Panther in the Hive (The Tasha Trilogy Book 1)

by Cole, Olivia

  “How are we going to get one out of here?”

  “I assumed you knew how to hotwire.”

  “What, because I’m black I know how to hotwire?” Tasha mocks.

  They laugh, and Z reaches into her pocket, withdrawing something small wrapped in tissue.

  “No, you don’t need to hotwire anything,” she says. “We have this.”

  “What’s that?”

  Z dangles it teasingly like catnip. Tasha steps closer to examine it. It’s a finger. Well, a thumb: a severed human thumb, pale and slightly hairy around the chopped knuckle.

  “The fuck! Why do you have a finger?”

  “It’s a thumb,” Z corrects her. “It was my boss’s. He was the second person I met with the implant on the morning everything happened. I had just gotten rid of Mari and I’d run out of the guardroom, and there he was. He was pretty easy, the fat bastard.”

  “You’ve just been carting his thumb around all week?”

  “No,” Z laughs, “I had put him and Mari and some others in the employee break room after things settled down. I was still, like, debating last night if I was going to come with you or not, so while you were packing I went in and cut it off.”

  “Um…okay. Like, a souvenir?”

  “Ha! No, you freak. To start his car.”

  Z walks over to a sleek red Ferrari—of course the guy drove a Ferrari, Tasha thinks—and presses the lone thumb against the driver’s-side door handle. There’s a chirp, and Tasha hears the click of the locks as the Ferrari grants Z access. Tasha stares. Z tosses her bag into the tiny backseat.

  “Coming?”

  The inside of the car smells like cigars and leather. They adjust their seats, and Z adjusts the mirror and steering column.

  “I haven’t driven in forever!” she crows, buckling her seatbelt.

  Tasha hurriedly does the same.

  Z presses the severed thumb against a pad on the dashboard and the car comes to life. The electric engine—fitted with unique technology simulating the coveted roar of a twelve-cylinder—growls convincingly, and Tasha looks across the car at Z, who throws back her head and cackles.

  “Let’s gooo!”

  She steps on the gas and the car rockets out through the gate and squeals onto the downward curving path of the lot. Tasha grabs her seatbelt to keep her head from banging against the window. Z steers the car down another level and they whip out onto Ontario. There’s a side-street ahead that will take them onto one of the roads running alongside Michigan Avenue, but Z jerks the steering wheel to the right, urging the Ferrari through the space between two painted barriers, the side of the car knocking one over. They break through onto the promenade where no car (except the crashed Barbie Benz) has driven for almost ten years.

  “What are you doing?” Tasha squeals, half-giddy and half-terrified.

  “Driving!”

  “We’re not on the road!”

  “So what! It’s not like we’re gonna get a ticket! Put your window down: it smells like old rich guy in here.”

  Tasha presses the button that lowers the window and the wind comes into the car like the hands of a titan. She knows she should stay alert, keep her eyes open in case a Minker leaps in front of the car. But she has Z to worry about that, and the wind through her curls is like a prayer. She thinks that until this moment, she has spent her life in a flat-ironed up-do, inside the confines of a silent train-car and its nodding prisoners. This roaring engine—artificial or not—this rush of air sending her curls to chaos, this booming of wind in her ears…it closes her eyes and draws her hand out the window, floating it through the air rushing by as the Ferrari speeds south down Michigan Avenue.

  “What the fuck?”

  The car is slowing. Tasha’s eyes snap open. She expects to see a swarm of Chipped Chicagoans crawling up over the hood, gnawing their way through the windshield like demonic hamsters.

  “What? What is it?”

  Z is incredulous.

  “There’s a fucking kangaroo on Michigan Avenue.”

  Tasha sits up straight and peers ahead. Sure enough, a kangaroo has paused on the promenade ahead of the car, its small front legs clutched in front of its body like a little furry T-Rex. It looks at the car, which Z has brought to a stop several feet away, and twitches a large ear in their direction.

  “How the fuck did a kangaroo get out here?”

  Tasha coughs into her hand and twirls a curl of her hair around her finger. Z glances at her, then glances again, harder.

  “Wait, you said you spent the night at the zoo, but did you…?”

  “Oh look, he’s eating a carrot!”

  The kangaroo is indeed eating a carrot, munching it like an enormous brown rabbit.

  Z steers the car carefully around him and Tasha waves at him as they pass.

  “Hope you washed that carrot first, buddy!”

  Her eyes are closed again, her hair a cyclone. She can relax, at least in this moment. Z turns on the owner of the car’s music, an old song she knows well from her parents’ kitchen—CeeLo— blaring through the speakers as the Magnificent Miles blur past them.

  “No one is ever gonna love you more than I do,” Tasha sings, running her bare fingers through her curls. The world is a clear place. “No one’s gonna love you more than I do…”

  Chapter 21

  “Why do you think some of them stay inside?”

  They’re continuing to drive down Michigan Avenue, slowly now. Tasha had expected the area to be swarming with Minkers, and in some ways it is, but they’re not on the streets. Store windows are smashed here and there, debris and bodies clotting the sidewalks and still-humming Volamu, but the Minkers watch from their retail caves. Like the worker at the Post when Tasha had gone to retrieve her sister’s letter, they stay inside the confines of their various places of employment, guarding their wares like humanoid watchdogs. There are others that roam the streets, of course. Z had hit one—quite purposefully—as they passed Wacker. It had barred their way and gnashed its teeth as if the Ferrari was just a large red object of prey. Z had smashed right into him, rolled over him, and kept going, not even looking in the rearview.

  “I dunno,” says Z. “It is weird. It’s like they’re on house arrest. Not one toe out.”

  They cruise past a Jamba Juice. The cashier in her white apron stands right at the smashed doorway like an expectant Chihuahua, her jaws slowly opening and closing. She doesn’t react to the car passing just a few meters away. She just waits.

  “Yeah,” says Tasha. She shudders. “It’s so creepy though. Seeing them, you know. Knowing if they came out…how fucked we’d be.”

  “They’re not coming out,” Z says. But she looks nervous too. She’d allowed herself to be pried out of the Web, her safe haven, but she’s unsure of what’s next. So is Tasha. What’s the plan? South. That’s first. She’ll worry about finding Rio when she gets there.

  “Hey, what the hell is that?”

  Tasha snaps her neck, noting the urgency in Z’s voice. She sees what Z means immediately. Cloud Gate is on their left, where it has sat for nearly seventy-five years, only now it is completely covered in red paint.

  “…what the hell?”

  Z brings the car slowly to a stop on the promenade. The Bean is still a ways off what used to be the road, but from where they sit in the Ferrari they can see that the iconic sculpture has been painted almost entirely red, only the upper parts still silver and shining.

  They sit in silence for a moment, staring at it. It’s as if a massive bloody organ has been dropped from space, the kidney of a giant ripped from her belly and left for the birds.

  “Who do you think did it?”

  A who hadn’t occurred to Tasha. Yes, someone must have done it. It is not, in fact, an enormous bleeding body part. It’s a metal sculpture, one she’s seen a thousand times since she moved to this city. Seeing it this way is like being in a strange dream, a cruel wonderland.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Someone,
I guess. One of us.”

  She unbuckles her seatbelt with a click and reaches for the lever that will open the car door. Z’s hand whips out and rests on Tasha’s shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to go look.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean why? Somebody painted the Bean red. I want to see it up close.”

  “Why?”

  “Z, what the fuck?”

  Z removes her hand from Tasha’s shoulder and licks her lips, peering out at what used to be one of the major tourist attractions in the city. It’s a small thing now, compared to some of the newer, flashier, Chicago-built traffic-magnets, but a city staple nevertheless. It’s a little shocking, Tasha knows, seeing it this way. Like walking in on a family member in the bathroom and finding them there with their wrists slashed. Terrible, yes. But you check the body.

  “Z, I’m going to go check it out. Do you want to stay here?”

  A long pause, Z looking out at the window, unblinking.

  “Fine,” she says finally. “I’ll come. To watch your back.”

  She unbuckles her seatbelt grumpily, Tasha hiding a smile. She can hear her mumbling as she opens the driver’s side door:

  “I can’t believe I left the Web for this shit…”

  They pick their way across the grass of Millennium Park, stepping over bodies clutching cameras and backpacks. Tourists. Some of the cameras are small—the tiny, Post-it note sized contraptions that efficient tourists carry when seeing the world, the photos sent directly to a remote tablet; not even stored on the camera itself. Others are huge to Tasha’s eyes, the size of a shoe, like the one her father had kept, even after his hobby waned. “Big,” he used to say, “but you get a better picture. A bigger lens will always get you a better picture. You can’t capture the world from the eye of a needle.”

  He wouldn’t want to capture this world anyway, Tasha thinks, and she wonders if she were to pick up any of the larger cameras, what the memory chip would reveal. Photos of the Change, when the first wave of hell swept across the city: carnage documented entirely by accident, the finger on the shutter a spastic, useless trigger.

  “On your right,” Z says, crossing in front of Tasha. A Minker has appeared from the end of the park, staggering at first and then trotting toward them with excitement. It’s a cop, or was. Tasha half expects him to yell “Keep off the grass!” But he doesn’t. He only barks and snarls as he gets within earshot. Z walks out to meet him, her box cutter held ready.

  Somehow she misses her first strike and the two of them are suddenly a jumble of limbs on the ground, thrashing about, one trying to get on top of the other. Tasha sprints over, her knife slicing through the air.

  “I’m coming,” she calls, trying not to be too loud. The Minker could have a squad nearby. If they’re not coming already, she doesn’t want to attract them.

  “I’ve got him,” Z calls back. She’s managed to break his arm, which hangs limply while the Chip repairs it, and she’s stabbing his neck over and over, each strike missing as he flails in her grasp. He’s like a salmon out of water: flopping and flopping. Tasha approaches and grabs his good arm, giving it a yank and pulling him off balance from where he’d been struggling to stay upright. He flails again, but she grabs the other arm and holds him by both, holding him as still as she can while Z rights herself. She flips her hair out of her face, focuses on his neck, and gives the Chip a solid stab with her box cutter. A burst of flailing amid the electric sound of the kill, then Tasha releases his arms and pushes him to the ground where he falls, twitching, before lying still.

  “He still has a gun,” Z says, nodding at his belt while she catches her breath. “Should we take it?”

  “I don’t know,” Tasha says, panting a little. “I mean, it’s not good for getting the Chip. I mean unless you’re like an expert marksmen. I’m not.”

  “Yeah, but what about for…other people. Not Minkers.”

  “Like who?” says Tasha, puzzled.

  Z’s eyes widen suddenly and she’s pointing.

  “Like her.” Her finger is aimed at the Bean.

  Tasha turns. Under the arch of Cloud Gate is a woman in ragged clothes waving at them enthusiastically, her filthy blonde hair flopping over her face. She doesn’t make a sound, just waves and waves, as if signaling a passing fleet from her shipwreck. She certainly looks a wreck, Tasha thinks, although they’re not close enough to really see her face. But something about her erratic movements, her silent gesticulation, is profoundly creepy.

  “Do you think she’s dangerous?” Tasha murmurs, not taking her eyes off the pale figure.

  “Maybe,” says Z. “She’s a mess. Minkers don’t wave, but that doesn’t mean she can’t do some damage.”

  They stare a moment longer, not moving any closer. Neither does the waving woman. She just goes on signaling her silent signal. From where they stand, Tasha doesn’t think her face has changed at all.

  “Let’s go see,” Tasha says finally. “There’s two of us and one of her. If she gets crazy…well, we’ll see.”

  Z nods, looking reluctant. She stoops and takes the gun from the belt of the Minker cop they’d just killed. She doesn’t put it in her waistband, the way Tasha thinks people carry guns. She keeps it in her hand.

  They make their way slowly over to the woman, stepping over bodies and cameras. Her whiteness is stark against the violent red of the Bean, against which she stands like a small pale doll, her arms flapping. When they get closer, she stops, her arms flopping abruptly to her sides. She squints her eyes at them, smiling a little. Her hair, Tasha sees, isn’t blonde from root to tip. The inches closest to the scalp are brown, the color of a mouse. The hair itself is dirty and hangs around her face like a dingy curtain, stringy with oil and some dried blood. It comes down past her shoulders, a mop. She moves the hair away from her face, and that’s when Tasha sees the pearls.

  “Shit,” she says, grabbing Z’s arm and jumping back. Z raises the gun like a shot, ready to shoot something, anything. “I know her.”

  “You know her?” Z is incredulous. “What the hell do you mean you know her?”

  Mole people. Ninja Turtles.

  “I mean, I don’t know her. But I’ve seen her before. I’ve seen you before,” she says to the woman, a little loudly. “Do you remember?”

  The woman grins at them, playing with her disgusting hair.

  “This used to be my crown,” she says.

  “Fuck,” Z whispers. “She’s a walnut.”

  “Yeah, she’s off her rocker. I saw her in the subway once. Before the Change.”

  “Well, who the hell is she?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Z demands, poking the gun in the woman’s direction.

  The woman closes her mouth, covering her mossy teeth. Then she turns her back on them, walks toward the Bean, and disappears around the corner of it into its archway.

  Tasha and Z look at each other, making a silent agreement.

  “Stay close,” says Z. Tasha nods.

  They move slowly along the side of the Bean, cringing away from its bloodiness, the paint still dripping in places. Had the blonde woman done this? This spectacle? Tasha doesn’t see any ladders. It would take a whole day with a crew, let alone a single person.

  “She’s sitting on the ground,” says Z, who is slightly ahead of Tasha. “I think it’s okay.”

  There she is. A huddled form on a cardboard mat, the same as the day Tasha had first seen her in the subway. She’s wrapped in her rags like they’re a stinking cocoon, and she peers out at her watchers from its folds, the smile returned to her lips.

  “Did you paint the Bean?” Tasha asks.

  A pause. A smile.

  “The Bean painted me.”

  Tasha looks at Z, who rolls her eyes hard and slow. She holds her finger to her temple and revolves it in three quick circles.

  “Okay,” says Tasha. “What are you doing her
e?”

  “Sitting.”

  “Okay. How did you get here?”

  “I walked. And I flew. And I rolled. My feet will always hurt.”

  “Why?”

  “So far. It was very far.”

  Z puts a hand on Tasha’s shoulder and arches her eyebrows.

  “Hey,” Z says. “Look. Look at me. What are you going here? Why did you paint the Bean red?”

  The woman hums, chewing on a strand of her filthy hair.

  “Let’s go,” says Z. “I mean, she’s fine. She’s crazy, but she’s made it this long without getting chewed up. Let’s leave before things get weird.”

  Tasha hesitates, but is inclined to agree. The woman can’t tell them anything. Tasha feels wrong leaving her behind, but Z is right: she’s stayed alive this long alone.

  “Are you okay?” Tasha says. She knows the woman is crazy but she still feels like she needs to ask.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  “I’m better.”

  “Someone’s coming,” whispers Z urgently.

  Tasha catches her breath. She hears the sound that must have alerted Z: footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps coming from the other side of the Bean. A chorus of whining groans. The scrape of many shoes.

  “Fuck,” Tasha rasps.

  Tasha grabs Z and pulls her around the corner from where they came. They can run, but the pack is close: they’ll hear. Depending on how fast the group is Tasha and Z may not make it to the car. The blonde woman is rising from her rags like a ghost and Tasha wonders if she’ll run with them. She can barely speak, let alone run. She’d have to. Tasha wonders if she’d stop and help her, this strange specter of a person, or if she’d leave her behind to satisfy the pack. The idea makes her sweat, and she tightens her grip on the Wusthof, the feel of its smooth handle against her palm something to concentrate on. A moment passes and the blonde woman has not joined them. Tasha can hear the pack’s footsteps. One pair echoes. It’s under the Bean. My god, Tasha thinks, have they seen the woman yet? She hasn’t heard any barks. Tasha peeps around the corner.

  The pack of eight is led by a large Minker in a suit, one pant leg torn up to the thigh and flapping with each step like loose skin. He takes a step or two under the archway and sways, looking about him. The blonde woman is standing on her cardboard as if on a pedestal.