It was the sour stench of sick that finally brought Trent awake, mixed with a slick, nasty oiliness all over his skin. He blinked his eyes open slowly, groaning as he sat up. His mouth tasted like a bad blend of sour mash, potato cakes and stale cigarettes. He armed sweat from his forehead, then tried to stand up. It was hard going, his body trying to shout him back down with various aches and pains. He ignored them and made his way to the shower stall V had pointed out.
Stripping off his socks and boxers, he ran the water, which came out in several coughs of brackish fluid before running clean. He stepped in, sighed as the warm water washed over him, soaking through his bandages, clearing dried blood off of his wounds.
A cursory look at himself showed Trent that his wounds had mostly closed, which should have been impossible. Yet, the entirety of Scumville was impossible, so he let it go without further inquiry. He didn't like letting things go, had in fact been incapable of doing so. He supposed that had been the key to the failure of his marriage. He'd known things were getting bad between he and Claire because of the undercover assignment, but he couldn't bear to let the case go.
Trent dried himself off with an old, dust-topped towel after beating it against the floor of the little bathroom closet, then stepped out into the main room. V sat in a rolling swivel chair at the desk, patting a bundle on top. "Fresh clothes," he said.
"Thanks." Trent quickly applied new bandage wraps where needed, then got dressed. "So, what's the district on the other end of this tunnel," he asked, pulling on his wristband.
"Production," V said. "It's where the Pusher's junk is made, in all of its varieties and flavors. We shouldn't run into much trouble there, if any. Most folks who manage to get there from the Scrapyard are given a wide berth. Still, be ready in case anyone gets too curious."
"Always," said Trent. He pulled on the shirt V had grabbed him, a dark blue button shirt with short sleeves and an iguana embroidered over the left chest pocket. He looked long at this, and snorted once, shaking his head. "I used to have this exact same shirt. Claire got it for me for Christmas one year, part of this grand scheme she had for hinting that we were gonna go on a vacation the next month. She had this iguana tattoo she got when she was younger, on a trip to Hawaii. She used to joke that if I ever saw one, it was a sign to get our asses out there." He sighed, planted his hands on his hips, and cocked his head to one side, giving V a discerning stare. "Smells clean."
"It is."
"What's going on, V? The café, the Shadow, and now this. Why do these things keep cropping up, stuff that makes me think of her?"
"Well, that's partly what I found out about," V said, looking away. "She's here." A stone dropped into Trent's stomach. "The Pusher has her at his place in Frost, the last district." Trent began pacing, pulling one hand from his forehead down over his cheeks, pinching down and pulling his lower lip as it went. He flapped his hands, exasperated, and sat down hard in the office's only other chair.
"This fucking Pusher fellah's just a prince, isn't he?" He rammed his balled up fist down on the desk, ran fingers through his shaggy wet hair. He could feel his temper flaring up, gritting his teeth. "I get to his hidey-hole, he dies. Mark me, V. He dies." V remained silent until Trent got up to make his way back out into the southbound tunnel.
"You should be focusing on getting out of Scumville," the guide said. "But whatever decision you make, I'll be there to show you the way." Trent scoffed, and left the maintenance office behind him.
The heavy air of Production district felt clammy, filthy on Trent's skin as he stepped out of the tunnel. The area was well-lit, and he could spot a number of peddlers and strung-out innocents wandering about, none of them paying him and V any mind. Some of the rat-like peddlers were loading backpacks onto wheelbarrows at the side doors of long, squat square buildings, from which plumes of noxious green smog spat, funneled out of chutes on their rooftops.
"Hey, V? How do the peddlers survive the trip through the Scrapyard?"
"The wheelbarrows," the guide said, pointing to one of them. "The Pusher had them made so that once they enter the mouth of either tunnel, they instantly come out the mouth of the other. Peddlers in the northern four districts keep their wheelbarrows hidden until they have to bring them back for resupply."
"Couldn't we have taken one?"
"No," said V with a hint of disappointment. "Only peddlers and bruisers can lift the handles. If anything else touches them, they phase." V made himself translucent for a moment, then re-solidified. "Just like me." He started walking again, leading Trent south, weaving away from drug-addled innocents. Trent saw that these ones' skins were becoming blotchy and pale, with streaks of dirt left where they stood on their tattered clothes.
Turning west to go around several buildings producing yet more of the Pusher's poison, V pointed to a group of three innocents skittering along on all fours, almost like the wasteoids. Their faces were sunken and bleach-white, a point Trent noted as they walked past them.
"Are they becoming wasteoids," he asked.
"Yes. They're heading south to the next district for just that purpose, more than likely. We'll get there well ahead of these, but we'll see others like them. Pity them, Trent. They have been made into what they are because of their addiction to the junk made here."
Trent considered, for just a moment, storming into one of the production buildings, perhaps going on a rampage and putting a stop to their works. But he was a lone man, a stranger here, and he could never stop them all. But V had, from the very start, told him that there were two options for him; escape from the city across the south bridge, or take down the Pusher, then leave.
Trent followed V through Production, on alert for any attack, his mind set on his goal.
The border of Production and the next district south was painfully clear. The squat, one-story lab buildings were replaced by what looked like domed arenas, the handful of streets between them each broken up and littered with detritus and old blood. Trent stood stock still, marveling at the nearest one. The front of it looked like a football stadium, complete with a box office at the front of the entrance, but instead of secure doors, there were three sets of subway-style security revolving doors, with bars on one side to prevent exit from the same way.
A large, neon green syringe symbol glowed sickly over the doors. Trent cocked one eyebrow at V. "This is where people come to be made into wasteoids," the guide said forlornly. He hung his head, scratching at the track marks on his arms. "I almost became one myself, long ago. But one of the guardians pulled me aside, told me I could have a greater purpose. I accepted the offer straight off, but I still end up using a lot of junk when I'm not guiding someone."
Trent looked at the stadium-like structure again. "The guardians," he said absently. "Where are they?"
"Scattered, the few left. We didn't see any in the Scrapyard, but we didn't see much of that place, thankfully. Keeping on the move has been key up to now, and still is. But we're past the worst of the threats for a bit. We can wander a little, but remember, the Pusher has Claire, and he still wants you dead." Trent snorted, walking east along a wide frontage road, bordered on the south by the wasteoid conversion building, on the north by a fat stretch of blasted soil, a long trench filled with brownish waste fluid pumped from the junk labs nearby.
"How many conversion domes are in Rebirth," he asked, keeping his eyes out for trouble. A look back over his shoulder showed him the trio of crawling innocents heading right for the gates of the wasteoid dome.
"Five," V said. "One for wasteoids, one for bruisers, one for bangers, one for blasters, and one for, er, miscellaneous. That one's smallest, and the furthest south. It's mostly used for making peddlers. Rebirth isn't very big."
"What's beyond Rebirth?"
"Barracks, where the Pusher's forces live for the first stretch of their newfound existence, even wasteoids. They are created with open eyes, but most have them sewn shut within Barracks district. On the far side of Barracks district is another wall, in the center of which stands The Glass House, the only means of ingress or egress from Frost, the final district. But we'll worry about that when we get there. Turn south up here, we shouldn't tarry too long."
Trent had spent most of his career as a detective, putting together facts, figures and circumstances in order to complete a picture, an understanding of events transpired. Rebirth's narrow lanes and towering arenas reminded him of the area of his hometown, where a clutch of medical facilities, all very much similar to these, dominated a few blocks of the city.
"Scumville changes a little with each visitor, doesn't it," he asked suddenly. V stutter-stepped, caught off-guard. Trent stepped up beside him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the guide. "You said a district attorney was through here once. Was it Sandra Burke?" He felt V twitch, knew he had the right of it. "Yeah, car wreck, two years ago. Paras on the scene said she died en route to the hospital."
"Because she died here, Trent. She didn't make it out of the city."
"I figured that much. I remember they found out her accident wasn't an accident at all, that she was targeted by one of Ricky Venzatti's boys on the open road. She was working on his case, trying to put him away for racketeering and fraud." He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a breath and blew it out through flapping lips. "When she was here, who was in charge?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the Pusher wasn't in charge when she was here, was he? So, who was in charge?" V hugged his hands to his chest, shuffled his feet awkwardly.
"The Don," said V quietly.
"And you weren't a junkie when she was here, were you? That bit's just for me, isn't it?"
"I was a wiseguy with a heart of gold," V said, grinning. "Of course, I still had this face and hair, and the scrawny frame. Mostly it's my outfit and the habits that change. But the name and job never vary." He shrugged his shoulders, gave Trent a tired, sleepy-eyed look. "It is what it is, man." He started forward again, but Trent held him still by the shoulder.
"I'm getting out of here, V," Trent said, his tone arctic, eyes narrowed. "I can do it. You saw what I did to that blaster in the Scrapyard. The Pusher isn't ready for me." V offered a wry grin, then nodded his head south. Once more, they were on the move.