Reality Heist by Geordi Riker (best ebook reader for chromebook txt) 📖

“Don't tell me that actually came from your pack?” Chase asks, amazed.

Dutch holds it up proudly, the sudden movement knocking him slightly off balance, “It did. It's the best yet.”

“You say that every time. Do you even remember how the last one tasted?”
“Nope.”
“Do you remember the five beers you drank in the time Amaar drank a glass of water?”
“Don't think so, but there were... seven bottles at the end.”
“You actually are drunk, aren't you? How much do you even have left in there?”
“Not enough to go around. Then again, they never give me enough for even myself. So how can you expect me to share with you, you greedy moocher?”
“Don't start with me, drunk, and don't call me a moocher.”
“Moocher,” Dutch slurs. His gaze slips to me, “Who's this? Nobody said nothing about a new guy.”
“Actually, new girl. Her name is 'Dee.”
“No it's not,” I start, but Chase steps on my foot hard, “Ow! Hey, that hurt!”
“Don't you remember what we talked about earlier? Tell Dutch your real name and he'll call you anywhere from 'Vodka' to 'Fireworks', and any sort of drink in between,” Chase hisses at me. Then, louder, “Dee, this is Dutch. He's our resident drunkard, but on the side, he helps the group out by being our chauffeur. Don't get in a drinking contest with him, because you won't remember anything of the next few days, especially if he gets you to drink any of his concoctions. Those things are so potent I'm surprised Skip lets them slide.”
“Skip controls what travels with us?” Dutch asks, his words slightly slurred, “I didn't know that. Guess that's why he's the boss right? 'Cause he knows what everyone needs to succeed.” He takes another swig.
“Yeah, except in your case it's more like failure,” Chase replies wryly. He turns to me as we start walking again, “Now don't you start following in Dutch's army boots and believing everything you misinterpret. Skip doesn't control what travels with us between time-lines.”
“Dimensions,” Dutch growls from behind.
Chase shoots him a dirty look, “Whatever. Tomato, tomatto.” He turns back to me again, “What I meant by Skip letting Dutch's booze slide is that he actually lets Dutch to have that stupid brew on him. Makes sense. Dutch is bound to get drunk, one way or another, if he doesn't have his bottle with him, though, it's virtually impossible to figure out which bar he's gonna go to, even with the Link.”
“Something I assume you're gonna explain in more depth once we get in a green zone?”
“Actually, they're at a club called 'Blue Zone'.” Dutch interrupts again.
Chase gives him a baleful look, “I thought you couldn't find them?”
Dutch shrugs, “Meh, Jesse's always been a real kicker when it comes to finding him. He's practically yelling about where he is in the Link. The others are kind of muffled, but that's always been the case when Jesse's on the air.”
“Or when you're drunk as a skunk. Ow! Ease up on the brawn, would you?” Chase massages the back of his head. I glance behind me at a grinning Dutch. He winks at me through the wrinkles that surround the corners of his eyes.
The rest of the walk is relatively quiet, and Chase's flashlight makes the dark tunnel a little more creepy. The steady drip of water falling from some unseen pipe into a puddle that's already begun to turn into a small stream that trickles slowly in some unseen direction begins to grate on my nerves, but neither of my new-found buddies feels like breaking the silence, and I don't want to look weak by starting up a conversation. My head's already spinning, just by ideas about what my 'leaking black all over the place' was supposed to mean. I glance at what I'm wearing- the same baby t-shirt and cargo pants I had worn when I had collapsed exhausted on my bed. Black and blue. But that's not what Jesse had meant. My clothes wouldn't bug him and Chase that much that they would stop in the middle of an argument to tell me to not leak out so much. Chase and Jesse seemed like they argued often, and once they got started there was no chance of getting them to stop.
My attention turns to Dutch, a member of the same team as Chase and Jesse and Skip. A Sixer, Chase had called him. What was that supposed to mean? Was he the kind of guy who just hung out all the time at bars, or was there any truth at all to what Chase had claimed? So many questions, no where near enough answers. My shoe kicks through a clump of something. Chase gags, “Good lord, Petite, do you have to kick through every single pile of raccoon waste product?”
The stench reaches me too, and I blanch at the sudden wafts of dung that stink up the all-ready stale air. Dutch takes a few quick steps to match pace with us, and laughs at my expression, “You know you're from the cleaner part of a city when...”
“Knock it off, Dutch,” Chase growls, “Keep sharp, we're on the edges of a Hodge.”
“'Hodge'?” I ask as we near a light glowing from around the next corner.
“Hodge.” Chase nods, “Mixture between 'house' and 'lodge'. Basically, an underground city, but never call it that in public. These people will pick you out as an outsider the minute you open your trap. Speaking of outsiders,” He leans ahead a little bit to catch Dutch's eye around me, “Care to lend me that raggedy old bust of a jacket? I seem to be a little clean for wear.”
“You'll pay the usual?”
Chase sighs dramatically, “The next time I get shotgun, I hand over my claim to you.” Dutch takes off the jacket without another word and tosses it to Chase. Sniffing it suspiciously, Chase puts it on without vocal complaint, but you can tell by the way he wrinkles his nose that he doesn't like the idea of wearing it.
Dutch glances at him, giving him a solid look-over, “Shoes.”
Chase shoot shim an exasperated look, but Dutch ignores it, “And do something else with your hair, that comb over is depressing enough when you have to see Hitler wearing one. We're in the blooming eighties. Spike it, plait it, braid it for all I care, just get rid of the stupid comb over. You're too young to go bald.” He glances at me, “You're fine. You've got a weird taste for what makes the cut as Curse, but you definitely can't be mistaken for a Pure. Maybe claim that you're from Canada. Or better yet, you're a mute, so I'll make up a cover story for you.” His words have slowly become more and more coherent as he keeps on talking, “Although, I've got to ask, where did you get those clothes? You were in Pure territory, so why not go for a Pure target?”
“I woke up wearing this.”
“Don't tell me that's what you usually wear? Not that style of clothes, you must be kidding. She's kidding, right Chase?'
“I'm not.”
Dutch tips his bottle into his mouth and gulps down a huge amount before coming up for air. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sighs, and walks faster to get ahead of us. I can hear voices coming from around the corner. Chase sighs, running fingers through his hair to loosen up the stiff locks before shoving both hands in the pockets of Dutch's jacket.
“When did he become such a fashion tycoon?” I growl, shivering in the damp air.
Chase takes one look at me before pulling me up short and rummaging around in my backpack to come up with my jacket. I accept it gratefully and pull it on, still cold, but a little better. “It's a hobby of his. He's our master of disguise. If it weren't for that pot belly of his, he could probably pull off a scam as a hot hooker with a short skirt. He could probably even raise his voice a couple hundred octaves so that he even sounds like a woman, if he wasn't drunk all the time. But the bottle always gives him away, so he sticks with telling everybody else how to blend in while he sticks out like a sore thumb on parade.” He sighs, “Anyways, we're almost entering the Hodge. Want some last minute advice?”
I nod, and he continues, his raising his voice as the ruckus from up ahead grows louder, “Don't stare. Don't try to talk, nothing. Stick close to me, keep you're head down. I may look like a Pure, but I've been able to wing it before. Claim espionage, all that stuff. If we do get separated, curl up in an alleyway and don't make a sound. We'll be able to find you, just like me and Jesse did before. Things get pretty crazy down here. And if you hear the words 'Red Hour', run. Run as fast as you can in the same direction as everyone else.”
“What's 'Red Hour'?”
Chase grimaced, “That's when Hitler's army invades, gassing the entire place with strategically placed vents when they've decided that the Curses' 'infestation' has gone on long enough. After all,” he goes on, expounding a hand to the chaos that we come face to face with as we turn the corner, “Hodges are nothing but underground concentration camps glossed over with the illusion of depression era.”
The Hodge begins as soon as we take two steps past the bend, starting as suddenly as a bolt of lightning to the naked eye. Run down hovels of cardboard lean against brick structures. The place starts out as an old station, but I can't even see the end of the place. The track is something of a path, with most of the dwellings on the platform. Some people hawk their wares on boxes opposite the platform, engaging anyone and everyone, no matter what they're wearing. Just because someone doesn't have money to get new clothes, doesn't mean they don't have a spare penny to spend on a few trinkets. And most things are selling for pennies, and they could be anything- scraps of cloth, boxes of Band aids, bracelets, or small portraits that look catholic by the halo around each head. The people swarm around us, the ones closer noticing how much we stand out. Even my not-so-sophisticated look is cleaner than anything these people have ever seen.
The crushing masses push past us as we delve deeper into their home. People yelling at each other, creaks of machinery, the buzz of conversations overlapping each other, all mingle with the acrid smell of diesel fuel and the sweet tang of spices. Butter sizzles on a frying pan somewhere, the rest of the pan giving off a spicy smell that makes my mouth water as my mind tries to guess what it might be.
“Sharp eye,” Chase mutters to me, “These people will rob you blind. It doesn't help that we have these backpacks with us. Just by their size and bulk, people will think we have stuff worth stealing.” He runs a hand through his hair, muffing up the already destroyed comb over in a futile attempt to make himself blend in. He grabs my hand and forces his way through the crowds, making little headway, but at least establishing a steady pace. Nobody reacts in anger when he shoves them out of the way, and he returns the favour by not growling at anyone who comes too close. I use my free hand to hold onto my backpack, wrapping my arm around behind me, effectively covering all the zippers and keeping people from sneaking stuff out. I remember the jack knife now in my possession, can feel its weight tugging