Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #215

by TTA Press Authors

  The tribe was still there, hunkered down on the lawn in groups of three or four, talking, laughing, sleeping. No TVs, no phones. I waved at the topless girl, who smiled and waved back over-enthusi-astically.

  On Broughton I climbed a fire escape and took to the roofs, hopping across the low walls between the attached buildings, out of sight, scanning the streets for crime.

  The vagrants were about now that the sun was down. An Asian woman stood on the corner in a faded green felt skirt, looking to turn tricks, her children sitting at her feet playing with bottle caps. One of her arms was nothing but bone and scar tissue; she'd danced with the flesh-eating virus that surfaced back in fifty-five. But she survived it, lucky lady, unlike my mother and a few million others.

  A bunch of uniforms were standing outside the boarded-up Lucky 7 mini-casino checking IDs, probably for no reason except to exert their authority.

  All seemed well and correct. I exited the roofs into an alley, head-ed down to River Street.

  An old tour trolley, stripped down to wheels and a floor, rumbled by on the uneven cobblestone of River Street.

  "Right over there, a particularly bloody Stiletto went down,” some redhaireddudeinanoldnavyjacketsaidintoacracklymicrophone. “Dude stabbed another dude seven, eight times in the face, till his blade got stuck in the eye socket and he couldn't get it back out."

  "Where's the harm in that?” Slinky shouted from the back of the trolley, a bottle of home-brew clutched in one fist. I stepped behind a telephone pole, watched the murder tour roll by. Tonight I didn't want to be seen.

  I stayed in the shadows, hawking the doors and windows of the bars for signs of trouble.

  Around midnight, I sat on a bench overlooking the river, watched detritus float by, hoping someone would try to roll me. Not much likelihood of that; the criminal element didn't much bother dudes with iron biceps who were armed to the nines.

  A tug boat hooted in the distance; overhead a bat flapped mad figure-eights around a lamppost.

  I sighed. It was more difficult than I thought to find a crime in progress. If this didn't work, what then? Hop on the trolley and take the murder tour? Get drunk? Lay pipe with the local sluts? I needed to kick-start my career as a warrior-sage, or I was going to lose heart, sink back into the illusion of the rolling mirror.

  Two dudes stumbled past me, one wobbling dangerously close to the dropoff into the river. “Look at the moon! It's glowing in the dark!” he said, pointing. The other cackled. Stoners shot up with something, probably Soma.

  It occurred to me that there was one place I was guaranteed to find a crime in progress. I'd been thinking violent crime, open wounds, but there were subtler crimes that might interest a warrior-sage. I'd done my share of drugs, but selling them, that was no service to the community. I got off my ass. Time to pay a visit to a certain burned-out storefront on Abercorn.

  From behind a parked car I surveyed the scene. It was essentially an empty lot, tucked between two buildings, but the tile flooring and some of the fixtures were still intact. Blackened bricks and heat-deformed steel lay scattered and piled, casting long shadows. Weeds jutted through cracks in the floor.

  B-Bob sat on stool behind a bruised Formica counter, his back to the brick wall of an adjoining building. A chick leaned up against the wall, arms crossed behind her back, purse dangling from her shoulder, talking to him.

  I pulled on my mask, slunk among the piles of debris, blending into the darkness like a cat.

  "She's got some train wreck going on at her place,” the chick was saying as I approached undetected. I recognized her: Allie Cohn. I'd gone to school with her.

  When I was so close I could smell Allie's licorice chewing gum, I stood, brandishing the nine millimeter. “Freeze,” I said.

  Allie shrieked; B-Bob nearly fell back in his stool. I lunged, grabbed the automatic pistol sitting on the counter, stuffed it into my belt.

  "Take it, take it,” B-Bob said, his hands in the air. “We got no problem."

  "Yeah, we do got a problem,” I said. “I'm the new law in this town. Tell all your buddies that the Warrior-sage is patrolling, and he's closing down all the candy stores. Put everything out on the table. Now."

  Hands shaking, B-Bob pulled piles of baggies and bright-colored pills out from behind the counter, laid them on top. Then he put his hands back up.

  I pushed the drugs into a pile, pulled a little can of lighter fluid from my pocket, and squirted it over the drugs.

  "What the fuck? You just going to flunk them all?” Allie asked. B-Bob just stared at the pile, wide-eyed.

  "I ain't no thief,” I said, fishing a matchbook from my pants. “This shit wrecks the city. All you bastards bleeding the block, you just make a bad situation worse. I'm putting a stop to it."

  "I don't sell to kids,” B-Bob said. “I don't do no harm, I just help people escape for a little while. It's the only vacation most people around here can afford."

  I heard a metal click behind my ear.

  "Drop the gun,” a voice behind me said.

  Real slow, I put my hands up, turned halfway around until I could see the guy. Then I planted a side kick under his armpit, followed by a spinning hook kick that caught him square-on in the jaw and dropped him.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl fumble in her purse and pull something out. As I spun to face her she pointed a pistol at me, clutching it in both hands.

  "No!” I shouted as she drew a bead. “Put it down!” I pointed my pistol at her. She hesitated, then closed one eye like she was at a fucking rifle range.

  I shot her twice in the gut. She grunted, fell back into a sitting position, stared down in disbelief at the blood, which looked black in the dim streetlight.

  "You suck,” she said.

  "I'msorry.Youshouldhavelistened.Ididn'twanttohurtanyone,” I babbled.

  "Bobby,” she whimpered. “I need help. It's starting to hurt.” She gagged, and a wave of blood poured out of her mouth and down her chin. Bobby squatted beside her, drew her head to his chest.

  I ran. I never ran so fast. I stopped not because I was out of breath, but because I couldn't see through the tears. I stopped in a deserted alley, pulled off the mask, pushed my face against the bricks. My sobs echoed off the walls.

  What the fuck had I done? I'd shot Allie Cohn, who used to sit in front of me in biology class. For what? For what reason? I could still hear her, in shock, telling me I sucked, like I'd taken her last french fry or something.

  At that moment I couldn't stand being in my own fucking skin. I wanted to put the gun in my mouth and pull the trigger.

  I walked. I stared up at the Spanish moss dripping from the branches of the oaks, the moonlight peering through. I walked until daylight.

  By morning I'd stopped crying, but I still felt so twisted up inside it was hard to take a full breath. I wandered into Pulaski Square. The tribe was breaking camp. The girl waved when she saw me, and I realized I hadn't even asked her name, like she was an animal not worth that courtesy. This morning she looked strong and certain, like she was the one who had it right, who knew how to live, and I was the clueless dink. “I don't know your name,” I said, trying to smile.

  "Bird,” she said.

  "Kilo."

  "I like you,” she said, staring at the ground, looking like a four-teen-year-old with a crush. It occurred to me that I didn't know she wasn't a fourteen-year-old, but it felt so good to have someone say something nice to me just then that I didn't care.

  "I like you, too,” I said. My eyes teared; I blinked the tears away.

  "Why don't you come with me?"

  "I...” I was going to tell her I couldn't, but then I saw myself in the bamboo forest, hunting, sleeping, raising children with Bird, teaching them to survive. No more guns, no more viruses, nothing to think about. Noble savagery. “Would they let me?"

  "Would who let you?” Bird asked.

  "Your ... peoples. Who would I ask?"

  Bird shrugged, squinted.
“Why would you ask anybody?"

  No one in charge. I forgot.

  Two naked kids ran between us, giggling, one chasing the other.

  "I'd like to come with you,” I said.

  Bird squealed with excitement, jumped up and down. She grabb-ed my arm, led me to a little pile: a cooking pot, bow and arrow, machete, a black plastic bag tied with a string. “These are our things. Will you carry our machete and bow and arrows?"

  I nodded, picked them up. Bird grabbed the other things, and we left the square. Just like that.

  We hiked out of Savannah. By afternoon I was drenched in sweat and exhausted. I hadn't slept in thirty hours, and I'd shot a girl since then, probably killed her.

  We reached the foot-high plastic wall that marked the perimeter of the outer rhizome barrier, and pressed into the bamboo. It was like another world. In most places the stalks were so tight that you had to squeeze between them; you chose your path like you were in a maze, trying to look ahead, avoid the areas where you had to hack with the machete, seeking out the more open areas where you could walk normally. The kids had an easier time of it; not only were they smaller, but they moved like they were born to it, which they probably were.

  There was a constant cracking, like ice breaking all around. The cracking seemed to rise and fall, louder, then softer, but that may have been in my head. The long, narrow striped leaves added a dry rustling whisper to the cracking sound when the wind blew.

  It was hard for me not to think of the bamboo as a rat-plant, something repulsive, but I had to admit it was beautiful in its way. There were birds and squirrels and other little animals everywhere—they seemed to be right at home. I'd thought most of the animals had died out, or almost, but they seemed to be thriving here.

  When we camped for the night I called my old man. He told me I was a fucking moron, that it sounded like I'd joined a cult, and my ass would be back on his doorstep when I got tired of playing Tarzan and needed a fucking shower. Great guy, my pop.

  It was a ‘one-night’ camp, which meant we found a reasonably open spot, all put our shit down, sat on the ground, and we were camped. A few people went off to hunt. Bird took my hand and led me a little ways off, and we screwed for the first time. She was pretty good—it was obviously not her first time. Her breath was bad, and by then I guess mine was too, so I didn't kiss her much. But it felt good and natural, fucking in the wilderness, and no one in the tribe looked at me like I'd done something wrong when we rejoined them. No religion bullshit, no guilt.

  They weren't playing at this. It was like they didn't know how to think in the regular way anymore.

  Dinner was rank: squirrel, bird, wild onions and blackberries, but I ate without complaining. I wasn't gonna play the role of soft city boy. After dinner, people cut themselves bamboo stalks and scraped out the sugar from inside (I guess that was dessert) while Sandra, the white-haired skeleton of an old lady, told a story. I recognized the story—it was a bastardized version of an old movie from the thirties, King of Our Engine. Good flick, so-so in story form.

  I wondered what was in the garbage bag Bird had been carrying, so I grabbed it and pulled it over to me. I was starting to get the hang of this place; you didn't ask permission to use other people's stuff, you just took it if you wanted it. They were like communists. I untied the bag and peered inside. It was filled with little bamboo shoots, with black and white striped stalks and gold-colored leaves, the roots wrapped tightly in burlap. What the hell? I'd never seen this variety before. Maybe that's why Bird had taken them, because they were unique and attractive? I couldn't ask Bird now, because I didn't want to talk while the old lady was telling her story, so I sat cross-legged and listened. A little girl, two or three years old, came over and sat in my lap. She threw her head back and looked up at me, grinning, and I ruffled her hair. She giggled. I couldn't tell whose kids were whose—they wandered from person to person like they were happy orphans.

  When the story was finished, I thought I'd start up a conversation. “So how long have you been doing this?"

  "What?” said the strong-looking guy we'd approached in the park that first day.

  "Living in the wilderness, not living in houses."

  "Most of us a long time, a few a shorter time,” Sandra piped in. “The children, their whole lives. We don't talk about our city lives much. We prefer happy stories.” She didn't sound pissed off at me for bringing it up, just matter-of-fact.

  "So why do you visit the cities at all?” I asked.

  "There are things we need there, and things we need to give to them,” Carl said. He was a fifty-something guy with a weak chin. He didn't have as much of an accent as most of the others, so I guessed he was like me, a convert.

  "You trade with them?"

  A couple of people laughed.

  "We give them what they need, we get what we need,” Carl said.

  "What the fuck does that mean?” I said. “You speaking in riddles because my ignorance is entertaining, or because you don't want to tell me? If you don't want to tell me, just say so."

  Someofthesmilesfaded;afewpeoplepickedupweavingprojects and other shit they were working on.

  Carl tossed his half-eaten bamboo shoot at my feet. “We give them these."

  I picked it up, cradled it in my palms.

  Shit, I can be slow on the uptake for a guy who's got so much raw intellect.

  "You started the outbreak near the square?” I looked at Bird. She smiled like a gremlin and nodded so vigorously her tits bounced. “Why?"

  Everyone looked to Carl. “To slow things down.” He twisted around, cut another length of bamboo stalk, sliced it lengthwise with his hunting knife. “The world is coming apart, in case you haven't noticed. It's either gonna come apart hard, or soft. We're helping to make it soft."

  People nodded as he spoke. Shit, this was sounding suspiciously like some whacked religion. What had I gotten myself into?

  "How the hell do you know you're not making things worse? Excuse me, but I don't see many economists here, or sociologists, or environmental engineers!"

  "No, you don't. But they pay us to spread their work."

  It took a minute for that to sink in, then my mouth dropped open. “You're trying to tell me this shit was made on purpose, by educated people, and they pay you to spread it?"

  Carl smiled. “Now you know."

  I turned the piece of bamboo over and over in my hands, think-ing. Another thing I was learning about these people was they were comfortable with silence. They were happy to sit and eat, or just sit. Long lulls in a conversation were not uncommon.

  "We're not wandering aimlessly, are we?” I asked, finally.

  "We're heading north,” the big guy said. “To slow things down up there."

  With a newly-engineered variety that would thrive further north, clogging the highways and airports, slowing the spread of brand-name products even more. Cutting down on pollution, making it harder for wars to be fought. Maybe throwing us back into the stone age. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

  A week in, I had no fucking idea where we were. We reached the top of what passed for a hill in south Georgia, and there was nothing but bamboo and scattered stands of scrub pines as far as I could see in every direction. It would take months for us to make our way north, but the tribe didn't seem to be in any hurry. I was filthy, thirsty, and bored. Sand gnats buzzed around my face, landing in my ears and the corners of my eyes. I turned and waited for Bird. She was dragging, sweating even more than me, her mouth pulled down in a grimace that made her look stupid and confused. Usually she was egging me on.

  "You okay?” I asked.

  "I ate something wrong. I have to poop.” She pulled down her rags and squatted right there. I was getting used to it. I turned and walked a respectable distance. Three dudes moseyed past, saying hello to her as she squatted there, her face red from straining.

  Suddenly she turned her head to one side and puked. I ran to her, put a hand on her shoulder. “
You're really sick.” I put my palm on her forehead, and hot as it was outside, it was still obvious she was pulling a fever. “Shit, you've got something.” I yanked my mask up over my mouth, knowing it was way too late if she'd caught anything designer. I thought of the woman with the giant tongue, panting in the car, and my bowels went loose. I turned in the direction of the guys vanishing into the bamboo. “Hey! She's sick! Call a stop."

  They called, and the call repeated, further away each time. I wrapped my arms around her waist to help her to the ground. She cried out in pain, like I'd stuck an arrow in her or something, and grabbed her stomach, low, on the right side.

  Appendix. As soon as I saw her grab that spot, I knew.

  The tribe was slowly gathering, a few at a time.

  "We need to find a doctor! She's got appendicitis.” It had never occurred to me to wonder what would happen if I fell and fractured my skull while I was out here.

  "No towns near here. No doctors,” an old guy missing his front teeth said.

  "Well what do we do?” I asked. I helped Bird ease herself to the ground. She was whimpering in pain.

  "Nothing to do,” Sandra said, shrugging. “We'll camp here till Bird's strong enough to walk, or she dies."

  "I don't want to die,” Bird said.

  I needed a consult. I pulled out my phone, dialed the Phone Doc-tor number. A recorded voice prompted me to type in my credit code. I typed in my old man's.

  "Andrew Gabow, MD. How can I help you?” a clean, rested voice said over the phone. I felt a wave of gratitude, just to hear that tone.

  "I've got a woman here who I think has appendicitis. We're way out in the wilderness, there's no way to get her to a town. What do I do?"

  "Describe her symptoms."

  I went through them; the doctor asked follow up questions about the exact location of the pain in her abdomen. He sounded miffed that we didn't have a thermometer with us to get Bird's exact temp-erature.

  "You're probably correct—acute appendicitis. I'll give it to you straight, Kilo—she's in grave danger. You're not going to carry her out of there in time, and when her appendix bursts, the infection will spread, and chances are she won't survive it. Not out there. Probably not even in a hospital."