"You should apologise to him. Doesn't matter if he's wronged you or not."
"I don't think it matters anyway. He's still going to be angry."
"Well there's no pleasing some people. Damned if you do, damned if you don't."
Tim, soon-to-be chief warrior of the Stone River pack, was telling me about a fight he had inadvertently started with one of his rivals, who had also been vying for the position, as he handed me luggage. I was on the roof of the bus, securing the suitcases and bags to the roof rack atop the bus.
On a patch of weedy ground next to the bus shelter, children played in the soft dawn light.
The Stone River Pack are our brothers. Our warriors do joint training exercises. We exchange recipes. Our children play together.
I lashed the last of the luggage to the roof rack, pulling the cords tight. Signalling the driver to start the engine, I climbed down from the roof and joined the last of the Stone River Pack members boarding the bus.
Tim was sitting in a window seat, near the back of the bus. I joined him.
The idling of the engine subsided as the bus pulled away from the shelter. Some of the children playing chased after the bus, shouting. They dropped back as the bus picked up speed.
It was barely seven o'clock, and the sun was just peeking out into the valley, but the narrow road was already busy with traffic. Car ownership was still rare in the Independent Territories, and most of our fellow road users were on mopeds or bicycles. The few cars that passed us were mostly secondhand, either imported from Zirconia or human lands.
Tim was telling me about his mate's obsession with the works of Jane Austen, but my mind kept flashing back to the events earlier in the morning. There was something I couldn't quite put my finger on about the whole situation.
I shoved the thought to the back of my mind. The girl was safe, asleep in the pack house. We would resolve this later.
The bus picked up more and more passengers as it wound down the valley, passing along the various pack territories. By the time we reached the bus stop that served the Pine Hollow Pack, there was only standing space.
I could barely hear the thrum of the engine over the hubbub of conversation as I explained the process of rebuilding a bus to Tim. Next to us, two chefs from the Stone River pack were debating a Groundnut Hill pack chef about the correct technique for the perfect meringue. Near the front, a group of bank workers from the Ebony Oak pack were cheerfully singing a traditional lycan folk song.
***
The Special Industrial Zone was located on the floodplain of the Arrowhead River valley, in a rough rectangle of former no man's land at the intersection of seven pack boundaries, a few miles from the Zirconian border. The ground flattened and the trees disappeared as we approached our destination, replaced by desolate rolling hills. Vast expanses of greenhouses appeared, then the vast tracts of little tar-paper shacks where the rogue workers lived.
Makeshift hawker stalls displaying street food and souvenirs lined the verges of the road. Underneath us, dusty tarmac had replaced gravel. The sun was a pale orange, filtered through the thick smog that covered the sky. The jungle-like skyline of smokestacks, blurred by the haze, loomed in the distance.
We passed a bus stop filled with commuters without stopping. Another operator ran the urban services within the Special Industrial Zone. Interpack covered the longer distance routes out to the pack territories, and school runs. Occasionally we also ran charter trips for human bus enthusiasts intrigued by the existence of front-engined buses in frontline duty in the Western hemisphere.
The roadside hawker stalls gradually morphed into squat, nondescript concrete buildings, covered in garishly coloured signs advertising all kinds of products and services, Two-storey brick hostels appeared, aimed at rogues and migrant workers from the more distant packs, working to send money home.
An intersection loomed up ahead. These had been the first traffic lights in the Independent Territories. Back in 1982 my friends and I had skipped school for the day and hitchhiked into what was then just acres upon acres of barren grassland just to look at them. They were out of order, as it always seemed to be, every few days or so. A private security warden was standing in the middle of the intersection, directing traffic with a baton.
On the other side of the intersection, the road widened, as factories appeared on the roadside. All around us, thousands upon thousands of people were streaming in for the morning shift, rogue workers, pack workers from packs near and far, small and big, all here to seek opportunity in this strange place. People on foot, on bicycles, on noisy smoking mopeds. The few cars and buses in the throng had to fight their way through the chaos. Horns blared and bells dinged continuously.
Factories now surrounded us. Textile factories, chemical factories, warehouses, all manner of grey concrete monoliths, festooned with weathered steel pipes, sheltered behind tall fences. Some had guards at the main entrances, watching as workers streamed in through the gates. Many had flagpoles flying their respective pack flags, or other pack insignia emblazoned on the walls. All around us, smokestacks rose into the air, spewing great clouds of smoke.
The bus crossed an overpass above an expansive rail classification yard. Several freight trains were shunting beneath us. From the vantage point of the overpass one could see the entire Industrial Zone spread out below. The silver barbed wire of the Zirconian border fence glinted in the near-distance. The entire tableau was framed by the glaucous shadows of the distant mountains.
On the other side of the overpass, we entered the grid of streets that formed the downtown area. Trash littered the edges of the dusty streets. People filled the sidewalks. Tall office buildings replaced the smokestacks. The Ebony Bank Building. The Pine Hollow Building. The glass-fronted grandeur of the Independent Territories Stock Exchange.
Shops lined the sidewalk, all kinds of goods displayed behind their windows. A huge billboard proclaiming the upcoming 34th annual Congress of the Organisation for Pan-Lycan Unity looked down at us from its lofty perch atop the Golden City Mall, the largest shopping centre in the Independent Territories, run by the Golden Fir pack.
The bus turned left into the cavernous bus station at the centre of downtown. Most of the passengers alighted here in its dark, diesel exhaust-scented depths. Buses of various makes and liveries surrounded us, disgorging streams of people heading to jobs in the city.
Tim nudged me slightly as he got up and joined the line of people waiting to get off the bus. "See you."
"Take care, Tim." I watched through the window as he merged into the long queue heading out of the bus station.
Once the passengers had alighted and the luggage unloaded, the bus followed the line of buses heading out of the other side of the station, running back empty to their home depots.
We left the central grid, heading for the southern part of the zone. The broad expanse of the Arrowhead river came into sight briefly to our left, its surface glimmering in the sun, barges moving along slowly. The gated mansions of rogue entrepreneurs who had struck it lucky stood, nestled in the foothills, on the opposite side of the river. Recently, a large number of Zirconian expats had started to move in as well, attracted by the cheap land and lax regulations.
***
The Interpack Bus Lines depot was located in between a candy factory and a gated complex of luxury condominiums for corporate types from Zirconia, contained . The driver followed the long queue of buses waiting to enter and parked in the expansive concrete-paved front parking lot.
The main depot building was a two-storey brick affair which housed the staff canteen and administration, set towards the back of the depot complex. To the left was the large corrugated-steel hangar that contained the workshops. The driver headed for the staff canteen and I headed in the other direction, towards the offices.
Mia, the secretary, was engrossed in the latest copy of The New Moon, the Pine Hollow pack's answer to the Zirconian tabloids, as I walked in.
I glanced at the front page. SEARCH CONTINUES FOR MISSING ZIRCONIAN. "Don't tell me another idiot has gotten himself lost."
"Oh hi, Jim! You're nice and early today."
"I took an earlier bus in."
"The dealership called. They want to know if you're interested in trialling a new demonstrator they've got. I've printed out the brochure and put it on your desk."
"I'll check it out." I headed for the office.
My office was behind the reception. The furnishings were austere, just a simple desk and a plain office chair, and some old filing cabinets. There were some awards pinned to the wall, and was a large map of the Interpack network on the wall and some sad pot plants perched on the windowsill. I really didn't spend that much time here.
I sat down. Mia had left a stack of letters and documents. There was also a sharp-looking pamphlet for the new MAN Lion Explorer.
I had some phone calls to make.
But first I needed a cup of strong coffee.
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This is pretty late (so much for the end of the week). A lot of new information is introduced in this chapter, so it might have been a little disconcerting. I hope you enjoyed it.
Thanks to everyone who has voted and commented so far on this book! Keep it up!