Apocalypticon (4 page)

2.

Blowing up the other bridges had been a good idea, Violet reflected as she swirled the wine in her glass. The C4 had cost her five cases of Louis Jadot Chablis, but, hell, it was worth it. The La Salle bridge was prime real estate, and now it was the only crossing point into the Loop, excepting, of course, the Adams Street Bridge on the south branch. The Amtrak fuckers had that one locked up. Oh, and the Lake Shore Drive Bridge. The very idea of Lake Shore made her bristle with anger. She spat in its direction, willing the flames of her hatred to spread down the river to whatever slinky bitch Mommar was letting run his business these days. She turned to the west and sipped her Screaming Eagle Cabernet. It was decent, but it wasn’t French.

She let her eyes wander over the wreckage of the other bridges. Most of the debris had sunk to the bottom of the river, but here and there a riveted trellis rose from the water, its jagged edges stirring pale green foam against the swirling water. Where each bank abutment had been, now only twisted, stubby steel arms stretched for their mates on the other side.

It had taken a full six days to rig up and detonate the explosives. The maître d’ in charge wanted to destroy the bridges one at a time: rig the explosives, detonate the charges, destroy the bridge, repeat. He said it would save confusion and minimize the potential for error. “Bullshit,” she’d said. “I want every last survivor within five miles to know who owns this river. They blow at the same time, all of them. Give ‘em fireworks from hell.”

And fireworks from hell they’d been. Twenty-one bridges in all, from Chicago Avenue in the north to Harrison Street in the south, and all the way east to Lake Michigan, including the 290 Interstate bridge over the south branch of the river. The three river branches exploded into furious balls of orange and yellow heat like the devil’s trident. Thick, black smoke pooled in the air, choking out even the ever-present yellow fog, while the staggering heat melted cars below. Just think of it.
Melted cars.
The explosion shattered windows in buildings for a quarter mile radius, and when the smoke and flames finally died, Adams, Lake Shore, and La Salle were the only bridges left standing for 5,000 feet in any direction.

People still talked about that operation. It was a glorious orchestration.

More importantly, it made Millard’s control over the Loop all but absolute. He controlled everything from Congress in the south to the Chicago River in the north and west. He hadn’t bothered extending his dominance to the lake, for obvious reasons, but Violet knew if he ever decided to set his mind to it, he’d control the water too. Millard was like that. 

Violet snapped her fingers. The bus boy sitting on the edge of the bridge jumped to his feet. She shook her nearly empty glass at him. He ran to the center of the bridge, picked up a red flag from the ground, and waved it high in the air. After a few seconds, he dropped the flag and ran back to her side. “Anything else right now?”

“No, that’s fine,” she said. She shooed him away.

She drained the last of the Cabernet from her glass and brooded over the Lake Shore Bridge. The Adams Bridge didn’t worry her. The Amtrak rail men guarded it like it was made of diamonds, so while her people couldn’t get through, neither could anyone else’s. The Lake Shore Bridge was different, though. She’d protested...passionately...to Millard about destroying it along with the rest, but Mommar had already dug his claws in, and he had made some sort of deal. Millard let him not only keep the bridge, but 50% of the tolls. In exchange for what? Millard was guarded about the specifics. She’d done everything she could think of to worm it out of him. She’d put on her slinkiest black strapless, gotten him slobbering drunk, done things with her mouth that would make most men cry. But all he would tell her was that LSD was off-limits to her crew. The fact that he, for whatever reason, felt he couldn’t trust her was absurd. It was insulting. That he had stripped her of a bridge that was rightfully hers was enraging enough; his blunt dismissal of her was salt in the wound.

But, ah,
que sera, sera
. Things could be worse. Three years and counting since M-Day, and she’d never lived so well.

A waiter in a white tuxedo appeared in the doorway of Fulton’s Restaurant carrying what Violet knew was a perfectly room temperature bottle of red. He walked slowly, so as not to bruise the wine, but his nervous discomfort was obvious. Sweat shone high on his brow despite the chilly temperatures. Since M-Day, the yellow cloud blocked most of the sun’s heat. Even in the dead of summer, the temperature rarely rose above 60. In this world, sweating was for the belabored.

He approached the bridge and was allowed passage by Holly, the Hostess on Duty. He crossed to the center of the bridge and presented the bottle to Violet. “2005 Harlan Estate The Maiden, ma’am.”

Violet smirked behind her sunglasses. It wasn’t really bright enough to justify sunglasses; it never was anymore. But these were $4,000 Moss Lipow Round Cut frames, and she looked like a goddess. “Taking me on a cult tour this afternoon?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter said, keeping his eyes low as he began working the cork.

“How fun,” she purred. The waiter (she’d forgotten his name, they all looked the same) pulled the cork and held it out for her to examine. She lifted the Lipows to get a better look. The majority of the so-called “silk merchants” passed almost nothing but counterfeit wine these days, the truly valuable selections had grown so rare. No one dared try to stock Millard’s cellars with schlock, but even so, it was prudent to be sure. She peered at the Harlan Estate logo stamped into the cork above a dark blue “2005.” She nodded, satisfied, and the waiter poured her a taste. She dipped her nose into the glass and inhaled deeply. Cigar tobacco and coffee. Delightful. She swirled the ruby wine, inspecting the legs, then sniffed deeply a second time. Crème de cassis as well, she noted, and asphalt. A touch of asphalt. She poured the wine into her mouth and swirled it around on her tongue. Dark fruits, spicy oak, light minerals. “Thank you,” she said to the waiter. He poured her a full glass, set the bottle next to her, and returned to the restaurant.

Another day, another inspection of the troops. After this glass, she’d take the bottle and check in on the Lower Wacker Guard.

She suddenly noticed movement to the north and craned her neck in anticipation as two figures turned the corner of La Salle and Hubbard. The rest of the bridge crew had noticed them too; the small army of bus boys and waiters rose from the concrete where they spent most of their days lounging and trading stories. Someone whistled down to the naval unit in the boat below the bridge. The men in the boat scrambled to find a square white flag with a blue cross reaching to all four sides. They waved it high above their heads, the rippling flag well below the field of vision of the two figures standing two blocks away at street level, but perfectly visible to the gunmen in the third story of the old Britannica building.

Business had been slow all day, and, according to the morning report, it’d been a slow week, rounding out a slow month. This was partially due to the post-M-Day timeline, Violet knew. Survivors were dying every day, and she personally didn’t know anyone attempting to reproduce (willingly, at least). The lack of epidurals alone was enough to make a trash bag seem like a solid contraceptive choice. The world population was dropping steadily, and Chicago was feeling the pinch.

Another issue was the bridge’s location. It was on the north side of the city, but most refugees flooded in from the south. A northern rim entry point had been necessary in the early days as a means of traffic control. The Congress Barrier had gone up in the first weeks out of necessity. It was just too dangerous to leave the city open from the south. Anyone begging entry had to hoof it back down to Roosevelt, pay off whatever crew was running it that week, head north along the river, past the Loop, up to Halsted and Division, then circle back down to approach from La Salle. Most of the refugees gave up or died somewhere along the way, which was fine with Millard, and with Violet. They had as much business as they needed to stay flush. The ones who made it to the bridge paid well, especially after the treacherous journey through Cabrini Green, which had been reclaimed by psychopathic hoodlums who were still finding drugs God knows where.

But as time wore on, refugees from the south grew fewer and fewer, and those who made it to the Congress Barricade often gave up and threw down their packs at the wall. Violet had visited the Barricade last week and found a tent city sprawling for more than six blocks south.

It made things on the bridge pretty slow.

So it was no wonder the entire army took an active interest in the two men approaching the bridge. The pair moved quickly, and Violet could soon make out their features. One was tall and skinny, the other short and fit. The tall one had a head that, while not exactly bulbous, seemed a little too big for his thin frame and was covered with dirty blonde hair that flopped from side to side as he walked. His features were swollen and curved, despite the somewhat sunken nature of his cheeks, and the overall effect made him appear affable and charming, in a bumbling, I-might-fall-over-at-any-moment sort of way.

The shorter man was more blunt in appearance. He was like a sports car that’s been modified into a family sedan; plenty of power, but with a compromise on looks. Not that he wasn’t attractive, in his way, Violet decided. It was more an issue of the looks not fitting the stature. His brow was overly sharp, giving him a permanent scowl, but his eyes were crystal blue, and the juxtaposition between dark brow and light eye made him look confused. His shaved head, which would have given an edge of danger to any other man, instead made him look like a child who’s been punished by an alcoholic mother with a straight razor. 

Both men were laden with packs and seemingly well armed, the hallmarks of the M-Day refugee. Refugees were always so
exciting
. Violet hopped down from the bridge railing and sauntered over to the hostess’s station. She teased out her tightly curled chestnut hair with a few quick finger twirls as her stilettos clicked against the cold concrete. She pushed her breasts up in their Victoria’s Secret Bombshell cups and unbuttoned another button in her dark red blouse for good measure. A little action this afternoon would do her a world of good.

Patrick and Ben sidled up to Holly’s podium at the entrance to the bridge just as Violet arrived. The cute, blonde hostess greeted them with her flashiest smile. “Good afternoon. How can I help you gentlemen today?”

Violet stepped up to the podium just as the taller one opened his mouth. “Thank you, Holly, I’ll take it from here,” she mewed, gently guiding the younger woman away from her station. Holly pouted dramatically and gave the boys a slow, sad little wave.
Oh, she’s good,
Violet thought. Then she whirled around to face her guests.

“Hello, gentlemen, welcome to the Loop. Your names, please?” she asked sweetly.

Patrick tilted his head, confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Your names, please,” she repeated, more firmly, though still with a smile.

“Um. Well. I’m Patrick, and this is B—“

“Bradford,” Ben quickly interrupted. “My name is Bradford.” Violet caught Patrick raising a quizzical eyebrow at his colleague.
Hmm. Shady.

“Patrick and Bradford, Patrick and Bradford, let me see, now.” She flipped open a black, leather-bound notebook to a page marked with a thin, red ribbon and pored over a long column of names written in small, formal script. She scanned down the page twice with a finely manicured finger before shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t see a reservation here for you. Can I ask when you made your appointment?”

“I’m sorry?” Patrick asked. “Our appointment?”

“Yes, your appointment. You do have an appointment, don’t you?” she asked, leaning over the podium to give them a decent look at her cleavage.

“Bradford, did you make an appointment?” Patrick asked his companion, hands on his hips. “I distinctly remember telling you to make an appointment. Did you make an appointment? Bradford? Bradford!” Patrick kicked the shorter man in the shin.

“Ow! What?!”

“I am obviously talking to you,
Bradford!
Stop staring deeply into this woman’s breasts and answer me!”

Ben’s face took on a decidedly grape-like hue. “I’m not--I wasn’t--no! I wasn’t looking at her--lady, I wasn’t looking at your, uhm—“ He cleared his throat and made an awkward circling gesture with his finger in the general direction of her chest.

Violet tossed her hair and laughed. “Oh, honey, they’ve been stared at by worse than you,” she said. “Your friend was asking if you’d made an appointment with us.”

“An appointment? For a bridge? No, why would I do that?” He turned to his companion. “Patrick, why would I do that?” Patrick had no idea. He shrugged. So did Ben.
A couple of real shruggers, these two,
Violet thought
.

“I see.” She made a great show of looking confused and conflicted. “We usually don’t show people in without an appointment. It’s city policy.” She glanced at the tall one through her long eyelashes. He had a strange cheery, yet apathetic vibe about him. She liked him instantly. “Buuuuuut I think I can probably make an exception for two weary travelers such as yourselves. Tell me,” she said, leaning down again and squeezing her breasts in tight with her elbows. “What’s your pleasure?”

Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “Are you asking if--what are you asking right now?”

Violet grinned demurely. God, she was good. Aphrodite reincarnate. “I mean what are your plans for your stay in the Loop? A hotel, of course, and we have several posh high-rises with available rooms. All six of our restaurants are 4- and 5-stars (post-M-Day criteria, of course), and for entertainment, well, we’re full to the brim. We have shows running in the Goodman and the Oriental, if live theatre is your thing, and we’re currently running a breathtaking Russian Postmodernism exhibit at the Art Institute. Aside from the restaurants, we have four fully stocked bars, and while drinks do go for a premium, I assure you, you won’t find a drop of schlock in the Loop.” Here, she leaned even closer and lowered her voice a few decibels. “And if you’re in the mood for something a little spicier, we’ve just recently opened the New Admiral Theatre over on Monroe, and, gentlemen, let me assure you, the no-touch rule is not, and will not, be in effect in post-M Chicago.” She straightened up over the notebook and clicked her pen open. “So. What’ll it be?”