Jay Posey - Three

“Yeah, alright. But let’s be quick about it.”

They all bustled together then, setting the food out, finding enough chairs to fit around the tiny table. And once everything was set, Mol stood at the head of the table, and encouraged everyone to hold hands. The only one comfortable with the idea besides Mol was jCharles, but they figured it out.

Mol bowed her head and said, “Sweet Lord, we thank you for all your many goodnesses to us, and we’re mindful of all the blessing you’ve bestowed upon us with these friends, old and new, and we ask your hand be upon them as they go out, and we ask you bring ’em right back to us again. Amen.”

Then she set to serving up something from a large pot that was reddish-brown, and thick, and almost smelled like it had real onions in it. Real, out-of-the-ground onions, not the vat-grown ones that tasted like some chemical engineer’s idea of how an onion should taste.

“It’s not much, I know, but Twitch found an old onion bulb long ago, and believe it or not, he managed to nurse that thing back to health enough to pop us out an onion every now and again. I thought this was a special enough occasion to break out the good stuff.”

“You ever had a real onion before, Wren?” jCharles asked.

“No, sir. I didn’t know they grew…” he trailed off, suddenly distracted.

“Well, you are in for a real treat, then, buddy.”

Wren didn’t respond. He was staring at the wall, at the window, at nothing.

“Wren,” Cass said, but she already knew. His eyes went wide.

“Leave, we have to leave!” He was up out of his chair, backing towards the wall.

Three reacted instantly, pouncing to his gear, swinging on the harness, the pistol, the blade, the coat, the pack, like a whirlwind. He was fastening his coat while Cass was still moving to grab her pack.

“What’s going on?” Mol asked, up, half-crouched out of her chair.

“Something bad,” Three answered. “We gotta go, Mol. Thanks, as always, for everything.”

He didn’t approach her, so she came to him, and wrapped her arms around him. Tight.

“You be careful out there. And you come back,” she said. Then lowered her voice. “You come back to me, Three. I mean it.” And kissed his ear as she drew away.

“Wren, come on baby,” Cass called to him, and he skittered to her, accepted his coat and pack. Eyes searching, wired.

“Twitch,” Three said.

“Yeah.”

Cass and Mol embraced, warmly, like sisters at parting.

“I left something for you in the storage room. It’s nothing really, just a little thanks. We can’t ever repay you.”

“Mama.”

“OK. Yeah, we’re going.”

“You sure you know the way?” jCharles asked.

“Yeah got it.”

“Travel safe. Stop by on your way back through, let us know you got it sorted.”

Three made eye contact with jCharles, and in their own way, they said their goodbyes. And with that, Three, Cass, and Wren, were once more on their way.

With the afternoon sun draining from yellow to golden, the trio set a quick pace, and stayed huddled together.

“Stay tight to me, keep your eyes open. They might make another try at us.”

“What about the greenmen?”

“Can’t trust ’em now, either.”

They pushed hard, walking as fast as they could without running, less concerned about attracting attention than they were about getting out. Their path led them in the direction of Downtown, but veered off at an angle that eventually led them to some sort of outdated, non-functional industrial sector that seemed to be nothing but pipes for the sake of pipes. The place was completely deserted, and smelled strongly of human waste.

“Steam tunnels,” Three said, as if that explained it.

“What are they for?” Wren asked.

“Some busted geothermal system. Right now, they’re for getting out.”

Three scoured various endcaps, and found one about the size of an adult at full crouch.

“Let me know if you see anyone around.”

While the others kept watch, he twirled the caps in three specific areas, and then stepped back. There was a click, and a whine, and the endcap slowly swung to a side. Before it was even fully open, Three shoved his pack in first.

“We’re going in there?”

“All the way,” Three answered, as he pushed his way in. Beyond the pool of light that fell within the first six inches of the pipe, it was like looking into a starless outer space. A depthless dark, so complete its end could be an inch from your face, or a thousand miles distant.

“Come on, we don’t want anyone seeing us headed in here.”

Cass helped Wren up, noticed his frantic eyes. Remembered the last time he’d crawled in a dark tunnel and ended up separated from his mother and held captive.

“It’s alright, baby, we’re with you the whole time. Three in front, me in back. We’ll make sure you’re fine.”

Wren didn’t respond, but he climbed in as well, pushing his pack ahead of him as Three had done. Cass was the last one in. The pipe wasn’t quite high enough for her to move on all fours properly. After the first few meters, she discovered if she lay on top of her pack, she could pull both the bag and herself along at the same time, instead of in two stages.

Thankfully, after a few minutes in the impossible dark, a yellow-green light flared. Three lit a chemlight and tied it to the back of his coat. As they crawled for what seemed like hours, it never occurred to Cass that the chemlight didn’t shine forward, but backwards. It was for their benefit only.

They continued in silence of voice, escorted by the eerie echoes of their scraping progress down the “tunnel”. The air was coolly damp, reminiscent of the storm drain tunnels that Three had first led them to. Cass hoped Wren wasn’t too cold, but dared not ask for fear of the cacophony it would create.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Three spoke.

“This is it.”

There were movements, and grindings, and a muffled curse, and then a thin ring of light, which grew, and grew into a tiny sun all of its own. And as Cass’s eyes adjusted, she saw the exit. Three pushed out first, then turned and pulled Wren out with him, and set him by his side. He pulled Cass’s pack out, and then held out his hand and steadied her as she slipped out of the pipe.

Then the three stood together on a little shelf of soft gray dust, and the weight of the history of a world gone wrong settled on them with all the gravity and terrible awe of a cataclysm. There, before them, lay the Strand.

Another meeting had been hastily arranged, shortly after the disappearance of the man some called Three, but that the Bonefolder insisted upon referring to as “Mr Walker”. No sign of the woman or child he had been travelling with either. It was in fact, a work of chance that this meeting had come together at all, that the man standing in front of the Bonefolder at this very moment had just happened to overhear a tale that led him to this place. A tale of a particular chemdrop gone awry. A tale of a woman, and perhaps a child. And it was in this meeting that this gentleman fully intended to have his way.

The Bonefolder sat in her usual place, with her usual steaming cup of brown fluid. The bartender leaned against his bar nearby, carefully intent. Poised for action, it seemed. The big bodyguard behind the Bonefolder stood as one might expect a butler to do so. However, this particular big bodyguard had all the classic signs of a juicer, and it would be foolish to assume the vast graft-musculature on his frame was purely for show. Two lazy gun hands flanked the Bonefolder, trying to look important, but mostly revealing themselves to be poor maintainers of their weaponry and thus, likely, undisciplined in the practice of their craft.