The Children of Desolation
By Spencer Sekulin
Tumelo Laska had never believed in miracles, yet as he sat by one of Underhaven’s coveted hospital beds, he rested his face in his hands and prayed for nothing less.
Like some fool at his wit’s end, and I am that fool. He knew it made him a hypocrite, but for Kagisa he would become anything, even the devil himself. Anything to see her smile again. “You always told me miracles still happen, even though I thought that only the Old World was stupid enough to believe in them. You’d still tell me that, wouldn’t you?”
Kagisa’s breaths were her only answer, yet Tumelo still felt scolded. He took a shaky breath and ran a hand over his shaved head. Even catatonic and laden with wires and intravenous lines, lustrous obsidian hair fallen out and chestnut skin pallid, she left him breathless. Not even the buzzing overhead lights, which seemed determined to bring out every wrinkle and vein, could change that.
“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he whispered. “What did you do to deserve this?”
Like every time, he knew the answers.
Tumelo squeezed Kagisa’s hand. When she squeezed back, he choked on a sob and forced a smile. She would want him to smile, but her eyes remained closed, flicking behind their lids in fevered dreams. He hoped they were good dreams of when Thabo was alive, of when they were a family and not even the Desolation could poison their happiness.
“Hold on,” he said. “I have another client. This will be paid for. You’ll get better. You’re strong . . . stronger than I ever was.” He clenched the client’s note in his other hand. “I’ll return, like I always do. I promise.”
“And if you’re wrong?” he imagined Kagisa asking.
Tumelo bit the inside of his mouth.
“Ahem,” someone said behind him. “That’s five minutes. More will be extra.”
Tumelo suddenly felt twice his fifty-three years. In the Old World he wouldn’t have been charged by the minute to visit. Neither would he have had to choose between staying by her side and paying for her treatment. That era had died a century ago, and here he was, jealous of the dead. Wishes would not save Kagisa. Only money. Money he didn’t have. He kissed her forehead and let go.
Doctor Harris leaned in the doorway, tapping his vintage Rolex, the anemic lighting reflecting in his glasses. His pinched face and plastic smile seemed made for throttling.
“Have you heard of bedside manners?” Tumelo asked.
“Everything has a price, Tumelo. You know that.”
“Right . . . I was just finishing up.”
“It’ll be another thirty for the extra twenty seconds. You know the policy.”
Prick. Tumelo forked over the bills, but Harris shadowed him down the dim hallway, his white coat smudged with God knows what. Wheelchairs, gurneys, and disorganized crash carts cluttered the way, and each open door breathed the smells and sounds of others in shoes very much like his own. Blood and urine stained the floor tiles, and the air smelled too little of antiseptic and too much of cigarettes.
“I trust you’ll pay her medical expenses?” Harris asked.
“Next month.”
“With interest?”
“With your damn interest.” Tumelo felt his stomach twist.
Another impossible promise. “I’ll pay. Please take care of her in the meantime. You’re a doctor.”
“Yes, yes, but this is still a business, and I need to—”
“Make ends meet, of course.” Tumelo reached the clinic’s rusty front door. As usual the secretary was bombed out of her mind on synthetics. He felt ashamed for leaving Kagisa here, and disgusted that it was still the best option. Harris’s droning made it worse.
“And need I remind you. If her bills are not paid, I’ll unfortunately have to clear the bed for someone who can. Though I’m sure—”
“Doctor Harris.” Tumelo kept his eyes on the door, anything but that viper. “If you do that, I don’t care if I have to cross the whole Desolation to do it, I will kill you.” He meant it, too. Look what you’re doing to me, Kagisa. Without giving Harris time to reply, he handed over a brown paper envelope. “If this doesn’t make you happy, you can shove it.”
One glance at the documents within had Harris wide-eyed. “A-Are you certain of this?”
“Absolutely.”
“But it’s your livelihood! I’m not talking about medical bills. If you can’t pay the Proprietor you’ll be—”
"Have you ever been so in love with someone you’d depart with all sense just to be with her?” When Harris only blinked, Tumelo smiled and opened the door. “Then you couldn’t possibly understand. Good day, Doctor.” Chew on that. Maybe it will grow you some conscience.
Underhaven’s grey, convoluted walkways greeted Tumelo with their usual embrace of stale air and the groaning machinery that kept southern Africa’s last subterranean city alive. He wondered if he’d inhaled the secretary’s synthetics when he saw a massive German shepherd sitting by the clinic’s entrance. It perked up and studied him with its brown eyes. He hadn’t seen a dog in twenty years.
“Not the kind of miracle I asked for,” he muttered.
The dog wagged its tail.
“Careful. I know a few people who would eat you in a heartbeat.”
It cocked its head and kept wagging.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Tumelo craned his neck to let the cavern’s artificial sun warm his face. His father would roll in his grave if he knew he’d just used the Iris, his family’s greatest treasure, as collateral for bills he could never afford. He resisted the urge to renege on the deal and hurried into the musky streets. He had a job to do, and every second lost was a second Kagisa couldn’t afford to lose.
Underhaven’s claustrophobic forest of towering apartments, water pipes, and recycling silos pressed around him. Despite being one of the few places people could survive without radiation gear, Underhaven was more commonly called Underdump, much to the Overseer’s chagrin. Tumelo smirked at one of the grainy television screens that hung at every junction. Upon it, Overseer Henrik Ward made his daily address. A grey-haired man Tumelo’s age, but with pale skin, tailored clothes, and half as many wrinkles.
“Citizens of Underhaven, we have been blessed with another day,” Henrik said, his elegant voice butchered by the crackling speakers. “We are the jewel of these lands. Underhaven survives by your efforts. Let us carry on our duties today for the building of a better tomorrow.” Henrik gave the same smile he did every day, and the same gesture: a closed-fisted arm across his chest. At least he bothered to say something different every day.
The streets teemed with gritty townsfolk and merchants, with undercurrents of orphans from the slums. And fanatics. The Order of Retribution had recruiters at every corner, hawking the crusade against the mutant demons in human skin, called Desolates, as a noble cause for the city’s otherwise aimless youth. The Order’s zealous hunters swaggered about in their red cloaks and ramshackle armour, eager for excuses to use their holy bludgeons on any suspected Desolate. Tumelo tried to ignore them. They were right to hate the Desolates, but they reminded him too much of pain and regret.
“Hey, Tumelo!” one of the zealots said. “Got any leads on Desolates for us?”
Tumelo met the wild-haired youth’s hazel eyes and felt his stomach twist with recognition. Rudo, one of the local orphan boys. Tumelo had watched him and so many others grow up. Kagisa had even taken Rudo in once, when he’d caught a fever. He still looked no older than sixteen. Thabo was that age when he joined. The Order bled young blood. “No, I have not. Good hunting.”
Rudo blocked Tumelo’s path with his bludgeon. Several others joined him. “Come on. You travel a lot on that old locomotive of yours. You sure you haven’t got any?”
“I’m sorry.” Tumelo pushed the bludgeon aside. “And why would a Desolate come here, to the heart of your Order?”
Rudo glanced at the others, who shrugged.
“I thought so,” Tumelo said. “Those things are not idiots.”
“But—!”
“How old are you, Rudo?”
Rudo squared his bony shoulders. “Fifteen yesterday.”
“Seventeen!” another said. “We’re grown men!”
No, just boys with dreams of grandeur. Is this the Order’s cream of the crop? “Then you’re lucky there aren’t any Desolates here. They would turn you to paste without breaking a sweat. Go to school. Learn something useful. Do whatever kids your age do these days. Just don’t throw your lives away being fodder for those geriatric wonders that collect your weekly tithes. Your lives are worth more than that.”
Thabo’s was, too, but Tumelo doubted they’d listen either.
Rudo pressed his bludgeon against Tumelo’s gut. “Mind your words, Grandpa. That’s blasphemy.”
Tumelo knew what they saw—a man whose dark beard was peppered with white, his ebony skin crisscrossed with pale scars and wrinkles, his muscular engineer’s body half of what it used to be. An old man running out of time. A relic who had no right telling them how to live. Too bad he would do it anyway.
“I’m giving you my best advice. Walk away while you still can. The moment they send you out, there’s no going back.”
“A Desolate killed my sister!”
The others murmured their own grievances.
“So, you think you’ll just exterminate them?” Tumelo asked.
“We’re not quitting until they’re all dead.”
“You’ll be dead long before they are.”
Rudo seethed. The others closed in and were startled when a dog started barking. Tumelo yanked the bludgeon from Rudo’s hand and pressed it under his jaw before he could blink.
“See what I mean? I’m an old man. Desolates never age. Imagine what one could do to you.” Tumelo shoved the weapon back into a speechless Rudo’s hands and stormed off, mindful of the dog trailing him. Must be old and hungry, like me. He quickened his pace, eager to get to the Iris before—
“Popular as ever with the devout I see,” a velvety, precise voice purred at his elbow. “The Proprietor sends his regards.”
Crap. Tumelo drew debt collectors like wasteland blood flies. The Proprietor was the puppet master of Underhaven’s criminal underworld. Everyone owed him money, but no one ever saw him, only his goons. This sweet-mouthed little midge was Beetle. The portly man, barely four feet tall, waddled up alongside Tumelo, bringing his usual stench of garlic.
“He can keep his regards,” Tumelo said. “Tell him I’ll pay after my next job.”
“Hmm, and when will that be?”
“Today. Sooner if you leave me alone.”
Beetle tittered. “The Proprietor cannot bank on promises forever. Your debts grow by the day, let me check . . . ah yes, as of today, you’re at seven million.”
That could pay for Kagisa’s care ten times over. Tumelo clenched his teeth.
“The Proprietor is eager to know your repayment plans,” Beetle said. “You’re his star debtor, after all.”
“My father was, not me,” Tumelo growled.
“Need I remind you that your father died without paying a cent towards his dues? After everything the Proprietor did to keep Laska Locomotives from going belly-up.”
“After you lied about the interest rates.”
“Oh my, that’s slanderous.” Beetle folded his hands over his prodigious gut. “The Proprietor never lies. Your father simply neglected to read the contract.”
“Then maybe you should have read it to him!”
Beetle showed his crooked teeth. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
Some inheritance you left me, Old Man, Tumelo thought. You never told me about this. Probably never knew. Lucky me. “I need more time.”
Beetle jotted it down on a notepad. “Needs more time, says Tumelo. Anything to add?”
Tumelo could think of a few choice words, but decided against it, letting the poison fester in his stomach like a bad meal. His ancestors must have felt the same, under the boot of their oppressors. He shook his head.
“I don’t think he’ll like it,” Beetle said.
“It’s all I have.”
“How about that bracelet of yours?”
Tumelo instinctively drew his right arm back. “It’s not for sale.”
Beetle pouted. “Pity. Artifacts like that sell well amongst collectors.”
“I’ll make another payment after this job.”
“Then get busy working or get busy picking a casket.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Much obliged.” Beetle tucked the notepad away. “That mutt seems to like you.”
Tumelo glanced at the dog. “Probably smells the ration bars on me.”
“Ration bars?” Beetle said, tongue flicking across his lower lip.
“That’ll count for a payment.”
“Of what, ten dollars?”
“Five point three to be exact.”
Number crunching prick. Tumelo entertained the thought of shoving them down the man’s throat. Instead he groaned and handed them over, and Beetle left with more swagger in his gait than someone with such a low center of gravity should.
Tumelo glared at the dog. “I was hoping you’d bite his pancake butt and save me some trouble.”
Underhaven’s train yard was ten minutes away, where eleven gated tunnels took separate tracks to the surface. Eight trains occupied the platforms, mostly derelict and overrun with rust, and far fewer than the thirty there’d once been. The tracks were too treacherous, and the trade too sparse for most folk to bother anymore. A dying art—one Tumelo was proud to go down with, if need be. Among all the rundown engines the Iris stood out like a hawk amidst pigeons. Sleek and powerful, her armoured hull painted in bold strokes of blue and grey. Even after all these years, the sight of the Old World diesel engine sent his heart aflutter. A Class 43-000 General Electric type C30ACi diesel-electric locomotive, a relic from his great-great-grandfather, who’d been an engineer and conductor for Transnet Freight before the Desolation. It had been passed down for generations, along with blood charged with a love for machinery.
Tumelo savoured the sight, feeling the years unwind until he felt like a boy again, full of dreams and wonder. Then he took out the note he’d found under his front door. Blank. A signal that someone wanted discreet service. Yet when he glanced around the platform all he saw was a scrawny girl sitting against a recycling bin; a bundle of rags with grey cloth wrapped over her eyes and faded hair that bore ghostly hints of auburn.
Just a beggar. No one’s here.
He walked past the blind girl, tossing a coin at her bare feet as he went.
“You’re late,” the girl said.
Tumelo stopped and looked back. The beggar girl was on her feet, though facing the Iris and not him. She’d been sitting on a suitcase and now held it with both hands. It was almost as big as her. “Excuse me?”
“I said you’re late.”
Tumelo blinked when the German shepherd nuzzled up to her. She scratched between its ears, and it sat, ever watchful. “It’s yours?”
The girl smiled, white teeth to an anemic-pale face. “His name’s Jasa.”
“You had him trail me?”
“In case you got into any trouble.”
This is ridiculous. Tumelo wondered if he was the target of some joke. “You’re the client. A blind kid with a dog.”
“Does that matter? I’ll pay.”
“Depends where you want to go.”
The girl turned, using Jasa for support. The dog guided her to Tumelo. She had a limp, and her breaths came hard. Bad blood, judging by the pallor. A bad leg, too. When she looked up at him, albeit over his shoulder, he felt sorry for her. Another orphan with more hope than sense. That’s how kids deserved to be, but this world ate them alive. An urchin like her could never afford his services. What dreams had gotten into her head to make her want to leave Underhaven? The Desolation would kill her in a day, and her little dreams with her.
“I’d like to go to the end of the One-Way Track.”
Tumelo almost swallowed a mouthful of air. “What?”
“Where the tracks end, before the Burn Line.”
“No.” Tumelo turned away and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Go back to your begging.”
“Aren’t you Tumelo Laska?” she asked. “People say you’re the only captain that takes the One-Way Track.”
“So what if I am? I’m not taking you there. It’s a death sentence.” For him, too, given the odds.
“Will this change your mind?”
Tumelo heard the suitcase locks click and felt a tingle go down his spine. Was she pulling a gun on him? He turned in time to see a mountain of bills spill out. Two million at least, maybe three. “Where did you get that?!”
The girl smirked. “I earned it.”
“Stole it more like.”
“How could I have done that?” When Tumelo remained speechless, she cocked her head. “Do you believe in miracles, Mister Laska?”
“No—” Tumelo looked at the cash again, then the Iris, then back into Underhaven’s hazy depths where Kagisa waited. She’d never forgive him for this, but he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t. “How soon can you be ready?”
“I already am.”
“Then get onboard. The Iris will make it in three days. Two if the tracks are clear.”
The girl nodded and began clumsily pushing the money back into the suitcase. Tumelo helped her, rejecting the urge to steal it. He was a man of his word, and Laska Locomotives had a perfect record. Next to Kagisa, and before his own life, he cherished that golden reputation. Come hell or high water, sandstorms or Ravagers, Tumelo Laska always delivered.
After helping the girl climb the rungs to the engine’s main compartment and marvelling at Jasa who made it in one leap, Tumelo followed. He flipped on the overhead lights, bringing out the gleam of every inch of polished steel, and then closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the fragrance of oil and solvents and the reassuring firmness of the deck beneath his boots. It felt like stepping into another world. His world. Then he took a crumpled document from his pocket.
“I’ll need you to sign this contract. Sorry, I don’t have braille. I can read it for you.”
The girl stared obliviously at the wall, stroking Jasa’s head. “It’s okay. Jasa trusts you.”
“We just met.”
“He would have torn your throat out by now if he didn’t. That’s what happened with the last one that tried to swindle us.”
Tumelo looked at the happily wagging dog. He laughed it off while taking an extra step back. “I’ll need a name for the contract. You have a name, right?”
“Zala Korošec.”
Tumelo began writing the name, then stopped. What am I doing? He bit his lip, glad Zala couldn’t see his face. I’m taking a fortune from this kid and taking her to her death. A better man would have helped her put the money somewhere secure, treat her leg, and buy a place to live in a safe part of town. A better man would have saved her, but he was just a lovesick fool.
He finished the contract, and Zala cosigned with a sloppy X. When she smiled and thanked him, he felt as if someone had twisted a screw between his ribs. He would hate himself for the rest of his life for this.
The things I do for love.
#
Good luck, you crazy bastard.
The signal patch rang through Tumelo’s headset in Morse code—a parting message from Underhaven’s moody station master. Tumelo smirked. Luck. Never in his hundreds of runs had he counted on it. Luck was a fickle mistress at best. A backstabbing crackhead usually.
He focused on the gauges as the Iris accelerated. Her twelve-cylinder engine roared, taking her to an easy sixty kilometres per hour. Pale lights flashed by on both sides of the track, marking every hundred meters, and the Iris’s lamps painted the track silver. Clearing Underhaven’s tunnels always reminded him of the first time his father had taken him out—the day he’d realized that dreams could come true.
“Remember to keep her slow until you’re past the junction,” Father had said with a wink. “It’s no rush to get out. When you reach the open tracks, that’s when the real race begins.”
Daylight appeared ahead, and the Iris burst into the Desolation, veering along the Hawequas Mountains and into the lowlands. Somewhere southwest, in the red haze, lurked the ruins of Cape Town. Capital of South Africa, back when nations existed.
Zala inhaled sharply. “We’re outside! Aren’t we? It feels warmer.”
Tumelo had offered her the living compartment, where she could stay in comfort the whole journey—God knows she deserved at least that much—but she’d insisted on sitting in the seat next to his, where he had sat as a boy. As to what a blind girl could hope to experience, he did not know, but her smile told him she enjoyed it, and that was enough.
“Yes, we are,” he said at last. “How does it look? Please tell me!”
“Do you really want to know?”
Zala smiled ear to ear, and Jasa, sitting beside her, wagged his tail.
Damn kid. Tumelo told her, detailing the skeletal remains of Wellington and Paarl and the eternal red sky. Trains lying abandoned on tributary tracks. A group of optimistic scavengers in trucks tried to catch them on the way inland.
“They’re too slow. Already choking on dust. No one outruns the Iris.”
“You like it a lot,” Zala said. “Your train.”
Tumelo eased off the throttle and realized he was smiling. “I do.”
Zala looked ahead. “I feel that way about Jasa. He’s my best friend.”
“I’d be a sorry man if a machine was my best friend.”
“Then who?”
Tumelo felt his mirth evaporate. “Someone far away.”
“Oh.” Zala kicked her little legs back and forth, the cushioned seat making her look even smaller. “I hope you see your friend again.”
You’re only making this harder. “Yeah, me too,” Tumelo said, amazed that such a kind urchin girl had survived so long.
“There aren’t many trains left, are there?” Zala asked.
“And none like the Iris,” Tumelo said. “My great-great-grandfather ran trains. He saved this one from the Desolation. Laska Locomotives has never needed another. She can easily pull over a hundred cars, has repellent coatings and sealed links to keep the bad air out. It’s all I need. Right now she’s even faster. Just five cars—fuel, living quarters, supplies, and two dummies.”
“Dummies?”
Tumelo winked despite himself—just as Father had done when Tumelo had asked that same question in Zala’s place. “Hopefully it’s a smooth run and you’ll never have to find out.”
“Why do you call it Iris?”
“My great-grandfather named it that, after some Old World goddess. Apparently she could travel to hell and back. That’s exactly what we’re doing.”
Zala frowned. The Desolation’s crimson light offset her pallor, but the way she sagged in the chair reminded him of her sickness. The silence gave too much room for guilt. So he told her the stories his father had passed to him, tales of the desolate lands they were passing, of beautiful forests and fields and the extinct creatures that had inhabited them. Lions, zebras, elephants, and all the rest. He described them one by one, much to her delight.
“How do you know so much?” she asked, ramrod straight with curiosity.
“Because my ancestors lived here,” Tumelo said. “The Khoisan people. They walked these lands long before they had a name, when the world was plentiful and free. They were one of the oldest cultures on Earth.”
“Were?” Zala frowned. “What happened?”
Tumelo found himself staring at his bracelet. Passed down like the Iris, but much older. A strand of ostrich eggshell beads, originally tied with giraffe hair. It had been a necklace, but had broken down over the generations, leaving a bracelet Tumelo held together with string.
“Other people came,” he said at last. “People who saw my ancestors as animals. They were hunted as such, forced to live in the barren regions no one else wanted. There was much division back then. By the colour of your skin and the language you spoke, things that should have been a mark of pride rather than shame.”
“That’s terrible,” Zala whispered, hands gripping the sides of her seat.
Just like what I’m doing to you, Tumelo thought, jaw tensing. They went miles in silence, passing through fields of sand and ash. Drifts had blown over the tracks, but the Iris’s plow cleared it away. It would get worse. The closer you got to the Burn Line, the worse the wind and acid showers and drifts. Past the Burn Line lurked a hell only a Desolate could walk.
“You never told me why you want to do this,” Tumelo said at last.
Some colour returned to Zala’s face. “It’s a long story. . . .”
“They all are. We have time.”
Zala chewed her lip, but before she could speak Tumelo heard coded beeps in his headset—the Proprietor’s call sign. His blood froze. He glanced at Zala, then reached to the device on his control panel and tapped twice to acknowledge. The Proprietor responded immediately.
CHECK YOUR LEFT UPPER POCKET.
Tumelo blinked and felt there. Sure enough, where those ration bars used to be, he felt a small note. It may as well have been a scorpion.
OPEN IT IN YOUR BATHROOM AND CHECK UNDER THE SINK.
Zala seemed content to just feel the Desolation’s hot light on her face. Tumelo took a deep breath, then eased out of his seat. “I’ll be right back. The track will be straight for at least an hour. There’s some rations in the drawer on your right, I’m sure Jasa can help you reach them.”
“Where are you going?”
“Bathroom.” To speak with the devil.
Tumelo checked under the sink and wasn’t sure whether to be furious or amazed when he found a blocky device. An Old World radio transceiver, military grade. A treasure in its own right. It crackled. Tumelo put it to his ear. “You snuck into my train.”
A distorted voice chuckled. “Beetle may be one of my dues collectors, but before anything else he was a thief. I hate wasting talent.”
Tumelo measured his breaths. The Proprietor had him in a web, but he dared not struggle yet. “What do you want?”
“I have a job for you. If you play things right, it will be the last job you’ll ever need to do.”
The Proprietor’s words always had two edges, and his promises were poison, but the temptation tugged at Tumelo’s heart. “I’m listening.”
“I want the girl.”
Tumelo blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”
“Why would you want her?”
“That is none of your business. All that matters is that you are in the perfect position to give her to me.”
"She signed a contract. I am bound—”
“Open the letter, Tumelo.”
Tumelo clenched his teeth and did so. The letter was a contract, elegantly handwritten in blue ink. His skin crawled. The most powerful man in Underhaven had held this paper.
“Your new contract, dated to yesterday,” the Proprietor said. “It rescinds your current one and absolves your reputation of any tarnishing. I had one of my scribes append your signature for you. Your parents did well to teach you such elegant hand. And don’t tell me I cannot do that. I can. Now will you listen, or must I remind you how far I can reach?”
Tumelo bit his tongue and waited.
“Good. In exchange for your service, I will pay triple what the girl offered, and your father’s debts will be erased. Carte. Blanche.”
Tumelo’s head spun. He was lying. He had to be. “You had enough time to sneak onto my train beforehand. You could have captured her ten times over.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No, I’m just—”
“It’s not a detail for you to worry about,” the Proprietor said.
“And this is not a difficult choice. All you need to do is say yes. One syllable to end all of your worries. From there, take the last junction to the Boneyard. We will be waiting and oh so very grateful.”
“I . . .” Tumelo swallowed hard. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Is that so? I spoke with Doctor Harris this morning. Kagisa’s prognosis is rather grim, though I did encourage Harris to do his best. He’s my creature, after all.”
Proprietor or not, Tumelo bristled. “You can threaten me all you want, but if you dare hurt Kagisa—”
“Just a reminder, friend. I also had Harris prepare a sedative. It’s in the drawer where you keep your antiquated maps. Use it on the girl no more than five hours before you arrive. It will make things easier for all of us.”
Between the hum of the Iris and the throbbing of his heart, Tumelo barely heard himself. “You’re asking me to . . .”
“I know what I am asking, and you will do it. You can’t afford not to. I know what you’re willing to die for and it’s not that girl. The only kid you’d die for got minced in Pretoria. You have ten minutes.”
The radio went dead, leaving Tumelo feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut. That bastard. He tossed the device aside in disgust. Too late. He felt vile, but was this any worse than what he was already doing? His throat tightened as he remembered the day his son Thabo was born. The joy, the fear, and the tears he had shed. Zala was someone’s daughter too, born into the world innocent.
When Tumelo entered the control room, Zala lay asleep in the chair, a curled-up ball of rags. Jasa watched him warily. Tumelo couldn’t look into his eyes for fear that they would know. Sure enough, an injector waited in the map drawer, filled with milky serum. He glanced at the transmitter. Ten minutes. It had been six so far.
Damned if I do. Damned if I don’t.
He tapped twice and was glad that Zala was asleep when he retched.
#
Tumelo blinked, realizing he had been dozing at the controls, lulled by the hum of the engine and sand pattering against the glass. He’d dreamt of Thabo again, and of Kagisa’s dark, mesmerizing eyes. He could even feel the warmth of Thabo’s little hand, when he was one year old, wrapping around his thumb. The happiest days of his life. Back then he’d felt like he ruled the world, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Just another dream.
They had passed through the ruins of Kimberley a day ago. The Desolation stretched before him, an endless crimson haze, the track a thin line of order slicing through chaos. On the horizon loomed a wall of churning cloud and sand, like a typhoon fallen to the ground, alive with a blood-red glow and rippling with veins of green and azure lightning.
The Burn Line.
“Tumelo? Where are we now?”
Zala was awake. She had helped herself to the rations. Jasa busily licked at one of his own. Zala smiled in Tumelo’s general direction. Her teeth were perfect. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Then he caught sight of the shadows to the east—the ruins of Johannesburg and Pretoria. Sweat tickled down his forehead.
“Are you okay?” Zala asked.
Tumelo forced his eyes back to the tracks. “We’re nearing the final junctions. Just bypassing Pretoria.”
“Another city?”
“Yes.”
“Like Underhaven?”
“Was.” Tumelo realized he was grating his teeth. It had been years, but he doubted ten lifetimes would be enough. He relaxed his jaw and heard Jasa whimper.
“You’re sad,” Zala said.
“How would you know that?”
“Jasa can tell.”
“I don’t like Pretoria, that’s all.”
Zala wrung her hands. “Did . . . something happen there?”
Do you have any shame? Yet Tumelo found himself talking. What was the truth compared to what he was doing to her? “Thabo, my son. He died there.” He couldn’t stop himself from saying more. It had been years and he had never told anyone. “He joined the Order. I didn’t want him to, but he was young and wouldn’t listen. He thought he could do it. Thought he had the right reasons.” I let him walk out. I should have stopped him. What was I so afraid of?
“The Order hunts Desolates, right?” This time Zala spoke quietly.
“For varying reasons,” Tumelo said. “The fanatics mostly come from . . . unfortunate circumstances, but they never lack for funds. Their backers have clout and I doubt they’re in it for the religious drivel.” If only I knew the name of the bastard who funded Thabo’s demise.
Zala tensed. “Thabo . . . he hated the Desolates, didn’t he?”
“No. Not Thabo.”
“Why then?”
“There’s a rumour,” Tumelo said, keeping his eyes on the track. “About the blood of Desolates. They say it can heal anything. Just a few drops. And enough can make you immortal.”
“Did he want to be immortal?”
Tumelo laughed despite himself. “Oh no, he was never so selfish.” Unlike me. “My wife, Kagisa . . . she’s very sick. Has been for years. Thabo wanted to save her.” Oh Thabo . . . you wanted to save me, too. You knew I couldn’t pay the debts. You wanted to heal Kagisa and whisk us beyond the Proprietor’s reach. I told you it couldn’t be done, but that only made you want to prove me wrong. I loved you for that. Tumelo shook his head, throat burning. “The Desolate they were hunting went to Pretoria, back when it was still inhabited. There they cornered it. It killed him and a hundred other foolish kids with heroic dreams.”
Zala remained silent, and Tumelo remembered details he wished to forget.
“There wasn’t enough to tell the bodies apart. Desolates have powers. They were born in the cataclysms but survived, mutated, I don’t know how. This one could ignite things with a gesture. It ignited their gunpowder, the fuel in their trucks, the oxygen in their suits, and Thabo—” Tumelo stopped, unable to go on. He felt Zala’s delicate hand touch his. So cold, yet her smile brought a warmth he knew he didn’t deserve.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
You shouldn’t have to feel sorry for anything. Tumelo gently pulled his hand free and focused on the gauges. “I’m sorry, too.”
Jasa barked—and then three deafening cracks stabbed Tumelo’s eardrums. Bullet impacts webbed across the reinforced window. He ducked and pulled Zala from her seat as more bullets struck. The glass held.
“Stay down!”
“What’s happening?” Zala cried.
Tumelo peeked up and ground his teeth at the hulking shadows speeding alongside the tracks. “Ravagers. A whole damn lot of them, too.” Before Zala could ask, he was in his seat again, pushing the throttle to full. The Iris’s speedometer surged past a hundred, but the Ravagers’ crawlers kept pace, bristling with weapons and masked madmen. He saw them in the mirrors mounted outside the cab. Two crawlers on each side, and more on the way.
He had waltzed right into their net.
The Iris shuddered as the crawlers fired harpoons into the rear cars. In the mirrors, Tumelo saw dozens of Ravagers surging aboard, armed to the teeth with blades and crossbows and guns. Before long they would break inside and do what they were named for.
Tumelo flipped three colour-coded switches, and then yanked a lever on the floor. The Iris lurched, then gained speed. The two detached dummy cars fell behind, teeming with Ravagers and wired to three crawlers. Tumelo couldn’t help but sneer. Did they really think he’d block his only way back? The fuses went off as designed, blowing the directional charges in the right-side wheels of each dummy. The blast threw the wheels like bullets, and the unbalanced cars, thrown by the blast, rocked off the other side and pinwheeled into the sands, taking the crawlers with them in a storm of flailing bodies and shrieking metal.
Yet Jasa kept barking.
What is he sensing that I’m not?!
The Iris took a left bend, and Tumelo looked at the left mirror—right in time for a bullet to take it off. There were Ravagers on the supply car, too, and he could not afford to lose it. Tumelo muttered a curse and checked the tracks ahead. All clear. He yanked the yellow hazard suit from beneath his seat, followed by his respirator. Zala huddled in the corner, hugging Jasa.
“Stay right there,” Tumelo said, donning his mask. “I’ll be right back.”
“W-Where are you going?!”
Tumelo took his shotgun from its rack—a restored Winchester 1897, old but true. “Getting rid of a few freeloaders.”
Once in the sealed passage between the locomotive and fuel tanker, he locked the door behind him and looked up the ladder to the roof hatch. I’m either really brave or really stupid. He climbed and opened the hatch—and came face-to-face with a rifle. He shoved it aside, ears screaming as it fired. A steel-toed boot slammed into his chest, knocking his breath away and sending him plummeting back into the hatch. He grabbed the Ravager’s ankle on the way down. The Ravager flipped onto his back, Kalashnikov flying, and Tumelo pulled himself back up and jammed his Winchester into his masked face.
Bang!
The wind blew the mess downstream. Tumelo let the corpse roll away and climbed out, panting already.
I’m getting too old for this!
A dark blur rammed into his shoulder, spinning him around and sending him rolling towards the edge. He caught himself, but his left arm refused to move thanks to the crossbow bolt buried in the joint. Pain flooded his vision with stars, but he saw another Ravager coming and groped for his shotgun. The Ravager stepped on it and shook his head.
Three Ravagers climbed down the hatch, while a dozen more crouched in waiting like crows anticipating their turn at a corpse. Zala. Tumelo strained to break free, but the Ravager pinned him with his boot. A glimpse at the tracks ahead killed what hope he had. A low, beetle-like machine lurked on the tracks. Its slanted nose, and the reinforcing claws digging into the earth to both sides, were the unmistakable nightmare of every train captain. A derailer, along with six more crawlers. If these Ravagers failed to stop the Iris, that machine wouldn’t.
The Ravager drew a revolver. Tumelo glared at him.
“I’m a Laska,” he hissed. “I will not beg.”
The Ravager laughed and cocked the hammer.
I’m sorry, Tumelo thought. I was a fool to even try.
The hammer fell—and the revolver exploded, taking the Ravager’s hand with it. A malfunction? Tumelo flinched as more blasts swept the train, Ravagers dying left and right, their guns and explosives erupting. He tried to move, but the nearest Ravager, halfway through dislodging a bandolier of grenades, went up in a storm of fire. The next thing Tumelo knew, he was on his side, staring at the impending derailer. Someone walked past him, as small as a child, tattered clothes billowing . . . Tumelo blinked, convinced that pain was making him hallucinate.
Zala was blind and lame. This girl walked with effortless grace.
She stopped in front of him and clenched her fists. The derailer belched smoke as it dug its anchoring claws deeper, and the crawlers closed in for the kill.
No, Tumelo thought. This can’t be real.
Zala flicked her index finger. The derailer exploded off the tracks with a deafening groan, followed by the crawlers, all disappearing in blossoms of fire and smoke and sand. The ruin washed over them as the Iris charged through, but Zala remained firm, even when shrapnel tore the cloth from her eyes. When she turned, Tumelo felt his heart drop into a void. Clouded eyes of the palest blue flayed him . . . and then he was scrambling down the hatch. He landed in a pool of blood. Three Ravagers lay dead in the passageway. Jasa sat amidst them, covered in blood. Tumelo stumbled to the control room, feeling like he would vomit, heart ramming out of his chest.
A Desolate. She’s a Desolate!
The thought didn’t seem real. None of it did.
A Desolate that ignites. . . .
Tumelo collapsed into his seat and grabbed the revolver he had taped beneath it. Thabo. The name rang off the inside of his skull like a ricocheting bullet—until he heard soft footfalls behind him. His mind shrieked to a halt.
“Tumelo?” Zala whispered.
He dared not face her. “No.”
“I—”
“I won’t hear it.”
Zala groped for words, her voice cracking.
“If I could kill you right now, I would.” Tumelo gripped the revolver until his knuckles popped. “I don’t care what you look like. I would butcher you until you’re like Thabo was. A pile of meat. And I would celebrate it! I would die a happy man knowing you’re in hell where you belong!” Rage tore through him—and then vanished. Suddenly he felt ancient beyond his years. He couldn’t even get angry anymore. “And you know what? I’ll still keep my end of our bargain. How does it feel to get what you don’t deserve? Do you even feel at all?”
“Tumelo, I—”
“Get out of my sight,” Tumelo spat. “I don’t want to see your face ever again. If you step one foot closer, I will shoot you.” And damn the consequences.
In the silence that followed, Tumelo half expected Zala to kill him. Instead, she whispered, “They’re right about the blood. That wound, you’ll . . .”
“I’d sooner let your mutt chew my throat than take your filthy blood. Keep it and go to hell.”
Tumelo didn’t hear Zala move, but when he looked back, she was gone. He yanked the shaft from his shoulder and filled the wound with disinfectant, biting his tongue against the pain, then left his protective gear in a pile. If infection did not kill him, exposure from a punctured suit might, but at this point he didn’t care. He only wanted one thing and he knew it was impossible.
No, not impossible.
He thumbed the beads on his wrist and looked at the map drawer. Tingles raced down his spine. The junction waited ahead. The Proprietor would only take a Desolate if he had a plan. Tumelo slipped the injector into his pocket, and let the Iris take the track towards the Boneyard.
Now, how to sedate a demon?
#
Tumelo crept between the cars. The bodies were gone. Even the blood. Like that will change my mind. He found Zala in the living quarters, curled up on one of the cots—and Jasa blocking the way. That dog would kill him for what he was about to do.
“Hey Jasa,” he whispered, chancing a smile. “How would you like a little treat?”
Jasa perked up and eyed him, but didn’t budge.
Tumelo fished a ration bar from his pocket. A revolver lay there, too. He felt stupid for carrying it. If I shoot, I’m dead. If he gets close, I’m dead. If I do nothing, I’m dead.
At the sight of the bar, Jasa sat straighter and wagged his tail.
“You want it?” Tumelo broke off a piece. “Come on then. Here Jasa. That’s a good boy!”
He lured Jasa into the locomotive. The dog glanced back every few seconds, but little chunks kept him coming until they reached an open utility closet. There Tumelo showed a second ration bar, hovered it before Jasa’s nose, and threw it inside. Jasa leapt after it and Tumelo slammed the door—only for Jasa to make it halfway out, barking and thrashing and biting. A gunshot roared. Tumelo staggered back from the shut closet and dropped the revolver.
Did I just . . . ?
He waited for a sound from inside the closet. Nothing came.
What have I done?
Tumelo found himself in the living quarters again. Sick of himself. Sick of everything. To his surprise Zala still slept, her breaths quiet and steady. He forced himself to keep going. None of it felt like he thought it would.
“Who’s the real monster here?” said a voice in his head.
The injector gleamed in his hand, winking like the Proprietor’s unseen smile. With her eyes closed, pale hair fallen over her face, Zala looked like the frail child she pretended to be and not the century-old demon she really was. It reminded him of when he and Kagisa would sit by Thabo’s bed when he was little, watching him sleep, finding more joy in that than anything the world could offer. Zala had saved his life, and this was how he thanked her.
I’m doing this for you, Kagisa. And for Thabo.
Would Kagisa understand? He shook his head and primed the injector over Zala’s shoulder, but stopped when he saw something in her hand. A weathered photograph of a family standing before a crystalline lake, with a church on an island and mountains farther behind. The Old World. The little girl wedged between two older brothers looked just like Zala but for her fiery hair and sky-blue eyes—and the careless happiness of her smile.
Who she used to be, before the Desolation.
Zala had fallen asleep staring at it. Did she long for it? Was part of that child still in her, wishing for the life she lost? Tumelo’s stomach twisted into a knot, but the agony in his shoulder reminded him that none of it mattered.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
The injector hissed. Zala winced, but remained asleep. Tumelo found himself in the bathroom, feverishly washing his hands, but no matter how hard he scrubbed he could not rid himself of feeling like he’d buried them in a septic tank. The hard part’s over, he told himself. It’s almost done. Kagisa will be okay. Everything will be okay. He looked into the mirror and tried to smile, but the face staring back at him was crying.
#
The Boneyard materialized through the crimson haze of the Burn Line’s periphery, heralded by thunder and the ripple of green and azure lightning across the looming bands of cyclonic clouds. Tumelo’s gut told him to retreat. Instead, he eased the Iris to a halt.
Everything’s dead here, he told himself. There’s nothing to fear.
The skeletons of Old World machines—cranes, aircraft, stacks of automobiles, and massive, bulky things he could not fathom—sent chills down his spine. There were stories of ghosts in the Boneyard, and like a ghost the figure appeared. He stood on the tracks with an audacity only the Proprietor’s underlings dared, his gasmask and fluttering duster weathered by spraying sand. Tumelo double-checked his revolver and backup pistol before climbing out. The heat bled through his suit and prickled his skin. The other’s gasmask gave him the likeness of a crow.
“You’re the Proprietor’s man,” Tumelo said.
The Crow nodded and remained silent.
“She’s in the third car, drugged like you wanted.”
Dozens of shadows detached from the ruins, all similarly garbed. More were perched on the cranes, rifles in hand. How had they gotten here before him? Tumelo resisted the urge to touch his holster. They had a deal, and he’d delivered like always. Yet a minute of silence had him wary. “Well? The longer we stay, the less our equipment protects us.”
The Crow cocked his head, as if listening to a voice in his ear. “Hand over your weapon, Mister Laska.”
Tumelo set his jaw and handed over his revolver.
“The other one, too.”
Damn you. He tossed his spare into the sand at the Crow’s feet.
“Now he will see you.”
A howl cut through the air, and a wicked shadow appeared through the haze. A rotorcraft, one of the few remaining from the Old World, sleek, armed, and incredibly expensive. Tumelo took a step back despite himself, shielding his eyes by habit as it landed on the tracks with a tempest of sand. The man who disembarked, resplendent in top-notch radiation gear and a white overcoat that seemed to repel the sand, made Tumelo feel smaller for every step closer he got.
The Proprietor himself.
“Good afternoon, Tumelo.”
Even distorted by his gasmask, the Proprietor’s voice sounded nothing like on the radio. Gunmen were climbing from the Iris. One had Zala in his arms, bound in restraints but still out cold.
“There you have it,” Tumelo said. “I did what you wanted.”
“With flying colours.” The Proprietor gingerly brushed the hair from Zala’s face. “All this trouble for such a frail little thing. Looks are so deceiving. Lester, get the serum. Harris put her metabolizing rate at six hours, but he’s been wrong before. I don’t want her waking up before we have her on the drip.”
The Crow nodded and trudged towards the gunship.
“What will you do with her?” Tumelo asked.
“What does it matter to you?”
He’s right. Why should I care? Tumelo tried to believe that, yet his heart still twisted. He glanced back at the Iris. Gunmen were rooting through her car by car. When he saw them in the locomotive’s front windows, he felt a bead of sweat tickle down his forehead. “What are they doing?”
“It does not matter, Tumelo. Not anymore.”
“I did my side of the bargain.”
“Yes, you did.”
The Proprietor made a subtle gesture with his left hand.
Tumelo felt the blood drain from his face. He leapt for his backup pistol just as the gunshot cracked. A bullet screamed over his head. Another tore into his leg and he collapsed into the sand, gasping. The Proprietor sighed and plucked up the pistol.
“You shouldn’t have done that. Now this will be more painful than it had to be.”
“We had a deal!”
“Yes, we did. And I’m breaking it. You’re an engineer, you must understand how hazardous loose ends can be.”
Pain flashed through Tumelo’s mind. He gagged out his words. “W-Why?!”
“Do you really want to know? Ah, I suppose you deserve to, after everything I’ve done to your family. You’re a good man, Tumelo. You do not deserve this. Neither did your boy. Neither did your father. But we don’t get what we deserve.” The Proprietor knelt down, forearms resting on his knee, pistol dangling from his fingers by the trigger guard. “That girl is very important to me. I’ve been after her for a long time.”
Oh God. It hit Tumelo like iced water. “You funded the Order. Their mission in Pretoria . . .”
“I didn’t mean to get your son wrapped up in it. That was his own doing.” When all Tumelo did was sputter, furious beyond words, the Proprietor sighed and began undoing the clasps of his gasmask. One of his guards stepped forward.
“M-Mister Ward?!”
Ward? Tumelo’s mind spun.
“I’m already dying,” the Proprietor said. “What’s a few more years off my life? With Desolate blood it soon won’t matter, and this poor man deserves my honesty.” The mask fell, revealing the pale, wrinkled face of Overseer Henrik Ward. Tumelo felt as if his guts had been rearranged.
“Y-You bastard!”
“Not the right word, but close,” Henrik said, face solemn.
“Whether we like it or not, we are both creations of our ancestors. You inherited your father’s business. I inherited Underhaven.”
“You’re both,” Tumelo rasped, sick with betrayal. “Overseer . . . Proprietor . . .”
“Because it is necessary,” Henrik said. “Corruption has destroyed most other surviving cities on this continent, but it is human nature. If I did not do it, someone who doesn’t have Underhaven’s best interests in mind would. The only way to control it is to play both sides, like Ouroboros eternally consuming itself. The Overseer gives. The Proprietor takes. Order wins.”
“You liar! If people knew—”
“It is for their own good,” Henrik said, eyebrows knitting together like an irritated schoolmaster. “I create the money people earn and make sure they are indebted to a proxy. A trick I learned from the Old World. It tames people. Keeps them from playing at revolutionary. And it has worked for a century so far, while most of our counterparts have collapsed. Which is preferable, Tumelo, order or extinction?”
Tumelo didn’t give a damn. He struggled to rise, but two gunmen grabbed his arms and kept him on his knees. Henrik stood up and donned his mask. The Crow returned with a briefcase.
“Life is warfare and a journey far from home,” Henrik said. “Your wife has cancer. As do I. A very aggressive kind.”
“You deserve it,” Tumelo hissed.
“Is it so surprising that I want to live forever? I have no heirs I can trust, and Underhaven must survive at whatever cost. I’ll gladly turn her into a blood bag to make that happen.” Henrik handed the pistol away and took the briefcase, which was filled with more vials of sedative. “As for you, I found out you were poking your nose into who funded the Pretoria crusade. You would have eventually found out and sought revenge. I cannot risk that. If that makes me like the men who oppressed your ancestors, so be it. Some people are fated to lose. I am sorry.”
Henrik looked sorry, but it had to be another lie. Everything, from the way he opened the briefcase to how he moved calmly despite the rumble of an impending sandstorm, was a display of power, nothing more.
“This Desolate will get what she deserves, thanks to you,” Henrik said, brandishing an injector. “She would have destroyed the city had we tried to capture her there. The official story will be that you bravely took her a safe distance from Underhaven and died incapacitating her. You will be a hero, and the Iris will live on to serve Underhaven’s expansion and the redemption of our species.”
Tumelo felt like a fool. All his life he’d worked under the very same man who had turned his father into a slave. Underhaven, everything, was a lie. Now he was going to die in the Desolation and Kagisa . . . No, I’m not finished! The wind picked up. Sand veiled everything but the immediate surroundings, blinding the sharpshooters on the wrecks. Henrik’s two guards exchanged glances, and when Tumelo felt their grips on him weaken, he recalled Zala’s words.
Do you believe in miracles, Mister Laska?
“Storm’s coming in, Mister Ward,” the Crow said. “The ships won’t fly if we get caught.”
“In a minute.” Henrik poised the injector over Zala’s shoulder. “I’ve been waiting years for this.”
You’re right, Kagisa. I’m a sentimental fool. Tumelo surged to his feet and grabbed Henrik’s arm, twisting the injector free. He stabbed at Henrik’s neck, but the man deflected it with the briefcase and the swing drove into the Crow’s throat instead. The man grunted and grabbed Tumelo in a death grip. They fell in a heap, and the sandstorm struck in earnest, blinding everyone else. Shouts rose. Gunshots barked. Tumelo found himself limping towards the Iris’s shadow, hurting all over, his respirator mask missing. Henrik was shouting something over the gale. Come and get me. Wheezing, Tumelo climbed aboard with one hand and one and a half legs and rolled into the locomotive—right into someone’s leg.
“What the hell?” a voice said.
Tumelo kicked the gunman’s knee and jumped to his feet, only for his wounded leg to give out. He grabbed at a utility closet as he fell, but it flew open instead of holding, and he tasted the rust on the cold metal floor. Three gunmen glowered at him, the foremost rubbing his knee.
“Idiot,” he hissed. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Just shoot him,” another said.
“Yeah, in the knee first.”
A dark blur shot from the closet and latched onto the man’s throat. The other two stumbled over each other and raised their guns. The dog leapt at them, taking bullets as he did, but his weight and momentum toppled both men, and he finished them with a savagery that turned Tumelo’s bowels to water.
“J-Jasa?!”
The dog looked back, blood dripping from his mouth. His wounds knitted shut in seconds.
He’s a Desolate, too. Tumelo stifled a laugh and forced himself to smile. “Go ahead. I earned it. Just . . .” Be quick? Like he’d understand that request.
Jasa barked, then looked towards the door. Tumelo understood at once.
“You want to save her.”
Jasa wagged his tail.
“Truce? I have an idea. I just need a distraction.”
The dog bounded out the door.
I guess that’s a yes.
Shouts and gunfire erupted outside. Tumelo limped to the control room, realizing halfway that he’d lost too much blood. Luckily he wouldn’t need much for this. He slumped into his seat and opened the throttle. The Iris surged through the sandstorm, all twelve cylinders roaring. Bullets hammered her from all sides. The front window shattered, spraying Tumelo with glass. He kept her going. Henrik’s gunship was still on the tracks, its rotors powering up. He thumbed his heirloom one last time, wondering if his forefathers were watching.
You’re right, Henrik. Some people are fated to lose.
The Iris slammed into the gunship, and everything went up in a daze of fire, rotor blades, and shrieking metal.
#
“You have a good heart,” Kagisa said. “Don’t forget it.”
“Kagisa?” Tumelo tasted sand and blood. Damn, a good dream, too. All he heard was thunder and wind. He tried to sit up, but his old body refused. Poison air stabbed his lungs with every breath. The tracks were close, the burning gunship crumpled against the Iris. The impact must have ejected him from the window. I guess a quick death was too much to hope for.
Henrik limped from the wreckage, his coat in tatters and his mask gone, briefcase in one hand and pistol in the other. Blood matted his grey hair from a gash in his scalp. “What have you done?” he snarled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
Tumelo coughed out a laugh. “Killed us both? May as well join me, the sand’s warm.”
Henrik started cussing, then broke into a coughing fit. Blood dripped from his chin. “You don’t understand. Without me, Underhaven will fall apart.”
“They should have the right to choose,” Tumelo said.
“They had that right in the Old World, and they chose themselves into oblivion.”
“You told me we don’t get what we deserve. What’s this, then?”
“You thick fool! Think about your wife!”
Tumelo closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of the sand. “I’ll see her soon.”
“Enough!” Henrik cocked his pistol. “I’ll just send you along now—”
Jasa rammed into Henrik from the side. They fell in a heap, but the man freed himself and slammed the briefcase across Jasa’s nose. The dog yelped and tumbled across the sand with a scattering of injectors. “You mutt!”
“His name’s Jasa,” Zala said.
Henrik whirled. Zala stood in the blustering wind, her clouded eyes as bright as the fires behind her. Tumelo felt his throat constrict, and when Zala glanced at him, he found himself torn between tears and laughter. Henrik brandished an injector in a trembling hand.
“I don’t keep anything on me you can detonate, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Zala said. “I’m a century older than you.”
“You’re a monster is what you are.”
“Because I’m different?” Zala’s voice sounded hollow.
“Because you’re the spawn of that cataclysm!”
“Does that matter?” Zala’s clouded eyes glanced Tumelo’s way. “We’re all the children of Desolation, one way or another.”
Zala approached calmly, her pale hair and tattered cloak dancing in the wind. Henrik stabbed at her, but she sidestepped his swing, grabbed his arm, and twisted. Henrik gasped as the injector sank into his armpit, and before he could pull free, Zala pushed the plunger. He lurched, and with a sputter dropped into the sand. Zala muttered something and tossed the injector aside, and then Jasa was on her, licking her face and whimpering. She hugged him tight and giggled.
“It’s okay now, Jasa. It’s okay.”
Tumelo tried to move, but his body felt leaden. He glanced at the unconscious Overseer. “I was hoping someone would shut him up. Didn’t think it’d be you.”
Zala leaned into Jasa, her face hidden against his fur. “Why didn’t you let him take me?”
Tumelo blinked. “You knew?”
“I overheard, but I always suspected you were his creature.”
“I’m not anyone’s creature.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a good person.” Zala went to his side, hurt etched across her face. “I was awake when you injected me. Jasa did as I instructed him to.”
Shame washed through Tumelo like a fever. He looked away, sand stinging his eyes. Yet Zala knelt and touched his hand.
“You hesitated,” she said. “You spent this whole trip trying your best to hate me, but you’re not that sort of man, are you?”
“Why?” Tumelo’s chest burned. His lungs were dying. “Why did you let me?”
Zala tugged nervously at one of her pale curls. “Because I deserved it. When I met you, I thought you were like the others. I thought I’d have to kill you, too. But then you told me about Thabo . . . and I realized that running away might not be the answer.”
“I . . .” Tumelo bit his lip. “Please, just let me die in peace.”
“You don’t have to die.”
“I don’t want your blood!”
“Are you that selfish?”
The word stabbed Tumelo in the gut. Selfish? He opened his mouth, but the words would not come out. God, she was right. How could he wish to die instead of getting back to Kagisa? How could he leave her alone? His eyes burned. How could he let hate do this to him, when he had done all of it in the name of love?
“Please,” Zala said. “Let me do something good for once.”
Tumelo bit his tongue and nodded. Zala’s face lit up with a radiant smile. She bared her wrist and slashed it with a knife, letting the blood fall into the hole in his leg. His stomach lurched. At worst he’d die. At best . . . Tumelo blinked as tingles washed up his thigh.
“I’m sorry if it isn’t very sanitary,” Zala said.
“A little late for—” Pain walloped Tumelo’s mind. His vision exploded with stars, and his head rang like a bell. Then, suddenly, he was sitting up, Zala supporting him. He sucked in a breath and realized she had helped him into his respirator. His wounds were gone.
“How do you feel?” Zala asked.
Like I’m twenty years younger. Tumelo managed a nod.
Zala grinned and stepped back—and then three gunshots cracked from somewhere in the haze, striking her in the chest. She staggered to the side, only to strengthen and whirl around to face the gunmen hidden in the storm. The haze blossomed with explosions and screams, and then Zala grabbed Henrik by the hair and yanked him up as a shield.
“Leave!” she shouted. “Or do you want to die for this man?”
Tumelo could not see anyone in the haze, but he knew by the silence that the remaining gunmen had chosen wisely.
The Iris was still in one piece, albeit scorched at the front. Zala made Jasa go inside and closed the door behind him before climbing back down the ladder. Tumelo watched her back, torn between warring thoughts. She killed Thabo. She saved my life. He looked down and saw his revolver in the drifting sand.
“Tumelo.” Zala faced him, her clouded eyes locked on his. She looked exhausted. “Do you still want to kill me?”
“I . . .” Tumelo felt a weight in his hand and realized he’d picked up the gun automatically.
“It’s okay,” Zala said. “I won’t stop you. I knew this moment would come.”
Tumelo gripped the weapon, yet something burned in his chest, and it wasn’t hate, or even fear. It got worse when Zala tapped herself on the forehead, right between her eyes.
“Put it right here and even I won’t be able to heal before I die.” Zala offered a sad smile. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll give it to you. My life for Thabo’s.”
Thabo. Oh Thabo. My dear son. His greatest pride. His deepest joy. Gone forever. His heart jammed into his throat. “For Thabo . . .” Tumelo held Zala’s owlish gaze and pulled the trigger. Zala spun around and fell on her side, blood spattering the Iris’s hull. Tumelo took a deep breath and lowered the gun. “You’re right. I’m not that sort of person.”
Zala sat up, the hole in her right shoulder already knitting shut. A crumpled bullet fell out and disappeared into the shifting sands, joined by the wink of falling tears.
“Come on,” Tumelo said, going for the ladder. “Don’t make me wait.”
“Why . . . ?” Zala looked up at him, tears spilling down her face. “Why?!”
Tumelo grabbed the ladder rungs. “Laska Locomotives has a reputation, and I’ll be damned if I ruin it by murdering a customer.” He paused. “Though I won’t lie, that felt good.”
Zala blinked and then burst into laughter. To Tumelo’s surprise, he laughed, too.
#
Where the tracks ended a new world began, one where Desolates were the least of your worries. Tumelo stared at the churning wall of cloud and lightning and envisioned the hell that waited beyond. “You’re certain about this?”
Zala stepped into the control room. “Oh? It almost sounds like you care.”
Yeah, I’m confused, too. Tumelo took a deep breath and turned. Zala had changed into the clothes in her suitcase. Ragged leathers with innumerable pockets, a duster, goggles, even a tattered hat. It would have looked comical had he not known what she was. Jasa sat beside her, wagging his tail. Zala crossed her arms and scowled, and Tumelo knew why. He took out the photograph and wagged it with a floppy sound. “Looking for this?”
“So you did take it.”
“For safe keeping. The Proprietor’s men would have stolen it.”
“Thank you, it . . . means a lot to me.” Zala took a step forward, then hesitated. “Can you . . . describe it for me?”
“What?” Tumelo felt a pang in his chest. “You’re really blind?”
Zala nodded, pale hair drifting over her face. “The Desolation took my sight in exchange for what I am. I’ve gotten used to it.”
Blind for a century. Tumelo looked at the photo and told her as much as he could, from the church to the mountains to the smiling family in the foreground, and the inscription on the back: Bled, May 2027. Zala smiled as he did so, and when he finished, she accepted the photo and held it over her heart.
“I don’t remember any of it,” she said. “I’ve been wandering for a century just trying to figure out who I am, I just feel empty. Only finding Jasa made it bearable.” Her free hand clenched and tears welled in her eyes. “I’m tired of this. Of killing. The Desolation took everything from me but my name. I just want to find the place I came from. Where Zala was happy and innocent and free.”
She was. She had a family that loved her and a world in bloom. Tumelo sighed.“ You think you can find it?”
“It’s all I have left.”
Tumelo saw the desperate hope in Zala’s eyes and realized they were alike. Both lost and broken-hearted and searching for hope. “It won’t be like it was. It might not be there at all.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Zala said. “All that matters is that it was there, once. Like me.”
“Then I’m sure you will find it.” Tumelo clasped her shoulder. “My father said our hearts know things we can never explain. I think you will know when you get there.”
Zala smiled anew and wiped her eyes, then tucked the photograph into her pocket. She handed him a packet. It was filled with vials of blood. Tumelo gaped.
“That’s . . . ?”
“For Kagisa,” Zala said. “It will keep. My blood is different.”
Tumelo stared at them. “Will it hurt her?”
“Did it hurt you?”
No. He’d never felt so alive.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Zala asked, worry etching her face.
The miracle I’ve been praying for. Tumelo swallowed hard. “Yes . . .”
Zala touched his arm. “I know it’s not enough.”
“No, it is,” Tumelo said. “More than I deserve. They say your kind are monsters, but you only want to live. Like Thabo wanted Kagisa to live. My ancestors were hunted by people who didn’t understand, who refused to call them human . . . and I did the same with you.”
“You have every right to hate me.”
“No, I don’t hate you.” Tumelo took a deep breath, amazed at his own words. “You know what I see in you? Myself. When I was young, everything I wanted was somewhere else. You may have wandered for a hundred years, but part of you is still that child looking for home. How can I hate that?”
Zala’s eyes widened, then she turned away, blinking rapidly. “That’s the most mature thing you’ve said this whole trip,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
For the first time since Thabo died, Tumelo felt the heaviness lift from his heart.
It was time to let go. To break the cycle. It was time to live on.
Zala had all her things gathered. They made their way to the back of the locomotive. A few field repairs had been made, replacing windows and sealing bullet holes. Henrik lay trussed up in a corner, still out cold, but healed by Zala’s blood—a request from Tumelo.
“What will you do with him?” Zala asked.
Tumelo studied Henrik. Not a god. Not a devil. Just a man, like him. A man who had followed in his father’s footsteps. “The people deserve to know. They deserve the truth.”
Zala nodded, as if that were the answer she’d been hoping for. She rolled her shoulders and nudged her suitcase towards him. “Then this is where we part ways, Tumelo Laska. Your payment.”
“You still want me to believe you earned all that?”
“I found it sitting out in the open, practically begging to be taken. How does that sound?”
“Like a load of crap.”
“You’re right.” Zala laughed, then grabbed the door handle to the exit, scratching Jasa’s ear with her other hand. “But you earned it. Be well, Tumelo, and tell Kagisa . . . that I’m sorry.”
“I will.” Tumelo said. “And . . . I hope you find it.”
Zala smiled. “Me too.”
From the Iris’s control room, Tumelo saw Zala and Jasa walking side by side towards the Burn Line, untouched by the heat and wind and radiation. Flashes of lightning cast their shadows, so small against the Desolation’s wrath. Yet Zala’s stride was as determined as someone who saw exactly what lay ahead, and as he watched her press into oblivion, Tumelo hoped, one day, that he’d see her step out of it again. He blared the train’s horn three times and lifted his hand. Zala turned and waved with a radiant smile. Then she patted Jasa’s head, faced the Desolation, and vanished into its crimson flow.
Tumelo watched as sand filled in their footprints, until it looked as if they’d never been there at all. “A long journey,” he whispered. “For both of us.”
He looked at the empty seat beside him, then ran his hand along the battle-scarred surface of the Iris’s dashboard. He smiled.
“Let’s go home.”
~~~
