property, get branded like a sodding cow.'
'Yes you do. Yes you do. But the only way is up. And what happens when you impress one of the hotshots, huh? Or maybe cosy-up to the Klanboss? Or kill someone in the communal bad-books?'
I'd shaken my head again.
'Promotion.' He grinned. 'Become a Klansman. Free to carry weapons. Free to roam. Work your way up. Maybe one day challenge for the top spot.'
'And if you fuck up?'
His voice had gone quiet, all but lost behind the crackling fire.
'Then you out on your ear. And you better hope you can take care of yourself, or else find someone who can.'
Talking about himself, again. Just like always.
Nate said the Klansmen wore gang colours, and let their brands heal over. They got to carry weapons and administer internal justice and expand territories and all the other bullshit war games you can imagine. They played at being generals, gladiators, law enforcers and conquistadors. They got all the best gear. They had first choice of any scav, ate the best pickings, collected on debts, upheld the Klan's integrity and generally acted big.
I told Nate I was shaking in my boots. I'm not sure if he knew I was joking.
Back to the power plant.
'I don't have a brand.' I told the guards.
'You ain't a scav?' One of them ran his eyes up and down my pitiful clothing. 'Look like a scav.'
'Fully paid-up Klansman.' I said, smiling, knocking-out my best US accent and still managing to sound (in my head, at least) like I was taking the piss.
I was.
'Yeah?' The guard said, looking like he'd already had a bad day and couldn't be arsed with it getting any worse. 'What Klan?'
I thought for a moment, smiled sweetly and said:
'The Culled.'
They let me through, eventually, and as I passed him by the biggest goon grumbled, half-hearted.
'No Klan business inside.'
I grinned and told him to perish the thought.
As we passed the checkpoint and wound our way further into the facility, I caught Nate staring at me, like some freakish version of a pirate, uncovered eye twinkling.
He'd been carrying my pack since the airport – to spare my shoulder, he said – and now he unslung it carefully onto the floor, staring at me with a curious smile.
I wondered for the fiftieth time what he was hoping to get out of all this. Out of helping me. Out of saving my life and bringing me here.
Call me cynical, but Nate didn't strike me as the sort of guy to do something for nothing.
'Take another cigarette?' He asked.
He'd earned it. Of course he had.
Currency's currency.
'Go ahead.'
But as he dipped his hands inside the pack they moved with a speed and confidence that betrayed all kinds of stuff, if you're a paranoid bastard like me. If you know what you're looking for.
Familiarity.
Confidence.
Avarice.
When he saved my life, when he made the choice to attach himself to me rather than kill me, as I lay with a dying man's blood pulsing into my veins, he'd had hours and hours to go through the bag. Was that it? Was that all there was to him staying with me?
He'd seen the goods and wanted to earn his share?
No. No that made no sense. He could have just let me bleed out, let me die there on the runway, then taken it all for himself.
What then?
That same scratching. That same itching something at the back of my mind.
Something not quite right.
Something not adding up.
'Nate.'
'Mm?' He said, sparking the cigarette.
Just ask, dammit…
'Why are you helping me?'
The air smelt of salt and car fumes. For a long time, there was silence.
He watched me. Eyes unmoving.
'Thought we'd established that.' He said, slowly, as if I was being ungrateful. As if I'd told him I didn't need him.
'Try again.' I said, gently.
He sighed. Pursed his lips.
'I walked out on the Clergy, pal. Saved my own skin when I shoulda… shoulda died like a martyr. That's what they expect. Thoughtless obedience, you understand?'
'So?'
'So if they catch up with me, it's… It'll be…' He looked away, face fearful, and coughed awkwardly. Another long suck on the cigarette, calming his nerves.
'Anyway,' he said. 'I seen you in action.'
'And?'
'I kept you alive, raggedy-man. Now all you got to do is return the favour.'
And it was an explanation, I suppose. It made sense. It all added up.
And underneath it all the dark voice in my mind, shouting:
Don't you fucking give up, soldier.
Don't you get distracted, boy.
Don't you let things slip.
Sir, no sir, etc etc.
Nate was helping me. Because of him I was healthy enough to carry on; to get the job done; to go after it like a flaming fucking sword. Everything else was just dross. Everything else was just peripheral shit that didn't matter. Who cared why Nate was helping me? He'd given his explanation. Now move on.
Except, except, except.
Except that as Nate dropped the cigarettes back into the bag his hand paused – a split second, no more – next to the battered city map with its New York scrawl and red ink notes, and his lips twitched. A fraction. Just a fraction.
Then he caught me staring, and closed up the pack with a friendly smile, and led me further inside the power plant.
I took the pack and shouldered it myself.
'How you feeling?' He said, as we walked. 'Got your strength back? Lot of blood you lost, back there.'
Reminding me. Keeping me indebted.
Not subtle, Nate.
'I'm peachy.' I told him, a little colder than I'd meant.
Basic training, year two:
Call in favours. Get people good and beholden. Make friends. Make the fuckers owe you one.
But don't you let yourself owe anyone anything. You hear me, soldier? Don't you get yourself in arrears. Don't you feel obliged to take care of anyone.
People are parasites, boy. They see something strong, they clamp on.
They slow you down.
