The Axeboy's Blues (The Agents Of Book 1)

by Andy Reynolds

  “Oh yes, I know The Function.” The man leaned forward, his face peeking into the flickering lamplight. His face was long and slender and young, and he had a thin mustache. He pointed at her with his thin cigar. “They say he works for the people at the very top in this city.”

  “What's your name?” she asked.

  “Forgive my lack of formalities. I have not been in such close proximity to another human being for some time now. My name is Dean Smith, and it is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He offered his hand but of course couldn't pass it through the bars without Edith's permission, which she wasn't about to give.

  “Nice to meet you. I believe you already know my name.”

  He withdrew his hand. “You believe correctly.”

  “Mr. Dean Smith.” Edith felt the words rolling over her lips.

  “Yes, Miss Downs.”

  “What is it that you want? What is it that you desire?”

  He smirked and took a long puff of his cigar. The gray smoke caught the light of the flickering lantern as it wafted against the bars, unable to move between them. “I want to live again. I want us to walk into that bank and make everyone reach for the ceiling.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Miss Edith, there's nothing on this earth that compares to it.”

  “Do you honestly believe that we would get away with it? Or that this man, The Function, isn't lying to me? That he isn't looking for some gullible fall-girl?”

  Dean Smith ran his thin fingers along his thin mustache. “Fortunately or unfortunately, I have known of The Function for some time. He is a sort of legend amongst the unhumanly inhabitants of the city. Though I do not necessarily enjoy his company, nor believe all the tales spun about him, he is none the less very well connected and known for his word. If he says that you will get out of this unscathed, then he thoroughly believes it to be true.”

  Edith had worked with several collections of memories before, but none that seemed so coherent, so put-together. Usually they were just memories that orbited the person's passion – and the ones that she collected were of pastry chefs, like The Function had guessed. One thing that The Function was wrong about was her skill as a pastry chef. In fact, she had no skill whatsoever with baking. No matter how many times she'd tried to replicate what she'd learned from her objects, nothing would come out tasting even remotely like it should. Without her apron and other assortment of memory-infused memorabilia she would completely botch baking a batch of muffins from a box of muffin mix.

  Most of the memories she'd dealt with were very simple-minded. This Dean Smith fellow wasn't simple at all. It probably should have scared Edith to have him in her head, in her body, but more than anything she was intrigued. Until that moment her little life had been about running a business (which she actually was quite good at) where half her staff were memories that used her body to bake pastries. Now after meeting The Function and Dean Smith, other potentials were opening up. She didn't know what those potentials could be, but the not knowing was intriguing her to no end.

  “Now, I'm going to speak to The Function,” she said, “and I'd appreciate it if you didn't try anything.”

  Dean Smith smiled with his cigar between his gleaming white teeth, sat back and raised his empty hands.

  She opened her eyes and was back in her pastry shop, sitting across from The Function. Even though Dean Smith's memories were just outside her mind, she could feel aspects of his personality sinking in, mixing with her own, and she picked up the old revolver. Edith usually tried to stay away from incorporating male memories into herself – she didn't like the way they mixed with her. The pastry chef memories she chose were all women. Already she felt more aggressive and cocky.

  And then The Function said, from above his tinted blue glasses, “So, who am I speaking to?”

  “Do you have any sort of plan?” she asked. “Or am I just going to walk in there and walk out with the bank's money?”

  “You will have a partner, just as you did back then. And you will have a getaway driver as well.”

  “And you want this to happen today?”

  He smirked. “Well done, Edith! I knew you could handle him. For a second there I wasn't sure who I was talking to.”

  “I have another stipulation, if we're going to do this.”

  “This is becoming a pretty expensive interview, but ask away.”

  “I'm not asking. When you walk out of here, you're never going to come into my shop again. You've come here under a false pretense. We haven't known each other for half an hour yet, and you've already lied to my staff and I, and you've put me in danger. I care about my employees and I don't want you in here, ever again.”

  He shrugged. “Alright. Done.”

  “I want to hear you give your word.”

  “Edith, I give you my word. I won't come into your shop again, no matter how famous you become or how hungry I am for breakfast.”

  She slipped the revolver into the pocket of her apron and got up. “I'll go speak to my employees, and then we can leave.”

  “Could you spot me a cup of coffee?”

  “No.” Then she left him, walking past all the tables and people drinking coffee and eating croissants, towards her office.

  File 5 :: [Roman Wing]

  The waves crashed upon the rocks of the levee, egged on by the storm raging high above. Roman Wing stood a mere two yards above those waves, halfway up the levee. The wind swatted at the edges of his long coat like a hand swatting away the never-ending mosquitoes that appeared each evening.

  The walkway on the levee above him, called The Moonwalk[3], was packed with joggers, locals walking their dogs and tourists who were laughing and taking pictures of each other with the giant cargo ships and paddle boats trudging down the Mississippi behind them. No one noticed the man named Roman Wing, nor that he was wearing a long, gray coat on such a warm spring day.

  In the palm of his hand he held a dented and duct taped speaker from which a series of crackling sounds emanated. The cord connected to the back of the speaker dipped down towards the rocks, and then rose up and trailed out over the river and up for miles, disappearing into the clouds.

  A distorted voice sputtered out of the speaker. “Alright. You should be good to go.”

  Roman brought the speaker to his mouth and pushed one of the buttons down with his long thumb. “No, Albert. A little more. Just another notch.” He looked up at the clouds and the disappearing cord as he spoke.

  “If I push it any further, I don't know if I can keep the buckets from tipping,” said the muffled voice of Albert.

  “You can keep them from tipping – you could do this blindfolded. Just concentrate, my friend.”

  Roman lowered the speaker and closed his eyes, feeling the moisture in the air as the wind began howling all around him like winged lions. Then he opened his eyes and stepped forward, walking down the rocks like crooked stairs, hardly glancing at where he was stepping while the rats scattered to and fro in search of shelter. When he reached the river and the water was splashing against his boots, he spoke into the speaker: “Albert, I'm going in.”

  “I'll keep it up,” said the crackly voice. “Watch your back.”

  Roman set the speaker down on one of the rocks and took from the inside of his coat a piece of the fruit called Wonder. His normally pale hand took on the colors of the fruit – heavy purples bursting with yellows and oranges – and he could feel it slowly seeping into his skin. Then he brought it to his mouth and sunk his teeth down. Eating the fruit was not like eating human food – it was more like sitting in the sun so long that you could feel the sun's rays altering the chemistry of your body, changing you. It was as if you could be an idea and then evolve into a different yet related idea. It was like being an epiphany in someone else's mind.

  If anyone on the Moon Walk had noticed the strange man standing on the river's edge (which they hadn't), they would have seen him vanish. Or, rather, they would have simply not realized
that they were still seeing him. Roman was still standing there, his boots splashed by the choppy waves, his coat and hair pulled about by the wind, eating the rest of the fruit called Wonder. But the substance that made up his body had shifted, had become more like thought or emotion – not quite so tangible to the human mind.

  As he finished the fruit, the river before him began glowing with long, curling streaks of gold. Between the streaks he could see several large, whale-like beasts moving under the surface. They were further out, towards the center of the river, and he could hear their cries over the roaring of the wind. He'd seen those massive creatures tear apart several people over the years – some of whom he had considered friends. He had once, long ago, yelled at his mentor that they should rid the city of the beasts.

  “They are necessary,” The Scientist had told him, hardly looking up from his sheets of drawings and diagrams that he'd been hunched over. “Stay here long enough and you'll understand.”

  They are necessary: a phrase that would haunt him for some time, until he eventually came to terms with the way that the city worked – how it had always worked and would continue to work. Roman hadn't believed it to be true at the time, but over many years, like his mentor had promised, Roman had come to know the beasts' importance. So many things in this city were necessary – no matter how awful, no matter what price had to be paid to keep them around. It's like every awful thing in the city was put there to counteract something else just as awful or worse, which in turn was put there to keep something else in check. And so it went.

  Roman stepped forward into the waters of the golden Mississippi. The water recoiled and hissed like cats around his feet, unsure of what to do with his form, then sniffed at him and hesitantly flowed around his ankles as if deciding he might not be out to get it. Roman walked into the water, feeling the pressure of it against his clothes yet not actually getting wet. His eyes scanned the water, making sure the beasts hadn't noticed him yet, and soon the water was up to his chest. He looked down and saw the stick-like handle and rope on the river floor – not unlike what you hold when when water skiing, except that there was a large mechanical reel in the middle of it that the rope was attached to.

  He plunged down into the water, grabbed the device and clicked it on. Instantly there was a whirring sound as it vibrated in his hands, and just as instantly the howling of the beasts grew louder. He heard the beasts coming for him, looking for him[4]. As soon as his head was submerged in the waters they knew he was there – and he was not welcome. Roman had deterred the beasts many times before, and they held a special dislike for him. The device yanked him forward, quickly reeling the rope into itself and pulling him down deeper into the river.

  One of the beasts was lumbering towards him, and Roman dived down deeper to arc underneath, being sure to give plenty of space for its swinging tail fin. Because of the wind messing with its senses, it was probably sensing ten different versions of him all around it. The beast didn't turn to chase him, instead trying to attack the many phantom Romans, roaring madly as he sped on down into the depths of the river. There seemed to be no sign of other beasts pursuing him as he descended into the dark – towards a pulsing blue light far below.

  It should be pointed out here that Roman Wing is not at all aquatic in nature – he was breathing neither air nor water, but breathing ether, or existence itself. In this way, it did not matter one bit whether there was air or water around him. It's not that the fruit of Wonder gave him the power to breathe ether, but that he could always breathe ether and the fruit just had a way of reminding his body of the fact.

  The device continued to coil the rope between his clenched hands, and the blueish light ahead quickly revealed itself to be a cluster of old buildings lined up along the river's floor, with dirt streets and gas streetlights with bright blue flames. It was, of course, the first French Quarter[5].

  The whirring device pulled him towards the end of the line – towards the old town square, which was not called Jackson Square but rather Place D'Armes, and the old church, which was grand but not nearly as grand as the St. Louis Cathedral. Roman clicked off the device and floated down towards the church, past all the flat-faced buildings of the first Quarter with their steeped roofs and wooden frames. Between the buildings the riverwalkers swam, going about their business. The first Quarter was not nearly as populated as the second, but the inhabitants numbered in the hundreds.

  The rope that he'd followed down from the surface was tied to a metal loop which was stuck into the ground near the base of the church. Roman touched down in the town square and looked up at the church's clock, then checked it against his watch. “It's off again, Elsh,” he said as she approached. “Probably needs a real tune up this time, not just another bucket of WD40.”

  “Are you offering us your services then, Roman?” she asked.

  He turned to her. Like all the riverwalkers, her body was a conglomeration of coffee-skinned woman, silvery fish and river plants. Her body never really stopped moving – fins protruded from the parts of her that were covered in silver scales, moving her up and down with the current of the water. Algae and flowering plants grew from within her and wrapped around her body, their leaves and petals constantly opening and closing, breathing and eating tiny sea creatures.

  He shook his head and nodded up towards the distant surface. “I'm afraid not. I've been working so much that I hardly have time for my research. I even put off coming down here for as long as I could.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a stack of envelopes that were tied together with string and wrapped in plastic. “Hope there's nothing too pressing in here. Some of these are probably a month old.” He handed the stack of mail to Elsh.

  A cluster of seaweed uncoiled itself from around her torso, wrapped around the stack of mail and then recoiled itself back around her. “Since you're so busy, I guess you don't have time for a drink.”

  Roman smirked. “I think the air-breathing world will be fine without me for an hour.”

  He walked through the streets as she glided next to him, past rows of empty wooden buildings all lit up by the blue streetlights. The sea floor stirred underneath his boots as he stepped on shells of all types, while crustaceans and fish scattered at their approach. They passed nearly empty hotels, pubs, store fronts and small mansions – with the random riverwalker passerby nodding briefly while swimming past.

  They entered L'Hotel Glace, a once-grand three-story establishment on the street called Camino de Bayona, made their way through the empty lobby and past the darkened restaurant, then headed up the stairs to the second floor. At the landing there was nothing but a wall and a large metal vault door. Roman spun the giant handle, pulled it open and they went into the chamber beyond, where he proceeded to close and lock the door from the inside.

  The chamber was small and metal, with dozens of fist-sized circular holes in each wall and a control panel which contained three levers. The wall facing the vault door they'd come through had an identical vault door. Roman pulled one of the levers, then waited a few minutes while the groaning of gears and whining of belts grew louder. When the churning and grinding became regulated, he pulled a second lever and vibrations echoed through the water in the room. Imperceptibly at first, and then more quickly, the water began to drain out of the room through the holes in the wall. Elsh closed her eyes and touched down on the ground, flexing her muscles and stretching them out as they shifted to support her weight. She never had trouble switching over from breathing water to air though – that part of her amphibious nature seemed to be more deeply ingrained. As many times as he'd done this with her, Roman could never keep from staring at the gills along her dark neck and shoulders as they opened and stretched, coughing up excess water and then sucking in the air. He'd always found the riverwalkers to be the most fascinating of the non-humans in New Orleans.

  When the water was done draining from the room, Roman pushed the first lever back up and the rumbling of the gears slowed and sputtered out. He s
pun the handle of the second vault door and it opened into a long, wide metal room whose edges were packed with lab equipment, bookshelves filled to the brim with books, and dozens of curio cabinets with all kinds of petrified creatures. They walked across the laboratory (which had been created by The Scientist long ago and hadn't been used since he vanished from the world[6]) and then passed through a door that led them to the make-shift bar Roman and Elsh had built. The bar itself was a wooden lab table, but the bar stools were real bar stools.

  “Mind if I do the honors?” asked Roman.

  “Go ahead,” said Elsh, sitting awkwardly on one of the stools. She always seemed awkward while doing human things. He'd found the majority of human behaviors to be more than a little ridiculous, so watching her behave like a human was oddly refreshing in its way.

  He walked behind the bar, where there was a large mirror and rows of different colored, unlabeled bottles. “Anything new?” he asked.

  “The red bottle to your right,” she said. “I found a hidden patch of blood flowers upstream, between here and Baton Rouge.”

  In one of the neighboring rooms Roman had built several distillation columns that Elsh used to make alcohol from various plants and flowers that could be found either in the river, the swamps, or Lake Pontchartrain. Roman was sure that at least some of these plants would be too poisonous to humans, but Roman and Elsh seemed to manage. The concoctions were horrible at first, but over the years she'd gotten adept at the process and they often took turns mixing them together along with other liquids found under the water. There were also quite a few mixers that she'd make by brewing them like one would brew tea or coffee[7].

  Roman took the red bottle and smelled it. “Reminiscent of hibiscus.” He uncapped some of the others and smelled them, then began mixing them into a couple of glasses. For a while he'd meant to bring down or create some kind of ice maker, but the temperature was cool down there and the two of them had gotten used to drinking without ice.