by J. C. Staudt
Raith shook his head. “No, did Zeke and his wife have their little one? I hadn’t heard. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. You know, it’s like that with family. Things are always happening. Time goes by, and you just… lose sight of it all…” Hastle’s voice fell off.
Raith sometimes got the impression that Hastle and others in Decylum felt sorry for him. He didn’t need their pity because he’d chosen not to have a family of his own. He’d chosen his path, and he was content with it. The gift was his life’s work; that, and now governing Decylum and caring for its people. There was no room in that life for anything else. Even if he could’ve made room, his time for all that had come and gone. Even so, he understood what Hastle meant. He would enjoy the time with his old friend while the journey lasted, and be content when things went back to normal after they returned. Their conversation dwindled as the light-star’s heat intensified.
Into the daylight they slogged, and the ground passed beneath them.
CHAPTER 14
Escort Services
“What in Infernal’s name did you do?” The patch-eyed shepherd was the embodiment of disbelief. Except that he wasn’t patch-eyed anymore; his eyepatch lay in a heap on the asphalt, and he was looking at Merrick with two dark and very healthy-looking eyes.
“What did I do… what are you talking about?” Merrick was sitting in the street outside the Boiler Yard, holding his hands against his abdomen. His fingertips were bubbling, bleeding, and oozing fluid into the fabric of his tunic.
“My eye,” the shepherd shouted, still in gleeful hysterics. “My coffing eye, you little bastard. Look at it.” He leaned over and brought his face close to Merrick’s, pulling his eyelid open.
Merrick couldn’t see much in the faint torchlight, aside from an eye that appeared perfectly functional to him. The other shepherds and Merrick’s comrades were standing around them. Colvin, the hulking bouncer, had come rushing from the lavatory when the fight started. With the help of the other patrons, he’d broken them up and thrown them out. Kaylene had escaped the bouncer’s grasp, but she was safer inside than with these wastelanders anyway.
“Yeah, so what?” Merrick said, groaning in pain. “You’re not really blind. That was the sneakiest eyepatch disguise ever. Great job.”
“No, you coffing idiot. I am blind. I was. The second you touched my throat, I felt something. It was like some kind of weird painful orgasm going through me. I blacked out, and the next thing I knew there was light coming in around my eyepatch. The whole time your hands were around my neck, I kept feeling that rush, until you let go. I can see again.”
“So you’re some kind of sexual degenerate now? My hands are melting, and you’re getting off on it? What are you trying to pull, some bullshit practical joke?”
“Toler, are you being serious? You can coffing see outta that eye?” one of the shepherd’s companions asked him. They were searching Toler’s face, incredulous.
“Serious as daylight,” Toler said. He blinked, winked a few times with each eye, then crouched beside Merrick. “I’m telling you, soldier, I was completely blind in this eye ten minutes ago. Then you touched me with your… magic, or whatever, and not only can I see now, but…” he paused to draw a small skinning knife from his belt.
Kugh and Coker came forward, but the other shepherds stood in the way.
Toler caught the starlight on the blade and examined his reflection in the steel’s mirror sheen.
When Merrick saw the shepherd looking at himself through his previously-damaged eye, he started to believe him. He almost wanted to believe him.
The shepherd put his knife away and looked at Merrick like a man deciding whether an off-smelling meal is safe to eat. Merrick hardly noticed that the others were watching him in much the same way.
He pulled his hands away from his tunic, wincing when the skin stuck to the fabric. He turned them over to see what had become of them. His fingernails were gone, and at the tip of each finger was a tiny circle of black skin. From there, the flesh was blistered and weeping down to the first knuckle. What is this? What did I do? He glanced up at Toler. “I have no idea what just happened. How long have you—had you—been blind?”
The shepherd’s brow was furrowed, his mouth open. “Since about a week ago.”
“You were completely blind?”
“Completely, in that eye.”
“What—what…”
Toler shrugged. “I don’t know any better than you do. You sure nothing like this has ever happened before?”
“You mean have I ever burned my own fingernails off? What do you think? I’m not a masochist.”
“Okay, keep your pants on. Just making sure. You’ve got a talent, is what I think.”
“I’m really… tired,” Merrick said. He yawned. Suddenly he felt as if he hadn’t slept in days. His head began to swim with visions, replaying moments half-concealed beyond the drab fog of memory, like a reel of film chugging behind a smudged lens.
“A talent that must take a lot out of you,” Toler said. “Dways, let’s get this man home.” He gestured to the other shepherds, who hoisted Merrick to his feet.
Kugh and Coker gave their dissent and took over for the shepherds. Merrick felt himself being shifted from one set of shoulders to another. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep his eyes open. His fatigue was so overwhelming it made him wonder if he’d been drugged. Did Flan put something in my brew? Did somebody else? No, no way. I took two sips before that prick knocked the mug out of my hand.
“We’ll take it from here,” Kugh said. They began to guide Merrick down Harpin Avenue, toward the pile of debris and the crumbling footbridge.
“We’d like to come along. Wouldn’t we boys?” Toler said.
Merrick imagined the other shepherds nodding and following Toler like ducklings, since he heard no response but the scuffing of soles on the pavement.
“We don’t need you to come along,” Kugh insisted.
“I didn’t ask,” said Toler.
Kugh grunted.
Merrick overcame the weight of his eyelids long enough to see Toler lean over and swipe his eyepatch off the pavement. They made their way toward home while Trim kept an extra eye on the shepherds. Merrick found himself being dragged along more than walking under his own power. The sounds of the nighttime city came to him like passing dreams, the buzzing of insects and the hooting of owls, the sound of bats’ wings overhead and the whispering of a stray cat’s footsteps. Somewhere a dog was barking, and a woman’s tobacco-stained voice slurred profanities from a high-rise apartment. When they had rounded the corner and were out of view of the Boiler Yard’s warm glow, Merrick heard the metallic scrape of a striker behind him and the hiss of a torch coming to life.
“It’s a good thing we came after all,” Toler said, walking past them and stopping at the next corner. “You would’ve been feeling your way around in the dark without us.”
“This isn’t the scrubs,” he heard Kugh say. “We can find our way home without you, and we don’t need a light.”
“Don’t be ungrateful,” came Toler’s glib reply. “Taking people where they need to go is what we do for a living. We’re providing our services to you free of charge.”
“People usually pay you to bug the shit out of ‘em?” said Trim, in one of his rare ripostes.
“Which way?” Toler called out, ignoring him.
None of Merrick’s comrades responded.
“Fine. I’ll wait.”
The men’s footsteps fell over every variation of asphalt, concrete, rubble, and bare dust as they traversed the city streets, making their way toward the barracks. Merrick wanted to sleep, but every sound and every step jolted him awake again. Kugh kept telling him they were almost there, but they never seemed to get any closer. Fragments of memory continued to cloud his thoughts, mingling with visions he no longer knew were real. They draped themselves over him, trapped him beneath their undulating folds; suffocated him with their weight. T
hey were almost too washed out to see, like a tapestry whose color has dulled with age.
No room for weaklings in this world, Merrick’s father used to say, after he’d finished making a bloody mess of his son. He would sit against the peeling cinder block wall and wipe the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, where the skin on his knuckles was split and red. The Aionach won’t go easy on you. Why should I? he’d say. Hard luck needs a hard will. Ask your whore mother about that if you ever find her. Better yet, tell her what leaving us with less than nothing did to you. She’ll never know about the hard times like we do. If the zoom high was running out, Merrick’s father would begin to cry then. Loud, heaving sobs that shook him and wetted the worn linoleum. If he was still doped up, he would lay on the bare spotted mattress and stare up at the ceiling, his lungs rasping with each slow, shallow breath.
There was something deeper beneath the surface, a place beyond dream that Merrick couldn’t reach. I know what I am and where I come from. I’ve lived in Belmond all my life, born and bred. He thought he remembered everything about himself, knew exactly who he was. A curious boy, but not bright. Part of the smallest class to come through the doors of White Birch Primary School since its re-opening. An acned youth with no mother and a junkie for a father. A lost boy, looking for whatever trouble he could find, throwing rocks at muties from the top of the highest building he and his buddies could climb to, laughing whenever a stone found its mark. A dropout whose resentment toward the city south and its residents had been ingrained over years of listening to his father’s blame-shifting and scapegoating. A young man standing in front of a dusty grave, without direction, obligation, or a living parent. A Scarred Comrade, one of the youngest members of the last strong generation in the failing humanity of an ill-fated world. A fat soldier in Pilot Wax’s army.
Yes, that was it—he was a fat, sedentary slug in Pilot Wax’s gang of lackeys. With a body that was betraying itself, killing him before he was dead; sloughing its skin off like old bread dough. What else could it be but some bizarre twist of fate that had left him decomposing before his own eyes, while the miracle of regenerative healing came to despicable men like Toler, the wasteland shepherd? If Infernal was cruel, the whims of destiny were all the more terrible.
Coker groaned, struggling under Merrick’s weight. “Wake up, coff it. We’re almost at the barracks.”
When Merrick opened his eyes, they were standing in front of the familiar cast-stone building, three off-white stories of cramped dorms and piss-stained bathrooms. Wide enough to cover several city blocks, the barracks had simple four-paned windows with gray-green weather stains dripping from beneath the sills. A wrought iron fence was set on a low stone colonnade, surrounding the building except where the wide gate arched across the pavement, its decorative monogram reading MAIE—The Ministry’s Army of the Inner East.
“Is that Corporal Bouchard you’re carrying? What’d he go and get himself into?” asked one of the guards when they reached the gate. “Ain’t none ‘a you been gone longer than two hours, and he’s already stumblin’ drunk.” The guard was Keller Henderthwaite, a lanky, goose-necked fellow with a deep baritone that misrepresented his meager build. He and Merrick had gone through ingress training together.
“He’s not drunk, he’s just tired,” Kugh said. “Open the coffing gate.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” Keller pointed at the shepherds. “Who are these dways?”
“Nobody,” Coker said, “just some tumbleweeds who followed us home.”
“Well, tell ‘em to get the coff outta here. This ain’t no tourist attraction.”
“Thanks, we’re gonna get going,” Toler said, giving them a wave. He held up the torch, as if letting them have a better look at him would nullify any threat he might pose.
As the shepherds shrank away into the night, Merrick thought he heard Toler say something about coming back later. In a louder voice, the shepherd said, “Take care of yourself, soldier. Rest up.”
When the shepherds were gone, the guards opened the gate. After closing it behind them, the guards began to circle the new arrivals, giving them the once-over. As Kugh and Coker carried Merrick into the dim pools of light cast by the oil lamps overhead, one of the guards saw Merrick’s bloodied hands and made a face.
“So he’s tired, you say… tired from gettin’ in a fight?”
Merrick knew what would happen to him if word of the evening’s actual events reached Pilot Wax or Captain Robling. He held his breath, hoping one of his friends had a good excuse lined up.
“Yeah, he got into a fight,” Kugh admitted. “The coffin’ dway provoked him.”
“Doesn’t matter who provoked who. You can’t fight with civilians.”
“Give it a rest, Henderthwaite. Quit being so uptight. It’s not that bad. We’ll take him to the infirmary and get him fixed up. He’s fine, besides his hands. Gave that shepherd a solid ass-kicking, too. Kinda. Bouchard’ll be good to go after he gets some sleep. Won’t miss a minute of work.”
“Fine, take him in. But I’ll have to make a report.”
“Coff it, you’re such a Mouther,” Coker said.
“Just doing my job,” said Keller.
“I didn’t know being a little snitch was a job.”
“Alright, back off, Coker,” said one of the other guards.
“If Bouchard takes any shit for this, Henderthwaite, I swear…”
The voices faded out, along with every other sound, and Merrick fell into the deepest sleep he’d ever known.
CHAPTER 15
In Violation
The secret staircase descended into the damp blackness of the basilica’s cellars. Sister Bastille took up her candle and entered the doorway at the back of the huge walk-in freezer, her thin canvas slippers echoing on the stone. The only other sound she could hear was the savage pounding in her chest.
The bottom stair sank beneath her weight, and the hidden door whisked shut behind her. There must be some devilry in the hinge workings that makes it work so quietly, she mused. She considered turning back, but if she wanted to catch up with her quarry, there was little time to stop and think about it. She allowed herself one final chance to change her mind before she forged ahead.
A rough rectangle brown with mold, the wet cobbled walls of the corridor shot straight forward, plumb as the shaft of an arrow, until the light of her candle reached its limit and there was nothing but the dark. The low ceiling was no more than half a foot taller than she was, and the passage was so narrow she had to hold the candle out in front of herself. In such tight quarters, it was difficult to avoid the lagging flame and dodge the occasional stray embers that sought to tuck themselves into the crisp folds of her robes.
At the end of the corridor was another staircase, with its own pressure plate on the lowest step, just like the one she’d come in by. From there, the passage turned right and sloped downward. Her best guess was that the passage had taken her across the yard to the exterior parapet of the basilica, where the Cypriests stood guard.
Instead of a regular door, the portal at the top of these stairs was a trapdoor in the ceiling. Amongst all the half-noticed comings and goings of the Esteemed that Bastille had witnessed, never had she seen an opening in the floor. Perhaps this did lead out beyond the walls of the basilica grounds and into the city somewhere. If it did, she had no reason or desire to go through it, so she opted for the corridor to the right instead.
The passage rolled gently downward for about a hundred yards until it came to a split landing with passageways to the left and right. Reddish mud flowed from the joint at the top of the wall, and on the floor was a fresh muddy footprint with a canvas texture. There was a mark on the wall, as if a sort of rough brush had dabbed the thin layer of mud there, and she saw a few gray woolen threads sticking out. Someone had been in a hurry and slipped. I may be a proper tracker after all, Bastille thought. Never mind that the footprint is in plain sight, where anybody with half a wit could’
ve noticed it.
The markings led to the left. If this T-junction was underneath the border wall as she had guessed, that meant her quarry had been going away from the basilica, bound for someplace outside. She considered the possibilities; maybe she was only convincing herself the footprint was fresh, and it had in fact been made some time ago. Could she really have known how long a footprint had been there just by looking at it? She rubbed her temples to soothe the aching in her head. There was something more to this; something she wasn’t seeing. If her quarry had taken the path to the left, she should at least have a look.
Dim light from up ahead splashed the corridor in sheets of blue-green. The stone wore away from the walls, and the rigid corners softened until the corridor had become a rounded tunnel of dense-packed earth. The dirt floor revealed dozens of footprints, all of them canvas-textured and soft around the edges. At last the tunnel brought her into a shallow circular room made of patterned green stone about fifteen feet across, with a concrete tank built into its center and a thick plastic tube penetrating the ceiling. Slivers of daylight shone in around the sides, making the aquatic-colored mosaic sparkle like a crystalline sea.
Bastille had seen this place before. It was the inside of the dry fountain that crowned the old park off the north end of the basilica grounds; she’d seen it countless times from the north tower. This circular chamber would have been the fountain’s reservoir.
A working fountain this massive must have been a sight; one of the major landmarks of the old city. It was hard to imagine so much cold, pure water in one place, and harder still to imagine so much of it being used in such a wasteful way. Still, Bastille marveled at the way the fountain must have danced and sparkled; the people surrounding it on blankets in the grass, having picnics, reading books, walking their house animals, laughing as they played running games in bare feet. Where had Bastille’s quarry gone, if they’d come this way? Nothing in the room looked as if it had ever moved. She was baffled, but she’d come too far to let this go.
