James Axler – Freedom Lost

The glassed-in area outside Morgan’s office had a few padded metal chairs, a freestanding ashtray and a low coffee table cluttered with tattered predark magazines. Ryan entered through the swinging glass door and chose a seat where he could get the best view of anyone entering or exiting.

He picked up one of the magazines and flipped through the glossy pages. The mag was called Premiere . Ryan glanced at the face on the cover staring back at him. A Candid Talk With Kurt Russell the mag promised. Ryan tossed it back on the table. He had no interest in what someone called Kurt Russell might have to say, candid or not.

A massive wooden desk was near the door, and Ryan imagined Morgan did business behind that door.

Sitting at the desk and frowning at Ryan was another sec guard, with a furrowed brow and a three-day growth of beard. Ryan estimated the guard topped the scales at over three hundred pounds of muscle. The huge sec man also seemed to serve as part-time secretary.

“Cawdor. I’m here to see Morgan,” Ryan said.

“I know,” the sec man replied.

An obnoxious buzzing sound came out of a yellow box on the edge of the desk. The frowning sec man reached out and punched a button before picking up an attached phone receiver.

“Yeah, he’s here,” the massive sec guard said, eying Ryan suspiciously.

“Good,” a voice over the intercom replied. “Send him right in.”

“He’s packing a blaster,” the guard said in a lower tone. “A big one.”

This time the voice over the intercom had a hint of irritation. “So am I, Genge. Everyone in Freedom is armed. Part of the ‘Welcome to our neighborhood please shop with us again thank you you’re welcome bye-bye’ kind of charm. Now, do what I said and send the man right in.”

Genge stood and gestured toward a door near Ryan’s seat. “Mr. Morgan is expecting you, sir.”

“So I heard,” Ryan said simply.

Ryan passed Genge and stepped into the open doorway, his eye taking in the layout of the colossal yet Spartan office. He heard the door close and click behind him. A single desk of immense size similar to the one in the waiting area was in the middle of the room, flanked by two plush black leather chairs and a matching sofa. A single comp and monitor stood on a smaller table beside the desk, along with a phone-intercom, both within easy reach if seated. The walls were all drab, painted in neutral tones of soft amber.

The rear wall behind the desk was the only exception. It was home to a massive bank of vid screens and security viewing-recording devices. Half of the screens were lit, showing various parts of the interior of Freedom Mall flickering dimly in grainy black and white. There was also a shot or two of the mall exterior, but these images were even harder to make out.

The man seated on the edge of the desk was in his midforties, with dark brown hair graying at the temples and a matching brown beard that was starting to gray in sympathy. The beard tapered down to a point. His hair was too long for the collared shirt he wore and as a result gave him the air of a man in bad need of a haircut.

He was average height, average weight, and the color brown had been visited upon him a third time with his eyes, which would have completely added to the lack of any distinguishing characteristics if not for the vibrancy shining through as he looked Ryan over. The man oozed vitality and intelligence, but not in the usual arrogant way of many smart men who strove to assure their domination over their own pocket kingdoms in Deathlands.

In addition to the white long-sleeved shirt, which was immaculate, appearing to be either new or pressed, the man wore long black trousers and high black boots. A small golden cross could be spotted hanging on a chain from around his neck, flickering now and then as he moved, the metal catching the soft lighting within the office.

He also wore an expensive wrist chron, an old-style one without a digital readout or liquid crystal. A simple wristwatch with an hour and minute hand, and tiny inset window for the date.