J. Mitchell: Midnight City

RIGHT ABOUT THEN, it became official: Holt Hawkins was having a bad day.

“Hey, you’re right,” one of the kids shouted, reaching for him underneath the crumpled old truck. “There is someone under here!”

The kids yanked him out from under the ruined vehicle and slammed him hard against its rusted door.

They were younger than Holt, but not by much. Seventeen or eighteen he guessed, looking at the black veinlike growths crawling through their eyes, the telltale sign of the Tone. It had a firm hold on them now; it meant their time was running out.

Holt sized them up quickly. They were shorter and thinner, weaker, less quick probably, but those things mattered a lot less when you had guns or knives, and these kids had both. Holt had left his with Max, near the tree line, not wanting to risk the weight on the precarious bridge. A decision he was quickly coming to regret.

The six kids holding him had small tattoos on their right wrists. The one with his forearm pinning Holt to the door sported a Scorpion. Two more, knives at the ready, had a Coiled Snake and a Heart respectively.

The wrist tattoos were bad news. It meant these kids were in the Menagerie, and the situation had just gotten a whole lot worse. Then again, Holt thought… maybe they wouldn’t recognize him. He glanced at the single, fingerless glove he always wore on his right hand.

“Hey, this guy’s a Heedless, look at his eyes!” one of them pointed out bitterly. They were right—Holt was Heedless. One of the rare few on the planet the Tone didn’t affect. His eyes were perfectly clear; there were no signs of the crawling black tendrils. It was the only reason Holt had made it to twenty years of age. “Isn’t Tiberius looking for a Heedless out here somewhere? Tall guy like this one?”

Holt grimaced. So much for not being recognized.

He peered upward, looking for any sign of the ship. There were no clouds, the sun was high, and in the blue sky it would blend in perfectly. He had no way of knowing if it was even still there. Which was unfortunate, because it was probably his only shot at getting out of this.

“One way to be sure,” another said, younger still, fifteen maybe, with two tattoos: a Yellow Skull on his right wrist and an eight-pointed star on his left. The star had only two of its points filled in; the rest were just outlines. It was a sign of promotion—it meant he was an Adjutant, a lower-level commander in the Menagerie. As he rose in rank, more star points would be filled in.

“The glove,” the yellow skull said. “Pull it down.”

Holt’s heart sank. He struggled when they went for the glove, but a couple more punches brought him in line. It was a leather one, and he wore it for only one reason, to hide what was under it: a black tattoo just like these kids’… only his was half-finished.

It was hard to make out what it would have been, but there were hints of a birdlike shape, wings, claws. Whatever it was, it was enough for the Menagerie thugs who had him by the throat.

“Yes, indeed!” said the yellow skull. “This is Holt Hawkins—Tiberius is paying big money for his head, no wonder he’s hiding under there.”

The funny thing was, Holt hadn’t been hiding from them at all. He’d been huddled underneath the truck because of what had been circling in the sky. He glanced upward once more, trying to find it….

“That what you were doing, Holt Hawkins? Hiding from us?” the yellow skull asked with a sneer.

“If you want the truth, I was taking a nap,” Holt replied, holding the yellow skull’s eyes as solidly as he could. He had to stall them, had to keep them talking. “Nice under there, you should try it.”

Holt groaned as one of their fists made less-than-gentle contact with his stomach. The Menagerie still lacked a sense of humor it seemed. Where is that ship?

“You’re a funny guy, Holt Hawkins,” the yellow skull said, stepping even closer. “Didn’t know that about you. Say something else funny. Go on.”

Holt didn’t bother. Instead, he glanced at the environment out the corner of his eye.

They were all standing on a massive, decaying steel bridge that spanned what used to be called the Missouri River. It stretched as far as Holt could see in both directions, and was filled with hundreds of old cars, where they had either been abandoned by their owners or blown to bits by Assembly gunships during the invasion.

Holt’s fists clenched in frustration. Even if he ran, there weren’t many places to go, other than taking a swan dive off the edge. The way Holt’s luck had been going today, that probably wasn’t the best idea.

The bridge’s supports and cables were barely holding on, many of them had snapped already, and a huge crack in the asphalt near the middle showed where the bridge was pulling itself apart in slow motion. Of course, the bridge’s state of disrepair was the reason he’d bothered to check it out in the first place. Places like this, precarious ones that were risky, they were where you still found valuable things for trade. It had been eight years since the invasion, and most everything not locked down had already been taken, unless it was difficult to get to. Clearly, these Menagerie thugs had been thinking the same thing.

“Get something to tie him up with,” the yellow skull ordered.

The snake groaned at the implications. “We have to drag this loser all the way back to the Samneric?” he asked.

“The bounty says Tiberius wants him alive,” the yellow skull said. “How else are we gonna collect it?”

“What do we tie him up with?” the heart asked.

“Rope. Wire. Your shoelaces—do I have to do all the thinking? Go find something,” he said with impatience.

Two of the boys left to go find restraints. When they got back and tied Holt up, it would all be over, plan or no plan. As ironic as it was, he needed that ship. He just hoped he could draw its attention.

“Kind of funny, I guess,” the yellow skull said, his eyes back on Holt. “Bounty hunter with a price on his head. Could’ve just turned yourself in, collected your own reward. You ever think of that?” The yellow skull laughed. The others laughed with him.

Then a strange sound filtered up from under the truck. The laughter died; the boys all looked down at it. It hadn’t been there before, the sound. Holt knew why. What he’d left under there was starting to burn hotter.

“What’s that?” one of the boys asked, kneeling down to look underneath. His eyes widened at what he found.

“Well?” the yellow skull asked. The boy grabbed hold of something and pulled it out. A long cylinder that sparkled bright red. Even in the daylight, the kids had to shield their eyes.

A road flare. Sparkling and burning hot.

If this was going to work, it would happen any second. Holt looked up into the sky….

…and saw a flash of light, far above, as the ship twisted and caught the midafternoon sun. His heart made a hopeful leap in his chest.

“What did you do?” the yellow skull demanded, looking back at Holt, his voice nervous and unsure for the first time.