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AVALON LET HER BODY go limp, sagging in the arms of the two husky teens who had clamped their beefy hands on her upper arms. At first they’d tried to grab the bike away from her but she’d see a passive resistance video once when she was younger. Make your weight impossible to bear and they would drop you, giving you a chance to escape. They did indeed drop her, but as she hit the ground a sharp boot kicked her in the ribs. Avalon cried out, hands clutching her side against the sharp, stinging pain.
“Get up, bitch!”
A hand leaned down and tangled in her hair, dragging her to her feet by its roots.
“Stop!” she yelled. “I tripped, ok?”
“Let her go,” said their brooding leader, frowning at her.
The husky lad shoved her away from him, watching as she stumbled, breaking her fall on the handle bars of her bike. They yanked the temporary support out from under her and she tumbled to the pavement.
“Give it back to me!” she yelled, hand clutching her aching ribs as she staggered back to her feet, reaching for her bike for support. “It’s mine.”
Green and gold eye stared at her then he held up a hand.
“Let her be. Her bike is hers.”
Avalon’s head came up, making contact with that beautiful eye. He appeared to be three or four years older than her. Tall and lean, he was well muscled. She found she could not stop staring. She gripped the handle bars tight, knuckles whitening. Her eye contact was broken when a pimply scar-faced girl forced her way into the circle. She had shaved the sides of her head, above her ears, leaving a Mohawk of spiky hair, dyed bright orange. She glared at Avalon, drawing a short switchblade and testing the edge of her knife against her tongue, drawing blood.
“Ok, princess, bring your bike in. Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” she said at Avalon’s look of surprise. She bared sharpened teeth at the assembled gang members and as they backed off, she took Avalon by the arm. “This way, princess.”
Avalon gasped as her fingers dug painfully into her flesh. With a stubborn set to her lips, Avalon dragged her bike behind the toothy troll as she now thought of her. The street ended at an alley way that fed between tall brick buildings, blackened with age. Her companions were forced to narrow into three rows, the central position taken up by her bike, which she now hugged close to her. Avalon faced forward, staring at the blond head and refusing to look at the rest of the gang.
When the group squeezed in tight to get around a dumpster, Avalon tripped over her bike pedal, scraping her ankle against the metal. Swearing under her breath, she licked her dry lips. She was thirsty and hungry. Her stomach growled and someone behind her laughed.
As they reached the end of the alley, it opened onto a square. There was no exit; rather, it was by framed by the remains of a partially collapsed building, the shell of which was four stories high. Avalon stared in awe at the towering structure. All the upper floors had long ago been harvested for firewood during the winter, cleared away leaving concrete ribs in blocks that rose through the floors and defined the balance of the interior space. The crazy patchwork walls were fascinating to Avalon. She could see aged wallpaper and faded paint, snippets of lives frozen in time. A nursery with cartoon animals sat beside a dark painted wall with a sailboat wallpaper border. The wainscoting had long ago been stripped from the room. Beside it was a kitchen with a stenciled saying on one wall. “Live for the moment. Hope. Pray.”
She was jerked to the side by the troll, bringing her back to her immediate surroundings. Troll hauled her towards a staircase located at the base of the wall. It disappeared into ground. She realized suddenly that it was the basement of the ground floor unit. An old wooden floor board had been carved to look like a hand with a painted finger. On the sign was painted the words “Frankie’s Finger Foods” in bright red paint. Indeed, the finger was cut off and dripping blood. Avalon stared at it, shocked. I’ve found it! she thought, but that sign was not what she had thought of when she had seen the matchbook cover. Swallowing past an exceptionally dry mouth, she followed the tall form of their leader down the stairs, her bike jumping as it rolled down the concrete steps.
As she crossed the threshold at the bottom, a dimly lit restaurant was revealed, complete with tacky green booths and prints of actors whose popularity had faded several decades ago. Heavy navy blue velvet curtains hung on a rod above each booth. A quick glance showed that all the booths were empty except for three located at the very back. The privacy curtain was drawn tight across the end of the tables, hiding the occupants from view.
Halfway down the aisle, Avalon was shoved into a booth, followed by the toothy troll. Her bike was taken out of her resisting hands and wheeled over to lean against the table of the booth across from them. Green-gold eye slid in across from Avalon followed by Cris. The table was scarred with carved hearts and initials. A grimy green pendant light fixture with a single bulb was suspended above the table.
Green-gold eye stared at her.
“Name. What is your name?”
Avalon’s eyes flitted around the circle, weighing the unfriendly gazes. She knew that none of them used their real names, but she could not see any reason to withhold her own. She was not from here. They would not know her name if she spoke it.
“My name is Avalon.”
They waited. The silence stretched.
“Last name!” snapped the troll, knife flipping into her hand.
Gold-green eye grabbed her wrist, not breaking eye contact with Avalon.
Suddenly, Avalon was afraid. They wanted something from her. Badly. But still, it was just a name, wasn’t it?
“Gainsborough,” she whispered, watching the reactions.
Eyes widened and silent messages flashed around the table.
“I thought so,” said the gang leader.
This time Avalon’s eyes widened.
“You know... you know my name? My parents? You know where they are! Where are they?” Avalon made to rise and the troll grabbed her arm and made her sit. Avalon ignored her. “Who are you?”
He frowned, clearly struggling with how much he should tell her.
“Trevor Trench. But my friends call me Trench.”
Trench. Avalon mentally tested the name on her tongue. She liked Trevor better.
“This is Megan, we call her Magnum,” gesturing to the trollish woman whose fingers still dug painfully into her arm. “And this is Francis. She goes by Cris.”
The blonde-haired girl by his side glared at Avalon, in challenge, winding her arm possessively through Trench’s.
Definitely not friendly, Avalon thought.
Avalon nodded to each in turn, nervous suddenly. She had not expected them to know her name.
“How do you know my name?”
They exchanged glances.
“We know your parents. They came here once,” said Trench.
“They did?” Avalon leaned forward, excitement shining in her eyes. “When? Where did they go? Where are they now?”
He hesitated. “Magnum, get us some drinks,” he said. “Root beer will do.”
Magnum looked pissed at the request, but she rose nonetheless and left to gather the drinks.
Once she was gone, Trench pulled the privacy curtain closed then leaned across the table.
“It was three or four years ago. They came through here, looking for someone that could help them gain safe passage away from Solace for four passengers. I assume it was for them and you... and a brother? Sister?”
“Sister,” whispered Avalon. “My sister Alexa.”
Avalon shot a quick glance around the dilapidated restaurant.
“What is this place? How did you know who I was, back on the streets?”
“Frankie’s is our headquarters, the headquarters for the Firebrand gang. We operate from here. We stop everyone that comes into our territory, but never has one come bearing that symbol.” He pointed to the sleeve of Avalon’s jacket where a stylized bee was stitched on to her right sleeve.
“I got this jacket from my father. Why, what does it mean?”
“It is a symbol of the revolution. Of the revolt.” At her puzzled frown, he continued “You know the rebellion against the government? They have been suppressing information about the blight. It’s like the environment is cursed. We use this sign to identify those that can be trusted. It is very, very secret. We did not know who you were, yet you wear it openly.”
Avalon frowned. “My father said that I should always wear the jacket. He said it could save my life.”
Trench grunted. “We are also a refugee way stop. By refugee we mean political refugees. There is good money to be had in selling falsified passports and passage out of the country. Your parents came to us to make a deposit, passage for four out of the country. We saw them that day but we never saw them again.”
Avalon’s face fell.
“Avalon. I’m afraid they are dead.”
Avalon studied the scratches on the tabletop, tracing the patterns, letting her mind drift. Sadness welled within her, tightening her throat. She swallowed past the painful lump. Then her head came up. Her eyes blazed with determination.
“I do not believe they are dead. They were too clever for that. I intend to find them, and I will not stop until I do. So you can either help me, or get out of my way,” she said, a fierce light in her eyes.
At that moment the curtain was ripped back and Magnum stood with her fingers curled round the neck of four root beer bottles. She dropped them on the table and slid onto the bench beside Avalon, crowding her back into the corner.
“Oh look, the princess has claws,” Magnum smirked. She shared a quick glance with Trench, and then she flipped an envelope onto the table. “Here, these were supposed to go to your parents. Maybe you can make some sense of it all. It means nothing to us.”
She pushed it towards Avalon, who picked it up with trembling fingers. Finally some clues to work from! she thought. Avalon gave her a grateful smile then slipped her thumb under the flap and slid open the yellowing parchment.