“Regulators?”
“They’re in charge of law and order around the cities as well as the Boroughs. They make sure all goods going in and out of the cities are genuine, as well as enforce the laws.”
Having never heard of such people, I begin to get concerned about what else Devlan didn’t disclose to me.
Rena and I continue putting the orders together and when we’re done with each box Terrance comes and removes it. We take a water break shortly after noon. The cellar is uncomfortably warm, so Rena brings us drinks down from the bar. Terrance doesn’t seem to want to take a break, and continues to fill orders.
“Rena,” I begin, just after Terrance scurries above our heads, “how come Terrance doesn’t speak?”
A pained look crosses her face as she swallows the rest of her water. She looks at the planks above our heads, making sure Terrance isn’t within earshot.
“He used to work in a paint factory in the Industrial Borough of Acheron. There was a huge fire there well over ten years ago. Hundreds perished. Those who survived were left scarred or deformed. Terrance’s vocal chords were heavily singed, and his lungs polluted with chemicals. The doctors in Acheron left him for dead, but he’s still here. He appeared in the Wasteland about a year after the fire. My brother found him wandering on the outskirts and brought him here. He’s never left, except once.”
“When was that?”
“To go look for my brother after he was taken by Collectors.”
I’m regretting my questions, but Rena tells me not to worry about it.
We finish the orders around two. I carry the last of the boxes into the living room where Terrance has the rest stacked. He waves me over to the bar, pours out two shots of Tequila, and we drink in unison.
I’m beginning to like this ritual of ours.
Terrance is in the process of setting up another round of shots when Quin makes his very loud entrance. Our eyes meet and I can feel myself reaching down towards my boot for the knife. Quin must have sensed my motives since he also begins reaching for a weapon that he has holstered across his back.
“Quin,” Rena says, trying to diffuse the sudden tension in the room. “These are ready to go into your truck for deliveries whenever you and Terrance are ready.”
Quin smiles at me, but his eyes display hatred.
“Sure Rena. Come on, Terrance,” he gestures towards the door. Terrance puts the bottle back on the shelf behind him and follows Quin out to the porch.
The two of them load the truck quickly and leave.
I excuse myself and walk out to the barn where I climb up the ladder, remove the Beta gun and place it into my waistband, hop on my motorbike, and drive down the path I ran in the morning. I go until the Refuge is well behind me. The anger in me seems to be propelling me forward. Stopping about an hour later I notice how exhausting the heat is and how I don’t have anything to drink. The Tequila is playing havoc with my body as I become lightheaded, causing me to immediately sit down in the middle of nowhere.
I remove the sleeve from my arm, wanting another glimpse of the injury that I haven’t fully looked at in two days. The stream up my arm has thinned, but is still bright and I’m able to make out small waves rolling back and forth colliding with each other, though I don’t feel anything. Reaching behind me, I grab the gun, which seems to hum in the palm of my right hand. I clutch the grip, aiming it at a cactus twenty feet away, and watch as the energy that seems to be alive in my arm intensifies. A tingling sensation pulses up and down every ligament, muscle, blood vessel, and bone in my arm. I squeeze the trigger and put holes into the cactus till all that is left are several large lumps, then I strap the sleeve back onto my arm, re-secure the gun, and drive off going farther into the unknown.
I finally stop when I come upon a high wire fence with warning signs hanging precariously on the posts, warning of possible electrocution from high voltage. I stop the bike just a few feet away, hearing the hum of the current as it flows along the metal mesh. The barrier, which goes on for miles, stands twenty feet tall, with razor wire coiled several feet thick at the top. On the other side of the fence, about a hundred yards away, stand tall white support columns that are placed every ten feet down the length of the fence. I look up and see the supports are attached to a set of rails. A moment later, a shuttle speeds down the rail, probably loaded down with passengers. I want to sit longer and see if another one comes by, but my thirst returns, so I turn the bike around and head back to the Refuge.
Upon my return I notice that everyone has left and the building is locked. I park the bike back into its stall, drink water from the shower head to quench my thirst, crawl up the ladder to the loft, and see Quin sitting on my mattress. I grab my gun and aim at his face.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Is this how you greet everyone?”
“Only those who have a death wish.”
“Rena told me about what happened to you and your dad. Sorry,” he says, with a quiet, somewhat reserved tone.
I stare at him waiting for the punch line, but he seems to be sincere.
“Did you know Devlan?” I ask, relaxing a bit.
“No not really. I would see him sometimes when he came here, but he was always very secretive.” He clears his throat as if he had swallowed sand.
I
