by Sarah Fine
Nadia needed that. She needed to be out there.
I turned back to the Gates, clenched my teeth, and marched forward. Others pressed in behind me, trapping me against layers of bodies, filling me with nausea as they pushed against my back, reminding me of things I’d worked really hard to forget. I wriggled myself along, carefully nudging past arms and shoulders, chests and heads, toward the outer edge of the crowd. Time for a close encounter with the Guards. I wailed and cried, uniting my voice with others’ despairing sobs.
“Please,” I cried, reaching out toward the Guard and drawing his attention with my waving arms, “please, help me.”
When the gloved hand reached for my hair, I ducked quickly. Fingers closed around my forearm. The Guard jerked me off my feet and onto the back of the man in front of me. The poor guy fell to the ground in a crumple of arms and legs. I used the Guard’s grip as leverage to pull myself toward his armored chest. As soon as I was close enough, I twisted my arm from his grasp and used both feet to push against his metal breastplate, sending myself to the ground. I reached up quickly and yanked an elderly Asian woman down on top of me. I’d created a human pileup. Now there was a small mass of people at the Guard’s feet, and I was on my hands and knees at the bottom of the heap, right next to his boots.
Above me, the hapless victims of my plan whined and groaned. The Guard snarled angrily. He teetered against the writhing bodies shoving against him as they tried to right themselves. I lunged against the Guard’s shins, hoping all the Guards carried the same kind of hunting knife the deadly young Guard had, smiling when I found the sheath at this one’s ankle. As he took a few steps back, I unfastened the leather strap and pulled the knife free. I stuffed one hand up my shirt, holding the knife against my body, and inched forward on my knees. With my other arm, I held the Asian woman against my back like a shield, praying the Guard wouldn’t notice me creeping away with his knife.
My knees were torn and bruised by the time I made it over the threshold of the city. I collapsed to the ground, trying to catch my breath. Released from my grip, the old woman rolled to the dirt, got up, and shuffled away.
The razor-sharp blade bit my skin. I needed to be careful—the knife would do me no good if I stabbed myself with it.
One glance back at the Guard told me he hadn’t noticed my theft. He had returned to his task of herding people through the Suicide Gates. I scanned the wide plaza in which I lay. No one was paying attention to me. I got to my feet.
New arrivals dotted the open square, taking a few moments to recover before wandering off. Freed or imprisoned—I didn’t know which. I watched the Gates slam shut one more time and then turned toward the interior of the city, taking in all the details I’d never really noticed before. Old-fashioned gaslights lined the cobblestone streets, giving off a sickish pale glow. None of the light extended more than a few feet beyond each lamp, leaving broad patches of darkness along the road. Unlike the streets, which were uniform in style, the buildings in front of me were an odd assortment. The one on my left was modern, like an office building, all right angles, reflective gray glass, and metal. To my right, a crumbling adobe house squatted stolidly at the edge of the square. East meets Southwest. The city planners in hell either had very bad taste or a strange sense of humor.
I trudged forward slowly, like the people around me, even though I wanted to sprint for cover. I bent over, one arm curled around my middle, hoping any Guard who saw me would assume I was nursing an injury rather than concealing a weapon. My pants were splotched with blood from my knees, so I certainly looked the part. I felt nothing but relief as I finally reached an alley off the main road.
I crouched at the mouth of the alley for several seconds, listening for the presence of things I might not be able to see under the blanket of darkness. Hearing nothing, I sank into the murk and started to watch.
SIX
I HAD SPENT YEARS living in and around Providence. I had been to Boston many times. Once, in middle school, I even got to go on a field trip to New York City. The dark city was nothing like those cities.
In cities, the smells assaulted me. Diesel, dust, spice, salt, aggressive and sharp, rubbing against my skin, embedding themselves in my nose. In the dark city, scents were faint and thin—nothing to hold on to, nothing that repelled me, nothing that drew me in.
In cities, even at night, light pierced through the spaces in beams and columns, glowing from neon tubes and giant television screens and flashing fluorescents. In the dark city, something sucked the life out of the color. Something vital had bled from it, leaving it easily defeated by darkness.
In cities, sounds were deep. All pitches and rhythms, layered and clashing. I loved to feel them vibrating in my gut like a pulse. In the dark city, sounds were shallow. Nothing startled or sang. No cars or buses. No bicycles, either. No wheels, no motors. Everyone was on foot, plodding along the roads. I was struck by the silence. No conversations. Many of those who passed my hiding place muttered softly, in all languages. But they were talking to themselves. I wondered if that was what I had looked like, wandering along in my dreams, drowning in myself. The only sound that reverberated with any power was the screech and clang of the Gates as they swung wide, welcoming the suicides.
People trudged by, watching the road in front of them. Some of them carried bags of groceries. Even though everyone here was dead, it was clear they still lived in apartments and ate food…and there must be a market nearby, which was good. I wasn’t hungry, but I was betting I would need to feed Nadia as soon as I found her—she was in no shape to find herself something to eat. As soon as I found her.…The hugeness of this task overwhelmed me, and I pressed my back to the wall and tucked my head against my knees. “Breathe.” It might be a Rhode Island-size city, but you can do this. She got into that apartment, and now you just need to find her. Stand up and get a fucking move on, Lela Santos. Now.
I shot to my feet and examined the stolen knife. It was a wicked-looking thing. The blade was about six inches long, curved at the tip, and serrated along the bottom edge. The molded grip was made for a hand much larger than mine. I wrapped my fingers around it and turned it in my palm—made for me or not, I could do some damage if I had to. It didn’t seem like a good idea to go traipsing down the street with a knife hanging casually from one of my fists, though.
Backing farther into the alley, I stripped off my T-shirt and used the knife to cut about three inches off the bottom. I pulled and double-looped the resulting band and squeezed it back around my hips, below the waistline of my pants, and slid the knife between the strips of fabric. The makeshift sheath wouldn’t last long—the blade would eventually wear through the cloth—but I was pretty sure it would survive a trip to the market. I put my shirt back on and was happy my jacket was long enough to cover the handle of the knife at my hip.
I exited the alley and proceeded in the direction from which the grocery-toting folks had come. Sure enough, a block away, a shabby brick building bore a sign:
FOOD.
The advertisements in this city left something to be desired.
I peeked through the windows. I had no money and wondered if I was going to have to add petty theft to my list of sins. But there was no cashier at the front of the store, which housed just a few aisles of produce and packaged foods. People were gathering various items, placing them in bags, and walking out without paying. Maybe there was some sort of credit system?
Shuffling footsteps and the muted crinkling of paper bags were the only sounds I heard as I entered the store. Still puzzled by the lack of any monetary exchange, I decided to ask someone rather than zip straight into an afterlife of crime. A sallow-skinned woman stood in the produce aisle wearing a smock over her abundant folds of flesh. The skin under her arms wobbled as she loaded limp celery stalks, one by one, into a bag.
“Excuse me,” I said as I approached her. “I’m…new in town. How do you pay for groceries?”
The woman stopped mid-wobble. “I’ve paid en
ough,” she said in a flat monotone, her eyes filling with tears.
“Thanks, sorry to bother you,” I said brightly, backtracking. I thought I’d seen a horror movie like this once and didn’t want to wait for the sadistic guy in the clown mask to arrive.
I took one more look around the store, trying to figure out if anyone was in charge, and saw nothing but miserable, lost-looking people loading unappetizing food into paper bags. If that’s how they do it here…I pulled a paper bag, which was ripped on one side and covered in grease spots, from a nearby stack and walked the aisles in search of rations.
Nothing looked edible.
The apples were spotted and soft. The potatoes had sprouted. The rolls were hard as rocks. Bags of crackers and chips were stacked on a little cart, but when I tried to grab one, it turned out to be connected to the bag next to it with threads of stretchy brown goo. I yanked my hand back and wiped it on my pants. Apparently, the food here was free, and I could have as much as I wanted. The problem? I didn’t want any of it. I tossed the paper sack, grabbed a few rolls and the least spotty apple I could find, and left as quickly as my scraped-up legs could carry me.
I shoved the rolls in my jacket pocket and chucked the apple into an alley after my thumb sank into one of its mushy spots. I began to explore the city, counting blocks and identifying landmarks, trying not to lose my way completely.
The streets were clogged with people, but each one seemed alone, locked in a private world, oblivious to everyone else. Well, the woman in the food store had spoken to me—sort of—so maybe some of these folks would, too. Time to deploy my secret weapon. I rolled up my right jacket sleeve and approached a woman wearing a sari. “Hi,” I said cheerfully. “Have you seen this girl around?”
The woman blinked up at me, then looked at my outstretched arm. She mumbled something unintelligible. Duh. She probably spoke Hindi. Or Farsi. Or Chinese. It didn’t matter because whatever she spoke wasn’t English, and I was a monolingual girl. She trudged away without looking at me again. I took a deep breath and managed not to scream.
Over the next several hours I showed Nadia’s face to hundreds of people and searched for some hint of recognition in their eyes. Less than twenty of them spoke English. Not that it helped when they did. I couldn’t get anyone to focus on the tattoo for more than a second. All of them walked away pretty much right after that. Some were too absorbed to even respond to my questioning. One guy was sitting on a bench, staring at his outstretched hand. As I tried to get his attention, a small lump of brown ooze grew on his upturned palm, almost like it had slithered from his skin. It twisted and stretched, all on its own, like a living thing, until it finally took shape. A cigar. The guy pulled a few strings of slime from its tip, stuck it in his mouth, and stared straight ahead as he chomped on it.
I backed away slowly, sank down on a stoop, and examined one of the stale rolls, thinking about how stupid and naive I’d been. Nadia could be anywhere within this maze of misery, and all I knew right now was the last place I’d seen her: a hallway with orange walls and dark pink doors. I peeked into the next dozen apartment buildings I came to, but all of them had grayish-purple walls with maroon doors.
I walked out of an apartment building, hitching a smile onto my face to combat the helpless tears threatening to break free. Stay calm. You have the rest of your afterlife to find her. I was 156 blocks in. Ahead of me, the pebbled surface of the road stretched into the darkness.
Stuttering steps interrupted my thoughts, and I looked up to see an elderly man approaching me. Unlike everyone else I had encountered, he seemed to be looking at me, seeing me. His face cradled a gummy smile.
“¿Habla Española?” he asked.
“Nope. English,” I answered, thinking this was going to be a very short interaction.
“Oh, good. I thought you were one of those spics,” he lisped.
I know I should have been really insulted, but there’s something incredibly funny about a toothless person trying to say “spics.”
Thpickth.
“Ooh, hey,” I replied, “thank God I’m not one of those. I do happen to be a spic, though. Sorry about that.” I almost walked away—it seemed wiser than punching him—but this guy was the most coherent person I’d spoken to since I’d gotten here. So I forced myself to stand there and roll up my sleeve for the hundredth time.
“No matter, no matter.” He licked his lips and cheerfully waved away my undesirable ethnic origins. “Have somewhere to stay?”
“Not yet. I’m looking for someone. Have you seen this girl?” I leaned closer and showed him my arm, noticing in that moment how bad the old guy smelled. Epic old-man stink: rot and sick, sweet incense. I scooted back and wrestled with my gag reflex.
The old man’s gnarled fingers encircled my wrist. “Perfect,” he said, squeezing my arm in a shockingly strong grip. “You’re perfect. Come along.”
The horror of hearing those words sent a violent shudder through my body. I clenched my fist and was about to introduce him to my perfect uppercut when something grabbed my hair and yanked me off balance. The old man let go of me and sprinted away, eerily spry…on all fours, like the animal granny. I didn’t have time to contemplate that, however, because a steel-covered arm was folding itself over my neck.
I bit back a panicked scream and tucked my chin to my chest, slipping free before my new attacker got a good grip on me. I ducked between his tree-trunk legs and was turning to scramble away when he grabbed my left ankle and, with one arm, hoisted me up in the air.
“Your friend got away,” he grunted in heavily accented English as he held me up like a prize, “but you’re not going to find a victim tonight, Mazikin. Tonight, all you’re going to get is me.”
It was, of course, one of the bull-like Guards. Brilliant. Like all the others I’d seen, my current companion wore a heavy helmet and a visor. The only part of his face I could see was his eyes, startling sea-green orbs that glowed like tiny lanterns.
Judging by how far I was from the ground, the Guard was definitely more than seven feet tall and possibly almost as wide. From our first few dance steps, I could tell I was faster than he was, but that didn’t mean he was slow—I was the one hanging upside down, after all. My only advantage was that he obviously didn’t think I was a threat. He hadn’t drawn a weapon yet and was enjoying his strength advantage so much that he’d left his body and legs unshielded. Most of it was covered by armor, but there were open joints…and I had a knife.
Locking my arm against my body to hold the blade in place, I wriggled and squirmed, testing his strength and grip. He was straining, more interested in intimidating me than in conserving his energy. He didn’t anticipate needing it. Thank God for the male ego.
His arm started to shake, sending tremors skittering along my leg. Just as it seemed he would have to put me down or use both arms to hold me, I stomped my right foot against his forearm and raised my arms to catch myself as he dropped me. I hit the ground and jumped to the side when he grabbed at me. Again he tried to get a grip on my hair. But before he could yank me up, I twisted quickly, drew the knife from its sheath, and rammed it into the opening in his armor just behind his knee. He roared and let me go.
I shed my flip-flops and took off running, exalting in my freedom. It lasted about nine seconds. I whirled around a corner and ran smack into another Guard. “I’m not as stupid as he is,” the guttural voice commented just before something hit me hard on the head and everything went dark.
SEVEN
THE FLOOR BENEATH ME was cold. I tensed against the shivers, trying to remain still while I figured out where the hell I was.
Oh yeah. Hell.
I kept my eyes closed and listened. Nearby, deep voices conversed in accented English. The scuffs of their boots against stone, the clank and creak of their armor, the huffs and grunts of their breaths and laughter…there were at least two of them. This was very bad.
I cracked open an eye—a cell. Stone on all sides except the front, wh
ich was barred. The Guards were just on the other side. Slowly, carefully, I turned my head. It was more difficult than I expected. First, because my skull felt like it had been turned inside out. The knot on my temple ached fiercely. Second, because something was wrapped around the lower half of my face.
Oh. God. I was wearing a freaking muzzle.
I tried to lift my shaking hands to tug at it. But my hands…they were covered with leather mittens strapped tightly to my arms. Panic snaked straight up my back and into my brain. I sat up quickly.
I regretted it an instant later. My vision blurred and my head throbbed. I leaned over and dry heaved. Fortunately for my muzzled self, my stomach was empty. I curled into a ball on my side and pretended to sink back into unconsciousness, shielding my face with mittened hands but leaving a sliver of space through which I could observe the Guards. They sat at a rough wooden table in the middle of a large room, surrounded on three sides by cells like mine. Some were empty, others occupied; shadows slithered behind the bars. Gas lanterns hung from the walls and ceiling, weakly lighting the windowless space. Three wooden doors marked the rear wall.
One of the Guards noticed my movements. He shot a meaty elbow at his pal and turned to me.
The two of them approached my cage. They looked like twins. Their features were thick and bulbous, with jutting square jaws, bald scalps, and prominent foreheads that hung over glowing, jewel-colored eyes. And they both looked very interested in me.
“I think it’s quite cute, Bilal. Are we sure it’s a Mazikin?” said the one with sapphire-blue eyes. “It doesn’t smell like one.”
