Firewalkers

by Chris Roberson

  Considering how fastidious and organized the first floor was, Izzie had been surprised by the chaotic clutter upstairs, and had meant to ask Patrick about it when she came back downstairs. But he was on the radio when she walked in, probably checking in with the duty officer back at the 10th Precinct Station House, so she decided to lay down and close her eyes for a minute while she waited for him to finish up, and then . . .

  She shook her head, trying to knock loose the memory of the nightmare she’d just had.

  Her stomach growled again, and she turned and made for the kitchen.

  “Is there any . . . ?” she began as she stepped through the doorway, to find Patrick reaching over and picking up a steaming mug from the counter and holding it out to her. “Coffee,” she finished with a sigh as she took the mug in both hands.

  She took her first sip, eyes closed.

  “Cream and two sugars, right?” Patrick flashed a faint smile as he turned his attention back to the stove. “See, I remember things.”

  “Close enough.” Izzie lowered the mug slowly from her lips. “I usually use the no-calorie sweetener stuff these days, but you won’t hear me complaining.”

  Patrick was carefully folding an omelet in the skillet with a spatula. “I haven’t had a chance to get to the market this week. . . . You know, with all of this mess going on. . . . So I had to make do with what I had.”

  “What, the impending apocalypse is interfering with your grocery shopping?” Izzie went to stand beside him, taking a deep breath in through her nose. “Well, it smells fantastic. Like I said, you won’t hear me complaining.”

  She took another sip of the coffee, as a brief pause stretched out between them. Then she put the mug down on the counter and straightened up.

  “You don’t think we’re crazy, right?”

  Patrick looked over in her direction, quirking an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “This . . .” Izzie took a ragged breath. “This is all really happening, right?”

  Patrick put the spatula down next to the stove top, and then turned to face her. “What, you think we’re just imagining all of this? Like, this is one big hallucination that we are all sharing?”

  “Maybe,” Izzie said half-heartedly. She looked at the floor for a moment, then back up at him from under her eyebrows. “Or maybe I’m the one imagining all of it, and none of the rest of you are really here?”

  Patrick’s face cycled through a number of expressions quickly—the first hints of a smile, interrupted by a sudden shadow of doubt, and finally coming to rest on a look of resigned concern.

  “Look,” he said, reaching out and resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re exhausted, sleep deprived, and strung out. So I get why that would make sense to you right now. But I promise you that this is really happening. As much as it would be nice to think that we could just, I don’t know, wake up and all of this wouldn’t be real, we don’t get that choice.” He sighed heavily. “Those things really are out there, and we have to deal with it.”

  “Do I smell coffee?” said a voice from behind Izzie.

  She turned to see Daphne standing in the open doorway, drying off her short blonde hair with a towel. Seeing her there, a smile spread across Izzie’s face, as she remembered the hours that they had spent together earlier that morning, waiting for the sun to rise. Their personal rules about getting romantically involved with fellow FBI agents were completely forgotten, as they sought what comfort they could in the warmth of each other’s embrace, sharing their most intimate secrets.

  At least there was one thing about last night that Izzie was glad to know hadn’t been a delusion. . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  Patrick dug around in the cabinet until he came up with a couple of additional coffee mugs. He rarely had company over these days, and seldom had need for more than one mug at a time, and so he usually used the same insulated plastic travel mug every day. The ceramic coffee mug that he’d given Izzie was the only other one in regular use, most often used if he wanted hot tea later in the day. So the only options he had on hand to offer Daphne Richardson were two mugs that were normally buried way in the back of the cabinet.

  “You’ve got two choices,” he said a little sheepishly, turning back from the cabinet and holding a mug in either hand out to Daphne. On one was printed a blue Smurf holding a flower with the caption “Have a Smurfy Day,” that had probably belonged to one of his older cousins when they were kids, and on the other was printed SO MANY MEN, SO FEW CAN AFFORD ME. He watched as Daphne read the text on the second one and then looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged, and explained, “It was my mom’s.”

  Daphne grinned, and opted for the Smurf. “I’ve got a Snoopy mug in my apartment,” she said, as she walked over to where the coffee pot sat on the counter. “It’s got a bonsai tree growing in it, though.”

  “I guess Joyce can use that one.” Izzie nodded toward the other mug, and then leered suggestively at him. “If you think you can handle it.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes, and, picking up the spatula, turned back to the stove. “This should be done in just a few minutes. Eggs are okay for everyone, I hope?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder when no one answered, and saw that the two women had drifted off to the far side of the kitchen, huddled close and talking in low voices as they sipped their coffees.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, returning his attention to the omelets.

  Izzie had told him in the car the other day that she might be interested in someone, romantically. Patrick hadn’t suspected at the time that she was talking about another FBI agent, much less another woman. No wonder Izzie had accused him of having a blind spot where romantic matters were concerned.

  Through the thin walls he could hear the sound of the sink running in the downstairs bathroom, and knew that Joyce must be almost finished up after her shower.

  Speaking of blind spots . . .

  Izzie had been giving Patrick a hard time for days about being oblivious to the fact that the city medical examiner was obviously interested in him—and that he was clearly interested in her, too. Patrick had objected, and insisted all along that she was imagining things. Then the night before, in the small hours of the night, he had found himself huddling for warmth under a dusty quilt with Joyce, and it turned out that what was between them was more than just a mild infatuation.

  Patrick hadn’t devoted much attention to maintaining a social life the last few years, much less romance. Ever since he transferred from Homicide to Vice he’d been keeping different hours, with more time spent on late night stake outs or undercover operations. What little free time he had left over was usually taken up with volunteering at his old middle school, where he taught the neighborhood kids the Te’Maroan traditions that he had learned from the older islanders when he was young. Seeing the kids play a game of konare or learning the movements involved in Te’Maroan stick fighting always made Patrick feel like he was passing on something special that had been entrusted to him. There were times when he wondered what it would be like to have a serious relationship and kids of his own, but things just never seemed to come together for him. He’d dated in the past, but in the end the work always got in the way.

  But now? In the midst of all of this strangeness, to find that he might have a chance with a woman as smart, funny, and beautiful as Joyce Nguyen?

  Of course, that was assuming that they both survived the mess that they found themselves in.

  Patrick cracked open the last of the eggs and poured it into the hot skillet. It had been a while since he cooked for so many people, and in fact most of the meals that he made were single servings. But when he was little, his mother would cook enough for a small army over this same stove, as aunts and uncles, cousins and siblings from all over the neighborhood crammed into the house for Sunday dinners. His great-uncle Alf had spent the last few years of his life living upstairs, until he died suddenly of a heart attack on the street when Patrick was just t
welve years old.

  Patrick always felt a little guilty that after the old man had died he’d quickly come to dismiss everything Uncle Alf had taught him as silly superstitions. By the time he was in high school, Patrick had decided that the real world didn’t work that way,and that the old folks were just fooling themselves.

  But now, after the last few days that he and Izzie had spent investigating the connection between Ink and the Fuller murders, Patrick had no choice but to accept that there was some truth to those old beliefs, after all.

  At the moment, it appeared that Patrick and his friends were the only ones in a position to recognize the Preternatural forces that seemed to be engulfing Recondito.

  “Something smells good.”

  Patrick turned to see Joyce standing in the open doorway, leaning on her cane. She was wearing one of Patrick’s old t-shirts and a pair of sweat pants, having asked if she could run her own clothes through the washer and drier before putting them back on. Her hair, normally worn in a precisely sculpted asymmetrical undercut, was combed back straight from her forehead and tucked behind her ears.

  “Hey, you,” Patrick said, as Joyce walked across the floor toward him, her cane tonking on the hardwood underfoot.

  “Well, my boots are ruined.” She frowned, shaking her head ruefully. “I loved those damned things, too.”

  Patrick grimaced in sympathy. When they had been forced to wade across the rising waters to reach Ivory Point the night before, Joyce’s boots with their elaborate buckles and straps had been a necessary sacrifice.

  “It’s okay, though,” Joyce added with a sly grin. “It’s the perfect excuse to waste a bunch of money on a brand-new pair that I’ll love even more.”

  “Breakfast is almost ready.” Patrick slid an omelet from the skillet onto a plate, and nodded toward the coffee pot. “There’s coffee if you want some.”

  Joyce headed for the counter, pulling her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants and checking her messages. “Got an update from security at the Hall of Justice, about the bodies missing from the morgue. They’re reporting it as a break in.”

  “So they think that someone broke in and stole the bodies?” Patrick arched an eyebrow.

  “That’s an easier explanation than what really happened, isn’t it?” Joyce picked up the mug on the counter and read the words printed on it before glancing sidelong at Patrick. “How many men can afford you, huh?”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “Just pour the coffee and help me get these plates to the table, okay?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  They ate in silence, and for a long while the only sound in the room was the clatter of knives and forks on plates as they made short work of the meal that Patrick had prepared. Izzie sat on one side of the table with Daphne, while Joyce sat across from them, next to Patrick, making it feel like some kind of surreal double date, but since they’d started eating no one had really spoken. It was as if they all welcomed the chance to take a break, however small, from the overwhelming strangeness that they were facing. Or maybe, Izzie thought, none of them knew exactly what to say.

  When they were all on their second cups of coffee, it was Daphne who finally broke the silence.

  “Okay, look,” she said, dropping her fork so that it clattered onto her empty plate, “I’m just going to say it. Maybe I’m the only one, but I’m still pretty freaked out about all of this. You all seem pretty okay with dead bodies wandering around and invaders from another dimension or whatever, but if you ask me . . . this is crazy, right?”

  Izzie and Patrick exchanged a look.

  “Believe me,” Izzie said, turning back to Daphne and laying a hand on her knee, “you’re not the only one having a hard time with this.”

  Daphne let out a ragged sigh. “Well, at least the FBI’s Resident Agency is closed on Saturdays and Sundays, so we’ve got a little time to work out how we’re going to spin this with Agent Gutierrez.” Seeing Izzie’s frown, she hurried to add, “Look, I told you that I’d help keep the Bureau off your backs while you try to figure this out, but he knows that we both went down to assist with a Recondito PD investigation last night, so we have to give him something.”

  Izzie tried not to scowl as she took another sip from her coffee mug. Her experiences with Gutierrez were limited, but the Senior Resident Agent struck her as the type who wouldn’t likely be satisfied with anything other than an airtight story. He was already bristling that she’d come to town in the first place, for fear that her investigations might reopen the books on a murder case that the local authorities would very much prefer remain closed.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Izzie answered brusquely, then turned to face Patrick. “You were on the radio with the station house earlier, right? Where do things stand with the Recondito PD?”

  “Things aren’t great.” Patrick shook his head, a morose expression on his face. “Chavez sent a couple of uniforms down into that warehouse subbasement after I didn’t check back in, and they found what was left of Officer Carlson. Everyone knows that a police officer was murdered in the line of duty last night, though the department has been able to keep the exact details away from the press, so far.”

  “The EMTs have already delivered his remains to the city morgue,” Joyce said, talking around a mouthful of bacon. She held one finger up, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and then pulled out her cell phone. She thumbed it on and opened up her text messages, displaying an automated notification sent to her at the medical examiner’s office. “The request for an autopsy came through the system this morning.”

  As Joyce reached for another piece of bacon, she caught the glance that passed between Patrick and Izzie.

  “You’re worried about what I’m going to say, aren’t you?” Joyce said. She narrowed her eyes, glaring at Patrick.

  He gave her a pleading look. “You know that the authorities aren’t prepared to deal with this, Joyce. Not yet.”

  “So, what, you want me to just make something up? Look, I’m the city medical examiner, damn it. I’m not going to falsify an official report and lie about the cause of death. I don’t care what kind of weirdness is going on.” She took a bite of bacon and crunched angrily on it for a moment, fuming. Then she sighed, calming visibly. “But I can, I don’t know, be a little vague in the way that I record the details, and go with a watered-down version of the truth. Something that frames the results so that they’re less likely to raise any red flags about what happened down there until we know what we’re doing.”

  “Thanks, Joyce,” Izzie said. “We’ll have enough trouble explaining away the rest of what they found down there.”

  “Well, that’s just it,” Patrick said, chewing the inside of his cheek. “They might have found Carlson, but what they didn’t find was anything else. No other bodies, none of that equipment that we found, none of the Ink supplies . . . nothing. It was all gone by the time they got there.”

  The fact that the half-dozen bodies they had seen the night before were gone didn’t come as much of a surprise. After all, they had gotten up off the tables and chased Izzie and the others out of the building, and then joined the horde that pursued them all the way to the Ivory Point lighthouse. But the missing medical equipment was another matter entirely. Someone with resources was covering up their tracks.

  “So what’s the official story on what happened?” Daphne asked. “What did you tell them?”

  “It’s like she said.” Patrick indicated Joyce with a quick nod of his head. “A watered-down version of the truth, basically. I told the duty officer that Carlson and I found what appeared to be an Ink lab down there, and that in the course of our investigation we were attacked by unknown individuals. After Carlson was down, I engaged in a high-speed pursuit, and was unable to radio for backup due to technical malfunctions.”

  All of which was essentially true, leaving aside the fact Patrick and the others were the ones being pursued. And the minor detail that the “unknown individuals” pursuing them were half-dead dru
g users who had been taken over by an entity from another universe.

  “I’ve got to go to the station house and submit a full after-action report today,” Patrick went on. “The captain will write me up for not filing it sooner, I’m sure, but otherwise it doesn’t sound like they doubt my story.”

  “What about all of those people on the street? The . . .” Daphne looked from Patrick to Izzie. “What did you call them, again? The Riders?”

  “The Ridden,” Izzie answered. She thought of the horde of men and women who had pursued them through the streets, their skin almost completely covered by the black blots associated with long-term use of the street drug Ink. Men and women whose minds had been eaten away, both figuratively and literally, leaving them little more than puppets being controlled by an intelligence from a higher dimension that Izzie had dubbed the loa the night before.

  The loa that, to all indications, was either controlling or being controlled by Martin Zotovic, self-made millionaire and founder of the software company Parasol.

  Patrick shook his head. “Not a word. Nothing about the bus driver, either.”

  Izzie rubbed her chin, thoughtfully. “Aside from those kids who were tagging that wall on the boardwalk and that homeless guy, I don’t remember seeing any other civilians out on the street. And they ran off before the Ridden got there. So maybe no one else saw them?” Even as she said it, Izzie knew she didn’t really believe it.

  “Yeah.” Patrick had a skeptical look on his face. “Or maybe someone saw it but couldn’t tell anybody about it, or call for help. No cell service, remember?”

  “That broadcast van on the boardwalk was probably blocking our phones, right?” Izzie glanced around the table. “Who knows how big of a radius that thing covered.”