by wildbow
The boy could have been a tall eleven year old and he could have been a young-looking sixteen.
“Bryce?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Bryce Kiley.”
“Is there any chance he escaped?”
“No. I’ve checked all the usual places. His friends, our old house, what’s left of it. I stopped by the hospital where Mom and Dad are, and the nurses say they haven’t seen him.”
“How long ago did he disappear?”
“Two days ago.”
I nodded. I vaguely recalled that the forty-eight hour mark was when police considered a missing person as good as gone. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try. It also meant I could feel less guilty about handling things here, with my territory, before starting my search.
“Did you get a look at the people who took him?”
“Some. The one nearest me, he was fat, white, and he had one of those bushy wild man beards. You know the kind I mean? It sticks out everywhere, no grooming—”
“I know what you mean.”
“And his hair was really long and greasy, so it stuck to his scalp.”
“Okay.”
“Then there was one woman. Maybe middle-aged, bleached blond hair. Trailer trash. And she was with this tall black guy with a scar on his lips. He was the one who was grabbing Bryce. He had a bottle in one hand he was drinking from and a length of pipe in the other, so I think he was the one who used the bottle on Derrick…”
“Were they wearing anything?”
“I don’t think anything major. Um, most of the guys were shirtless, and the ones who were wearing clothes were wearing t-shirts, some with no sleeves or with the sleeves torn off. Oh. And a lot of them had these bands around their wrists. Plastic, colored, sometimes one or two, but the black guy had a lot. I remember seeing the ones on the black guy’s wrist, and thinking it didn’t seem like something he would wear on his own.”
“Okay, that last bit is especially good.” Were they a way of marking status? More bands for higher status, with different colors meaning different things? “Anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything major right this second.”
“Okay.” I thought. But she might come up with something more? “Where are you staying?”
She hesitated to answer, but she finally relented and admitted, “Nowhere. I was out all last night, looking. I was going to go back to the place we’d stayed at first, our family friend, but…”
“The mold problem, and you said it was crowded. That won’t do. You’ll come with me.”
Concern flickered across her face. “I don’t know—”
“It’s better if you’re close, so you can answer any questions I have and so I can keep you informed.”
She frowned, and I could practically see her working to think of a way to get out of my offer without offending. I knew if she didn’t come with me, she’d probably wind up searching for a mediocre to unsatisfactory place.
“This isn’t really negotiable,” I told her, just to forestall any excuses.
For her part, she didn’t argue.
We made our way to the beach, and after I’d checked both ways, I led her into the storm drain. It took some urging to get her to enter the darkness, and I had to grip her hand to lead her into the oppressive black. I unlocked the barred door that led into the cellar and locked it behind us.
When I flipped the switches to light up the ground floor, her eyes went wide. “You have power. Erm, electricity.”
“And running water. Stay here a moment.” I took the stairs two at a time to get to the second floor. Nothing too sensitive there, but I did walk up to the stairs leading to the third floor and slid a panel across the stairwell. With my keys, I locked it in place. I didn’t feel it was that obvious to anyone glancing around the room. It looked like a section of wall until you saw the keyhole. I verified the bugs were all locked up tight in their individual compartments in the lids of each terrarium, then headed back to Sierra.
“I’m making tea,” I spoke, as I came down the stairs. “You want some? Are you hungry?”
“I’m not a tea drinker, and I haven’t had it in years, but that suddenly sounds like the best thing in the world.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a kitchen table or chairs or even a living room for us to have the tea. There’re beds in the other room, if you want something to sit on, and you can make yourself comfortable there.”
“This is strangely domestic for a villain.” I turned to look at her and she hurried to add, “I mean—”
“It’s fine. I’m not offended, I am a villain. But I’m also a person under this mask. Someone who prefers tea to coffee, who enjoys reading, who…” I floundered. “…likes sweet and savory foods but dislikes anything spicy or sour. Point being, I’m someone who wants to make sure you get taken care of. Especially if you’re among the people I’m protecting in the territory I’m claiming. Go. Find a bed.”
Obediently, she went to do just that.
I put the kettle on, then got the sugar. What did I have that would go well with tea?
I got out a box of graham cookies with chocolate on one side. I poured out the tea into mugs and put a teabag in each. I poured milk into a small measuring cup so Sierra could have milk with her tea if she wanted, and similarly doled out sugar into a small bowl and placed a spoon inside it. Then I tore open the box of cookies and sorted them onto a plate.
I put everything onto a tray and went to find the room where Sierra would be seated.
She was lying on the bunk bed, already fast asleep.
Quietly, I set the serving tray down on one of the luggage trunks at one corner of the room, collected my own tea and went upstairs to the second floor.
* * *
It took me three tries.
On the third attempt, the beetle, supported by others and a crack in the pavement, successfully struck the match against the side of the box as the other bugs adjusted its position. A small flame flared at the end.
Other bugs leveraged matches out of the box the woman had dropped, gripping the matches in their mandibles, sometimes two or three bugs to one match. Like a relay, they touched one match to another, passing on the flame from the beetle’s match to each of the others. It wasn’t long before there were more than thirty beetles each with a lit match in its mandibles. Some died from the heat their own matches generated, but most were able to stand it. I could imagine the visual of it; kind of like a small sea of tiny flames like lighters at a concert. Or maybe it was closer to a lynch mob, a crowd holding torches, radiating with an imminent threat of violence.
It was a shame it was closer to noon than midnight. I imagined the effect would have been even more exaggerated in the darkness.
The woman stepped away, pulling off one of her wet shoes. She threw it at the bugs, and it rolled over a few. A heartbeat later, it burst violently into flame. It didn’t make a difference. The swarm that was armed with matches was already too spread out for one shoe and one small fire to slow them down at all.
The woman’s attempts to remove her other shoe made her fall over, and she suppressed a grunt of pain as she landed. She successfully kicked off her other shoe, and then began simultaneously fumbling with her belt while trying to crab-walk backwards away from the advancing sea of tiny flames.
I could picture it. It would be intimidating: a sea of bugs acting with a backing of human intelligence, each with their tiny torches.
Doubly intimidating if a swarm of bugs had made you drop and spill a can of gasoline onto your shoes and the cuffs of your pant legs.
She successfully undid her belt, then began trying to remove the tight-fitting jeans she wore. The woman got as far as getting her jeans around her ankles before she got stuck. Some beetles and roaches took to the air, carrying matches to the ground behind her, cutting off her retreat. She screamed at the others in her group, but nobody leaped to her assistance.
A beetle fluttered forward and touched a match to her jeans. In an
instant, the bundle of cloth at her feet was on fire.
She tried to pat it out, but her efforts to remove her shoes had gotten trace amounts of gasoline on her hands. Her right hand ignited, the insects on it dying, and she threw herself to one side to thrust it into a hole in the road where water had collected, her feet still kicking as she tried to remove her jeans. Gasoline transferred to the water’s surface and flickered with the faintest of flames.
One of her friends finally stepped forward to help her, grabbing her under the armpits and dragging her ten feet down the road to a spot where more water had collected. Together, they worked to put out the flames, dousing her bundled jeans into the water. I could maybe have stopped him, driven him away, but my interest was more on spooking them than causing grievous physical harm. I wouldn’t lose much sleep over burning her with the things she’d intended to use on others, but I wouldn’t stop her from putting herself out.
Apparently seeing the woman get set on fire by the swarm had done its job in unnerving my enemies. The group scattered, and I let them run. One by one, I took them down by creating the human shaped swarms and then attacking them. Some fought, others ran, but each of the Merchants succumbed eventually, choking on the bugs or losing all self-control in the face of the pain the attacking swarm inflicted.
The human shapes were less efficient than a regular swarm, but I imagined the psychological effect was that much greater. A swarm of bugs was something you could encounter any day. An uncannily human figure that you couldn’t hurt with any conventional weapon, who threatened incredible pain if it got close enough? It was something my enemies would remember, and it was something they could tell others about.
I gathered the swarm into a figure that stood next to the woman with the burned feet and her friend. I drew more and more bugs into the swarm, bloating it and drawing it up to the point where I couldn’t make it any larger, without the bottom half giving way. I gauged it to be somewhere close to twelve feet in height.
Then I let it fall on top of them. That polished off group two.
I stood from the armchair, stretched, and pulled on my mask. I bent down to pick up my mug, then headed downstairs to check on Sierra. She was still sleeping, but I’d known that. I’d felt secure about removing my mask only because I had bugs on the girl, to keep track of her. I’d know the second she stirred.
I went into the kitchen before sending a text to Coil:
Merchant burn victim & other wounded near Sandstone & Harney. Send medic?
No use having the woman die from any complications from her injuries. Besides, maybe he could get her to offer up information in exchange for her freedom.
I dialed Lisa next.
“Hey, Boardwalk empress,” she answered me.
“Tattletale. How’s it coming?”
“It’s not. I’m gathering intel on the enemies in my territory. A few have migrated my way in response to what the rest of you are doing, regrouping. I’m trying to see if there’s any useful tidbits of info I can pick up, and if there’s maybe a way to fuck with all these guys at around the same time, so they know there’s nowhere left to go. In the meantime, I’m helping Grue out, figuring out where he’s got Merchants hiding in his area.”
“He’s doing okay?”
“No problems, last I heard. You? I saw that cloud of bugs earlier.”
“Made a big play. Everyone here should know this is my territory, now. Merchants tested the waters, I dealt with it. Remains to be seen if this works out in the long run.”
“Hmmm,” she replied. “I’m getting the impression you’re a little further along than the rest of us.”
“If that’s the case, then that’s great. I want to be in Coil’s good books.”
“I want you to be too. You know I’m here to help if you need it.”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m calling, actually. I need to find someone.”
“Do tell.”
I gave her the rundown on everything Sierra had told me. She stopped me when I got to the bit about the armbands.
“Those aren’t for rank,” she informed me. “But you’re not wrong in saying they’re like status. They’re more like… boy scout badges.”
“Boy scout badges?”
“From what I can gather, you get one for attending one of the Merchants’ ‘events’. Colors are supposed to represent what the each one was about. It translates to a kind of respect, showing you’re loyal, whatever.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“And neither am I, to be honest,” she replied. “And that bothers me. So in the interests of getting intel and maybe getting a lead on this missing boy of yours, do you think you could get away from your territory, tonight, to join me in figuring this out?”
“I don’t want to leave just yet.”
“Merchants are throwing a big bash tonight, so I doubt they’ll be attacking your territory. In fact, I’m wondering if they were attacking your territory to get cash or stuff to barter at the event as much as they were responding to your claim.”
“Maybe.”
“And Chosen aren’t a threat right now? They haven’t said or done anything yet?”
“Not yet, no. Haven’t run into any.”
“Grue and Imp are probably going to want to wind down and go on the defensive later today. You can have one of them babysit your territory if you’re worried. You have no good reason to refuse. Come on, let’s go see what a Merchant’s party is all about.”
Infestation 11.4
Coil had put Bitch’s hideout in an area nobody wanted to be, masked with the appearance of a building nobody sane would want to enter. Grue’s place and my own lair were camouflaged in outward appearance and set in more discreet locations. Tattletale’s place, by contrast, was in plain sight, and it was also one of the highest traffic areas I’d come across in the past few days.
The city block that hosted Tattletale’s hideout was a short distance from Lord Street, and it sported only two intact buildings. The first building was a gas station that was currently hosting more than a dozen wrecked or flooded cars that had been dragged off the road. The rest of the area had lots where buildings had once stood, each bulldozed clear of the rubble that had been left in the wave’s wake and surrounded with sandbags to keep the water from pouring in.
The second building was a sort I’d seen often enough as of late. I’d stayed in similar places for nearly two weeks before rejoining the Undersiders. The structure stood in the center of the area, surrounded by tents and communal areas that were sheltered by tarps set over metal frameworks—a dining hall, a medical bay, portable washrooms. Each of these outdoor stations had dozens of people gathered around them. It was a shelter.
She’d told me not to dress up, so I hadn’t. She’d also told me not to wash my hair today, but it was too late for that. I’d donned a brown spaghetti-strap top, rain boots and a pair of lightweight black pants that were a little worn from the past few weeks, but had the benefit of drying quickly. My knife was tucked inside the waistband of my pants, at my back. Not obvious, not entirely hidden either.
Way things were these days, cops were letting things slide as far as concealed and openly displayed weaponry went. People needed protection, and so long as the armed didn’t break the rules about using the weapons on people who didn’t attack them first, most people wouldn’t give them much trouble. Some shelters wouldn’t let you in with a weapon, of course, but some did, and others disallowed firearms but let other weapons slide.
I made my way inside, joining the rest of the crowd. Cots filled the majority of the building’s interior, and both possessions and people made navigating between the beds difficult at best. Signs were spread out over the walls, some professionally made, others written in plain print with permanent marker:
‘Priority Order: Sick, injured, disabled, old, very young, families.’ In smaller print below was the message, ‘Please be courteous and give up your places to priority individuals.’
‘No pets�
�� was written on a square of white cardboard in permanent marker and triple underlined.
‘Abuse or threats directed at staff or other residents will NOT be tolerated.’
‘Belongings go under your cot. Excess + mess may be removed from the area.’
‘No smoking within 30 paces of facility’ was printed on a professionally made sign, but the line that was scrawled beneath in permanent marker was not: ‘there are sick people here!’
I found a big, burly guy that wore an orange vest and name tag and approached him. He was talking to someone else, so I waited.
When he turned to me, he frowned, “You wanting to stay here?”
“No, but—”
“Opened our doors yesterday, and we’re already nearly full. Any more space is reserved for priority people. If you want a place, you can try the other shelters down—”
“No. I have a place. I’m just looking for Lisa.”
“Works-here-Lisa or Staying-here-Lisa?” he asked.
“Both?” I guessed.
“Front desk. If she’s not there, wait. She’ll probably be in the back getting something for someone.”
I headed to the front desk where a crowd of people had gathered. The desk itself was a simple construction of unpainted, unvarnished wood. The people were wet, dirty and didn’t look to be in the best of health.
Lisa was at the end of the front desk furthest from the front doors, wearing the same orange vest and name tag the other staffer had been. Her hair was in a french braid, with a few strands hanging free. She was talking to a woman who might have been fifty or sixty. A large black and white map of the city had been stapled to the wall behind the counter where Lisa was working. Colored pins marked various spots on the map, and areas had been outlined and shaded in with markers and highlighters. Words were written in the boundaries of these sections. Many areas were marked with yellow highlighter, with the words ‘Merchant Territory: Very Dangerous!’, blue marker, with the words ‘Chosen Occupied: Avoid!’, or variations of such.
The Boardwalk and surrounding area? Green marker, ‘Skitter: Low threat, free supplies?’
