by Ben Farthing
Agreement floated through the crowd. The CEO adjusted his tie.
"Loretta," said Mr. President, looking behind him, "how long will you need to handle this?"
A woman leaned against the cement foundation at the back of the stage. Everard hadn't noticed her arrive.
"Not long," she said, her voice dry.
There was a shifting around Everard as people noticed her and pulled away.
Loretta wore yoga pants and a lime green hoodie. Black hair was pulled into a hurried bun, while several neglected strands hung down to her shoulders, framing a light brown complexion. She looked up, revealing a face somewhere around forty. Not especially pretty, she looked like she should be driving back from the gym, getting ready to put the kids on the bus, or to change into a pantsuit and head to the office. She looked like most any woman who might commute into D.C., but people here seemed to be terrified of her. And to love her.
"Shouldn't take long to find the guys doing it. And it'll take even less time to convince them to cut it out." Loretta shot a grin at the CEO.
Someone started clapping, but stopped when no one else joined.
Bowman managed to make adjusting his collar a threatening gesture, his fingers sliding along the scar on his neck. "If you say your goal is to protect the people," he said, "then you should arrest her. Or do you prefer vigilantes roaming our streets?"
"That's right," said Loretta. "Convince them to cancel my contract. Then I'll have more time to focus on personal goals."
Bowman stared her down. "I swear to God, if you..."
"Careful what you say," warned Loretta. "I have to assume every threat is serious, and treat it as such. You sure you want to point your weapon at me?"
"Calm down now," said Mr. President. "We're all vigilantes, in one way or another. Thank you, Loretta. You're welcome to get started."
She gave Bowman a hate-filled glance and walked off the stage, slipping out of sight despite there being nothing to hide behind.
"We need to wrap up the meeting now," said Mr. President. "If you have further concerns, please send Minnie an email or log them at the station."
The brown wigged attendant - Minnie, apparently - unfolded a connected row of laptops on the edge of the stage.
The CEO chuckled. "This is how they take questions. You see how much they value your concerns."
"I personally read them all," spat Minnie.
Their argument was swallowed up by a hundred conversations as people made their way to the laptops or shouted at the Burgesses.
Everard hopped up to approach Mr. President, but the old man and Minnie hurried off the side of the stage, then through a door in the foundation.
Everard picked up George to follow them.
A deafening recording blasted through the amphitheater, a small chorus shouting, "FREE RYKER! FUCK THE NSA!"
People with their faces under hoodies sprinted away through an angry crowd.
Everard made another file, Periphery Shit I Don't Care About, then jogged through the door.
Chapter Eight
Everard slipped through the door by the stage, leaving the frustrated crowd behind.
He walked into a dark hallway, placed his hand on the cold cement wall for balance. The pressure must have been different in this enclosed space, because he felt a brief, dull buzz under his skin as he stepped forward.
"Cats can see in the dark, right?" he asked George. "Now would be a convenient time for you to decide you can talk."
Mr. President couldn't be too far ahead of him, especially if they were navigating this same darkness.
Everard pulled out his phone and opened the flashlight app, which bloomed a circle of light on the ground.
The hallway branched, one way extending out of sight, the other exiting the cement foundation some thirty feet ahead. Everard guessed Mr. President wouldn't want to stay in here any longer than necessary, and walked towards the open doorway.
He slid his hand along the wall for balance. A hole the size of a dinner plate opened in the cement, and his fingers slid over a patch of warm furry flesh. He jerked his hand away.
"The hell?"
Everard touched the fur again, shining the light directly on it. It was gray and mangy, interspersed with patches of scabbed flesh, belonging to some creature pushed up against the other side of this wall. Everard touched it again, its slow pulsing displaying the rhythm of breath.
George let out a slow, angry mix of a meow and a growl.
"I know, right?" agreed Everard. He jabbed the flesh, but it ignored him. It was heavy enough that he'd move before it did.
Now that he was looking for it, he saw other holes in both walls, each with gray fur over mangy pressed hard against them. In one instance, the flesh bulged out several inches. On either side of the corridor, each patch receded and expanded together, like a single creature breathing.
Everard calculated how quickly he could sprint back to the iron staircase that brought him down here, but he pushed the thought away. He wasn't going to run away and let these Burgesses destroy the privacy he'd spent a decade building. He filed the furry flesh with the other Weird Periphery Shit, but felt the "I'll think about it later" center of his brain getting overwhelmed.
He continued forward until the passageway ended, opening up to another wide space.
If the shops he'd walked through earlier were the "downtown" of this underground corner of DC, then this was the wrong side of the tracks.
Lean-to's made from pipes, tin foil, newspaper, and sticks pushed up against the stone and cement foundation he'd stepped out from.
Other buildings spread out before him, one of brick and mortar, another of welded scrap metal, another a log cabin. There were no roads, or even consistent paths. The buildings were as organized as a wild forest, with an undergrowth of refuse. Water dripped somewhere nearby and had left a smell of mildew, which mingled with something salty and rancid.
Real stars filled the moonless sky, with constellations Everard recognized, only they were huge. The hunter Orion stretched horizon to horizon.
A few people slipped among the shadows of the haphazard homes. A breathy, whistled tune grew louder as a little girl came out from behind a hut built from chicken wire and blue tarpaulin, pulling a wagon. The smudged dirt and motor oil on her skin didn't stop her from giving Everard a cheerful grin, revealing a missing front tooth. She picked up a bit off wire off the ground to toss it in her wagon. "Do you have any gum?"
Everard handed her a stick of Wintermint from his pocket. "Are your parents around here, or...?"
She dropped the paper on the ground and popped the gum into her mouth. "Mom's at home. Dad's still exploring. Bye." She crossed Everard's path to continue her search for scrap metal, which filled her wagon.
There was a human leg strapped to her back, foot wobbling behind her head. Everard didn't get a good look before she slipped out of sight, but he thought the leg was protruding from her lower back.
He climbed onto a pile of cinderblocks to get a look from a higher vantage point. The slums continued at least a few hundred yards. It didn't seem likely that Mr. President came out this way.
He decided to head back and take the other fork. Maybe that would lead to a quaint little 1700s village, like some underground Colonial Williamsburg. Stepping lightly, he headed back into the dank darkness of the hallway, but stopped when he heard footsteps ahead. The footsteps stopped after he did.
Someone was waiting for him.
Everard had been mugged several times. It certainly got your heart pumping, but it wasn't the scariest thing in the world. But chances were, this wasn't a mugger. It was someone with his wanted flyer. Still, Everard wasn't going to turn tail and run.
He turned his light back on, drew the Ruger, and continued forward.
Footsteps echoed from behind.
The flashlight app didn't light up much more than the perfect circle that it projected, like a flashlight in a cartoon. Shining it directly down the hall did almost n
othing, so he kept it on the ground a few yards ahead of him.
The footsteps behind him quickened to a brisk walk, drew close. Everard turned to shine the light directly into a woman's face.
He jerked back, thinking he saw holes flit across her cheek. He caught his breath as he realized it was only another carpet-face.
Only. Geez.
"Out without your brothers?" she asked. "No one to protect you?"
"Listen," he said, gun still at his side in the dark, "I'm not this Ailuromancer you all think I am."
She crossed her arms and tapped a felt finger to her cheek. "Who else would carry around a cat?"
"I was getting him neutered." He heard how ridiculous that sounded as he said it out loud.
Footsteps behind him, then strong fingers closed around his arm. "This isn't the Ailuromancer, you fucktard."
"See?" said Everard, inching his finger around the trigger.
"It looks exactly like him," her voice faltered into uncertainty.
"It's the rebellist." Rough fingers squeezed his arm.
The woman leaned forward and squinted. "Oh yeah. What's your name again? Evan? Undone Duncan wants you even more than the Ailuromancer."
"Then he's going to be disappointed." Everard twisted his wrist to aim at the woman's gut and pulled the trigger.
A hollow clank sounded. There wasn't a round chambered.
The thug shoved him to the ground. George hissed as his carrier clattered across the cement. The woman kicked Everard's wrist, knocked the Ruger away. Everard leapt up to drive his fist into her jaw. Her head snapped back, and then impossibly strong arms wrapped around Everard's chest.
"Easy there, Evan."
The woman rubbed her jaw. "I felt that. You hit hard."
"Undone Duncan's gonna love him."
"Yeah, 'cause he's a rebellist. Not 'cause he's strong."
"Either way." The thug pushed Everard back toward the slums.
"What should I do with the cat?"
"I don't know. Bring it."
Everard let them guide him back past the breathing, furry patches, out through the little huts. These guys were strong as hell, but Everard was no slouch himself. He'd go along until the thug's grip loosened, even for a second.
"You're gonna change things around here," said the woman. "Finally get us the respect we deserve."
"Oh?" said Everard. "People weren't impressed by you wrapping yourself in carpet? Maybe try something different with your hair."
"Think you're funny?" she shook George's carrier, provoking a meowed wince. "Who's funny now?"
"Not my cat." Even Everard could hear the insincerity in his voice. Poor animal.
"Cool it," said the thug. "He won't be making fun of your skin after a few hours."
"So Undone Duncan wants my skin? That's where we're going?" He got his voice a little more in control.
"Oh, you'll see," said the female.
They weaved among shacks and lean-to's. He saw movement in the twisted alleys, but whoever it was must have been afraid of the reskinned.
The huts gave way to piles of junk. Rusty cars, iron beams, old washing machines. He wondered how they got down here, underneath. Or were they always here? Were there whole street systems, with upside down cars clinging to the underside of roads? A glance at the oversized constellations said things were even weirder than that.
Everard stumbled as the ground sloped downward. He breathed deep to keep his mind calm. He had to get away before they brought him to Undone Duncan. And the Perforated Woman.
"Keep moving," said the female reskinned.
As they gently descended, the junk piles grew taller. Soon, they were level with his head, then above it, about as high as a one-story house. The tops of the piles stayed even while the ground descended.
The rancid salty smell grew stronger, and he almost expected to hear seagulls.
"It's some kind of junkyard ocean," he muttered.
"The Junk Shoals," said the thug. "If you're smart, you've never come here before."
"If we were smart, we'd never come here." Fabric worry lines creased on the female's face.
The piles became gradually more dense, until they were weaving among them, at one point squeezing between a desk and a refrigerator. The starlight didn't reach down here, so his captors pulled out two Mag-lights.
A massive shadow swam by somewhere ahead. The Weird Periphery Shit file burst open, letting out the panic it'd been holding back.
Everard stomped his heel down on the thug's foot, hard enough to snap a two-by-four, then jerked free. He snatched George's carrier and took off.
His captors were too strong and too quick for him to run back through them, or even to break to the side. The only way to go was straight ahead, down into these Junk Shoals.
At first, he had only the dull glow from his pursuer's flashlights. Then he fumbled out his phone again to switch on that perfect circle of light.
George complained as his carrier bumped and rattled.
Everard knocked his shoulder against a wood pallet, scraping his skin. The trash shifted but stayed standing as he left it behind.
The piles of junk had turned into towers, impossibly balancing as they reached forty feet upwards. The tops of the towers remained constant, so with each stride downhill, they grew taller. The dirt beneath his feet became loose and gritty, making running difficult.
But it was just as difficult for the carpet-faces. They shouted orders at each other. Already, Everard heard exhaustion in their voices.
His foot caught on something hard. He pointed his light at the ground to reveal an undergrowth of tires, crates, and other small refuse. Maybe comparing this to an ocean was wrong. Maybe it was closer to a forest.
He ran gingerly, watching each footfall to avoid smashing into the towers.
On the outskirts of his light, he kept seeing movement. Small, darting flashes that moved like fish, only through the air.
A knot in his stomach told him he didn't want to go deeper into this ocean-forest of junk.
Could he circle around without letting the reskinned catch up to him? Or would it be easier to switch off his light and hide in the darkness?
Something cold and smooth brushed the back of his neck. He swatted at nothing. He jumped away, turned around to see shifting shadows behind a wire bedframe. They stilled.
His heart pounded. George hissed, as freaked out as Everard felt.
Hiding in the dark wasn't an option. Besides, George's protests would probably give away any hiding place.
He looked for an opportunity to change direction.
This way.
The thought came strong and familiar. He couldn't help but listen.
Everard curved left around a stack of rusted chicken wire and fence posts, now sprinting perpendicular to their earlier path, parallel to the shore.
He wondered briefly how deep the Junk Shoals got, how far out they went, what was on the other side.
The carpet-faces shouted at each other. By their voices, one was directly behind him, and one to his left, trying to stay between him and freedom.
Ahead, some thirty feet above ground, a blue glow pierced the darkness.
This way, came the thought again.
The blue glow was hypnotically tempting, but his adrenaline was behind the wheel now. He wanted out, and nothing else, but he hadn't pulled ahead enough yet to cut back towards shore. He slowed, considered going farther downhill.
The glow's approach didn't slow. It lumbered towards him, and Everard sensed something massive moving within its shadow.
George hissed, scratched and kicked against the carrier. Everard sprinted downhill.
The light overtook him, vanishing as it passed overhead, but replaced with a humid scent of rotten meat. His flashlight went out. The ground rumbled beneath his feet. He brushed against a leathery wall, or rather it brushed against him. Another wall pressed against his back, locking him in place. They slid past, freeing him. He dug his feet into the silt
, resisted getting pulled back. He held George's carrier tight against his chest, as the tomcat hissed and rowled at the world passing around them.
And then everything was still.
Everard swallowed.
No walls touched him, although the humidity and stench remained. The ground was solid under his boots.
His phone wouldn't turn on.
"That night vision kicking in, yet?" whispered Everard to George. "You better give me a heads up before anything jumps out at me."
A thick, wet voice answered from behind. "That's an old wives' tale. They still need a little light. The same is true of night-vision goggles, actually."
Everard whirled to face the voice. "Who's there?"
"If you were the Ailuromancer, you'd recognize me. So that must mean you're Everard Harrison."
Everard took a step back. "Undone Duncan."
"In the flesh."
"Why are you hiding in the dark?"
He chuckled. "I was hoping we could talk. My physician tells me you scare easily at... new sights."
"Your voice isn't exactly welcoming. Could you spit out your gum?"
Undone Duncan exaggerated the schlocking sound of his speech. "I didn't expect a rebellist to frighten so quickly. Although I shouldn't be too harsh; this is all new to you, isn't it?"
Footsteps as the man circled Everard. His voice came above. How tall was this guy?
"Let me be the first to welcome you, then. As an equal."
"Thanks, but I'm not planning on sticking around."
"But you don't even know why you've come."
"Because the Burgesses sent you after me. Which I'm dealing with."
A surprised bark of laughter from Undone Duncan. "That pompous cult will be livid when they discover that I found you first. But yes, I wouldn't have known about you if they hadn't spread the word. They should have realized no bounty is as valuable as you are."
Everard wished he still had the Ruger. He had no idea how to get out of here. "I really don't care. I just want you freak shows to leave me alone."
"You're special, Everard Harrison. There's only a few like you in the city. Something they've been lording over me for too long."
"Yeah, I'm a real one-in-a-million kind of guy." Everard backed away until he found the wall. It was smooth leather.