The Well of Death, part 1
Coming to see and warn his family, Jack ends up investigating odd events in Outland
Jack March, April 10, 2189
The road followed a cliff edge, and the rocky ground before them gave way to the vast, deep-blue ocean. From there, Katrina and Jack could see a pair of whales leaping from the water and crashing back with heavy splashes. A common sight for Jack, but a stunning one for his new companion.
“Cool, huh?” Jack smirked. “Once the cold sets in, they’ll grow wings and fly north.”
“What?” Katrina blinked, confused.
“Just a joke! Ever seen the sea before?”
“Sure thing.”
“Doesn’t look like it. And your skin—odd shade. Like you’ve lived underground your whole life.”
She stayed silent. Her marble skin stood in stark contrast to everyone else’s. During the long polar day, the Antarctic sun darkened even the blondest folks. Unlike its twin, the Lesser Sun or Ra gave only a pale glow to break the bleakness of the polar night. Few still remembered that Ra wasn’t a celestial body, but an orbital spacecraft (essentially a very large mirror, if you skip the details).
“Listen, little bird,” Jack said. “There are people who might think you came from one of the secret cities scattered across the continent. Some wouldn’t hesitate to torture you just to make you show the way.”
She silently frowned. Jack placed a rough hand gently on her elbow.
“No stress. I’ll teach you our ways.”
“What do you want in return?” she asked warily, uneasy. She knew his companions might overhear.
Jack stepped in close and murmured into her ear, “You should tell me about your homeland. I’m good at keeping secrets.”
“Why do you care?”
“Maybe I look like a brute,” the caravaner said, “but I’m a curious one. And I do care about the world I live in and about how dangerous that thing was that was chasing you.”
“Let’s just get to the city first...” she said, glancing up at the sky. She did that often—enough that, to anyone unfamiliar with her misfortunes, it might’ve seemed excessive.
“Got family? Anyone close?”
“Yes,” Katrina replied. “Like I said, I’ll share more once we’re in the city. Do you have machines there? Any kind of communication?”
“It’s all gone. If anything survived, it’s buried deep in the lower levels—places no one reaches anymore. Pine Island used to be full of tech. But now?” He shrugged. “Who knows what still works.”
“Pine Island?”
“Yeah, a massive ship. Used to cruise the ocean.”
The whales had calmed, now showing themselves only through white spouts rising like ghostly flags from the water.
“How do locals treat travelers?”
“No one trusts an outsider. Heldrich fears revenge from the old clans—the ones that once split the city and eventually tore it apart. They say the gunfire in the lower levels went on long after everything above went quiet. I never saw it myself…”
Katrina shook her head sadly. “What a ridiculous waste of people and resources.”
“Tell me about it. While the fighting raged, I stayed out of it—helped my cousin out in the village. When Heldrich took the city, I went back to the road. It calls you back, you know?”
“Heldrich? Who’s he?”
“An educated outsider. No kin, no clan, but apparently enough brains and spine to hold the place together. He’s trying to rebuild what’s left. Might pull us out of the swamp... or bury us in it. He’s pale, like you, by the way.”
“An outsider?” Katrina raised an eyebrow. “Not from the Winged Sun, is he?”
“As if he’d tell anyone. When the trouble started, he was just the assistant to our late doctor. That old man worked on Pine Island before the Blackout—seen a lot of the world. But he fell prey to the clan war. Glass shard to the neck—bled out in seconds. He was the only one who might’ve known Heldrich’s origin.”
“Can I meet him?”
“That’s up to him—to decide if you’re worth his time.”
“And where will I stay once we get there?”
“You could stay at a hotel—but they’ll rob you blind. My place is free. Stay as long as you want. I’ll feed you the first week—after that, you’ll have to earn your meals.”
“Fair enough. Any jobs in the city?”
“Always. And if you got knowledge of medicine or plants, maybe try getting a job with Heldrich.”
She smiled with a corner of her mouth.
“Might work for me.”
Jack had never rushed the caravan home as much as he did now. But the damn yaks, as if to spite him, plodded along slow as glaciers, stopping constantly to nibble whatever green shot up between the rocks. Katrina’s silence only fueled his curiosity. Despite whatever misfortunes had mangled her past, she never once tried to squeeze more protection out of him than what he’d already offered. That earned his respect.
When Katrina wasn’t looking, Jack let his eyes drift—her obsidian hair, the slim waist, those long legs wrapped in a dark-gray jumpsuit with a faint bluish sheen. The tight, scale-like weave reminded Jack of old tales—sea maidens luring sailors to their deaths. But there was no seduction in her movements, no teasing in her tone. It seemed disorienting, even unsettling.
Look at yourself, old dog… drooling already, Jack thought, snapping at a yak that had dawdled behind. What do you even have to offer her? A corner in a den you don’t even own?
Then he silently shrugged. No use in self-pity. Best to leave things to time and luck. For now, all he could do was look after her—and make her stay in Seven Winds last as long as possible. Maybe even convince her to settle. Still, a gnawing unease tugged at him like phantom pain before nasty weather. Jack feared the city might drag her into something ugly. In Seven Winds, no matter how many times the power shifted, a woman’s body was still currency—and beauty only raised the stakes.
September 7, 2192
With a wealthy ally out of the blue, Jack March felt his resolve surge again. The clink of bullets and shell casings in his pouch only strengthened it. Sober, clean, and dressed in fresh clothes, he looked and felt like a different man. The concussion still pulsed now and then with a dull ache, but it was nothing compared to the torment that had wrecked him the day before.
He stepped outside, leaving Vassilevsky to his own preparations, and descended two levels via a long-dead escalator. Winding through narrow back alleys, careful to avoid crowded areas, he emerged in the city’s southeast quarter—still blackened from the fire three months ago. Jack hadn’t been in town when it happened, but the horror lingered in the air. Over twenty people dead—a massive loss by local standards.
Leaving through the main gate was out of the question. Jack had no desire for Heldrich to track his movements, and the gate guards would report any departure. But Jack was old enough to know: every fence has a hole, if you know where to sniff—and who to bribe.
Shivering at the chill creeping into the ruins dusted with grimy snow, he found a staircase and descended two more levels. The “cormorants”—a fitting name for the drifter merchants who weren’t allowed to stay in the city overnight—were already laying out their scavenged wares right on the street. Everything from folding mirrors, perfume vials, and plush teddy bears to salvaged microchips from forgotten settlements. A grim-faced guard with a crossbow kept watch, making sure they stayed in bounds and left at the appointed hour.
As soon as they spotted Jack, the ragtag crowd swarmed him with noisy excitement, shoving glass beads (“real diamonds!”) in his face, alongside fake flowers and other glittering junk. Normally, Jack would've shooed the pests away with a few choice words. But this time, he didn’t want to attract attention. He bit his lip and wove through the crowd with fluid grace—slipping between traders like a fish through reeds. A nudge of the elbow here, a shoulder there—just enough to move people aside without making a scene.
Then something in the crowd stopped him cold. No way.
He’d recognize his niece Annie—Fred’s daughter—anywhere. Tall, golden braids swinging, a pretty face with rosy cheeks. Around her neck hung the same blue scarf Jack had brought her on his second-to-last run, embroidered with fairy-tale birds, peacocks, maybe. But what the hell was she doing here? Fred guarded his daughters like a dragon over treasure. Letting them wander into Seven Winds all by themselves? Never.
And her walk—that was wrong. Annie usually seemed floating. Now her stride was hurried, heavy and wide, almost masculine. And gait, Jack knew, was one of the last things to change in a person—unless they were injured, or been through some shit for years.
She passed within five meters of him and didn’t notice. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve rushed up, demanded an explanation. But someone might be watching him. Speaking to her now could put her at risk. And Fred’s family was already in enough danger. He’d be seeing Fred soon anyway—he’d get answers then.
Among the clutter of little workshops and stalls, Jack found the booth he was looking for—built from an old cargo elevator cab. Inside, a heavyset man dozed, bushy eyebrows jutting up like startled birds. His hooked nose gave him the look of a perpetually irritable owl. A guard stood beside him—clearly part of the city’s self-defense force, but the weakest of the bunch. His armor hung loose on his bones, half his teeth were missing, and his eyes carried the glazed look of chronic boredom laced with hunger.
When he spotted Jack, the guard rapped his knuckles against the elevator wall.
“Huh? Wha...” the Owl mumbled, blinking himself awake.
Jack raised a middle finger in greeting. Neither the Owl nor the guard was offended; they exchanged smirks like old drinking buddies.
Once Jack confirmed no one was watching, he reached into his chest pocket and unwrapped a small object. He silently thanked Ivan Vassilevsky, who didn’t let him drink away everything the night before.
The Owl’s jaw dropped when he saw it: a working headlamp—a treasure worth a knife in the ribs. The Lost Kids hadn’t gotten it only because Jack had the sense to stash it in his rented room instead of carrying it around.
“Lemme see your arm,” the Owl grunted, rolling up Jack’s sleeve and pressing a purple stamp onto his wrist. A cartoonish mouse with a bow on its head grinned up at him. The stamp granted access to every quarter, except Pine Island. Not that Jack was headed up. He was going down, toward the Small Docks, where the traders’ boats came in.
The ink burned as it sank into his skin; however, it would last a year or more. In some cities, these stamps were as good as ID, a makeshift passport etched into flesh. But Seven Winds still clung to its image as a “free” city—a haven for vice and trade, as long as you didn’t start a shootout. Not that it had helped much. After the clan wars, the population had been cut by two-thirds.
Though the upper levels bristled with light shafts like a sea urchin with spines, the lowest tiers were buried in perpetual dusk—lit only by flaming trash barrels and patches of glowing fungus. The air reeked of sour mold and salt rot. Clean air from above barely reached down here, and the fans had long since died.
These depths—some level with the sea, some even lower—were mostly warehouses now. Goods moved up on pulley rigs tied to hollow elevator shafts. The dark had always drawn people with hard pasts, dirty hands, and secrets sharp enough to kill for—but no gold or sugar to buy a room. They multiplied like insects in the cracks. And during the clan war, they surged upward like a plague, thinking it was their time to feast. For a while, it was.
But their luck ran out.
Heldrich had purged the looters with ruthless precision. Surveillance over the lower levels had intensified.
Some of the hatches leading to the sewers, docks, and flooded warehouses were now guarded; others had been sealed shut. But Jack was waved through without question—the stamp on his wrist was enough. Luckily, the guards posted here didn’t work the main gates and didn’t recognize the caravaner’s face. One of them slid the bolt open on a heavy metal door and pulled it aside.
Jack stepped through and found himself in a vast, vaulted chamber—its arched walls forming a half-oval that rose over a hundred meters high. Countless curved supports stretched upward, converging on a central ceiling beam like the ribs of some ancient beast. Jack guessed the structure was at least three hundred meters long.
This was the Little Dock of the Seven Winds, where yachts, research vessels, and seaplanes had once docked—sheltered from savage winds and biting cold. Pine Island was moored farther west, at the Grand Dock. Down here, it was skiffs, dinghies, and ferries, ferrying sea-gifts—and sometimes people—from the ocean.
Once, the ceiling and seaward wall had been glass-clear. But years of sea salt and massive flocks of birds had left a filthy crust, dimming the light to a faint trickle near the far end. Hairline fractures glimmered faintly in the brittle grime.
*If this gunk keeps piling up, won’t the whole hangar collapse one day?* Jack wondered. Probably a lot of people had asked the same thing. Still—nothing had been done. Not even by Heldrich.
Beneath his boots lay a gritty, gray surface—smooth as a cat’s tongue. Five meters below, beyond a once-white balustrade now smudged and cracked, dirty water lapped gently, rocking a flotilla of boats in place. Some ferrymen mended nets. Some chewed dried shrimp. A few were dead asleep under tarps.
Land-man to the core, Jack picked the sturdiest-looking boat and negotiated his trip. The one-legged boatman—Lauri—grimaced. The currents there made docking a nightmare. But he let Jack aboard, loosed the rope, and set the oars to water.
The moment they pulled away from solid ground, Jack tensed. He’d never taken the sea route to Fred’s place before. But after a few minutes, the rocking became almost fun.
There it was—an opening in the hangar.
Blinding sunlight spilled through. Jack pulled down his makeshift goggles.
Salt wind slapped him across the face like a wet hand.
“Why the hell you heading out there, old man? Chasing adventure in your twilight years?” Lauri asked, casting a sideways glance.
“I’ve had more than enough adventure,” Jack grumbled. He hadn’t expected the boatman to get chatty. “I’m meeting a woman.”
“Women, huh? They’ll drive a good man into anything. And never happy with anything, either!” Lauri snorted, nodding toward the wind vane strapped behind Jack as it fluttered.
“Depends on your luck,” Jack smirked. “For the right one, I’d march into hell.”
“You’re one of those, aren’t you? What’d they used to call ’em… a chiromancer? No, no—necromancer?”
“Romantic, you old goat,” Jack chuckled, wondering how long he could keep the cheer in his voice.
With every hundred meters, the swell grew. So did the boatman’s cursing, as if a few choice words might somehow calm the sea.
Jagged rocks jutted from the water here and there, each crowned with a rusting lighthouse bearing names of long-dead Antarctic explorers: squat little Taylor, tall and skeletal Lazarev, the cracked husks of Baird, Scott, and Evans. No one remembered who they were or what they’d done to earn their memorials. Only the names remained—and one day, even those would vanish.
The Star Bowl rose ahead, mansion-sized on a rocky spit of land ten kilometers offshore. A relic of the Golden Age, like everything else. Built atop a thick tower with slit-like windows, it gazed skyward. People said the ancients had used bowls like it to catch falling stars—but anyone who’d ever visited had found nothing inside but old rainwater.
To the east, gleaming on the horizon, was a jagged white wall—the visible edge of the Central Glacier. What remained of the ice shell that once swallowed the continent. Not far from there lay the mouth of the Fast River, and beside it—Fred’s mill.
The wind, as if mocking them, kept pushing the boat away from shore. Now Jack understood the sour look Lauri gave when he’d heard their destination. Fighting the urge to vomit, Jack grabbed the second oar. Spray drenched him from head to toe, but he hardly noticed. Caught in the thrill of wrestling the sea, the cold felt like nothing.
Breathing hard like sled dogs and red-nosed from the salt wind, the two men finally made it ashore and dragged the boat up onto the pebbles. It took some convincing, but Jack got Lauri to agree to wait for three hours—one hour to get there, one for business, one to return.
The beach gave way to brittle grass, then to low, scraggly bushes. Halfway across the island, a tall figure approached, crossbow at the ready.
Jack raised his hands. “It’s me, brother.”
The miller Fred hardly recognized his cousin in the unfamiliar gear. Broad-shouldered, built like a forge bellows, with a sun-bleached bandana, shaggy pale beard, and eyebrows nearly as white, Fred looked like the land itself—etched with sun and wind, stooped but unbroken.
You couldn’t find two men more different than Jack and Fred—the restless drifter and the grounded father of four: Annie, River, Tom, and Steve. The first was black, the other was white. However, Jack had never stopped visiting. He brought gifts for the kids, stayed for stew and quiet evenings, and basked in the kind of home he could never make for himself.
Jack pulled back his hood. Fred gave him a firm, wordless hug. Then they set off toward the mill, following a narrow trail that dipped and rose with the island’s shape.
“A little bird told me you’re in trouble,” Fred said, without preamble.
“Damn, that was fast,” Jack muttered. “But I’m not here to beg for coin, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Hell, Jack. You’ve never begged in your life. And if you did—you think I wouldn’t help?”
“The truth is…” Jack exhaled. “Now you’re in danger too. I’ve got to track down the Lost Kids.”
“And what, take ’em out alone?”
“Hopefully not. But either I find their nest so Heldrich can wipe it out—or the bastard will take your mill and work you to death. That’s if he does not sell you to New Beijing as a slave.”
Fred grimaced. “These savage times…”
“When weren’t they? No one’s holding Heldrich in check, Fred.” Jack’s voice was low. “I’ll do my best to stop them—but I’m not invincible. Get the kids out.”
“Man… who do I leave the mill to?”
“Fred!” Jack grabbed his cousin’s arm and gave it a shake. “They may sell your girls to a brothel, and you’re whining about the mill? Now I see why they’re bold—because they know we’re soft!”
“If we leave for Railtown, what do we eat?” Fred snapped, still struggling to grasp it.
“The boys are old enough to work. You’re not helpless. You’ll survive.”
Jack paused. “By the way… Annie’s been going into the city? I saw her half an hour before I got in the boat.”
Fred’s face drained of color, like he’d been punched.
“You must’ve mistaken her for someone else…”
“Oh, come on. She walked right past me! You think I’d forget the scarf I gave her? One with the marvelous birds.”
Now Fred looked terrified.
“She’s at home, Jack. But the scarf’s gone. And… well. There’s more. But you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“Fred. After what I’ve seen lately, I’d believe our great-grandfather was a penguin. Quit stalling—talk.”
“Let’s go inside,” the miller whispered, pulling Jack by his forearm.
Jack followed, feeling that Fred’s news might be worse than his own.
Fred led Jack into a spacious room with a low, soot-darkened ceiling. It served as kitchen, dining room, and living room all in one; when Jack stayed over, this was where he slept. The place was empty now—eerily so. Only the faint echoes of boys’ voices floated down from upstairs. That struck Jack as strange. Usually, the kids spotted him coming from a mile off and came thundering down the stairs in a joyous stampede, peppering him with questions about snow dogs, machines, and other wonders of the big world.
A pot of lentils bubbled over the fire, rich with onion and seal fat, hanging at just the right height to warm but not scorch. After swapping his boots for lighter indoor shoes and washing his hands, Fred filled a bowl to the brim and handed it to Jack.
“So here’s the thing…” Fred dropped his voice to a half-whisper, as if someone might be listening. “Last night, Goran—hunter’s boy—came banging on my door. He and Annie had been sneaking off to meet, even though I told them to cut it out…”
“Typical,” Jack shrugged. Annie had turned eighteen, after all. But Fred wasn’t in a rush to lose the woman running his house and looking after River, the youngest daughter.
“Don’t interrupt. He was carrying her, Jack. Stark naked. Unconscious.”
“Please tell me you didn’t shoot the poor kid.”
“I held back,” Fred growled. “And listen to what he told me. They planned to meet by the bend in the river, despite the cold. Annie climbed out the window—easy to do from her room, and like an idiot, I never barred it. She got there first, lit a little fire to stay warm. Goran was on his way when he sees the fire suddenly go out. He panics, runs straight for it—and finds her lying there. Naked. Passed out in the snow. And some bastard running off with her clothes. Goran shot him, twice.”
“Sounds like a pile of sealshit,” Jack muttered, shaking his head.
“Just shut up and listen. I laid Annie in bed, grabbed the boy by the collar, and went to see for myself. Three sets of tracks in the snow—hers, Goran’s, and the third. Whoever it was ran like hell. We followed the trail and found blood—Goran must’ve hit him. It led to a dry well. We dropped a torch down… and there he was. Dead. And the stench—Jack, that bastard smelled as if rotting for at least five days.”
Jack straightened. “You’re telling me someone who’d been dead almost a week stole your daughter’s clothes?”
“I don’t know what I’m telling you!” Fred barked. “I was more worried about Annie than the corpse. When I got back—she was just sitting there. Staring. Wouldn’t say a word. Creeped the hell out of me.”
“Is she still silent?”
“She talked this morning,” Fred said, voice tightening. “But whatever happened out there—she says she doesn’t remember. Or she’s pretending not to. Won’t even look at Goran. Says she’s ashamed he saw her like that. Though sneaking out in the middle of the night didn’t seem to shame her one damn bit…”
“You think she really doesn’t remember? Or is she scared?”
Fred rubbed his wrinkled forehead with a groan. “All I know is we’ve still got that corpse in the well, and I’m not going down there alone.”
“Burn him,” Jack said. “Or seal the well with stones. Then you don’t have to drag anything out.”
“You’ll help me?” Fred asked quietly. “I don’t want to bring in the neighbors.”
Jack hesitated. He’d promised the boatman three hours—there was no way Lauri would wait beyond that. But this wasn’t just some side errand anymore. This was family in real trouble.
He set the empty bowl aside and stood up.
“Let’s go.”
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