by Ben Farthing
A goth kid with spiked hair yelled, "fuck that carpet-face up."
Uncomfortable murmurs as people edged away from the goth kid. The fear Everard saw in their hesitance pushed back into his own mind.
Everard hated being afraid.
He jerked away again, throwing everything into it, then, as the "carpet-face" steeled himself against the pull, Everard kicked him in the gut, getting out an "oomph" and toppling him backwards down the steps.
The carpeted hand kept its grip on Everard's wrist, Everard kept his grip on George's carrier, and all three went tumbling down the amphitheater stairs, knocking others down along with them.
Stone steps smashed into his shoulder, then his thigh, then Everard managed to keep the carpet-face between himself and the unforgiving ground.
They reached the bottom, where Everard rolled off his moaning attacker. He checked George, who had landed on his feet, despite being in a cage. He rubbed his arm and then realized that everyone was silent, and everyone was staring.
Everard finally had the attention of the Burgesses.
A man and a women dressed like Revolutionary War reenactors stood on one side of the stage. The one in front looked like he was imitating paintings of George Washington, with a white wig on his head and his left arm resting in the small of his back. A woman dressed similarly but with a brown wig stepped between him and Everard, just in case the guy that had toppled down stone stairs decided to hop to his feet and attack.
Everard groaned and crawled to his knees. The others who they'd taken with them on their fall slipped back into the crowd, not wanting to be the center of attention.
The carpet-face limped toward the shadows to the side of the stage.
"Mr. President," said the brown-wigged woman, addressing the George Washington wannabe.
So this was his guy. Mr. President gave off a frail old man vibe, but then again so did Marlon Brando in the Godfather. His wrinkled face was clean shaven, and his pale eyebrows said that his real hair was as white as his wig. He raised a bony finger to speak.
"Should I dispatch the Regulars?" asked the woman.
No, thought Everard. He didn't like dealing with cops, and he didn't want to deal with fake cops. That feeling again, of pushing through a fog so dense it weighed him down.
Mr. President jerked his head toward Everard, as if he had yelled something offensive.
An annoyingly charming voice interrupted. "This is how your Burgesses respond to criminals." One of the men in suits.
Two of them stood on the stage. One looked to be in his fifties, slick silver hair, an angular chin, and a glare that had probably fired hundreds of employees.
The other was younger. Black hair, a gray sharkskin suit with slimmer tailoring, and the look of a backstabbing corporate ladder climber. He wore gaudy, ruby-studded cuff links. A high shirt collar only partially hid a jagged scar around the side of his neck.
It was the older suit who'd spoken. "One of Undone Duncan's reskinned interrupts our meeting, and the Burgesses are simply going to watch him go."
"It's not illegal to trip down the stairs," said Mr. President.
"So the carpet-faces aren't criminals?" The suit turned to address the audience. "Did you all hear that? How can you rely on these old men to protect you when they won't call a spade a spade?"
The crowd murmured. Mr. President spoke. "The CEO has a different definition of protection than I do, it seems. We protect your rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness by dealing with threats as they arise. The CEO would punish men because of rumors."
The CEO spoke again. "Undone Duncan's atrocities are rumors? Typical response from a spineless leader."
Everard stood, blinking to clear his head. Did everyone have weird titles around here? The CEO and the ladder climber must have been from Inc. That's who Lucy said the Burgesses would be debating.
Mr. President cleared his throat. "We called this special session to address the growing concerns-"
"You're not even taking questions," interrupted the CEO.
"We'll take questions at the end. And at the regular town hall on the first Thursday of next month."
"This is your leader," said the CEO, "Showing how deeply he cares for you."
What made even less sense, was that the Burgesses were talking like Undone Duncan wasn't on their side. If the Perforated Woman worked for Undone Duncan, and the wanted flyer was from the Burgesses, didn't that mean the Burgesses had sent Undone Duncan after him? Or maybe it was more complicated than that.
The brown-wigged Burgess interjected, her speech stilted, like she was still getting the hang of talking like it was 1776. "We don't lead. We protect."
"You imprison people you call criminals," said the CEO.
"They are criminals," said the woman.
The crowd murmured agreement.
"You've forced the people into relying on you." Anger tinted the CEO's voice.
"By protecting this city from threats?" spat Mr. President. "We never asked to lead. You should fear those who covet power, like the CEO." He shot an accusing look at the suits.
"Then step down." The CEO showed his palms like a politician practiced in disarming listeners through body language. "Call off your Regulars. Make the Minutemen stand down, too, if they'll listen to you."
Disapproval moved through the crowd at that last comment. Everard didn't know who the Minutemen were, but the guys in suits didn't like them, and the crowd did. Also, they apparently didn't listen to the Burgesses. Everard wanted to meet these guys.
But first, Everard wanted to get out of the spotlight. His plan to publicly confront them had to change. He needed some one-on-one time with Mr. President. He'd negotiated with plenty of contractors who were long past recommended retirement age. They were always defensive about their capabilities, so you couldn't let them think for a second you were questioning their authority. If Everard wanted to keep this civil, he had to avoid challenging Mr. President in front of people.
Keeping a large distance between himself and the moaning carpet-face, Everard crept to a bench in the front. A red-bearded man made room for him and George. Everard ignored the tiny red snake swimming through the bushy red beard.
"Thanks," whispered Everard.
"If Undone Duncan hates you," he responded, "you're all right with me."
"Not so loud," hissed the woman at his side.
"That carpet-face isn't listening."
Everard rubbed his shoulder. That fall was going to leave a bruise.
"If you're just going to stand there with your mouth agape," said the CEO, "then our CFO will handle the problem. Again. Bowman."
He motioned to the younger suit with the ruby cufflinks, who had stood quietly like an obedient dog throughout the argument.
Moving lightly for wearing such a form-fitting suit, CFO Bowman jumped off the stage and headed for the carpet-face. He pulled a hundred dollar bill and a glinting silver lighter from inside his suit jacket, and flicked the lighter to burn the bill. A black flame engulfed the cash, swallowing more than burning.
Everard flinched. A hundred bucks was a big step toward a new nailgun.
The carpet-face stumbled to his feet. The suit flicked his arm forward like he was shaking water off a rain jacket, and a shimmer in the air as wide as a freight train knocked the thug back down.
Everard gripped the bench's edge and George's carrier. The brazen display of the supernatural unsettled him, reminded him of the Perforated Woman's roving swarm of holes. The quicker he could deal with Mr. President's bounty and get out of here, the better.
Mr. President interrupted. "And I suppose you'll take him to a secure location?"
"That's right," said the CEO. "To keep the people safe. Because we're willing to help share your burden."
"No trial, no right to counsel?"
"This reskinned - this carpet-face - marked himself a murderer when he let the Perforated Woman replace his skin. If you won't do your job, then we'll remove him ourselve
s."
Everard leaned to the red bearded guy next to him. "What's that about the Perforated Woman and replacing skin?"
"Let someone accuse him, then." Mr. President addressed the crowd. "Who here has witnessed this man commit murder? Who will accuse him?"
Murmurs of fear spread through the people.
A woman stood to speak. "I saw-"
Her voice turned muffled as a husband or brother clamped his hand over her mouth. "She didn't see anything. Overactive imagination."
"They're too afraid," said Bowman. "People who speak against Undone Duncan and his gangs have a tendency to disappear."
"I don't see you going after him," said Mr. President's attendant. "At least our Regulars are looking for evidence."
Everard looked around. Hundreds of faces peered down at shoes, or up at the phosphorescent starlight, avoiding Mr. President's disappointed gaze.
With normal politics, Everard usually felt one corrupt party was as bad as the other. But this looked like a bunch of rich guys used to making up their own rules, while a population of cowards wouldn't help the one man trying to keep things fair. Of course, the connection between Mr. President and Undone Duncan changed that a little. Everard needed to figure that one out.
"You're all content to watch?" Mr. President grew frustrated. "And what will you do when Inc comes for you, with no rule of law to stop them?"
Maybe long ago his anger was intimidating, but now with his frail frame and cracking voice, it had more of a "get off my lawn" feel.
The old man's gaze met Everard's. Hadn't everyone just seen the carpet-face attack him?
Mr. President's silent plea for help looked genuine. These suits from Inc - whatever that was - were bullying this old man who was honestly trying to help. Everard balked at that thought. No one was ever honestly trying to help, and there was no reason Everard should, either.
On the other hand, he needed some facetime with the wannabe George Washington.
Everard stood. "I'll accuse him."
Bowman kept watching the carpet-face, but spoke to Everard. "You saw him murder someone?"
"No, but he just now attacked me and tried to force me to go with him."
The carpet-face stood, hands open and in front so the CFO wouldn't shake off another invisible blast at him. "You attacked me. You shoved me down the stairs."
Everard hesitated. Technically, he had knocked the guy down the stairs. Better not to admit that. "You attacked me! I don't even know who you are. I don't know anybody in this little..." he gestured at the crowd and the stage, "...get-together. Why would I attack you?"
"Are there witnesses to the Ailuromancer's accusation?" Mr. President asked the crowd. He gave Everard a knowing smile.
The goth kid who'd earlier yelled encouraging curses stood. "I saw it. That freak attacked the Ailuromancer."
Everard tucked that title away. Maybe Ailuromancer was slang for bounties. Maybe the Ailuromancer was whoever people kept mistaking him for.
"That's enough to hold him until trial," said Mr. President. "Captain, apprehend him."
Two Continental Regulars - not Tim Logan and his son, but two men who could be Redskins linebackers - hurried down the stairs to grab the carpet-face. He struggled, but his complaints were slurred. They dragged him through a doorway beside the stage.
"Thank you," said Mr. President, both to Everard personally and to the people in general. "If you let a private group arrest citizens without trial, where will it stop?"
"Aren't you a private group?" asked Bowman. "Are you leaders or not?"
The brown-wigged attendant said through clenched teeth, "We discourage criminals because the people begged us to after the Machinist Revolt. But we have a strict rule of law to which we hold ourselves accountable."
"That's the difference between us," said Bowman. "You pretend like you follow your own rules, that you're some kind of benevolent savior. We're honest about our intentions. We'll keep the people safe, and we'll do it our way: efficient and effective, like the businesses we've all managed."
"Quiet, Bowman," said CEO without lowering his gaze.
CFO Bowman gave the Burgesses a look that had probably made a hundred employees quiver in their boots, and then walked back to the older suit, an aggressive dog who still knew how to heel.
Everard exhaled, bored by their debate. Two groups of assholes pretending the hardest to have the people's interest at heart. He leaned over to redbeard. "How long do these things usually last?"
The man shrugged.
Mr. President addressed the crowd again. "I want you to think about what just happened. It's obvious you don't trust Inc. with criminals, so I ask you to reconsider trusting them elsewhere. Especially not with these recent disturbances."
Everard sat back down. Mr. President definitely recognized him. He'd show him the respect the old guy probably thought he deserved by waiting until his meeting was over, and then he was getting answers.
"Which disturbances?" asked the CEO. "The booms, the nightmares, or the bumps?"
"You all know about the bumps," said Mr. President. "We've been warning you for months. The Hunters are corralling the Boogeyman so he can be dealt with once and for all. Until that time, keep your lights on and stay out of your closets. By Monday it should be dealt with."
"Are you hearing this?" the CEO addressed the crowd. "He's putting you all in danger for his own pride."
Mr. President's attendant, losing her colonial affect. "Can it, dumbass. It's the Hunters doing it. If you think it's so important to stop their operation, why don't you step in?"
"The Hunters aren't a D.C. faction," said Bowman. "They're one of you."
"Irrelevant," said Mr. President, "the Boogeyman has plagued us for generations. How many of you have lost a loved one to the monster?"
Everard turned to see several nods throughout the crowd. He created a file in his mind labeled Weird Periphery Shit. He stuck the Boogeyman in there, where he'd keep it until he could get out of here and never think about it again.
"How many of you have heard his footsteps, or felt his breathing on the back of your neck?"
Even more nods.
"I imagine there are even a few of you who have killed the Boogeyman, only to have him show up again later."
A young woman, alone but wearing a wedding ring, let out a choked sob. "I cut his throat and burned his body. He still came. Oh god, I tried to stop him."
"The Hunters asked for the Burgesses' counsel on the issue."
"You mean your permission," said the CEO.
Mr. President talked over the interruption. "The Hunters came to me with a plan. They have a way to trap him. They forced him to the US, then the East Coast, now D.C. By tonight I expect he'll be trapped in a single neighborhood. Once he's confined to a single a closet, a single instance of himself, then killing him should be permanent. So activity may be high for the next day or so, but stay aware, and you'll be safe. And the Boogeyman will be gone forever."
"You couldn't even catch the Face Without a Name," said Bowman. "Why should we trust you now?"
The attendant spoke again. "Can you hear these idiots trying to manipulate you? This isn't a Burgess operation. It's the Hunter's game. I don't think anyone here doubts their ability."
The crowd buzzed in agreement.
"Either way," said the CEO, "they're distracting you from the larger issues."
"The booms," said Bowman.
"Yes." The CEO raised an eyebrow at his subordinate. "And the nightmares."
"Both are being investigated," said Mr. President.
"We need more than that," yelled a woman behind Everard.
"Agreed," said the CEO. "Who is investigating them? How? What progress has been made?"
Mr. President sighed.
"The Regulars are speaking to those who have had these nightmares. They may be connected with the Boogeyman. And need I remind you, dreams of approaching terror are common. In '89, a strong emotion shifter was conceived, carried, and born
, which caused all varieties of chaos, including nightmares. In '74, '96, and '09, a wendigo wandered close to the city. Every few years we all share nightmares, there's always a different reason, and most are benign. We've documented them all. We're investigating the possibilities. We have it under control."
A familiar voice dissented. Everard turned around to see Lucy, nervously squeezing the folds of her red dress. "The Hexers have elected me to share that these nightmares aren't like those others. There's too many common images. Antlers. Moth wings. I fear those with a more perceptive subconscious are sensing something specific, as our usual charms aren't quelling the dreams. Isn't it likely connected to the booms?"
She quickly sat down, relieved she'd said her piece.
"It may well be something specific," said Mr. President. "But that doesn't indicate a threat. If it does, the Regulars will deal with it."
"Again and again," said the CEO, "trust us, they say. How many people have to die before they take action? He didn't answer your question about the booms."
"Nightmares are rarely fatal," said Mr. President, in the way he might say skin cancer is rarely fatal, leaving open the possibility that sometimes it was.
Everard added that to the file alongside the Boogeyman.
"If you don't trust the Regulars, remember that the NSA will step in if anything threatens the Central Nook. We aren't in any real danger."
"Fuck the NSA!" yelled someone from the back.
"Asking the people to trust the NSA?" said the CEO, amused. "That's your strategy. Are you even taking this seriously?"
"I've devoted my life to protecting this city. If you want me to prove my concern for my fellow Periphery Denizens, I'll do exactly that." A smug grin spread across Mr. President's face. "We've reason to suspect that Undone Duncan is behind the booms, and we've contracted Loretta Valazquez to investigate."
Excitement buzzed in the crowd. One Everard's row, someone gasped.
"That murderer?" said Bowman, incredulous or furious. Probably both.
"Careful," said Mr. President, in the tone of a man who'd just shown his cards to reveal a Royal Flush, "she's only ever gone after men who deserve it. And I doubt you want to suggest that the booms aren't important enough to warrant such a renowned investigator."