Ghost Bricks: Ghost Bricks, #1

All the old countries are gone. Young, proud factions wear their coats though, hand-me-downs a few times over. Invention lived for a time, spurred on by the needs of the desperate and powerful. New weapons bred new defenses bred new weapons to kill the people who made those defenses, until the only things left were tools of war and not the knowledge needed to wield them.

The ambitions of the old world are scorched into the stony surfaces of the dead cities that mar the coasts and crossroads like rusting, rotting zits. The hopes of the peacemakers lay buried in bunkers and gravesites alike, sown like seeds, like buried treasures.

A new world grows from the ashes, cannibalizing and repurposing the blood and bones of the past just as it has so many times before, just as it may again, building a house for its bright future with haunted stone. With ghost bricks.

​Chapter 1

A green bottle smashes against the back wall of the bar, its foul contents spraying through the air in a star-pattern. Tiber’s lanky frame juts back up, having dropped only moments before to avoid the projectile.

His aggressor, a surly, bearded man, blurts out, You weasel! before charging forward.

Tiber steps back, dancing on the balls of his feet as he redirects one wasted punch after another. Even where they connect, layers of mismatched jackets serve as suitable armor against such poor technique.

Most of the other patrons restrain themselves, scooting out of the way as needed, while others take prime positions to watch the fight unfold. A man in a scrappy top hat even starts to gather bets on the proceedings.

Tiber finally hits back and, while the initial impact isn’t much to write home about, it serves as a suitable distraction for his extending leg.

The drunkard trips, stumbles backward, rolls over a fully seated table, then somehow catches himself upright again. His momentum hasn’t slowed a bit though, and he doesn’t stop until his waist meets the sill of an open window. Finally, after a moment of flailing, he goes up, out, and directly into an open dumpster. Tiber rushes over and slams the window shut, a grin already spreading across his face.

An older man who’d been nursing a whiskey until that point suddenly hoots, Pay up boys! You heard me right, I said he’d go out the window, I dun called it good!

There’s a round of groans, plus a second wave of grumbling as crinkling cash begins to change hands. Tiber makes his way to a booth in the corner, brushing the dust from his palms with satisfaction.

He slides in next to a huge young man with russet skin, a neat beard, and a mess of dark coils. Tiber slaps the burly figure’s upper arm and grins. See, Asher? Nothing that I can’t handle. Tiber produces a switch-blade comb and starts styling his greasy locks.

Ash, for his part, takes a long, deeply judgmental draw from his cup. More than a few people glare in their direction and a grudge-laced murmur titters around the room. Finally, the big man shrugs and replies, Well, I’m starting to think we may have worn out our welcome, and you’re still on the hook for tonight.

The remark flattens Tiber's good mood but he doesn’t bother arguing. He simply pulls out his wallet and starts fishing for cash.

As the two make their way to the bar front, the bathroom door squeaks open and they are joined by another: a mousy redheaded girl around the same age, with a baggy brown coat and a green flat-cap. She looks up at them through a pair of wire-frame glasses and whispers an apology, "Sorry. I don’t like when you antagonize folks that you don’t need to. Anyway, I’m glad you're still in one piece. Where’s the other guy?"

Tiber smirks uncontrollably and asks, What? That old boozer? That good-for-nothing louse?

Before Ash can tell him to close his fat yap, the front door swings open and there is a click. It’s heavy and metallic, and it puts every single conversation in the room in a chokehold.

The trio turns to face its source, and Tiber slowly raises his hands into the air, palms forward. That ‘good-for-nothing louse’ is standing in the doorway, a scrapyard handgun held aloft and quaking.

Tiber whispers out of the corner of his mouth, Hey, Sloan, what are the odds of that thing actually working?

She whispers back an answer, Not low enough to risk it, now hush. Sloan pushes her glasses a little further up the bridge of her nose and brushes a few auburn locks to the side as she steps forward, her hands in front of her. After a deep breath, she begins, Look, sir, we’re very sorry for...

The thug barely seems to notice her entreaty, and she trails off as he passes a grimace around the room. A few of the other patrons rise and stand at his side, four or five, each looking considerably tougher, and soberer, than their apparent leader.

He holsters his firearm, looks Tiber in the eye, and croaks, "round two, weasel." Makeshift weapons are drawn.

Tiber, Ash, and Sloan share a look. Sloan Grimaces, Asher sticks his hands in his pockets, and Tiber, eyeing his allies with smug, wordless reassurance, answers the challenge. Alright, let's go.

Go means go, there is no pause: the bar turns into a whirling storm of bodies. Asher’s knuckles gleam with brass as Sloan and Tiber stay close at his side, feinting and baiting to keep the thugs from flanking him and taking their fair share of hits for the trouble.

Tiber darts out of the way of a hurled bottle, then several more. He catches one out of the air and throws it back. It makes contact, though it doesn’t shatter, thumping one of the attackers on the forehead and sending him to the floor.

Sloan, slight as she is, catches someone’s baton in both of her hands. She holds it there just long enough for Asher to come around and take a shot at its wielder.

Asher pulls a small round table out from under one of the bar patrons and throws it, along with a beer, an order of fries, and most of a sandwich. It collides with two of the assailants and sends another skittering out of the way

The drunkard screams and draws a knife from his coat pocket, charging toward Tiber in a rage. The greaser stumbles and slips, barely catching himself on the edge of a booth. The drunkard leads with his blade and it comes only a few inches from his target’s face.

The thug stops in place. One of Asher’s huge hands is wrapped under his armpit, hefting him into the air in a flash. He drops the knife as he goes up, then he comes down.

Hard.

There is a bang, a loud, hollow sound that cuts the ear and punches a hole in the bottom of the drunkard’s holster. The bullet goes through the front wall.

— — —

A man with rough hands and no name sweeps through darkened streets, his shoulder laden with a metal cylinder and his heart pumping. He keeps glancing up at the label, Do Not Inhale, Acute Toxicity Hazard. Kidney Failure, Heart Failure, Lung Disease... The list goes on and on, and eventually disappears behind the rumpled folds of his jacket.

There is a ruckus ahead, the sound of a fight, and on most nights he would have switched to another route. Instead, he only thinks, "Running late, running late. If I have to spend another minute carrying this death trap, I’ll—"

His thoughts expire as the bullet passes through the valve of the canister, and then through the side of his head. He falls limp, and the cylinder rolls out of his fingers, across the wooden porch, and right up next to the still-open door, hissing all the while.

— — —

The bar is quiet.

After a beat, the barman shouts, Hit? Is anyone hit? Nobody answers. Someone groans, then a damaged wallboard snaps and clatters to the floor.

The barman issues an order, exhaustion layered over anger, "Every single one of you morons, get the Hell out of my building. An awkwardness follows, a couple of sour looks passing between the belligerents, until the man insists, Now!"

In all the silence though, the hiss becomes audible, like air leaking out of a tire. Several people start to cough, the drunkard among them, until they drop to the floor. Some wretch, others just keep coughing, and some fall entirely flat and begin to spasm.

Tiber wipes a red blotch from his forehead and Asher pulls up a mask. Sloan whispers, Gas... as she sets down the barstool she was using as an improvised weapon. The three exchange a look and a nod, then dart for the back door together, disappearing into the night like wounded animals.

They work their way through the streets, silent and certain, until they reach the motel: a dank edifice with a perpetually barren parking lot. Sloan stops on the sidewalk away from the streetlights and her companions join her a moment later, huffing quietly.

Asher leans against the wall and catches his breath, gently rubbing a sore spot on his arm. Tiber’s face is pale, even in the gloom. Sloan takes a cloth from her pocket and cleans her glasses.

Ash mumbles, Good luck that those didn’t get broken, eh?

She scoffs. Good luck? We don’t get that. If we did, Tiber’d blow it on card games.

Tiber doesn’t respond.

Tiber?

His face is still pale, but he turns his nose up suddenly and he shakes himself off. Oh, yeah, uh...totally. Big gambler. Asher raises an eyebrow and Sloan replaces her glasses as Tiber recomposes himself to continue. So, that sucked. We probably don’t want to stick around here too long, eh?

Skipping town? Sloan asks, relief edging into her voice. That’s the Tiber I know. We oughta stay the night still, sleep off our aches. Plus, I still need to pick up my rifle from the gun lady in the morning.

We need supplies, too, Asher adds. The wilds around here aren’t good for scrounging.

Tiber takes a breath and starts combing back his hair, almost meditatively. Sounds like we got a plan then. I’ll see you guys in the morning?

Asher and Sloan nod, then split off for their own individual rooms. Tiber watches them go, then his shoulders drop. The corners of his mouth rise as if to smirk, but simply stutter and fall again.

He makes for his own quarters, cleans himself up, and settles in. Sleep evades him. Moonlight dies outside of his window, just a strip of it slipping in through the blinds and laying itself across the floor. Tiber lies sideways and traces it with his eyes, blinks once, blinks twice, rubs his face. He blinks again, and holds it this time. The quiet of the space starts to wrap him up, and he listens to it intently, a low hum seeming to hide just beneath the surface of the din.

His focus melts and his head sinks into the pillow, and when his eyes open again, the strip of moonlight on the floor is a gentle, golden hue. Tiber blinks a few times, then whispers, Not moonlight?

He listens again. There is a quiet ruckus from an adjacent room, shuffling and creaking. Tiber rises and trudges over to the window and, sure enough, it’s bright outside. The morning sun pries fruitlessly at the sill and the window, lighting up the dusty glass.

Tiber shakes his head and wanders over to a tiny desk. His belongings are scattered atop it, including a clean set of clothes. He dresses and glances at himself in the mirror. His hair is barely mussed but he takes up his comb and begins tending to it anyway.

Once he’s satisfied, he rummages through a jacket pocket and withdraws an old-style tape recorder. There is a cassette already in the deck, labeled ‘Ghost Bricks’ in faded and worn marker. He fiddles with the device for a moment, turning it over in his hands like it's made of glass, then he flips the power on and presses play.

A click emits from the device. It doesn’t start to play though, not until he smacks it a few times, and then the motors begin to whir. A younger voice begins, "Hey, future Tiber, it’s me, past Tiber. I just remembered something cool that our brother told us years ago: ghost bricks. It’s, like, a saying, or a turn of phrase. In the old days, when you could still count the number of World Wars on one hand, sometimes, people just dropped dead. Radiation, heart attack guns, microscopic sniper bullets, that sort of thing. Usually, you couldn’t tell how they died, and if someone asked what happened, you’d just say ‘ghost bricks fell on them’ or ‘a ghost dropped a brick on ‘em."

Tiber stares at the device for a little while, and the voice on the other side takes a deep breath before clarifying, That’s what Walt told me, anyway. At some point, people just shortened it to ‘ghost bricks’, and you’d know what they meant. Anyway, if you ever see any ghost bricks, make a note of it. It stops the ghosts from coming for you, or something.

The machine clicks off as its batteries die. The scrapper turns it over in his hands and stuffs it into a pocket, sighing coolly. He startles at a sound, a knock at the door, and Asher’s baritone rumbles from outside. You done packing? it calls. We’d like to get a move on before the sheriff shows up.

Tiber rolls his neck and glances over his gear. Yeah, I’m coming. Just checking on something first, I’ll be out in a sec.

He glances toward the window, feels the weight in his pocket, and considers drawing the blinds open. The late-autumn dawn calls to him with memories of a voice that’s confident and caring, but the hollow longing in his chest strangles the urge, and he repeats, now to himself, Just checking on something.

— — —

The radio crackles, ringing throughout the cab interior of an armored truck. A voice on the other side shouts for a minute or two, something about a missing delivery and a bar fight. The woman on the receiving end, lantern-jawed and dressed like a soldier, interrupts, Easy, easy! I don’t know what happened to our runner, but it sounds like a freak accident. We’re not going to reimburse you but we’ll send another cylinder, just keep your pants on. The woman begins scribbling on a notepad.

The voice on the other side continues, now ranting about a show-boating teenager, Tyler or Tiber or something, and his entourage of miscreants.

The soldier stops writing. Sorry, who? she asks cautiously.

The other voice reasserts, this time more confidently, Tiberius was the name in the official report. What’s it matter to you?

The woman takes another note and answers, Oh, not a thing. It’s just a strange name. We’ll get you your delivery this time, and we’ll throw in a little bonus for the delay. Thank you for doing business with First Strike Security Services, and have a nice day.

The man relents finally, grumbling, and the soldier turns the radio off, grinning hazardously all the while.

— — —

Nice moves last night, T-bone. Asher’s voice is hoarse and a little bit choked, partially from shouting last night, partially from the hunk of bread he’s in the middle of scarfing down. It is marked, regardless, with sarcasm.

Tiber presses a makeshift ice pack against his forehead more firmly and scowls. I hope that’s not your idea of a joke. I was holding off three of ‘em by myself, big man. The scrapper straightens his hair against the wind with his free hand as the two of them lean against the side of a rusted, tin roofed shack on the edge of Vender Town.

A moment later, Sloan exits the building, her rifle packed up in its canvas bag and hanging heavily over her shoulder. She slaps it proudly, announcing, Molly got it fixed, and I got a silencer for it too, cheap. She looks toward Tiber and frowns. "That’s the last time I let you load my cartridges though. How much powder did you think is supposed to fit into one of these things?" She holds up an exploded brass bullet casing for emphasis.

Tiber throws the now-melted ice pack away and stands up straight. "Okay, okay. What’s with the third degree you guys? We’re just on a run of bad luck. Plus, the only reason we have money for bullets and booze is because I’m so good at finding work. He flicks his comb out for emphasis, and as he brushes back his slick black locks, he concludes, Have some gratitude, eh?"

Asher punches him on the shoulder as he walks by, not quite a dead-arm, but close enough to make his point. Once Tiber puts the comb away, Sloan interjects, Alright then money bags, if you’re done fooling around, what’s our next gig?

I thought you’d never ask! Tiber’s mood suddenly brightens and he begins to gesture. "I got a good lead, an abandoned bunker west of here, in the direction of Big Rock. A little bit out of the way, sure, but nothing we can’t handle. Plus, there’ll be salvage on the way, guaranteed. Crashed planes, abandoned tanks, who knows what else." The scrapper stares wistfully out to the horizon.

Asher rolls his eyes, though Sloan simply nods and adjusts the strap on her bag.

Something else seems to be hanging in the air though, and Tiber looks to his friends for a reaction, raising an eyebrow and putting out his hands.

Ash and Sloan exchange an exhausted look, then play a wordless game of rock, paper, scissors. Tiber’s mouth opens slightly with the spirit of a question, but he doesn’t ask it. Sloan wins, smirks, and declares, I’ll get the last of what we need from the market, I’ll be back quicker than a cat on a hot tin roof, so don’t you two go anywhere. The scout dashes off.

Tiberius frowns in bewilderment, mouth slightly agape, and asks, What was that all about? I mean, why am I not in the loop here, and what’d she say about a cat?

Asher sighs and holds up a hand, and Tiber ceases his babbling. The big man speaks softly, his low voice rumbling out with a modest, familial concern. What happened, T, since last night? I know that a scrap can be rough, and you kind of got your clock cleaned, but you aren’t your usual self.

Tiberius plays stupid, although he doesn’t realize it at first. Whaddya mean? I’m always on top of things, I always know what the next move is, I— He shuts his mouth, recognizing a sharper kind of worry in his friend’s eye. He starts again, The gas. It was the gas. I just feel a little rocky seeing what it did to those guys. Maybe I breathed some of it in, alright? It’s messing with my head.

Asher sighs, shrugs, and simply says, I guess so. The two share a long silence, and Tiber begins to fidget. Ash looks at him one last time, and his voice gets real quiet, the kind of quiet that one might use to talk to a stray dog. I know that you’re in charge, I know that you’re the captain, and I’m grateful because I hate negotiating contracts and that sort of thing. If you aren’t feeling right though, you can tell us. Don’t let the quiet hurt be the hurt that kills you, okay?

Tiber pouts and rolls his eyes. I’m not going soft. Don’t you worry about me.

Asher raises a brow and retorts, Were you ever hard?

Tiber raises his lip, raises his fists, and steps halfway into a fighting stance.

Ash exhales and waves the scrapper off, turning to step away. Alright, tough guy. You can fight shadows here. I’m gonna hurry Sloan up.

What for? Tiberius replies, dropping his stance and cocking his head to the side. She only left a minute ago.

Just a feeling I got.

Tiberius watches him go with a brow raised and mutters, I thought that I was supposed to be the one making the plans around here. He considers following the bruiser for a moment, but something about his parting words struck serious. Tiber leans against the tin roofed shack again.

— — —

Sloan inspects the potato: it’s lumpy and not all that appetizing. It’s also cheap, which is the more important thing right now. As she’s about to put it in her bag with the rest of her purchases, the teller shouts, "That’s a fine tuber,