Hobbstown: Pt 1
title Hobbstown
verse Honest-to-god Harsh Realm
rating R
summary Five years post canon, Tom Hobbes and Mike Pinocchio have a refugee camp and a real resistance settled in the anonymity of the American midlands. Their world and their cause have grown bigger than themselves, however, and has come to affect the lives of hundreds, if not thousands. Two of those thousands cross paths in Hobbstown during the days leading up to one of the resistance’s greatest accomplishments. But even in the relative sanctuary of the camp, nothing is certain or permanent. Rated for cussing and bad decision making.



I showed up on a Tuesday: it wasn’t that hard to find. After the squalor of the Cincinnati suburbs – no running water, no electricity, no hope – the starkly military lines of the tents and the roadways came as something alien. I stood back on the dirt trail, watching the small community. Not in wonderment. Not in awe. Order meant military and military for as long I could remember, meant Santiago. I stood there, staring, because fuck knows if they were just going to shoot me on sight.

Growing up, they don’t tell you how to join a revolution, just useless shit like how to read and write.

So I stopped and I stared at it in the middle of the goddamed dirt road. Wondering. In the shadows and in corners, people have been saying that this place is different, that the king dog, what’s his fuck, Tom Hobbes – he was different. Maybe. Dad used to say that Pinocchio was one of Santiago’s old hounds but, fuck it, Dad’s been dead two years come Christmas.

Dad had heard of the real world, too. It took five shots of whiskey and a maudlin night, but the rumors were there, coming right from the old man’s mouth. The Real World. People believed it because, sometimes, it was scary as fuck not to. You die, and your body disappears. Where was the science for that? There were too many questions, yeah, I wasn’t the first to say it. Too many mornings the world didn’t make sense.

And that was without Santiago, the Hitler of New America. Yeah, the science didn’t make any fucking sense, but we still had our history books, the ones he hadn’t burned. We knew. Some of us remembered. The bigger his little dream city got, the more people like me, mom, and dad died. Oldest story there ever was. Sometimes you just wake up wondering if this is what it felt like to be conquered.

Anyway. Turns out, they didn’t shot me.

“What?” I asked the border guard when he stepped out of the bushes, trying to cover the fact that I almost just shit my pants. “I don’t look like a big, scary Republican spy?”

The guy stared at me for a moment, eyes flicking over me. Just another cursory inspection. “Nice backpack,” he muttered finally, slapping the old, tatter Jansport over my shoulders, which constituted all my worldly belongings. “We’re short on tents, so share with someone. We just intercepted a Republican convoy few days back, so there’ll be meat for dinner if you get to the mess earlier enough.” And with that rousing speech, the recruitment officer of the year turned and made for whatever hiding place he’d crawled out of.

“That’s it?” I called after him, pissed. Who said I wanted this shit, anyway?. “That’s fucking it?”

“It’s a revolution, dumbass,” the guard called back, already invisible in the foliage. “Not a sleepover. Get your ass in the camp before someone shoots you for target practice.”

He was joking. I wasn’t stupid. I knew that. But I sure as hell high tailed it for the rows of tents in the distance. It had been nine months, easy, since I had anything that looked like meat.

*

It was another world completely, the little haven inside the boarders of Hobbes’s town. Maybe a year ago it had been just another bit of forest, but tanks and earth moving machines and carpentry had establish roads and fences. For the most part, the trees were still standing thick enough to make it difficult to see the extent of the encampment. Which, I thought, was probably the point. It was mostly a town of tents with maybe two permanent buildings from what I could see. Small and slapped together with concrete and cement, there was a long low building that had to be the mess hall and, not far away, another smaller structure with a guard on the door. The only door, I found out later, that was always guarded and was off limits to all but a few.

Anyway, by the smell of it, food was on and I high tailed it into the mess hall, jabbing my way ahead of a few other early arrivals. I don’t know what I was expecting – maybe something like the bread lines back home, or the soup kitchens that came after – but it certainly wasn’t what I found. Families. Couples. People were sitting around like it was a fucking picnic, carefully eating everything on their plates and shoving off when they were done. There was a line for food against one wall, but people were chatting as they waited, not staring vacantly at the back of the neck of the guy in front of them, something I’d done in more than one homeless shelter just to avoid getting cut up. Somewhere, a kid was wailing and I could hear some chick shushing it. I turned around slowly, half aware my mouth was slack and open. In the corner, an old man in a baseball cap was dealing a round of cards to kids.

These weren’t soldiers. This wasn’t a fucking revolution. It was a goddammed refugee camp. And here I fucking was, just another lost and lonely? Fuck that. I was more than just some pussy that had run out of other places to hide. I knew that, standing there in the middle of this want-to-be resistance in ratty shoes and a backpack, but I wasn’t stupid enough to turn up my nose at free grub.

So, swallowing my pride, I grabbed a bowl and I waited in line, hunching up my shoulders and willing myself invisible.

Sure enough, eventually, there was meat.

*

It was that night that I met Nash for the first time. It was easy to be righteously pissed off about your station in life when you had a roof over your head. As it was, all I had was blisters from walking for so long in shit shoes and a belly that was slightly more full than it had been a few hours before. The choice between another night in a ditch on the side of some road and the possibility of a roof wasn’t that hard.

In the middle of Hobbstown, I was hunching up my shoulders and snooping around, looking for a half fucking empty tent.

“Shit,” I muttered, looking at the long rows of tents and families, mostly concealed by the intervening forest. What was I supposed to do? Go door to door and wait for someone to take pity on me? Knock, knock, hi hello there, have you accepted blind, misguided hope as your personal savior?

I was just about to call it a fucking night and go sleep under a table in the mess hall, when something pulled me up short.

“Looking for a bed?” somebody asked me and I didn’t even turn around when I rolled my eyes.

“No, I’m getting ready for the fucking prom. Jesus.” I turned around, hands shoved deep in my wind breaker and looked the guy up and down. He was a big guy, crew cut, black hair and black eyes. If I had a choice in the matter, I didn’t wan t to have to fight him. He had six inches on me, easy, and thirty pounds that certainly didn’t look like flab. Shit. Way to go, tough boy, foot in mouth, all in one go.

But the guy didn’t look like he was pissed. In fact, he laughed a little, arching his eyebrows at me, and said, “Shit, relax man. It was a question.” He sighed, looking me up and down, passing a hand back over his crew cut as he evaluated me. After a few seconds, he sighed. “Look, I’m the only one rooming alone within a twenty minute walk of here, so unless you want to keep on looking after dark -’

“Why you still living alone?” I demanded, “You cut people up when they’re sleeping?”

“Because I snore, moron,” the guy said. He didn’t, in fact, but what the hell else was he supposed to say? At the time, I wouldn’t have believed him if told me the truth. “I’m Nash. If you want to sleep in the road, just make sure you wake up before the Jeeps come through in the morning. They run on a tight schedule and they don’t brake for small, adorable woodland critters like yourself.”

“You’re an asshole,” I told him, five feet five inches of indignant 19 year old, ready for a fight against my own best interests.

“Yeah, but the nights get cold,” Nash told me, and, man, did he have a point.

“I’m a light sleeper,” I told him, following him back through the rows and rows of tents. Christ, I thought, looking around at the sprawl. There could have been thousands here, invisible against the rest of the landscape. “I’ve got a knife.”

Nash just smiled, rolling a shoulder lightly. Cursing that stupid superior smile, I trailed after him, passing through ranks and ranks of other fucked up refugees on the way to what I was gonna call home. And that’s where it started. My first night in Hobbstown, sharing a cammo tent with Nash.

Yeah.

*

I could have easily gone on resenting him forever. God knows I’d held grudges for less, and all he’d done was sweep his clothes off the spare cot in his tent and offer me a place to sleep. But he was a big guy, handsome, and quietly superior. I hated him instantly. Jesus Christ, I did. I was short, skinny, and selfish as fuck and I knew it. He was what I wasn’t. What more reason did I need?

It could have been like that forever, but a week later, when I’d pretty much decided that the life of a refugee, while sad, pathetic, and a walking ruin was still better than life out in Santigao’s world – it changed. It was late breakfast in the mess hall, and while we weren’t friends we still managed to end up in line next to one another, holding our trays with our mass-cooked eggs and serving of pudding. I was doing the bread line stare, zoning out into the middle distance, so much lost in thought that the first time the dickhead in front of me said something, I didn’t even hear him.

“I said, what the fuck are you looking at, faggot?”

I blinked, not even shifting my weight around. The guy was bigger than me, but – what the fuck? So were half the chicks in this joint. I wasn’t scared.

“Don’t flatter yourself, jackoff,” I muttered, hands shoved deep in my pockets.

“Looks like you were checking me out, douchebag,” the guy went on, and there was a tremor in his hands that said he was DeeTee-ing. Poor asshole – word was, drugs were only one of the things that Hobbes cracked down on. He wouldn’t have it within the compound’s lines.

“I said, don’t flatter -” I started, but the guy turned around too quick, caught me off guard, and there was just enough light in the mess hall to flash off the knife he’d pulled off the bar. A month ago, I’d have stuck a blade in him without thinking about it. Now, for whatever reason – maybe food in your stomach and blankets at night made you soft – I hesitated. It could have been enough. It would have, if Nash hadn’t stepped around me, pulled back, and knocked the guy out with one punch to the temple.

In the stunned-silent mess hall, the kid’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor. It seemed to take a long time. The adrenalin that had just blossomed in my blood for a fight turned almost immediately to cold, raging anger.

“What the FUCK was that?” I screamed, rounding on Nash immediately. For an instant, he looked confused, shifting his weight and even going so far as to make a step back.

“What? I – he was going to –“

“Are you kidding me? Are you fucking KIDDING me?” I stepped up to him, feeling empowered. Yes. He should be fucking afraid. Fuck him for ever thinking that I was weak because I just happened to be a gutter rat. Fuck him for thinking I needed his god damned help. “I’ve been in more fights than you could fucking, count, you pretty, useless, do gooding asshole. You think I need your help? You think you have the right to feel bad for me? I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

I shoved him hard in the chest, still stepping up on him. “You walk a god damed mile, sweet heart, and you can see which of us is more use in a fight. A real fight. You think I can’t take a punch? You think I couldn’t? You think I couldn’t take a goddamned-“

And then he did the one thing that could have surprised me and shut me up all in one go. It was impressive, really. Before then, I wouldn’t have figured he had it in him.

He punched me. Hard. Hard enough to knock me out. I went down bonelessly, aware of nothing else except that I had the good fortune to slump over the other douchebag’s still unconscious form.

When I came to moments later, there were a few people standing over me, not least of which, Nash, looking less concerned than he could have.

“What the fuck was that for?” I asked, wiping blood out of my mouth.

He shrugged, offering me a hand up. “I just thought it would help.”

And you know what? Fuck it. I laughed.

After that, we were friends.

*

It was funny, really, how boring revolutions were. As it turned out, there was an incredible amount of waiting, which we passed as well as we could. Nash was a man of many fucking hidden talents – magic tricks, card games, stupid shit that ate up the slow minutes in the middle of the day. He was funny in a slow, drawling kind of way, off hand comments that took a moment to understand but always made me snort in appreciation. He wasn’t the clean cut goody goody I’d originally taken him for, and after another week, he proved it by breaking out the last of a half smoked roach and lighting it up.

“Christ, I missed this,” I croaked, passing it back to him. “Been…shit, six months? Eight? Too fucking long, anyway. Thanks, man.” Nash shrugged, laying back in his cot and taking the joint without opening his eyes. The tent was just big enough to stand up in at the center, and our cots were opposite each other in the narrow eaves. We spent most of our time laying down to talk, stretching out on our bellies in the wet heat of afternoon. Even now, two weeks later, I didn’t know much about him or his past – but how was that a surprise? It wasn’t a world where you freely offered anymore, and it had never been a world where you asked.

“Yeah. Love Tom, but Jesus, somebody needs to lever that shaft out his ass.”

I giggled and swung my feat out of bed. It was late now, edging into evening. It was the time of year when the fireflies were out and after a few hits off the joint? Yeah, I wanted to see the fucking fireflies. Big deal. “C’mon,” I said, waving him after me, “Outside.”

Outside in the early evening was a close, nearly claustrophobic experience. I’d gotten used to the forest and the tents and roads, but it was the press of people was still extraordinary. Families and milling people, all clustered around campfires outside their small tents, talking, chatting, trying to pretend that their lives were more than they seemed. I tossed some wood on the embers of our little fire, watching the fire lick up at the new fuel. Around us, lives were lived out by the orange ring of fires and the hopeful voices of the homeless and displaced.

“He looks so ordinary,” I muttered, huddling down by the edge of the fire, arms wrapped around my legs.

Still standing behind me, wordlessly handing me a sweatshirt, Nash nodded. “I guess that’s the point.”

A few campfires away, Tom Hobbes was making his rounds. I’d been disdainful the first time I’d seen him – savoir, handy man, goodboy, Christos, doing what no one else dreamed. I couldn’t believe it was real. Hadn’t he seen the world? Didn’t he know it was useless? Word was, he’d come out of no where five years ago and had been traveling, getting the lay of the land. This was the birth that came out of that, his sprawling sanctuary. He made his way from fire to fire, shaking hands, chatting, like he was a Saint and not the naive fool we should have known he was.

I didn’t like him, I didn’t trust him, but you know what was the scariest? For all that I’d been though, for all that the world had showed me and had taken from me, I looked at him smiling slightly in the flickering light of a thousand campfires, and I wanted to believe.

Nash dropped down next to me, sighing to himself. “He gets inside your head.”

“You said it,” I murmured, and gave Hobbes’ a half-hearted wave when his eyes drifted over to the pair of us. To my surprise, I saw a flash of recognition cross his face and, after making his goodbyes to the current group of people, he made his way over to us, his nearly invisible contingent of body guards detaching from the shadows and following him over.

“Nash,” he said with real warmth, dropping down across the fire without being invited. I pulled in a little closer on myself, hoping to be overlooked. “Hey. Sorry I haven’t been around for a while. You know how it is….just. A long few weeks. See you got yourself a roommate, eh?” he added, as if quick to be away from his half-hearted explanations. “I’m Hobbes,” he said, flashing me a quick grin, white teeth reflecting firelight and a real smile reaching his eyes. He was handsome, that was undeniable. Blond hair, blue eyes, muscles under that crappy, dirty tee. Exhaustion was wearing on him, though. There were bags under his eyes that that revolutionary glint couldn’t hide and, aside from the flush from the proximity of the fire, he looked pale and thin. Something in the way his clothes fit him said he’d lost a lot of weight recently and much faster than was healthy.

I arched my eyebrows at him. Fool, dreamer, christos… “I know who you are,” I muttered, glancing over at Nash. Fucker hadn’t let on that he was this close with the bossman. To his credit, Nash pretended not to notice.

“He’s an asshole,” Nash said apologetically. “Hobbes, this is Zeek. Zeek, this is the guy that’s making sure you’re eating and sleeping for free.”

“Zeek?” Tom asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Like Ezekiel,” I muttered, actually flushing a bit. Blame it on the pot and the way the guy was looking at me. Like he was sure there was something underneath me that was worth digging out.

“It’s a pleasure,” he said, and I could have believed that he really believed that, too. Already he was turning his attention back to Nash, rolling to his feet easily. Behind him, I could just about pick out the silhouettes of the two guards that seemed to follow him everywhere. “So, Nash, hey. We’ll need you tomorrow, alright?”

Sprawled out in front of the fire, Nash didn’t look too surprised. “Same time same place?”

Hobbes nodded, dusting off the flats of his hands on his pants. “You got it. Sorry, I’d stay longer, but I want to see how the McLevon’s baby is doing. Florence was down to see her earlier today and I want to see how they’re getting on.”

“No problem, man,” Nash said and waved as Hobbes left.

“Take of yourself, Zeek,” he called back to me, and still huddled up at the fire, I ripped off a smart ass salute. It could have just been that little encounter that evening, but a few feet from our tent, one of the guards, a woman by the slight build of her frame, pulled Tom aside and gestured at him, briefly indicating something over her shoulder. After a moment, Tom nodded, glancing back at us before clapping the guard on the shoulder and continuing down the road alone. Around him, campfires grew quiet and mothers hushed their children, faces turning towards him in the kind of marrow deep respect that was almost reverence.

“Fucking obnoxious, isn’t it?” someone said. It startled me enough to make me jump, pissed at myself for being just as entranced by Tom Fucking Hobbes as every other loser in this place. The other guard had stepped up to the fire, inviting himself to a place on a log. You didn’t see many guns in Hobbstown, but there was a semi across his back and a certain bulkiness to his pockets that said there had to be more. The woman guard sat down beside him, saying nothing but giving him a stern, sour look. “What?” he said, “It is. I swear, half the time he doesn’t even notice it. Hey, Nash.”

Nash was smiling a little, but he was tenser than he had been a few moments ago. “Hey Mike. Florence. What can we do for you?”

“I know you,” I said suddenly, peering at the guy. His face had taken a moment to place. After two weeks in the encampment, I’d seen a couple hundred faces. Eventually, everyone started to blend together. “You’re the guy I ran into coming in here, aren’t you? You gave me shit.”

The guy grinned a little, more wolfish and self-satisfied than Hobbes’ grin had been a moment before. In the shifting light of the campfire, this guy was good looking too, but darker than his boss. Heavier, more muscle, and he carried himself in a way that ensured he could go just about anywhere un-assaulted. I remember thinking that his eyes were an incredible shade of blue.

“You needed someone to give you shit, kid. You looked like you were ready to storm the fucking castle.”

“Hey,” I said, half going to stand up, “Fuck you, buddy, I was –“

“Easy,” Nash said, hauling me back down, but not before I caught the amused look on Mike’s face. “Zeek, Pinocchio, Pinocchio, Zeek. And the quite lady there is Florence. Try real hard not to piss them off, okay?”

“Pinocchio?” I said, staring at him, my mouth working mutely. “Pinocchio like the-“

“Right-hand man to Hobbes?” Nash said quickly, giving me a hard look. “Yeah. That Pinocchio.”

But I was petulant, pissed off, and this asshole was amused by me. “I was gonna say the guy that used to be Santiago’s lap dog, but yeah. I guess that works too.”

Florence, who I’d barely given a second glance to since she sat down, had been quietly sharpening a knife across her knees, apparently not giving thought to the conversation. With that little comment, however, she rolled her eyes greatly, and leaned across the fire and smacked me hard across the temple. I didn’t even see it coming. It was enough to rattle my brain around in my skull and briefly make the world go fuzzy. “Shit,” I muttered, holding my hand up to my head. “What the fuck is it with people here and hitting me?”

Mike, to his credit, only laughed again, giving me an appraising look. “I saw that little incident in the mess hall,” he said mildly. “Surprised a kid like you didn’t put up more of a fight.”

“A kid like me?” I demanded, “What the fuck is that supposed to me, asshole? What the fuck is a kid like me like?” But across the fire, Florence raised her hand again and I scooted back, colliding with Nash. “Jesus, calm down lady. What is he, your boyfriend?”

And that triggered an even more extravagant face from Florence, while Pinocchio dissolved into a rough, deep laughter. His face was a lot less shadowed when he was genuinely amused, I noticed. Something younger and brighter in his features came out. I hunched up my shoulders and glanced at Nash, who only shrugged, giving me a withering look.

“Look, kid,” Pinocchio said, shaking his head and looking at me. “You want to learn how to spar a little better than what they taught you in the Cincinnati slums? I might be able to help you out. You know how to shoot a gun?”

I didn’t, so I only shrugged. “Figures. Look. Being an asshole only works when you can fight your way out of your own messes.”

“Thanks for that, Obi Wan,” I muttered, staring at the fire petulantly. Nash elbowed me hard in side. Wincing, I intoned, “I mean, Thank You Schoolmaster Real Boy.”

“Cute,” Mike muttered, rolling to his feet. Florence was already up, looking down the rows of tents like she could still see Hobbes moving between them. She gestured at Mike to hurry up. “Stay out of trouble,” he muttered as he turned away, adding over his shoulder, “And you two assholes smell like hippies. Tom catches you with weed, he’s gonna be disappointed at you.”

*

I tried to get more info out of Nash that night as we settled in, but he was quiet and difficult. It wasn’t my business, but it still pissed me off that he wouldn’t tell me what they needed him for.

“Stuff,” he muttered, turning towards the wall.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Jesus fuck, don’t you ever shut up?”

“You know, I was talking with our neighbors,” I said brightly. “Kind of funny, but it seems like half of them are afraid of you.”

“Shut up, Zeek,” Nash muttered, sounding more weary than angry.

“Why do you think that is?” I wondered, tapping my lips with a finger. “Bossman thinks you’re hot shit, you’re buddy buddy with his entourage and, hate to break it to you, you don’t fucking snore.”

“Sometimes I snore,” he muttered, sounding defensive.

“Why didn’t you have a roommate, Nash?”

“Not now,” he said quietly, still turned to face the wall. I’m not an easy person to impress – fuck knows people have tried enough times and failed. You see a weak spot, you strike out, because hesitation only gives the other guy more time to do the same to you. In this world, you better believe it was easier that way. But there was something in those two words that slowed me down. Weariness…loneliness. Something I could feel resonating in my own gut, an old and familiar ache. In the bed across the way, I stared at the naked line of Nash’s back, and held my tongue.

“…thanks…” Nash muttered after a few minutes of silence. I didn’t really have anything to say to that, though. I wasn’t taking pity on him, I told myself, hauling up the scratchy blankets. Truth was, I just really didn’t care. So I rustled around in the sheets a little, not saying a word, and soon I pretended to snore.

*
We had breakfast early the next morning. Nash had been loud as he packed up a battered military issue backpack and woken me up. Hey, guess what: surprise. I’m not at my best in the morning.

“So go back to bed,” he muttered as I stumbled around the pre-dawn tent, looking for a shirt.

“Hungry,” I muttered, rubbing at my eyes, and followed him in a sleepy daze to the mess hall. We didn’t talk much over the fake eggs and instant coffee. Truth was, we never really did. I didn’t really often find myself having friends, but Nash was quiet and hard to offend. Some how it didn’t really surprise me that that was what it took.

“What are you gonna do?” I croaked halfway through my second cup of instant, squinting curiously at him as he wolfed down his egg sandwich and threw some fruit in his bag.

“Stuff,” he said, smiling a little, way too awake with the sun only half above the horizon. “Things. Don’t wait dinner for me, Charlotte, I’ve got a meeting that might run late.”

“Asshole,” I muttered, just as Pinocchio stuck his head in the mess hall and caught Nash’s eyes. Unhurriedly, he jerked his head at the door, disappearing back outside again a moment later. He looked different this morning, I thought. Somehow, that human contentment had been lost over the night, and in the light of morning, Pinocchio was rigid with determination. Through a nearby window, I could see him and Hobbes and Florence loitering outside the other permanent building I’d noticed two weeks before. It was a small structure, windowless, no more than ten feet by ten feet and one story tall, but the guard was there like always, doubly attentive now with his superiors so close. A few people I didn’t recognize drifted up to the trio as I watch, all with tattered bags like Nash.

“Have fun,” I muttered, watching Nash sling the bag over his back. “Bring me back a tee-shirt.”

Nash leaned over, ruffling my hair. “Don’t be an asshole while I’m gone.”

I scowled, batting his hand away. “I’m saving it all for you, sugar tits.”

From where I was sitting in the mess hall, poking at the last of my runny eggs, I had a perfect view as the group assembled outside the other building. Tom said a few words, but it seemed like something the troops had heard before. After a moment, Mike motioned to the guard, who stepped aside to open the door via a mechanism on the exterior wall I hadn’t seen before.

The door opened slowly. This far away, the open doorway revealed nothing of the interior. It looked like just another room. With a hand motion from Pinocchio, all of them – now about half a dozen – filed inside. On the cusp of the doorway, Nash looked back at me. He knew I would be looking, I guess, and he flashed me a covert thumbs up. I flipped him the bird. And then the door was closing and the guard was stepping back into place.

Six people, at least three of them soldiers, all disappearing into a building no bigger than a room with enough supplies to last a week.

I stayed there for two hours that morning, watching the building, drinking shit instant coffee as the mess filled up with more lost and lonelies, seeking their morning meal at a more realistic hour. But there wasn’t anything else, not for hours. The little building sat in the middle of Hobbstown, under guard, unassuming, and forgotten by just about everyone but me.

That was my first two weeks in Hobbstown: the bossman, Pinocchio, Nash, and me.

After that, things began to change almost immediately.