Time was not on his side any longer, but it wasn’t yet against him.
With the last thought came a hard banging and hiss from the engine. Pulling over at the first opportunity and at the first place that appeared abandoned—though he was no longer certain what that would look like—Titus stood over the hood and prayed it was what he thought it was. Popping this, he looked down into the engine. Most of what he saw made no sense to him, but there was enough damage to the hoses and wiring for the man to know that he wasn’t going any farther in the car. So much for prayer.
Of course, he might drive until the engine finally died, but that would draw everyone in the neighborhoods he passed through—assuming the vehicle took him farther than this one. Slamming the hood, Pym cursed and pulled his rucksack out of the back seat. In this he had the extra clips, box of shells, extra food, change of clothes, energy bars, another pair of shoes, a couple of knives, and a few other odds and ends he felt might get him through the weeks it would take him to get to the southern islands and the dugout trip to freedom.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the fantasy, Titus stuffed the extra clips in his pocket and heaved the sack on his back. It would be hours back to the Beluga—the hike could take until dawn. Pym wasn’t certain though, since he’d mostly travelled by car and some by horse. Whatever the amount of time, he was going to have to make it on foot. He was in trouble. Taking a last breath and allowing this to slip out as a sigh, Titus stepped away from the car and turned west.
An hour later he was sweating freely. He’d started to sweat almost immediately upon taking to foot, and his clothes became sodden within the first fifteen minutes. Though he’d wanted to wear shorts, he thought he would need the extra protection the denim would provide if they were hiking through any of the subtropical forests. Pym supposed they’d have had to get off the roads as quickly as possible in case the Wall reported their escape. Torres would have been unlikely to have reported it, but there was that possibility and not to be prepared for it would have been foolish. Now, though, the heavy cloth was wearing him down, but there was also the possibility he would have to do some running, hiding, and crawling before this night was over—unless he could find a horse. Those, however, were about as precious as cars. In some ways, horses were more so, because the only fuel you needed for them was an empty common and a little feed.
Stopping to take another hit from the water bottle, he looked around from the top of a smallish knoll. The best he could tell was that he was somewhere northwest of the political district, southeast of Timog, and from the distance he’d covered in the hour, another five- or six-hour hike to the warehouse—if he took a straight line. That would not be possible—more and more the districts had become negotiable only in force, and that he did not have. Before skulking from house to house, however, Titus needed to make up as much distance as possible. He also needed to begin to conserve his fresh water supply—unless he could prize some water from one of the districts he would be humping through.
He mopped his face with a large, sodden bandana and tied it over his forehead. He slung the rucksack onto his back and already ever kilo felt like five. He was out of shape; he knew that—too many months of easy living, though it did not seem easy at the time with everyone wanting him dead, or seeming to. Now Titus saw just how much belonging to the Beluga had cost him. If he survived, he was going to have to change how they did things. As he moved from street to street, Pym was outlining several new programs for the Beluga—mostly endurance training—and planning on how they might expand into the agri-zone and the marina. That would cost them heavy, but it would wrest control of the city from Salazar, which he may have to do if the government, in collusion with the Wall, attempted to frame him.
This brought him up short. Here was his way out of the frame—take the city. It wouldn’t be easy or simple, but it would be the out he needed. Smiling, he was exiting the knoll and turning directly west from his general southwest trajectory. From a bungalow, there came the creak of floorboards, or was that the creak of rusted hinges on a door that swung loose? From the corner of his eye, not moving his head, there was a gentle, almost imperceptible, movement in the gloom behind the door. He’d picked up a tail.
“Can’t be.” The voice was incredulous.
“Dugo, you sure?” Another voice, older, lower, and much harder than the first.
“Zesto, he’s alone, and I’m sure it’s him.”
Zesto rocked back on the lawn chair—the cheap aluminum legs trembled beneath him, and he leaned back forward not wanting to collapse the chair with so many watching. Zesto, Buldo, none in the Santana knew for certain if that was his real name—but most in the gang weren’t using their family names so this would not have been unusual—was squat and square in shape. He wasn’t overweight, but in a few years of easy living, it looked as though he could become this. For the past year and a half—longer maybe—they’d been living hand-to-mouth, so no one was bulging beneath their waistbands.
Over the past few months, things had gotten desperate, and there’d been a few deaths they could relate to starvation. None of the deaths were directly related to hunger, but they had been inspired by this. There’d been the requisite suicides, but more often, hunger had forced members of Santana into attacking food shipments, or the agri-zone to the South. Some had even gone after the fish markets now in the hands of the Beluga. Occasionally each of these acts had ended well and there was food for a few days—more generally the attacks had ended in death or capture. Capture would mean a lingering death on the Hill—if they were lucky.
Whatever the case, the Santana were dying. Either they’d be folded into the Cartel or they’d join the Beluga. In each case, it meant the gang was on its last legs. From a membership of several hundred at the beginning of the Sweats, they’d been whittled down to less than a hundred. Zesto was no longer willing to call a roll because that would only bring the reality of their situation into stark relief—which would cause more defections.
Standing, Buldo stepped to the empty pool and pissed into it. The family that had been squatting in the house was tied up in the deep end. The woman was almost dead, as well as the daughter, but the husband’s eyes were bulging with fear and rage—Zesto wasn’t certain which it was and didn’t care. Before the news he’d just received, they were debating whether or not to take the next step. Hunger had brought them to that, and religion was no longer enough to save any from the necessity. Still, not everyone was ready for that step. After they did that, they may as well move on to Dragon Bone Hill, many had argued, but there seemed little choice if they were going to hang onto what was left of themselves and each other.
This news could change their outlook—in the short term, maybe longer. “You,” turning back to the skeletal Dugo with his bulging, oversized eyes, “could be wrong about this.”
“I’m not,” his voice with more bass than seemed right for such a short kid. Dugo Martilyo was little more than fourteen and was so underfed, even before the Sweating Sickness, he was hardly one hundred and forty-two centimeters.
“If you are—you join them,” pointing his chin toward the pool.
“You’re still,” Luis Silva asked, “going to...”
“If,” Zesto interrupted, “Dugo’s wrong, there will be no choice.”
“Should we leave them there?” Luis asked.
“Just make sure they’re tied up good and tight.” Turning from Luis and back to Dugo, the young man smiled.
Zesto could not have been twenty—truth was he did not know how old he was. No one in the orphanage had told him his age, and he had run away from the institution when he’d been there only a couple of years—that he could remember. Buldo supposed he’dbeen six or thereabouts, and that was years since. Now he supposed he was near enough to twenty to call it that. Most others were in the same situation as he—no family; no education; no trade; no skills. What remained for them were the streets and Santana. Yet, even now the latter was dying and the former were rapi
dly emptying.
“Where’d you see him?”
“He,” Dugo answered, “was a couple of blocks north of the highroad near the bank and just south of Squatter Hill.” They all had their own language for their territory no one else shared.
“And he was heading west on foot?”
Dugo nodded.
“How far you think he’s gone by now?”
“Not far—he is moving slow—maybe a block or two.”
“Okay, take some of your best to jump ahead of him a couple of blocks, and we’ll come up behind.”
Smiling, for no reason in particular except to keep Zesto happy, Martilyo ran off into the house to find those who might get the job done.
“He’s seen us,” Francisco grumbled from the gloom of the doorway.
“No. His head didn’t move,” The girl answered.
“Analise, you didn’t watch his body—it got really tight, and his step increased a bit.”
“We can’t go after him—he’s armed.”
“Meant for you to see that—which means he’s afraid of us.”
“Why would he be afraid of us?”
“Doesn’t know how many of us there are.”
“What should we do?” The girl’s voice was tight with fear and sounding as young as her ten years or so made her appear.
“Keep to the houses, or back of these, and follow him while the others catch up.”
There was the sound of scurrying as of rats in the walls, and the girl was gone.
Francisco turned back to the door and watched the back of the man disappear down the street and past the intersection—the rucksack bouncing on his back.
Pym could feel the eyes on him. They’d been on him for several blocks now, and no matter how he twisted and turned up one street and down another, he could not lose them. Occasionally, he jumped through an empty lot or the burnt out husk of a store. When he did, he could feel the perimeter about him flex outward, and as he came back onto the street, this would tighten into the buildings on either side again. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of a crown, dirty face, or errant hand with smallish fingers. Quickly it became apparent he was being tracked by children, or one of the many adolescent gangs that had taken over many of the city’s neighborhoods following the deaths of their families.
Alone, none of these were dangerous, but bring a half dozen or so together and they were much as locust or piranha. The automatic would give him an edge, but sooner or later they’d swarm, and then how much help it would be might not be enough—if they were desperate, and everyone in the city had become desperate. This, moreover, was just the children—there’d be more out there than them. The kids would lack the strategic sensibility these others would possess, but that did not make either any more or less dangerous than the other.
Again, he flipped down another street and this time through an abandoned motel. Inside he went to ground, attempting to recover some of his strength and force the kids into a move that might help him. This was a risk—it could well turn out they’d have him bottled up and after testing his defenses would swarm. He doubted they had any guns, but knives and spears they could have and might even be good with. Nonetheless, Titus needed to catch his breath and consider what he might do next to get out of this before he ended upcaptured or dead.
“Still there, Francisco?”
He nodded without turning back to Zesto.
“What do you think he’s doing?”
“Resting,” Dugo answered, “and waiting to see what we’re going to do—if Francisco is right and he knows we’re here.”
“He’s got glimpses of us several times—he’s good, but I can tell he knows we’re here.” Zesto shook his head but, with Pym he had to have known. They all knew who he was; all had seen him several times going after the security forces and the Cartel. This meant it was important to be careful and capture him alive. The reward for the man was huge, and this would mean food for a long time—they might even ransom him back to the Beluga Fay.
Buldo wanted to do this, but there’d be a lot of risk in that. Still, it would be safer than the government—they’d pay better, but the Santana would be killed afterwards. The Beluga would be a better and safer deal. Others were less certain about what to do. Some were prepared to kill him and take the gun; others wanted to let him go—the stories about Pym and the Fay had spooked the younger ones. Sure enough, they were bad, but letting him go would be worse for them—that family they’d left tied up in the pool demonstrated how low they had sunk. If Zesto could save them from going that route, all the better. After all, once you set off down that road, there’d be no coming back.
“We,” Luis said from behind, “have to flush him out.”
“Any suggestions?” Analise asked, acid etching the sarcasm.
“Offer him a blow-job.”
Analise tightened at the comment but didn’t answer. Young she was, but she’d not been that young for a long time.
“Luis,” intending to punish him for the comment, “take three of your crew and get in as close as you can—then use your spears to flush him out back. Do not kill him.”
Analise smirked at Zesto’s order but did not make a sound.
Luis looked at him a long moment, but when it became apparent Buldo was not joking, picked out three and headed toward the intersection and the motel.
They were that dumb, or were they that desperate? Seemed everyone had become that desperate, and Pym had not seen this coming—too focused on Glenna and the Wall while the city went to hell around him. It was too easy, and because of that, he’d disbelieved it. What happened was, he’d lost his ride and was beyond his support mechanism—that’s where he found himself. Now down in the same gutter as the rest of the city, the world was taking on a new and disturbing appearance. Titus was going to have to adjust to this, and with that, he put the automatic away and pulled the tactical blade. The 9 would have given him an edge, but each round was precious this far from the warehouse, and he could not afford to spend that capital unless necessary.
With the blade in one hand, he wrapped the ratty remnants of a tee-shirt about the knuckles of the other and waited for the kids to find the courage. They were being sent to flush him, which meant out back of the motel there’d be a trap—couldn’t go out that way nor out the front. To his left was the road, but there was a solid wall between him and it, besides that would be too exposed. If he could get to the hallway from the office, then he might be able to skirt the trap. First, though, he would have to leave a bitter taste, giving him enough time to slip down it unnoticed.
Then there were three of them—appearing to be a punishment detail. None seemed convinced of the tactic, and the kid leading from the back, directing the others, seemed just this side of panic. Helpful and dangerous. Fear made people unpredictable but easier to rout. Pym drifted back into the gloaming of the office, but not too far from the door leading off into the first floor hallway and rooms. There, with his back to the reception desk, Titus waited. He had blocked the door opening on the manager’s office, which, in turn, opened on to the rear parking lot where others would be waiting for him. If they heard anything coming from reception, they might rush the motel, and he did not want anyone piling in on his rear.
Still coming, they closed on the ruined glass mouth of the reception office and stopped. They were young, younger than Titus had originally thought—early to mid-teens at best. What he had to do he would still have to do, but it gave him no peace of mind. The leader, in the rear, raised the first of their three short spears, with its throwing tool, and let fly. The weapon clattered harmlessly far to his right—the good news was that none had any idea where he was. With the throw, however, the others screamed and charged, panic cut deep into their faces.
The first of these received the remnants of an office chair full in the face and went down hard. Following this, the other’s advance was staggered, and Titus stepped through the shadow and struck him square in the face—they went down as well. No move
ment came from the two after this, and Pym turned to the leader who came in carefully, spear raised and cocked. From a distance, this would have been a formidable weapon, if all things were equal, but in the office with its lack of distance and cramped space, the throwing tool would be a definite handicap.
The spearman halted at the entrance and listened. He could not have liked the silence and hesitated. “Seol? Paulsen?” Nothing.
Pym was back by the reception desk again, not moving—trying not to breathe more than necessary. There was still enough distance that the spear thrower could still be of use, if not of optimum value. One of the youngsters moved, the one that had taken the chair in the face, and a shallow groan escaped him. The spearman’s reaction was immediate. The weapon was launched toward the sound. Another plaintive groan escaped as the weapon drove home. Taking his last spear in hand, he charged the contact. With his back to Pym, the man stepped up and with one arm about the teenager’s neck drove the blade into the soft of his lower back.
The blade slipped in with little effort and the kid, hardly mid-teens, gasped and went limp. Not wasting any time, Titus reluctantly stepped over both figures and into the hallway. Beforethe others understood what had happened, he was down the hallway and out the window of the last motel room on the back of the building. Once out, he ducked across the unlit street and into an alley.
“Too quiet,” Zesto observed, watching the face of the motel. “Analise, slip around back and find out if Pym’s come out there.” Not looking happy with the order, she darted out into the street and swung far wide of the motel, all the way to the other side of the intersection. Once beyond this, the girl wove back into the street behind it and disappeared. Waiting, Zesto stared hard into the blank face of the building—something had gone wrong, but he could not move until he was certain.
“Buldo!” a panting voice of a young child, hardly more than what he’d been at the orphanage those many years ago. Turning he raised a brow at the bloody face.
Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill) Page 23