She watched the corpse for a few more seconds, but it didn’t do anything interesting, so she started flipping channels again.
Test pattern.
Static.
A graphic said there were technical difficulties, and regular programming would return soon. Sure. Tabby had given up on that around noon. It was four o’clock now, and the stations were dropping like flies.
She flipped a few more channels with little result. Comedy Central was still showing South Park reruns, but Kenny’s death wasn’t nearly as funny with everybody in the real world getting torn apart like old newspaper.
She sighed. Since when did the real world mean shit to her? Maybe this little global crisis was forcing her to grow up the slightest bit. Yeah, sure. What a bunch of crap.
A few more taps on the clicker took her past Fox News, where some old guy was saying the sudden homicidal rage that had taken over the world was either an Islamic or liberal plot, probably both. What was a liberal, anyway? Tabby didn’t have the slightest clue, other than she knew that George Clooney was one. She wondered if Clooney was still alive and if she’d ever get to sleep with him.
She kept shuffling the channels and finally landed on MTV. Through some incredible miracle, they were still on the air. That guy she’d made out with at the Kelly Clarkson concert was talking about relief efforts and sticking together as a society so humanity could overcome this terrible crisis. He looked like shit, and Tabby guessed he wasn’t about to cut to the latest Jimmy Eat World video anytime soon. The TRL studios had been filled with sheet-covered gurneys instead of screaming teenagers, and every now and then she saw the twirling tips of flames at the bottom of the studios’ large windows. Pretty cool, if a little sad.
“In case you’re just joining us,” the guy said (what was his name?), “we’ve received word that Eminem has been dragged from his home and murdered by a group of ravagers.”
Ravagers. The word sounded familiar. Had one of the news people called the crazies that? Tabby shook her head and snorted another line. She rubbed her sinuses with the fingers of her left hand as she fumbled with her right, reaching for the margarita she’d poured earlier. She found the glass, pressed its rim to her lips, and knocked it back. The slivered remains of long-melted ice cubes struck her lips, and she grimaced at the watery taste. Time to pour another.
No, that was bullshit. She was a role model. She had to get out there and help. She was powerful and capable, the daughter of a billionaire. She’d done walk-ons for at least three different network shows. That counted for something.
She grabbed her phone and dialed her publicist. Dianne would know what to do, how she could help. Dianne knew all sorts of crap. Hell, the woman could probably have her on MTV within an hour, helping to put the world back together.
She smiled. Helping made her feel good.
She punched the speed-dial for Dianne. She listened as the phone rang half a dozen times, then Dianne’s too-cheery voice chirped on the other end.
“Dianne. Not available. Leave a message.”
The phone beeped, and Tabby tried to think of something to say.
“Um, it’s me. I want to help, so you need to get me on MTV as soon as possible. Seriously, I think I can stop this if I just get in front of a camera. Cool? Cool.”
She tossed the phone onto the couch, not bothering to hang up. It would disconnect sooner or later, and then Dianne could get through to her. She’d learned long ago you don’t wait on your publicist. That’s not the way it works.
Another dozen clicks on the remote didn’t turn up much. ABC was still running reality shows, but the reality looked even more boring than usual. Five college kids racing for a million dollars didn’t pack a lot of punch once you realized they were probably all dead. That wasn’t fair, though. Maybe one or two of them had gone mad, taken over by whatever the hell it was that had put the world on its ass.
Tabby clicked the channel again, ready to give up, and she almost jumped as she saw the front of her house on the high-def screen. At first she thought it might be the powder she’d inhaled, but no. That was her mansion, owned until two months ago by her daddy. There were the marble pillars, and the huge bay windows that opened up onto the balcony. Hell, the balcony was only two doors away from her present location.
Why was her house on TV? Not that she was about to complain. Bad publicity wasn’t the sort of thing she believed in, so why would she care what brought the cameras to her front door?
The push of a button raised the volume on the surround sound. A voice was talking over the images of her home. It sounded pretty cute. Were those people she saw outside?
“Now outside Tabitha Henson’s home, rumored to be one of the most secure strongholds in Beverly Hills. No sign of the heiress, but reports put her inside and alive.”
Reports? Who the hell was reporting on her? She hadn’t talked to anybody since this whole thing started. Well, a few minutes with Lindsay, but that chick had been bombed out of her mind, so who really gave a damn?
“Dozens of refugees outside, hoping to get in before ravagers find them. Security has held off the throng so far, but it may only be a matter of time.”
Her security was still at the house? Great! Maybe she could send Rob out to score off of Big Davey later. Surely the dealer would accept an IOU under special circumstances.
Why hadn’t she known about the people outside, though? Wasn’t her help supposed to keep her in the know about this sort of thing?
She searched the sound system’s remote until she found the mute button. She punched it and the television went silent. She heard the crowd at once, a murmuring noise from far off that sounded more than a little angry. Why would people be mad at her? She hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Well,” she said before destroying two more lines, “I’ll just have to go see.”
It took more effort than she was prepared for to push herself up from the leather couch. She shrugged. Just about everything was harder than she figured. No big deal.
Her skin crackled with energy as she walked across the floor on bare feet. Davey really had given her some good stuff. Maybe she’d let him do a little more to her next time. Or maybe she’d pay him. Either way, she should make it worth his while.
The sound of angry voices grew louder as she stepped into the next room and approached the bay windows. A single set of French doors opened onto the balcony, and she pushed them open and stepped out with the grace of a swan.
The crowd went suddenly quiet, then burst into roars of envy and desperation. Tabby looked down on them with compassionate eyes, gesturing with open palms. They were pointing and yelling. More than a couple snapped pictures as fast as they could. Good to know the paparazzi hadn’t lost their touch just because of something like the end of the world.
She held out her hands in a calming gesture. The crowd booed her—they really were anything but nice—and she made the gesture again. Slowly, they quieted.
She had to say something. She could see the news cameras at the edge of her drive, and she knew whatever she told the crowd would be important, one of those moments of history that lived on forever. She could prove to the world that she was somebody other than a shallow little princess. She was a role model, and she would show the entire world just how helpful and caring she could be just by saving it.
She took a deep breath, then spoke.
“Just be cool to each other.”
The crowd of regular people stared at her, and their eyes made her uncomfortable. They weren’t getting it.
“Look. Don’t be dicks, okay?”
A murmur rippled through the people, and soon the angry sounds returned. They weren’t as loud as before, but she could tell she was in danger of losing them.
“I’m serious, guys! It’s not cool!”
The rock came out of nowhere. It cracked across the side of her head, bursting stars across her vision and sending sharp jolts of pain through her skull. She reeled, but managed to grab the balcony’s
rail with both hands so she could right herself. Once her balance returned, she pressed the heel of one hand to the side of her head and then held it out. She saw blood.
“Assholes!” she yelled. She pushed herself through the French doors and stomped back into the house. The hostile shouts that followed her were louder than before. Well, fuck them. If they weren’t going to appreciate her, then who gave a shit? Maybe Dianne had called. She’d be on MTV in a few hours, helping, and then the normal people outside would really have a reason to be pissed.
She found her way back to the couch and plopped herself down. Two more lines, one for each nostril, and she raised her eyes to the TV.
And screamed.
She saw a picture of herself on the sixty-five-inch screen. That was her on the balcony—couldn’t possibly be anybody else—only she was naked. Those were her expensive breasts just hanging out for the goddamn world to see. And why was her nose bleeding? She wiped at it with one hand and saw more blood. This didn’t come from the wound in the side of her head. Jesus, she was falling apart.
“Bullshit,” she said, and she believed both syllables.
She looked down at herself, and sure enough she was sitting there in her birthday suit. How had she lost her clothes? How fucking embarrassing. Dianne was going to ask for a bonus, no doubt. Well, she’d better earn it. The bitch hadn’t even called back yet, so good luck.
She reached for the remote and hit the mute button again. The sound system roared to life, drowning out the ungrateful bastards in her driveway.
“The fucking nerve of that bitch,” the reporter was saying. The guy was looking over his shoulder at her house. He turned back to the camera, and his face was creased all to hell and back with anger. He really wasn’t that cute at all. “Thinks she’s so goddamn superior!”
In the background, a group of people was beating on something. She couldn’t tell, but it looked like Rick. That couldn’t be good.
She felt dizzy. It wasn’t just the coke.
The reporter let out a whoop of excitement as the crowd pushed forward. “We’re in! Fucking move, guys!”
She heard a booming noise from somewhere downstairs. What was going on?
On the TV, she watched as a shaky camera raced toward her front door. People were shouting and cheering, and they didn’t all sound like they were on the television. A rumble like thunder spread through the mansion.
One more line. That would clear her head. She snorted it up and let out a moan.
Now the image on the screen was from inside her house, racing up the steps. She saw pissed off faces and heard the word “whore” at least once. They couldn’t be talking about her.
Something pounded on the doors that led to the room. She wished she had time to put something decent on.
“Fucking get her!” somebody on the television said.
The doors burst inward. Tabby stood up to face her public.
“Hey, you guys want to party?” she asked.
Behind her, the screen went blank.
YELLOW TRIANGLES
I don’t think anybody could have stopped it. The whole thing started slow enough, but once it got going, it just came faster and faster. You can’t stop something like that.
“Warner told me he found two more this week.” Cayden had that look again—that hollow, sunken expression with all the shadows around her eyes. Most days she was pretty, despite the filth smeared across her face. But it all disappeared when she talked about the triangles, her face dropping into a ravine of wonder and shadows. Less than a week since she’d noticed them, and already they’d become her world. Wish I knew why.
“Warner says a lot of things,” I told her. “He doesn’t even believe all of it. If he did, he would’ve run by now.”
“No, he wouldn’t, Bai.”
“He would. Anybody who isn’t an idiot would.”
“Like there’s any place for us to run. What are we, civilians?”
I shrugged. Mutt snorted at my feet. I scritched her behind the ear, and she rested her muzzle on her paws, gave me a bored growl. I hugged my knees tighter to my chest. The squat was especially chilly that night.
“They’re something important,” she said. “I think they’re a warning. Y’know, like they put on the back of tractors out in the middle of nowhere?”
“How should I know? I got enough to worry about without your paranoia.” I pretended to think about something else, looking down at Mutt as I ran my fingers through her dusty fur, but the triangles floated through my mind. I saw their dripping edges, spray-paint thick and bright against rusted metal doors. The image chilled me, but I had no idea why. I’d only seen two or three in the past week.
“You’re thinking about them.”
“I’m not.”
“I saw you shiver.”
“It’s cold in here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You should stop thinking about them. I don’t have that problem.”
She gave me a half smile that lacked any real emotion. She spread her legs a little and ran a finger over the length of an unraveling inseam. “Maybe you should help me think about something else?”
“Warner will be back soon.”
“We can be quick.”
Warner’s hand smacked against the squat’s wooden door as if on cue, sending a noise like a cracked bass drum through the crumbling space. There was a pause, and then two more smacks followed.
“Not that quick,” I said as I climbed to my feet.
Cayden shrugged. She didn’t look too disappointed.
Mutt whined a little as I stepped toward the door, but she just wanted more attention. I drew back the scavenged bolts and opened the wooden panel, rusted hinges squealing.
Warner’s eyes beamed. The corners of his smile cracked, the skin dry and brittle. He held a naked chicken in one hand.
“Stole us some dinner,” he said.
The next day might’ve been a Thursday. Most people I asked agreed it was, but a few insisted it was Wednesday, and one old woman with soot rubbed into the creases of her face swore it was Sunday evening and she was waiting for her date to pick her up for the Engineer’s Ceremony—whatever that might be. I spent a few minutes looking around for some shop that might have a calendar hung behind the counter, but then I got back on track and started looking for the night’s dinner.
I decided to try some of the shops off Republic and Cross. The streets were dangerously close to the Cobblestone District, where the cops liked to beat homeless for fun. It was always busy though, and the crowds made it easier to nick some fruit or even a bit of meat now and then. The trick was to not go back too often. You didn’t want the shopkeepers to learn your face.
I spent a second trying to poke the sole of my shoe back into place. It was flopping a little, and I didn’t need it tearing off if I had to make a run for it. I’d run barefoot before, and I could do it again, but I didn’t like picking glass from my feet.
I spied a fruit stand two blocks up from Cross, and I decided to warm up a little. I snagged a pair of half-rotten apples as I dashed past. The shopkeeper spouted some curse at me, and then I heard the crash of a table full of produce overturning onto the sidewalk as his shouts swelled into a sound like a one-man riot. Great, a chase.
I charged half a block and tossed a look over my shoulder, but the shopkeep had already given up. He stood bent at the waist, his hands on his knees and his back rising and falling like a broken bellows. Anger only got you so far, it appeared.
I dashed around the corner and slowed to a walk, fell in with the trickling stream of pedestrians. I passed an alley at a shuffle, and even through the swirling gray and brown of puffing exhaust I could see the neon yellow of the triangle. The door it had been painted on was almost entirely rust, even a few holes appearing in its outer shell. The painted shape stood out clean and bright, two corners on top and one pointing straight down. Its edges hadn’t dripped much, only a tiny trail near the bottom.
I t
ook a step closer to the alley, curiosity slowing me. The door had no knob or handle, no visible lock. I tried to remember if the other doors I’d seen sporting the yellow shape had been the same. I couldn’t recall.
“Move it, prick.” Rough hands prodded my back, and I remembered somebody had been chasing me only a moment before. I slipped back into the current and continued toward my destination.
I always found myself amazed at how busy Republic and Cross could be on what was probably a weekday. Real people—not just homeless like me—nearly choked the street. They pushed against each other, scraping their way along the cracked asphalt, clots creeping through a vein. Maybe they were doing their best to imitate the thick, dark air. I didn’t mind. It usually made my job easier.
I settled in behind an old man and the woman I guessed was his daughter. He was bent in much the same shape as the cane he gripped in one skeletal hand, and she held on to his arm as though he might die without her touch. They moved at a terrible, crawling speed, but I didn’t mind. They drew eyes away from me.
I roamed the street awhile, keeping a steady distance behind the old man and his daughter, eyeing the merchants and shops. I found a butcher with his wares on full display, and I decided he would be my mark. I broke free of the couple and worked my way down the street. I sluiced through the crowd, a practiced sport. I’d reach Republic and make a turn to head back up the street. I could find somebody else to hide behind once I’d crossed the lanes.
I was so intent on the crowd that I almost missed the triangle. It had been painted on the door of an abandoned storefront, a plain sheet of rusted steel with no knob or handle. Something flickered in my brain, a memory of a shop that might’ve stood there a week before. Had they gone out of business, or was I just imagining things?
I almost stopped, but I refused to do anything that might draw attention to myself. I had a task to complete. I didn’t want to go a night with only two dying apples for the four of us to split.
I did follow the door with my eyes, though. The triangle’s points teased me. What did the symbol mean? Was it a warning like Cayden thought? Was it just random graffiti? I hoped it wasn’t some political statement. Politics didn’t add up to much for folks like me and Cayden and Warner. No senator or mayor in the country gave a shit about us past how to get us out of their district.
Selected Stories Page 6
