Freedom

Chapter 4

I wasn't sure where this conversation was going, so it's probably just as well that it never got the chance. Rain or no rain, you can't help but hear the motor of a dirt bike from a ways off. That got everybody's attention, and it was about the first thing that had happened so far that did not appear to alarm the blonde. In fact, there might even have been subtle signs of relief. We all turned to see the Biker enter the building, dripping with rainwater and carrying a large plastic case in either hand.

He gave me and the Americans about half a glance, which I assumed was his idea of a greeting. I hadn't gotten a very good look at him out there in the dark, but now I could see him clearly. He wore armor that looked rather improvised, but I understood that wasn't uncommon here. That absolutely terrifying fully-automatic pistol was still in his holster, and I admit I was curious about it. I'd made a point of researching firearms thoroughly before coming to the Zone, but this was a new one on me.

His armor's various components boasted several camouflage patterns, but it all ran together into a muddy mess that I was sure would be all but invisible if it needed to be.

The Biker had a square jaw and shaggy hair. He was taller than I was, probably six one or two, and though he had only a medium build, he'd added enough muscle to it that combined with the armor, he was pretty imposing figure. Yes, they didn't come any manlier than this guy. Of course he couldn't say anything to us; it would kill his strong, silent aesthetic.

He'd stepped right out of Gears of War – but wait, I wasn't going to think about that, because I'd been in the Zone less than two hours and I was already having a crisis, because not only had I already begun to miss leather couches and video games, but now that I'd seen real violence in person, I found myself wondering about the philosophical questions surrounding the ramifications of simulated murder. If I made it back to the real world, would I never be able to enjoy a shooting game again? Or would I still enjoy them, but feel like a bad person because of it? No, that line of thought could wait. Maybe for a couple of years.

There was irony in that inner monologue – not the philosophy, the fact that unbeknownst to me at the time, pretty soon I was going to meet a man who made the Biker look like a lightweight, and the steroid-slurping behemoths from Gears of War look like schoolgirls. But I digress.

"Problems?" the blonde said.

He shook his head and set the cases down, but his eyes shifted to me. "Those bandits were a little far afield." He spoke like an American, but he was not American – I was ready to swear that on the graves of my ancestors. I didn't know where he was from, but his mastery of the language was impressive. "I wonder why they'd come out this far for three rookies," he added.

Of course, I knew exactly why they would, but I certainly wasn't going to tell. "I don't know," I shrugged. "Maybe they were already out here."

Maybe he was suspicious, maybe not. He had a face of stone. He was even harder to read than the battered blonde on the other side of the fire. Speaking of whom, I had to wonder how she'd gotten that way. I looked the Biker over again. A whole bunch of scenarios rolled through my mind, none of which I particularly liked. I didn't want to be here. But, it wasn't like the blonde couldn't defend herself; I mean – she had an AK-47. And if this Biker fellow had some kind of psychological hold on her, well – that was unfortunate, but none of my business. The Zone is one of the few places on earth where you can smack around your girlfriend, and nobody can justifiably say anything. The whole point is that you do what you want. Nobody had a gun to this woman's head, and if they did, she had a gun too. The ball was in her court.

The Biker stripped off some of his outer armor and sat down beside the fire. To my surprise, he sat on our side rather than beside the blonde, who was opening the first of the two cases. Inside was a bizarre array of items: stacked boxes of cartridges in a variety of calibers, a Walther MPL, a pistol I didn't recognize, rations, medical supplies, tightly-bundled stacks of banknotes, and I kid you not, a couple of neatly folded, jarringly fancy brassieres, the tremendous size of which took me aback.

It wasn't as strange as it sounded. Of course there were things that wouldn't be readily available to a woman in the Zone, and if the blonde was as well endowed as what I saw suggested, then proper support was no laughing matter.

For a moment, the blonde didn't do anything. She looked overcome, as though the sight of her belongings – and they were definitely hers – were such a vast relief that she just couldn't come to grips with it. Well, she was on hard times. It probably was a relief. Though going from the amount of money I could see, her situation had just improved markedly. Good for her.

Wordlessly, she extracted a couple of bundles from the case and rose, leaving the main room and disappearing into one of the smaller ones. Intending to change, no doubt.

I stared into the fire. Had all my research been for nothing? I'd been led to expect a lot of things from the Zone, but so far I wasn't getting them. This couldn't be the norm. I glanced over at the Biker, who had broken down that monstrous pistol to clean it. The Americans were in hushed conversation; I actively did not want to hear what they were saying.

In time the blonde emerged, looking quite different. She'd cleaned up a little, and changed into a set of black fatigues that actually fit her. Her hair was tied back, and she looked more collected than she had before. Sometimes it's the little things that count, I guess. Military fatigues aren't designed to show off a woman's body, but that didn't matter. She could walk the runway in a cardboard box.

It was distracting. I took out a calorie bar and started to think about what I was going to do. The Biker got to his feet, moving across the room to confer with the woman out of earshot. I couldn't help but notice that they didn't stand very close together. The logical assumption was that these two were some kind of item, but that didn't appear to be the case. I had the feeling I was misunderstanding something. It was time to put a leash on my imagination.

The conference at the far end of the room seemed to end, and the Biker returned, touching me on the shoulder and jerking his chin toward the door. I raised an eyebrow, but obligingly got up to follow him.

He led me outside, where we stopped beneath the metal awning just over the door. The tapping of the rain on the metal above was loud, and it ran off in wild cascades. The Biker was only a couple inches taller than I was, but I still had to look up at him, a little.

"I never thanked you for helping us."

He shook his head. "When there are bandits around, bandits are your enemy, and anyone who isn't a bandit is your friend. That's the bottom line."

I nodded. "Thanks anyway."

"Are you looking for work?"

"You got something?"

"Yeah. And it'd be better if you were looking for work, so I wouldn't have to intimidate you into it because you owe me one."

I let out a snort of laughter and halted the knife I was easing out of my sleeve. At first I hadn't been sure why he'd invited me out of the room, but now I was starting to understand. I made my knife disappear with a little sleight of hand – hopefully discreetly enough that the Biker never knew it was there – and relaxed. "Fair enough."

On the inside I was still sweating. Of course I had to take jobs. I had to eat. Had to make a living. This was an adjustment. The Biker was talking.

"The Americans want to see Duty?"

I nodded. "That's what they said."

"I want you to take them to Rostov and drop them off. I don't think they'd make it on their own. Then there's a little job we need done."

"Rostov," I repeated, taking out my PDA and calling up my map. "Here?"

"Yes. It's a long road to get there, but getting back won't be as bad."

"What do you mean?"

"I want you to pick someone up. With the Americans, you have to take a safe route. With this guy, you should be able to come straight back. The return trip should be less than a day. Then we're square. And we'll pay you. What do you say?"

What could I say? I owed him. "It doesn't sound like a big deal."

"It's not, as long as you travel smart. Here." He pointed at my PDA. "You want to head south to the cliffs and follow them. Or you can climb up and go over the bluffs – it's safer up there, but then you have to climb up and down. I wouldn't trust those two to do it. Follow the cliff until it runs out, then you can cut east and use the roads, as long as you keep your eyes open."

"Wouldn't it be faster to cross this open country?"

"More dangerous – that's the way back."

"Who am I picking up?"

"A friend. He'll know how to handle himself, so you can risk it."

"I see."

Well, I was pretty convinced I could trust this guy – but I was still waiting for the catch. Something about this didn't quite align.

But nature was taking its course; I had to go with it. The job sounded like something I could, in theory, handle. That beat the alternative. The only thing I didn't like about it was the fact that even if it went well, it was going to lead me back to this strange man and woman.