The City, Not Long After

by Pat Murphy

  Jax liked the tunnels. There was something comforting about being completely hidden from view, contained within the city itself. The air was cold and often foul-smelling, but she was willing to accept the odor of decay in exchange for a feeling of security.

  In the close darkness, she could hear the pounding of her heart. She switched on her flashlight, illuminating a stretch of pipe. Originally the cement had been gray; now it was streaked and discolored with unidentifiable stains and growths. A blue-green mold grew in irregular lines and patches, like graffiti written in an alien alphabet.

  She followed the tunnel until it joined the old sewage system. On the floor of the sewer pipe, she found a dry spot where she could leave the sentry’s rifle and ammunition. Then she crept into another storm drain, in search of a second victim.

  The second sentry was much like the first: a bored soldier at an outlying post. She took him easily and found joy in it: a pleasure that tasted of smoke and fear and pain. Just as she was finishing her signature, she heard footsteps in the distance and ducked down the shaft. As she slipped into the storm drain, she heard a shout, followed by the screech of a whistle. She did not linger to listen.

  At Market Street she emerged into the night air and stretched her cramped muscles. The wind had started to blow the fog away. Looking up, she could see glimpses of stars. She listened for a moment: in the distance, she could hear a siren wailing. A chorus of barking dogs joined the siren, coming from somewhere much closer. The barking gave way to howls, a primitive wailing that made the hair on her neck prickle. She wondered how it made the soldiers feel.

  An answering howl came from a nearby alley. She peered in to the darkness and saw a pair of gleaming eyes. “Good hunting?” she asked.

  “Good hunting,” Randall said, stepping from the shadows. Despite the cold, he wore nothing but a red kerchief, knotted around his neck. “Mercedes and her friends released the army’s horses and we stampeded them. The rest of the pack is chasing them down to Golden Gate Park.” He grinned. “Fine hunting.”

  “I’m heading for headquarters to rendezvous with Danny-boy,” she said. “Want to come?”

  He shook his head. “The night’s young. I have time to hunt.” He faded into the shadows, leaving her alone. In the distance, she heard gunfire.

  “Good luck,” she said to the darkness. Slinging the captured rifles across her back, she trotted in the direction of North Beach, where the artists had established their first temporary headquarters in a bar called the ChiChi Club.

  The Machine was watching from the rooftop of the ChiChi Club when Jax approached. Her saw her run along the sidewalk on the far side of the street, slipping in and out of the doorways, alert to any sounds in the darkness around her.

  “Jax,” he hailed her softly. When she looked up, he waved. “Come up the fire escape.”

  She disappeared from his view, then he heard the rattle of her footsteps on the metal stairs. She climbed over the edge of the roof, setting the rifles that she carried on the tar paper and gravel covered surface. “I got two sentries,” she told him, her voice low and excited. “And Randall tells me the horses are loose.”

  “Danny-boy told me the same thing.”

  “Danny-boy’s back?”

  “He’s downstairs with the others.”

  “What are you doing up here?”

  “I’m on first watch. Everyone else is downstairs. Rose has a venison stew cooking. You should go down.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not hungry yet,” she said. “I’ll keep you company for a bit.” She sat down beside him with her feet dangling over the edge of the roof. Her heels drummed nervously against the wall.

  Over the last few weeks, The Machine had grown used to having her around. When they were preparing for the war, she had stopped by his workshop often.

  “So what do you think?” she asked him suddenly. “You think we have a chance?” Her shoulders were hunched forward, as if she were cold. Her right hand kept fingering the silver pendant that hung at her throat.

  The Machine studied her closely. He guessed that she didn’t expect much of an answer. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “We did OK tonight, but that’s mostly because we surprised them. I don’t know how we’ll do tomorrow.” She rubbed her hands nervously on her jeans. “But you know what’s strange? For the first time, I’m glad we’re fighting this war the way Danny-boy wanted to fight it. I was glad I didn’t have to kill those soldiers tonight. You know what I mean?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do.” Lately, working with Danny-boy and Jax and the others on preparations for war, he had begun to feel that perhaps people were not as bad as he had thought. He did not trust the feeling yet, but he was willing to admit the possibility.

  Jax smiled at him suddenly, reached out, and took his hand. He did not resist. She squeezed his hand, and for a moment he felt happy.

  On the first night of the war, the artists killed fifteen soldiers—each one labeled “DEAD,” autographed, and left with a certificate in his hands. In addition they acquired fifteen rifles and a large supply of ammunition. Among the artists, there was one casualty: a poet sprained his ankle by tripping over the stairs on his way into the ChiChi Club.

  CHAPTER 22

  IN THE MORNING, Jax spoke to Fourstar by way of the Ambassador. “Hey,” she said into the microphone. “Is anyone there? Can anyone hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The voice over the radio was hesitant. “I can hear you.”

  “Who’s this?” she asked.

  “Private First Class Johnson,” said the voice.

  “Glad to meet you, Johnson. Hey, do you suppose you can get General Miles over here. I want to talk to him.”

  She waited, lounging on a red velvet sofa in the ChiChi Club’s office. She and Danny-boy had slept there for a few hours, waking only when The Machine came to tell them that it was morning, time to contact Fourstar. Jax sat up to talk to Fourstar. Danny-boy still lay on the sofa, his head on her lap.

  Over the field radio she heard a door open, then close. “I told the sergeant,” Johnson said. “General Miles will get the message soon.”

  “Good enough,” Jax said. “So how’d you do last night? You still alive?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m doing fine.”

  “You can call me Jax, Johnson. No need to be so formal.”

  “You got one of my buddies last night,” Johnson said hesitantly.

  “Said he never saw you coming.”

  “Of course not, Johnson. That’s the way I like it. You won’t see me coming either.”

  A long pause. “Why didn’t you kill those guys?” Johnson asked at last. “Seems kind of weird.”

  “Would you rather we did?” Jax asked. “We could if you’d rather.”

  The sound of an opening door cut off Johnson’s reply. “That you, Fourstar?” she asked.

  “You have something to say to me?” By the tone of his voice, Jax judged that Fourstar was not happy. She heard the creak of a chair as he sat down.

  “I wanted to suggest that you leave town.”

  “Why would I leave now? Just because you painted on the foreheads of a few of my men?” Fourstar laughed, an abrupt, forced sound.

  “We’ve killed fifteen of your men. At this rate, you’ll all be dead in a week.”

  “What are you talking about? You haven’t killed anyone. A little paint, that’s all. This is absurd.”

  “I agree,” she said calmly. “Fighting a war with us is absurd. You don’t have a chance. On the very first night, you lost ten percent of your forces. Seems silly to stick around when you’re clearly outmatched.”

  “You fight a stupid kind of war,” Fourstar muttered.

  “We’ve never fought a war before,” Jax admitted. “We’re improvising.” She stroked Danny-boy’s hair, and he smiled. “If you don’t like the way we fight, go find yourself another war. We wouldn’t mind.”

  “My men have real bullets, woman,” Fourstar said
. “When we kill a man, he’s really dead.”

  “Are you suggesting we do the same?” She raised her voice. “What do you think of that, Johnson? You think we should really kill people? If we had decided to fight that way, your buddy would be dead now.”

  Johnson didn’t speak.

  “Would you like to answer, Private?” Fourstar said. “No sir.”

  “Have you received orders regarding communication with this device?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That was an oversight, Private. You will not communicate with this device. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fourstar spoke to Jax again, his voice dangerously even. “Your attempts to intimidate my men are laughable,” he said. “Your war is ridiculous.”

  “Death is nothing to laugh at, General.”

  She heard the scrape of his chair against the floor as he stood. “You have nothing more to say to me,” he said.

  “I guess not. The war goes on.” She heard Fourstar close the door behind him. “Hey, Johnson,” she said to the guard. “Do you really think we should kill people?”

  There was no answer, but when she listened closely she thought she could hear him breathing.

  “Think about it,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.” She turned off the microphone. “Looks like we’ll keep fighting,” she said.

  Danny-boy opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Just as well. It would have been a pity to waste all those great preparations.”

  That first morning, Jax teamed up with Snake and Old Man Hat. “We need help carrying some stuff over to the Mission,” Old Man Hat told Jax. She accepted the knapsack that he handed her. Through the strap, she could feel it vibrating slightly.

  “It’s humming,” she said.

  The redhead grinned. “Don’t drop it,” he said. “It’s full of glass jars and the jars are full of yellow jackets. The little bastards have a nasty sting. I caught ’em yesterday, and I’d guess they’re in a pretty foul temper around now.” He tugged on the bicycle inner tube that he carried over one shoulder. “String this thing between a couple of poles and you got a giant slingshot. And our little insect pals are the ammunition. I figured I’d sort of distract the troops and give you and Snake a chance to pick ’em off.”

  Her knapsack buzzed angrily as she followed Snake to the Mission. She could feel an irregular bumping as the unhappy insects ricocheted off the insides of the jars.

  On the roof of a store on Harrison Street, Old Man Hat strung his inner tube between two ventilation chimneys. Jax helped Snake build a bonfire in the middle of the street below. When the fire was going well, Snake added a couple of spare tires, taken from nearby cars. The burning tires produced a stinking column of black smoke.

  “That ought to get their attention,” Snake said.

  They waited on the roof of a furniture store across the street from Old Man Hat. A facade that extended a few feet above the tarpaper and gravel hid them from the street.

  The early morning wind had blown away the fog, and the warmth of the sun made Jax sleepy. The previous night’s attacks seemed very long ago. The Machine flew over, heading for downtown. Jax waved to him, but he gave no sign that he had seen her. Through a drainhole that passed through the facade, Jax could keep an eye on the street below.

  “After you get your man, take off,” Snake said. “We won’t have a hope in hell of regrouping.”

  She nodded. “You really think they’ll come?”

  “Sure. They gotta investigate. That kind of smoke—Fourstar will figure we’re burning the city down.” Snake’s eyes were half closed. “Just be cool. Relax—you won’t get another chance once the action starts.”

  “If the action starts,” she said. She yawned.

  “You gotta be patient,” Snake murmured. “This is a waiting game. Give it time.”

  When she started to reply, he motioned her to silence. She heard the soldiers coming—the pounding of running footsteps and the rattle of equipment. A man double-timed it around the corner, then ducked into the cover of a doorway. He motioned the others to follow. The patrol advanced cautiously, scanning the buildings and roofs around them.

  She waited, watching the first man venture out. He kicked a tire out of the now dying fire. “Waste of time,” she heard him say. “Nothing happening here.” The other men stepped forward to join him.

  Old Man Hat hit them with three smoke bombs to provide cover, then started firing the yellow jacket bombs. She heard the glass jars shatter on the asphalt below. There was a burst of gunfire as one soldier shot at something, but someone was yelling “Hold your fire!” Someone else was swearing.

  “Move out,” Snake said. From the fire escape, she nailed a man with a dart from her blowgun. Though he had left the insects behind, he was still slapping desperately at the air around his face. He ran a few more steps before he stumbled and fell.

  She marked him, working around the yellow jacket stings. Taking his rifle, she escaped the spreading smoke by climbing another fire escape. Her throat burned with the taste of smoke. The street below was still hidden by a haze of gray. She waved to Old Man Hat, gave him the thumbs-up sign, and headed out to hunt on her own.

  The soldiers were accustomed to straightforward conventional warfare. Danny-boy and his colleagues did not believe in conventional approaches; their attacks were all the more elegant for being hideously unexpected.

  Jax watched from the concealment of an alley as a soldier triggered one of Tiger’s boobytraps. He had fallen behind his patrol, distracted by the glittering gems in the window of a jewelry store. When he stepped through the store’s door, he broke a trip wire. In the darkness above the doorjamb, a large Tupperware container of cockroaches opened and upended, emptying onto the man’s head. The insects scurried into his helmet, his pants legs, and his shirt sleeves, seeking refuge in any dark and private cranny. Jax smiled as the man dropped his weapon, screamed like a young girl, and slapped repeatedly at his body, dancing and yelling. While he was distracted, she caught him with a blow from behind, marked him, and left him in the doorway with the cockroaches curiously investigating his body.

  She trailed another patrol, hanging back and waiting for an opportunity. The city seemed to unnerve the soldiers. They shot at their own reflections in shop windows, at pigeons, at stray cats, and at shadows. She kept her distance, slipping silently from cover to cover. It seemed to her sometimes that the city was helping her. When she needed a place to hide, there was always an empty doorway to duck into, a shadow to provide cover.

  Late in the day she returned to headquarters, which had been moved to an apartment building in the Haight. There she found Lily and Gambit lounging on a battered couch in a first-floor apartment and trading information on the battle so far.

  “I hear that Mercedes has been stripping ’em naked after she marks their foreheads,” Gambit said. “She has three uniforms so far. Wants to stuff ’em with newspaper and hang them from the lampposts downtown.”

  Lily nodded. “I hear that The Machine bombed a few patrols with water balloons full of cheap perfume. Scored some direct hits, apparently. If you catch a whiff of Lily of the Valley, take cover. Some sweet-smelling soldiers are coming by.”

  “What’s the count so far?” Jax asked. “How many are dead?” Lily shrugged. “You’d have to ask Books to be sure, but I’d guess it’s around thirty or so. I’d say we were winning.”

  Jax nodded, reserving judgment. “Maybe so,” she said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. I’d say Fourstar hasn’t really started fighting yet.”

  The next afternoon, Jax was in the Muni tunnel that ran beneath Market Street when she heard the first explosion, a hollow thump in the distance. The city trembled around her. Before the rumbling faded, another blast shook the tunnel. By the time the third explosion came she almost expected it, another beat in the inexorable rhythm of destruction.

  She fled from the sound, heading toward the Embarcadero Station, then going aboveground and m
aking her way toward temporary headquarters, which had moved to a warehouse south of Market Street.

  She arrived just as The Machine was telling Danny-boy about the situation at the Civic Center. “I flew over as low as I dared,” The Machine said. “They’re shelling the buildings right around the City Hall. Looks like they’re trying to clear the area. So far they’ve demolished a few rows of shops. But I don’t think they’re stopping there.”

  Danny-boy shook his head. He sat on an empty wooden packing crate. “I don’t understand. Why would they do that?”

  “Getting rid of places to hide,” Jax said. “Fourstar doesn’t like sneak attacks.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Danny-boy said. “I think I should.”

  Jax followed Danny-boy to what had once been the warehouse manager’s office. From there, Danny-boy contacted Fourstar via the Ambassador. “Ah,” said Fourstar. “A new voice.” He seemed at ease, pleased with himself. In the background, Jax could hear the hollow thump of mortar fire. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Danny-boy. I want to know why you’re destroying the city.”

  “So pleased to meet you,” Fourstar said smoothly. “Surely you aren’t surprised. If you insist on hiding, it’s obvious that I must remove your hiding places. I have no choice. I don’t enjoy this—it hurts me to have to demolish perfectly good buildings.”

  “To find us, you’ll have to demolish the entire city.”

  “If that’s what it takes, that’s what we’ll do.”

  Danny-boy shook his head, bewildered by Fourstar’s response. “I don’t see what you’ll gain from this. If you destroy the city to conquer it, what will you have when you’re done? A ruined city that’s worthless to anyone.”

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” Fourstar said, his tone that of a teach er who was disappointed by his pupil’s performance. “In ruins, San Francisco will have a different kind of value. Yours will be an example that others will not want to follow. City governments will think twice before declining an offer to join our alliance.”