Dustbowl was empty. Thunder Mountain was quiet. To the west, the Gravel Sea blew waves of endless debris across open fields. Pits and wells were long since abandoned, farms and stockyards barren. Badwater Basin was a hollow shell of its former bombastic self. Teufort was a barren husk, populated by hopeless people. Mann's Land was a diseased tumor, and its cancer was spreading throughout New Mexico. Most everyone had adapted to a regulated, mediocre life or simply given up.
And yet, the radio announcer had the gall to be chipper. "It's another lovely evening in the Fine Forty-Nine! Sports news will be up shortly, but first—"
A slim hand slammed the radio silent. No. That was enough of that. No more waiting, no more pining. No more Fine Forty-Nine. New Mexico hadn't seceded, nor had it been surrendered. It was just biding its time, hoping that the vengeful old Mann plaguing it would settle down and die. No, the woman knew better. That decrepit bastard would keep on rending the state apart if someone didn't stop him.
The dark-haired woman was hardly the person for such a task. She was nearing her middle age, her arms a little weaker and hips a smidge wider than she liked. Had she lived anywhere else, she would have been content to have a domestic existence. Just baking cookies and patching clothes. That damned man and his robots had taken even the simplest joy away from her. Her sons didn't know she was living here. Her baby was long gone. Her lover was lost. She had nothing.
Nothing, except for a ranch house and a shallow, empty existence.
The little mother paced about her kitchen. How could she possibly hope to go to war? She wasn't a fighter, not in the physical sense. Sure, she had been strong enough to birth eight children, but a womb as powerful as a cannon wasn't worth much. All she had to fuel her was sass and spunk. Even that ricocheted harmlessly off metallic robot brains.
She grumbled, then went to her living room. Trappings of a joyful life sat around. They weren't dusty or cobwebbed, but they felt equally neglected. A vinyl couch was worn down. On top of it was dozens of pillows and crocheted blankets. She had to do something to keep her busy. A built-in bookshelf was stacked with countless romance novels and an encyclopedia. All of their spines were broken. A TV sat in front of the window, untouched. In the corner of the living room was a cheap, wooden bar. Small green and amber bottles sat behind it.
She needed a drink. A warm one. Something as miserable as she felt. Grabbing a ridged glass, the lonely little mother poured herself an ample glass of bitter alcohol. She threw it back, swallowing it. Its burning was easy to tolerate in comparison to her loneliness. She placed the glass back down, then sighed.
"'m so selfish," she murmured. "There's still people here. Kid's still got friends in town. I'm not alone."
She choked on the last word. No. That was a lie. She wanted her baby, even if he struggled against her cuddling. She wanted her paramour, the mysterious Frenchman that came and went as he chose. She was alone, in every sense of the word. To be held, loved, cared for—she needed that reinforcement. A fire didn't burn without kindling.
In her misery, she placed her head on the bar. She knocked the bottle and glass aside. Both shattered at her feet. She growled. Of course. Not that food or alcohol was rationed, but she hated to make such a waste. The citizens of Teufort were still allowed to live their tiny lives. Gray didn't have any qualms with them, as long as they didn't threaten him. He certainly didn't have any use for them, outside of what meager resources they could generate. At best, he was a distant tyrant, content to let people do as they will. A few things weren't tolerated—traveling without clearing checkpoints, owning weapons, trespassing on his property. Those were freedoms most people were willing to give up, the cowardly lot.
The little mother went to clean up the mess. She crouched down, holes in her panty hose stretched. She gathered the mess in a towel, then threw it into a nearby bin. Another handful went in after that. She studied the floor, then the area around it. The mess hadn't been too bad. She was just fussing over nothing.
As she stood up, her hose ripped. She groaned. What had it got caught on this time? She bent down, picking nylon out of a thin line in the carpet. She ran her fingers along the gap. What was this? She pulled it up, surprised as it came loose. There was padding and floorboards beneath that. Crap building. Stranger yet, there were several boards that ended together. She dug her fingernails into that.
It came loose.
What she saw in the hidden door in the floor made her jaw drop. There was a little shoebox, one she had thought she had thrown away. It was clear that her lover had gotten to it. Buried in the box were the keys to her freedom—pocket watches, a cigarette case, a knife, a gun. A secret cache of weapons. It was just like that dirty Spy to leave little items like this about. He never knew when or where he was going to be in danger, and he had to protect himself.
Or, did he suspect—
The little mother grinned. It didn't matter what he had meant it for. Now, it was meant for her. A gift to save herself. She took the items up, playing with their contents. Her paramour had told her somewhat of what they did. She'd heard other stories from her son. Watches to turn invisible. A cigarette case for disguises. A knife and a gun? She knew how to use that. No bullets nearby, but she wasn't sweating that. He had to have another stockpile in her home, somewhere.
She tore the house apart. It didn't take her long to find the bullets—stashed in the ugliest pair of shoes she had. The ones she would never wear. The ones to match the shoebox in the floor. A mad fervor came upon her. She could get out. She could sneak past those checkpoints, weapons and all! She ripped off her ruined pantyhose, then grabbed a large suitcase and a purse. She couldn't take much—a few sets of clothing, comfortable shoes, toiletries, her weapons, money. A hip flask was as good of a water container as she would get. A few small boxes of cereal could fuel her. And, of course, a first aid kit. She had to have that.
The little woman locked up her house, then bolted to the garage. No patrolling robots to watch her. Good. She threw the garage door open. Tucked inside was a powder blue compact sedan. She smiled, then threw the front door open, dropping her purse in the passenger's seat. With a small purr, the vehicle came to life. She pulled out of her driveway. The garage door shut in her wake, leaving a small house truly empty and barren.
It felt so strange to drive with a purpose again. Most people were slowly rolling down the streets, careful not to attract any attention. She felt as if she were going to burst if she stayed still for much longer. She tapped her fingers on the metal steering wheel. It was a struggle to keep herself under control.
If it hadn't been for the last red light, she wouldn't have come up with a greater idea. It came to her as she sat next to a filthy apartment building. The complex would have made Pruitt–Igoe look like a lush hotel. Had she not been thinking about her son and her significant other, she would have passed it by. Now, sitting and waiting for a slow light, she schemed.
"I wonder if she's still there," the little mother pondered.
When the light turned green, she changed her mind. It was worth investigating. One clever brain could go so far. Two could double the distance. Maybe most people would have been deadweight, but not the girl in the apartment building. The mother took a hard right, then pulled into the apartment's driveway. She parked, then grabbed her purse. There was no way she was going to leave that behind.
Only one person lived on the second floor. The rest had panicked and fled at the first sign of robot invasion. Perhaps she was bound by duty or just plain crazy, but the last coworker of her son's was still here. She could see just the faintest light beneath a peeling purple door.
She knocked three times. There was a good, long pause before she heard footsteps approach from inside. At first, the mother thought the coworker wasn't going to answer the door. Three latches were thrown aside. There was a delay, and then the door creaked open. Behind it was another dark-haired woman, just as small, petite, and frayed as the little mother.
"You're—" the assistant said.
"Been a while, hasn't it?" the mother smiled. "Let me in. Got somethin' ta show ya."
The assistant hesitated. She gave the mother a quick glance, then allowed her inside. The mother nudged the front door shut behind her with her hips. The assistant raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. She threw the locks shut.
"Well?" the assistant asked.
The mother looked at the curtains. They were closed. "Does Gray got this place wired up?"
"No," the younger woman replied. "He sends out patrols every six hours to check on me. We should be okay for a little while."
"Poifect!" the mother exclaimed. She drew the short assistant to her side. Slipping one hand in her purse, she opened it. "Take a look at dhis."
The assistant's eyes bulged behind crooked glasses. There, wrapped in spare socks, was a gun and a knife. Two watches were thrown on top of the heap. A cigarette case was tucked next to a billfold. She snatched the gun out, flipping it over and inspecting it. It was in perfect shape. She looked in the purse once more, finding a box of ammunition. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. It was as if someone had smuggled the world's largest diamond into her apartment.
Or the world's tiniest nuclear bomb.
"Where did you find this? I thought all weapons had been confiscated!" the assistant exclaimed. She struggled to bring her voice down to a whisper.
"Found it beneath my cocktail bar," the mother smirked.
The assistant rubbed her face. "For once, I'm glad that Spy was such a letch."
The mother flicked the assistant in the ear. "Dhat's my man you're talkin' about, Miss P."
"Sorry, Misses—" Miss Pauling began. The mother interrupted her, raising one finger up.
"No full names, right? Just call me Ma," the Scout's mother said.
"Right. Okay. Ma," Miss Pauling echoed. It felt wrong to call anyone but her own mother that. She readjusted her glasses, then found her composure. "What are you thinking? I'm guessing this isn't a Fuller Brush sales pitch."
Ma shook her head. "I haven't had that old job in years." She smiled, then got down to business. "Look. I found two watches, a knife, and a gun. Dhat's more than enough for one gal. I'm guessin' we can split it."
"And?" Miss Pauling asked.
"Well, get outta here, of course!" The Scout's mother grabbed Miss Pauling's hands. "Look. I ain't as strong as I used to be. Ain't had to kill near as many people as you. I need yer help. I've gotta find my son 'n my beau. Ya know? I can't stand not knowin' where they are!"
Miss Pauling put a hand on her head. "And then what?"
Ma stomped her foot. "Find the rest 'a dhem. Come back here and kick dhat old Mann's butt, dhat's what!"
"You're—" Miss Pauling wanted to call the little mother mad. She pursed her lips, then closed her eyes. Ma was right. If anyone could stand up against Gray Mann, it was the mercenaries that Redmond and Blutarch had hired so many years ago. The morons she had watched murder each other for half a decade. They were smart enough to fight efficiently, brave enough to fight to the point of death, and imprinted in a machine that would bring them back to life. They were the perfect idiots for such a job like this.
"Ain't got a better idea, do ya?" the Scout's mother interrupted Miss Pauling's thoughts.
"No," Miss Pauling confessed. "It's either we go find them, or we go after the other team."
"And dhey are where?" Ma asked.
Miss Pauling bobbed her head south. Her tongue caught on distasteful terms. "Gray's got them, too. Helen sent them to his… corporate headquarters. Haven't seen them since. Nor her."
"Not dhat old broad, too!" Ma said.
"I'm afraid so," Miss Pauling replied.
The Scout's mother crossed her arms. "Well, dhat settles it. We've gotta kick his ass. And to do dhat, you've gotta help me. Whaddya say? It's gotta be better than rottin' in some dirty ol' apartment."
Miss Pauling pushed her glasses upright. "It's not dirty."
"Yeah, well. Ain't a penthouse suite, either," the Scout's mother grumbled.
The older woman was right. About the missing men, Miss Pauling's roughed-up apartment—everything. She could stay in position and wait for a phone call from the Administrator that was never going to come, or she could be proactive. The Scout's mother was certainly trying to spur her on. She'd come armed with a bag full of stolen tricks. The least Miss Pauling could do was try.
The assistant rushed towards her bedroom. She tossed a suitcase on her bed, then began prepping. The Scout's mother followed her inside. Between the two of them, they had Miss Pauling packed within five minutes.
Already, Miss Pauling's mind was back into battle mode. "Take two cigarettes out. We'll need to disguise as someone else. I know the Spy could change into robot disguises. That should work."
"Good call!" the Scout's mother beamed.
"Also—wrap the knife, the gun, and the silver watch in the gold watch," the assistant continued. She tossed a hairbrush into her suitcase as she spoke. "The one with the leather strap. If you keep that one still, it should be able to keep invisible indefinitely."
Ma smiled. "You are just full of smart ideas! Can I ask ya somethin' else?"
Miss Pauling nodded. "Certainly."
"Where did you find this cute bra?" the Scout's mother dangled a dainty purple undergarment from her pointer finger. Miss Pauling's face turned darker shades of pink as her elder continued talking. "I mean, I understand if ya don't wanna talk about it, but even an older gal like me likes to feel pretty. Except I need a little more lift now-a-days. Ya know?"
"W-we need to focus on escaping, first," Miss Pauling managed to stammer. "Now I know where your son gets that attitude…"
The Scout's mother smirked, then tossed the bra inside Miss Pauling's baggage. "Aww. Next time ya catch him doing dhat, flick him in the ear. That'll stop him."
Next time. They had already agreed that there would be a next time. Perhaps that was cocky for them to believe, but it was better than leaving this town dragged down by the despair that had kept them prisoners. Miss Pauling snapped her suitcase shut, then nodded her head towards the front door. They were downstairs in less than sixty seconds. Miss Pauling took notice of the time. Six thirty. She'd have an hour and a half before Gray Mann's robots would come patrolling and looking for her.
They could be a long way away by then.
The two women jumped in the car. Miss Pauling placed her belongings in the back seat. She smiled to herself. There was no way they were going to fit nine grown men in the car. Certainly not if they found the Heavy. What would be like if they returned to Teufort? A proud fleet? A group of neutralized captives?
The Scout's mother raised her head. She opened the Spy's cigarette case and passed it to Miss Pauling. "Okay, honey. Make it work."
The assistant programmed two smaller robot disguises for them. It would be easier if they look like robotic copies of the Engineer and the Pyro, given their smaller statures. She withdrew the cigarettes and passed one to Ma. Both pressed the tip into the car's cigarette lighter, then took a drag. Miss Pauling placed the case back into Ma's purse, surprised to find the older woman had taken her advice about the gold watch. She looked back at the driver, finding the optical illusion had taken effect.
"Ready?" Ma asked, her voice masked with a mechanical warble.
Miss Pauling nodded. "Ready."
They were out of the town and cleared by dusk, destination unknown and fate uncertain.
Author's Note
Funny story. I had actually written a good part of this chapter detailing what had happened to the Sniper, then started work on this part. As it got large, I decided to table the Sniper stuff for later. Trust me, you'll get to see it.
I made this robot dystopian future way too chipper. Whoops. And technically, the Scout's mom shouldn't be drinking. Kids, don't drink and drive. Not even one drink. Just walk it off or wait an hour per drink.