Chapter 2 - Collection Day

  Arlo watched in amazement as the beaten, rusty vehicle thumped down in the middle of the street with an angry hiss amid a cloud of white steam.

  It had no wheels, just four landing struts. Its front end was rounded and slender, with a wraparound windshield that had a crack on one side. Deeply ingrained dirt and rust suggested the vessel wasn’t well maintained, and when a door descended to form a ramp, it made a squealing noise and juddered all the way to the ground.

  Figures appeared. Arlo almost expected thug-like alien monsters. He was, after all, an unwilling extra on the set of a fantasy or science fiction movie—right? Instead, a group of humans emerged, stomping down the ramp and spreading out.

  These six ordinary men of average build wore modern zip-up coveralls, pale-blue in color—exactly like his own! Except these guys had weapons holstered at their sides, making them dangerous.

  Though his mind refused to accept this as anything but an elaborate set piece, with him being the butt of a huge joke, he still found himself cowering out of sight in an alley, peering around the stone wall and wishing his skull didn’t ache so much.

  “We’ve come to collect!” one of the men yelled. “Bring her out!” Bald, but with a heavy dark-grey beard, he stood with a wide stance, looking toward the nearby doorway of a corner tavern. “You have exactly until the count of five. You know what happens if I reach five.” After a pause, he barked, “ONE!”

  He didn’t get as far as two. The door eased open a few inches, and a hidden man called from the gloom within. “Sh-she’s coming out.”

  The bald man smiled and nodded. “Good.”

  All six men waited in grim silence, their attention focused on the door as it creaked wider. A woman stepped cautiously into view.

  Arlo squinted, surprised by what he saw. She didn’t look like the rest of the medieval-style peasantry. This white-robed woman was something else. Something special. She had a wheatish skin tone, lustrous black hair that fell around her shoulders, and sultry brown eyes.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” the bald man called, his tone anything but friendly.

  The woman approached, her beautiful eyes wide with fear. Her white robe had a regal look about it—thin straps at the shoulders, leaving her arms bare and a sizable slice of cleavage. The fabric cinched at her waist with a scarlet sash before flowing around her long legs to brush the cobblestones.

  “Lovely,” the bald man purred. “What do you think, lads?”

  Five men rumbled their approval.

  “What’s your name, lady?” he went on as she halted several paces away. She whispered her name, and the man tilted his head. “What? Indira? Well, Indira, come closer, there’s a good girl.”

  Reluctantly, she took a few more steps.

  The bald man held out his hand. When she lifted hers, he clasped it tight and bowed to kiss the back of her wrist. Then he straightened and, still maintaining a vise-like grip, studied her up and down.

  “My name is Layton. You are mine, now. Gotta say, I forget how many absolute beauties you peasants have stashed away. Maybe we should increase our quota, eh?” He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you say, boys? Should we shop for wives more often?”

  The men roared in agreement.

  Layton grinned and faced Indira again. She looked like a deer caught in headlights. He placed both hands on her shoulders, where he could gaze deep into her eyes. “Now, Indira, don’t look so scared. I’m not going to hurt you. Being my wife comes with privileges. And your small sacrifice avoids the need for my boys to rain hell down on all these nasty little homes. Think of the lives you’re saving. Do you have family here?”

  Indira nodded, but the man immediately shrugged.

  “I honestly don’t care. The point is, you’re the chosen one this time around, and I have to admit I’m impressed. Very pleased indeed.”

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  Still cowering behind the wall, Arlo’s heart beat hard and fast. The nagging feeling had returned. A memory was developing. All of this was normal. He remembered sitting down in a leather armchair, and a man talking excitedly as he approached. His words were indistinct as if speaking from the bottom of a swimming pool. The device he held, though . . . some kind of headpiece . . .

  “Yeah, you and I are gonna get along just fine,” the bald man was saying to Indira. He grinned around at his men. “She just might be my favorite wife. But then, I probably say that every time.”

  They laughed and nodded, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

  It was obvious to Arlo they were afraid of Layton. They certainly hurried to obey his sideways nod when he released Indira and stepped back. Two of the men rushed to grasp her arms, then marched her up the ramp of the waiting vehicle.

  “All right,” Layton shouted, his voice echoing down the streets. “You’ve delivered my new wife to me, and I’m pleased. Very good. Now, send out the lazy scumbag responsible for this week’s shortage.”

  Arlo had been tense the whole time, not to mention sweating buckets. The increasing pain behind his eyes and the slowly rising nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but he grimly held still, peering around the corner. To his horror, the hologram screen suddenly appeared, projecting into the alleyway, and he jerked backward out of sight before the men spotted it.

  Find a mage pomelo to replenish your vitality.

  “Get lost!” he hissed. When the screen remained, he added, “Are you kidding me? Screen off!”

  To his relief, it vanished.

  He returned his attention to the tense scene at the intersection.

  A newcomer stepped into view from the tavern doorway. He was middle-aged and didn’t look well; he stooped as he walked, and the way he gripped his abdomen suggested his gut ailed him. His straggly hair and unkempt beard made him look like a vagrant.

  Layton sneered as the man shuffled into the street. “Disgusting. And weak. You’re a weak link, do you know that? You let the team down. Weak links must be punished.”

  He gave a dismissive gesture and abruptly turned to head up the ramp of the waiting vehicle. Before disappearing inside, Layton stopped and offered a curt wave. “Farewell, Olde Village. Keep working hard, and my men will see you as usual next week. No shortages, all right? I do hate violence.”

  He vanished from view.

  The two men who’d taken Indira aboard reappeared straight after, and they stamped down the ramp to join the others. Five thugs now surrounded the so-called ‘weak link.’

  They closed in, their intent clear.

  Arlo watched with mounting horror as one man stepped forward and struck the vagrant hard across the face, causing him to stagger. Immediately, the others joined in, their fists flying until the man stumbled and fell.

  Then the kicking started.

  And they were real kicks. Arlo could see the boots connecting with the jaw, and teeth dropping loose. A cheek splitting open wasn’t simply a special effect. The sickening cracks and thuds came from actual kicks to the face. All the blood that leaked from the man’s mouth and nose couldn’t have come from hidden capsules.

  Despite an overwhelming urge to run far away, Arlo suddenly found himself rushing into full view and shouting, “STOP THAT!”

  His warning got their attention, at least. They paused and twisted around.

  Arlo stood trembling as they glared at him from afar.

  Then, one laughed and said, “Look at the rookie, boys. Another one here to save the day.”

  This elicited a chuckle, and then they went right back to beating the vagrant.

  Unable to tell if he felt relieved or angered, or both, Arlo clenched his fists and began stalking along the cobbled street toward the fight, breathing hard as he mustered the courage to leap into the fray. They’re gonna beat the crap out of me. I’m gonna die.

  Yet he couldn’t stand by and watch.

  Maybe it was his own self-preservation kicking in, but at that moment his headache surged with a vengeance. Arlo halted and clutched at his temples. Dizziness swept over him. Squinting and blinking, he bent double and grasped his knees, then vomited.

  White light flared, and the annoying hologram screen popped into view once more.

  Find a mage pomelo to replenish your vitality.

  “You said that already,” he growled.

  Simply knowing his vitality was low didn’t help him one bit. What the hell was a mage pomelo anyway? His world spun, and he pitched forward to thud down on the cobblestone. He felt nothing, like he was cushioned.

  Everything blurred after that. Arlo was dimly aware of laughter, then a shouted comment, and footsteps as the group of men stomped up their ramp.

  The whine of an engine cut through the town as Layton and his men took off. Arlo wanted to look up and study the vehicle’s ascent, but he knew that would only make him more nauseous.

  Cracking open his eyes for one bleary moment, with his face pressed against the ground, the last thing he saw before blacking out was the lower half of a tan-colored frock and a pair of brown boots as a woman, whoever she was, hurried toward him . . .