by Rajan Khanna
“What about breathing?” Rosie asks.
“We poke holes in them,” I say. “But keep them small and not noticeable. There’s supposed to be liquid in these drums.”
Eventually we all climb in. I make sure Rosie and Claudia are secure before I help seal the lids. Then I get into my own.
From here it’s all waiting. Our drums stand on a pallet with wheels. We moved some of the full drums off to one side of the room. When they come for these, they’ll wheel us onto the transport ship.
It’s all waiting from here.
And that’s something that I don’t do very well.
The inside of the drum smells of chemicals, something like oil but sharper, an odor that tickles my nostrils. I try to shift into a comfortable position, but it’s hard. My legs are bent up under me, and my arms don’t have much room to move. I try to stretch and relax my muscles when I can, but I know that when I get out of this thing I’m going to be sore and stiff and hurt.
I try not to think about it. Instead I think about the Cherub and seeing her again, but my body keeps trumping my brain and bringing me back to where I am and how goddamned uncomfortable it is.
My breath sounds loud in the enclosed space and I hope it’s not audible from outside. It sounds like all of Gastown can hear me.
I hate waiting.
Of course it could be worse.
Much worse.
It has been. In the past. One time in particular.
It was back when my dad was alive. At some point after Claudia had left us, off to do her own thing, tired of tagging along after a father and son duo, despite the activities she and I had got up to when my dad wasn’t around.
The Cherub needed repairs, and Dad was working on those, but he sent me down to the ground to look for some food. I said we never separated, and that was true for scores, but he figured the Cherub was nearby and there was no sign of Ferals in the area.
I was supposed to stay near the ship, see what I could scrape up, if anything. More often than not, there was nothing. Maybe some berries. Maybe mushrooms. But this, like most of the stops, yielded nothing. I didn’t think Dad would mind if I roamed for just a bit. Everything seemed clear.
So I did. I walked down the slope of the hill I’d climbed down to. There were some bushes farther down the slope and I figured they might have something edible on them.
I was moving quickly—no sign of danger, but then again I was on the ground—and then I slipped and fell and tumbled into a hole.
I fell through earth and roots and rocks, getting scraped and banged up by the descent, and all I could think of was holding tight to my gun. A man without a gun was an easy target, and Dad had always taught me to hold tight to mine.
Then I hit bottom and the wind blew out of me and it took a moment for me to orient myself.
The smell hit me first. The unmistakable scent of Ferals.
I fought against the rising panic inside of me. Stifled my breathing so it wouldn’t give me away. It still sounded loud in my ears. Then I heard the rasping and gibbering of Feral voices. Close. Not on top of me, but very close. And there were several. How many, I couldn’t tell. But more than I could take on by myself in the dark with who knew what flying around in the air. And the fall had ripped some of my coverings loose.
The thought made the panic surge again. I could be lying in Feral piss. Feral shit. All contagious. All swimming with the fucking Bug.
I started to move, slowly, tentatively. Still on my belly. Trying to figure out what was around me. Each scrape against the ground made me sure the Ferals would find me. That they would hear with their sharpened hearing. Or smell me with their sharpened smell. In a way, the grime and muck of the hole would help me in that regard.
I managed to crawl my way to a pile of dead leaves and twigs and other cast-offs that must have fallen in the same hole I had. As much as I could, I burrowed my way into it. Then I lay there, and waited.
I didn’t know what else to do. If I went out with my gun blazing, the Ferals would have me in no time. I couldn’t see. And they had the advantage.
Of course I didn’t exactly know what I was waiting for. It’s not like Dad was going to know where I went. And even if he did, what could he do without landing himself in the same predicament.
I waited and I listened. Sometimes the noises would get fainter, farther away, and yet they would sometimes return. They ran the gamut of Feral sounds—howling, yelping, barking, snuffling. Little sighs that repeated over and over.
But I waited, and I hoped, and maybe even prayed a little, that I would figure out a way out of the mess.
I don’t know how much time passed. It could have been an hour. Or hours. I had no way of knowing. I just lay as still as I could, breathing as softly as I could, waiting and hoping and sweating with my fear. At one point I found myself trembling, and it was all I could do to make myself stop. All of my will was bent to keeping myself still. Otherwise I knew my teeth would chatter and that would give my position away.
Then, after some time, I heard shrieks. In the distance, then growing fainter. And then . . . silence.
I decided it was the only chance I had to make my move. I scrabbled free of the deadfall and tried to make my way out of the hole I had fallen in. But the sides gave me no purchase. I couldn’t find a way to haul my weight back up it.
So I moved forward. I reached the stone of a cave wall and then kept following it, still doing my best to minimize my noise, breathing through my mouth as much as possible, my free hand on my gun, ready to bring it up and start taking out any Ferals that might come at me.
Yet none did.
Eventually I saw light and then, beyond, an opening to the outside.
I ran for it. It might not have been the smartest thing, but I couldn’t help myself. I ran for the blessed light, my gun still ready in my hand, and I ran out into the light and it was the most glorious thing I could imagine.
Dead Ferals littered the ground outside the cave entrance. Nothing moved. Still, I kept my gun up and gave them a wide berth.
A shrill whistle got my attention and I looked up the hill to see my father with a rifle in his hand, looking down at me. I learned later that he had come looking for me, had seen the hole and had followed the hill down to the cave entrance. When he saw Ferals there he had started shooting from a place of cover. The nest had emptied to go after him, but he had taken them all out. It wasn’t a big nest, but he’d still taken down five or six of them from his position.
I wanted to hug him when I saw him. I wanted to thank him. But the look he gave me stopped me cold. There was, of course, the ammo that had been wasted taking out the Ferals. For no good reason at all. No salvage. No food.
But even worse, I had been down in the dark in a Feral nest and he could see the places where my coverings had torn away.
He checked me over, his face serious. Amazingly, there were no cuts, no lacerations from the fall. My clothing was all that was torn, though I was badly bruised.
“You kept your mouth covered?” he said.
“Of course.”
He checked my face anyway.
Then, after he was satisfied, he nodded and we headed back to the Cherub, both of us with guns out, scanning for any stragglers.
He didn’t yell at me. He didn’t have to. I knew he was angry, disappointed, and it hurt. It would’ve been easier if he had yelled. If he had hit me. All he did was shake his head and give me silence.
Even worse, he kept his distance for the next day or two. And I knew why. Though there were no apparent signs of infection, there was still a chance the Bug had won out. That the persistent fucker had worked its way inside of me and started the process that would turn me into one of Them.
Thankfully, I was clean. But the silence continued for at least another day beyond that.
Eventually, because it was driving me crazy, I went to him. “I’m sorry,” I said yet again. “It won’t happen again.”
He gave me a stone face. �
��See that it doesn’t” was all he said.
That was my Dad.
I think about him and that moment as I am forced to wait inside the drum. I think of him and realize how much I still miss him. How much I would take his stone-faced silence over losing him. How I would gladly suffer his displeasure and disappointment if it meant that he were still around. But wishes die in the Sick. They choke and drown on infected blood.
Then, after some time, I feel the drum moving and I know we’re off to the transport ship.
My futile wishes go with me.
There’s no sense of movement as the airship we’d been loaded on takes us down to the facility. Down to the ground. I’m fairly certain they’ve loaded us into some cargo hold somewhere and that it would be okay if we all got out to stretch ourselves, but that’s sloppy thinking. So I stay crumpled up like a piece of old paper and focus on breathing.
The smell inside the drum makes me wish it wasn’t all I had to focus on.
Then, after an indeterminate amount of time, I feel actual movement, close by. The jerk of the drum as the cart is pushed off the airship. There’s a moment of panic as I feel gravity pull at me and I realize we’re going down a ramp. A moment of fear as I wonder what will happen if all the drums tumble to the ground. But then we’re on level ground again and I exhale my held breath.
We move and then we stop, then we move again and stop again. Each time, I hope this new stop will lead to me being able to exit and stretch my legs. Each time, I can feel the disappointment as physical pain, as we move.
Then we stop for a long time.
I shove down the hope. Tamp it down.
Then there is a tapping at the top of my drum. I almost don’t hear it at first I’m so focused inward. Then I recognize the pattern that Claudia drilled into us back on Gastown and I push at the top of the drum. With a creaking hollow bang, the lid comes off and Claudia is looking down at me, a lopsided smile on her face.
“Thank fucking God,” I say. “My back feels like it’s about to break.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Claudia says, pulling me up. It’s no exaggeration. I feel creaky and bent beyond tolerance. Pains twang through most of my muscles and as I stretch them out, several start spasming, almost dropping me on the ground.
I grit my teeth and try to limber up as best as I can.
Claudia pulls Rosie out, though she seems to be handling herself better than me, massaging her limbs but not even grimacing in pain. I tell myself she’s younger, more flexible. I’m pretty sure Miranda’s complained a number of times about my rigidity.
After a few minutes of massaging and stretching, the worst of the pain seems to have subsided. That is, the fire has faded to a smoldering, steady burn. It will do.
It helps that the knowledge of where we are is actually sinking in. I’m so much closer to the Cherub. That is, if Claudia is right.
“Now what?” Rosie asks.
“Now we go get my ship,” I say.
“Uh-uh,” Claudia says. “You and Rosie get your ship. I have other plans.”
I frown. “What? Where are you going?”
“I have other business.” She smiles, and it’s like an old leather coat, worn but comfortable. “This is what I was hired to do—investigate all of this. Now I’m here. Thank you for that.”
I grab her arm gently. “You can do that with us. C’mon. It’ll be like old times.
Her smiled deepens, then fades. “I can’t waste this opportunity. And I can move more quietly on my own. Go. Get your ship. I know your father must be squirming in his grave.”
“Claudia—”
“No. Go. Take Rosie. Do what you have to do. I’ll do the same.” She turns away from me, then looks over her shoulder, the smile now back on her face. “Besides,” she says. “I’m not splitting the pay with you.”
I shake my head, then shrug. I tell myself that Claudia’s a grown woman. She’s been handling herself this long. It’s her choice.
“Okay,” I say to Rosie. “It’s just the two of us.”
“Oh, joy,” she says dryly.
“Try not to make too much noise,” Claudia says, then she heads off down a corridor to the right.
I look at Rosie and she shrugs back at me. “I guess that means we have the one on the left.”
We move. “If you see anything,” I say, “signal, and try to stay hidden. If we have to . . .” I trail off. “If we have to kill anyone, put them down quickly and silently. No hesitation. If they find us here, if the alarm is sounded, we’re dead. Any problems?”
She shakes her head. “I know the deal,” she says. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Good,” I say. “Let’s go.”
With Rosie following me, I move down the left passage.
We move as lightly as we can through the corridors of the factory. The walls are largely bare—painted stone and concrete—but here and there pipes jut out from the walls or pace them like racing birds. The whole place hums and thrums with movement and power. It’s a strange experience. For most of my life, power, energy, has always been so temporary. I wonder how they run it.
“I don’t like this place,” Rosie says. “It makes me nervous.”
I want to shush her, but I nod instead. The place is eerie. We go through three twists of the corridor with no encounters and then come to an area that has three doors. One ahead and one on either side.
“Now what?” Rosie asks.
Good question, I think. Each of the doors has a window in it, and we’re luckily not close enough for anyone to see us through them. “Stay down,” I whisper. “I’ll check it out.”
I crouch low and move toward the doors. Then, being as stealthy as I can, I raise my head to peer in each door. The door to our right is occupied. I see boxes, switches, and three men milling about. All with long protective coats. I lower my head quickly and turn to the room on the left. It doesn’t go anywhere but appears to be empty. There are tables and machinery, but no apparent exit.
As I look into the door ahead of us, I see that it is another corridor, or rather a continuation of the one we’re in. It seems to be what we’re looking for, save for the four people walking toward the door.
Walking toward us.
Crouching down below their sight level, I turn and grab Rosie and drag her into the empty room.
Correction. The room I thought was empty.
As the door shuts behind me, I see that a man stands in the room, just behind the door where I couldn’t see him.
He looks up in alarm. Rosie has her weapon out, but I grab for the man and hold him tight, my hand over his mouth, my knife pressing against his side. “Don’t make any noise,” I hiss into his ear. I know what I told Rosie, but we can’t risk a sound with people in the corridor outside. I pull him back with Rosie behind the door where we can’t be seen.
“Cover the door,” I tell Rosie. We’re screwed if they decide to come into this room. I can’t take four people with my knife.
I crane my head and wait for the dark shapes of the approaching men to come into view.
They come toward the room . . . then continue on.
I exhale loudly. Rosie nods at me. I look around for something we can use to tie up the man, think about cramming him into a closet and leaving him there. Then I reconsider.
Idiot, the voice in my head says. You need to start thinking more like Miranda. Because we’re blind here in this plant and this man likely has a better idea of where things are. Right now, information is extremely valuable. If this guy can get me to the Cherub faster . . .
“I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth,” I say into the man’s ear. “But not the one with the knife at your side. You make any sound other than a whisper and I will gut you so quickly that you’ll have time to see your entrails spill onto the floor before you die. Do you understand?”
He nods.
Taking a breath, I move my hand away. I hold the knife steady.
He only b
reathes. Then he says, “Please. I’m no one. I just work here.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Because all we need are directions.”
He’s sweating and I can’t stifle the urge to move my head back away from him. Away from his fluids. “We need to get to the airships moorage,” I say. “You’re going to tell us how to get there.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, we’re going to have to find someone else who will and we can’t leave any witnesses behind.”
“No,” he says. “Why do you want to go to the airships?”
I look at Rosie, who shrugs back at me. “Because I’m going to get my ship back and take her out of here.”
“I’ll show you,” the man says.
“Good,” I say, feeling satisfied.
“But you have to take me with you.”
I’m about to refuse, but again I reconsider. Directions aren’t going to be much good down here. It’s a sound idea.
“Okay. You come with. You show us the way.”
“No,” he says. “You have to take me out of here. Out of the plant.”
“What?”
“Please. When they took this place over, they didn’t allow any of us to leave. They said they needed us to run the place. But it’s like a prison now. We’re watched and guarded all of the time. We don’t have any freedom. Please.”
I stare at my boots. They’re scraped up pretty badly. “Just take us to the ships and we’ll see what we can do.”
That’s apparently enough for the man. “I can take you a back way,” he says. “Over near the service tunnels. They’re not very traveled. Of course we’ll still have to pass through an open area, but that should be the easiest route.”
It sounds like a good plan, but I know I can’t trust this guy. Still, it seems worth a shot. “Let’s go,” I say.
“What’s your name?” Rosie asks him, and I roll my eyes. We don’t have time to make friends here, and he’s just a means to an end. But he answers. “Atticus.”
