Vertical City (Book 3)

by Mahaffey Jr. , George S. .

  “What was that?” I ask, gesturing back at the room.

  “Nothing – not a – just a recon vehicle.”

  “I’ve never heard about it.”

  “That’s because its existence is on a strictly need to know basis. And right now you don’t need to know about it.”

  Josh pulls me back and I’m too tired to argue, so we coast silently through secure doors and checkpoints and then back up into the main stairwell. Because of the way the central stairwell is blocked or re-routed in certain sections, we’re forced to march up several floors (up past sixteen), then back down, then back up.

  On one floor we nimble through a room where most of our drinking water comes from. Huge vats and a labyrinth of PVC pipes filled with liquid from catch-basins on the roof and sides of VC1 that are heated and filtered and routed throughout the majority of the building.

  On another floor we’re forced by a possible Dub infiltration to detour through the building’s scrap yard where small furnaces are stoked. Here metal refuse is loaded by machines with rusted arms; traveling cranes creaking and groaning overhead, reaching down iron hands and seizing iron prey. And aside these things are various machining implements that bend and hammer and spin the molten metal into new objects: tools, armor, weapons, metal plate for barricades. I stand and take it all in, thinking that it’s like being in the center of the earth, where the machinery of time is constantly revolving.

  The workers here are black with soot, hollow-eyed and gaunt, manning heavy presses and shaping and cutting appliances. They work with fierce intensity, rushing around, but rarely lift their eyes from their tasks.

  We ascend a few more floors. More people the higher we climb. More traffic. The heads and faces blur by, hallways lit in some sections, darkened in others by the rolling blackouts sometimes experienced during peak energy usage.

  “You hear anything about our operation?” I say to Josh, making small-talk.

  He nods without turning back.

  “What happened to the others?”

  No response from him.

  “There was a dude named Strummer with me and there was Del-”

  “I know.”

  “So what of them?”

  He spins and rebukes me with a look.

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Because I’m not getting any answers.”

  “Does ‘no comment’ qualify?”

  “What can’t you comment on?”

  “Look, I’m not allowed to talk about anything that might be contained in an after-action report.”

  “Who said one was filed?”

  Josh is silent and I read his downturned eyes and realize one of the others, either Strummer or Del Frisco, must have made it back and filed a report. I wonder what they said. Wonder how and what they reported. Did they tell the truth? Did Del Frisco reveal how we bungled into a nest of Dubs and when the chips were down, really down, old Strummer bolted on us after Darcy was turned? If Strummer made it back he’s probably bullshitting Shooter, shooting down questions, filibustering everyone who might make a contrary observation about how the op went down:

  Oh, no, sir, I stood my ground and did my damndest to save Darcy. It was Wyatt and the madman, Del Frisco. Yessir, I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but Del Frisco’s certifiable. Him and Wyatt did it. They screwed up. They led us into a trap and hecked up the whole goddamn thing!

  More of the building flaps past. More people, voices, images. Cinders fill the air and I know we’ve gone up and are heading back down to ten.

  Soon we’re slipstreaming past troupes of Burners who are busily manning the incinerators. Bodies are everywhere, mostly Dubs, stacked on gurneys five feet high. In the back of my mind a voice asks why, if the mother building’s so impregnable, there are so many damn bodies. The stench of spoiled meat mixes with the funk of sweat. I haven’t eaten in almost a day and I’m simultaneously starving and sickened.

  “What’s it like outside?” Josh says, casting a look back at me.

  “Outside above or outside below?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “There’s a big difference.”

  “On the streets then,” he continues, slowing, his eyes finding the shriveled corpse of a female Dub whose palsied hand is stretched up as if in prayer.

  “About what you think it’d be like,” I reply.

  “What are they like on the Flatlands?” he asks, bobbing his head in the direction of the Dub as she’s tossed into an open incinerator grate.

  “They don’t go down easy.”

  “Wouldn’t think they would. But I’m totally not scared of them, y’know? Some of the others are, they’re worried about getting turned and coming back, but not me.”

  “I didn’t used to be scared of them either,” I reply after a few heartbeats.

  “And then?”

  “I saw one face-to-face.”

  He snorts.

  “This from the guy who scorched a whole building?”

  “It was half of one.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Not when you’re inside.”

  “Somebody said the Dubs are getting smarter. That they’re, like, building traps and learning and pretty soon they’ll find a way in.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Is it true?”

  “No comment,” I say and he smiles darkly and snaps his fingers.

  Twenty minutes later, Josh and I are standing before the gray metal door that leads to Shooter’s office. I can hear laughter and voices on the other side of it.

  Josh sighs ferociously, and knocks twice on the door and says “Good luck” to me. That’s it and then he’s off, trotting back down the hall.

  I knock again on the door and the voices stop. Someone approaches and the buzzer sounds and the door opens and by God there he is.

  I’m not dreaming or having a nightmare.

  The sonofabitch is front and center.

  Strummer.

  Standing and staring and smirking.

  As if nothing ever happened.

  Chapter 6

  I blink, not believing my eyes, but it’s really him. It’s Strummer. The jackass has been scrubbed and polished and barely has any scratches on his face or hands. He stands at an odd angle and an empty smile pulls his mouth back, like someone in a toothpaste ad from one of Gus’s old magazines. A weak hug comes next, along with whispered words:

  “I told them what happened so you have to go along with it.”

  I’m almost too startled to respond, glancing over his shoulder to see Shooter and a few other Administrators whose names escape me. Most are seated and staring at the diorama of the city.

  I bury my head in Strummer’s shoulder:

  “What happened to you?” I say.

  “Now is not the time to-”

  “And where the hell is Del Frisco?!”

  “You hear what I’m saying-”

  “You ran on us, you sonofa-”

  “—for fuck’s sake, Wyatt, just go with it!”

  I pull back and Shooter rises from the diorama. The other Administrators seem on edge and I haven’t the foggiest idea of whether I’m about to be lifted up or put down.

  “I hear you stumbled into a nest,” Shooter says.

  I nod.

  “I hear you took most of a building down.”

  I don’t know whether to admit or deny this. It’s a huge undertaking to send out recovery teams, a stress on the community’s resources both in terms of munitions and manpower. Moreover, the fact that the building’s lower entrance was opened, if even for the briefest of moments, meant the possibility of exposure. Brixton and Matthais and their respective squads risked their necks and the asses of everyone in VC1 for what? For a few measly Ledge Jumpers. For little ol’ me.

  One of the other Administrators reaches for something in his pocket and there’s the flash of metal. My genitals retract and the hair on the back of my neck ridges. After what happened, I’m probably a postsc
ript, a loose end, a liability that needs to be put down.

  “Whose idea was it to roll the building up?” somebody asks.

  I crane my neck to see Odin rising from a rear seat. He’s dressed all in black and the angularity of his face coupled with the lighting makes him look like a high-tech holy man.

  Strummer stiffens, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead.

  “It was his!” Strummer says, gesturing at me. “It was all his idea!”

  Before I can say anything, Shooter and Odin have moved to within a few feet of me. Odin pulls out is laser-pointer and snaps it on.

  “Is that true, Wyatt?” Shooter asks.

  My eyes slowly lift up. Strummer wasn’t even with us when the deed was done, but there’s no percentage in trying to lie so I stiffen and nod. If I’m crossing over, it’s gonna be on my own terms.

  “Yes, sir, it was me,” I say.

  “I told you!” Strummer shouts, relieved, downright joyous.

  Odin aims the laser-pointer at Strummer.

  “You can leave now.”

  Strummer’s face drains of expression.

  “Wait – what – but I thought-”

  “Now,” Odin replies, some heat in his voice.

  Strummer spins and exits the room and now I’m facing down the man himself and waiting for whatever it is he’s has for me. I half expect someone to creep up and put a silenced bullet behind one of my ears.

  A few seconds of silence ensue and then Odin claps and to my shock so do Shooter and the rest of the Administrators.

  “All hail the conquering hero,” Odin says and the others laugh. I have no idea what the hell is going on, but I play along. Odin moves alongside me and then turns to the others and says:

  “Every culture, every country has a myth of decline from some better time, some golden age in its past. Well, we’re unique aren’t we? We’re special because we’re experiencing our golden age right now.”

  He points at me and holds my hand up like I’m the underdog prizefighter in an old-time movie. He asks how I am and whether I’ve got enough juice to hear his words. I nod and say that I do.

  “Wyatt here has just demonstrated that our theories work. That we, through technology and innovation, can solve our own problems. We can beat the things out there. We can lay low the barbarians before they batter down our doors!”

  The others cheer and Odin beams and I stand back and do what I do best. Smile like an idiot.

  Thirty minutes later the room’s been cleared and it’s just me and Odin and Shooter. Odin’s on his knees, perusing the diorama while Shooter listens to our conversation, taking notes on a tablet.

  I’ve just spent the last fifteen minutes detailing what happened on our operation with special emphasis on how the building was brought down. Odin listens intently, his eyes fixed on mine.

  “Those things out there, Wyatt,” he says after a few seconds of introspection. “They’re not our mortal enemies.”

  I’m guilty of having a bit of a soft spot for the Dubs, at least in theory, but if the berserkers that nearly ate me a little more than two hours before aren’t our ‘mortal enemies’ what the hell are they? As if reading my mind, Odin continues:

  “The creatures, the Dubs as some like to call them, are merely our competition.”

  “For what, sir?”

  “Resources and real estate.”

  I scrunch my nose at this and Odin rises.

  “I’m guessing you disagree,” he says.

  “I guess maybe I don’t understand. You’re making it sound like we’re just running a business or something.”

  “Don’t we deliver goods and services? Don’t we have schedules and routines? Aren’t we selling a product?”

  “What kind of product?”

  “The most important kind there is, Wyatt. Hope.”

  I run a hand through my matted hair.

  “And do you know what that makes our brethren?” he asks. “All the people that live and breathe in VC1 and the surrounding buildings?”

  I shake my head and he smiles ear-to-ear.

  “Customers.”

  He jabs the laser-pointer’s red light at various spots in the diorama.

  “And what do customers care about? Solving problems. They want to see proof that the ideas underpinning one’s pitch, the grand plan, work. What you did out there is important because it proves some of what I’ve been saying for years.”

  “You mean bringing the building down?”

  He nods.

  “We’ve become great because of our collective struggle. But now that first stage of the struggle is over. It’s time to elevate ourselves. It’s time to take on our competition on the Flatlands and dive deep and clear and cleanse the city block-by-block and then, when that is done, we’ll establish a monopoly over all that lies before us.”

  I stare at him because he’s no longer looking at me. He’s gazing off into space, a look on his face as if he’s just witnessed something of unparalleled beauty. A shiver dances along my spine.

  “What do you say, Wyatt?”

  “Haven’t we tried that before, sir?”

  “And if we have?”

  “Gus says doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity.”

  “Gus as in… Gus Abrams?”

  I nod and a zippered grin tugs his mouth back.

  “There are some people who go down to the altar of life with one heavy bag and they leave it and then there are others who go down and come back with two. Gus is like that second person, Wyatt. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” I say even though I don’t.

  “Would you say more or less people share Gus’s sentiments?”

  I don’t respond and he waves his hands.

  “You’re out in the world, at least figuratively. You know what the others think. If we decide to try something again with a slight twist, will our colleagues and loved ones buy into it?”

  “I think… most will.”

  “All I need is a majority.”

  I immediately think about folks like Gus. People who’d never, ever, buy anything that Odin was hawking.

  “Of course that leaves an awful lot of other people, Wyatt. But that’s what happens when an individual’s goals are at odds with the majority. In the old days people used to call that individuality. I call it… misalignment. The only sin that’s unpardonable.”

  “What happens if someone’s not with us?”

  “Then I suppose they’re against us. But we’ll come out on top and convince them of our rightness won’t we? Because that’s what this place has always engendered. A nifty sort of purposeful Darwinism.”

  Odin looks over at Shooter who grins and nods and closes the flap on his tablet.

  “Tell me, Wyatt,” Odin says, turning to me. “When you’re on The Dream Catcher or out prowling the Flatlands, what happens when you’re faced with a wall?”

  “You find a way to climb over it, sir.”

  Odin smacks his hands together and pumps a fist.

  “That’s right! That’s exactly one-thousand percent right! And why is that? Why? Because conflict breeds innovation!”

  I reflexively nod.

  “I want you to help me moving forward, Wyatt. We’ve got a good business here, but I need a new way to sell it. Sometimes the delivery is the only thing that matters.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  He grins.

  “You have what used to be called ‘street cred.’ You’ve seen that our theories work. I need you to help craft the pitch. I need you to spread the word, to be one of our new brand ambassadors.”

  He leans over and places a hand on my shoulder just like Dad used to do when he wanted to impart some words of wisdom.

  “You’ve got a seat at the table if you’re interested, Wyatt, and a few chips. You’re part of this place, part of this living thing. The greatest start-up that has ever been.”

  I nod wearily.

/>   “I need to ask one final question, Wyatt.”

  “Anything.”

  “One of the spotters said he saw something at or around the time the building came down.”

  “Something, sir?”

  “Yes. Fabric perhaps. Fluttering in the wind. Billowing out like a flag, like a… parachute.”

  My thoughts turn to Naia, but I mutter:

  “What’s a parachute?”

  He doesn’t answer and a few seconds of silence stretch between us.

  “You’d tell me if there was someone else out there with you, wouldn’t you, Wyatt?”

  “There’s nothing else out there, sir.”

  “And why is that, Wyatt?”

  “Because death holds sway beneath the tenth floor.”

  He grins a final time and I sense an opening, a moment when it might be permissible to ask something of him.

  “May I ask one question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wha – what happened to Del Frisco?”

  Chapter 7

  My emotions are mixed upon hearing that Del Frisco staggered back alive. While grateful that he made it out of the building, I’m worried that his recovery is taking place on the sixteenth floor.

  Sixteen’s the island of misfit toys, as Strummer used to say. The infirmary, the place where the unloved and unwanted and those generally beyond rehabilitation are stashed.

  My head swims from everything Odin’s told me as I bull down sixteen’s primary corridor, fighting not to make eye contact with any of those who’ve been marooned here. I catch sight of my old buddy Stanley Storch riding a kid’s bigwheel around, but he doesn’t spot me and I’ve got no time to swap words.

  Pushing through a door and past an infirmary aide, I enter an open room lit by natural light.

  Many of the residents are slumped in chairs and couches, a few watching an old television with a documentary on a continuous death loop, others doing spastic exercises to a rhythm only they can hear.

  Del Frisco’s hair is the first thing I spot. It’s unruly and the unwashed, his kinked tresses resembling a little forest of reverse stalactites.

  Edging toward him I’m overjoyed to see him, but troubled that he’s slumped in a wheelchair. Facing his back, I whisper: