But then he chides himself. At least he cares enough to believe in something. So few down there do anymore.
“They’ll fight,” he says finally. “They always have.” He turns back to Cody. He remembers what Star told him. “Ain’t ya heard? Lost causes are our specialty.”
Cody laughs. “Is that where you get it? Is it bred into you, Tiger Thomas? The need to fight the losing battles that must be fought?”
“I never thought of it that way.” Tiger shrugs. He can’t help but laugh at himself as the waitress brings him another drink. “You may be onto something there. A genetic disposition for chivalrous, but hopeless inclinations. Hmmmm. Interesting.”
He picks up his fresh drink and catches the attention of the young boy. Holding it up, he offers the kid a toast. The young man smiles sheepishly and holds up his drink in a return salute.
Drink up, kid. Live it up while you can. Don’t waste a second of these next few days.
“Don’t worry about those boys,” he tells Cody, as a mixture of pride and sadness fills him. “They’re Southern boys … they’ll make you proud.”
«◊»
Chapter 4
Freddy “The Kraut” Guenther lived in the infamous area known as Rocket Town just south of Huntsville with his girlfriend, Wanda, their Doberman Pinscher, Rommel, and a parrot named Himmler who cussed in German.
Rocket Town got its name from the hundreds of surplus cargo modules that sat row after row along dusty dirt roads amidst a pine thicket. They’d once been used to haul supplies to the moon and orbital stations during the early days of the Rush. Long obsolete, they now served as cheap, economical living quarters for lower-income residents.
This was about as far away from Monte Sano as you could get, literally and figuratively. Located across the river in Morgan County, Rocket Town was outside the city limits of Huntsville and more indicative of the rest of the Southeastern Economic Zone. The people here didn’t work the good-paying union jobs of the Space Trades in the orbital shipyards. They didn’t have the job security of the civil service workers at Von Braun. Most lived on the monthly government subsidy, the Universal Living Allowance, as there was no work for them, and far too many spent their allowance feeding a drug or alcohol habit. Most manufacturing jobs had been outsourced to foreign countries in the last century, and the few good ones that were left were slowly giving way to technology, robotics and automation. A few worked menial jobs in the city deemed not worth automating, but by far, the majority of its inhabitants were poor, unemployed and addicted to one or more vices. Moonbeam use was at an epidemic level, and the area was a hotbed of crime and violence. Drug dealers, ‘beam addicts and roving gangs of young street thugs made it a deadly and dangerous place. The Zone Patrol never went in less than full squad strength and always backed by armored gunships.
Freddy was a man of many talents. Not only was he the local neighborhood white supremacist and a major moonbeam distributor, but also the premier dealer in illegal weapons for the Southern Huntsville and Madison Metro (SHAMM) region. Whether you needed an untraceable rail pistol, a crate of pulse rifles, or even a rapid-fire rocket gun, he was the man to see.
Junior Tuttle had been a frequent business partner of Guenther’s over the years, having been the leading supplier of moonbeam and Martian Mud to Guenther. In return, he helped The Kraut fence stolen property and occasionally move weapons when the deal was sweet enough. So, it was a no-brainer when he and Gideon pulled up in front of the Kraut’s pod that evening after making bail.
The two had stopped by the hospital to try and see Rayford. Unfortunately, their antics that morning had resulted in a loss of privileges. Heavily armed ZiPs in full battle gear turned them away at the front doors. They did allow the doctor to call down and update them on the eldest brother’s progress. Not much had changed. He was still stable but remained heavily sedated. For the moment, machine pumps, catheters and tubes were keeping his system working, as he lay immersed in a vat of healing fluids full of medical nanobots, much like Jocko DeWitt. Once he had stabilized, more reconstructive surgery awaited him. But at the moment, he was just an unconscious, neutered, redneck thug.
Gideon, however, was feeling no pain as he climbed down out of the old gas-burning, internal combustion pickup. Doped up on Lunarol and corn squeezin’s, he was flush with enthusiasm from the partnership he’d formed with the eccentric Ollie. With a goofy smile and a head that seemed to teeter on his neck precariously, he looked around the neighborhood with bleary, red eyes.
An old Lev-a-Stator sat in Guenther’s yard, its turbojet engines long gone, sold for scrap and whatever drugs it could buy. A scraggly cat and her kittens now lived in the cockpit. Not too far away, a whitetail’s antlers were nailed to the trunk of a sweet gum tree. They looked fresh; no doubt recently poached out of season. Below them, “No Trespassing” and “Beware of the Dog” signs were posted.
Down the street, some neighborhood kids played on a burnt-out ZiP patrol craft. It had crashed into a massive water oak and now leaned against it at almost a forty-five-degree angle. Nearby, a drug deal went down between two teenage boys who barely looked fourteen. Across the street, a group of Latinos, members of the Aztec Priests street gang, eyed them warily. Their foray into this prefab slum hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Gideon looked to the young gangsters and cackled, “Looks like everyone in Rocket Town’s got the day off from work!”
Junior cringed at his father’s insults. Either his old Man was fearless or just
