by Darren Shan
But not this time. Though I pore over the notes until four in the morning, analyzing and adding to them, I see nothing that might lead me to Capac Raimi, or any clues as to how I should proceed. I know the villacs have him. I know he’s in the tunnels. But how to determine his precise location? I could blunder down with a flashlight and keep searching, but that could take years — or forever, if the priests are moving him around. There must be a less hit-or-miss method.
I’m drawn again to the idea of using the Rats. The subterranean gang might know where to look. I’ll track them down and ask for their assistance. That can be my first step. Take things from there.
I read through the notes one last time before I destroy them (wary of thieves getting their hands on such sensitive information). This time I pause at the phrase “Sapa Inca.” Why are the priests so sure I’ll lead the Snakes? They know I’m not interested in power. They offered me a controlling stake in this city before and I turned them down flat. What makes them think I’ll comply this time?
Late Thursday, after much searching, I find the Rats in the bowels of a derelict football stadium in the northwest of the city, abandoned twenty years ago in favor of a new structure. All twelve of the Rats — a couple of new recruits have joined since I last saw them — are present, cooking strips of dog over a large fire.
Their leader, Chunky, spots me first and shouts, “Po!” That’s their nickname for me, a shortened version of Paucar. I force a grin as he embraces me, trying not to gag on the stench of the sewer dweller. Chunky drags me over to the fire and offers me a slice of half-raw dog. I take a few bites — not that disgusting — and wash it down with their homemade beer. The beer’s worse than the dog — Chunky once started to tell me how they brewed it, and I had to stop him before I threw up — but I drain half a cup of it and belch approvingly.
“Got yer messages,” Chunky says, running a hand through his greasy hair, then down the front of his ragged cardigan. The Rats make their outfits from clothes they find in the tunnels and garbage dumps. “What can we do for ya?”
“I’m looking for someone. Thought you might be able to help.” I quickly tell him about The Cardinal, that he’s being held by the villacs, and offer to reward the Rats generously if they help me find him.
Chunky hears me out, then shakes his head. “Sorry, Po. Ain’t on. We don’t fuck with the priests, ’specially now they got an army behind them.”
“You know about the Snakes?”
“Sure. Knew about them long before anyone else. There’s advantages to living beneath the streets, and not just beating the bombs when they fall. We’ve seen the Snakes grow and we’ve steered clear — snakes eat rats! Besides, they won’t stay down here forever. They’ll move up top eventually.”
“What about Raimi? Any idea where they might be keeping him?”
“Nope. We could maybe find him by shadowing the priests, but they ain’t the sort we want to get on the wrong side of.”
“Name your price,” I tell him.
“Sorry, Po, ain’t nothing could persuade us to make enemies of them blind bastards. We’ll have to share these tunnels with the priests long after you and the rest of the crowd above have been blown to bits in the big blast.”
“OK,” I smile. “But if you see or hear anything while you’re foraging, will you let me know?”
“Might, if I don’t think it’ll rile the priests. Want to hang a while? We captured a couple of koala bears from the zoo and we’re barbecuing ’em later. They smell like piss but they’re pretty good with gravy.”
“I’ll give it a miss,” I mutter, feeling my stomach tighten.
“Your loss,” Chunky chuckles.
I bid Chunky and co. farewell and head back to the normal world. I spend the rest of the night checking with my contacts, asking if anyone’s heard about Raimi, but all the talk’s of the Snakes and how everything’s going to change now that a new force is in play. In the end I head home and sleep soundly, without a hint of a nightmare, until I’m woken shortly after six by the sound of gunfire, and arise to discover the city in a state of civil war.
The trouble started with the assassination of four gang leaders last night, all from small gangs in the east. Brutally slaughtered at home, by parties unknown, for no clear reason. Their followers took to the streets, enraged, looking for someone to blame. Encountering each other, they clashed and violence flared. Other gangs joined in and a bloody battle developed, engulfing several blocks. The fighting could have been contained by the police, but around the same time two police stations were attacked and set alight, again by persons unknown. Forces rushing to deal with the street fights had to be diverted. Then, as if things weren’t chaotic enough, another two gang leaders were executed, along with a number of priests, medics and community workers. By dawn the streets were clogged with furious gangsters and citizens baying for blood. In the absence of a definable foe they took their grievances out on each other, and the fighting quickly developed into a savage, unchecked free-for-all.
As I patrol the streets, observing the warfare, I find it hard to believe that things got this bad this quickly. Windows of shops and cars have been smashed to pieces and many have been set on fire. Looters are making off with anything that isn’t tied down. The smoke of a thousand fires blocks out the sky, giving the appearance of dusk. People I know — good people — are in the thick of the action, beating, maiming, even killing. A madness has washed over them and I can’t explain it. Everyone knew the city was heading for riots, but I don’t think anybody anticipated a blowup of these proportions. It doesn’t make sense.
There’s little I can do to counter the chaos. My presence normally makes people pause, but nobody’s taking the slightest notice of me today. I’m just another face in the crowd. I break up a couple of especially vicious fights, where children are at risk, but quickly realize I’m wasting my time — the combatants scatter, run a few blocks, regroup and find someone new to attack.
I decide to take a break and check on those I care about. I slip back to my apartment, become Al Jeery, then head to Flo’s, where I learn that Drake was an early victim of the violence and has been rushed to the hospital. It’s only three blocks from where they live. Hurrying over, I dodge the people fighting out front — nurses locked in combat with a street gang — and push my way along corridors cluttered with bleeding patients bleating for assistance.
The nurses on reception look scared and harried. They’re guarded by a ring of security officers who hold back the crowd, but the ring looks as if it could break any moment. A few of the braver nurses and doctors wade through the walking wounded, picking out the more serious cases for treatment.
Slipping past the guards — not difficult in the uproar — I gently nudge aside a woman with a large gash in her head and ask the receptionist which room Drake Martins is in. “Are you shitting me?” she barks. “We got World War III erupting and you want to go visiting!”
“He’s a friend. I’d like to see how he is.”
“I don’t care what you’d like. Get out of my face before I—”
Behind us a man screams insanely, draws a rifle and fires. A guard goes down clutching his leg. The crowd splinters, shrieking and wailing. The man with the gun — a large white male, eyes wild — moves in to finish off the guard. I’ve had enough of this shit. Drawing my.45, I wait for a clear line of fire, then pop him in the upper right arm. He curses, drops the rifle, stoops to reclaim it. I step forward and kick his head, knocking him out. I make sure the guard’s OK, then return to the desk, where the receptionist regards me with new respect.
“Drake Martins.”
“Give me a minute,” she mumbles, consulting her computer. “He was admitted before the rush. Ward 3, room 5B. Take the stairs — the elevator’s out of order.”
“Much appreciated.” I glance around at the crowd in the lobby. I’ve caught their attention, so I might as well make use of it. Scanning those nearest me, I pick six who look like they can handle themselves
. “You, you, you, you, you and you!” I shout. “Come here.” They obey instantly. I fan them out in a half-circle, fitting them in between the guards, who watch mutely. “Work with the guards. Help keep order. Understand?” They nod uncertainly, then face the crowd and assume solid stances. I don’t know how long they’ll last, but they’ll keep the peace for a while.
Hurrying up the stairs, I jog to Ward 3 and find Drake. Flo’s by his bed. There are blankets on the floor, on which excess patients lie, some groaning, some unconscious, some staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Doing anything later, gorgeous?” I grunt, touching Flo’s shoulder.
“Al,” she smiles through tears. “I tried calling but I lost your number.”
“I’ll give it to you again before I leave. How is he?”
“He’ll be OK,” she sighs, wiping sweat from his face. “We were attacked. They wanted Drake. They thought he was in a gang, but that’s crazy, I’d know if he was.” I let that slide. “He helped me out a window and down the fire escape. They knocked him off when he was trying to follow. Ran when they saw him hit the ground — thought he was dead. I did too, but he got lucky. The doctor only gave him a quick examination, but she said it wasn’t as serious as it seemed. She was meant to check on him again but we ain’t seen her. I guess she’s busy elsewhere.”
“It’s turning into a real busy day.” I roll up Drake’s left eyelid. He groans and blinks, half-waking. “Take a break,” I tell Flo.
“That’s OK, I don’t—”
“Take a break,” I say firmly. She frowns, then leaves. I pop in my contact lenses and remove my wig, then slap Drake’s cheeks just hard enough to wake him. When he’s conscious, I lean close so that nobody else in the packed room can hear. “Are the Snakes behind this?”
Drake blinks and focuses. When he sees my green eyes and shaved scalp, he freezes, not even noticing the fact that my tattoos are covered up. “Sapa Inca!” he gasps.
“Are you fit to continue, soldier?”
“I think so, sir,” he says, trying to rise.
I push him down. “No, you’re not. But you will recover soon. Report to the priests when you are able.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Drake says, a quiver in his voice, “but why are you here?”
“I heard you had been singled out for attack. I thought those who assaulted you might know of our plans.”
“No,” he snorts. “They were just neighborhood kids, itching for a fight. They know I’m in a gang but they don’t know which.”
“They don’t know that the Snakes initiated the riots?”
“No, sir.”
That confirms my suspicions. “Do you know why we instigated this uproar, why we destroy that which we are supposed to protect?”
“I’m not sure,” Drake replies cautiously. “We were told it’s necessary, that we have to demolish before we can build. I know the Snakes will step in soon, make our presence known and calm things down. I guess, in the long run, it’ll be for the best, but I wish…” He trails off into silence and bites his lip, afraid he’s spoken out of place.
“That’s OK, soldier. I share your sentiments. I will be discussing this with our white-eyed friends later. Maybe we can put an early end to the fighting.”
“I hope so,” he says. Then, as I stand to leave, he calls me back. “Sir, will you warn my mother not to drink the water?”
“What?”
“The tap water. I meant to warn her but I didn’t get a chance. I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.”
“Of course,” I mumble, then let myself out, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together as I remove the contacts and put on the wig again. The villacs didn’t just order the executions — they polluted the water supply. I wasn’t imagining the madness. These people really are insane, at least temporarily. I have no idea what the priests added to the supply, or how far it might drive those who ingest it, but I don’t think it will cause a serious imbalance. Just enough to turn this part of the city on its head for a few days, so they can send in the Snakes and become heroes of the hour.
I warn Flo about the water, give her my number, then rush from the hospital and head for the nearest radio station, to spread the word and do what I can to thwart whatever grand, twisted scheme the villacs have cooking.
The station manager dismisses me as a psycho until I put a knife to his throat. I still don’t think he believes my story, but with his life on the line, he agrees to broadcast my warning, urging people to stick to bottled water. Within minutes of the story airing, it’s picked up by a TV show and word spreads swiftly. Whether or not people pay heed is another matter, but at least they’ve been warned.
I release the manager and depart the building, looking for a quiet spot where I can make a call. Finding a deserted café, I dial Ford Tasso’s direct number. It rings sixteen times before he answers with a curt, “Yes!”
“It’s Al.”
“I know who it is. What do you want?”
“You’ve heard about what’s happening?”
“Is that a trick fucking question?”
“You’ve got to do something to stop it.”
“Such as?”
“Send in the Troops. They’ll be more effective than the cops.”
“Have you been drinking that contaminated water?” Tasso laughs. “The sight of the Troops would send everyone wild. It’d be like throwing water on an oil fire.”
“At least people would have a real target to rally against. Right now they’re attacking each other. Hundreds of innocents are dying. If you send the Troops in, everyone will unite—”
“—And wipe my men out!” Tasso barks.
“You can withdraw them before they’re massacred. All I’m asking for is a respite. These people have been drugged but I don’t think the effects will last. Distract them. Stop the killing. By dawn tomorrow it’ll have blown over.”
“No.”
“But—”
“I’m not prepared to risk the lives of my Troops. Besides, moving my forces there would leave me open to an attack by the Kluxers.”
“If you don’t quell the riots, the Snakes will take control of the east. You’ll face a war on two fronts.”
“The Snakes won’t work with the Kluxers. They hate each other. It’ll be war, a war neither can win by themselves. Sooner or later Davern or his counterpart will come to me for help.”
“Playing both ends against the middle, Ford? A dangerous game.”
“Leave me to worry about the games, Algiers. You focus on finding Capac.” He cuts the connection, leaving me to curse his name to the smoke-obscured heavens and kick the nearest wall with frustration.
I spend the afternoon and evening as Paucar Wami, doing what little I can to restore the peace. I shouldn’t get involved, but I can’t stand by and let looting, raping and killing go ahead unheeded. These are my people. If I can protect some few of them, I must.
After hours of action, I knock the heads of a pair of muggers together and break their fingers. Leaving them in the gutter, I head for home. I need food and rest — I’ve got a long, taxing, bloody night ahead of me.
I smell the visitor when I open the door, the musky stench of the underground impossible to disguise. I pause in the doorway and consider retreat, but this is my home and I’m not about to give it up lightly. Entering, I shut the door and switch on the light in the living room. The real Paucar Wami smiles at me from where he stands by the window. “A fine night, hmm, Al m’boy?”
I go to the kitchen, fix a sandwich, fetch two cans of beer from the fridge and toss one to my father. He catches, opens and raises it to his lips in one smooth movement. I flop on the couch and munch my sandwich. “How long have you been back among the living?”
“Since this morning.” He belches and eyes me, amused. “You don’t seem fazed by my ability to return from the dead.”
“When you’ve seen one zombie, you’ve seen them all.”
“You have changed. The Al I remember ha
d no time for the occult. He would have been busy seeking logical solutions to explain my existence.”
I shrug. “I’ve learned to take the world for what it is. If corpses return to life, so be it.”
Wami observes me intensely. His eyes linger on the finger hanging from my neck but he doesn’t ask about it. “If I did not know better, I could almost think I was gazing into a mirror,” he remarks approvingly. “You look older than me — you need to hide those wrinkles — your face isn’t quite as angular as mine, and some scars show through your tattoos, but otherwise you’re a near-perfect likeness.”
“Mother always said I favored your side of the family.”
He laughs. “And you’ve developed a sense of humor! You have done the old man proud.”
I’m not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or paying me a genuine compliment. I don’t much care. “Why are you here? Did your masters send you?”
“No man can call himself my master,” Wami growls. “The priests command me but it is a temporary arrangement. Their hour of control will pass, as Ferdinand Dorak’s did. I am my own man.”
“You’re deluding yourself,” I sneer. “You’re their puppet and always have been. Now be a good boy and spit out whatever message they gave you for me.”
His face darkens and his lips curl. I stare at him impassively. “They said they started this riot and they can finish it,” he mutters bitterly, dropping his gaze. “If you pledge allegiance, they will send in the Snakes and restore order.”
“Do you know they plan to oust you in favor of me? The Snakes are designed to be led by me, not you.”
“I would not have it any other way,” he says. “I savor my own company. I could not tolerate leadership. You can have your pitiful Snakes.”
“But I don’t want them. Tell the villacs to go fuck themselves.”
Wami throws back his head and laughs. His white teeth flash in the light of the bulb. “You should choose your words carefully when dealing with your enemies, Al m’boy. There is a time for honesty and a time for diplomacy.”