Remember Tomorrow (10 page)

And so he waited, huddled under his blankets, for whatever might happen next. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too long in coming, though it seemed to be just that.

In the cell, with no windows and the overhead light on permanently, he had no way of telling if it was day or night, or of measuring the passing of time by the movement of the sun.

Drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming of random faces and events that may have been people he had known or may have been something from his imagination, J.B. would suddenly jolt awake to the harsh light of the Spartan cell. He may have been asleep for seconds, or hours; the time between rests may have been minutes or hours. Time had no meaning. The only thing he knew for sure was that it was always the same thing that snapped him back. He would be beaten down by rocks, then sucked into a long tunnel of water, where he found it hard to breathe. Everything came back to that and it was so strong that he found it hard to imagine that he even had a life before.

How long would he have to wait?

He could hear movement outside in the corridor, muted voices and footsteps. There were at least three men and he heard the sec man who had laughed at him earlier speak. The door to the cell was thrown back and Grant limped in, carrying a bundle of clothes that he threw at J.B. The Armorer separated them and recognized that they were his old clothes, although he couldn’t grasp why he should know that when he could recall little else. They had been washed. There was a battered fedora hat with them and it struck a chord somewhere in him.

“Get dressed. Quickly,” Grant snapped.

“What about the rest of it?” J.B. asked. “Where is my bag?”

Grant allowed himself a twisted grin. “Please don’t think we’re stupe. That won’t help matters,” was all he said by way of replying before leaving the room.

J.B. could still hear voices outside. They were waiting for him to get dressed. It could be a good sign. On the other hand…

Slowly, sparing his aching limbs, J.B. dressed, then sat back on the bed and waited for the next move. Feeling in the breast pocket of his shirt, he found a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. He put them on and his vision was suddenly sharper, clearer. That was a relief. He’d put the fog through which he’d seen down to the concussion he had to have suffered. Although how his glasses had managed to survive what he’d been through was something he didn’t even want to consider.

Outside, through a spy-hole in the door, Xander watched the Armorer as he sat back. The baron frowned and asked Grant, “Could it really be him?”

Grant shrugged. “You know the stories better than I do. But it sounds like everything you ever told me.”

Xander chewed his lip. The chances were too great. But if it were, then why was he alone?

Only one way for the baron to find this out.

Xander threw back the door and strode into the room, his imposing physique seeming to take up much of the light and space in the room. He was a big man, just over six feet, and stockily built although now running to fat. He had wiry reddish-brown hair streaked with gray and a beard to match. His clothes were of the finest silk and satin. Altogether, he was an imposing presence in such a place.

J.B. sat on the bed, unmoving, not even staring. Xander could see that it would take a lot to intimidate this man. The baron was aware that Grant had followed him into the room and was standing as respectfully far back as the lack of space would allow.

“I’m Xander, baron of this ville,” he began.

“I kinda gathered that,” J.B. drawled. He was determined not to be fazed by this man and wasn’t even bothered by the fact that Xander could hold the key to his living or buying the farm. The way he saw it, there was little he could do to affect the decision and he’d been through too much lately to bother about it.

Xander smiled. The man had the icy cool of the stories he had heard. “Perceptive. This ville, by the way, I don’t know if Grant has told you—” he gestured to the healer behind him “—is called Duma. It was started by my father, who found a small ville already here and took advantage of his contacts to make it something bigger, richer. He was a trader and he wanted to settle in one place. He made this the main rest spot for convoys around here and a good place to do some trading while they were getting drunk and screwing gaudy sluts. I’ve tried to keep up my daddy’s good work.”

“Great for you, but what does that mean to me?” J.B. shrugged.

Xander examined him closely. “Could mean the difference between you staying here and having a good life or being a problem that we have to deal with accordingly.”

J.B. didn’t like the sound of that
accordingly,
but let it slide. The baron was enjoying the sound of his own voice and he might yet say something interesting.

Xander continued. “Grant here tells me that you’ve got very little knowledge of how you came to be at the bottom of one of my wells. And, more importantly, he tells me that what you went through has knocked your memory out of you.” He paused, waiting for the Armorer to confirm this, which he did with a brief inclination of his head. “So you’ve got no idea who you are. Grant figures that you’re telling the truth, and he’s real good at spotting bullshit,” Xander added.

“That’s good to know—wouldn’t want you to think I was lying,” J.B. said, straight-faced. So much so that Xander truly couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

“Well, I tell you, my friend, I think I know who you may be,” Xander said, leaning in slightly to judge J.B.’s reaction. The Armorer remained impassive. Xander, still not knowing what to make of his captive, continued. “Many years ago, my father, when he was alive, used to tell me stories of a man they called simply Trader. He was the best—the smartest, hardest, fastest and the best nose for jack in the game. He was the number-one man until he disappeared. And they used to tell stories about two of the men he rode with. A one-eyed man with a heart of steel who used to ride shotgun.” Xander looked, but there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition from J.B. “Man’s name was Ryan Cawdor. And he had someone who they say traveled on with him, a guy with glasses and a battered old hat—like we found on you.”

Still nothing.

“Guy was an expert on weapons. No one knew blasters like this guy. They say it was his life, that he was obsessed and that he had a gift for it. He could figure out what blasters people used just by the sound. He could strip and rebuild blindfolded, mebbe even with one hand behind his back. Always carried a lot of shit around with him. That’s kinda like you.”

J.B. felt uneasy, but his impassive face let nothing show. Behind the mask, however, something was stirring. The way in which he’d reeled off a list of weapons without even thinking about it earlier…and, come to think of it, he did know a lot about ordnance. This much he knew without even really thinking about it. And he was really pissed off at the way they refused to return his canvas bag. But, for all that, he could dig nothing else out of his memory that gave him clues to his life before a few days ago. All that Xander had told him sparked nothing in the way of memory, only the uneasy feeling that this man knew who he was more than he did himself.

Xander could determine none of that, so he used the last throw of the dice. “I can tell you that man’s name. It was Dix, John Barrymore Dix, called J.B.”

The baron paused, waiting for it to sink in. J.B. looked at him and shook his head.

“You figure that’s me, right?”

“Is that what you think?” J.B. paused and considered his answer. If he said no, then the baron may take him at face value; he may be in line for a chilling. On the other hand, if he said yes, then he may be in line for a chilling anyway, depending on what this J. B. Dix had done. The truth of the matter was that he had no idea if he was this man Dix or not. Yeah, there sounded to be some similarities, but so what?

“What I think,” J.B. said slowly, “is that you reckon I’m this Dix guy. And mebbe I am. I know that I know a lot about hardware and the glasses and hat thing fits. But that ain’t a whole lot to go on and I don’t know shit about Dix. I don’t know shit about anything before I woke up in this room.”

Xander glanced behind him toward Grant. J.B. saw the gaunt, gray-haired man nod, almost imperceptibly. Xander turned back to J.B.

“I think you could be. So does Grant. And we also figure that you’re being straight when you say you don’t know. So what I’m gonna do is give you a little test. Follow me.”

Xander turned and left the cell. Grant beckoned J.B. to follow and the Armorer rose from his bed, wincing at the stiffness and aching in his body as he began to walk.

He followed Xander into the corridor, with Grant falling in behind. Once beyond the door to his cell, J.B. could see that there were two sec men accompanying the baron, one of whom he recognized as the sec man on watch. The other had to be the baron’s personal bodyguard. He, like the heavyset sec man, was wearing fatigues and carrying an AK-47.

They walked along the corridor of the secure block. The walls were painted a dull white and reflected the overhead light dimly. There seemed to be eight rooms in the block, all leading off the one corridor, which terminated to the rear in a solid wall. J.B. glanced back over his shoulder to check and was ushered on by Grant; but not before confirming his suspicions.

One thing for sure, even though he had been brought in unconscious and given medical treatment, they hadn’t wanted to risk his escaping. It was a windowless hellhole and made him wonder why Xander found such a block necessary.

He had the feeling he would have to tread very carefully.

The sec man in front of Xander led them out into the light. J.B. was surprised. For no reason he could explain, he had assumed it had to be some time during the day, but as they walked out into the air, it was cool. Dusk was falling and there was a glow of ambient light starting to come from the surrounding ville. The blocks he could see were similar to the one he had just left, apart from the fact that they had windows. Duma looked dull and functional. And although the air was cool, it wasn’t sweet. Smoke from fires, the smell of smelting and of old chemicals being mixed with natural oils and herbs, the stink of hot, sweaty people fueled on brew, jolt and sex—it all seemed to hit him in one.

As did the noise. The secure building, fenced in by wire, had been soundproofed by the thickness of its walls and its lack of windows. But beyond its borders, the hum of people and machinery, the sounds of an overcrowded and busy ville, seemed to close in on him.

J.B. slowed, trying to take it in. A sharp push from Grant reminded him to move quickly.

Xander strode ahead, flanked by both sec men, leaving Grant in sole charge of the Armorer. They either felt that he was no threat or that Grant could handle him. In truth, J.B. was too sore to fight, and where could he go?

He followed dutifully, trying to take in as much of the ville as possible. He wanted to get some kind of idea of the place he had landed in. So far, it just seemed to be thriving—beyond that, he couldn’t tell. And he wasn’t about to get the chance to find out. Xander had already turned into another building, this one guarded by two more sec men, dressed similarly despite their wildly differing builds. Both shouldered AK-47s and from some distant part of his mind, J.B. found himself wondering how Xander had managed to gather so many of those blasters in one ville. He had to have traded for a bulk order…for a moment, something nearly came back to J.B. Something about trading, blasters and grens…

“Move,” Grant grated, prodding J.B. once again. The Armorer had slowed as he had tried to gather his thoughts and Grant’s intervention had distracted him.

J.B. moved, following Xander into the building, which was larger than the secure block and had windows that were protected by iron and steel bars driven into metal and concrete frames. This building was a bleached-out brownish red, and was two stories high. J.B. looked up at the ceiling as he walked into the building, past the sec men on duty. It was lit by artificial light once again and not by oil lamp or naked flame. Whatever else, Xander had to have found himself a good source of fuel to power generators.

Inside, the building was divided into rooms leading off the main hall, which was open to a staircase leading to the upper story. Two sec men patrolled along the mezzanine, with another one seated on a wooden chair in the hall. He sprang to his feet when Xander entered. Unlike most of the sec men J.B. had seen so far, who were either Caucasian or black, this one looked Hispanic, which struck J.B. as odd. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a vague idea that he’d traveled around a lot, and rarely seen someone Hispanic in this central part of the Deathlands. Then another strange thing hit him. How did he know where he was? Xander and Grant hadn’t mentioned the geography of Duma to him; perhaps things were starting to seep back into his empty memory.

“Esquivel, where’s Budd?” Xander snapped.

“Sir, he’s just out back, sir,” the sec man snapped back, but with more respect in his voice than he’d been shown.

“Dammit, why isn’t that old bastard here when I want him,” Xander growled.

“’Cause it don’t matter who you are, when nature calls you gotta answer. You want me to shit on your lovely clean floors?” grumbled a grizzled old man, with a halo of black and gray hair surrounding a tanned pate that bled down to a leathery, weather-beaten face. He was skinny and still pulling his belt tight as he entered the hallway from the rear of the building.