Feed the Machine (16 page)

“I had to see you before my shift,” she said, moving closer to him again. Garrick was pressed against the building, nowhere to go.

She reached out and stroked the bulge in his pants. Garrick bit his lip and sighed. She looked around to make sure no one was watching. She grabbed his hand, pulling it down between her legs.

“Tonight. Two a.m. I’ll find you behind the storeroom. The end one.”

“You’re wet,” Garrick muttered, his eyes half-closed.

Nola moved his hand against her, feeling his fingers against her slick folds and then stepped back, keeping hold of his hand. She lightly ran her fingers over the bulge in his pants again, rasping her nails against the fabric.

“Two a.m. Behind the storeroom at the end.”

“I’m on patrol though…”

“Garrick. Look at me. I’m going to be on my hands and knees behind the storeroom at two a.m. You and your cock better be there.”

She bolted forward, gave him a peck on the cheek, pressing her breasts against him and then twirled away. In a moment she was gone, rushing to work, her heart thudding in her chest.

Chapter 26

“You should come out with me,” Tirrel said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? What about your girlfriend?” Nola vamped, raising an eyebrow in return.

“She don’t mind. She likes you too.”

Nola twirled on the spot and stepped over to the ice bin behind the bar. It was half-full but she pretended she had to dig down the bottom to fill the bucket. She bent over the bin, feeling her skirt riding up and scooped ice, hearing appreciative whistles. She stood and turned around, her top askew and showing more cleavage than before.

“Maybe,” she said. She winked at him before heading off down the bar.

Fucking Tirrel. He was the least-worst of the pub customers and she still wanted to drive an ice pick through his balls. He tried to touch her but he didn’t grope her like some of the other dogs who came into the place. Somehow it made it worse. At least if some asshole groped her, trying to grab her ass, thrust his fingers in between her legs she could belt him one, maybe even get Burl to toss him out. Touching on the arm though? She could only smile and simper and fucking take it.

Leading to Feed, the Wire Pub would normally be shoulder to shoulder as anyone warm came to piss away their money. Burl’s beer was home-brewed—no cube required. He made it in barrels under the pub and it was delicious. Tonight the bar was mostly empty as their customers disappeared to the Gold Door, Fat Man’s pub. It had only opened three months back, serving four varieties of delicious cold beer. There was no way he’d been brewing it so the story went that he must have found a sourcecube. He wasn’t selling tempcubes either. The only way to get the beer was to drink at the Gold Door.

The Wire Pub was down to Hefnan, about ten of Fat Man’s thugs and a trio of bastardos sitting in the back playing cards and drinking in silence.

Nola poured three tall glasses of beer, careful not froth too much head and looked to the small table on the right where Burl was slicing goat’s cheese. A few months back, right around when the Gold Door opened and halved their business overnight, a trader had come through Cago and traded two barrels of beer for a barrel of goat’s milk. He’d given Burl a single-use tempcube good for a week and a set volume. Burl had put it in his hasdee, printed off the barrel of milk and set to making cheese. They were down in the basement, ripening in the cool air.

Her stomach rumbled.

Burl usually had a little food around the place, a few pap cubes or something he’d made, a stew maybe, strictly for paying customers but most nights he’d slip Nola a bite or two or she’d sneakily steal some. But not tonight. She was starving and he was standing over there tasting the cheese. She was tempted to go over to see if he’d give her any but the bastardos needed their beers.

Nola loaded the beers onto a metal tray and headed for the bastardos sitting at the rear of the pub.

The three of them could have been brothers. They were tall and wearing stubble, their broad hats hanging on the backs of their chairs. They each had dark hair and eyes and tanned skin. They were playing some sort of card game Nola didn’t recognize, trading cards, tapping them and turning them horizontal, flipping over hidden cards and betting dull red tokens. They’d walked in the bar near seven and had been drinking and playing for three hours since.

“Three more beers,” Nola said, placing down the glasses next to the empty ones. She received no answer. One of the bastardos handed her some money which she stuffed down the front of her top for safekeeping and for the effect of it. Barely a glance.

She leaned over the table as she cleared the empty glasses away, giving bastardo #2 a good view of her cleavage.

“So, what are you boys playing?”

“Sacrifice,” bastardo #3 grunted and then sneezed.

“How do you win that?”

He took a gulp of his beer and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“You have to cheat and lie and steal and trick your opponents into believing that which is not true. Then you need to risk everything on a single hand.”

One of the other bastardos sneezed.

“Maybe you can teach me to play sometime?”

“We’re leaving day after Feed.”

“What’s your name?”

He looked at her from under his dark eyebrows.

“Lucas.”

Nola was about to add something else about making time to spend with these men, working them for a tip, for a few coins, for information, for anything. A story even. She’d met bastardos who’d come from as far as Tulo and Maran, which was about as close to the edge as you could get. She’d heard people had walked out west from there, burying water and food, going further and further but the desert didn’t end. It was flat featureless dirt, baked by the sun into powder. There was nothing as far as you went and those who went too far didn’t return. Once a bastardo had claimed to come from Halote, far to the south, reachable only by walking the Long Night—a stretch of Scour five days and nights outside of any town, digging into the pile at dark hiding out from hazels, Scabs and whatever else.

She was about to say something sexy, full of implications and suggestions, when there was a blur of movement next to her and Lucas crashed back into the wall. Someone shoved into her.

Nola stumbled and fell to the floor, dropping the glasses. They hit the ground and one shattered into pieces, spraying broken glass across the room.

“Fucking keep away from her you fucking cunts!”

Danton, another of Fat Man’s thugs, more vicious and violent than Garrick and with a twist of lurking intelligence, leaning over the table.

Nola jumped up and tried to move away but the thugs had crowded in. The other two bastardos sat there with their beers in hand like nothing had happened. The guard at the door, a lumbering idiot named Parker, was watching idly, not interested in intervening.

Lucas stood and pulled his chair back into position before sitting. His empty glass was on the floor, tipped over.

“Another beer,” he said to Nola and picked up his cards.

“Don’t you fucking talk to her,” Danton said.

He stepped closer to the table and put his hands on it. Burl used to bolt them down but then they’d just snap off at the base, leaving a sharp spike of wood and metal. Better the table went flying than have someone impaled.

“Get the fuck out,” Danton hissed at them. He spat on the table.

There was a blur of movement, a flash of silver and then Danton fell backwards, down to the floor, holding his wrist, his detached hand still sitting on the table. Lucas slipped his knife back into its sheath with practiced ease.

Danton screamed.

The pub exploded.

By the time the guard leaning near the door got it together to realize what was happening the thugs and bastardos were fighting. The table went over, cards scattering across the floor and all Nola could hear was the dull thud of meat, the crunch of bone.

Someone crashed into her and she fell backwards but managed to roll and get to her feet.

Burl was shouting but from behind the bar. There was no way he was stepping into the chaos.

Nola moved back to the bar and slipped behind it. She moved towards the stairs that led to the cellar. If things became worse, she wanted to be as far away as possible. With her heart thudding and breath coming in short gasps she nearly missed the silver glint of Burl’s knife sitting next to a small chunk of goats cheese as she passed it. He kept the knives downstairs and the plan had been to sneak down in a busy moment to steal one for later. Hoping Burl wasn’t watching she stole the knife and slipped it into the band of her skirt, pulling her somewhat skimpy top down to cover it.

There came an enormous crash from behind her and Nola turned around to see the front door swinging wide, Sheriff Toll striding in.

“STOP!” he shouted, his deep voice echoing through the pub. The fighting ceased in an instant, the bastardos and thugs pushing away from each other.

One of the thugs pointed to Danton who was still on the floor clenching his wrist, blood spurting out.

“Those cunts cut off his hand.”

The hand in question was sitting on the floor, pale white and bloodless, a playing card resting on it.

Toll walked over between the men, like they hadn’t been fighting to the death a moment ago, and picked up the hand.

“Get him up.”

Two of the thugs complied. Toll gave the hand to a third.

“Take him to your boss and get him fixed. Anyone else who wants to fight goes with him. Otherwise sit down and have a fucking drink.”

They took Danton out the door. Four others followed.

The bastardos picked up the table and their cards and sat down again as though nothing happened. After a moment, they started dealing again.

The Sheriff walked over to the bar and Burl waved his hand at Nola to serve. She walked past Burl, feeling the cold knife pressed against her skin.

“Beer please Nola.”

“Um, sure.”

She poured the Sheriff a beer and handed it to him. He dropped money on the bar and Nola put it in the antiquated cash register.

“Fucking bastardos,” the Sheriff muttered, taking a long gulp.

Chapter 27

It was as though the gods of chance had smiled upon her. Soon after midnight one of Fat Man’s thugs had come in, had a quiet word with any others in the place and then they’d all left together, leaving just the bastardos and Hefnan, nursing the first of the two beers he could afford. Even sober (which was rarely) he slurred like he was drunk. With only half a beer in him his nose had flushed red and he was getting deeply philosophical while Nola polished glasses. It was now approaching two in the morning and she was getting ready to make her move.

“You ever look at the stars Nola?”

“Sometimes,” she said, looking across at Burl standing near the stairs. He was hovering, building himself up to asking her to go home early so he didn’t have to pay her for the night. It was perfect. Her old plan had been steal the knife and then claim illness so she could get out of there.

“You know they’re suns? They could have planets around them and those planets could have people. There could be another you out there somewhere.”

“Another me? I hope she’s living somewhere better than Cago.”

She wiped the final glass and put it in its place before calling down the bar to Burl.

“We’re slow tonight. How about I go? Save you some money?”

The look of relief on his face almost made her feel bad about stealing the knife and the tiny fragment of cheese she’d scooped up.

“Yes, yes, that’s good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Nola was out from behind the bar and heading for the door in record time. Eventually Burl would remember his knife and her clothes weren’t thick enough to cover it all night in a near-empty bar.

Lucas winked at her as she walked out the door.

“Look at the stars Nola!” Hefnan shouted out.

The door closed behind her. She jumped when a figure moved out of the shadows of the next building. It was Jarrah, one of Toll’s deputies.

“Hey Nola, want me to walk you home?”

“Um, no, it’s okay. Thanks though.”

“Get home safe,” he called out.

She turned off her path to Garrick, cursing Jarrah, Toll and all law in general. There wasn’t any official curfew but anyone out walking around close to Feed was sure to be stopped and questioned. Some of the deputies weren’t above administering a beating if they had a little power trip.

Nola hustled away from the pub and Jarrah, passing three streets, feeling his eyes watching her ass as she went. Once she walked into a dark patch between buildings she ducked sideways and crept down a narrow alley, hoping Jarrah hadn’t seen her. She followed the alley behind some houses, keeping to the shadows as she crept along. The lights around Cago were on, blazing out, keeping hazels at bay but they also lit most of the town. The outer ring of buildings was as bright as day. Only the inner was dark enough to move through without being seen.