The Holocaust Engine, page 25
The south side’s got my throw-back Fortress at the Blue Marlin. Before all this, I had a deal with the manager that got me a key to any open room in exchange for a few favors when he needed them. It was perfect for scoutin’ marks during the tourist season. Now, the deal has changed. A few weeks ago, I found him under his desk, not hiding, but folded underneath it just the same, squished beneath the polished mahogany he’d ordered from some fancy furniture store last year. I figured he’d want me to take case of the place, and grabbed his keys from his belt. The south building’s been burned out, but I found a few rooms that suit my needs. From what I did to the front of Room 117, no one’s goin’ in there without a hazmat suit.
The Marlin gives me a spot close to the Basillica, where the faithful just keep on believin’. I’m not sure what they’re holdin’ onto, but I’ve been able to lessen the sins of greed from their wallets, usually in exchange for a crucifix or a cross. The smaller the better, since it gives the new owner somethin’ to carry with them on their march to whatever afterworld awaits them. I’ve never thought of myself as a saint, but I’m definitely storin’ up blessings from these people—and their cash.
The widow Rockport’s place is my anchor on the north side. It’s gettin’ harder to work that area, mostly because the hotels at Roosevelt and US1 seem evenly split into dueling assholes. There’s no real organization, and occupants seem more focused on shootin’ at each other than survivin’. The windows are all gone, replaced by particle board and anything flat that could be sealed over the broken glass. It’s like Animal House every day, but you’d think they’d have run out of bullets or bodies by now. Their favorite sport had been lightin’ cars on fire and rollin’ them across the street at each other. The last time I stopped by, someone launched a TV at me from a catapult they had rigged on the roof. Not much dealin’ goin’ on up there. Still, her place gives me another pot for storin’ my treasure.
I’ve got an in at the Sherry, too. The Sheraton gives me a nice view of the water across Roosevelt, and enough chaos for someone like me to sweep in, sprinkle a bit of order and hope on top, and then get to business. I’ve had that one for over a year, even used it a few times with the ladies, if you know what I mean. I keep that one runnin’ with plain old-fashioned bartering. Now that Carlo runs the east side and the four factions fight over the west side, it’s got its own little Key West charm. It works fine... as long as I’m not there when they’re tryin’ to kill each other. That’s always bad for business.
My favorite is right in the center of town. It’s got open streets in every direction, but ain’t no one movin’ around there anymore on account of all the blockades. It’s my newest Fortress of Attitude, borne solely out of this crisis or whatever the hell this is. It once housed the tourist trains that roamed the island draggin’ people everywhere. The damn painted trolleys used to mock me in traffic, and now they mock me in the bay, remindin’ me of all the times I was stuck behind them listenin’ to that stupid tourist speech about the island. My favorite guide, the owner of the place, was “Happy Dan, the Tourist Man.” He was one of the first to leave. I figure he made it out and got a new route with a new con somewhere up toward Miami.
There hasn’t been call for a tourist run since this started, and even Nelson never asked about the tour vehicles, so they sit behind the big bay doors, hidin’ in plain sight, just like me. The office has a comfy couch and pull-out bed, and a steel door on the safe room where I dropped my bathtub. The fridge isn’t quite as dependable as I want, but I can take my beer warm. The warehouse and mechanics’ bays are perfect for maintainin’ my rides, especially my newest darlin’, “the War Bus 2.” The time for glossy paint, plush leather seats and sugary-sweet air fresheners is gone. Now it’s time for a battle-ready machine to prowl the streets.
I found this beachcomber van stranded with two flat tires. They weren’t regular tires, though. They were big and knobby, perfect for drivin’ the beach, haulin’ around the tourists to romantic sunsets. I pulled some favors with a soldier at Ft. “Zach” and got some GI-issue treads for it, fresh from a broken-down D-12 excavator he’d found on the base. I can’t imagine anything better than peacockin’ behind the wheel of a 12’-tall tourist van restin’ atop tires that are taller than me. Of course, I’m gonna “Max-ify” it, droppin’ in some more of my own special genius. I found some red enamel for a slick racin’ stripe, and managed to wire in a subwoofer to the exterior speakers. Once I’m done, I’ll be able to roam the beach and the city, rollin’ over sand, rocks, wire, bricks, dirt, swamp, buildings, and bodies. It’ll take somethin’ on the uglier side of a Sherman tank to slow me down. One of Nelson’s buddies with a drone might do it in, but I figured I’ve collected enough favors from them already. Oh yeah, since it’s Max’s War Bus, I will do it in style.
Give a man a fish or teach him to fish? That’s one of those moral lessons. For me, once I finish my monster truck, I’ll soon be the only one still roamin’ the streets. Ain’t no other taxis makin’ runs, but Max will always be open for business.
Day 75
I leave the Bus behind and make a run to the Sheraton—same shit, different day at the Sherry. I avoid the West Siders, lettin’ that little quartet twist in the wind while I do business with Carlo. I park under the awning, right at the entrance, like I’m a tourist checkin’ in for a room. I’m still workin’ the SUV until I can get the War Bus on the road. Three guys with butcher knives in each hand form a line around my car. They’re supposed to be protectin’ me, but I know they’ll be lookin’ over their shoulders as soon as I open the rear doors.
A new guy comes out front, acts like he’s in charge. Carlo’s even got him wearin’ a coat and tie. At least he’s tryin’. I’ll see a different guy tomorrow tellin’ me some new damn story about who’s really runnin’ the place. Regardless of the face, they always need somethin’, so here I am with the perfect assortment of whatever they need.
“You Max?” he asks.
“I can be whoever you want.”
He leans in the passenger window like he owns my car, too. Arrogant and new to power, he’s playin’ right into my hands. He sees the figurine on my dashboard, the half-melted plastic monstrosity glued right above the digital clock.
“What the hell is that?” He asks, reachin’ out to it.
“Jabberwocky.”
He jerked his hand back, like it had a curse that would seep through his skin.
“A what?”
“Exactly. It’s whatever I want it to be.”
“It’s hideous.”
“It’s whatever I want it to be... just like this island—a place to make anything into anything you want it to be. If you’re more of a science guy, call it mind over matter.”
“So, you sellin’ anything?”
“I’m sellin’ you what you need, same as always.” At the back of the van, I unlatch the padlocks and open the doors.
He’s new, but well-prepared. Already has his stuff ready in a backpack: linens, silverware, even some plate ware. A hotel stocked for 500 hundred needs less of that than you’d expect. It’s worthless unless you know who needs it, and I always know who needs stuff. I can put a price tag and a buyer on any item on this island.
Hell, I even sold two buckets of cigarette butts to the squatters as “premium fire-starters.”
We do the deal and we trade backpacks. His folks are good on food, but toiletries are a new premium. I fill his pack with toothpaste and toilet paper, the kind of items that were everywhere only a few months ago. Now, they could make a man into a king.
I see a van and a boat trailer in the corner of the lot. They look abandoned and left for dead on the lot, with four flats and shattered windshields. The boat is barely hangin’ from the trailer, and some kind soul had even torched the inside.
When he looked away to count his new bounty, I tapped the release on a side panel, dumpin’ two packs of cigarettes into my hand.
“Any chance I can take a look at that little disaster you’ve got parked over there?”
He laughs. “It was target practice for a while.”
“Two packs for ten minutes?” I ask. “Nothing more than I can fit in a backpack. I’ll even let you call the time.”
The smokes are a rare thing, unless you have a lot, like me.
“Fair enough.” He tucks one pack into his pocket, then peels the other one open and hands one cigarette to each of his men. “Boys, take ten. When they burn out, escort my friend Max to the street.”
I leave them at the entrance, and take special notice that the tie-guy wanders back into the hotel.
I won’t need the full ten minutes.
I duck to the other side of the van, out of view with my hand pump, and to my surprise, find a half-gallon of fuel waitin’ for me in the sealed tank. I fill the half-gallon tank in my bag, then start under the hood. I pop the engine and go after the metal, plastic, and wires I recognize. I grab both the batteries, but the cracked plastic containers don’t give me hope of much juice. It’s never good business to remind a dragon that he’s sleepin’ on a mound of gold, so I spend the remainder of my time on small parts, innocuous-lookin’ shards of metal, wire, and plastic. Besides, I know the van ain’t goin’ anywhere soon.
The gold mine, though, is in the boat. I find a small metal box mounted below the stern. It’s covered in soot, and partially concealed by the remains of a seat cushion, but I know what it is. I quickly unbolt it and tuck it inside my bag.
When their boss returns, he forces a sour face and tells me I’ve extended my stay.
I make it to the exit and pull out onto South Roosevelt.
I pluck the box from my bag. Signal flares, bright, hot, and pretty, are perfect for callin’ for help at sea. They’re just the kind of thing that could save me, too.
Day 77
It’s time to go shoppin’ at the one place I have no currency. I hate bein’ on the wrong end of a power game, but Conch Commander Nelson is doin’ his best to pay me off.
He upped his game with some of the more industrial cast-offs he found at that base.
I’m not sure if he’s overlookin’ it or not, but I manage a quick peek and a few moments of salvagin’ anything I can find among the wreckage being gathered by Nelson’s men.
He even has his guys drop them off near the Fortress downtown.
Not too close, mind you. A man’s gotta have secrets. So, I tell them to drop them off behind the auto repair store. I can roll ’em into my place later.
In return, I give Nelson some fresh intel, and I’ve even filled out his shopping list from the pharmacy on 12th Street. All the cool stuff is gone, but I found a nice stockpile of Sani-flush and some calcium oxide to make him smile at the drop-off point. While he inspects my offerings, I sneak a peek at his checklist. Combined with my batteries, I got everything he needs. “Chloral hydrate” sounds cool. Maybe it’s for a bomb or somethin’. Maybe it has somethin’ to do with this funky tattoo guy he wants me to keep an eye out for.
Jerusalem
Key West Island
The Wharf Rats were going to cut south by the tiny Havana museum, using the buildings for cover, but they saw the van with the red cross painted on a blanket and watched it drive on the red brick road between the wrought iron fencing. Then, when they saw the two pickups that followed it, the Rats got low at the side of the building.
It happened nearly every afternoon—at some point each day, they would hear screams, or running, or gunshots, and they would go to investigate. The hard part was deciding who to help. Who were the good guys? This time it was easy, but it was also odd.
No one drove light anymore. The mere sound of a motor meant you were carrying enough heat to push through an ambush if someone tried to stop you. And who painted a cross on the side of a van? The hospital crews drove non-descript box trucks.
All questions for later. These were the Wharf Rats and this was their calling.
They pulled up the gray bandanas that had become their call sign.
“Face, get their attention.”
“On it,” he said, passing a squat glass jar to Lacewood and lighting a tiny brick of Black Cats.
The pickup trucks were emptying when the air around them suddenly filled with popping sounds and thick, wet smoke. The dogs growled impressively, and men took cover. The twins ran low up to the van and urged a driver and passenger back to the others. Lacewood had the shotgun ready with its last shell, while Thyroid and Hunter Grant readied their weapons.
When the twins reached the cover of the buildings, they ran, with Lacewood covering from the rear. They heard shouts, but no gunshots from the men by the van, and when they rounded the museum and restaurant, they looked out in all directions before giving the “all clear.”
Mallory Square looked almost like it did the day after the boats sank, with an empty red brick platform that faced the water and Sunset Key to the north, with its beachfront mansions. No more street performers, and no more food carts. Birds ran on the bricks and on the big piece of paper left with the names of those killed in the water when the boats challenged the naval blockade. The candles were gone. Those had become valuable.
The two people they’d saved this time were a little Indian man wearing a blue dress shirt and a red-and-gray-striped tie, and a man in his early twenties with brown, curly hair who was dressed like a bellhop.
“What was that?” said the Indian man, slightly out of breath.
“That was you getting jacked,” said Shawn, “and us coming to the rescue.”
Hunter stepped forward, taking charge. “Vera, get the dogs quiet. Billy, you’re lookout.”
Billy pointed to the nearby hotel balconies from the Weston. “Plenty of attention already.”
“I’m not worried about them yet. It’s still daylight. See if those guys are going to go after their score or not.”
“Is that what we are?” The Indian man spoke more evenly now, his voice smooth and precise. “Your score?”
“We’re the Wharf Rats, Mister. Not raiders.”
“But you still gotta pay,” Shawn chimed in.
“Shut up, Shawn.” Hunter turned back to the men. “We’ll get the two of you somewhere safe. Then we can talk about payment.”
“We can pay you,” the Indian man said calmly. “But we need what we came for and we need the van.”
“The van?”
“What on earth for?” said Lindsey MC with a laugh.
“Get us what we need and we will pay, and pay well.”
“I recognize a couple of these guys,” Billy called out. “One of them is Joseph Owen’s dad.”
Hunter looked at the others. He huffed and said, “All right, we get you back to the van and help you finish your run. Once you’re back at your base, we settle up.”
“Agreed.”
“Carter,” Hunter said, his hands wringing Defiance’s shaft. “You and Face circle right and cover us. Keep an eye on the shipwreck museum. I saw people up in the tower earlier. If our competition moves on us—” He nodded to Face. “—you toss one of the pipes, and we meet back where we slept last night.” He lifted the bat to his shoulder. “Everybody else with me.”
“You’re going to fight them?”
Hunter looked the little business man up and down. “For a car? Hell no.”
They jogged back to the edge of the building. Hunter leaned out and shouted, “Hey!” Through the last of the magnesium smoke, they could see a group of at least a dozen guys freeze in place where they’d been throwing cloths of some sort out of the back of the van. “This is our score now.”
One with stringy hair and a lion beard shouted back, “So what?”
“So we want the van too.”
The raiders looked at each other for long seconds. “What are you offering?”
“What do you want?”
“Bullets. Shells.”
Hunter loudly sounded his derision. “For a car? Like hell.”
A man came out of the back holding out two liquor bottles like trophies.
The Indian man jerked up. “I need those.”
Hunter called out, “We got a nail gun... pneumatic.”
“Caps?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
Billy shook Hunter’s shoulder. “Don’t give ’em all. Face needs ’em.”
Hunter pursed his lips and called out, “About fifty.”
“Deal,” came the hurried answer.
“Circle back to Carter and Face,” Hunter said to Billy. “Pull them back where they can see us. Get the nail gun from Face and meet back here.”
“Face won’t like it,” said Vera.
“No doubt,” Hunter answered his wife. Then, to the Indian, he said, “This better be good.”
“It will be.”
After Billy returned with the gun, Hunter held it high and walked forward.
The two pickups started back down the walking path to Whitehead Street.
Vera held Maximus ready as Hunter walked the trucks to the edge of the street and set the gun on a bench. Then he held two strips of firing caps high and set those down on top of the gun. This done, he ran back to the van, looked in the rear, and came back to the others with a question on his face.
The little Indian man stood, brushed the dust off of his slacks, and said to his man, “Good. Now for the spice.”
“Spice?”
Lindsey made a noise. “Spice,” she said to Vera. “It’s another name for dope.”
The Indian man shook his head. “No. Spice. Spices. For food. We can’t just serve reconstituted powder without seasoning.”
