In the Drift

by Michael Swanwick

  Fletch’s eyes sparkled and she started to say something light. Keith grabbed her hand, yanked her into a crowd that shrank away from both of them. Fletch hung back laughingly, and he gave her arm a ferocious tug.

  “Come on!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Shut up and run!”

  Away from Two Street the city was practically empty. By law all citizens had to watch at least part of the parade, the hours their block organizers slated them for. In practice, almost everyone stayed to the early evening, to watch it all. This worked to their advantage—there were few about to report the direction of their flight—but it also made them visible a long way off, if anyone was already on their trail. Rounding a corner, Keith came face to face with a large, distraught black man. For an instant he thought he was dead, and then the man turned and fled, another victim like themselves.

  “Why are we running?” Fletch gasped.

  “Because they’re trying to kill us.” He would answer no more of her questions. He needed all his attention to escape.

  As a boy he played Mummer Hunt, both as victim and assassin, with an intensity rivaled only by the real thing. So he fled from the waterfront because he knew that was the first place the hunters would search. He passed by fire escapes and basement windows that looked like they could be forced for much the same reason. The tall buildings in Rittenhouse Square were tempting, but he knew that the upper uninhabited floors woud be searched room by room several times before the day was over. North and west he fled, toward Mummer Hall, the former art museum.

  Only when they’d reached their goal did he realize he’d had a goal in mind at all. It was a pre-Meltdown parking garage, its five levels gaping open to the winds. Panting, he arrived at the stairwell. It was dark and too grittily rubbled to take footprints. Once inside they could ascend slowly, and try to catch their breaths. As they climbed, Keith explained as best he could.

  The city government had collapsed after the burnings and panic murders of the Meltdown evacuations. There was no help to be had from the state, which had just lost its capital and most of its land, or from the Feds, who were busy with several million refugees. The self-destruction of New York City in a month-long orgy of riots and fires triggered a worldwide depression almost as a matter of course.

  The only organized power remaining in the city was the Mummer clubs. Which was ironic, because they were barely organized at all. The clubs existed for the sole purpose of putting together a troupe to march on New Year’s Day, and were independent of one another. They cooperated, but to no great degree; there were no boards of governors, top authorities, or chains of command. Each club was answerable only to itself.

  But when governments, fraternal organizations, charities, and organized crime all withered away because there was no way to support their own structures, the Mummers endured. They existed only because they wanted to. They existed without coercion or recompense. The forces that had destroyed their city could not break them.

  The clubs were all neighborhood groups, and their members were, by and large, decent men. When the last hospitals were about to go under, several clubs got together to march and collect money to keep them going. When there were no police, they organized volunteers to patrol the neighborhoods.

  Before long the Mummers controlled the city, and not long after that they became aware of that fact. The informal planning committees became a little less informal. Club captains took on many of the attributes of feudal lords, though most of them were elected by their memberships.

  The Kiss began as a way of flensing mutants and carriers of genetic disease from the population, and the Hunt was initiated only reluctantly, after it became clear that public ostracism was not always enough. It was extended to include those who refused vaccination, when the epidemics began. Finally its potential as a political tool was realized, and no reasons were given.

  The rooftop was cold and windy. Keith scuttled to the tool shed standing in its center and beckoned for Fletch to follow.

  The door was padlocked shut, with a lock the size of his fist, crusted over with nameless corrosions. “Push on the upper right corner of the doorway there.” He grabbed the opposite corner and tugged as she did so. After a heartbreaking instant’s hesitation, the door lurched in its frame and tilted askew. There was a gap wide enough to crawl through.

  Keith led the way in and, when Fletch crawled after, slammed the door shut with the heel of his palm. “I found a keg of tenpenny nails here when I was a kid,” he said. “Rusty, but I sold them for scrap. So probably nobody else has figured out how to get in.”

  “Very clever. Now that we’re trapped in here, what do we do next?”

  “Look, I think I’ve done pretty good so far,” Keith said angrily. “At least I’ve bought us some time to think.” He paced the shed—it wasn’t large, maybe eight by ten feet—his footing unsure on the rotting burlap sacks that littered the floor. “Why don’t you come up with something? You’re the one that got me into this mess, Miss Hot-Shit Reporter.”

  “So you know about that.”

  “Bowles looked through your pockets. Jesus Christ!—what kind of monster story were you working on to get the Mummers so upset?” It was cold inside the work shed. Dim light seeped through vacant nailholes in the roof. He could see Fletch watching him calmly, a vague gray figure.

  “Could we sneak aboard one of the ships going to Boston?”

  “Could we sneak aboard one of the ships going to Boston?” he mimicked bitterly. “No, we could not. There’ll be Mummer patrols at every—I can’t believe how you’ve fucked up my life! You know, I was doing okay until you came along.”

  “Keith,” Fletch said quietly.

  “At least I didn’t have half of Philadelphia trying to gun me down!”

  “Keith.”

  He stopped, looked at her. “Yeah?”

  “Stop ranting, and tell me how we’re going to get out of here alive.”

  He angrily thrust his hands in his pockets. There was a slight jangle of metal objects, a few copper coins, a salvageable nail or two—and his key ring.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered. He drew out the ring, triumphantly separated out the key to his tanker truck. “Hey, I may not be dead after all.” He laughed softly, ran his fingers caressingly over the piece of metal that could carry him free.

  “Let’s see.” Fletch snapped her fingers twice and extended her hand. He could tell by her expression that she had already deduced his plan.

  Keith shoved the keys back in his pocket. “Forget it, dragon lady. I don’t trust you. In fact, I’m not even sure I should take you along. You’ve been dead weight on this little jaunt so far. I might be better off without you entirely.”

  There was a brief silence. “I see.” Something rustled in the gloom. “You want your quid pro quo.” With a faint slumping sound, Fletch’s caftan fell to the floor.

  “I don’t—what do you mean?”

  Fletch advanced a step, her eyes steady on his, her voice preternaturally calm. “Well, you can take what you want, can’t you? I can’t exactly yell for help.”

  “Hey, I—”

  “It’s understandable. You’re a man, and you’ve got me alone, where I can’t back away. Happens all the time.”

  She was quite close now. Keith flinched back. “You don’t understand. You’re twisting what I said.”

  Her expression was scornful. “But you are a man, aren’t you? I mean—you can still get it up.”

  Outraged, Keith seized her arms. Cloth bunched up under his angry, clutching fingers. For an instant the tableau held, then he released her, and dropped his head in embarrassment. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, “I really didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, come here.” She pulled him back to her.

  Their lovemaking was almost tender. Fletch spread out her caftan to protect them from the icy cold burlap sacks, and they undressed kneeling atop it, tugging each other’s clothes off item by item, and kicking them away. Som
e of what they did was new to Keith, but he assumed from her lack of harsh comment, indeed her passionate response, that she could not tell.

  When it was over, Fletch tugged and jerked the robe about the two of them, like a thick, heavy blanket. It was warm within the robe, and tangled up in Fletch’s arms and legs, Keith felt oddly secure and sure of himself. He stretched a bare arm into the bracing air, and felt a sudden, childish urge to shout or yodel or laugh with glee. It was an urge he dared not give in to.

  “I would’ve taken you along anyway,” he said, not knowing whether it was true or not. “You really didn’t have to—you know.”

  Fletch laid a finger on his lips. “It’s better this way. Now we can operate as a team.”

  “A team.” Keith spoke the words carefully, listening for their flavor. “Yeah, that’s right. A team.”

  It was hours past midnight before they made their move. They slipped through the streets cautiously, every sense bristling, avoiding the heavily patrolled neighborhoods. It took an effort to walk slowly, to keep from hunching shoulders and darting from shadow to shadow.

  Their route was long and circuitous, seemingly endless, because they dared not cut through the unpatrolled areas of the city. Most of the hunters would be concentrated in those parts. They would be young men mostly, eager to hasten their climb to full Mummer status with a confirmed kill.

  Keith suggested that Fletch cling to his arm, and that they proceed slowly and uncertainly. “This is one of the few nights out of the year you can expect to see civilians out this late,” he explained. “But they’ll all be dead drunk, so we have to act the part.”

  At Walnut and Twenty-third, they spotted a hunter, his beret a blob of white in the dark. Keith pointed and waved broadly. Fletch let loose a shrill giggle and also waved. For a moment the distant man stared at them, then he raised his rifle overhead in salute and turned away.

  “I lust after that beret,” Fletch whispered.

  “Yeah, well, let’s not go fetch it.”

  They turned west at Bainbridge. Bainbridge was a through street, theoretically capable of handling motor traffic, but in practice far too narrow. Ramshackle sheds and extensions had been built out into the street, making the public access lane an uneven, sometimes twisty path between windowless walls. Exterior doorways were bricked shut. The wooden and iron gateways to courtyard interiors were, by law and by custom, not locked this one night of the year. But they were still and dark. Only rarely could they hear the muted sounds of a late-night party. Still rarer was a glimpse of light from a methane torch or tar-oil lamp.

  They continued their drunk pantomime, though no one was present to see them. Leaning heavily on Keith’s arm, Fletch whispered, “How much farther?”

  “We’re almost halfway there. If our luck holds out—”

  “Hey—you!”

  They turned. A large, heavy-set man strode into the street, swinging a courtyard gate noisily shut behind him. He wore a white beret and carried a thick pole with something curved and talonlike at its end.

  Keith grinned and, releasing Fletch so he could stretch out two welcoming arms, cried, “Hey, paisano! How goes the hunting?”

  The man halted a few feet away. His face was fat and ruddy, and held the belligerent expression of an angry drunk. He held his weapon at ready—up close Keith could see that it was a boat hook lashed to a convenient piece of wood. The lack of sophisticated weaponry was a bad sign. It meant that he wasn’t sponsored by one of the clubs, that he had paid to wear the white beret for a night, and would be anxious to get his money’s worth.

  “Just stand right there while I check you out.” The hunter leaned forward, peering at their shadowed faces. Keith was beginning to think they might be able to talk their way out of this one. It was possible the man was too drunk to identify him, that the night shadows might confuse him.

  “I hear they caught three over by the Schuylkill,” Keith said affably. “You in on any of them, huh?”

  The man’s face was still with concentration as he mentally ran through the descriptions of victims he had been given. Now he grimaced and angrily barked, “I said to—”

  Fletch suddenly stepped forward, sweeping the pole to one side with an almost casual motion of one arm. Her free hand moved blindingly fast, smashing into the bridge of the man’s nose, just below his brow.

  The hunter fell as if he’d been poleaxed, slamming to the ground. His weapon clattered on the pavement.

  “Here.” Fletch stooped over the body, whisked the beret from its head, and handed it to Keith. “Put this on.” She reached for the fallen boat hook. “Don’t mind him. He’ll be okay in the morning.”

  Keith looked down at the man. He wasn’t breathing. “The hell he will.”

  Fletch thrust the pole in his hands, adjusted the angle of the beret on his head. “So maybe he won’t. What’s it to us? Now—are we going to have to pretend that I’m your prisoner, that you’re bringing me in alive?”

  “No,” Keith said slowly. He forced himself to look away from the corpse. “Women can’t be hunters, but a lot of hunters bring their girlfriends along. Gives ’em a thrill.”

  “Then let’s get moving. Oh—and that was good work, partner.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Keith was drenched with sweat by the time they made it to the Company’s parking lot. There had been no further close calls, but his nerves were still scraped raw. Row upon row of trucks stretched into the darkness; all was still. He paced off the way to Slot 23, laid the boat hook down, and seized the cold doorhandle.

  He grinned and whispered, “You know, there were a couple of times there when I didn’t think this would work.” With a yank, he threw the door open.

  “Stupid,” Jimmy Bowles said. “Very stupid, brother man.”

  Keith jerked back reflexively, froze. Bowles was sitting in the cab, with the truck’s shotgun cradled in one arm. It was pointed straight at Keith.

  “You’ve really fucked it,” Bowles marveled. A corked bottle, half full of some dark fluid, lay in his lap. Its label was nearly rubbed away from endless handling and refilling.

  Behind Keith, Fletch shifted her weight ever so subtly. The gun flicked in her direction.

  “Don’t you move, bitch!” The veins in Bowles’ forehead stood out. He passed a hand over his brow, wiping away sweat. Keith suddenly realized that the man was deeply, dangerously drunk.

  Bowles’ eyes glared at Keith for an instant, then dropped. His face underwent a strange alteration of expression, becoming almost maudlin. “Listen, buddy, I didn’t know they would bang on you. I thought I was doing you a favor. When I passed the word about the lady’s papers, I threw in a plug for you.” He groped about for the bottle and uncorked it one-handed. “And then a few hours later they called me up to Mummer Hall—in a car, man, can you believe that?—to tell the whole thing over again for the bigcats.” He took a long swig from the bottle, holding his head sideways and watching them from the corners of his eyes. “I did my best, man. Told them you didn’t know from shit, but nobody listened. They said it was suspicious that you two were shacking up. Man, I kept telling them—but Gambiosi, he said you weren’t needed. So the word was to bang you both.”

  As he talked, Bowles had let the shotgun sink slowly to rest on his knees. His eyes were unfocused, half lost in introspection. Keith mentally took a deep breath. He dove for the gun.

  There was time enough to take in an incredible amount of detail. The clumsy way his body moved, not at all smoothly, not at all responsive to his will, so that he more fell than leaped upon Bowles. The way Bowles’ hand jerked up involuntarily, the shotgun’s muzzle wobbling in a jagged S through the air. The way his hands connected with Bowles’ wrist, pushing past cold steel, gripping aged sinew. Contact made, the hand flew up and to the side, and the gun slammed harshly into the dashboard.

  Keith found himself stomach down on the seat, gun clutched maniacally in both hands. He choked it by the barrel, by the back of
the stock. The silence filled his ears. His palms tingled.

  Jimmy Bowles stared stupidly at him. “Aw, man, you didn’t have to do that,” he mumbled.

  Fletch touched Keith’s shoulder, put a hand beneath the shotgun. He straightened his fingers slowly, letting the thing drop. She snapped it up and broke it open. After a cursory examination, she tossed it aside.

  “You jammed a warped shell in there. That thing would’ve blown up in your face if you’d fired it.”

  Bowles ignored her. “Didn’t think I could go through with it,” he said almost to himself. Then: “Take the truck, man.”

  He opened the door and unsteadily climbed out. With a glance at Fletch, Keith straightened, slid behind the wheel, and put the key in the ignition.

  As they eased out of the lot, Bowles was standing alone in Slot 23, crying drunkenly.

  They crashed the barrier at top speed, almost 70 kph, leaving splinters of wood flying behind them. The Mummer guards, caught unprepared, fired after them. Three bullets went through the body of the tanker, making hollow gonging noises. Fortunately the tanker body was empty, and its last cargo apparently not flammable. Something ricocheted about the underside of the truck, as the guards tried to shoot out the tires. Keith kept going.

  Just beyond the cleared area some joker had put up a sign reading: RADIOACTIVE CONTAMINATION. DRIVE FAST. Fletch pointed at it and laughed. Keith threw a horrified glance her way; they were barely out of rifle range.

  “Don’t mind me,” Fletch said. “I always get a little giddy after a close one like this.” She chuckled softly to herself.

  “Well, I hope you’re not planning on any more close ones. Hey—what say we circle around Philly and head south? I don’t like the idea of heading straight into the Drift.”

  “You can think of a better way to lose pursuit? Take an old combat reporter’s advice, son. Move fast and don’t look back. Hey, isn’t this where you hit me?”

  “No, it’s a ways on.” The truck crested a hill, and he pointed into the darkness off to their left. “See that blue glow just below the horizon?”