Curio (17 page)

A familiar queue of citizens filed through the huge doors of the station beneath a sweeping arch gilded with copper. A green patina covered the scrollwork as though the city's entrance were marked by Chemist magic. Whit hunched his shoulders as he passed beneath the arch and into the station.

The cavernous interior shone with brass fixtures and flecked marble. A newly arrived family, the mother not yet wearing red garments, gawked at a golden statue in the center of the lobby. Whit bypassed them and headed for the farthest platform, located in a small building adjacent to the main station.

Compared to the opulence of the grand atrium, the hunting train hub looked dingy. Maps of the four quarters, the mines, and train routes covered the walls. A stuffed elk head with a branching rack hung on one wall. Photographs surrounded the trophy, showing hunters with their kills, black blood staining the snow around fur-covered bodies. Others were taken in summer with leafy aspens and rocky riverbanks in the background. Dark-eyed faces stared at the camera. A few smiles appeared among the displays of fish and game.

Under the watchful eyes of deputies, citizens wrapped in long coats and fur-lined parkas waited to register their names in exchange for hunting rifles. Whit took his place in line and read the plaque on the wall listing regulations for borrowing a weapon. His stomach sank at the last item.
Should a hunter not return his registered weapon by curfew, his family can expect no ration on the following day.
How could anyone exchange the lives of their family for a weapon and a fugitive's existence? But it happened. People cracked. Men took their chances in the wilderness. Sometimes they just went to work and never came home.

The queue inched forward. A figure in scarlet stepped away from the counter and made her way to the gate, a rifle balanced on her shoulder. Would his mother hunt if her job
at the factory ended? He pictured her frail figure hunkered behind a deer stand, shivering and waiting for prey.

One after another, the hunters stepped through the turnstile, weapons secured against their bodies and heads lowered to avoid attracting attention. Whit reached the concrete bordering the ticket window. Moisture coated his palms. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers closing around the full ration bottle. As if prompted by his action, his stomach pitched. He grit his teeth until the pain passed then risked a glance at the nearest deputy. The man eyed him, no doubt guessing at his age. How could Whit explain his trip to the outpost? Reaching the Age of the Stripe didn't mean they'd let him have a gun. Quite the opposite in fact. It took years of “good behavior” to earn the privilege of hunting.

The man in front of him moved aside. Whit forced his eyes ahead and stepped up to the counter.

The uniformed ticket agent gave him the once-over and frowned. “Name?”

Sweat beaded on Whit's upper lip. “Whitland Bryacre.”

The agent entered his information then checked the green platen beneath his typewriter ball. He rubbed his fingers over his stubbled chin and eyed Whit over a pair of spectacles.

This would never work. The clerk was about to ask him why he wanted a ticket to the hunting outpost. Whit had no answer for him. He forced his fingers to uncurl from the ration bottle and let his hands drop to sides. Nothing to hide. He had nothing to hide.

The ticket agent leaned over the counter and dropped his voice. “Ice fishing?”

Whit opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and jerked his chin down once.

The man nodded to the poles and tackle boxes lined up against the back wall. “Your family will be right pleased if you bring home dinner tonight, eh, son?”

Whit bobbed his head. He handed the man his money, accepted the fishing equipment, and bolted out of the ticket office. The deputies on the platform ignored him, and he found a seat in one of the cars marked Men. Around him conversations about herds and weather buzzed. He eased his shoulders back against the seat and winced.

“What they get you for?” A man with red whiskers and a wide-brimmed hat jerked his chin in greeting. “First stripe? What'd a city boy like you get caught doing? You steal something?”

Whit dug his fingers into his knees, biting back the “none of your concern” that sprang to his lips. This man was older, though he guessed only by about ten years. Still the codes required Whit to show respect. He kept his voice even. “I didn't steal.”

The man shifted a pack off his lap and leaned across the aisle. He had broad shoulders and probably stood above average height. “S'alright, kid, I won't tell no one.”

The train jolted, and Whit looked out the window, pretending to be absorbed by their departure from the station. The hunter seemed to take the hint. No more loud questions pelted him as clouds of steam billowed past the window, obscuring the streets and buildings of downtown.

The hunting train cut through town toward the north-west, following a different route than Whit saw on his way to the mines. The houses and storefronts thinned and the train climbed into the canyon. Rock walls angled above, casting shadows over the track, which cut deep into the narrow ravine. The motion of trees and stone-littered hills sliding by played with his mind. His vision blurred and the ache in his empty belly grew. He turned from the window and focused on the fishing pole balanced between his knees.

The big man opposite him nodded at Whit's rented equipment. “Been ice fishing before?”

Whit stifled a sigh. “No, sir.”

“I'll get you in with some fellas that go out on the lake all winter.” He craned his neck, inspecting the other passengers. “There's Ed over there. The others must be in another car.” He tapped the rifle lying at his feet with the toe of his boot. “I'm better with this. Like to have some power in my hands, ya reckon?”

Whit nodded as though he too knew the power of a gun in his hands. The thought zinged through him. He flexed his fingers, watching a scene play out in his head. The deputies would never see him coming. He yanked his thoughts back to the present and fought a wave of heady exhilaration.

“Don't worry, I'll see you settled,” the hunter was saying. “Name's Burge, by the way.”

Burge's murky eyes narrowed on Whit. “Judging by how you're sitting, it ain't been that long since your striping. You're a tough kid—”

He leaned in farther, an unspoken question tugging his eyebrow.

Whit gave in. “Whit. My name is Whit.”

Burge's quiet tone caught Whit off guard. “I shouldn't call you a kid, Whit. Anyone who goes up hunting, or fishing, right after a striping is a man, no doubt about it.”

The greenish brown eyes held his for a moment. Whit pressed his lips in a line and nodded.

Cold air bit Whit's face as he stepped down from the passenger car. The outpost lay before him, a mining town built and abandoned in the course of ten years. The men filed
into the narrow space between two boarded-up structures and spilled out onto a boardwalk that lined the main street. The snow had been swept away from the sagging planks and piled in filthy heaps every few yards. Farther up, the women congregated in the middle of the dirt road, where the thin sunlight skirted the shadows of the weathered buildings.

Ahead, Burge was scanning the crowd. He had a pack slung over one shoulder and his gun balanced on the other. Whit ducked behind a man in a parka.

What should he do now? He gripped his pole and tackle box, conscious of the bottle in his coat pocket. Sweat broke out over his skin. The wind froze it, setting his teeth chattering.

What was he doing up here? He had no plan. No names. No contact to meet. His stomach clenched, offering a reminder of his mission and his weakness.

Groups of three and four broke away from the crowd to plan their day, while others trudged out of town toward the forested hills nearby. Whit hovered by one of the larger clusters as the men discussed a strategy for tracking an elk herd.

Movement registered on the edge of his vision. A small figure darted behind a building on the opposite side of the street. Whit stepped away from the hunters and into the street, searching for the waif.

Burge no longer glanced around but seemed intent on his own path out of town. He hiked up the steep main street, clambering through snow drifts and over fallen rubble. Whit squinted to follow Burge's disappearing figure as he neared the edge of town. The trudging silhouette shifted, and Burge lowered the pack from his shoulder to his hand. Without breaking stride, he dropped his supplies into an alley between two sagging wooden shops and continued on, following the line of the ice-locked river hugging the sides of the pass.

Why had the man dropped his provisions?

Whit shuffled after Burge, keeping his face toward the river but scanning the street and side buildings for deputies and scurrying shadows. The Chemist agents lingered close to the train as though they didn't care to deal with the ice and ruin. Still, there was no mistaking their presence. He'd counted twenty masked figures in their black dusters lurking about as he'd tried to disappear amongst the men.

The cold wet of snow seeped through his trouser legs as he slogged up the hill, trying to step in the tracks Burge left behind. The wind lashed his face and the marks on his back, neck, and shoulders throbbed with the combination of cold and movement.

When he reached the last two buildings, he slowed. The snow muffled the sound of his footsteps, but his pole and tackle clattered together as he walked. He stowed the equipment on the nearest doorstep. Keeping a shoulder to the wall, he moved at a pace he hoped wouldn't attract attention. He stopped at the edge of the alley, sliding his eyes to the patch of ground where Burge dropped his pack. It wasn't there.

Whit ducked into the alley in time to see a flicker of movement at the other end. He followed, rounding the back corner just as a foot disappeared into one of the doors in a row of similar two-story structures stacked up against each other across the street.

He waited. The back street was quiet. On his left, it curved out of view. A few structures clung to the side of the mountain, decreasing in size farther up the steep slope. To his right the attached buildings continued. Broken windows, peeling paint, and a few collapsed entryways suggested long disuse.

Heart thudding, Whit picked his way after the narrow imprints in the snow. The Chemists knew of the exiles
surviving in camps, caves, and the old mining towns. Part of Grey's father's assigned job was to talk with them, teach them the morality codes, and convince them to return to civilization. Before Steinar Haward's arrest, his large figure tramping about these streets must've drawn little attention from the deputies. But Whit didn't belong.

He paused at the base of the sagging steps leading to the door and checked over his shoulder. It had to be a refugee he was following. Why else would Burge have dumped his sack in that alley? Whit almost laughed. The man he'd avoided led him straight to the object of his search. With one more scan of his surroundings, he leapt up the stairs and jerked the door open, slipping inside and closing it behind him.

He blinked in the gloom. A stale smell tinged with mold invaded his nose. His eyes watered and he screwed up his face, fighting the sneeze. All was still around him. A massive desk stood in the center of a large foyer. Behind it a staircase curved upward. Dark carpet with an indistinguishable pattern covered the floor, the flight of steps, and the room visible through a double doorway on his right.

A door on the left, set behind a counter, disappeared into the back portion of the ground level. It probably led to the back door. He started for it but stopped when the room went fuzzy. A wave of hunger slammed into him followed by a sharp pain deep in his gut. He shook it off. He hadn't taken his ration today, and he hadn't eaten since yesterday, but a day without wouldn't kill him.

Disjointed memories floated in his brain. Grey's face, blotchy and wet. Agony. Potion poured down his throat. His mother had explained it all. Grey had gone without her ration. He could too.

A light tread jerked his attention to the second story. The refugee had gone upstairs? That didn't make sense. He took
a sluggish step toward the staircase and steadied himself against the wooden counter. His head swam and his gut felt hollow. The potion bottle dragged at his coat pocket, thudding against his hip.

The creak of old wood snapped him out of the haze, and he stumbled to the bottom of the staircase. Gripping the banister, Whit heaved his legs up the first step. Then the second. And the third.

He paused, head down, eyes trained on the shadowy design of the carpet. How long had he slumped here, one arm slung over the railing? He pulled himself up and dragged his body one more step. The landing came into view.

“Stop.” The voice was high but strong.

The dark figure at the top of the stairs wouldn't come into focus. Whit stared at the upper portion of the body, trying to make out the odd shape. His focus narrowed on a tiny, sharp point. An arrow.