck.
Kevin filled the bottle and turned back to the counter, smoothing the printed label onto the orange plastic. "Have you taken this medication before?"
Lizzie braced for invasive questions. Whenever she got a new pharmacist, they'd probe her for information about her condition under the guise of "making sure it doesn't have any interactions with other psychotropic medications."
"Yes, I've taken it before. Off-label usage." I.e. I'm not crazy in pharmacology-speak.
"We don't have a pharmacist anymore, or I'd do the whole 'Would you like a consultation?' song and dance."
"That's okay. I know how to use it."
The nosy questions didn't come. It was almost disappointing.
Kevin dropped her pill bottle into a plain paper bag along with a ridiculously long receipt. "Meds are free, but you'll need to show the guards the receipt on your way out. They have to make sure you're not smuggling painkillers or something."
Great. More scrutiny.
"Thanks."
"Your prescription's good for five refills. After that, go see the docs at the hospital and get it renewed. No charges for medical attention in Denver."
"There's a street market, I hear."
Kevin hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Take a right outside, five blocks down. Can't miss it."
He didn't ask any more questions about her medication. Lizzie decided she liked him.
She dry-swallowed one of the pills as soon as she was outside.
The currency exchange for her silver coin was even more generous than she'd expected, and she ended up with a bit left over after buying Harry's school supplies. Denver had pieced together a sort of educational system that involved broadcasting lessons via low-tech radio signals that wouldn't draw attention to anyone on the other end. Nobody knew exactly how far the signals reached, or how many people were receiving them, but tuning in to Geography 101 with Ms. Amelie was oddly soothing even for adults. There was only so much static-y screaming and distant pleas for help that you could take before learning all the capitals of the United Kingdoms of Africa in alphabetical order started to sound like a good alternative.
She was perusing the various sidewalk booths for something that Vincent might enjoy when a book stall caught her eye.
"You're joking." Lizzie fairly ran to it. A nice young man with a fresh scar across his forehead perked up as she approached.
Lizzie put down the heavy backpack. "You have real books!" she exclaimed unnecessarily.
"Classics," he proudly declared. "Well, reproductions of classics. People need comfort. Familiarity. Something they can read without worrying when the battery's going to run out."
"They sure do. I don't suppose you have any Tolkien?"
He gestured down to a third table, and Lizzie followed. "It's your lucky day. For some reason The Silmarillion is crazy-popular this week, but I've got loads of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings."
"The Lord of the Rings," she corrected him automatically.
He chuckled, thankfully unoffended. "A true fan, I see. Can I interest you in an unabridged anthology with all six appendices?"
"Absolutely!"
The bookseller brought her abandoned backpack over to her as she reverently picked up the thick volume. It was a real hardback, with a glossy leather cover and raised gold lettering over a lovingly detailed Doors of Durin symbol in silver. Perfection.
"How much for this one?" she breathed. There was no way she could afford it, but maybe he'd take payments.
"Ten bucks."
"What? Only ten bucks? This is worth hundreds, easily."
"The ARC brought in some economists who set the maximum prices for goods each week. Ten bucks is the most you can charge for a book in the Denver Fortress right now."
Vincent would hate that kind of regulation. Free market and all that jazz. "Seems a little heavy-handed."
"So far martial law under the ARC hasn't been that bad. Exchanging currency for goods is more of a courtesy than anything. All your basic needs are taken care of in Denver. No going hungry so that you can buy that antique hoverboard. Just bring the ARC some salvageable metal and you're halfway there."
"Ah. Wartime economy. Like the 1900s when ladies gave up their silk stockings to be made into parachutes."
"You know your history." He tapped a stack of glossy photography books. "War history usually flies off the shelves during an ongoing conflict." His cheerful facade cracked a little bit. "Not with this war, though."
She nodded quietly. "That's understandable." Lizzie caressed the heavy tome. "I can see why fantasy is selling so well. Legendary heroes, magical objects, good triumphing over evil. Old-fashioned escapism."
He nodded, regaining his composure. "Sometimes the old stories are the best medicine."
"Yeah. I –" Her gaze caught on yet another booth. She put down The Lord of the Rings. "You're joking," she said again, and grabbed her backpack. "Excuse me. I'll …" Lizzie glanced longingly at the book. "I'll have to come back for this."
"No worries."
The clothing booth was only a few tables away, but her heart was fluttering with a different kind of excitement.
The clothing vendor was a friendly-looking woman whose long brown hair didn't quite conceal the burn marks that ran down her neck and into the collar of her Pink Floyd T-shirt.
"Can I help you find something?"
"Already found it." Lizzie could hardly believe her eyes.
"These are all reproductions, obviously, but I'm not one to turn down a shipping container full of imitation souvenirs."
"How big of a guy would this fit? I'm not good with men's sizes."
"It really depends on chest circumference and shoulder width." The shop owner gave someone behind Lizzie a welcoming smile.
"Is he my size?" asked the newcomer's deep bass voice.
Lizzie turned and looked up. And up. And up.
The enormous man smiled genially. His white grin contrasted with his dark beard and tanned skin. He was huge, and broad, and looked like … Lizzie cocked her head, trying to put her finger on who he reminded her of.
"Paul Bunyan," the giant offered. "I remind you of the folk hero from kids' books. Yeah, I gave up trying not to look like Paul Bunyan years ago. Too much work."
She couldn't help smiling. The man radiated friendliness and congeniality despite his eye-popping size. He had to be nearly …
"Six foot ten," he said, eyes crinkling with good humor. "Three hundred pounds."
"Sounds like you get this reaction a lot."
"Might as well get the elephant in the room out of the way." He extended a hand the size of a garden shovel. "Bruce. I work at the ARC."
Her hand completely disappeared into his when they shook, but the contact was very gentle, like putting on a baseball glove. She got the same impression of restrained power that Ayers gave off.
"Lizzie," she said. "I used to work at a salvage yard in Aurora."
"Crane or forklift?"
"Bit of both. Apparently I have 'the touch' for delicate work with giant claws."
"Nice. If you're ever looking for work, the ARC pays well and could use more heavy machinery operators."
"Good to know."
Bruce stepped up to her side, angling himself so his shadow didn't cover the clothes she was looking at. "So, how big is the person you're looking to buy this for?"
"Not quite as tall as you. I think …" She measured with her hand. "Yeah, I think without his helmet he'd come up to your eyes. The soles of his boots are about the same thickness as the ones you've got on. He's very muscular."
"Well," Bruce said, "I wear a quadruple-XL."
The shopkeeper laughed. "I definitely don't have this shirt in XXXXL, Bruce."
"Hmm," Lizzie pondered. "I've never seen him without armor, but I'd guess he's a bit narrower across the chest."
"Four inches less in chest circumference would put him at a triple-XL. What do you think, Cici?" Bruce tapped the T-shirt. "Any chance you have this in XXXL?"
"You're in luck, miss." Cici pulled a thin box from under the table and unfolded the dark black garment. "The only one in that size."
Lizzie smiled down at the reproduction 1971 UK Tour Led Zeppelin T-shirt. "It's perfect."
"And for you, Bruce," Cici continued, pulling out another box. "I saved this one."
He gasped theatrically. "They make Care Bears T-shirts in quadruple-XL? Oh, hell yeah!"
"Five bucks each," Cici said.
Bruce's grin faded when he reached into his back pocket. "Where the –? Ah, shoot. I was just out for a walk; didn't bring my wallet. Save that for me, Cici?"
"No problem. Who else am I going to sell my XXXXL T-shirts to? The Jolly Green Giant?"
"You're the best."
"No, no," Lizzie said. "Let me get it for you. You've saved me a lot of trouble trying to figure out Ayers's size without spoiling the surprise." She handed Cici a currency chip worth ten dollars. The shop owner slotted it into a scanner, which clicked in confirmation.
"You sure?"
"Definitely. I can spare it, and you've really helped me out. He's going to love it." Her forehead wrinkled a bit. "At least, I think he will."
"Does he like Led Zeppelin?"
"Yeah."
"Does he like you?" Bruce asked without any hint of innuendo. Lizzie wished she could do that.
"Uh … I think so."
"Then he'll love it. Hey, let me buy you a coffee. I've got a tab at the Starbucks over there."
"I don't know …"
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "If it helps you feel comfortable, I am happily married to the best woman on the planet. So, no hidden agenda here."
Lizzie looked at Cici, who nodded in confirmation. He was a good guy. That matched the teddy-bear vibe that he was giving off, but the assurance was still comforting.
"Sure, Bruce. Let's have coffee."
Even though it was only half a block, Bruce insisted on carrying her heavy backpack. "Makes me feel useful," he explained. He held the door open for her, too.
The Starbucks was as bizarrely normal inside as the CVS had been. Baristas and bussers hurried around so energetically that she wondered if they'd been sampling their own product. Vincent's own stash of coffee beans would last quite a while in his low-oxygen storage containers, but they were still using them sparingly. Who knew how long the three of them would be down there? She pushed away the ever-present question of whether the world would be safe again in her lifetime.
"Bruce!" called a barista in a tone that said he was indeed a regular. The other staff paused a moment to greet him as well. Bruce grinned from ear to ear.
"Hey, guys! Could we get two lattes?"
"You bet. Double venti for you and…?"
Lizzie was still acclimating to the atmosphere that was somehow strange in its very normalcy. "Oh! Uh … a grande?"
"Double venti and a grande coming up. Have a seat anywhere."
Bruce did not hold out her chair for her, which Lizzie appreciated. Carrying bags and holding open doors were polite behaviors a person might do for anyone else, but she found being assisted with the simple act of sitting down a little … controlling.
They chatted about vintage rock bands for a while – Bruce was, thankfully, in the Led Zeppelin isn't classic metal camp, which made her like him even more – until a busser brought their coffees. Bruce's "double venti" turned out to be two ventis in huge glasses.
Lizzie squinted skeptically. "I'm not sure even a guy your size won't get serious jitters from all that caffeine."
Bruce took a huge sip. "Well, that's the thing; it's only half coffee. The other half is ground chicory that's supposed to taste pretty similar to real coffee. Gotta spread out the beans. Coffee plantations are high up on mountainsides, yeah, but who knows if there's anybody left to tend the fields."
"Yeah." She took her own sip of coffee/chicory latte and found it wasn't terribly different from the real thing, but the mental picture of abandoned hillside farms dampened her spirits.
"I'm sorry," Bruce apologized. "That was a real downer thing to say."
"It's fine. That's just the facts of life now."
"If it helps, the ARC's working on it."
"Working on what? Harvesting coffee from South America?"
"On reestablishing supply chains, and rescuing people from mountaintops. Right now we have a fleet of drones collecting small stuff from Boulder, like medicine and tools, and bringing it back here, plus Ospreys picking up survivors. Everybody who lived through the Boulder attack is already here, and said they don't mind us collecting their things to be used in Denver."
"Boulder? Why not salvage Lakewood and Aurora?"
"We don't want to take their stuff. Plenty of people are still living in the rubble for one reason or another. These days it's almost as safe out there as it is inside the Fortress, thanks to The Slayer."
She looked up from her drink. "Slayer? What slayer?"
