Seconds after I get in I hear footsteps, then the bathroom door opening. “Reeve?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” I call.
“Need to talk. Urgently.”
“After I finish,” I say, nettled. “Can’t it wait?”
“I suppose.”
Small torments add up; I’m now in a thoroughly bad mood. What’s life coming to, when I can’t even take a shower without interruption? I soap myself down methodically then wash my hair, taking care to rub the inefficient surfactant gel into my scalp. After a couple of minutes of rinsing, I turn off the water and open the door to reach for my towel, to be confronted by a surprised-looking Sam.
“Pass me the bath sheet,” I tell him, trying to make the best of things. He complies hastily. Months of living in this goldfish bowl society have done strange things to my body-sense, and I feel surprisingly awkward about being naked in front of him. I think he feels it, too. “What’s so important?” I step out of the shower as he holds the towel for me.
“Phone call,” he mumbles, trying to look away—his eyes keep drifting back toward me.
“Uh-huh. Who from?” He folds me in the towel as if I’m a delicate treasure he’s trying not to touch. I shiver and try to ignore it.
“From Fer. He and El, they’ve heard something bad from Mick, and they’re talking about sorting it out.”
“Bad.” I try to concentrate. The water on my skin is suddenly cold. “What kind of bad?”
“It’s Cass, I think.” I tense up inside. “Mick gave them some crazy story about hearing from Fiore. Said the Priest told him that one of the rules in here is, what was it, ‘be fruitful and exponentiate.’ That you can get a gigantic score bonus for having children.”
“That’s not good,” I say carefully, “but it might just be Mick acting in character.”
“Well, yes, that’s what Fer said, but then Mick told El he was going to get that bonus whether or not Cass wanted it.” He sounds apprehensive. “El wasn’t sure what that meant.”
My mind races. “Cass wasn’t at Church yesterday, Sam. Last time I saw her she wouldn’t talk—she seemed afraid.” I have a nasty feeling that I know what’s going on. I really don’t want it to be true.
“Yes, well, Fer called me when El told him Mick had made some kind of joke about stopping Cass trying to escape for good. He wasn’t sure just what it was but said it didn’t sound right. Reeve, what’s going on? What are we going to do if it turns out he’s been tying Cass up while he’s been at work, or using physical force, or something?”
For someone living in a dark ages sim, Sam can be heartbreakingly naive at times. “Sam, do you know what the word ‘rape’ means?”
“I’ve heard it,” he says guardedly. “I thought it had to involve strangers, and usually killing. Do you think—”
I turn round. “We’ve got to find out what’s going on, and we’ve got to get her out of there if it’s true. I don’t think we can count on the police zombies, or Fiore for that matter, to help. Fiore’s messed up in the head anyway, even Yourdon thinks so.” I pause. “This is very bad.”
The thought of what Cass might be going through horrifies me, especially as I can guess how some of our cohort will react if we try to rescue her. Before last Sunday I might have been more hopeful, but now I know better than to expect anything but gruesome savagery from our neighbors if they think their precious points are at risk. “I think Janis would help, but she’s ill. Alice, maybe. Angel is scared but will probably follow if we approach her right. Jen—I don’t want Jen around. What about you guys?”
“Fer agrees,” Sam says simply. “He doesn’t like the idea either. El, maybe not. I think if I ask, I can get Greg and Martin and Alf involved. A team.” He looks at me oddly.
“No killing,” I say, warningly.
He shudders. “No! Never. But—”
“Someone’s got to go find out if it’s true, or if it was just Mick making a joke in bad taste. Right?”
He nods. “Right. Who?”
“I’ll do it,” I say flatly. “Tonight. I’m going to get dressed. You get on the phone to people. Get them round here. I want to sort out what we’re doing before I go in, that way there won’t be any nasty surprises. All right?”
He nods then looks at me, an odd expression in his face. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” I lean forward and kiss him quickly on the lips. “Get moving.”
THREE hours later, we’re holed up in a vacant house on a quiet residential side street across the road from what we now know is Cass and Mick’s home, thanks to an obliging zombie taxi driver. This street is still three-quarters unoccupied. We pile out of our three taxis at five-minute intervals and go to ground. Fer was among the first to arrive. He got us into the empty house with a crowbar. There’s not a lot of furniture, and everything is dusty—not to mention dark, because we don’t want to turn on the lights and risk alerting Mick—but it’s better than trying to hide in the front garden for a couple of hours.
There are only five of us—me, Sam, Fer, Greg, and Greg’s spouse, Tammy. Tammy is determined and very quietly furious—I think it’s because she didn’t realize how bad things really were until Sam phoned Greg. It’s nearly midnight, and we’re all tired, but I run through the plan once again.
“Okay, one more time. I’m going to go across the road and ring the doorbell. I’ll ask to see Cass. Depending how Mick reacts, Sam and Fer, you’ll rush him or hang back. I’ve got the whistle. One whistle means come in and get me, I need help. Two means get Mick.” I stop. “Greg, Tammy, you take the stockings, pull them over your heads. We don’t want him to recognize you if you have to take Cass and look after her.”
“I hope you’re wrong about this,” Tammy says grimly.
“So do I, believe me. So do I.” I glance sidelong at Fer.
“Mick’s not been right in the head since I’ve known him,” Fer mutters.
“Anything else before we go?” I ask, standing up.
“Yes,” says Fer. “If you don’t whistle, and you don’t come out within ten minutes, I’m going in anyway.” He grips his crowbar.
“I should hope so.” I nod, then get up and head across the road.
Mick’s garden is overgrown with weeds, and the grass is long. There are no lights in the windows, but that doesn’t mean anything. Like our house, there’s a conservatory at the front. The door stands open. I step inside and look at the front door. There’s a new lock drilled into it, big and chunky-looking. I ring the doorbell. Nothing happens. I ring it again, and a light comes on in the hall. I tense up, ready for it as I hear a key turn in the lock, then another key, and the door opens.
“You.” It’s Mick. He belches at me, and I smell sour wine on his breath. He’s wearing a dirty T-shirt and boxers, and he’s clutching a metal canister with an open top. “What do you want?” He leers at me. “Din’t I tellya not to bug me?”
“I want to see Cass,” I say evenly. There’s stuff piled in the hall. Looks like empty food cartons, rubbish. It smells sickly sweet. “She wasn’t at Church on Sunday.”
“Yeah?” He raises the can and takes a drink from it, then looks at me slyly. “Come in.”
I step over the threshold as he backs into the house. It looks like it started out as a mirror image of the one Sam and I live in, but it’s been trashed. The hall is stacked with ripped boxes of ready meals and bits of decaying food. Something upstairs has leaked, and there’s a smelly stain spreading down one wall. “She’s upstairs, resting,” he says, gesturing at the staircase. “Whyn’t you go up an’ see her?”
I stare at him. “If you think she won’t mind.”
“She won’t.”
As I set foot on the staircase he sidles round below and closes the door, then twists both keys in the locks. “Go on,” he tells me, “nothin’ to worry about.” He giggles.
That does it. I’ve got the whistle on a cord round my neck, hidden under the jumper I’m wearing. I pull it out and blow two sharp blasts
as I take the steps two at a time. Mick winces, then turns to look up at me, his face a picture of confusion slowly turning into anger. “Whatyuh do that for?” he shouts. Then there’s a loud thump from behind him as someone hits the door.
I make the top step and glance round quickly. The master bedroom is on the left, just like in my own house. There are piles of filthy clothing mounded up along one wall, and I take in the sick-but-sweet stench of blocked drains overlying something else, something less identifiable. I dart into the bedroom, and my hand goes to the light switch. Something squeals.
There’s a splintering crash downstairs and a bellow of inarticulate rage, but I’m too busy staring at the bed to pay attention. Most of the furniture in the room has been trashed, like someone threw it about or took an axe to it. The bed is the sole exception, but it’s been stripped down to the mattress. It stinks of excrement and stale urine, there are flies buzzing about, and it’s occupied: Cass is lying on it naked. Her arms are tied to the headboard, and her legs to either corner of the bottom of the bed. She’s filthy and there are bruises on her thighs and her face looks like she’s been repeatedly punched. That’s where the squealing noise is coming from. I think he’s broken her jaw.
“Up here,” I yell through the doorway. I turn back to her. “We’ll get you out of here, my friend.” I bend over her and pull out the switchblade I brought along for emergencies. “This is going to hurt.” I begin sawing on the cord around her arms and she whimpers. As she moves there’s a horrible stench from the encrusted mattress and I realize she isn’t just skinny, she’s half-starved, and there are sores on her arms, angry red rope burns.
I hear more crashes and bangs from downstairs, then an angry yell. Cass whimpers, then moans loudly as the last cord parts; her arms flop limply, and she moans some more. Her hands are puffy and bruised-looking, and I’ve got a bad feeling about them, but there’s no time to waste. I move to the foot of the bed and start sawing away at the rope around her right ankle, and that’s when she screams and I see what he’s done to stop her from running away. There’s blood on the rope because he’s slashed the big tendon on her ankle, and her foot flops uncontrollably, and every time it moves, she tries to scream, gurgling around her broken jaw. He said you get lots of points for having a baby. I yell with fury, then there’s someone in the doorway. I look up and see it’s Sam. There’s a cut on his cheek that’s bleeding, and one eye is half-closed. That gets my attention, and I’m in control again. “Over here,” I say tensely. “I need you to hold her leg still . . .”
When we go downstairs, Greg phones a number I don’t know about and calls an ambulance. Everyone is a bit the worse for wear, except for Greg and Tammy. Sam is going to have a beautiful black eye tomorrow, and Fer caught a kick in the ribs while he and Sam and Greg were taking down Mick. They’ve laid him out on the floor of the conservatory while we figure out what to do with him. I’m really regretting my earlier stand against lynching, but the first priority is to get Cass to safety. We’ll have plenty of time to deal with Mick later, assuming he doesn’t choke on his own vomit while he’s unconscious. That would make things easier all round.
“How is she?” asks Tammy. “I’d better—”
“No.” I stop her by standing in the way. “Trust me. We need to get her to the, the hospital. This isn’t something you can do at home.”
“How bad?” Tammy demands.
“Hospital.” I don’t want her to see what Mick did to Cass’s legs. I don’t want to be responsible tonight.
The ambulance arrives within five minutes, a boxy white vehicle with stylized red crescents on it. Two polite zombies in blue uniforms come up to the front door. “This way,” I say, leading them upstairs. For once I’m glad there are zombies everywhere—they won’t ask the kind of awkward questions someone with cognitive autonomy might raise. Sam is up there with Cass, and a minute later the zombies pile back downstairs to fetch a folding wheeled platform for her.
“Who is next of kin?” asks one of the zombies as they come down the stairs with Cass lying on the stretcher.
Fer begins to point toward Mick, and Tammy bats his hand away. “I am!” she says. “Take me with you.”
“Request approved,” says one of the zombies. “Ride up front, please.” They wheel Cass out toward the back of the vehicle, and Tammy follows them.
Greg watches her for a moment, then turns to look back at Mick. “What are we going to do with him?” he asks.
There’s a hard expression on Fer’s face. “Nothing,” I say quickly, before Fer can open his mouth and stick his foot in it. “Remember what we agreed? No lynching.” I pause. “What we do tomorrow is another matter.”
“Will the police do anything?” Fer asks after a moment.
“I don’t think so,” says Sam, coming downstairs. He’s holding a damp towel to his eye. “I really don’t think they’re programmed for this sort of thing. If we’re unlucky, they’ll come after us for trampling on the flower bed and breaking down the door, but I don’t think you can really expect a zombie to cope with this sort of . . . thing.” He looks very sober as he stares at Mick’s prostrate form.
“Let’s go home,” I suggest. “How about we meet up tomorrow evening to talk about it?”
“That works for me,” says Greg. Sam nods.
I eye Mick’s prostrate form. “If he tries to come after any of us, I think we should kill him.”
“You sound as if you’re not certain.” That’s Fer.
“Certain?” I stare at him: “Shit, I’ve got half a mind to cut his throat right here! Except, Sunday”—I swallow—“has kind of put me off.” I stare at him some more. “You kicked the shit out of him. Think he’ll come back for more?”
Greg shakes his head. “I hope he tries something,” he says, a curious half smile on his lips. I shiver. Just for a moment he reminds me of Jen.
“Come on, let’s go.” I take Sam’s free hand. “Fer, would you call two taxis?
It’s close to one in the morning when Sam and I get home, filthy and tired and bruised. “Go on in,” I say, pausing in the conservatory. “This shirt’s going in the trash.” Sam nods wordlessly and goes indoors, leaving me to strip off under the cool moonlight. I feel numb and tired, but also satisfied with the night’s work. I correct that—mostly satisfied. I unzip my trousers in case any of the crap on the bed rubbed off on them, then I follow him inside.
Sam’s standing in the living room doorway, holding a bottle of vodka and two tumblers. He hasn’t turned the lights on, but he’s shed his shirt, and the moonlight shining through the tall glass windows outlines his bare shoulders in silver. “I do not want to dream tonight,” he says, holding the bottle out to me.
“Me neither.” I take one of the glasses, then brush past him into the living room. I’m tired, I realize, but I’m also wired with excitement and tension and apprehension about tomorrow, and a burning hot anger for Cass—Why didn’t I go round to see her before?—and a fresh hatred for Fiore and Yourdon, and the faceless scum who created this nightmare and expect us to live in it. “What are you waiting for?” I drop onto the sofa and hold my glass out. Sam tips colorless spirit into it. “C’mon.”
He sits down next to me and fills his own glass, then caps the bottle. “I should have listened to you earlier,” he says, taking a mouthful.
“So?” I raise my glass. “I hope the hospital can help. She was—”
There’s a long moment of silence. It’s probably only a couple of seconds, but it feels like hours.
“I didn’t know.”
“None of us did.” But these sound like feeble excuses to me right now, so I take another mouthful of vodka in order to have something else to occupy my mouth with.
“R-Reeve. There’s something else I want you to know.” I look at him sharply. He’s looking right back at me, and I’m suddenly conscious that I’m nearly naked. And he’s not wearing that much either, now I allow myself to notice it.
“Go ahead,” I say, trying t
o keep my voice neutral.
“I’m. Oh.” He looks away, looking pained. Inexpressive. “Yesterday I said some things I didn’t really mean. Hurtful things, some of them. I want to apologize.”
“No apology needed,” I say, my heart beating painfully fast.
“Oh, but there is. You see, I didn’t mean everything I said. But when I said * * * I was telling the—”
“Stop right there.” I raise a hand. “Those words. You, uh, oh shit.” My head’s spinning. It’s late at night, I’ve been through a lot, I’ve been drinking vodka, and Sam’s saying words to me that my ears refuse to listen to. “I didn’t hear you just now, and I know for sure you said the same thing before, and I didn’t hear the words.” He looks puzzled, even offended. “I mean, I heard you speak, but I couldn’t understand them.” I’m beginning to worry. “You used the same phrase, didn’t you? Exactly the same words? Could there be something wrong with my—” He stands up and strides over to the sideboard to retrieve his tablet, which has been lying there gathering dust for some time. “What?”
He says something to it, then holds it up in front of me. Dim letters glow on the screen:
I LOVE YOU
“You what?” I say, “You’re trying to say * * *—” And I know I’m saying the words, but I can’t hear them. “Shit.” I shake my head. “It’s me. Sam, I’m so sorry.” I stand up and hug him. “* * *, too. It’s just, there’s something really flaky up with my language module. Is that what you’ve been trying to tell me?” I lean back far enough to see his face. “Is it?”
“Yes,” he admits. His face is a picture of worry. “I don’t say that easily. And I can’t hear it either, Reeve, I thought I was going nuts.”
“I guess not.” I’m close enough to feel his crotch. “And I guess you only say that to people you’re serious about.” He nods. “And maybe you’re close enough that I can tell you that I’m flattered, and very happy, and, and—” I pause. I feel as if I ought to know what this weird inability to understand those three happy words means, but I can’t quite recall it. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
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