Into the Fire

by Peter Liney

  “No! No!” he kept shouting, and his wife started joining in.

  “Please, mister!” she cried. “He’ll never do it again!”

  “You bet he won’t,” I told her, picking up the filthy-looking scalpel beside the table. I knew I was out of control, that what I was doing wasn’t right, but every time he begged for mercy, every time I thought about stopping, I remembered all the pain and distress he must’ve dispensed over the years—and most of it to children.

  His wife tried to stop me, but I just kept shoving her away ’til finally she couldn’t take it anymore and ran from the room.

  I don’t think I’ll ever make a tattooist, not going on my efforts that day: I cut “ENTICER” across his forehead, as large as I could, the letters spilling into each other.

  “You ever touch another child, I’ll write this a thousand times all over your body,” I warned, as he lay there crying. “You got it?”

  “Yes! Yes!” he wailed, and I turned to go, leaving him where he was.

  Gordie was leaning against the doorframe and I picked him up and pushed my way gently through the other kids as they dazedly made their way outside.

  “Clancy?” Gordie asked.

  I knew what the question was going to be and didn’t want to disappoint, but I had no choice.

  “Sorry, Gordie. Not this time.”

  “They got nowhere to go . . .”

  Thankfully, at that moment he more or less passed out on my shoulder and I didn’t have to explain why, that we already had enough problems of our own.

  In the small reception area by the front door I found the mother taking care of her son, both of them in tears.

  “He’s not a bad man,” she told me. “Just greedy.”

  “How many kids?” I asked her, and she turned away. “How many?”

  She shook her head, like she didn’t want to think about that, that it had never been her idea.

  As I went to leave, out of the corner of my eye, I saw “Dorkus” scrambling under the sofa again, anxious to get as far away from me as he could.

  “If I ever see that animal again there’ll be fresh meat free in the City that night—you got it?”

  She nodded and I stalked out carrying Gordie with me. He was gonna be quite a weight all the way back to the shelter, especially with the pain still in my leg, but I’d get him there if it killed me. I gave the little guy a hug, taking advantage of the fact that he was sleeping, knowing if he’d been awake he probably would’ve given me an earful.

  I was so damn pleased to have him back, so relieved he hadn’t ended up the same way as Arturo. Something else too, that I hadn’t expected: for once it felt like I’d achieved something, that we’d scored a rare victory. I guess I was getting a little carried away with myself, but I could’ve almost believed the tide was starting to turn.

  One down . . . one to go.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The only problem was that the “one to go” was a different prospect altogether. It had been a real slice of luck finding Gordie that way, but compared to what I needed to rescue Lena, it was an ice cube to an iceberg. For sure, no dog, real or mechanical, was gonna lead me to her, and even if it did there was still the little matter of Fort Infinity and its attendant army to deal with.

  If I was told this story about someone else, the plight I was in, I guess I’d just think that they had to accept it, that there was no other choice. Not that I’d give that advice—nor take it. No matter how hopeless it seemed, almost every minute of my day was devoted to thinking about rescuing Lena, while at night the problem stole the vast majority of my sleep. How could I get into that place? How could I reach her? How? There had to be a way—they couldn’t have thought of everything.

  I was still more or less confident she wasn’t in any immediate danger, that for whatever reason they were taking good care of her—but for how long? If it had something to do with the baby, we were probably talking around six months. If it was more to do with stealing what she had in her head, it could’ve been any day. Somehow I had to give it another shot—and yeah, what’d happened with Gordie had given me just the slightest cause for hope, that despite all the terrible things going on, maybe miracles did still occasionally happen.

  I was really surprised at how quickly Gordie started to mend. Though I guess at his age you do. He did still get tired and have to take the occasional nap for a while. As for his scar, well, it was never gonna look pretty, not the way he was butchered, but once the risk of infection’s gone, the best thing for a wound’s fresh air, and it was amazing how rapidly it improved. Mind you, being a kid—and one who’d always regarded himself as a real little tough guy—he never wasted a single opportunity to show it off to somebody.

  You should’ve seen the way Hanna reacted when he first got back. She did her best to hide it, to feign disinterest, but there were tears in her eyes, really big soulful ones that I had to look away from in case they triggered my own. I just couldn’t see how I’d missed that. It was so obvious she had a crush on him—the way she sneered at everything he said, constantly rolled her eyes in disapproval, and how she made such a big thing of not being anywhere near him—she was a teenager in love!

  Then there was her arch-rival: Gigi was hard as the bullet coming out of a gun most of the time, a real uncompromising no-nonsense female, but if Gordie wanted some water or something, you could’ve been killed in the rush. I mean, all due respect to the kid and everything, and I love the boy as my own, but it was something of a surprise. With that sharp little ferret-face, part of an ear missing, the bald patch just behind, he sure wasn’t my idea of an object of teenage desire. And you couldn’t even say he made up for it with charisma either: that missing part of an ear must’ve been where he stored his charm and politeness, ’cuz sure as hell he didn’t have none.

  Mind you, with everything that was going on, teenage love tussles weren’t exactly high on my list of priorities, nor Jimmy and Delilah’s ongoing spats neither. She was still angry with him for how he gave his name away, though to be fair, she wasn’t beating him up any more than he was beating up himself.

  People were searching for him all over, enjoying the relaxation of the gun laws, buying themselves weapons and pretty well popping off at whoever they liked, all the while knowing they were unlikely to be arrested even if they did accidentally kill someone. We were definitely hearing a lot more indiscriminate gunfire—in the day as well as night—and seeing more bodies in the street. But Jimmy was still going out whenever he could, no matter how risky it might be, or how angry it made Delilah. Heavily disguised, of course, and he’d added a pair of sunglasses to the parka, scarf and baseball cap, so that now he actually did look like a terrorist—though of the senior variety.

  It was his pride that sent him out as much as anything: a need to find a way of making up for what he’d done, to redeem himself in our eyes. I often went with him, the two of us just wandering around, checking things out; occasionally stopping to look at a new fire, Jimmy going on again about how he didn’t understand why they burned the way they did, not that I was paying that much attention. The truth was, we were both searching for something out there, though neither of us knew exactly what.

  A couple of times bounty hunters got a little too close for comfort. A group set up this unofficial roadblock, stopping everyone and checking for disguises. We had to queue up, all the time whispering to each other, wondering what the hell to do. Fortunately, we were saved by another couple making a run for it. Lord knows why they ran, but they both got shot in the back for their trouble and by the time the excitement had died down, Jimmy and me were long gone.

  Another time, something was burning that was making the smoke even more toxic than usual; hitting the back of my throat like someone scratching at it with a fork. I think Jimmy had a bit of a cold anyway and he started coughing and spluttering so much he dislodged not only his bandanna but his hood, too.

  It was only for a second but this woman got real suspicious, pu
lling out a gun, pointing it at him, shouting into this looted store for someone called “Frank.” When he never appeared and she looked on the point of panicking, we figured there was no way she was going to shoot and ran. We’d made it about thirty yards down the street when finally she got her act together and started firing, bullets flying around like they’d been panicked out of the gun.

  We ducked down an alleyway and into a partly demolished building, hiding under the stairs, all the while praying that the woman and “Frank” weren’t following.

  But do you know something? Even then, with the real risk of being cornered and killed, I didn’t use that breathless silence to think of ways we might escape, but of asking out loud the same question I asked myself almost every minute of the day and night. “What am I going to do, Jimmy?” I whispered.

  He glanced at me, taking but a moment to register what I was talking about.

  “I can’t just give up,” I told him.

  “We’ll think of something,” he replied, though he didn’t sound that hopeful.

  “I gotta get into that place, even if it means knocking it down brick by brick.”

  “You gotta think your way in there,” he told me, pausing for a moment, ensuring he hadn’t heard someone approaching. “It’s not gonna happen any other way.”

  I gave a little grunt, figuring that put me at something of a disadvantage.

  Neither of us actually said anything, but eventually we came to the conclusion that it was safe and emerged back out onto the street, turning in the direction of the churchyard.

  “You can’t do nothing with their computers?” I asked, knowing if there was anything, he would’ve said by now.

  “Are you kidding?” he said, his voice impossibly high. “I gotta mini-screen. They got more technological muscle than anyone in the country. Decidedly not cool.”

  For the rest of the journey we barely said a word, and I had to shake off this growing feeling that this period wasn’t about coming up with a solution at all, but more just accepting the inevitability that there wasn’t one.

  Later, when we were all in our sleeping bags, in the first deep chasm of darkness, we were awakened by a familiar sound. It was some way off, over toward the ocean, but somewhere they’d started beating.

  “Oh God,” Delilah groaned, turning over, trying to block it out.

  It was this eerie mixture of the monotonous and menacing: a persistent, pervasive beat building to an inevitable climax, a drum-roll for a mighty leap of death.

  “Are they coming this way?” Gordie asked.

  “Nah. We’re okay,” I told him.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound as confident as I could.

  After a while it faded away, but none of us could get back to sleep. We just lay there, our nerves twanging like piano-wire, knowing it would eventually come and unable to relax until it did.

  I guess it was about thirty minutes later, faint, some way off, but the unmistakable sound of heavy gunfire.

  Jesus, but I hated this place.

  The following morning, exasperated by the usual familiar scraps of sleep, I awoke still in the same black mood. Don’t ask me why, but after I’d eaten, I went and dug out those four novels I took from the bookstore and headed off into the churchyard. I guess I was looking for an escape, giving my mind a rest from going over and over the same problem.

  I wasn’t sure which one to read first but eventually decided on this Charles Dickens guy and A Tale of Two Cities.

  I didn’t get very far. In fact, I couldn’t get past the first line: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .”

  I couldn’t help it; I just burst out laughing—not real laughter, but more just kind of mocking me and my situation. No words I came up with could describe my situation better. After thinking all my life that it wasn’t an option, I’d finally found love and apparently I was about to become a father, but in a world where such things could be ripped from you in the blink of an uncaring eye.

  In the end, I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate and returned to the shelter, asking everyone—including the kids—if they had any jobs they needed doing, hoping I could lose myself that way. Delilah got me fetching and carrying—reorganizing stuff—but when I complained I was looking for something more demanding, she made me fill in the old latrines and dig new ones. Though in truth, I was grateful even for that, anything to give my tortured mind something else to think about.

  But I was just holding back the inevitable—like that King Canute guy and the sea—’cuz the moment I found myself at a loose end again, all those thoughts of Lena rushed back over me. I had to do something, no matter how futile, and the only thing I could think of was taking another look at Infinity.

  The first thing I noticed when I got there was that they’d beefed up their security, presumably in response to our attempt at a raid. For the life of me, I couldn’t see why; they weren’t ever under any kind of real threat, but there were definitely more Specials around.

  I made my way along the road outside the perimeter fence as casually as I could. Now that I knew the growlers were there, I could see these slight mounds dotted around the lawn. Jeez, what a thought that was: those damn things down there, lined up in the dark, waiting for the signal to be snapped back into life.

  The gates were obviously out of the question, knowing what they were capable of, how they could scan and destroy. I also couldn’t help but notice how little traffic had gone through since I’d arrived—maybe they’d imposed some kind of emergency restrictions? All I’d seen was a couple of lightly armored Infinity vehicles and yet another short convoy of those white trucks.

  The constant clickety-clack of the observation cameras passing by in monotonous regularity eventually persuaded me it was time to go. It hadn’t exactly been encouraging, just like always. I’d gone there looking for hope, but was returning laden with even more despair.

  When I got back to the churchyard, kicking my way across the rubble, Jimmy appeared out of the bushes like he’d been waiting for me for some time. What was more, he had a real look of excitement about him, more so than at any time since we’d left the Island.

  “Big Guy! Big Guy!” he cried, keeping an eye on the shelter in case any of the others appeared. “I need your help.”

  “Jimmy!” I groaned. “Honestly, I’m not in the mood—”

  “No, no, Big Guy, this is really important. Trust me.”

  I studied his face for a moment. As down as I felt, I was still intrigued to know what had brought back these signs of his old passionate self. “What is it?”

  “Come and see,” he urged.

  I gave a long sigh, and realizing I was about to give in, he turned and, slightly to my surprise, led me into the shelter. Once there, he hesitated, not wanting to look too eager in front of the others.

  “Just er . . . wanna show Big Guy something,” he muttered, though not one of them exhibited the slightest interest; Lile was giving her hair its weekly brush, Hanna and Gordie playing a game on the mini-screen

  Jimmy beckoned me on, all the way down into the corner of the churchyard where the fallen tree straddled the wall. “You ever been here?” he asked, starting to pull stuff out of hiding from beneath the tree—all the various elements of his disguise, right down to his sunglasses—and putting them on.

  “I told you I had,” I replied; we’d had a conversation a while back that obviously he hadn’t been listening to as usual.

  “Lile don’t like me going out. It’s easier this way. You can get over the wall,” he said, informing me of what I already knew.

  “You don’t say,” I muttered, watching him ineptly scramble and slip his way up the tree, finally reaching the apex and then kinda falling out of sight. I followed after him, not with that much grace, and certainly not with the sort of finesse that would’ve impressed Hanna, but in quarter of the time it had taken Jimmy.

  Even before my feet touched the ground, he was al
ready scuttling away.

  “Where we going?” I asked, hurrying after him.

  “To see something unbelievably cool!” he told me.

  There was no point in asking again. He was obviously in one of those moods: the magician moving to the climax of his trick, and actually, it was quite nice to see it, no matter what the reason.

  He led me across to the other side of the stonemason’s yard, through the gate, then pegged off down the street at a surprising pace.

  “Jimmy!” I called, again having to hurry to catch up.

  We came to one of those weird borders, night and day, black and white, between our burned-out and demolished area and a relatively intact one—there was even a public garden, with a few old, established trees.

  Jimmy entered, taking his time, peering around, checking no one was watching. “Take a look,” he eventually said, pointing at the largest of the trees.

  I paused, not really understanding what I was s’posed to be looking at, wondering how senile dementia first manifested itself.

  “It’s a tree,” I eventually commented.

  “No!” he said impatiently. “Look! Up there!”

  I got a bit closer to the trunk and peered up through the lattice of branches, finally spotting something caught almost at the top. It looked like some kind of battered metal container.

  “What is it?”

  “What d’ya think it is?”

  “I don’t know!” I cried, starting to get a little irritated as usual.

  “You should. It kept us prisoners long enough.”

  I stared at it again, and though it took me a while, finally I realized. “Satellite?” I asked.

  “Cool, huh?”

  “Why wasn’t it destroyed?”

  “I dunno. Obviously it got hit, but for some reason its fire went out on the way down. I guess it’s been lodged up there ever since.”

  I looked again, realizing in that moment that Jimmy had finally found the thing he thought would redeem him in our eyes.