Louis Collins: A Post-American Odyssey

They descended by service stairs and steel walkways. Each passage narrowed before opening into the next. The boy kept a steady pace and never hesitated at a turn. His reflective vest caught what little light reached the passage. Louis followed with the cane in his right hand. The damp concrete was slick where water ran across old stains. Gladice stayed half a step behind his left shoulder.

The passage opened into a narrow lane between rows of corrugated-metal shacks. A woman sat outside one of them with a pot balanced over a camping stove and did not look up when they passed. Two boys stripped copper wire from a thick cable with kitchen knives. Farther down, a man in a butcher’s apron cleaned what looked like a pig carcass on a folding table.

The boy stopped at one of the larger shacks and slipped through the open doorway. Louis and Gladice followed him inside. The room was dim and almost empty. At the back, a short flight of concrete steps led down beneath the shack. Two black men with rifles stood beside the basement entrance.

The boy nodded toward Louis. “This the one. His girl with him.”

The older guard looked from Louis to the cane, then to Gladice.

“His girl, huh?”

Gladice stared at him. “You want to search me?”

The guard held her gaze for a moment, then shook his head. “Nah. But Mr. Collins gotta hand over his piece. The packs too.”

Louis reached slowly into his jacket, drew the M1911, and offered it grip-first. The guard turned the pistol in his hand, studying the engraving.

“Damn. That’s a pretty piece.”

He pulled the slide back far enough to check the chamber, then handed the pistol to the other guard. Then he opened each bag and glanced inside.

The younger guard unlocked the basement door. “Boss waitin’.”

The smell of blood and sweat reached Louis first. He stepped inside and stopped. The windowless room had probably once been a dental treatment room. A metal desk stood between two folding chairs, and a standing fan turned slowly beside the wall. Behind the desk sat a black man in shirtsleeves and a dark waistcoat, one hand resting on a worn Bible. His tie hung over the back of his chair, and his cuffs were rolled evenly to his forearms. He looked to be in his fifties. His hair was clipped close, with a streak of silver at one temple. He did not look up when they entered. He was listening to the man in the chair.

The prisoner was white and perhaps thirty. One cheek and the skin beneath one eye were bruised. He had been strapped into a reclining chair, his wrists bound to the armrests and both ankles secured to the base. His shirt was soaked with sweat, torn beneath one arm, and stained with blood around the collar. A man stood behind him with a small black cattle prod in one hand. A short-handled hammer lay on a steel tray beside the chair.

“Again,” the seated man said.

The man behind the chair set down the cattle prod, picked up the hammer, and pressed the prisoner’s hand flat against the armrest. He brought the hammer down on one of his knuckles. Bone cracked under the blow.

Louis turned his head away. He still heard the prisoner scream and pull against the straps. “I told you what I know!”

The seated man lifted his head and looked at Louis and Gladice. His expression remained calm. His voice was low and measured.

“Mr. Collins. Welcome. And this here Miss Simington, I take it?”

At the names, the prisoner raised his head and turned toward them with difficulty.

“Sergeant Simington,” Gladice corrected, her voice flat.

The seated man gave a slight smile. “Sergeant. ’Course.” He motioned toward the two folding chairs. “Go on and sit. This ain’t gonna take long.”

Louis moved one of the chairs aside so he could see the door, the desk, the prisoner, and the interrogator. Then he sat. Gladice took the other chair.

The seated man looked at them once more, then returned his attention to the prisoner.

“Let’s run it again,” he said. “Who you work for?”

The prisoner ran his tongue over the split corner of his mouth and winced. “I told you. I work for the county.”

The man behind the chair pressed the prod against the prisoner’s shoulder and triggered it. The prisoner jerked against the restraints, and a short cry broke from him. Louis kept his face still. The man at the desk did not look away from the prisoner’s face.

Gladice leaned slightly toward Louis without taking her eyes off the prisoner. “He’s wasting time.”

Louis felt his stomach tighten. He kept his face still and nodded once.

“Do you need some instructions for proper interrogations?” Gladice said.

The man behind the chair looked at her, followed by the seated man. The prisoner breathed through his mouth.

One corner of the seated man’s mouth lifted.

“Go ahead,” he said to Gladice. “If you think you can do better.”

Gladice slipped off her backpack and set it beside her chair. She stood at once. “I need a towel and water.” She pointed to the utility sink in the corner.

The man behind the chair set down the prod and stepped toward her. “You don’t come in here tellin’ me what to do—”

The seated man lifted his chin. “Go ahead. Do what she said.”

The man stopped. He glanced at the seated man, then crossed to the sink. He filled a plastic bottle and returned with it and a towel.

Gladice took them, found the chair’s release lever, and lowered the back until the prisoner lay flat. She moved to the head of the chair, wet the towel, and wrung it out.

“Keep him still.”

The interrogator moved behind the headrest and pinned the prisoner’s shoulders. The prisoner stared up at Gladice.

“Listen to me.” Her voice stayed low. “You’d better start talking now. Once I begin, I won’t stop because you ask me to.”

The prisoner gave a short laugh that broke into a cough. “You’re just a girl. You don’t scare me.”

Gladice laid the towel over his face. At first he did not resist. She poured water from the bottle. The cloth darkened and clung to his face. He twisted against the straps, but the interrogator held him down. Gladice kept one hand on the towel and continued pouring. The prisoner jerked against the chair. The restraints pulled taut, and a muffled cry came through the cloth. Gladice spoke without raising her voice.

“This is what happens when you lie to me. Talk now, or I keep going.”

Gladice pulled the towel away. “Who do you work for?”

He shook his head between coughs. She covered his face again and poured. He bucked against the restraints, and the chair frame rattled against the floor. She kept pouring until the bottle was empty.

“Fill the bottle,” she said.

The interrogator took it to the sink. Gladice kept her eyes on the prisoner. His chest rose and fell sharply. His face had reddened, and his eyes were wide.

“You can stop this whenever you want. Just tell me the truth.”

He tried to speak through his ruined throat. “I don’t...I’m not...”

“Wrong answer.”

She took the refilled bottle from the interrogator, covered his face again, and poured. The prisoner’s back strained against the chair, and his forearms pulled against the wrist straps. A muffled cry came through the towel.

Gladice pulled the towel away and raised the back of the chair halfway. The prisoner turned his head, retched, and coughed water over the side. His chin dropped toward his chest. She waited.

“Who sent you?” she asked.

He forced out one word between coughs. “Hargrove.”

“Theodore Hargrove?”

“Yes.”

At the name, Louis’s breath caught. He pushed himself forward in the chair.

“What does he want?” he demanded, louder than he intended.

The prisoner swallowed. “Locate the Collins boy. The Bourbon girl. The Simington girl. And Miss Hargrove. Track movement if possible. Report immediately.”

“And?” the man behind the desk asked.

The prisoner turned toward Louis. His eyes widened when he recognized him.

“And locate them,” he said. “Recover if viable. Kill anyone sheltering them if not.”

The seated man folded one hand over the other on the Bible.

“How many men did Hargrove send?” he asked.

“Five that I knew of. Everybody’s moving now. They were checking relief lines, motels, church buses, highways from Jackson to Charlotte, strip plazas, service roads—” He drew one more breath. “They said get the Collins boy fast. The Secretary thinks the Collective will move if they find out he’s alive.”

Louis’s chest tightened. He did not move.

The man behind the desk stood up slowly. He buttoned his waistcoat. “Thank you,” he said to the prisoner. “You been real helpful.”

He drew a pistol and shot the prisoner in the forehead. The gunshot was deafening in the small room, and Louis blinked hard. The prisoner’s head struck the headrest and turned to one side. The straps held the rest of his body against the chair.

The man lowered the gun and looked at Louis and Gladice. His expression had not changed.

“Thank you for your help, Sergeant Simington. That was instructive. Ain’t often I see somebody get answers that quick.”

“You’re welcome,” Gladice said. Her expression did not change.

The man nodded to the interrogator. “Clean this up. I’m gonna see to our guests.” He looked at Louis and Gladice. “Mr. Collins. Sergeant. This way.”

One of the guards opened a door at the back of the office. The man went through first. Louis followed. Gladice picked up her backpack and went after him.

The second room had once been a conference room. It had been turned into a planning room. Maps of the crater and the approaches along the rim had been taped to the walls. Routes and notes had been crossed out and redrawn.

The man took the chair at the head of the table, then gestured toward the other seats.

“Please.”

Louis gripped the back of the nearest chair and lowered himself into it carefully. Gladice sat opposite the man, crossed one leg over the other.

The man rested his forearms on the table.

“First, let me introduce myself. Marcus Ellington. I handle certain interests in this city. I hear y’all looking for some help.”

“That’s correct,” Louis said.

“Specifically?”

“A phone and a laptop, preferably Dominion brands.”

“Both of those illegal to sell in this country.” Marcus nodded once. “Can still be done. Ain’t free.”

“We can pay,” Louis said.

Marcus smiled slightly. “So I heard. My men who tried to rob you came back real interested in those euros.”

“Then you know who I am.”

“I know who you are, who your father is, and that Secretary Hargrove got every fool south of here hunting you. Folks think your face can buy them a better future or a hot meal. And you walked into my place with cash in your pocket, asking me for help.” Marcus spread one hand. “I’m still deciding whether that’s courage, youth, or plain stupidity.”

Louis said, “It’s all three.”

Marcus gave a short, low laugh. “Fair answer. So you’re hunted. You need communication. You want extraction. And you think I can provide it.”

“Can you?” Gladice asked.

Marcus leaned back. The chair creaked under him.

“Ain’t much in this city that can’t be done. Everything got a price.” He looked between them. “What you offering me?”

“Euros,” Louis said. “In cash.”

Marcus looked at Louis more closely. “How much?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Marcus was silent for a moment, then nodded.

“For twenty thousand euros, I can get you a phone and a laptop.” He paused. “Can’t promise either one’ll be the best, but both will work.”

Louis nodded. “What about extraction?”

“That’s another matter.” Marcus leaned forward again and placed both hands flat on the table. “I ain’t decided whether I want to involve myself that deep in your fate, Mr. Collins. You’re a lightning rod. And lightning got a habit of striking the ground and everybody standing on it.”

“You already involved yourself by helping me here,” Louis said.

Marcus gave him a brief smile. “Helping you here means taking your money. Helping you escape means turning a whole state against me. Those two are different equations.”

Louis held his gaze. “Name the price.”

Marcus exhaled through his nose.

“Money ain’t the problem,” he said. “Money’s what men with no imagination offer when they ain’t understood the room yet.”

Gladice said, “Then what is the problem?”

Marcus turned toward her. He studied her for a moment before answering.

“The problem, Sergeant Simington, is the Holy States ain’t stupid. They’re fanatical, but they ain’t blind. They know I exist. They let me exist because I serve certain functions in this city they find useful, in ways they’d rather not speak about out loud. I move goods. I move people. I make certain things possible without asking questions.” He looked back at Louis. “The state above us thinks this place is filth. It only survives ’cause we learned to be more exact than the men who condemn us.”

Gladice inclined her head once and said nothing.

Louis said, “You want something more than money.”

“I do.” Marcus tapped one finger against the table. “But we’ll see if you can provide it. First, we got business to do.” He extended his hand toward Louis. “Give me the money.”

Gladice opened one of the backpacks, took out the folded bundles, and placed them on the table. Marcus pulled them toward himself and counted the bundles before setting them aside.

He turned one of the bundles over in his hands and ran his thumb along the crisp edges. “These bills are new. Where’d y’all get hold of this much fresh cash?”

Louis exchanged a glance with Gladice. “Before we got out of Hargrove’s house, I emptied his safe.” Part of it was true.

Marcus turned the bundle over and tapped on the currency band. “Didn’t know Secretary Hargrove’s house did its banking in Spanish.”

Louis thought of the Spanish printing on the band and paused. “There were servants in the house who spoke Spanish,” he said. “One of them must have handled the cash.”

Marcus looked at him for a moment, then set the bundle with the others. “Maybe so.” He turned toward the inner door and called, “Jacob!”

A man appeared at once. His dreadlocks fell past his shoulders, and a thick gold chain rested against his chest. He wore rectangular glasses with dark frames. Marcus spoke to him in a low voice. Jacob listened, nodded, and left. Marcus looked back at Louis.

“While we wait, let me ask you a question. Why you think Hargrove wants you?”

Louis met his eyes. “He wants to reshape me.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “How?”

“Break me down. Put me back together in a way that serves him. Use me as a tool against my father. He believes I can be turned into a propaganda weapon. A public symbol.”

“Can you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Louis laced his fingers together on the table and stared at Marcus. “Look at me, Mr. Ellington,” he said. “Do I look like a man who can be reshaped?”

Marcus studied him for several seconds, then nodded once.

“We’ll see, Mr. Collins.” He leaned back. “We’ll see.”

There was a knock at the outer door. Jacob came back in carrying a padded black laptop bag. Marcus gestured at the table. Jacob set the bag down and unzipped it. Marcus took out an Athena Trident Pro laptop and an Athena X-25 Fortress phone. The phone’s thick casing was scuffed, and the corners of the laptop showed wear, but neither appeared damaged. Louis recognized both models at once. He had owned the same phone and laptop when he was fifteen, back when they were Athena’s flagship devices. He had used them for only a few months before replacing them with the next generation as soon as it was released. Back then, they had been toys. Now they were tools for survival.

Marcus turned the phone on. The Athena network symbol appeared.

“Functional,” he said, and passed it to Louis.

Louis took it. He swiped across the lock screen, and the home screen opened. The Athena OS finished loading and displayed the network menu. He chose the satellite option and waited. The phone found a signal and connected. The gold Dominion network interface opened on the screen.

Gladice leaned forward to see. “It works.”

“’Course it works. This room gets better reception than most.” Marcus took the laptop from the box and opened it. He pressed the power button and waited. The screen came on, ran through its startup sequence, and stopped at a password prompt. He entered the password and handed the laptop to Louis.

Louis moved the cursor to the network icon and clicked it. The laptop searched and found the Athena satellite link. Louis selected the link. He opened a browser. It loaded at once.

“The password is ‘welcome to Atlanta.’”

“Good,” Louis said.

“Told you,” Marcus said. He folded his hands on the table. “Now, it’s time for y’all to return to your friends and call your father. He’ll be expecting it.”

“And then?” Gladice asked.

“Y’all join me for a drink tonight. Bring your friends. We’ll discuss the rest.” Marcus stood up. “Jacob will take y’all back to your motel.”

Jacob pushed the laptop bag toward Louis. “Bag’s yours. Don’t lose the charger. Finding another one down here is harder than finding the computer.”

“Thank you.” Gladice opened her backpack, fitted the bag inside, and zipped it shut. She pulled the backpack onto her shoulders as Louis stood. His leg had stiffened from sitting, and he shifted his weight onto the cane.

He and Gladice followed Jacob back through the office. The reclining chair was empty. They went upstairs to the ground floor. At the basement entrance, one of the guards handed Louis’s M1911 back to him.

Jacob looked at the pistol. “Holy hell. That’s a pretty gun. Mind if I take a look?”

Louis handed it to him. Jacob turned it over in his hands, tested its weight, and tilted the slide toward the light.

“‘My place is earned in service,’” he read aloud. “That’s some serious shit.”

Gladice folded her arms. “Yeah. In the Collective, that usually means they already picked out where you’re gonna die.”

“Damn,” Jacob glanced at her. “Heard you was military. Ain’t never heard of a white girl soldier who knew how to work somebody over like that.”

“Then you’ve been hanging around the wrong white girls.” Gladice chuckled.

Jacob handed the pistol back to Louis grip-first. “Around here? Ain’t no black folks dumb enough to hang around white girls.”

“That’s a shame.” Louis holstered it beneath his jacket.

“Technically, I’m part Japanese,” Gladice said. “So maybe they’d only lynch you for the white half.”

Jacob barked out a laugh. “Damn, girl. That’s fucked up.” He shook his head, still grinning. “I like you.”

Louis took Gladice’s hand as they walked. She laced her fingers through his, then stuck out her tongue at Jacob.

Jacob smiled and shook his head. He led them through a side passage and into a concrete garage. A tractor-trailer stood beneath the overhead lights. The cab had been painted with a large image of Jesus, one hand raised in blessing, while the side of the trailer carried the words TRANSPORT FOR JESUS CHRIST in red block letters.

Jacob pointed toward it. “This is your ride.”

Gladice looked over the truck. “Very subtle.”

Jacob walked to the rear of the trailer, released the latches, and pulled both doors open. He stepped aside and motioned them toward the cargo compartment.

“Get in.”

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