We draw nearer to the Jungle without seeing anyone. This is not good. Grey Brother had sent some of the Four in with Midline from another angle. We should have rendezvoused by now. I feel a metallic bite of fear. Midline would have sent someone if he could not have come himself—a Tail Wolf, a Cub, someone. This is bad.
Grey Brother has apparently reached the same conclusion. He leads us until we come to a smaller tank that faces the Jungle. The side is corroded, making a cave of sorts. He stoops and enters, hunkering invisible in the shadows.
We creep in next to him. Together we listen for any sound, look for any sign from the direction of the Jungle. For a long time there is nothing, then a flicker of light, bright only because of the surrounding murky darkness.
It is gone before we can pinpoint it, but my mind fills in the details. Something—someone—has disturbed one of the heavy curtains that cover the entries into the Jungle. At least some of the lights are on within.
Abalone mutters something angry.
Grey Brother whispers back, “Yes, they in there. They got the Four I sent on and more maybe. But how we get them out? They see us when we go in, even if we go by one of the Lesser Trails.”
“Lesser Trails?” Abalone asks.
“Yes,” Grey Brother laughs softly. “Secret ways that Head Wolf makes. Only some of us know. He not want us to be trapped by cops or gangs. Always someone there who knew the Trails and is sworn to bring the rest out if trouble comes.”
“Does Midline know?”
“No.” I can hear him shake his head. “Only me an’ Bumblebee an’ Chocolate an’ Head Wolf, of course.”
“Damn.”
There is a long pause, then she whispers again.
“I thought he might be able to get them away if we could distract the Bander-Log”—she tries to laugh at her tag for our enemies and fails—“and maybe turn out the lights.”
“Monkey folk?” Grey Brother does laugh. “I wish, Abalone, but these is meaner than the Bander-Log. You think you can kill the lights?”
“Know it. From the bit we saw, they gotta be using Head Wolf’s lines and I always helped him pay the power bills. But what good will it do? Without a look inside, we can’t see where our Pack members are or even in what shape they’re in. And without that…”
She shrugs hopelessly but I feel a rush of excitement and sick terror. I remember the day that Betwixt and Between told Conejito Moreno about Dylan and how all the Jungle had seemed to speak.
Now…I don’t know if I can do it, but again, I must.
I tug Abalone’s cape. “I am a brother to dragons, a companion to owls.”
She starts to hush me, then stops. “You are, aren’t you, Sarah. But can you do it?”
“The walls have ears,” I nod, gesturing toward the looming steel shell.
“What’s she mean?” Grey Brother asks.
“Sarah thinks that she can find out what’s going on in there, without us having to go in,” Abalone explains.
I hear a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m not asking. Head Wolf make her one of us and I never thought it was just ’cause she was a cute piece of ass. If she can do it—good—but how will she tell us what she learns? We don’t have time for her riddles.”
I have been wrestling with the same problem. Now I etch the pebbles with my fingertip, forgetting Abalone and Grey Brother cannot see what I am doing because of the darkness.
“When we mean to build,” I whisper, “we first survey the plot, then draw the model; And when we see the figure of the house, then we must rate the cost of erection.”
“No time for that…” Grey Brother begins indignantly, but Abalone interrupts him with a smothered laugh.
“No, Grey Brother, she doesn’t mean that kind of erection. She’s saying that she thinks that she can draw us a plan of what she sees—like a house builder would—and then when we see what’s there we can make our plans.”
I nod happily as Betwixt and Between snigger.
“I can’t understand her when she talks that way,” Grey Brother complains, but I can tell that he is hopeful. “You stay close so I can figure what she’s telling. Can she do her hoodoo from here or do we need to get closer?”
Closing my eyes, I stretch for contact with the Jungle, but the noises will not resolve themselves into anything I can follow.
“He seems so near and yet so far,” I admit, regretfully shaking my head.
“Then we’ll sneak in closer,” Grey Brother says. “Do you need to be near an opening or just near the Jungle?”
I open and shut my mouth like a cartoon clam, unable to find an answer. Abalone recognizes my dilemma and rephrases the question.
“Sarah, is getting nearer to the Jungle wall enough?”
Relieved, I nod.
“Good,” Grey Brother growls, “then we’ll go over by one of the Lesser Trail doors. Abalone, while she’s sketching, can you check out what it’ll take to kill the lights and then hustle back to rejoin us?”
“Done. Where do I meet you?”
Grey Brother hesitates, as if reluctant even now to share the secret Head Wolf entrusted him with.
“Over behind the south face—near the sign that says ‘mical Stor’ in orange paint.”
“I know the place.” Abalone nods and with a light pat for me she is gone.
Grey Brother motions for me to follow him and I do, matching step for step as Abalone taught me long ago. I wonder again if Grey Brother hates me for the disruption I have brought his home, his people. I am glad that I do not have the words to ask.
When we reach the metal wall, I huddle against it, gripping the barely perceptible curve of the surface with my flat palms. The metal is cold and slightly pitted although it looks quite smooth. In the faint ambient city light, I can see Grey Brother watching me with just the faintest hint of superstitious respect on his impassive features.
Wanting a friend, I pull Betwixt and Between from their perch and set them between my knees. There is a patch of dirt next to me and I experiment with marking it with my fingertip. I can draw fairly easily, rearranging the lumpy dust into patterns.
Closing my eyes, I stop procrastinating and begin to listen.
Nothing but Grey Brother’s breathing and my own heartbeat. Then nothing but the heartbeat. Then nothing.
Nothing. Or. Yes.
The metal is tired. It has held liquid that burned. Then the liquid was gone and the sides of the cylinder had collapsed the smallest amount inward in response to the missing internal pressure.
Wind. Rain. Outside. In? In. Weakest spots had given way or had been broken by vandals. Through these had come the refugees.
Rats. Bats. Cats. Dogs. A hawk that roosted in the upper rim. Mice. Small birds who nested on ladder rungs. Finally, people. One. Two. Many.
Pinpricks of pain as the ropes are hung, platforms and curtains suspended. An eerie sense of fullness and satisfaction at being full again after so long empty.
This all washes through me as the lines and scars on a man’s face tell you his life: that he loved the wind, never wore sunglasses, broke his nose in a brawl and was too proud to fix it. So the old tank that became the Jungle tells its tale to me.
I listen more closely and can hear individual reactions. The upper reaches are dark and empty. The ropes and hammocks weave a vacant web. The floor. Yes. That speaks. I draw a ragged breath, damp my ears to the myriad voices that seek to claim me, and focus.
The entire babble, even of this relatively limited area, is still too great. I make my way to an edge. This is better. I will inscribe the ring of the Jungle base first, then move in.
Now I lower my hand to the dirt and, with an improvised stylus made from a piece of wire, I draw what I hear.
First, the edges. My circle is wobbly but recognizable. I carefully mark the openings, their painted canvas screams Head Wolf’s mad vision of freedom while pulling the very whiskers of those who would lock him away.
Circling in, I find one of the Lesser Trails
, a drainage pipe, its trapdoor hidden beneath a slab of metal. I mark it and continue on. Head Wolf’s lair, a crumpled mass of fabric calls to me, begging for repair and return. For a moment, I smell musk and man sweat and feel the stroke of his hands as I lean back against a mound of pillows.
I wrench myself away from the spot, for the memories are strong here and the place is alive with powerful passions—mine, his, others. I could grow lost in the clamor of memory.
Circle inward. Another Lesser Trail, this a weak spot in a wall, one that could be opened easily with a good heave of one of the hunks of stone piled with apparent carelessness nearby. The thin metal weeps of its aching sides to me. Fatigue will take it in a decade if not sooner.
Inward. Cookstove. Fire Circle. Song notes. A life choked out in a brief flash of violent sound. I mark the physical landmarks. The intangible I hurry past.
Then. Yes! This section nearly shrieks with recent noise: Children’s tears pool in the rough cracks in the metal floor; blood, still warm, congeals beside. The floor speaks of weight, heat. Burns where a bullet has gouged it.
Have they given up the dart guns then?
Feverishly, I mark what I can. The clump that I think is our people, scattered figures that may be guards. Only one is high up. Apparently, they do not trust the Web.
Almost by accident, I find another of the Lesser Trails, not far from the center of the Jungle. This one, I sense, is the one we wait near. It connects to a similar drainage system as the first.
Struggling for more detail, I am at last overwhelmed by the competing noises, stories, sounds, complaints, secrets. I fall away from the wall, obliterating an edge of my drawing. The important part remains, however.
For a few breaths, I hide my face in my hands. Then I look at Grey Brother, noticing that Abalone has returned.
“The rest is silence,” I say.
“She’s given us a map,” Grey Brother says, pointing at my dust scrawls. “Our people are here an’ here. Guards there and over there.”
He looks at me to check his interpretation. I nod, still so tired that I feel close to sobbing. I can’t let Grey Brother or Abalone know or they will insist that I stay out and this I cannot bear. I must go in and help—these people are in trouble because of me.
I ease myself back against the Jungle wall and try not to let my friends see how heavily I am leaning.
“One of the Lesser Trails comes up there,” Grey Brother says, mostly to Abalone. “I could go in and you could kill the lights.”
“We go in,” Abalone says with a scowl that does not accept argument. “I’ve rigged the lights so that I can kill them remote. Besides, you’ll need the extra hands.”
Grey Brother does not contradict and together they lay out their plans. I am too tired to make much sense of what they are saying and after learning that I am to come up last and cut any prisoners free who need help and then lead the way to an upper port—the same, I realize idly, that Abalone first brought me through—I let myself drift.
My next clear memory is soft Spanish curses and Grey Brother struggling to lever up a rusty access port. After Abalone jumps on the lever a few times, the lid lifts and a damp, caustic smell rises. I wrinkle my nose as I tuck Betwixt and Between into my pack.
“Some water down there,” Grey Brother explains unnecessarily as he climbs down. “Smells crappy, but won’t hurt you none.”
Abalone doesn’t say anything but ties a bandanna over her lower face before starting after him. I shrug and follow, listening to my dragons bicker about how best to describe the putrid odor that wafts up.
At least they don’t have to wade in the stuff, I think as I slog along behind Abalone. The water is cold and glows faintly in the pale light of the green chem stick Grey Brother holds in one hand. A strange, glittering sludge sticks to my jeans where they cut through the water.
After a half dozen steps, my wet skin begins to burn.
Grey Brother and Abalone do not comment, so I follow without complaint. Finally, we stop before another short series of rungs set into the wall. Grey Brother wedges the chem stick into a crevice and climbs.
Abalone comes after, one hand on the ladder, one unbuttoning the flap on the tappety-tap’s case. I wait at the ladder’s base.
Grey Brother looks down, his eyes dark pits with burning embers smoldering at the bottom.
“Ready,” he hisses, his hand holding the hasp that will open the trapdoor.
“Light’s out.” Abalone nods, touching an icon. “Now!”
Grey Brother opens the trap so quickly that the first cries of astonishment come clearly to me. Unbelievably, he pauses, halting his first leap out. Then he twists and apparently reorients himself.
“Fuck! Map’s backward!” he yells before launching himself out.
Abalone repositions herself without question and as she clambers up and out, I follow. Through shouts of “Cover the door!” and “Where the hell did they come from!” I hear the glad howls of the Pack.
I am just out of the tunnel when Abalone touches another of the icons on her computer. The lights come on again. And then cut off. And on. Off. Somehow she has reprogrammed the lights so that the effect is similar to that of a strobe.
Around me, I can see a baker’s dozen of people dressed in midnight blue jumpsuits moving jerkily about. Near the room’s center are seven or eight Pack members, Midline among them.
Then the lights go out again, but I have my bearings. I cut Midline’s bonds first and he tumbles back, unable to catch himself on numbed hands. But I do not waste my time apologizing. In the dark, it is difficult to cut the bonds. I must feel first to find the rope by touch and saw at that rather than the hands that it binds.
By the time everyone is freed, Midline has regained his feet, but he is the least of my concerns. Grey Brother and Abalone have been quite busy. As well as varying the lights between strobe and darkness, Abalone is forcing her tappety-tap to emit squeals and wails that echo and reverberate from the metal walls, making verbal communication difficult.
Grey Brother is more direct. In one lightning flash, I see him fell a blue-suited man with a fist to the groin. Upon regaining his feet, Midline moves to join his friend.
The way to the upper port is clear and I lead most of the Pack members that way. Some break off to help Grey Brother and Midline. I anchor the rope that snakes to the platform, listening for either Dr. Haas or the person I had sensed on high-guard earlier. I find the high-guard first.
She is working her way hand over hand through some of the ropes remaining in the Reaches. During a bright flash, I see that her eyes are tight shut, that she is guiding herself by touch alone.
This gives me an idea.
I scramble upward until I am in the lines most nearly parallel to her, where a rough swing remains. Tossing a stray length of rope weighted by a buckle from my belt, I loop a line over hers, bringing the stray end back to me so that her guideline is within the V of my rope. Next, I gently tug the taut line from which she hangs, testing the tension. This established, I begin to shake her line.
Some of the Free People love this game—called it spaghetti snakes—but all but the best played it with a safety net or at least a catcher below. She has neither.
When she opens her eyes. I ease up on all but the lightest vibration. I see her spot me, check her situation. Realize. If she doesn’t retreat, I can shake her down. There is no way she can touch me, crouched as I am out of reach, our only connection the tension in the line I control.
She moves forward, testing. I start shaking the snag-rope. She stops. So do I. The lights go out, but I can feel her motion and start pulling again. She stops.
I wait, expecting her to retreat, but when the lights come on again, the erratic flashes reveal that she has somehow gotten to her gun and is aiming at me. Even as the Law warns me against killing, my hands pull again on the snag-rope. Hard. The motion sets me swinging and my next jerk is harder.
Her shot goes wild.
I haul agai
n, roughly, violently. She falls. The lights go out, but not before I see her hit in a staccato splatter of bright blood.
Looking up, I see most of the erstwhile prisoners have left the Jungle. All that remains is for me to follow. I make my way to the ladder and scramble upward, my sneaker toes bouncing against the metal wall in my haste.
From below, I hear a shout. The voice is commanding, female, familiar.
“Forget these! The one we want is getting away!”
I climb faster and hear a pair of dearer, closer voices.
“Hey, Sarah! You’re shaking us loose!” yells Betwixt.
“My claws are slipping!” screams Between.
I stop and leaning precariously from the ladder, jam the rubber dragon deeper into my pack.
“Ouch! Not so hard!” Betwixt grunts, his protest muffled by the nylon bag.
I grin and keep climbing, but the pause has enabled my closest pursuers to catch up with me. There are two: a man and a woman in the same blue jumpsuit uniform as the woman I killed. The man’s left eye is swollen shut; the woman’s sleeve is ripped. Both look grimly angry. Dr. Haas follows a distant third.
Ducking through the no longer concealed doorway into the abandoned building, I concentrate on remembering the steps into the maze I must run. Some light shines through the broken windows and gaping roof and as I set my foot to the trail it begins to call out to me.
I run as quickly as the uneven surface will permit, rejoicing that my Pack members have escaped and that in a few moments I, too, will be free.
The maze’s song guides me until suddenly it is broken by the dissonant wheeze of a dart gun firing.
On reflex, I flatten myself against a post and then resume running, unable to dodge much beyond the erratic demands of the maze.
“Cut her off!” the man’s voice yells.
His answer is the dusty Sheetrock giving way beneath his feet and his partner’s cry as she also begins to fall.
“Shit! The floor’s bad,” the woman calls.
Glancing back, I see her pulling herself up.
“No shit!” her partner agrees. “And I’m wedged here. Get me a rope—if I wriggle, I’ll fall.”
Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls Page 12
