The cherubs were falling. Tires screeched in the lot behind us as the Myrmidons arrived. Two of the electrocars kept going, bumping up on the curb and smashing through the fence, throwing themselves off the cliff because the drivers had disappeared.
They fell. We didn’t.
And Rob didn’t let go of my hand.
* * *
We walked right through the Myrmidons.
They didn’t see us. They kept yelling at each other, spreading out through Coughlin Park. Some of them had vanished. There were neat little piles of clothes left behind, nothing else.
The buses were still running, and so were some transports—the ones that had preprogrammed controllers instead of drivers. We took the 71 to the edge of town, the dilapidated lectrotrain station full of people staring at telescreens. The news was incredible.
It was chaos. Some transports had crashed, their pilots vanished. Every kid under the age of sixteen was gone. Lots of adults, but none of the Elders, and Pastor Pete was all over the airwaves ranting about something or another. Plenty of heathens were gone, lots of indentureds, most everyone who had been sent for derezzing, pretty much everyone in Holy Camps or Reeducation Centers. All they left behind was their clothes, as if they’d just stepped out of them. Fires and looting all over the place, people screaming, sobbing, or standing with tears running down their faces. Pastor Peter kept going, ranting about the End Times.
Well, duh.
Rob got us on a train. Nobody bothered to check us for tickets. We sat in a first-class compartment as it pulled smoothly out of the station on its programmed track, another brand of eerie quiet closing over us. Sunshine poured over the world, but a pall of smoke was rising from the city. The cherubs were still falling out of the sky, and I hoped one wouldn’t hit the train.
Somehow, I didn’t think it would.
Rob stared out the window, tapping his fingers on his knee, his jeans ripped and his T-shirt a little torn, just an average thin-tall kid with a shock of dark messy hair and dark eyes. He wasn’t grinning now.
I was having some trouble breathing. I kept looking down at our hands. He hadn’t let go yet. The lectrotrain lurched and I bent forward, my fingers cramping-tight, and tried to put my head on my knees.
“Hey. Oh, shit. Julie? You okay?”
I am not okay. How can you be okay with something like this? “I dunno,” I said into my plaid skirt. “That’s…it. It’s happened. It’s real. Really real.”
“Well, I told you so.” But his other hand was on my head. He was petting my hair, and it was so awkward it made it a little easier to get some air in. “It’s okay, Julie. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Well, that’s comforting. Except I have a little trouble believing it. “We’re going to Hell,” I moaned into my skirt. I’m amazed he heard me.
“It’s better than Holy Camp.” A short, nasty laugh, sounded like it hurt. “They’re gonna pay. Everyone who’s left.”
It rose up inside me. I sat up like someone had poked me with a sharp stick. “Christ have mercy, Rob, we’ve both been through Dogma a million times. You know what happens!”
“I know what they say happens. There’s a Bible on the other side, too.” His free hand hung in the air, like he wanted to touch me but wasn’t sure he should. “It says different stuff. I’ve seen it.”
That just about floored me. The air went out of me again, and I bent over. This time little black spots danced in front of my eyes before Rob whomped me on the back with his free hand. I sucked in enough air to scream, decided against it.
When I could manage it, I sat up again. My brain was clicking like metal balls, shuddering inside my skull. “No. No. Nuh-uh. No way.”
He got real quiet, stared at me instead of the window. Just a kid, except there was a pinprick of red way far back in those black pupils.
It didn’t scare me.
Much.
But my throat was kind of dry. “So each side has their Bible and they both say different things. Where does that leave us, huh? I’m guessing either way it ends pretty badly.”
He shrugged, pointed shoulders coming up, and for a moment it was like being at Holy Camp again, sneaking away with him to sit and talk aimlessly. I wished I had a smoke. But he was listening. Hard.
I couldn’t hold his hand any tighter. I was losing feeling in my fingers. But I didn’t ease up. “Let’s just get out. Go somewhere. South, north, somewhere there’s not a lot of people. Just get away and stay away. They can’t do any of this without you, can they?”
He thought this over, chewing on his lower lip. “It might not work. I mean, I’m the Antichrist. You just don’t retire from that, or—”
“They can’t do anything to you, though. So you just let it go. Let them do whatever they want to each other as long as they leave us out of it. Right? Or do you want to be a camp counselor instead of a kid? You want to be the one peeking through the cherubs and sending the Myrmidons around?” Why couldn’t I say exactly what I wanted to? This was important. Frustration boiled up inside me. “It’s the same thing, whether it’s you or them doing it. Why not just derez ourselves right out? Just you and me. Do something better. Why not?”
“It…” His mouth worked.
I couldn’t believe this hadn’t occurred to him before. “Seriously. The cherubs are gone, the Myrmidons didn’t see us, what’s to say we weren’t disappeared with the rest of them? And as for…as for the rest, God and all that, they can’t make you, can they? What can they do to you? A big fat nothing, right? Let them have their big war or whatever without you. See how far they get.”
His fingers loosened a little. “If I…” He licked his lips, glanced away at the window like a cherub might be watching, and shook his head. Glared at me. “If I do, will you stick with me? Promise?”
Well, who else do I have? Uncle Irving? Don’t make me laugh. Mattie? If she’s not derezzed over the border then she’s probably vanished. “I promise. I like you, Rob. I really do.”
“Really?” He looked about three years old, and hopeful. It was hard to believe he was…what he said he was. The red pinpricks in his pupils were gone.
“Really.” Our fingers loosened. I was glad, because my hand was sweating something awful and my whole arm was threatening to cramp up. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry? They prolly have vendings.”
“Starving.” He looked like it, too. “Julie, what if they try to make me do it?”
“Then we never really had a chance and it’s all been a game.” I found out my legs would work and pushed myself up. The train’s smooth rollicking turned into a rhythm. I didn’t even know where we were going.
Rob grabbed my hand in both of his. We stood there for a couple seconds, looking at each other, and heat painted itself up my throat, flushing my cheeks. The duffel bag between us slumped, dispirited, like it just wanted a shower and a plate of Mattie’s roast chicken.
I could relate. My stomach made a noise like a monster in a cavern, and that managed to crack us both up. We laughed, in a kind of hysterical-screamy way I’ve heard at a lot of Camps. It means the worst is pretty much over. Or at least, that you think it is.
“Come on.” I tugged at him. “Let’s find something to eat. Then I hope you have a smoke. I’m dying for one.”
He unfolded himself, gingerly. “Yeah. They can’t give us demerits for smoking on a train, either.”
“Cool.” I took a deep breath, and steadied myself. When I opened my eyes again he was watching me, anxiously, and I wondered…
But I tugged at him again. “Find me a vending, Maguire. Where’s this train headed, anyway?”
“North, I think. How far do you think we’ll get?”
I could’ve lied to him. But I didn’t. I made up my mind not to, for as long as I could help it. “I don’t know. As far as we can.”
As far as they let us.
It would have to be enough.
Bonus Short Story:
The Last Job
5:04
PM
I greeted the day bleary-eyed, heaving, and still drunk.
Which is, really, just the way I like it.
I had just finished yarping dryly over the commode when the doorbell’s sweet soft chime penetrated my hangover with all the finesse of a lead sledgehammer. Head pounding, heart throbbing, and kidneys aflame, I splashed cold water on my face and lifted my head to observe two bloodshot blue eyes staring out of the mirror.
Well, that was no shock. They were mine.
The doorbell hammered my temples again. I scratched at my armpit, lifted up the hem of my Cribbage Pie T-shirt. It didn’t smell like vomit. I sighed happily and groaned as the pounding drilled through my head.
I made it out into the hall, kicking an empty Shivlitz bottle aside. It tinkled and broke. I stamped up to the door as the doorbell sounded again, and then I realized the pounding was not strictly in my poor aching head. It was coming from the door as well.
I sighed, and turned the knob, lifting my gun. In my line of work, you never, ever answer the door unarmed.
I jerked the door open and would have shot Bruce, except for the dead body. It fell face-forward and hit my floor with a dull thud, and I looked up at Bruce, who was sweating and wide-eyed in an expensively hideous sport coat and blue polyester pants. He had lost his hat, and he was unshaven, and his left eye was almost puffed closed. Someone had popped him a good one. Not as good as the guy on the floor, though.
A chill exhaled out from the body on the floor, raising my skin into goose bumps.
“Well,” I said after a moment. I hadn’t seen Brucie in two years. “You’d better come in.”
* * *
5:22 PM
Bruce held the ice pack to his left eye while I fixed myself a drink. “You gotta help me, Izzie.”
“You dumped a dead body on my hallway floor, Bruce. No dice.” I poured Scotch into a glass, contemplated the amber liquid, and took a long pull straight from the bottle. “Ahhh.”
No day was so bad a good bottle couldn’t fix it.
“Come on, be a good girl. I’ll pay you.” His mournful brown eye fixed on me. His coat was a particularly loud shade of polyester today, brown and red plaid with threads of charming neon green.
I dropped down across from him, propping my feet up on the rickety kitchen table. A fly buzzed lazily over the unwashed dishes from last night’s dinner. A leaden bar of sunlight pressed against the wilting tomato plant in the windowsill. I contemplated my boot toes. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“Does it have to do with the dead body?”
“No, just his heart.”
“What?”
“He needs his heart back.”
I eyed my boots even more closely, took another pull from the bottle. “Doesn’t look like he’s missing it.”
“He’s a vampire, Izzie. They stole his heart.”
“Oh.” I took another pull. It exploded in my stomach. Maybe once my head stopped hurting I could find something to eat. “Where’s the heart?”
“Church on the corner of Parkinson and Vine. A group called the Pickers is holding it for ransom.”
“None of this explains why you dumped a dead body in my hallway.”
“You were in the neighborhood.”
I winced. “I don’t handle paranormal clients anymore, Brucie. I presume the dead body would be the one paying me?”
“He’s not a dead body. He’s just resting. And his name is Viktor.”
“What happened to his heart?”
“I told you, the Pickers are holding it for ransom. Come on, Izzie. You’re my friend.”
“No, Brucie. I’m going to finish my drink and call the police.”
“No police, Izzie. Please.”
“I could lose my license over this, Brucie. A PI scrip doesn’t cover dead vampires on my hallway floor.” I hauled myself up and stamped across the kitchen. A search of my cupboards revealed one slice of moldy bread and an abandoned packet of ketchup from McWendy King. The fridge held one chunk of green cheese and an empty bottle of mayonnaise, two soda crackers, and a bottle of Schiltzo Light Malt Almost-Beer. I eyed the pile of dirty dishes. No help there.
I opened the cabinet over the micron. A venomous-green bottle of synthabsinthe glowed next to an empty vodka bottle. The Scotch was all I had left, and I’d already demolished it.
I took another pull off the bottle and turned back to Bruce.
“Where did you say that heart was?”
* * *
6:42 PM
“That’s it,” Bruce said. “You’re really saving my life, Izzie.”
I jammed my sunglasses back up on my nose and shifted uncomfortably on the car’s pleather seat. The dusty-colored Church of the Holy Redeemer crouched under the haze of afternoon heat, the graveyard to one side throbbing green. I blinked and scratched at my forehead, yawned.
Bruce had insisted that the body needed to be left somewhere dark, so it was propped in my hall closet between the golf clubs and the ancient vacuum cleaner left over from the last tenant. He was a nice-looking guy, or would have been if he’d had a pulse. He was even dressed well, in a blue-black Fez Harmani suit. The suit jacket, shirt, and his broad chest were a mess of hamburger; and he was starting to smell. Nice dark hair, nice high cheekbones, and a powerful stink.
Just like a man to ruin everything with one flaw.
“Why did they steal the heart, Brucie?”
“They’re holding it for ransom.”
“Why?”
“Goddamn union. They want better pay, a health plan, all that shit.”
“Union?”
“Werewolves. Best help for a vampire nowadays, since the Fair Labor Act went through.”
I closed my eyes, leaned my head back into the seat. My sunglasses did nothing to stop the sun from pounding spikes right through my head. I needed another bottle of Scotch. I wasn’t carrying any silver bullets—I didn’t do paranormal cases anymore. “One day I’m gonna kill you, Brucie. Come on.”
“I can’t.” Bruce tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “They’ll be sleeping anyway; lupins sleep from midafternoon to past dusk. Just get in, get the heart, and get out. That’s all.”
I pulled my sunglasses down and examined his pasty, sweating face. The shiner was really starting to puff up and turn a nice deep purple. “Why can’t you come in?”
He pulled his bright orange polyester collar away from his throat. This close, I could see two scabbed-over pinpricks right over the jugular.
He’d been bitten, but not drained. My old pal Brucie was a human servant. My skin crackled with gooseflesh. He really couldn’t go into the church. Werewolves might not notice me, but they would definitely notice a human servant bursting into flame in the vestry.
“Oh, Christ,” I said, and Brucie winced. I doubted it would do anything—I was an atheist. Pretty much every reasonable PI these days is. “One of these days, Bruce. Okay. Stay here.”
I got out of the car.
* * *
6:50 PM
The church door was unlocked, and a powerful zoolike stink wafted out. I wrinkled my nose. Last time I tangled with a werewolf, I’d lost a chunk out of my right thigh and had to take a loss on the job.
It’s generally bad form for a private eye to kill the person she’s sent to find.
I eased into the dark frowsty cave of the church. There was a susurrus—I pushed my sunglasses up on my head and crossed the vestibule, tried the double doors that would lead into the nave. They were unlocked. I eased one open, nearly choking as the smell blazed out. It was worse than that bar over on Seventh Street, and that was saying something.
The pews were shoved all around, and I saw huge fuzzy shapes lying curled on the floor. My gorge rose, and I wished for another drink. I took my time, studying the church, and my eyes snagged on something interesting.
The altar had been cleaned with one ruthless sweep, candles and clutter and a large iron crucifix lay in a messy pile to
one side. And I thought I was irreligious. I breathed through my mouth. Sweat trickled and tickled down my back. The only thing left up on the altar was an iron casket the size of a football. I was betting that was the heart. If it wasn’t, it was a good decoy. Werewolves weren’t usually bright enough to set a decoy out.
I eased into the nave and ghosted up the carpeted walk. I’ve never been one for visiting churches. The sound of werewolves breathing folded around me, and I had to stop halfway to the altar and try to retch soundlessly. The smell was that bad.
One of the werewolves was dreaming. Little canine yips came out of his huge razor-toothed snout, and his clawed hands wriggled a little bit.
Oh, Brucie, I’m gonna kill you for this. I consoled myself by calculating how many bottles fifty thousand yen would buy.
* * *
6:58 PM
The huge hairy creature screamed as I shot it twice. It had swiped me a good one in the ribs. I ran for the church door and the blaze of westering sunlight, hearing snarling yips behind me. They had been asleep, but one of the things that wakes up werewolves is the sweat-smell of a Scotch-soaked licensed PI.
I would add that to my long list of life lessons if I could just get out of here alive.
I made it out the door and flew down the walk, clutching my gun in one hand and the small iron casket in the other. The fucking thing dragged my arm down, but I skidded through the church gates and heard a long howl behind me. I threw myself in the car and Brucie gunned the engine. I had to shoot the one trying to scrabble in through the window. Its face disintegrated into meat. The bullets weren’t silver, but I bet they still hurt.
I lay panting and bleeding in the front seat and eyed Brucie, who was whistling happily in his polyester sport coat. Oh yes. I was definitely going to kill him one day.
Unfallen Page 3