Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition

by Sikes, AJ

  Brand’s smile crumbled then, straight into his shoes. He tucked the crab into his coat and held it trapped against his side. With his free hand, he swiped at the tube and flicked a cork out of one end. A scroll of paper slid out and uncurled in his hand.

  Integrity,

  I am pleased that you have joined us at last. The actions of Industry and Hubris cannot go unabated, and with your assistance we may see an end to their folly. Your memories will serve you. Please continue as you were. The people must be told. And shown.

  Yours, Propriety

  “What is this?” Brand asked, looking up at Chief, who had gone to looking sheepish, like a common bum confronted by a man of any station above his own.

  “Did you have a reply?” Chief asked.

  “Reply? So I’m a set of clothes for one of them, is that it?”

  “Seems that way, Mitch. I mean—”

  “No. Don’t use that name. It isn’t mine. If it’s on me, then it’s because he put it there, and he’s welcome to it.”

  “Okay,” Chief said. “I’ll just be going then.”

  “Wait a minute,” Brand said. He held the message face up and tapped it with his finger. “This bit about memories? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s how you get around back there. If you need to get someplace, you just remember it and soon enough you’re there.”

  Chief nodded and put a finger to his brow. “I’m sure I’ll see you around again,” he said and slipped out of sight. Brand shivered in the cold for a minute, staring at the space where his friend had just stood. At his left, Conroy fidgeted and tugged on his sleeve.

  “Yeah, what is it, Conroy?”

  “Mr. Brand,” the kid said, looking past Brand and into the neighborhood. “There’re some folks over there.” Brand followed the kid’s gaze. Sure enough, a group of people moved along the street, all in a furtive crouch. One of them held a weapon. Brand spotted a gun barrel jutting like a spine from the clutch of shadowy figures. They ducked in and out of hiding as they went, behind the ruins of wagons and fallen trees, past the odd jalopy that found its way into the neighborhood, never to leave. Brand reached out to the people, feeling for their intent. It came back as a flickering brightness amidst the dark terror of the night.

  Another glimmer came from the next street away, and Brand shifted his focus. He found the source as the shots rang out. A steel-gray group of soldiers, moving like predators, wound their way to the people, firing as they came. And behind them, a pair of Tesla’s auto-men, their weapons raised with bursts of electric fire shooting forth.

  Chapter 52

  Two soldiers came into the shed, one with a pistol that he kept trained on Emma. The other went to the prisoners with a rifle and menaced them before ordering them outside. The Conroys went first, hustling out ahead of the wounded negro. When the shed was empty, Wynes came in with the Tommy gun. He tucked it under his arm and undid Emma’s cuffs from around the pipe, then closed them again and led her out to join the others.

  Outside, the prisoners had stayed apart. The ironwork hound stood in front of them, its bulky torso a tangle of tubes and pipes racing around the machine’s core. Emma had only seen one this close at her father’s plant, when he’d brought it in to watch the yard at night. She’d feared the thing then and felt no different now. Emma gave a sudden start when a jet of flame licked out of the hound’s snout like a tongue tasting the night.

  “He’ll leave you be, Miss Farsnworth,” Wynes said with a sneer. “Unless I tell him different.”

  She glanced at Wynes. In one hand he held a small box that he waggled in the air before pocketing it. Behind Wynes, Eddie stood in the open space before the shed, his hands raised to his shoulders and his right arm tucked in tight against his side where he’d been hit before. The soldier with the rifle looked at Wynes. Emma saw him jerk his chin up and down. The soldier swung his rifle around and hit Eddie in the back.

  Eddie let out a deep angry groan and dropped to his knees, holding his injured side. Emma screamed when she saw him slump forward, collapsing into the dirt like he’d passed out from the pain. The soldier grinned and lifted a foot to kick Eddie. Emma flew forward past Wynes and knocked the man down, slamming her balled up fists onto his chest and arms. She caught him a good one on his chin and he reacted by bringing his rifle around to crack her in the side. Emma cried out and rolled off the man, curling up around her sore hip.

  Wynes came over, followed by the ominous step of the ironwork hound. Emma tried to stay curled up, but a soldier grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. The other one came over and kept his rifle trained on her. She eyed her captors through a glare, curling her lips back and then bringing them together tight over her teeth. Her bitterness and rage roiled within Emma’s chest until she felt her gaze drop on its own, down to Eddie. His breathing was shallow and slow. Emma felt her guilt burning her cheeks crimson and for a moment she thought about trying to run. She lifted her eyes to look out into the yard. The lakeshore was only a short distance away. The line of airships hung above the water, tethered on stout chains. Back to her left, past the Vigilance and behind the shed, a large tree offered shadows to hide in and protection from the bullets she knew would follow her.

  She wouldn’t make it. They’d shoot her, and then they’d shoot Eddie and probably the rest of these poor people around her. The couple here, the other negro. The people in the tents.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, Wynes spoke up from behind her.

  “Miss Farnsworth? I think we’ve had enough run around tonight, don’t you?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “With such a charming tongue, I don’t know how you escaped attention on the dance floor all these years. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because you were sloppy for a smoke.”

  Emma turned around and stared hard at Wynes. He’d slung the Tommy gun over his shoulder and was holding a coil of rope now. She let her eyes bore into his with all the rage she’d ever felt at how Chicago City had forced her to live.

  “You think you know about me, Wynes? You’ll never understand the real difference between Eddie and the guys I let take me onto the dance floor. The only reason I let them even touch me was because I had to. I played hard to get like any girl should, but I never played too hard. If I did, I knew someone would get their nose out of joint and start saying they smelled smoke. So I let them spin me around the floor because they thought it was their right to hold my hand. Just because I was a Farnsworth. Because I was from their set. Only they didn’t know I’d given up on that set the minute I laid eyes on it.

  “They’d never understand why I love Eddie, just like you’ll never understand, and it’s not my damn job to teach you anyway. I did what I was told when I had to. I did my best to keep my nose above the stink in this town. I lived the way I wanted to, and loved the man I wanted to. If that means I have to die tonight, I don’t care. Just get on with it.”

  Wynes slapped her once, turning her face to the side. He lifted his other hand and Emma’s eyes rounded in terror when she saw the coil of rope with a noose tied at one end.

  “Oh, I’ll be getting on with it, Miss Farnsworth.”

  #

  Wynes frog-marched her around the shed, calling for the soldiers to bring the others along. Emma felt numb as she let him lead her to stand in a clearing around the tree. She turned to watch over her shoulder as the others followed. The Conroys stayed to the side. They stuck close together, and moved quick when commanded. Behind them, the soldier with the pistol threatened the injured negro and ordered him to get Eddie on his feet.

  Emma’s heart broke watching the two men staggering along, both upright but leaning on each other for support. Eddie held his side and grunted with each step. The man with the ball and chain on his ankle dragged his burden through the dirt and snowmelt. Emma could feel his bare f
eet chafing and freezing against the ground as he stepped a halting haggard path to his own execution. Wynes cursed under his breath and ordered the soldiers to hurry Eddie and the other man along.

  “Get ‘em over here already. We don’t have all night to wait on a couple of dumb niggers.”

  Emma spun to holler at the man, but she still felt the sting of his hand on her cheek. The look in Wynes’ eyes told her she’d be better off keeping quiet. So she pressed her lips together and bit her teeth down on the anger she felt. Wynes stepped over to the shed and lifted a post away from the wall and came to stand beside her. Emma brought her hands to her face when she realized it wasn’t a post he held but a wooden cross.

  “Hold this for me, will you, Miss Farnsworth?”

  “Not on your life,” she said, shaking her head and backing away. She came up against a soldier who shoved her to the side and went to assist Wynes in his grisly preparation. The soldier went to the shed and picked up a coil of wire and some stakes and a mallet.

  “See, Miss Farnsworth? There are still men in Chicago City who know what’s what. Guys like these two here. They remember the town that my father and his father made safe for the good people until the Dagos and Rigos and Jews and niggers moved in and turned it into a pit. That’s what this city is now,” he said, leaving the task of erecting the grim totem to the soldier.

  Wynes stepped close to Emma, his breath reeking of drink and tobacco smoke and forcing her nose to the side. “This city, the place where men with the name of Wynes have walked a beat for nearly seventy years. Where the streets used to be safe and clean. It’s nothing but a pit with greased walls, and all the good people are stuck fighting each other to get to the top. You want to hear about stink? It’s gotten so bad you have to stick it to your neighbor if you want a chance to breathe good air again.

  “I remember when Chicago City was a place a man could be proud of, a place you didn’t mind hearing about in the news. Before Capone. Before the Micks came out of the Eastern Seaboard. Before the Chinamen rolled in on the rails from out west and the niggers came up river from New Orleans. That’s the city I remember, Miss Farnsworth. And if I can’t have it back the way it was, then I’ll give my worst to the people to blame. People like your Eddie Boy here,” he said, grabbing Eddie by the shoulder and hauling him to the tree.

  One of the soldiers grabbed the other negro and ordered him to stay still while they unlocked the shackle on his leg. Then they shoved him forward to join Eddie under the tree.

  Emma screamed at the soldiers and roared her hatred at Wynes. The cross was in flames and the whole night seemed ablaze with angry firelight. Emma kept screaming, letting her rage tear at her throat. She whipped her head left and right as she shrieked, begging the night for help. She only saw the Conroys, who stayed against the shed, mute and still.

  The ironwork hound marched a path in front of Emma, the spurt of flame licking from its snout. Emma shot her eyes back to the scene below the tree. A soldier held Eddie’s arms behind his back and tied his wrists together before doing the same to the other man. He then moved to stand beside the metal dog and covered Emma with Wynes’ chopper.

  Emma shuddered as she watched Wynes lift the noose and toss it over a tree branch. He caught the menacing loop in his hands and passed it to the soldier beside him. The man stood in front of Eddie and draped the rope over his head. Emma shook with sobs. She felt so numb inside that she barely flinched when she heard a shot ring out from her right just before the night exploded in fire and pain.

  Chapter 53

  Gunshots and bursts from the Tesla weapons came to Brand’s ears. He and Conroy scooted down the street, finding cover behind a felled tree. Brand stooped low but kept his eyes over the fallen trunk, watching the dark streets for signs of soldiers or citizens, and hoping he’d only see the latter.

  “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. This is Mitchell Brand. . .”

  He let his voice trail off, not sure if the mic was working. How could tell if he was getting through?

  Silence settled around the city and he felt it. Silence and stillness in the middle of a war. Across the street, the gunshots kept up, with the violent hum of the Tesla weapons as backdrop. A crackling as from a speaker sounded through the evening sky and Brand looked up to see the lights of a broadcast ship that hovered a few blocks away. The speaker crackled again and a faint voice croaked over the airwaves, spilling the stench of filthy hokum into the night air.

  “Good Evening, uh, Ladies and Gentleman of Chicago City. This— This is Franklin Suttleby reporting from the Ministry of Public Information.”

  Brand had the answer he needed and lifted the mic to his lips.

  “Mitchell Brand here again. You’ve no doubt heard the explosions and gunfire tonight. You’ve been told the destruction and mayhem is the work of vandals. Members at the Ministry of Public Information have told us to ignore our suspicions, to sit complacent while the unpleasant truth burns like an inferno outside our window.”

  Brand cut off as nearby voices were raised in anger, and gunfire followed. To his left he saw blasts from the auto-men’s Tesla guns. Cries of alarm mixed with shouts of fury and Brand saw a group of figures running down a cross street. They were followed by the sure and unyielding step of two auto-men. A mound of bodies haunted the spot where the cross street let off the main stem. He pulled Conroy’s sleeve and ran in a crouch, dodging and ducking behind any cover he could find as he made his way to the horrible truth that waited for them in the street. Overhead, the speaker buzzed and popped again before Suttleby’s hammy voice returned.

  “This is Franklin Suttleby again, Ladies and Gentlemen. Please disregard the transmission you just heard. Mitchell Brand—”

  Brand thumbed the mic open. “Mitchell Brand is on the ground, here in the streets with the people running for their lives while they’re hunted down by the Governor’s soldiers and those new auto-men you heard about only moments ago. They aren’t here to keep the peace. They’re here to kill, and that’s a fact. I’ll prove it in a moment. There’s fighting nearby. I can hear gunshots. Someone screaming.”

  #

  Mr. Brand cut himself off and dove for cover beside a delivery van lying on its side. They’d run right past the bodies, a whole pile of folks, all dead. At least half a dozen of them, just lying there. Aiden heaved his guts into the street as he came up beside his boss. Seconds later the night split open with an explosion in the next block. Mr. Brand gripped Aiden by the shoulder and shook him alert.

  “You okay, Conroy? Nothing missing, hey?”

  Aiden checked himself all over, feeling his joints, his limbs, his guts. It was all there. He nodded.

  “Yeah. I’m— I’m all in one piece, Mr. Brand.”

  “Good. I need you on the mic, Conroy,” his boss said, handing him the device and then taking the crab from his coat. Aiden grabbed the mic and forgot it was attached to his boss’s belt. He almost pulled the cord out. A moment later, Aiden was strapping the microphone rig around his waist while Mr. Brand gave him the run down.

  “The fighting’s up ahead. Remember, you have to hold the button to transmit. Keep it open if you can; let the people hear what’s going on. Even if you keep hush, it’ll prevent Suttleby from gumming up the news.”

  Aiden nodded fast and lifted the mic to show his boss he had a thumb on the button. Mr. Brand smiled and it went all the way up to his eyes this time.

  “You’re on the air, Conroy. Let’s go.”

  Aiden followed his boss down the street. The auto-men were up ahead, their heavy step echoing down the street like the steady beat of the old auto-press at the Record. Sticking close to Mr. Brand, Aiden carried the mic in one hand and held the photo viewer to his chest with the other. They raced down the opposite side of the street and drew up against an overturned grocer’s wagon, about a dozen feet back from the auto-men. T
he machines stood on the street in front of a house that wasn’t burning yet.

  Mr. Brand crept out from their hiding place and held the crab out in both hands. Aiden was worried the auto-men might hear them somehow, but this was their chance to get the crime scene photo. When he heard the whistling approach of a mortar Aiden forgot about the photos and dropped down to the ground. The night erupted with the heavy thwump of an explosion from a block away. The whole neighborhood seemed to shake and Aiden clasped his hands to his head as splintered timbers and earth and rock fell into the street behind him.

  “Conroy,” Mr. Brand said, shaking Aiden’s shoulder. “Hey, make with the mic. The people need to hear that happening. They need to hear the shell whistling in. Crane has them believing it’s gas lines blowing.”

  Aiden looked around for the auto-men and the soldiers. The street was quiet except for the crackling of flames.

  “Where’d they go?” he asked.

  “Who? The bad guys? They’re down the street doing their dirty work. Seems the Governor has teams on the street in case the artillery doesn’t do the job. He’s making sure the whole place goes up in smoke. And you need to tell the people about it.”

  “I just tell them?”

  “You just tell them, Conroy. Like this,” his boss said, lifting the kid’s hand and pressing his thumb against the switch. Static hissed out of the broadcast ship that hovered a few streets away.

  #

  Another round came into the neighborhood, sending a cloud of flame and debris into the sky back by the park. Conroy and Brand shrank down and covered up until silence rolled out of the night. The kid shook his head like he was clearing away cobwebs and then got to his feet, holding the mic to his mouth.