Finch

by Jeff VanderMeer

  But they'd still get shot to pieces. Now the double doors had opened. Rebels were firing back at the Partials. From the doors. From the dome.

  Wyte jammed another bunch of sticky nodules into his gun from his right front pocket. Kept right on firing. The noise was hellacious. Wyte's bullets made an echoing thwack sound. Finch's a deeper crack. The Partial's return fire was like wood popping in a fire. The smell of the fungal bullets musty and metallic.

  A scream from one of the Partials. Another scream. Finch, back up against the wall, shielding Dapple, had only a partial view.

  A fungal bullet hit the dirt well to their right. Veins of red spread out across the ground. Seeking. Searching. Stopped next to a lizard sunning itself, oblivious to the threat.

  “What's happening, Wyte,” Finch shouted above the roar.

  “I'm fucking killing them. Killing them all,” he roared.

  A conventional bullet clipped the side of Wyte's head. Left a bloody track. A runnel of flesh coming off. He roared again-this time with pain. Directed his fire to the left, toward the rebels or more Partials. The response was a fresh hail of bullets that sent even Wyte back into their shelter for a moment. Finch kept squeezing off rounds blind. Trying to aim high but not too high.

  Wyte's face shone bright. His eyes were large and dilated and he was smiling.

  “The bullets don't hurt,” he kept saying. “They don't hurt at all.”

  “They'll hurt you eventually, dammit!” Finch got off another round.

  Dapple convulsed. Blood rushed out of his mouth. His eyes stared toward the sky. Lifeless.

  “Fuck.”

  Finch grabbed Wyte's shirtsleeve. Pulled him in close. Green pallor. Tongue purple. Eyes like black marbles shot through with gold worms. A bullet lodged in his left cheek. Coin-shaped. Like a curious birthmark.

  “Wyte! We've got to get out of here. Do you understand?”

  Wyte seemed to wake up. Spittle came out of his mouth as he said, “We'll go right through the Partials.” Firing with his straight right arm as he talked. Bullets slamming into his side. Finch could hear them making impact. Being absorbed. “There's an alley behind them. Up or down the street you're dead. But if we're fast, right through the Partials works.”

  “How the fuck does that work?” Finch shouted at Wyte.

  “I go out first, shielding you,” Wyte said impatiently. Almost with a snarl.

  “With your body?” Finch said, incredulous. “That's crazy.”

  Grinned at him. One eye on the street. “It's all fucked up. What's one more thing? Trust me, Finch.”

  “You'll die if you do this, Wyte,” Finch said.

  “No. I won't.” Never heard Wyte so confident.

  A bullet spiraled into Wyte's left thigh. He didn't even flinch.

  Grim smile. “I love you, Wyte.” And he did, he realized.

  A smile back from Wyte like it was the old days before the Rising.

  Later, in memory, it would be a fractured mix of shouts and screams and bullets flying and Finch running into the back of Wyte to keep as close as possible. Tripping over the things crawling off of Wyte's legs. Wyte exploding out from their shelter, overcoat thrown aside to reveal a body become other. A garden of fungus. Arms ballooning out into sudden wings of brilliant purple-red-orange. Legs lost in shelves and plateaus and spikes of green and blue. Back broader and insanely strong and gray. Head suddenly elongated and widened. As he ran a high-pitched scream came from his mouth that frightened Finch and bloodied the ears of the Partials.

  The bullets. Wyte kept taking them like gifts. They tore through his limbs, lodged in his torso. Leaving holes. Leaving daylight. That closed up. And running in the shadow of that magnificence, as Wyte's scream became a roar again and they were assailing the ramparts of the Partials, he felt as if he were following some sort of god, his own gun like a toy as, from the shelter that was Wyte, he shot back at the chapel to keep the rebels pinned down.

  Wyte's voice came out incomprehensible and strange now. Guttural and animal-like. No part of him in those moments that was human. Once he looked back at Finch to make sure he was still there. The whites of his eyes colonized. His pupils looking like something trapped. Trapped forever inside its own flesh.

  For awhile it was as if Wyte had lent Finch that kind of vision, because he could see the bullets coming. As if Finch were floating overhead, watching. And it was ecstasy or some kind of odd heaven. The surprise that eclipsed the Partials' pale faces as Wyte overran their positions. Wyte trying to outrun something he couldn't outrun. Tendrils from his chest racing out to impale them. The weeping muzzle of his gun taking them in the legs, the heads. Faces trampled under his charge. Fungal eyes still clicking and clicking as the bodies lay dead. While even the rebels' fire had become scattershot from the shock of the new. From seeing the glory that Wyte had become. The monster.

  Then it all came crashing down and Finch was in his skin again. In that one last look back he saw it all as a crazed tableau of men fallen, falling, firing, or running at an impossible speed. Almost distant enough as they made it to the warren of streets beyond to think of them as the silhouettes of broken, spasming dolls.

  Realized he was roaring, too, like Wyte. As the tears ran down his face. As he kept firing behind him long after the enemy had faded into time and distance.

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  4

  reathless. Aching. Side hurting. Wyte trailing bits of things into the rubble behind them. Waiting for a bullet in the back of the head that never came. The acrid smell of spent ammo. A shambling halt under the shadow of the arch. The boat still tethered in the canal. The sky dark gray.

  Wyte was still coming down from whatever had possessed him. Voice slick with some hidden discharge. Muttering: “Like wheat. Like paper. Just shredding them. Just running through them.”

  Finch babbling back. Exhilarated. Heart still beating so hard in his chest.

  Wyte's face had regained a semblance of the normal, skin sealed over the bullets. Already now looking drawn, diminished. Finch kept seeing Wyte killing the Partials.

  Wyte had rebuttoned his trench coat. The lining torn. Hung down below the hem. Mud-spattered. Blood-spattered. About a dozen bullet holes in it. Small orange mushroom caps peeked out from the holes. Others had burst through the fabric. Around the buttons, purple fungus rasped out, probing.

  “Wyte, Dapple's dead,” Finch said.

  “I know, Finch. I saw. Get in the boat.”

  Finch climbed in and sat down. Held himself rigid as Wyte made the difficult negotiation of casting off and jumping in without capsizing them. Wyte sat down opposite. The boat glided across the water, back the way it had come. Like magic.

  “You saved my life, Wyte,” Finch said. And it was true. Monstrously true. Kept staring at Wyte with a kind of awe. Wyte's strength had manifested in a way Finch still couldn't quite believe.

  “But not Dapple,” Wyte said. “Dapple's dead. And I feel beaten and bruised all over.”

  Had Wyte passed a point of no return? More things that had colonized him peered out from the collar of the coat. Spilled out from his pants legs. Erupted in red-and-green patterns from his boots. A stench of overwhelming sweetness. Of corruption.

  “Don't go back to the station,” Finch said. “Not today.”

  “We were sent there to die, weren't we?” Matter-of-fact.

  For my sins.

  “Maybe we weren't,” Finch said, thinking about the Partial standing over Shriek's body. Lecturing him about how Partials saw more than gray caps. “Maybe it's all falling apart. In front of our eyes. Everything.”

  Wyte made a wet clucking sound. He was trying to laugh. “Didn't it fall apart a long time ago?”

  Knew Wyte was thinking about his wife, his kids, the little house they'd shared together so long ago.

  Finch didn't want that in his head, shot a glance up toward the ridge. Anyone could pick them off. Anyone. “Stay at home. I'll figure it out. Call you.”

&nbs
p; Wyte nodded again, almost slumped over in his seat. A kind of glow had begun to suffuse his features. Green-golden.

  Or you'll call me. Suppressed a shudder.

  Finch's vision blurred. Too many things to keep inside. Every time he thought he'd tamped down one thing, another came rushing up.

  A long silence. A complex smile played across Wyte's blurring lips. Finally said, “You know, Finch, I think we're a lot closer to solving this case.”

  A double take from Finch. A stifled smile. “Yeah, Wyte. Sure you do. Rest now. Sleep. I'll keep watch.”

  Wyte nodded. Closed his eyes.

  A flake of something floated onto Finch's shoulder. Then another and another. He looked up to see that it was snowing. It was snowing in Ambergris.

  As the white flakes drifted down, Finch on a hunch looked back. The white dome of the farthest camp had disappeared, replaced by an impression of billowing whiteness. An outline of what had once been. Realized that bits of fungus were raining down on them.

  Raindrops followed, thick but sparse. Finch blinking them away. He laughed then. A wide laugh. Showing his teeth.

  The “snow” still coming down. Falling onto Wyte's slack face. Melting away. Into him.

  Finch by Jeff VanderMeer

  5

  y the time Finch made it back to the hotel, he was almost asleep on his feet. Keeping him awake: left shoulder on fire. A bullet hole through the right arm of his jacket. Would've nicked him if he'd been a fatter man. A sharp pain in his ankle when he climbed the steps to the lobby. Stomach empty and complaining. Even after he bought some sad-looking plums. On credit. With a threat. From a woman who'd set them out on her stoop like a row of Bosun's carvings. Ate them on the way back to the hotel. Slowly.

  Passed the Photographer inside. Grunted a hello. The Photographer just stared at him.

  Lots of love to you, too.

  He turned left in the courtyard, descended. Stopped at Rathven's door. Knocked.

  A slow, reluctant opening. Long wedge of light. When Rathven looked up at Finch he thought he saw the secret knowledge they shared shining through her eyes.

  A frown hardened her face. “What do you want?” She had one arm behind her back, hiding something. Wore severe pants and a shirt that almost made her look like an Irregular.

  “You called me. Remember?”

  She seemed to consider that. Almost as if she couldn't tell if he was lying. That she couldn't remember making the call.

  “Can I come in?” Finch said, pressing.

  “No. I mean, not now. You look like a wreck. What happened to you?”

  Felt exposed there, in the hallway.

  “Just let me in,” he said, pushing at the door. Seeing if it would give. Seeing if she would give. “Of course I look rough. It's been a rough day.”

  “Stay where you are,” Rathven said. She was stronger than she looked. The door hadn't even trembled. Or she'd wedged something behind it. “Are you drunk?” she asked.

  Brought up short by the question, he shook his head. “No, of course not. At least tell me why you called.” Felt like he had stone blocks attached to his legs. His vision was swimming. The words he said came both fast and slow. Didn't wait for her hesitation, said, “Don't tell me it was nothing. Something's obviously wrong. You're not yourself.”

  A fire in her hazel eyes. A kind of scorn in the set of her mouth. Her rigid stance. “Do you blame me?” she spat out. “And youyou're not `yourself' either. I don't know who you are. You work for the gray caps but you help me get someone out of the camps. You help people in this building but then you go off and do Truff knows what during the day. For them. For them. You're in a good humor. You're in a bad mood. Sullen. Distant. Suddenly friendly. You like coffee, then suddenly you like tea. Why wouldn't I be wary?”

  The words hit him like a blow to the head. Felt the corridor swirling.

  “I have to sit down,” he said. “If I have to, I'll sit down right here.” The nausea had come back. Kept seeing Bliss and the tunnel they'd fallen through. Holding onto Bliss's shoulders had made it real, hard to shake off.

  Rathven, continuing: “You bring me these lists. These lists of dead people. And you say research them, and it turns out you're investigating the murder of someone who couldn't possibly have been alive. It's a burden knowing that. Thinking that maybe you're not even working on a murder case. That maybe you're just crazy.”

  Each word like a length of rope Finch tried to hold on to as he fell. Slipping away under his grasp. Burning his palms.

  He saw the floor coming up on him, then the ceiling above as he managed to land on his back. Shoulder feeling crunchy, like groundup glass. Hand scraping against the floor. Crumpled into darkness. But, thankfully, not Bliss's darkness. Weightless. No nausea here. No thoughts.

  Except the original one: What was Duncan Shriek doing in that apartment?

  Ghosts of light pearling across the uneven surface of ceiling beams. Came to his senses in his own apartment, on the couch. A lamp on the stand by his head. Rathven leaning forward to stare at him. Her gun on the table between them. A battered old revolver. Heavy. The kind of thing that at close range would take your heart out, throw you across the room. Not what Finch would've expected from her. Curled up next to it, Heretic's list, returned, along with Shriek: An Afterword and Cinsorium & Other Historical Fables.

  With an effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Just a few minutes.” Rathven wasn't smiling.

  A sudden, suspicious thought. “How'd you get me in here?” Reached for his own gun. Found it still there. Tried to make a graceful motion away from it. Too late. Looked up to see Rathven frowning again.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asked. “That I'm really strong or that I had an accomplice? Or that I'm going to shoot you?”

  “No, I meant-”

  “My brother helped bring you in here.”

  Finch nodded, ran a hand across his face. His hand felt like lizard skin. In his head a sound like waves.

  Slowly realized the apartment didn't look the same. Thought it was him at first, vision blurry. But no: books tossed on the floor. Paintings smashed or askew on the walls. His other furniture knocked over. The kitchen trashed, too. Winced from pain in his shoulder.

  “Shit, Rathven. What happened?”

  “I don't know. It was this way when we came up. There've been too many strangers in the hotel lately. Why do you think I'm carrying a gun now?”

  “You didn't before?” Ignored the look she gave him. “I've got to get cleaned up,” he said.

  “I'll wait.”

  He checked the table in his bedroom, with the maps on it. On the floor. The overlay was torn and had a boot print on it. Of the Partial? The one he hated? Much as he'd hoped during Wyte's mad charge, he hadn't seen the man.

  The map his father had given him was intact. Still on the table. The bed was tossed. Pillows on the floor, sheets pulled back. Mattress had knife marks in it.

  Finch considered that for a second. Then went into the bathroom. Shower didn't work. A thin trickle of water from the sink. He took off his clothes slowly, knees creaky. Like an old man. Washed himself clean with a washcloth. Waiting patiently for the water. Cold. Bracing. A lot of sandy dirt. Especially on his feet. He put on clean clothes. Same jacket. Bullet hole and all. Found some socks and an old pair of boots. Felt a little bit more human. Still, the face in the mirror looked defeated, pinched. Eyes he didn't know stared back at him.

  He walked into the living room to find Rathven with a broom, sweeping up broken glass in the kitchen. She'd already wrestled many of his books back onto their shelves.

  “Rath, you don't need to do that,” Finch said.

  “No, I don't,” she said. Kept sweeping.

  Whoever had trashed the apartment had left Finch's whisky alone. He found a glass. A generous pour. Let the taste burn in his mouth. Sterilize me. Grimaced as his shoulder tightened. Could've been worse.
Could've been the right shoulder. Interfered with drawing his gun. Or his sword.

  He picked up a chair with his good arm, righted it. Sat, watching Rathven in the kitchen. Admired how she could focus so single-mindedly on the ordinary.

  “Seen Feral?” he asked her.

  “No. I'm sure whatever happened scared him.”

  “Was the door open when you brought me up here?”

  “No, it was closed. And locked. I had to get your key out of your pocket.”

  Locked? How?

  “Do you know a man named Ethan Bliss?” Had to ask the question.

  A break in the rhythm of her sweeping. “Bliss? No.”

  Finch wasn't convinced. “Ethan Bliss. Smaller than me. Dark eyes. You might have known him as a Frankwrithe & Lewden supporter before the Rising ... He was the one in my apartment last night.” Although he didn't have time to trash the place then.

  No reaction. Which was a kind of reaction.

  “We fought,” Finch continued. “It's part of why I look this way.”

  Rathven leaned on the broom. Eyes narrowed. “How does he look?”

  “I don't follow y-”

  “Because I wouldn't know. I've never met him.”

  “Never even seen him? He used to be a powerful man for Frankwrithe before the Rising.”

  “No.”

  Hard to read her. Had, for that reason, sometimes been tempted to request her file from the gray caps. Resisted the urge. Didn't want to have Heretic asking him why.

  In a low voice, “Are you investigating me?” Her tone said, After all the help I've given you.

  “No, of course not.” Scrambled for cover: “Could you do me a favor? He has a couple of aliases I need checked out.”

  Finch searched for a piece of paper. Wrote down Graansvoort, Dar Sardice.

  The truth: he couldn't really imagine Rathven hurting him. Not on purpose. Suspected her of hiding something. But that might have nothing to do with him. Everyone in the city kept secrets.

  She looked at the names on the piece of paper.

  “It's all getting more and more complicated, Rathven. Hard to keep it all clear in my head.”