The Gene Thieves: Gleaming Walls of Ash, #1

By Joshua Dorne

The Reclaimers rose when the world fell, guarding what was left of humanity from the virus known as the Rust. But after decades of neglect, now is their time to rise again.

 

The night Holt killed his father is the night his world changed forever. Driven into the unforgiving wastes he must fend for himself, scavenging an existence in the desert of zone Epsilon. All in service to Triumph, the technological utopia, and one of the few remaining human cities on Earth. When a chance encounter with a legendary nightmare puts him on a path through the city, new friends and enemies are made, joining them in a quest that may just cure the world of the virus that nearly destroyed it... or condemn them all to a fate worse than death.

 

The Gene Thieves is the exciting beginning to the Gleaming Walls of Ash series by Joshua Dorne. A look into life after the world collapsed, and the beginning of a brand new age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Dorne
• Release date: Oct 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393465775

Book preview

Chapter One

The house was on fire, but Holt wasn’t dead yet.

And no self-respecting Gravestalker would even think about dying before the job was done.

Holt padded through the upstairs hallway, barefoot and shirtless in the post-midnight hours as the fire turned his home into cinders.

The house had never been much. Even when it wasn’t on fire. Now it was less. He’d grown up there, for better, and usually worse. Now the flames wanted to take even that away.

Taking the wide central stairs in two quick leaps, Holt landed on the ground floor amid the boiling smoke crowding the once open space. He coughed once then raised his hands to his mouth and called out again.

FATHER? Again, no reply. Somewhere deep down he knew what had happened. And before the Grove burned down to the baseboards, he was going to fix it.

With two turns of his head Holt learned everything he needed to know about his situation. The weapons locker by the front door was wreathed in flames, making it impossible to arm himself. Likewise, the ceiling above the kitchen had collapsed, crushing, blocking his way to the back door.

Mom’s not here to help you anymore, idiot, he thought when her face conjured itself from his brain. But if she were here, she’d tell you to move your ass. Only one option remained.

Please, please, please, don’t be burnt.

Holt threw open the fortified iron gate separating the areas of the house and rushed into the living room, suppressing a shout when he saw it. The old shotgun gleamed as he pulled it from its worn pine box above the fireplace, gold and silver filigree shimmering in the raging orange light. He pocketed a handful of shells and flipped two in the tubes.

An image to the side of the mantle made Holt pause. The worn postcard sat in its dirty old frame. The city. It looked nothing like that anymore. Its glimmering towers were higher, its outer walls thicker, but the promise of comfort and safety was there, enticing as always.

Holt turned away from the postcard for the crackling electrical buzz, and the two forms clunking their way into the entryway through the front-door. Lumbering and slow as they were, he kicked the closest rusted into a bank of fire that had once been a comfortable and ancient leather sofa. The butt of the shotgun caved-in the other’s head, metal-encrusted bone glittering wealy as it caved into the blunt force. Holt gave the tired old living room one final look before he dashed out the door, seconds before the ceiling came down.

A light rain had started to fall while Holt waited. It wouldn’t save the house, and did little but sizzle softly before converting into desert steam. He watched the hundred-year-old roof beams crack and give way, collapsing his home into a smoldering ruin as the fire his father had set gutted it from within.

Holt sat in the low branches of the big desert oak in the courtyard, watching the firelight push against the deep night sky. The fire could have killed Holt. And it occurred to him, that that may have been the plan.

Is that what you wanted, old man?

Until that moment he’d never have believed that, but the Rust had ways of warpping the mind against itself—right before taking away everything that made you human. In the safety of the city they called the disease by many names. Hyper-mineralization was only the most technical. A fancy term for a physiology altering virus that robbed people of their minds while slowly converting their organic tissues to metallic compounds. But to Holt, it was called the Rust—and it was the reason he existed.

You’ll have to try harder than that, father. You trained me too well.

Amid the slouching shadows in the courtyard, the one rusted Holt had been waiting for emerged from the simmering cauldron of the house. Taller than the rest, Marius Gravestalker still walked with a fraction of his former grace, stumbling toward his son at the courtyard’s center.

Holt slipped down the tree branches, bashing a rusted’s head as it came too close. The weapon stock rebounded off the skull and he let out a curse. Where once there’d been bone, hardened metal deposits had replaced it, the sparkle of dense material catching the firelight from a thousand difference facets. On instinct he reversed direction, moving with his momentum to whip the weapon around in a tight circle, planting the polished wood stock into the skull’s other side. A rewarding crunch of unaltered bone met his ears and the walking corpse collapsed to the ground. He stepped over the body, carefully avoiding the gush of long since rotted brains mixing with mud.

I’m here, Holt said, leveling the shotgun at the mad eyes of his father. Why? Holt asked, voice shaking with the emotion he could no longer ignore. Why’d you do it?

The exaggerated smile faded until something like his dad returned. Up close it was easier to see the damage the Rust had brought. Entire sections of his father’s skin were simply gone, eaten away beneath ruddy corrosion flaking off into the firelight before Holt’s eyes. Aptly named, the Rust consumed whomever it touched, leaving men, women, and children as thoughtless shells of the people they’d been. In a few days, all that had been Marius Gravestalker would be gone—his body fully transformed to a walking fossil of alloy, bone, and sinew beneath a reddish hull of crumbling and mineralized flesh.

One... more... lesson, Holton. One final, chance... for you, Marius chattered, struggling to bring forth the words. His voice had lost its connection to normality and become as jagged and uneven as stone scrapping over weathered steel. I need... I need— The Rust came over him, tearing shreds from his humanity only to be pushed away by the last ragged bits of his father fighting for control. I needed you... to k—, to k-kill me! It is our... way. Your... duty. As my... son. End... this.

Marius contorted again, hands curling and clawing the air. When it passed, the man in front of Holt stood taller and straighter, a cruel reminder of the wasteland titan he’d once been.

You do it, Holt, the words tripped over themselves while Marius strained, managing to get the last sentences out whole. I can’t end up like your mother. You won’t curse me the way you did her. For once, be your father’s son. Marius wailed, his fingers digging into his neck leaving bloody furrows through the uncorrupted flesh. I won’t stop... Holt. I’ll... never stop. I can’t. Until one of us is... dead. Finish me. The old man’s face fractured, splitting into a mask of tormented sadness. Please.

For two years Holt and his father had been alone in that old house. Since he was a boy, training had been all he knew. When everyone had gone, and it was just the two of them left, things had only gotten worse. Day after day, night after night, until one-day things just stopped, and Marius had retreated into his rooms. Without knowing why, Holt’s mind sought-out a memory. The month’s haul had been excellent, and the supplies from the city plentiful. While the sun turned the sky the color of twilight they’d sat on the porch and joked, for once unguarded while they basked in relaxation well earned. Moments like that had been precious and few, and all too rare. They’d still been a family then. But that was a long time ago.

Holt cocked back the shotgun’s hammer.

DO IT! Marius snarled, making a rush at his son.

Holt’s finger hammered the trigger and he turned his head as hot, revolting wetness splattered his face through the cold desert rain.

Now it was just him.

His jaw clenched as his father’s body hit the ground. Before he could stop himself, Holt bent over—the contents of his stomach joining the mud at his feet.

Wastes damn you, Holt spat, unsure if the wetness on his face belonged to him or the sky.

Crumbling black fingers wriggled from the corners of his mind, dragging him into the dirt to join the rest of his family. His grandmother. Grandfather. His mother. And now his father.

They’re all gone. You’re on your own now.

But this was the way of Reclaimers.

It’s not easy growing knowing you’re going to die in agony. The life of a Reclaimer was one forged of misery and death. But knowing this fact did nothing to sooth the fresh hole torn in his soul. Or the crushing loneliness he could already feel.

Holt was on his knees, unsure of how he’d gotten there, the shotgun forgotten on the ground.

The rattling creak of mineralized bone told Holt just how big a fool he’d been. Like some green-band idiot, he’d let his emotions take over. Allowed feelings to cloud his thoughts and infect his actions like a simmering, infectious disease as insidious as the Rust.

He rolled, coming to his feet with the shotgun in hand, emptying the second barrel into the head of the approaching rusted. The hollow point slug rent the metallic skull, showering the courtyard in a sickly rain of foul smelling mush.

I’ve wasted too much time.

Wheeling, Holt smashed another Rusted across the face then picked his way through the escalating chaos. Already the courtyard was starting fill. Rusted swarming to the heat of the fire. Killing the rusted had been his life—his family’s purpose since before he was born. My purpose. Heck, the job description was right there in the title: Reclaiming what humanity had lost. But the only thing left was to survive the next few minutes.

Get to safety. Then worry about what’s next.

Holt ran, feeling the stickiness clinging to him. On his skin. In his hair. The more he thought about it the heavier he felt until each step seemed a mile, and every breath a burden. With the rain coming down, Holt knew his father’s blood would wash off. The blood always comes off.

He reached the garage and unlatched the door, pausing to thumb in two more shells and praying his mad father hadn’t been thorough in his sabotage. Holt nearly ‘whooped’ when he saw her. Betsy, his family’s scared battle cruiser of a last era station-wagon sat like an armored oasis in the thin garage space carved from canyon stone.

There’s my girl.

Holt tried to shut the door when a corroded arm blocked the way. Two steps brought him back and he unloaded one barrel into the rusted’s head, causing it to slump into the doorway.

Holt cursed, ducking to pull the body inside, but it was too late. More rusted swarmed the door, forcing him back. He emptied the second barrel and slide across Betsy’s hood, reaching for the garage door.

Come on, girl, Holt pleaded, cranking the door up enough to let the car through. With desperate efficiency he pulled the charging cord from its socket, stepping sideways when his senses warned him of an attack from behind. He paused long enough to connect the weapon’s stock with the corpse’s skull then hopped in the car. Come on, come on, come on! He said, flipping switches on the console and praying the batteries still held a charge. A cracked screen on the center dash lit up showing a quarter power remaining.

It wouldn’t get him very far, but it wouldn’t be here.

Holt hit the ignition... and nothing happened.

Shit! he growled, glancing at the door and the hunched bodies silhouetted by firelight crowding through it. Come on, baby girl. Come on, don’t you do it to me too! He hit the ignition again and a thrum of power lit Betsy’s cabin in glowing blue. That’s my girl!

Not dead yet.

He grabbed for the shifter, sparing a lingering look for the rusted filled courtyard. Past the mounting crowd of killers, the house he’d grown up in smoldered, burning down to the metal of its pre-war studs.

The words came as clearly as they had the first time his parents had drilled them into Holt’s head. Even as the rusted wave broke against Betsy’s armored side, their hardened finger-tips scratching the shatterproof glass.

I stand before the wall, he said, though it did not calm him. It did not center his focus, or bring stillness to his mind, but he said the oath anyway. Regardless of all costs. Holt’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. Protecting those inside, He pulled in a long breath through his nose, only getting out the last part in a trembling whisper. Reclaiming what was lost.

His head sank against the steering wheel, and everything came out of him at once.

I’m alone now. I have nothing. Mom is gone, now Dad... His hands were lashing out, pummeling the wheel again and again, over and over until muscles and bone bruised. When he screamed, it felt like everything he had left.

No words came out at first. Just a wordless howl to the treacherous morning, driving the rusted into a frenzy like sharks to fresh blood. You fucking bastard! He waited. One breath. Two. Three. And then he was out of time. Sorry, Bets, he said, running his hands over the wheel. Let’s get out of here.

Holt threw Betsy into gear and left the smoldering wreckage of his old life in a shower of spitting dust.

Chapter Two

Betsy’s tires crunched to a halt a full mile from Holt’s destination. After two long hours of careful driving through nighttime wastes, Betsy’d had enough on her meager charge and drifted to a powerless stop.

You did good, girl, Holt said, patting the dashboard. He’d have to go the rest of the way on foot and come back for her in the morning when the solar cells had some time to charge.

Holt sat in the car for a while, staring at the dark desert. The drive had not been a fun one. Technically speaking, very few drives in Betsy had ever been fun where Holt’s family had been concerned. Mom and Dad, reciting endless lessons on wasteland survival. Me and Reva, sniping at each other in the back, making bets on who could kill more rusted. Remembering those times that seemed so far off now, Holt wished he still had them in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

You’re alone now, he reminded himself for the twentieth time, though even that admission did nothing for the crushing emptiness rotting him inside.

He’d spent most of the drive feeling splendidly sorry for himself. Every Reclaimer owed themselves a small amount of inner loathing. It came with the territory. But after enough time had passed, Holt knew his grieving needed to be over. Holt was a Reclaimer. Born and bred to rid the wastes of Rust. Once upon a time, all Reclaimers had dreamt of returning mankind to a world free from the virus that had destroyed it. But that dream had long since died. The city, it seemed, no longer cared about such old-fashioned things. Safe and complacent inside their high-tech metropolis while the wilds beyond the walls festered in a seventy-year-old mess that refused to be scoured clean. Returning to the old-world was an illusion very few invested in anymore.

Yes, Holt was a Reclaimer, and death was his birthright. His job. Mourning, even for family, was an indulgence too expensive to afford.

Now for the fun part.

He locked Betsy and shouldered the shotgun. Then, barefoot and shirtless, he padded into the wastes of Zone Epsilon.

Be back tomorrow, girl.

There was no good time to be in the wastes. But of the few options available, night was by far the worst. During the day, heat confounded a rusted’s senses, turning them sluggish and easily confused. But as the sun went down the zone became an animal of a different temperament. Even the oldest, most corroded rusted from the first days of the war came alive with ravenous purpose. It made going for a midnight walk more akin to a suicide mission than a moonlit stroll beneath the stars. Massive swarms could rise, almost from nowhere, to bear down on anyone foolish enough to be out after sunset.

The wastes at night are quite a fright, Holt sang to himself while he walked, keeping an ear out for the ‘scrape-thunk’ of calcified joints. Duck your head, stay out of sight. He scanned every rock outcropping, and every copse of tough desert trees, his steps light and soundless. The tune was an old one from before he was born. Warm and safe, til the world turns bright. A reminder for children to not wander the zone after dark. But like everything Reclaimers were taught, it had its purpose. An old Reclaimer never forsakes the light.

Holt turned past a set of boulders, exhaling when he saw it.

The Gravestalker family safehouse, the Wanderer, wasn’t much to look at. An old-world hotel converted by time to a tumble-down ruin of cascading brickwork below the few rooms still clinging to structural glory. But what it lacked in outward appeal, it more than made up for in inward crappiness. One of the few Gravestalker safehouses remaining that hadn’t been overrun or lost to neglect, the Wanderer would be enough to give Holt a fighting chance.

Seeing no rusted around the outskirts, Holt made his way to the interior and the gate across the only intact staircase. Electric sensation tickled his skin as he pressed his hand to the keypad and punched in the code, doing the same for each of the four successive gates at the bottom of each stairwell and hallway.

Made of an adjoining pair of old hotel rooms, the Wanderer hadn’t seen much use in the last few years. Holt made a circuit of the rooms just to be sure, sniffing at the thick layer of undisturbed dust coating everything he now owned.

He set the shotgun on the workbench taking up one corner, his hands shifting to support his weight when an unexpected heaviness descended.

It’s gone. All of it. His mind roamed the memories of the Grove, the only home he’d ever known. Spare, hot, and often lonely, he’d hated the place. And now his own thoughts felt like betrayal as he realized just how much he would miss it.

Holt slammed a fist onto the table, gritting his teeth as the full weight of the last few hours came down on his shoulders.

You waste-rat shit of a hypocrite, he growled to himself, feeling the shame and anger make an unholy mixture in the pit of his stomach. First Mom, now—

Holt froze as a voice spoke to him from the dark doorway into the next room. The spike of adrenalized fear crystalized in his chest.

Yes, you are. The voice said, as cold as it was familiar.

Heart in his throat, Holt spun, leveling the shotgun at the form in the doorway. He’d been sure he was alone, but when the man stepped closer, the shotgun dipped to the floor, his breath leaving in a sigh.

He was as Holt had seen him some time ago. Not the hollow shell degraded by the Rust, but the man who’s thumb Holt had grown up beneath. Tall and lean, with the look of a born predator was Holt’s father. A tan desert shirt and trousers to match, he was well dressed for the heat of the zone, much too clean for anything he’d worn in his forty plus years.

Hypocrite is such a telling word, don’t you think?

You... but I... Holt stammered at seeing his father whole and alive. His skin was smooth, un-mottled by the filth of infection. You’re dead. I killed you.

And yet... here I am, the voice said.

The realization was a two-by-four across Holt’s metaphorical skull.

This is how it starts.

I see, Holt said. It’s your turn to haunt me, is that it? The gift of the Tonic. Another one of your legacies?

One more thing I should have seen coming. Holt had watched every member of his family go through it. The cost to all Reclaimers who took the Tonic. Hallucinations. As if the painfully short lives we’d spent together hadn’t been enough. A time of ghosts and regrets, Nanna always said. The Tonic gave the Reclaimers their connection to the Rusted. It’s what enhanced a Reclaimer’s skills beyond that of any wall-born. The true gift of the Tonic, and the curse that came with it.

Marius looked at his son, impassive and unreadable, even in death.

It has always been our fate, son. You know that as well as any. This world is not gentle to those who seek to reclaim it.

Thanks, Dad. The sarcasm almost burned a hole in the floor. Holt squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the creeping sadness forcing its way down his throat. You were ‘touched.’ You became infected. And you hid it and tried to kill me. Why do I care what you think anymore? I think I’ve earned some peace and quiet. Holt turned away, busying himself with prep work rather than waste energy on a salty old specter.

He opened the storage cabinet beside the workbench, the metal doors protesting with an un-oiled screech. Holt froze. After a minute when no hunting calls echoed out in the night, he let out a slow breath. I Need to go through this place. Oil every hinge and every spring before I give myself a heart attack. It was dark, but Holt didn’t dare start the generator. Even the faintest electrical field could draw rusted from miles off. Especially at night.

The contents of the cabinet didn’t give him the warm and fuzzies.

At least I have you guys, Holt said, removing a configurable long rifle, high capacity semi-auto shotgun, and a motion tracking smartgun sidearm. All of them loaded with exchangeable standard ammunition, and the higher damage APE rounds, for those special occasions when regular bullets simply won’t do. He laid the Rust-hunting gear on the worktable and frowned. Third rate junk, and six tech generations out of date. His best stuff, still far from top-of-the-line, was now buried in the cooling embers of his old family home. But even this crap was better than going bare knuckle against most plateheads.

If the weapons were bad, the food and water situation was just shy of sack shriveling. Barely a week’s worth of synthetic field rations and nutrient laced water replacement, were all he had to his name in the way of food. He grabbed one of the ‘water’ bottles and choked down the syrupy liquid, pulling a face when he was done.

Ugh!

It wouldn’t win awards for taste, but it would keep him hydrated.

One week’s worth of rations. No cistern or potable water source. No workable garden. And a full two weeks before the new reclamation cycle when Holt could go to the city and get paid. Maybe then he’d have enough to purchase supplies to last another month. But he’d have to start collecting, and soon, or getting torn apart by Rusted might become one of his more appealing options.

At least I finally know what it means to be screwed without taking your pants off, Holt said, letting his head sag against the locker. The shitty part. Not the fun part. He turned, expecting to see the specter of his father watching in that endless state of disapproval. But the ghost was gone, and that suited Holt just fine.

There were other options outside of the reclamation bounties passed down from the city, and he knew that. Trading was one, though the only people who’d trade with him were exiles, outcasts expelled from the city for activities they deemed ‘criminal.’ Whatever that actually meant. But trading with them could be dangerous. Exiles and Reclaimers weren’t typically on the best of terms, and many of the exile townships would shoot Reclaimers on sight. There were other Reclaimer families in the wastes, watching over the other eight zones. Only, striking deals with the Reclaimer clans often came at a high price. And drama amongst the clans had never been a favored pastime.

Holt’s mind went to the Grimms and the sister he’d lost to the large clan.

Maybe... no.

He spent another hour on prep-work. Aside from gear, preparedness was a Reclaimer’s only friend. Sleep wasn’t something he longed for, not after the night he’d had. When he was sure he had clothes, gear, and ammunition enough to hold off a reasonably sized swarm, he wandered out to the room’s unsteady balcony.

Zone Epsilon, home of the Gravestalkers, felt strangely quiet for night-time. Only a few rusted stood out across the long plain of the desert, rigid shadows in the dark and tired distance. One of this zone’s greatest reclaimers lay dead, and his own son hadn’t even had the decency to burn his body.

At least I didn’t collect you for recycling. Would you have liked that, old man? Wouldn’t that have been ironic? He blew a long breath into the chilly night air. Would have served you right.

He half-expected to see his father’s specter appear, his hallucination summoned by the Tonic. But Holt remained alone.

Like rusted to electrical fields, his head turned north to the great pillar of light rising through the night sky. He’d only been to the city a handful of times in his life, but when he’d seen the people walk the streets, free and unafraid, he knew it was what he’d always wanted.

Someday, he said to the lonely wastes. A spike of guilt hit like a gut-punch. His whole life he’d lived here. Watched his family die here. And now he was done. Done with simply surviving. Done with scrapping by on a monthly pittance just to live in danger every single day. Holt didn’t know how, but he would find a way to leave wastes for good and make a new life in the city.

The wishful thought lingered, fading into the quiet dark as his mind turned to the more pressing issues of survival.

Holt was a Reclaimer, and he had shit to do.

Chapter Three

The days that passed were not Holt’s favorite. Though in truth, they were hardly different from most he’d ever seen. Kill. Collect. Clean. Prepare to recycle. Try not to die. Repeat. It had a comfort to it. But as always, it was the underlying threat of imminent death that moved his feet.

Holt sighted down range and put his target in the crosshairs. Its head bobbed into view around a cropping of rocks. When he saw it, he hesitated, his finger moving off the trigger.

No, no, no. Can’t be.

Too far off to see the finer details, the Rusted gave him a familiar feeling. Like seeing into a sea of strange faces and recognizing someone by how they walked. He knew it was in his mind, but Holt couldn’t ignore the doubt wriggling through the base of his brain. She... it, was tall, or seemed so from a distance. The dense tangle of her sun-bleached curls could have been any color once. Same with the skin, a weathered gray except for the bright orange patches shrouding it like a topographical map to nowhere.

A light curse seeped out, disappearing on the desert breeze. Please, no, he said, adjusting the magnification for a better look.

She looked about the right age, with all the right macro details, and that’s what had Holt worried.

It’s not her, his father said, standing just behind him, nearly causing Holt to jerk the trigger. Over these past days, he’d grown used to the on and off needling of his father’s nagging specter. Despite the annoyance, it somehow felt right that the old ghost chose the worst times to show himself. Usually when Holt was about to do something delicate - or dangerous – with the air of someone who took joy in throwing wrenches into other’s machinery. Looking past the blossomed orange corrosion obscuring the rusted’s face, Holt could tell his father was right, no matter how much he hated admitting that to a dead man.

How do you know? He snapped, chastising himself for the lack of calm.

I know, because you know.

That settled it. Adjusting for the wind, Holt squeezed the trigger on the exhale, putting a round into the rusted’s head from two hundred yards down range. The bleached curls snapped sideways, but righted itself immediately, hollow eyes searching the desert in confusion.

Mother-lovin’ platehead, Holt snarled as he flipped the switch on the receiver’s side. Motorized whirring sounded as the magazine clicked over from standard ammunition to the more powerful, and shockingly more expensive, Armor Piercing Expansible rounds. When the switch completed, he yanked the bolt back, cursing again when the new ammo jammed in the chamber. Mother... unngh! A few more tugs and the high damage round came free allowing a new one in its place. Slag blasted... hunk of frickin’ junk.

Holt reacquired his target, and this time the APE round screamed over desert and tore the back of the rusted’s head clean off.

A few seconds passed.

What if it was her?

It wasn’t.

Holt stood from his perch atop the collection of boulders. He pulled a charcoal pencil from a pocket and marked the latest kill on the map strapped inside his forearm. Even in the bit of shade he’d found, the late morning heat of Epsilon had already reached unfair levels of oppression. From a different pocket he produced a chunk of his last food bar and took a bite before regretfully tucking it away. It needed to last him until the day after tomorrow, and already his body was showing signs of unrequited hunger.

Holt stood but didn’t make it all the way upright as a rushing swell upset his equilibrium, filling his mouth with saliva and pushing the limited contents of his stomach to his throat. Oh shit. The rifle slipped from numb fingers, and before it hit the ground the headache was on him. Like someone driving home a railroad spike with a speeding car, the pain vandalized Holt’s brain, seeping down his neck, squeezing the muscles of his back in the throbbing jaws of pain.

Son of a— Holt groaned, clamping a hand to his shoulder. They’re getting worse.

Following the impulse, he withdrew the tin box from his belt pouch. The moment he saw the crack in the glass vial and the dried waste of dirty mercurial material crusted to the inside of the box; Holt knew he was screwed.

I forgot to check it, he realized, one hand going to his forehead as if the motion could keep him upright. Why didn’t I check to make sure the Tonic was still good? Idiot!

He spent some time staring at the empty syringe, feeling the beginnings of another headache preparing for gray-matter invasion.

Damnit!

The sound echoed through the rocks but did nothing to temper the withdrawal symptoms that would only worsen with each passing hour.

As the Grove had burned, he hadn’t thought to take any Tonic with him. Without it, I’m less-than useless. But I need to collect, or I’m dead.

That’s your problem, son. You don’t think things through. You just do. You, and the animals.

And who’s fault is that? Holt snapped, irritation elevated on the wings of rising pain.

I raised you to survive. Don’t blame your old man because you don’t use the tools you were given.

You didn’t give me tools, Holt said, massaging the spiking ache beneath his eyes. You gave me bruises and told me to learn from them. So, let’s not pretend—

A needling buzz vibrated along Holt’s back as a rusted ambled around the rocks below. Large patches of orange-brown corrosion covered its body, with great silvery chunks twinkling in the sunlight where the flesh had rusted away. He watched it move, using altered senses to search for the source of sound and food.

It’s the right age, he thought, making up his mind on the spot. But really, what else was he going to do? You could go to the other safe houses. See if there’s any left there? Only that idea was stupid and could take days. Or you can work with the solution that’s presented itself.

Holt grabbed a loose rock and tossed it to the desert floor, cracking loudly off a boulder. Like the predictable beast it was, the rusted lurched at the sound. Moving quickly, Holt pulled a spooled metal cord from his pouch and tied a quick knot. As the rusted passed beneath him, Holt dropped from his prech, looping one end of the wire around the thing’s neck and stepped away. By the time the rusted turned on the new source of sound and heat, Holt was leashing the cord’s other end around a tree branch.

Okay then, Holt said while the rusted strained against the wire to reach its prey. Looks like you and me are off to see a witch.

#

It took the better part of two hours to reach the new destination. Northeast through rough wastes until Betsy brought him to a valley of brown rocks and jagged cliff-sides.

Holt craned his neck at the winding pathway carved into the cliff-face. Every foot of it seemed covered in old junk. Car parts, old fences, and rusted aluminum siding, all welded together and bolted into the rock to make an intimidating – and defensible – mountain-side fortress.

These waste-witches sure like their privacy, Holt said to his temporary traveling companion. Chains rattled as the rusted surged against the bars of the small metal cage Holt had stuffed it into. Okay, okay, I’m getting to it. What are you in such a hurry for, anyway?

Holt pulled a length of tattered rope hanging from the lowest platform. After a moment, a tube extended down from the lowest platform and a long spy glass shot within a few inches of his face. The lens moved around him, first examining his front and then his back. When it returned to face him, he nodded to the ‘person’ he knew was behind it.

The witches are ones for formalities and manners, son. Tell it what it wants to know and be polite about it.

But in the grip of a mightily righteous headache, Holt’s brain-stem wasn’t feeling all that charitable.

You know why I’m here, he said, working hard to keep a creeped-out shiver on the inside.

The spy glass retracted and didn’t return.

Perhaps, Marius said, crossing ghostly arms, I didn’t give you enough bruises after all?

Just when Holt was working on other ways of finding more Tonic, hinges squealed, and a ladder dropped to the valley floor. He cast Marius a smug look and started to climb.

The sign that greeted him at the top made him pause. A sun faded piece of metal bearing the words, It’s a trap, in a sloppily written brown letters that Holt suspected had once