I'm already up, halfway to the exits, when runt boy peels out from behind a pillar, and tedious deluxe, sticks his gun in my gut.
'Oh fuck off, Twitchy, the game's over.'
'We're gonna go find Ibis. And Doyenne,' he says, all steely determination, despite his hand shaking so hard he has to steady the barrel of his gun against my navel.
'You fragged a police dog, Twitchy. You think they can't trace your bullets?' They can't, but
I'm not gonna tell him that.
'Only with dye! I thought it was–' His left hand is switching the safety on and off relentlessly.
'Part of the game? Got carried away? Like that's going to stand you in civil rehab. It's still an attack on police property. If you're lucky, they might downgrade the charge to defacing police property.'
His eyes are bugging out, but he won't let up on that damn safety catch. On/off/on/off, not unlike his brain malfunction.
'But what about Ibis?' he whines.
'I'm sure Julia will be fine.' He winces at her real name, and the implication that I might know her on more intimate terms. Someone's crushing on their clan mate badly. 'Doyenne, though, she's gonna need a whole lot of patching up, thanks to you. You really peeved those dogs. If I were you, Twitchy, I'd bail before they come looking for you.'
I shove the gun away – a pellet that close would leave a nasty bruise – and just for spite, ruffle his hair. But just as I'm about to make a graceful exit, dumping the kid and the whole bad situation, the sprinklers embedded in the ceiling open up.
Twitch looks up, holding out a hand, like a kid catching snowflakes. 'Wha–?'
'Shit, don't let it touch you!' I pull up the hood on my coat and tuck my hands under my armpits, but it's too late, there's already a fine mist on my exposed skin.
'Why? What is it? What's the matter?'
People are looking up, raising their faces to the spray; others, the sensible ones, are running for the doors, pulling their clothing over their heads. Some crusty chick in beads is dancing in it, kicking out her legs, like it's a rave.
'Chem marking. So the Aitos can follow you, whee, whee, whee, all the way home.'
A feminine voice crackles over the intercom – the SAPS's virtua spokesperson, who manages to sound warm and impersonal and regretful all at the same time, like a beautiful chiding mother from a Fifties sitcom.
'Important message. Brought to you by the South African Police Services. We regret to inform you that due to an attempted insurrection by terrorists using banned technology, the SAPS have had no alternative but to make use of statute 41b, Extreme Measures, of the National Security Act,' says the voice, sweet as high-fructose corn syrup.
'In accordance with this statute, activated for your protection, you have all been exposed to the M7N1 virus, a lab-coded variation of the Marburg strain. Do not panic.'
This has the opposite effect. A shock of people rush for the exits. Against my better judgement, I yank Twitchy out of the way, so that we're both wedged tightly behind the pillar while the crush surges past.
'Repeat. Do not be alarmed. The M7N1 Marburg variation is only fatal if you do NOT report to an immunity centre for treatment within 48 hours. Repeat. It is NOT fatal if you present yourself promptly for vaccination treatment. Vaccination is 100% effective within three hours with minimal lasting side-effects. Vaccination treatment is a free service offered by the South African Police Services.
'Be advised, that if you choose NOT to report for vaccination, you can expect the following symptoms. Within three hours, your throat will become sore and inflamed. Your mucous membranes will become irritated. Within six hours, you will experience coughing and sneezing. Within 12 hours, your eyesight will become blurry. You will present with flu-like symptoms. Within 18 hours, your muscles will ache and you will experience prolonged coughing fits. Within twenty-four hours, you will feel weak, and you may notice traces of blood in your mucus and your urine. This is an indication that the virus is taking hold and beginning to break down your soft cell structures. After 48 hours, your organs will start to liquefy and collapse. You will be coughing blood uncontrollably, and you may be unable to breathe. Within 50 to 60 hours, your stomach acids will reach your heart and lungs. The virus has limited capacity and is not contagious.
'South African Police Services strongly advises citizens exposed to the M7N1 Marburg variation for their protection to report to an immunity centre immediately. Should you be too weak to report to an immunity centre, please call the South African Police Services and we will dispatch a mobile service to collect you. Again, this service is free, provided in the interests of public health and safety. The South African Police Services are dedicated to serve. How can we help you?'
Pressed against my chest, Twitch starts to cry. It seems the appropriate response. Talk about a come-down.
We coop up in the kid's sniper hidey-hole to wait it out. Just because we have to turn ourselves in doesn't mean the fuckers aren't going to be waiting for us with a little encouragement. I'm not going to meekly tramp out with the herd and see what happens. I need some time to think, some time to suss out exactly what this means.
The hidey-hole's normal purpose in life is as a maintenance cluster, where the VIMbots go to recharge, happy and humming. We have to boot some of them out to make space for us – it's not like they don't have work to do with the mess outside – and even then, we're both sitting hunched with our knees up.
When it gets too cramped and boring, I send Twitch (real name Eddie, he tells me) out to scout, half hoping he won't come back. But he crawls back in a few minutes later, so I have to fold my knees up again to accommodate him. Just when the pins and needles were wearing off.
'Well?'
'I didn't. I was–' The little shit can't even look at me.
'You're hopeless, Eddie.' I scoot past him on my butt, only to have a VIMbot zoom in the flapdoor and ram full-throttle into my shin. 'Fuck!'
I chuck the VIMbot out of the cluster and drop down out after it into one of the toilet stalls, nudging the door open cautiously with my boot. The bot is already fully recovered. By the time I nip a glance around the edge of the men's room door, it's already skittered away.
The station is deserted, although there is a droning coming from somewhere near the entrance. There are no trains running, at least not here, but there's a dull sound that could be rumbling in tunnels further away. The space is eerie without people. Déjà vu city. I'm almost expecting to hear a rusty gurgle.
The surfaces are coated with a damp beaded film, like the walls have been sweating. I know I'm already infected, but can you blame me for not wanting to touch anything or prolong the exposure?
There is a human bundle collapsed on the stairs, which I have every intention of ignoring. I touch my hand to my gun, even though it's only loaded with chemdye. I'm still trying to figure out whether it's better to head down to the tunnels, try and find a service exit or just, fuck it, go out the front, when there is the squeal of tackies on wet marble behind me. I tighten my grip on the .44, but it's only Twitch/Eddie, looking even paler and scared, oblivious to the squelch of his sneakers. I flap my hand at him and he gets it. He shifts to his toes, so that the rubber doesn't squeak so much.
He points at the bundle and whispers, cos speaking would be too loud in all this space, even if we were absolutely fucking totally positive that no one else was around. 'What's that?'
'Don't worry about it. It's nothing. Leave it.'
'Is she… dead?'
'How the fuck should I know? Just fucking leave it.'
'But what if it's–'
'It's not.'
'Oh.'
'C'mon.' And he pads after me, obedient as a puppy, up the far side of the stairs, far as possible from the bundle.
The murmuring is getting louder. 'Please be advised…'
'Hey, Buzzkill?' I cringe at the pre-assigned call sign.
'It's Toby. Okay? Just–'
'Toby?'
'I said, don't look
. Ignore it.'
'Toby. She's moving.'
'I don't care.' But I look despite myself. And I don't know what I'm expecting, her face to be caved in, insides leaking out, even though they say this fucker doesn't work that fast. But who knows? Could be three hours or three months. They could have released the wrong fucking bug. For all I know, it could be the fucking flu and it's all a big psych. I look long enough to see that the pink sheen pooled underneath her body is not her liquefying interior but part of a slinky dress, long enough to see that it's not Ibis/Julia. 'Niks to do with us.'
'… is closed.'
'But–'
'Just shut the fuck up and just fucking leave it, okay!'
But it's like the gun all over again, the misfire in his brain.
'Toby?'
'I'll leave you here. I swear.' He shuts up for at least five seconds.
'More info?'
Then he says, sullenly, 'Your coat is still on.'
'Taxis are wait–'
'Thanks.' But as I touch the seam that deactivates the image capture, there's a snatch of green and silver reflected in my sleeve.
'Shit.'
'… transport you to Junction.'
Kendra-sweet is limp and unyielding when I yank her to her feet, my arm around her waist, ignoring the gloppy strands of puke clinging to her hair and streaked down the front of the pink dress, like she's been on a particularly heroic binge. 'Dammit. Help me!' But Eddie is hesitant.
'Please be advised…'
'What's wrong with her arm? What if–?'
'It's not.'
'… to terrorist action.'
'But how do you know?'
'More info?'
I pull the gun on him. Precarious, cos I'm holding up K, still unconscious and leaden against my hip. Eddie blinks at it stupidly. 'You're not allowed to shoot a clan mate.'
'Try me.'
We load her up between us, though the little shit is careful not to touch her or the spillage on her dress. She gags like she's going to kotch again, and Eddie nearly drops her. I cuff him with the back of my hand, the one that's not holding her up, so I knock his hoodie back off his head with the muzzle of the gun. He whimpers.
At the entrance, there is a row of lumo orange infocones in a row as sharp as soldiers, effectively cordoning off the area.
'This station is closed. Taxis are available on the concourse to transport you to Junction. Please be advised. This station is closed. More info?'
Kendra
'Don't.'
I try to break away, but they won't let go. I can't stand the proximity, the heat of their bodies is too close, too tight; it makes me feel nauseous. Until I was about three, I couldn't handle anyone touching me, I'd scream if they tried. It's common with premature babies, my parents said, but maybe they got it wrong, maybe it was my brother or another baby entirely. Maybe I never felt anything like this before.
They ignore me, and it's easier to go along with them, because the stairs abruptly seem too steep, laborious, like someone overtilted the axis into an Escher painting.
The emergency exit doors start howling an alarm as we push through them and into the night. It's drizzling. The wind is as cold as teeth. I don't know what I've done with my bag. I try to look back for it over my shoulder.
One of them, the smaller one, yelps, 'Hey! She's going to kotch again.'
I feel vaguely insulted, but then I'm distracted by swathes of blue light strobing the side of the building. The lights seem warm. I'm drawn to them, but we go in the opposite direction instead, and then there is a car, and I am leaning with my head out the window and a hand on my back and cold air and rain stinging against my mouth and I'm getting wet, but they won't let me back inside. And then there is shouting and we're all bundled out and the car screeches away and we have to walk.
And then I wake up.
'Well hello, sunshine.'
I close my eyes again as fast as I can. But it's too late, I've already let in the light and, with it, sparking dazzles of pain.
'Hey? Hell-o? Eugh. Shit, Eddie. Didn't I tell you to clean this up?'
There is a moist dabbing at my chest and I open my eyes, to see Toby – who else would it be? – working at the front of my dress with a dishcloth. It smells distinctly of vomit. The couch I'm lying on is damp with sweat. And I would feel miserably humiliated if the pain didn't override everything.
'Easy, tiger,' Toby says. 'Take it you're feeling better?'
I touch my face, feel a sullen welt on my jaw, where the cop got me with his baton. He would have got me again if his partner hadn't intervened, so his second blow was only a glancing lash across the kidneys as I scrambled past him.
Toby gives me the cloth. 'What were you doing, baby girl?'
'Going to Rep…' I say it again, because the first time it comes out as a malformed croak. 'Going to Replica. For the party? I was meeting friends for a sundowner.' Realisation hits. 'Oh God, they must think I stood them up. Where's my phone, I have to call…'
'It's almost three in the a.m., sweet.'
'Up and about?' An overweight man with a shaven head pokes his face into the negative space between the door and the wall. 'Good. Okay. Then you need to get out.'
'Would you just chill, Unathi?'
'Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. You said till she's conscious. And now she is. You have to vamos. Andelay.'
'I want to go home,' someone whines, and I notice, now that I'm able to focus, that the sshhssshhs sound in the background is a kid with bad posture and a worse haircut, ensconced in the depths of a beanbag, rubbing his palms down his corduroy thighs, over and over.
'At least let me upload my video,' says Toby.
'Forget it, china. They're not tracing that shit back to me.'
'Can I use your bathroom?' I sway slightly when I stand up, or rather the world does, taking an unnerving dip that forces me to blink, hard, to get it to realign. The lights are way too bright, flattening out everything into planes of colour. Or maybe it's just me.
'No. No ways.'
'I have to pee.'
'You'll just have to wait.'
'Dude.' Toby chips in, reproachful.
'Is it through here?'
'No, you can't. You have to leave. Right now.'
'Or I could pee on your rug.'
I push open the door into a dingy room overloaded with consoles and projectas playing unique content on every wall. Games, I think, and a vid chat sesh going, with dozens of little faces squawking at each other. I pick my way over empty boxes of instant tofu meals bleeding what I can only hope is miso into the carpet, and stagger into the bathroom.
There's no lock, or at least, no key, so I shove the laundry bin against the door. I wash my face without looking at it, avoiding my eyes in the mirror. My mouth is fucking sore. The bastard split my lip, where the edge of the baton caught me.
I shrug off my dress, step into the bath and turn on the shower full blast without waiting for the temperature to adjust. The pressure is stinging and the cold comes so brutal, it snaps something in my chest, but I refuse to cry. Not here. I lean my head against my arms and let the water surge over me until it turns hot.
'Hey, K. You okay?' Toby raps on the door.
'Is she coming out?'
'Yeah, she's coming out. Just relax.'
'I didn't say she could use the shower, man.' The door shifts but jams against the laundry bin. 'Just chuck her out. Shit.'
'I'll pay for the fucking water,' I shout. There's no shampoo, not surprising for a bald guy, so I use the sludgy bar of green anti-bacterial soap on my hair. I scoop the dress from the floor and try to deal with the stain. The bile and blood are too thoroughly bonded with it, though, and there is a faintly chemical odour too, reminding me of the overwhelming hysteria that came over me at the station, when the dogs surged forward. I couldn't help it. I had to go with them. I scrub and scrub at the stain, but all I'm doing is rubbing it in.
I dry off with a musty blue towel, the only one I can fin
d. Scratching around in the hamper, I find a green t-shirt that isn't too stained. I wring out the dress and roll it down around my hips, tucking in the wet spots as best as I can, and pull the tee over it. It has a decal that says Ecco-5, which I think is a game. Or maybe a band. I avoid the mirror.
'Finally!' says jittery bald guy as I slide open the door. He pauses; the gears in his brain pop and grind. 'Hey, that's my shirt.'
'Are we going to get out of here?'
'I dunno.' Toby is suddenly nervous. 'Maybe it's not a good idea. After, well.'
'Hey. You absolutely cannot stay here. I am not kidding.'
Moxyland Page 18
