by wildbow
To say I barely recognized myself was… how could I put it? It was true, but I could also remember myself months ago, when I’d look at my reflection and I would be so focused on the flaws and the things I didn’t like about myself that I never felt familiar with the person I was seeing in the mirror. It was as though it was always a stranger I was looking at, and I would be left vaguely surprised at the combination of features across from me.
This was not recognizing myself in a very different way. There were still things I didn’t like, like my wide mouth, my small chest and the lack of curves or any real femininity. My scars stood out with my slight tan, a teardrop shaped mark on my forearm where Bitch’s dog had bitten me, a wavy mark on my cheek where Sophia had dug her fingernails in,and a line by my earlobe where she’d tried to tear my ear off. But my physical flaws no longer consumed my attention when I looked at myself. I felt comfortable with my body, like I’d somehow earned it, the way it was, and it was mine now. I wasn’t sure if that made any sense, even to myself.
If there was anything about myself that I didn’t like, it was primarily psychological. Guilt was a big one. The idea that my dad might dislike me if he got to know me, now? That was another. That my mom, were she alive and showing up at the door, might be disappointed in me? Sobering.
As he’d done with his own underground base, Coil had set my lair up with a discreet entrance and exit. Leaving through the front door would be conspicuous, if I started working with anyone beyond my teammates. Skinny teenage girl with black curly hair entering and leaving the same building that the skinny teenage villain with black curly hair was operating out of? No.
I made my way to the building’s cellar, opened a hatch and entered the adjacent storm drain. The same builders that had put the building together had blocked off the drain so the water flow wouldn’t make it impassable, and I was left with a clear route down to the section of beach where the storm drains emptied.
I wasn’t sure if Coil had plans to keep the city’s workers from trying to unblock the drain, but I supposed that was the sort of thing we could rely on him to handle. In the meantime, a third of the storm drains were too clogged with rubble and detritus to drain, and another third didn’t connect to anything anymore. Add the fact that most of the storm drains were a little out of the way of regular foot traffic, and it wasn’t too conspicuous.
I started running the moment I reached the beach, glad for the chance to resume my routine.
It was a strange environment, eerie. The wooden pathway, the literal boardwalk that had run in front of the stores, was now a skeletal ruin that loomed above the piles of trash that the bulldozers had all pushed to one side, twice as tall as I was. The beach had been cleared, which was a feat unto itself. The work of the bulldozers and the crews with rakes had revealed the packed, dirt-like layer from beneath the loose sand. Opposite the trash piles, by the water, there were mounds of irregularly shaped pieces of concrete, set to break up the waves and prevent the highest tides from dragging the trash, debris and machinery into the ocean. Two mounds looming on either side, with a space cleared in the middle for the trucks and any foot traffic.
A scene up ahead caught my attention. Two pieces of machinery lay in a heap just below the lip of the boardwalk above. A bulldozer and an eighteen wheeler with a crane-mounted claw attached had both been driven or pushed over the edge of the boardwalk and onto the beach. The cab of the truck with the claw had been partially crushed by the bulldozer. Though it was barely past six in the morning, a group of laborers were already there, some on the ledge above, others down on the beach, all gathered around the trucks.
Spray paint had been used to draw the same crude symbol on both the side of the eighteen wheeler and the concrete wall separating the beach from the Boardwalk above. A capital ‘M’, with two taller lines drawn vertically through it much the same as you’d do with a dollar sign. The Merchants.
It fit their modus operandi. They had been bums, drunks and addicts, looked down on others, before Leviathan came. In the wake of what Leviathan had done to the city, leaving everything in shambles, with social services gone or in chaos and even basic utilities in short supply, everyone else had been brought down to their level. The Merchants were even, I suspected, thriving. With strength in numbers and virtually nothing holding them back, they had become like pack animals. They roamed the city in bands of three to twenty, robbing, raping, pillaging and stealing. They were settling in some of the better areas, the neighborhoods that still had power or water, and forcing the existing residents out.
Or, worse, I could imagine that some were moving in and keeping the residents around for their own amusement. It was not a pleasant thought. The kind of people who had gravitated towards the Merchants tended to have a lot of resentment. Specifically, they had resentment towards people who had what they didn’t. If they happened upon a family with Kate the soccer mom, Tommy, the kid with more video games than teeth, and Joe the blue-collar worker with a steady job? If they weren’t letting them go? I was guessing that hypothetical family would be in for a hell of a rough time.
It might have sounded silly, that line of speculation, but I’d spent time in the shelters. I’d heard about how vicious and depraved the Merchants were getting.
Anyways, this? This whole situation? They liked it. They wanted to keep things this way, and that meant they were going to stop anyone else from fixing it. They would intercept supplies, attack rescue workers and they would push construction vehicles into a heap on the beach.
I’d have to deal with these guys. It wasn’t just intercepting any groups that made their way into my territory. That was easy, all things considered. No, I also had to deal with the small army that would come marching through here wanting retaliation over my having kicked the asses of any groups that had made their way into my territory.
I could call on the others, if such a situation arose, and I expected them to call on me if the same thing happened. But people would take time to get here, and the Merchants, the Chosen or whoever else was making trouble could keep making trouble until the reinforcements arrived. It was tricky, and I didn’t know for sure how I’d handle things if—
“Taylor.”
My reaction wasn’t much different than if someone had stabbed me in the stomach with an icicle. I’d thought of that mental image in particular because of the cold, horrible feeling in my midsection; fear, guilt. My thoughts immediately went back to my nightmare from earlier. I turned to look.
“It’s you,” my dad spoke, “Wow.”
He stood on the ledge above me. He was more tanned than I was. He wore a short-sleeved button-up shirt and khakis and held a clipboard. It set him apart from the other laborers, and the man who stood just behind him, wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans. I knew in an instant, my dad was in charge around here.
Looking at him, I couldn’t imagine how I might have thought he was Coil. Even in a dream.
“Just out for my regular run.”
Surprise etched his face, “You’re running during this…?!”
He made a visible effort to close his mouth. It made me feel uneasy. What thought process or concern was keeping my dad from opening his mouth about my running? He’d been worried about it when the streets were relatively safe. Was he that spooked at the idea of scaring me off again?
He looked at the man who was standing near him, murmured something. The man walked over to join the others in observing the damage around the damaged vehicles.
We were left more or less alone.
“You got my messages?” I asked.
“I’ve listened to that answering machine so many times—” he stopped. He was a good distance away, but I could see the lines in his forehead, “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
“I… I don’t know how to ask. I’m afraid to ask you to come home, because I’m not sure I can stand to hear you tell me you won’t.”
He paused, for a long moment. Waiting for me to jump at the opportuni
ty. I stayed silent and hated myself for it.
“Well,” he said, so quiet I could barely hear him, “You can always come home. Any time, any reason.”
“Okay,” I told him.
“What are you doing with yourself these days?”
I struggled to find an answer, and was saved by the bell. One of the men by the wreck shouted, “Danny!” and my dad turned.
My dad ran his fingers through his hair, “I need to go handle this. Can I… How do I contact you?”
“I’ll leave you a message on your answering machine,” I said. “With my cell phone number, and my email in case I’m in an area where cell service is down.”
“Email?” he asked. “Where are you that you have access to a computer?”
A few blocks from here.
“Just outside the city limits,” I lied. “Not far from the Market.”
“So you’re out of the way of any trouble,” My dad noted, with a touch of relief. There was a noise as someone began prying one of the truck doors open, and my dad turned his head, frowning. “But what are you doing here this morning?”
“I was going to stop by the house, see if it was in okay shape,” I lied again. Was this the extent of my interactions with my dad? Always lies? “Keeping up with my running.”
“I see. Look, I have to go, but I do want to talk again, soon. Lunch, maybe?”
“Maybe,” I offered. He offered me a sad smile, then turned to go.
I moved my hand to adjust my glasses, and wound up waving at my face. I was wearing my lenses.
“Dad!” I called out. He stopped. “Um. I’d heard the Slaughterhouse Nine were around. Be careful, warn others.” I pointed at my face.
His eyes widened. I could see the thought process, the realization. He took off his glasses and hung them from his shirt’s front pocket. I wasn’t positive that was much better.
“Thank you,” he said, squinting slightly at me. He raised a hand in an awkward half-wave, and I returned it with one of my own. As if by mutual agreement, we turned to leave at the same time, both of us going in separate directions. He hurried to where he was needed, and I turned to run back to my place. My lair. I hadn’t run nearly as far as I’d wanted, but I wasn’t up to continuing.
I checked the kitchen clock as I entered from the cellar. I had thirty minutes. I took the time to shower and don my costume—my sleeve was still crusty and stained yellow-white where it had come in contact with the foam, but at least it wasn’t sticky anymore.
My mask wasn’t wearable with the contacts. I’d taken lenses out of an old pair of glasses and set them into the construction of my mask. I debated it for a few moments, then I decided to use the remaining time to fix it. With my knife’s point, I set about undoing that particular piece of work, prying the lenses out.
I finished with enough time left over to grab and eat a breakfast bar. Coil’s people were punctual, rapping on the metal shutter at six forty-five.
Alright. This was it. I pulled on my mask.
Time to claim my territory.
Infestation 11.2
Water sprayed in the truck’s wake as we cut a path through the flooded streets.
It was a military vehicle. I wasn’t one to know much about cars, and I knew even less about stuff like military vehicles, so I couldn’t put a name to the truck that was carting me and eight of Coil’s workers through the Docks. It was like a sturdy pickup truck, but the rear section was wider and it was hidden beneath a green tarp that had been stretched over a framework of metal bars. The tires were massive, with deep treads allowing the truck to navigate all but the most cracked sections of road where Leviathan had brought the underground pipes and drains through the surface.
The interior was loaded with the supply crates that I’d had Coil’s guys load into the vehicle. Each set was strapped together and tied down to the floor and sides of the truck with belts. There wasn’t much room for the seven of us in the back, and we’d been forced to sit on the crates with little legroom.
A part of me wanted to converse with Coil’s men and get to know them. Another part of me, a larger part, told me that I shouldn’t. I had to convey power and confidence. I wasn’t sure I could do that while making small talk. With much the same reasoning, I’d chosen not to help with the loading of the truck.
The men Coil had sent me were dressed up in the same outfits worn by the cleanup crews I’d seen around the city, picking up debris, trash and dead things. They wore heavy plastic one-piece bodysuits, made of a material I compared to those heavy-duty industrial rubber gloves that my dad kept under the sink, each in blue and yellow. The suits were loose-fitting, and only the upper halves of their faces were visible behind the clear plastic goggles they wore. Their mouths were hidden by the filters intended to prevent mold, dust and airborne pathogens from getting into the worker’s lungs.
The masks also, I noted, did a good job at hiding the identities of the six men and two women. If it weren’t for that, I’d think Coil was trying to be funny, giving the hazmat crew to the bug girl.
Whatever image I conveyed, whether it was in the role of a leader or as a potentially dangerous villain, it had given me elbow room. Coil’s employees had chosen to sit, cramped together, closer to the rear of the truck. I sat atop a crate with my back to the truck’s cab, watching the road behind us.
In a way, it was good that I wasn’t engaging in conversation. It let me focus on what I needed to—my bugs.
Generally speaking, there were two routes I tended to go. The first put me in one spot, drawing my bugs from the area. A three block radius made for a good number of bugs. The second situation came about when I’d taken the time to gather a few select bugs from here or there, while covering a whole lot more area. I’d done it before the bank robbery, to get a prime selection of bugs. I’d also done it before we attacked the ABB the first time, with the other groups. Never enough to draw attention.
This was different. This time, I wanted attention. This time, the city was a breeding ground for the bugs. Warm, moist, and filled with food. This time, I was gathering everything I could and I was covering a lot of ground.
We’d been driving for fifteen minutes around the perimeter of what I hoped would be my territory, gradually closing in towards the center. I found the bugs closest to the edges and sent them toward the middle. Of the ones that could fly, I had them gather overhead. It was more bugs than I’d ever controlled at once. My power seemed to crackle in my head as I drew in and interpreted all of the data.
I was almost convinced I would finally see the upper limit of my power. That I’d reach for more bugs and realize I couldn’t control any more. It didn’t happen.
The clouds of bugs that were gathering in the center of my territory were starting to cast a visible shadow on the area.
They weren’t the only bugs I controlled. I had others on separate tasks. With a number, I created barriers, heavy clouds in alleyways and across streets. My motives here were purely selfish—I laid these barriers between the southmost end of the old Boardwalk and the Docks because I didn’t want my dad entering the area. My gut told me that if he got a good look at me in costume, he’d know who I was.
Besides, it didn’t factor into my plan.
I had other bugs sweep through the inside of the buildings in my range. I made contact with people, stirring some from their sleep. As I sat on the crate in the back of the truck, nearly motionless, I was making a tally. How many people were here, and where were they?
When I had a sense of things, I began organizing my bugs into formations. I started in the areas with lots of people clustered together: a warehouse with no less than eighteen people; a tenement crammed with what I assumed were families, with lots of small children; and an overly warm building with a large group of half-dressed people drenched in sweat.
As I got those groups out of the way, I turned to targeting smaller groups, probably collections of families or friends. Where people were too deep in their sleep, I had the bugs
nip at them to wake them.
They would wake up and see what I’d done. On their walls and floors, much as I’d done at the fundraiser, I had my bugs organized into arrows, pointing the way out the doors, down to the streets, and towards the truck’s destination. I drew out the letters to the word ‘supplies’ and left them in the brightest lit, warmest spots in the rooms where people were. Accounting for the illiterate, I put the bugs down in the shapes of basic food—a drumstick, a cut of cheese, a can.
I knew I wasn’t the best artist. I worried I was confusing matters with the pictures. I could only cross my fingers.
Today wasn’t one of the days my power was working double time, with double the range. I’d wanted to make sure to reach as many as I could, so I’d started drawing the arrows and words with the bugs early. The unfortunate downside of that was that it meant we were left with barely any time to set up after we arrived at our destination. I’d knocked on the window to get the driver to stop at an intersection where the road was torn up and traffic was difficult for conventional vehicles.
I stayed in the truck as Coil’s men unloaded it. I sensed some of the people venturing out of their residences, and I was careful to leave them unmolested by the bugs, using only what I had to in order to track them. Watching from windows and entryways, encouraged by those who left, others ventured to follow.
The area in which I’d ordered the truck to stop was open. I hoped would encourage the growing crowd to approach. The truck was parked in the middle of the road, and the boxes were unloaded onto the ground just below the rear of the truck. I wasn’t sure I liked that they were getting wet, but I knew they were at least partially waterproof. I should have thought to ask Coil for some kind of platform or pallet to set them down on.
It wasn’t two minutes before the first people started to arrive. The first few were kids, no older than ten, gathered in a loose pack, maintaining a wary distance. The next two groups were families, parents with their kids in tow. I noted that the group of men who stepped out of an alley were armed, with knives and clubbing weapons hidden under their clothes and in their jackets. One of them swatted one of the flies I was using to feel him out. Were they members of the Merchants, or just a band of grown men that had taken to carrying weapons to protect themselves?