He was so weak. He lolled feebly to his knees, leaving bloody stamps wherever his torn palm and ripped knee touched. His thigh was marred with a dark bar of steamed flesh. Ugh, he gagged, then lurched to his feet.
The thrumming sound of footsteps was coming closer. There was never any time. He moved; wobbling steps that bounced him from wall to wall as limp as a noodle, until he was there, at Farsan's room.
He hammered on the door but no answer came. He tried the handle but it was locked, and an involuntary cry escaped his lips. To come so far and be denied here?
Then he remembered, and backed along the corridor to a vending machine that once would have served all manner of teas; green tea and Indian tea and Earl Gray and cream tea. He ran his finger under the bottom rim until he came across the scratch of masking tape, and secured by the tape to the machine's underside, an illegal key card copy.
He'd stashed them in many places, just in case; it was one crime Salle Coram's people hadn't cracked down on. He slipped it out, staggered back to Farsan's door, and held the card to the lock.
It flashed green and clicked open. He stumbled in just as the first of the stamping bodies closed around the far edge of Birch onto Willow.
* * *
Farsan's room was quiet. The door slid shut behind him and Lucas stood in the doorway for an instant, terrified of what he might find, but fear had never stopped him before.
"Farsan," he called, and hurried down the hall, peering in to the living space as he went by. There were Farsan's wooden sculptures, some beautiful Arabic text design he'd once explained, on a night he'd dreamed of so many times since, when they'd come so close Lucas had thought they might actually kiss.
Sitting on the floor, Farsan had ran Lucas' fingers round the curves and patterns carved into the wood, explaining what they meant in Islam. "These signify holiness," he'd said, "and all the beauty of the world as we find it. Allah teaches acceptance of the real. These curves in this wood, don't they speak to you of peace?"
They'd been so close he could feel Farsan's breath on his cheek. He'd longed more than anything then to turn and kiss his friend, to hold him close and whisper, 'I love you,' in his ear, 'Can you love me?'
But he hadn't; too much fear or too much respect, he'd never known which. It didn't matter now, and he brushed by in a moment because Farsan was not there. Beyond it the kitchen was empty too, the dining room, the bathroom, until last of all lay the bedroom at the end of the hall. He bounced once more off the wall, a spell of dizziness passed over him like a silver cloud, then he had his hand on the door and opened it up.
Farsan was there, lying in bed. He sat up at once, surprise blurring through the sleepy impression of his face.
"Lucas?"
Lucas almost dropped to his knees and converted on the spot.
"God, you look terrible," Farsan said. "What happened?"
"I can't explain," Lucas babbled, striding over and shrugging off his duffel bag. He dropped onto the sheets beside Farsan and rifled inside for the drip bag. "It's chaos outside, the infection's inside, but maybe I can-"
He turned and stopped speaking, because in those seconds Farsan had stopped being Farsan. In the time it had taken for him to walk over, the change had started. Farsan's skin was bleaching to gray. His eyes were an empty, staring white.
"No!" Lucas shouted and reached out to his friend's face, as if he could somehow push the color back into it, but it made no difference. Instead he simply held his friend's face as the infection stole him away, and erased any hint of recognition in Farsan's eyes.
"No," he shouted again. It was too close, too cruel, and now he wanted nothing more than to pull Farsan's infection onto himself, to follow after him and go wherever he went, but he didn't know how. How would they live side by side now? How would they grow old together?
Farsan's eyes shone. He rose from the bed and started down the hall.
Lucas couldn't breathe; it was too much too fast. He looked down at the drip bag in his shaking hands, at the blood and the hot pink steam-burns, and cursed himself and cursed the black girl and the white man and the Goth.
Too late.
"Wait," he called, but Farsan didn't wait. "Please, Farsan!"
Farsan stumbled out of the room and down the hall and Lucas watched him go, helpless to change this now.
Too late. Farsan was gone and it was their fault. They had opened the Habitat and brought the infection with them, right when he was on the cusp of the cure. It was too cruel, too malicious, and in that moment he made a promise, and pledged to keep it with his life.
6. ROOT AND BRANCH
The night was long and painful. Amo was put under a loose guard by common agreement of the Council, isolated in his RV. Anna didn't visit him. Anna didn't do anything but prepare.
They'd agreed on a preliminary hearing, with lay-lawyers present only to ensure all sides were heard. Anna would represent Amo and Feargal would represent Alan. Witzgenstein would be judge and the congregation would be the jury. At stake was New LA as they knew it.
Lara had volunteered to represent Amo, but she'd been gray and flagging even at the start of the Council meeting; the demon attack and her coma had left her sickly and drained. She was the only one amongst them with training as a lawyer, but now she could barely breathe, let alone speak.
Still, in Anna's RV she hunkered around the little RV table and worked, though she could barely focus on anything for more than a few moments. Her eyes were glazed and dripping, her attention wandered and her skin was papery gray. Alternately she wept, dozed then muttered low ideas that didn't make much sense.
Anna laid her in one of the booths, tucked the blankets around her, then worked on into the small hours, refining what little insight she'd gathered from Lara, honing what she wanted to say and how this was going to go. Jake came by, Ravi offered to help, Sulman made suggestions through the door, and she thanked them each and sent them each away.
There was something she had to figure out, and the more time she listened to them the blurrier it got. There was a path through this, she knew it, a way to stop it before the trial gained any more momentum and crushed the old order beneath it, but to find it she had to focus.
Yet there was no time. She looked up from her notes as somebody banged on her door.
"We're beginning in ten minutes," came Macy's voice.
The night was already gone, and it was time. She was half-ready, but that would have to do.
She splashed water on her face, brushed down her flight suit; the only item she'd brought from New LA, then dressed and helped Lara to her feet.
"Where is he?" Lara murmured, looking around distraught. The few hours of sleep she'd received had done nothing to refresh her. "Amo, is he here?"
"We'll see him soon."
Anna patted her hand and helped her wash up, ran a brush quickly through her hair, then together they trudged out into the snow. Between the flanks of the convoy's RVs they went, under a freezing, dark blue dawn. Anna's hand shook on her clutch of papers. Lara didn't seem to know what was going on.
"Where's Amo?" she whispered again.
"This way."
They took their place in line to climb down the ladder into the bunker. People in their heavy jackets watched as they joined the line. Some gave warm but worried smiles. Some stared daggers. So the community would split.
Anna went first and guided Lara's feet down above her. The bunker was warm inside, as always, but it was so different to be entering like this. They rode the elevator together with Lara sagging against the wall. Anna steeled herself for what was coming.
The elevator door opened, revealing an orange courtroom that was already half-full. Amo was at the dock, looking back with vague, hollow eyes. When he saw Lara his face crumpled in a sad, relieved smile. Anna gave him a brisk, business-like nod.
She led Lara like a doddering old woman down to the front row, where they'd prepared a second chair for her beside Amo, counterpart to Feargal's alongside Alan's. Plai
ntiff, defendant and councils.
"He's here," Lara said quietly, smiling. "Good. Anna, you will win this. I know it."
Anna kissed her cheek then settled her down in the audience, alongside Ravi who gave Anna a brave smile and took Lara's hand.
"You can do it," Ravi said.
She nodded, then turned and took her seat beside Amo, who seemed too calm. He was floating, that was clear, like he had been since they'd busted Maine open, but this was worse. This was denial, or even worse than that, acceptance.
Anna leaned in toward him. "Things are going to change after this."
Amo smiled weakly. He was too broken to care. "I know."
"You don't," Anna said. "But you'll see. I'm going to crush that bitch to dust."
This did not seem to move him. He stood up.
Witzgenstein was coming in, walking in from the bunker's interior. Of course, that was good optics, it gave a sense of ownership. Anna rose along with everybody.
Witzgenstein took her seat, banged her gavel and so it began.
"It is with the greatest regret that I call this hearing to order. I intend for it to be as truthful, peaceful and honest as I am able to ensure. Shocking charges have been made, and today we are gathered to hear the full extent of those charges, in full view of all. But let me be clear, what we do here today is not a trial. The Council met and determined speed was of the greatest importance in holding this hearing, lest the charges be exaggerated, blown out of proportion or suppressed."
She paused and cast a meaningful look between Alan and Amo.
"However, a vote may be called. Not on guilt, but on admissibility. Will the testimony we hear today be admitted, therefore altering the nature of the trial begun yesterday? That is a decision only you, the people of New LA, can decide. So I stand down with the reminder, repeated a second time so as to leave no doubt; this is not a trial. Any trial would come in weeks or months, affording all parties the time to prepare their cases. This is merely a preliminary hearing."
She banged her gavel, and Anna barely prevented herself from snorting. It plainly was a trial, if one of public opinion. The results of it would be very real, even if Amo was not yet indicted. The whole affair was a recipe for chaos and disquiet; all surely part of Witzgenstein's plan. She would come out of this looking magisterial, above the fray, like the only impartial adult in the room, while everyone else would be sullied.
Feargal began, as previously agreed. He called Alan back to the stand, to continue his deposition, and Alan walked up there slowly, sensitively, as though he were very brave and carrying a great weight on his shoulders. Anna bit her tongue and listened along with all forty-six of them in the hall.
"Yesterday you told us Amo wanted Masako dead," Feargal began, speaking clearly and loud. "What the people in this room don't understand, and what they want to understand, is why he would want that? He was already mayor, newly elected. Was it purely a grudge? We know Amo has not acted on grudges before; Julio is a case in point. So why would he do so now?"
It was a fair question. It was leading the witness, or supposition, Anna knew as much from watching old legal TV shows, but it would stand up in this court. People wanted to know, and calling out 'Objection' now would reduce the impact of what she had planned for later, so she held her tongue.
"I believe he was afraid," Alan said. He looked stronger today; in keeping with his story, perhaps. No longer so afraid of Amo. He raised his gaze to look out over the congregation. If anything he seemed angry. "Of what she knew. She was in New LA at the start, before Amo learned to brand himself so well. He was afraid she was going to tell the truth about him, now they were political rivals. About how Don and Sophie really died."
Anna frowned. Don and Sophie now too? Witzgenstein was going all-in, it seemed. Get all the charges in, leave them a month or two to stew, then call a trial? It was transparently unfair.
"We all know how Don and Sophie died," Feargal said. "It's common knowledge. What can you tell us that is different?"
"He murdered them," Alan said.
The congregation gasped. Anna shook her head. Alan pressed on bravely. "She never told me until that night in Pittsburgh, but then it came out. He killed them then turned them into his legend. He's a sick man, and we have to do something. We can't let him rule anymore."
Feargal paled. Anna doubted even he had known this was coming. He was a good man, now co-opted into Witzgenstein's conspiracy. So she built her new consensus. Voices clamored in protest from behind Anna; she recognized Jake, Sulman, even Cynthia, which was good. There were others though, too, Witzgenstein's supporters, calling out 'For shame!'
Witzgenstein hammered her gavel and called them all to order.
Feargal licked his lips and pressed on, asking questions that built a fuller picture of Alan's fantasy. How had Amo killed them? Sophie by strangling, Don by purposefully siccing his zombie horde on them. Alan described how he'd used the comics to spread his false legend, because in truth he was a megalomaniac. He explained how Masako had seen him intimidate others countless times, forcing them by blackmail and threats to be silent, and how those same tactics had worked on her. He described how Amo and Cerulean had worked together to crush the free spirit of New LA, under the guise of setting it free.
Hearing it all laid out made Anna feel ill, plumbing deeper depths than she'd even guessed at. It was all nonsense, utterly baseless and without fact, but enough of it would stick that a smear would forever be on Amo's name from this day forward. She could feel the mood in the room changing. Alan's story explained things they'd never understood before; linking together true facts with gaps in the collective understanding.
Everybody knew that in some sense, their current predicament was actually all Amo's fault, stretching all the way back to origin of the apocalypse, with him and Lara in his New York tenement. Their union had triggered the end of the world; that was undeniable now. But Alan made it seem purposeful. He ascribed intent where there had been none, and in doing so he gave the people of New LA somebody concrete to blame for all their suffering, for so long.
It was all Amo. For ten long years, he had been the author of their pain.
Anna felt dizzy beneath the mass of 'evidence'. With Witzgenstein in the judge's chair, and Alan spinning out his story with anger and tears interspersed, they were riling New LA into a mob. Facts wouldn't matter if this kept up. Amo wouldn't be able raise his head to defend himself. This was a trial in the court of public opinion, and already she was losing.
At last they finished. Feargal announced other witnesses that had 'come forward' in the last fourteen hours, all seeking to have their testimony heard, and Anna was not a bit surprised. They were all Witzgenstein's supporters. Their stories would doubtless corroborate Alan's and heap on new charges to boot. Could the good people of New LA ignore so much testimony, even if it was suspect, even if there was no evidence?
She didn't think so. Root and branch. It had to happen now.
Her heart thumped. She remembered her Pacific crossing, standing in the yacht of the madwoman of Hawaii, and facing a similar choice.
"Thank you, Alan," Feargal finished. "I know this is hard for you. Anna, your witness."
She took her time standing. She looked at Alan then Witzgenstein, then she turned to the congregation, surveying them steadily. At last she spoke.
"This trial is bullshit."
The words rang out and hung in the air. She looked in the congregation's eyes one by one, challenging anyone to defy her. Nobody did, except for Witzgenstein, who took the bait and rapped her gavel smartly. "Anna, please."
Anna turned and looked up at the judge. Witzgenstein. "Janine," she said. "Of course you mean to defend the trial. It's your baby. Tell me, how long have you been planning it? How long did it take to coach this idiot to spit all these charges up?" She waved at Alan, whose face was darkening in anger. "It's impressive, truly, but it seems you've forgotten that I actually know Amo. We all here actually know Amo; he's a good man, he
saved us, he brought us together. He did not murder Masako or any of this other nonsense."
Janine tolerated all of this with no expression marring her perfectly stern features. "This is not how a trial works, Anna," she said coolly. "I realize you're too young to remember, but one does not usually attack the judge."
This earned a few laughs. Very good.
"I am young," Anna agreed. "But not so young I can't recognize lies spun out of whole cloth. Alan," she turned to him, "tell me, where's your evidence? Of everything you've said, where's the evidence? You have none. It is entirely hearsay. Gossip. Rumors. Bullshit."
Witzgenstein rapped the gavel again. "Anna," she warned. "Call a witness or interrogate the one you have. This court is not here for your grandstanding."
Anna laughed. Yes, that would be the way. Make her over-react. Get tempestuous Anna to expose herself in public, then pull her down too. Discredit them all. They probably had a plan for Lara, for Jake, for Sulman. They would all fall from grace in a future Witzgenstein-led New LA.
Not if Anna had anything to do with it.
"I call myself to the stand," Anna said, loud and clear. "I was there on the radio, and I say my testimony stands." She turned to the audience. "In the end it will come down to Alan's word against mine, against the Amo you have seen and known yourselves for years. There is no evidence in their case, and I cannot disprove a negative."
She looked over the audience. Cynthia was grinning chaotically, her libertarian streak luxuriating in watching it all come down like this. Ravi looked like a turtle trying to duck back into its shell. Lara was gray and leaning on his shoulder. Others just stared, uncertain what to believe.
Anna wanted to sigh. These people.
"As Anna, on the stand, I want to say that you should be on your knees thanking this man," she said. "All of you should, Alan and Witzgenstein included."
Janine banged the gavel behind her. "Anna, let's have order. These matters need to be discussed in a civil manner, by cooler heads."
The List (Zombie Ocean Book 5) Page 8