Book 2: Chapter 7: Almost a Good Day (2/2)
”How much for a sword?” he asked the first worker whose attention he could catch. It was a burly man in a charred tank top. His thick beard covered his cheeks, chin and neck, jutting out like a lion's mane. He had been sitting on a stool, examining a piece of metal, when Dan had approached. The man placed it to the side.
”Depends on the quality and shape,” he replied. ”You're looking at several hundred dollars, minimum. Upwards of two or three grand.”
The answer came immediately, without pausing to think or comment on the stupidity of Dan's request. This was a mall after all. What idiot would come to a mall for a sword? Yet the smith didn't bat an eye. He simply quoted a price.
Dan decided that this was his new favorite store.
They began going over details immediately. Dan wanted a cane sword. Not for any particular reason, nor to use in every day life. He simply knew they existed, and thought they were cool. More importantly, he thought he'd look rather dashing, wearing a shiny new cowboy hat and spinning his cane sword.
He chose not to think too hard on that image, so as to not dispel the illusion.
The two men managed to get as far as discussing the dimensions of Dan's order, when the day went to shit. It happened slowly, as awareness crept in. Second by second, person by person, a quiet pall swept across the food court. The rhythmic hammering of the blacksmith slowed, then stopped. The crackling of the furnace and the furious pumping of the bellows came to an abrupt end.
Dan glanced around, as a sound cut through the silence. It was a news report, brought up on every screen in the building. An ethereally attractive woman stood against a backdrop of broken buildings, bullet holes, and cop cars. She stood at the edge of a police checkpoint, camera zooming past a crowd of officers swarming a parking lot. Smoke rose in the distance, and car alarms rang out in a clamorous symphony. Yellow police tape hung off loosely off doors and windows, crisscrossing the shattered store fronts. It was a strip center that had been hit, no less than twenty businesses on a busy Friday afternoon.
Gang violence, the reporter explained. Rival factions meeting in what appeared to be sheer coincidence. A minor firefight, followed by a brief and brutal battle between mutates. The culprits remain unidentified. Civilians caught in the cross fire. At least twenty dead. Countless injured. The numbers were rising as police and rescue sifted through what was left of a once thriving shopping center.
”I have to go,” Dan said somberly.
The blacksmith barely acknowledged him, still fixed on the television screen. Dan vanished into the Gap.
His crisis bag was exactly where he'd left it, the large duffel bag tucked in his closet next to a pair of thick boots. He shed his casual clothes, throwing on heavy jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. He unzipped the duffel, quickly double checking the contents. He pulled out the pair of leather gloves, tucking them into his back pocket. He strapped his compass to his belt, drumming his fingers against the rough plastic.
Merrill arrived from downstairs, somehow sensing his distress. She scampered up his leg, along his back, onto his shoulder. She bumped her tiny head against his cheek, and he spared her a brief smile. He pet her for a time, breathing slowly. His mind sank into a deep calm.
The text came within minutes. His emergency alert app sent him an address, and a brief. Dan scanned it, grimaced, then plucked Merrill off his shoulder. The mouse squeaked comfortingly as he placed her on his bed. Then, he zipped up his duffel, tossed it over his back, and vanished.