Gods of New Orleans

by AJ Sikes

  Doing this, Emma realized something she hadn’t been wanting to admit. Her family was dead and gone, with her father’s suicide only the most recent Farnsworth desertion from life. She’d made a name for herself in Chicago City as a murderess, so she’d lost her only home and community as well. Searching the airship cabin, Emma knew that this boat was all they had left. After what they’d all been through, it’d be a cold day in hell before Emma let any of them, ship or crew, come to harm.

  She let the feeling sink into her chest and warm her. Then she remembered what she knew as well as anybody could. Making a promise is one thing. Keeping it is something else.

  Chapter 3

  Brand sticks a foot out, lets the other man fall on his face in the mud. Then he’s off, running like a scared chicken and knowing that’s exactly what he is. The other tramps behind him stop to help their fallen comrade. Brand wonders if they do it out of some kind of bond, like what he felt with the guys he helped out of the mud in No Man’s Land.

  Brand feels the tramps gaining on him. He risks a look back their way. Sure enough, he sees more now. A lot more.

  “Don’t you guys ever get tired?” Brand hollers back at them. He feels like he’s been running since he hit the street back in Chicago City. A five-hundred-foot drop from the airship cabin did a number on his bones. The city’s gods went one further and made him one of their damn messenger boys wearing filth for the rest of his days.

  The mud sticks to Brand’s feet and he pulls his legs up like his feet are shovels full of tar. As close as the other tramps get, they never seem able to touch him. Brand hopes it stays that way, at least until he makes it to New Orleans. That’s where the others are going, and something tells him he’s got no choice but to follow them.

  Brand died to save the people on the airship, and it hadn’t been that hard. Then the gods traded out his newsman’s standard for a tramp’s rags and sent him on his way. They swapped out his shirt, slacks, and a tie, wrapped him in a set of dungarees and a greasy house robe, and only gave him one boot to run with.

  He’d swapped that out himself, preferring two bare feet that could keep level on the pavement he’d landed on and sunk into like it was putty. He’d wound up under the streets, down in Old Chicago again, in the gypsy tunnels that connected their network of curio shops and hideaways and served as the railroad they had used to escape the Governor’s army.

  Once he realized where he was, Brand set to searching out familiar terrain, looking for a way back up to the surface to maybe connect up with the other Bicycle Men he knew in the city. That little journey lasted all of two minutes. The mud men showed up like they’d bought tickets.

  How did they know he’d be there, and why do they keep chasing him?

  “Clear off!” he yells. Only the third time he’s tried it. Maybe third time’s a charm, he thinks. Looks over his shoulder. They’re still there. A clutch of bums, tangled in their own coats, all wrapped up like a mob fleeing a theater when somebody yells, “Fire!”

  Now and then, when he looks back, Brand sees one get sucked under the feet of the others. Steamrolled and left behind, leaving fewer for Brand to deal with if they do catch him. And then, as soon as he’s thought it, the guy who got trampled shows up in front of Brand, racing for him from the other direction so Brand has to time it right so he can land a punch that puts the man down as Brand runs by him.

  On and on it goes. Brand runs. The tramps chase. The mud feels heavier now. Before, when he’d started running, it was easy enough to shake off.

  He could feel Conroy thinking about him, remembering the night they spent running from the Governor’s army in Chicago City.

  Now, though, the mud has fingers. It digs into Brand’s heels with every step, clutches just long enough to slow him down. And if Conroy’s still thinking about him, it’s only in dribs and drabs, half-formed memories that don’t stick in the kid’s head long enough to matter.

  Behind him, the tramps struggle more with one another than with the mud. They move like the mud welcomes them, like it lets them move through it.

  Because they are mud.

  Brand knows why they chase him. It’s his punishment for meddling in the gods’ affairs in Chicago City. He knows what’ll happen when they catch him. Brand thinks about going back to the airship, finding the others and seeing if they can help him. A little reciprocation never hurt anybody, he thinks.

  Up ahead the tunnel opens into a cavern and a sliver of light cuts into the dark. The tramps behind him howl and roar. Brand chances another look back at them. The mass of the tramps’ arms and legs and torsos looks like a steam engine with bits falling off every which way, but not enough to slow it down.

  The light glows brighter up ahead now and Brand sees a doorway in the wall of the cavern, with a ramp of earth and cobbles leading up to the surface. The tramps shriek at him now, and they’ve caught up enough to catch at his clothes. He feels their clawing fingers on his collar.

  Brand bats an arm behind him to knock them away, nearly stumbling as he does so. He swats at their clutching, angry hands, pivots back to face the cavern and focuses only on the ramp, the way out.

  His feet sink into the muddy floor of the cavern, but still he runs, his feet sticking and slopping through the muck. The tramps fall to the floor behind him and are pulled underground, like the mud itself wants them and finally has a way of claiming them. Some thrash about, others go still and let the earth cover their faces.

  Brand staggers backward, flicking his eyes left and right, looking for the doorway and the ramp. They’ve both vanished, and now the mud crawls up Brand’s legs, cold and clammy. He stumbles against the wall, feeling for the doorway as he yanks his feet from the muddy floor.

  The wall behind him gives way and he’s on his back, with tendrils of mud slithering over his hands and arms. He wants to give up, give in, just lie there and let it happen. But an image of Conroy’s frightened face comes to him, and Brand feels the kid remembering him again.

  Brand forces himself up, wrenching his arms free of the mud and rolling onto his hip. He slides backward, farther into this space beyond the cavern wall, and he feels stone beneath his palms.

  He looks down and sees a cobblestone. Then another. Frantic and charged, Brand scrabbles out of the reaching mud and bangs his hands and knees against the cobbles as he climbs the ramp. Up above, a half moon sends light down the tunnel. The sound of a horse and carriage comes to his ears and Brand climbs to freedom.

  Chapter 4

  Aiden sat in the cockpit, sweating up a storm even though the chill air from outside came through the glass in front of him. It was something else, being Johnny-on-the-spot like this, even if he’d only sat down because Miss Farnsworth let him. She wasn’t too happy to give up the pilot’s chair, he could tell. But the way she was showing him how things worked, it’d felt right to ask for a chance at the controls. And sure enough, she’d said it was jake.

  If only Mr. Brand was here.

  Aiden let himself wish his old boss was standing behind him and quick enough remembered that the man had been in the cabin only a short time ago.

  “Hey, Miss Farnsworth,” Aiden said.

  “Yeah, what is it, kid? Anything wrong?”

  “I was just thinking about Mr. Brand. You know, how he came in and out like that.”

  “Yeah, what about it? You’ve seen him do it before. I could tell from the way your eyes didn’t fall out of your head the way your folks’ did.”

  “Well that’s the thing, Miss Farnsworth. I mean, your eyes didn’t go dancing off your face neither, right? So‌—‌”

  “So how come I played it so cool?”

  “Yeah. I know you said about your pa . . . ,” Aiden said, half mumbling the word because Miss Farnsworth’s voice had dropped low.

  “Brand was right. When you kill yourself in Chicago City, you don’t check out for keeps. You get put back on the street like that. Like a tramp. I saw it happen to my father, and I wouldn’t be here talkin
g to you now if he hadn’t pulled the same kind of stunt Brand did right when I needed him to. Figures the guy’s about as useless as can be when he’s alive, but then he goes and kills himself and turns into Daddy Dearest. I’d‌—‌”

  Aiden sat up straighter and he kept his eyes on the night while Miss Farnsworth sobbed behind him. Her hand slipped off his shoulder and he heard her footsteps as she stepped back to Mr. Brand’s desk.

  ~•~

  Emma let the tears come and go. She let the sobs shake her chest, round her back, and drag her forehead down to the desk. She stayed like that until it was done, until the sadness she’d pretended she didn’t feel had its way with her and then left as quickly as it had come.

  “So kid,” she said, wiping a sleeve across her eyes. “What’d Brand get you mixed up in that you’ve seen that curtain business before?”

  “Him and me, we were on the street,” the kid said. “When the Governor’s boys came in and started shooting up the place. Them and those Tesla men, with these ray guns in their mitts. Just lighting up the neighborhood. We got pictures, though, of all the people running away. The Governor had a guy in at the Daily Record, the paper outfit where me and Mr. Brand‌—‌”

  “I know all about that damn paper, kid. Who was the guy?”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. The Governor’s guy, some bird named Crane. Heh, that’s funny. You know I never put it together like that, but‌—‌”

  “Okay, kid. You’re here all week, and I’ll try the fish. Get on with the story, hey?”

  “Well, yeah, Miss Farnsworth. Sure thing,” the kid said, his voice going glum.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. But give a girl a break, okay? Just stick to the facts. You can pretend I’m a copper if it helps.”

  It didn’t seem to help much at all, but the kid found his voice again and got on with it.

  “So, this guy Crane, he had his ships, or maybe they were the Governor’s. But they’re over the city with these screens on ‘em, like big picture shows, you know? And he was showing it like the people were making all the ruckus, just putting up pictures of them fighting back, like they were the bad guys and the soldiers are just doing their job. Keeping the peace and all.

  “It was a real mess until Mr. Brand and me got those pictures, though.”

  “You keep talking about pictures. What pictures?”

  “Oh, yeah. Like of the people. What was really happening, you know. We showed the real business from the street. People getting shot at and shot up, houses on fire because the soldiers threw bombs into ‘em. All that kinda thing. Mr. Crane had it going pretty good, but then me and Mr. Brand, we showed ‘em.”

  “You showed them,” Emma said, remembering too well what had really happened on the streets of Chicago City. She and Eddie had run from the Governor’s soldiers, too. They’d run through the underground, the tunnels of Old Chicago, and they’d met up with the gypsies and their trains leaving the city.

  “You and Brand were on the front lines, huh?” A smile creased Emma’s mouth for the first time in what must have been days and what felt like an eternity. She let a chuckle make its way out of her chest.

  “What’s funny?” the kid asked.

  “Just . . . You and Brand, doing that while me and Eddie were running for our lives. You know what I was thinking about the whole time, when I wasn’t worrying about getting nabbed or shot? Or worse.”

  “What’s that?” the kid asked.

  “I was thinking about the last time I’d seen Brand and something he’d said to me.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “That he wouldn’t put a picture of me on the front page even if he’d owned the Daily Record himself.”

  For a second she thought the kid was going to ask her why she’d been thinking that, but he kept hush and they flew on.

  “But hey,” Emma said, “that doesn’t explain how you know about the vanishing act. That trick he pulled. Brand was still Brand before he went out the door with that monster.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the kid said. “He, um … you know how he was saying about the gods and all? The ones who run the show.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Well, I don’t figure I know what’s what, but when we were down there on the street, Mr. Brand went all quiet for a minute, and next thing I know it’s like I’m standing next to the only person in town who knows what’s right from what’s wrong.”

  “How do you mean? Brand never had a noble bone in his body even if he did get us out of two fixes now. You telling me he got the lord’s blessing?”

  “Nah, nothing like that, but . . . it’s like when you’re in church sometimes and everyone’s singing and you just feel it, you know?”

  “Never spent much time in a church, unless you count being baptized.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess it’s like that. You’re just surrounded by this good feeling, like you’re safe. That’s what I felt. We’d been running through this park with bombs going off and the Tesla men marching around firing off those ray guns. Then Mr. Brand puts a hand on my shoulder and lifts up the city like a curtain. Next thing I know we’re at the Record, standing there outside the radio booth and he’s telling me I have to get the story out while he goes upstairs and makes with the picture show.”

  The kid told her more, about how he and Brand had fought with Crane and some fat guy named Suttleby, and how they’d seen a photo of what was happening in the scrap yard with Eddie, the coppers, and Emma standing there watching the noose go around her lover’s neck.

  “That’s enough, kid. I don’t need any more bad memories tonight.”

  They flew in silence for what felt like an hour before Emma thought she should take the controls again.

  “You’re doing really good, kid,” she said.

  “Thanks, Miss Farnsworth.”

  “I mean, Aiden. You’re doing all right, Aiden,” she added, realizing she hadn’t, until then, thought about him by name. He’d just been the kid, but now here he was in the pilot’s chair, keeping them on course just like she’d shown him.

  “Hey, it’s okay, Miss Farnsworth. I’m used to it,” he said, like he could read her thoughts. “Mr. Brand always called me Conroy, though, and you can do that, too. If you’d like.”

  “Okay, Conroy. We’ll see,” she said. “Now give me the driver’s seat for a bit. You can spell me again later.”

  They switched out and Emma took the controls again. Aiden sat at Brand’s desk and in a few minutes she heard him softly snoring behind her.

  ~•~

  “Hey, you okay? Miss Farnsworth!” Emma snapped out of it and saw Al Conroy kneeling beside her with his hand by her waist. She was lying on the floor of the cabin. Emma pushed herself up with her elbows and Al Conroy shuffled back on his heels to give her space. She was happy about that. It meant she didn’t have to ask the big dope to be a gentleman.

  At least not this time.

  “Hey, Aiden,” she said. The kid was back in the pilot’s seat. He looked back at her and smiled.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, you‌—‌”

  “You just fell out of the chair,” his father said. “I heard Aiden shouting. I didn’t know my son could fly an airship, but I guess that’s how it is. Are you all right?”

  “Al,” his wife said from where she stood in the bunkroom corridor. “Let her be. Your son could maybe use some of that tender, loving care. Or your wife.”

  “I’m fine,” Emma said, getting up. She brushed herself off and snugged her coat tighter around her. “Just tired. We’re all tired. If someone can stay out here and make sure I don’t fall asleep, I’ll keep us in the sky until we reach New Orleans.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone with my husband for a second,” Alice Conroy said. Her voice rang a three-alarm fire and her eyes added a little more heat for good measure. Emma was about to tell the woman she had no intention of asking Mr. Conroy to do the honors, but the kid piped up first and surprised every
one.

  “It’ll be okay, Ma,” he said, keeping his eyes on the cockpit glass. “I’ll stay up here. Maybe there’s some coffee in the galley. I can make it up and‌—‌”

  “I won’t have you around this . . . soiled dove, Aiden. Not you or your father.”

  “Look,” Emma said, moving back to the pilot’s chair. “I’m not up for a fight and I’ve got nothing left to fight with, anyway. We needed to refuel, and we did. Now it’s straight on to New Orleans. Soon enough we can all go our separate ways if that’s what you want. But I need someone to help me keep my eyes open, otherwise we might as well aim this ship at the ground.”

  “I’ll get to it on the coffee,” Aiden said and stepped aside to let Emma take the controls again. She watched him head off toward the galley at the back of the cabin before turning her attention to the night outside.

  “We should have just stayed put in Memphis,” she said, more to herself than anyone else in the cabin. Emma listened as sounds from the galley told her Aiden had coffee on order. A shuffling sound from the corridor got her attention then. She turned just in time to see Eddie come into the cabin, holding his ribs with one hand and using the other to hold himself to the wall.

  “Oh!” The Conroy dame put a hand to her throat and stepped back, gluing herself to the space between the galley door and the corridor.

  “It don’t rub off him,” Emma said. “I’m still white, ain’t I?”

  The woman pressed her lips together and flashed a look of horror at Emma as Eddie stepped slow and fell against Brand’s desk. His swollen cheek and eye looked awful, and the way he held his arm around himself . . . His torn shirt and ratty looking pants made him look even worse.

  Emma would have gone to help him, but Al Conroy stood all two hundred pounds of his bulk right in between them, and she didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes one bit.

  ~•~