The Kanawha River still flowed through Charleston, though greatly reduced from its glory. The Elk River was a greasy, dried-up trickle, thanks to an old upstream oil spill and the lack of rain. But there was enough water in the bigger river to create a green landscape—farms planted with corn, tobacco, and cotton, huge greenhouses producing tons of vegetables. There was a five-year-old water purification plant that allowed the local Gov. and its citizens to sell water from Charleston’s negotiated water rights.
I didn’t come here often. Besides the dangerous journey, the water and the greenery were too painful, reminding me of the cool, wet, green Washington State of my childhood. All lost.
Everything here was different. In the aftermath of a water-rights war, Charleston had developed a Wild West environment with water as the basis for its burgeoning wealth. In a world of violence, Charleston was less safe than most bigger cities to the east, but not as horrible as some places to the west. People, trade, and money—and the opportunity tomakemoney—flowed through here. The Hand of the Law worked to keep peace so that money could flow.
Unknown to anyone but Mateo and me (I hoped), there was a Simba buried near the city. Whoever rescued the World War III era battle tank would have the power to take over Charleston and the water rights, and rule like a king. Until the military came after them. If that battle-tank owner was me, I might even be able to force a truce with the military and stay in charge, defeat the MS Angels, and make everything better. If ruling was what I wanted. Which it wasn’t. Mostly I just wanted what Pops had wanted: to keep the weapons of war out of the hands of the PRC and local warmongers, which would keep the Earth out of the targeting sights of the Bugs. But Pops had built his plans without knowing what I would become when infected by bicolor ants and then swarmed by Mama-Bot nanobots. And he’d had no idea about queens and nest builders and what Clarisse Warhammer would become.
This was the thing about riding shotgun. Too much time to think. Too long listening to Cupcake caterwaul. Too much leftover headache from firing weapons and talking to Spy.
We arrived at the Courtyard Inn near the confluence of the Kanawha and Elk Rivers, where Cupcake parked the rig like a pro in the hotel’s secure parking area. She was chattering about the trip she and her dad took across country when she was a kid and he was a long-haul trucker, nattering on about the wonders of St. Louis, when she turned off the big diesel. “That arch was amazing. Nothing like it in today’s world. You shoulda seen it—”
“Cupcake, I have a headache.”
“What?” She went pale, swiveling to me in the big leather seat. “What can I do? Can I get you some medicine? Aspirin?”
I pulled on my 2-Gen sunglasses and gave her a pair too. “Ice water. A fourth-floor room with a fully functional AC and its own bathroom with hot water would be nice. Why don’t you check us in and I’ll unload. And if they have an operating phone system, here’s the appointments we need to make and supplies we could use.” I slapped cash into her hand, and she bounded from the cab, happy to have a job to do. Blissful silence settled on me. Three cats pattered out of their sleeping quarters and jumped to the dash. Spy did cat yoga and yawned.
“Mateo?” I asked through my comms. He didn’t answer. I was fairly certain that he had disconnected about the time Cupcake started singing. I gathered the weapons and stuffed them into their cases and boxes. Because that kept them from looking like guns.Right. Sure it did.
I was “sick,” so Cupcake rushed back in a dither with the room key and slapped it into my hand.
“Fourth floor, just like you said. And they have elevators! They work, too, from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Shall I make arrangements for lunch?” She flipped open a small spiral notebook and studied her notes.
“Sure. Protein. Beef, rare but not bleeding. Potatoes if they have them. Anything green. And I’ll pay good money for a nice cold beer. I’ll secure our cargo and take up the suitcases, weapons, small valuables, and cash.”
“Good by me. But you lay down, you hear?” She took off like a scalded dog.
I shook my head, pulled on my gloves so I didn’t infect anyone, grabbed the gear, and headed to the elevators, the seven cats racing along the walls. No one saw us, and the cats were blissfully silent, diving inside as the elevator opened. That alone was odd enough to make me wonder if they were using their cat ESP to stay hidden.
Room 402 had two beds, a big bathroom, a pull-out sofa, and two chairs. I turned on the AC. It rattled and shook, smelling sour until it started cooling the room.Bliss. After using the flush toilet, I washed the gunshot residue off my skin in a short but warm shower—the time determined by the faucet’s water regulator—inspected my wounds, smeared hotel moisturizer over me, and tried Mateo again. I cussed him thoroughly when he didn’t answer.
I set out a sizeable litter box and a bowl of water for the cats, while they inspected the room, drinking out of the toilet—a water toilet, not a composting one—by choice, climbing atop the sofa to look out the window. Claiming beds and observation posts. Thankfully, they left me a small space on one mattress. Using the hotel’s satellite communication, which would have no security at all, I formatted and sent a text message to my favorite OMW asshole—make that my only OMW asshole—then stretched out on the oh-so-comfortable bed, an arm over my head, and closed my eyes.
When Cupcake returned to the room, banging open the door, she woke me from a sound sleep. “Get up, sleepyhead,” she said, “and take these aspirin. We have a lunch bar featuring steaks big enough to use as baseball mitts, schedulednow, with beer and wine.Cold. I checked. At Urgands, across the Elk. Then hot soaky baths, massages, and mani-pedis.”
“No massage, no mani-pedi,” I said, still hiding my face. I’d infect anyone who touched me skin to skin. That was how I ended up with Cupcake. Only queens could pass the nanobots that transitioned biological creatures into whatever we were, and Cupcake wasn’t a queen. She could get massaged and get her nails done, no problem. I was dangerous. “But the hot bath sounds wonderful.”
“But—”
“No buts,” I said.
“This is just so stupid.”
Thisbeing that I never allowed anyone to touch me.
I opened my eyes beneath the protection of my arm. That sounded like independence. Not at all like thralldom. I smiled slowly. “Yeah?”
“The nail techs wear gloves,” she announced with something like glee.
“Really?”Gloves? I could have a mani-pedi?
“Really.”
“You are hereby promoted to the woman in charge.”
I could practically feel her delight on the air like glitter, rainbows, and choir music. “You’ll take the massage, too?”
“No, but yes to the lunch, the beer, the bath, and the mani-pedi. And the aspirin.” Cupcake rattled the pills like dice and dropped them into my hand. I knocked them back with the icy water she held out. It wasn’t metallic and old, like the stored water I drank at the junkyard, but fresh and pure. Pure, prewar-style paradise. For this alone I envied Charleston. I closed my eyes, grieving for the world before war and a WIMP bomb—Weakly Interacting Massive Particle bomb—left this dried-out husk of a planet. “What else did you do?”
