Jacked Read online

  Jacked

  Kirk Dougal

  © 2016

  Edited by J.M. Martin & Tim Marquitz

  Cover Design by Shawn T. King

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Worldwide Rights

  Created in the United States of America

  Published by PER ASPERA PRESS

  Associate Editor: Jak Koke

  An Imprint of Ragnarok Publications | www.ragnarokpub.com

  Publisher: Tim Marquitz | Creative Director: J.M. Martin

  Thank you for purchasing this Ragnarok Publications eBook.

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  Kegan, never let anyone—including yourself—stand between you and your dreams.

  Jacked

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  If they caught him again they would kill him.

  Tar sprinted across the street, dodging the grill of a 1970s-era Chrysler that had more rust on it than green paint. That made it a government vehicle since only city workers and the rich could afford gas and nobody with money would be seen in that car.

  The driver shouted a curse but stopped mid-word, rolling up his window when a group of older boys ran around his car after Tar. It was one thing to cuss out a lone fifteen-year-old, it was quite another to provoke a group of twenty-somethings wearing the local blue and orange gang colors.

  Tar never heard the driver. He was too busy running for his life.

  It had been stupid of him to travel this far downtown. In San Jose the gangs wandered openly up and down the streets with no fear. They were the law in this neighborhood. Their territory. Their turf.

  And Tar had told them “no.”

  That wasn’t exactly true; he had never said the word. He had smashed his heel down hard on the boy’s foot, the one who’d been holding his arms, and felt the toes crack beneath his shoe. The gang member had screamed and let go, allowing Tar the opportunity to rip his backpack out of the leader’s hands and run.

  Although his pursuers were bigger Tar was able to keep the gap he had opened when the Chrysler cut them off. But now his lungs were starting to burn and his feet felt ten pounds heavier. He would never make it back home to the south side, at least not in one piece.

  He ran past empty storefronts, his shoes on the sidewalk echoing off all the boarded-up windows. It was the only sound on the street. This block had died when most of its owners went away.

  Above him the ever-present gray haze hung in the sky and Tar blinked through the sweat running down his face. Ahead on the next block he saw flashing neon lights and people wandering, heard the rumbling of music, and the blare of voices shouting for shoppers to buy at their stores. It was a bright spot of life in a dark and dreary backdrop.

  He hoped the people would slow the bangers chasing him, counting on his small size to help him dart quickly through the sparse crowd. Unfortunately, they parted like curtains in a breeze, blowing back with his passing, getting out of his way and moving even farther apart for the group of hunters on his trail. Some of the people looked away in shame from Tar’s pleading eyes but no one wanted to be blamed for helping him. No one wanted to become the hunted.

  Two more blocks and the crowds thinned, the empty street opening up in front of Tar again. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder and immediately felt his legs lighten. He was still a long way from his part of the city but he must be nearing the edge of the gang’s territory. Most of them had already fallen back, slowing to a jog while they looked side to side at the buildings.

  Not the gang leader, though. He was still pounding along about half a block behind Tar.

  “I’m goin’ aggro on you,” the older boy yelled between gulps of air. “You’ll be 404 so long your momma’ll think you’re hard boot.”

  But Tar ignored the threat. He had finally found what he was looking for: the store on the corner with the sign hanging from only one side, swinging gently back and forth over the sidewalk. The chipped paint said it had been a hardware store at one time, back before The Crash. He had searched this building earlier in the day for bits of metal and anything useful so he knew it was just a hollow shell.

  But it was also his escape.

  He swung wide and cut down the side street, pushing himself for a last bit of speed until he stood, panting, at the building’s tall, metal door. It loomed up in the wall but Tar’s eyes never left the security box alongside it. He slapped his hand down on the box’s scratched, rusting surface.

  His palm tingled as soon as his skin made contact.

  In his mind Tar saw a series of lines and dots, light flying down a path until it reached a dead end. His thoughts retreated and tried a different route, quickly jumping around the blocked point until finding the way to the end.

  A green light came on above his fingers and the bolt clicked. Tar yanked the door open and pulled it shut behind him. The metal closed off the light and left him in darkness. He heard the door latch slide and a red light flashed on the security box on the inside wall.

  He waited until he could barely hear the gang leader’s muffled footsteps race past the doorway and on down the side street. Tar slid along the wall and sat in the dust, finally catching his breath. The gang leader might backtrack, looking for signs of where his quarry had disappeared, but it didn’t matter, the door was locked. Now Tar just had to wait until nightfall. Only the desperate walked the streets after dark——and that described him at the moment——but at least he would make it home now without bangers on his heels the whole way.

  This was as safe as things got after The Crash.

  Chapter 2

  Tar slipped through the side door of the apartment building, shutting it softly behind him and listening to the bolt lock back into place. He waited in the semi-dark, one bare bulb down the hall struggling to defeat the shadows, and took note of the voices above him for a few seconds before he smiled.

  He had made it home.

  Tar walked past the elevator—he had never known a time when it worked—and went straight to the stairway on the other side. He was only on the fourth step, each one creaking louder than the last, when an old man rounded the corner of the landing. Flyaway tufts of white hair broke up the baldness above his ears and punctuated the worried look in his eyes.

  “Where’ve you been?” the man said, his voice quiet through
clenched teeth. “I was just getting ready to come find you.”

  Tar leaned against the wall and looked away.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Jahn. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  Jahn sat down on the top step of the landing.

  “So, where’ve you been?” he asked again.

  Tar hesitated. His answer would not be welcome.

  “I went grepping for apps and some guys tried to take my backpack.”

  “Someone new came into the neighborhood?”

  “No.” Tar took a deep breath before the plunge. “I was downtown by the park.”

  “Tar! You fool boy. What were you thinking?” Jahn rubbed his hands along both sides of his head, the hair sticking out even more than before. “It wasn’t Black Shirts, was it?”

  “No. It was youngers. Just some gang guys.”

  “Just some gang guys.” Jahn snorted. “With some of those gangs you’d be just as dead as if it was Black Shirts. How’d you get away?”

  “I fragged a guy’s foot and ran.”

  “You ran? All the way back here?”

  An already bad conversation was about to get worse.

  “No. I fixed a door and waited inside the building until they were gone.”

  “Omigod, Tar. Did they see you fix it? Do you think they’ll tell anyone?”

  Tar smiled.

  “They never saw me. I fixed it and was inside before they got around the corner of the building.”

  Jahn shook his head and sighed.

  “Tar, you’ve got to be more careful. Even if the gang didn’t hurt you there’s a big price on fixers’ heads. With what the Black Shirts pay for someone like you, brothers turn in brothers.” He leaned forward and put a hand on Tar’s shoulder. “You need to stay closer to home and be safe.”

  Tar shook off Jahn’s hand.

  “You know I can’t! I’ve grepped all the old buildings around here. There aren’t any good apps left. Everything here is just brick, nothing fixable.”

  “Shhh!” Jahn looked back up the stairway toward the voices. He waited several seconds before continuing. “Keep it down, boy!”

  “But you know it’s true,” Tar said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’m just adware. If I can’t sell things that people need then I’m dead weight.”

  Jahn shook his head.

  “No, boy! You’re important, just bein’ you.” His voice fell again and his eyes took on a faraway stare. “I knew it from the first else I never would’ve…” He blinked and looked at Tar. “Just stay away from the Black Shirts and be safe. How many fixers do you suppose are out there? How are we ever goin’ to get back to what we had if no one can make this junk work? No, Tar, you’re real important.”

  Tar looked down at the steps. Uncle Jahn was wrong. He was just an undersized boy whose parents were killed in The Crash.

  After a minute of silence his uncle asked, “Did you find anything good today?”

  “I guess so.” Tar shrugged before a grin split his face. “I found one of those boxes that shows movies when you plug it into the screen. Mr. Keisler told me he would buy the next one I found. I also got a couple of the little machines that people did math on. I can get rid of those at the school.” His excited words practically tumbled over each other, pushing the previous ones out of the way.

  “Sounds like a good day.” Jahn patted Tar on the shoulder and stood up. “Come on and get something to eat. You can go see Keisler and the others before lights out.”

  Tar nodded and walked up the stairs with his uncle, on the way to where they slept on the third floor. Every step creaked beneath their feet. He concentrated on the noise rather than how much his uncle used him for support as they went up.

  #

  “Tar? Tar, honey. One of the coils on my stove won’t get hot anymore. Will you come look at it?”

  He stopped in front of the middle-aged woman as several young kids ran around him. On the higher floors residents had their own kitchens, unlike his and his uncle’s quarters. Down there everyone had to share a kitchen and common area and their apartment was really nothing more than a room two strides across with beds like sideways tubes built into the walls.

  “Will it get warm at all or did it go brick, Mrs. Gillis?”

  She smiled.

  “If ‘brick’ means ‘broken,’ then yes, it is. I turn it on high and it stays cold as a stone. But something smells burnt.” She laughed. “You kids and your funny sayings these days. I suppose I was just as bad when I was your age.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It sounds like a wire fragged, uh, fell apart. Don’t turn that burner on, just in case. You don’t want to start a fire.” He readjusted the backpack on his shoulder. “I have to go to Mr. Keisler’s right now. I promised to do something for him tonight but I think I have some extra wire in my room. If not, I’m sure there’s some in the basement. I’ll come back in the morning, Mrs. Gillis, if that’s okay.”

  “Oh, that’s fine. You’re a good, young man, Tar. I don’t know what we’d do without you around here.”

  Tar started off again, making his way around some adults as they chatted outside their apartments. Kids played in the hall, every once in a while earning a few sharps words to keep it down. It went this way every day once residents came home from work and the sun went down. It was not safe to be out after dark and, unless you liked to read, like Mr. Martinez who had a whole room filled with books, or like Mr. Keisler who had some machines that still worked, then the only thing to do in the evening was talk with your neighbors. Sure, some folks locked themselves away behind barred doors like Mrs. Burgen a few doors down from him and his uncle on the third floor, or the Wendohlsom family who had almost all of the top floor. Most residents found ways to spend time with each other, talking to the person beside them to keep up with gossip and bits of news scrounged from around the city.

  He had gone a short way when he heard someone call his name: “Hey, Tar! You got a minute?”

  A big man sat on a folding chair outside an apartment. His muscled arms and thick-jointed fingers were blackened from dye, and on his lap was a heavy piece of canvas with a carburetor laid out in several pieces.

  “Something wrong with your truck, Mr. Lionel?” Tar had always been nervous around the man, partly because of his size, which made him feel even smaller, and also because the man never asked him to fix anything. All he really knew about Lionel was he worked at a city-owned factory and he was handy with automobile engines, at least, the old ones that could still run.

  “Oh, this? Nah, I’m working on this for one of the guys at the plant. He got some bad gas and really gooped it up.” Lionel picked up a glass from the floor and took a drink. “I hear you’re pretty good with your hands, too,” he said while casually looking at the pieces in his lap.

  “I do okay.” Tar felt the sweat trickle down the back of his neck and onto his shirt collar.

  Lionel twisted his head slowly from side to side, glancing up and down the hallway.

  “I hear you can sometimes find apps, apps that still work.” The man looked straight into Tar’s eyes.

  “I…I’ve been lucky. Not everything was fragged.” His face started to sweat and he felt that same sinking feeling in his stomach from earlier in the day when the gang had him surrounded.

  Lionel nodded and reached behind his chair, pulling his apartment door closed with one massive hand.

  “You know my Janie?” The man had a daughter a year or two younger than Tar. “Her birthday is next week and her mom and I want to get her something nice. I never put much into school work, even back when I was your age. I always liked to work more with these than with this.” He looked at his hands before pointing to his temple. “But my Janie, she’s a thinker. It might be nice for her to have one of those little book machines that she could use for school.”

  Tar felt a little weight come off his shoulders. A little.

  “I’ve seen ‘em before,” he said, not
wanting to tell the man he had two hidden in his cubbyhole of a bed. They were bricks but he’d have them fixed by morning.

  “Probably pretty expensive.”

  Tar nodded.

  “Yeah, they can be. It kinda depends on what’s on them if they’re a good app or not. Since The Crash there’s nothing in the air for them to talk to so they can only do what is already inside the box.” Tar remembered Jahn’s lecture about trust earlier in the evening and looked away from Lionel. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “I thought so. But hey, sometimes you do things for your kids that you wouldn’t do for yourself, right?” The big man laughed and the deep rumble made Tar look at him. “If you run across one that works I’ll pay a fair price and,” the smile left the man’s face, “I’d be real thankful. You might even say I would owe whoever found it a big favor if they ever needed help.”

  Tar nodded.

  “Tomorrow, the next day at the latest,” he said.

  Lionel returned the nod. They had an agreement. The man picked two carburetor pieces up with his massive fingers and delicately slid them together. “Have a good night, Tar.”

  “Good night, Mr. Lionel.”

  The boy walked the rest of the way to Mr. Keisler’s apartment. The scene repeated several more times along the way—some people asking for help with a broken machine, others looking for items they could not find themselves. Tar had not lied to Uncle Jahn when he called himself adware—a person who found and sold items to others—since it was how he helped them afford to live in a nice building and put food on the table. Lots of people lived in what his uncle called flops and were lucky to eat one meal a day.

  “Tar! Good to see you, lad,” said Mr. Keisler when he answered the knock at his door. “Come on in.”

  At first glance, Mister Keisler’s apartment appeared to be smaller than the others on this floor but the man walked to a bookshelf along one wall and pulled on the top book on the far left shelf. It leaned out and the small click of a latch sounded through the wood.