Angel Of The City

by Leahy, R. J.

  Taking the strips of vinyl, I tie them securely together—all but the last one. I’ll need that knot loose enough to slip, but tight enough to hold my body weight for three to five seconds. Unfortunately, I have no way of testing the knot and so my survival may depend on Ellison. Luckily, he’s been given a pretty good incentive to keep me alive. I carry the vinyl ‘rope’ and the chair to the center of the room.

  There are only two lights in the room, both ceiling pot lamps with heavy metal grates over them. I should just be able to reach one standing on the chair. Carefully, my weight teetering on the back of the chair, I thread one end of the vinyl strip through the light grating and tie it off, then tie the other end around my neck.

  My hands are now cuffed in front of me, but I’m counting on enough panic on Ellison’s part that he won’t notice, at least for a few seconds. Now comes the hard part. Taking a deep breath, I send the chair skidding out from under me to bang up against the door.

  The noise rouses Ellison and even through slitted eyes, I can see the terror in his face as he unlocks the door and rushes in. He reaches me just as the last knot slips and I hit the ground. As he bends over my prostrate body his expression changes, as though he realizes something’s wrong.

  Evaluate every situation thoroughly before committing yourself. Never rush in.

  My kick catches him squarely in the throat. He staggers back clutching his neck as I leap up at him. Foamy blood oozes from his mouth. He grasps for his boot knife and manages to pull it out, but he’s already fading. It takes little effort to tear the knife from his grip and bury it in his chest.

  Moving quickly, I use his key to unlock the cuffs, then undress him and don his clothes. The hall is empty as I make my way to the second holding cell. Through the window, I get my first look at Abby.

  There’s a definite family resemblance to Pen. Long dark hair, intense blue eyes, she’s dressed in a one-piece prison garment, zipper up the middle. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed staring vacantly at the wall; hands in her lap. Even across the room I can see a slight tremor in them. This isn’t an interrogation cell; they don’t have the equipment for a formal ‘interview’, but they haven’t left her alone.

  When I unlock her door and enter the room, her reaction is pretty much what I expect, only muted. She glances up as I approach, then quickly looks away. The trembling increases, but she doesn’t scream; doesn’t shrink away in fear. There’s some steel in this girl. Good, she’s going to need it.

  I glance at the new watch on my wrist, the one once owned by Counselor Ellison who no longer needs a watch now that he has all the time in the world. It’s almost eleven. As I near her, I start talking, low and fast.

  “I’m not a Counselor. I’m here to get you out. We don’t have much time. I need you to come with me now.” I hold out my hand.

  She looks up at me: distrust, confusion, anger. She starts to speak then thinks better of it, her eyes flitting between me and the open door.

  “Now,” I say.

  Again she surprises me. Doesn’t ask any questions, just takes my hand. We exit and she starts for the rear door, but I pull her back. “Can’t,” I say as I keep her moving deeper into the building. “The station is filled with Counselors.”

  We reach the basement door and I open it. “You have to trust me. You won’t like what we have to do, but it’s the only way. Do you understand?”

  She nods. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  I don’t know why but I feel like I need to say more, even though she’s given me no problems so far. Maybe I want to give her something to hold onto for the next few minutes. “Pen’s alive. She’s waiting for you.”

  I immediately regret my decision. Her face falls and her lower lip begins to tremble and for a moment, she looks like she might break down. But she doesn’t fall apart on me. She draws in a deep breath to gather herself, then nods. I take her arm and guide her quickly down the steps.

  There’s an odor about the place. Not strong or noxious like you might expect, but subtle and not quite identifiable. Yet something about it triggers panic. Maybe it’s instinct. You smell it and you want to run.

  We reach the basement and for the first time she fights me, trying to wrestle her arm free of my grip. Along the walls are stacks of shiny body bags, neatly lined up—removed from the freezer earlier today. On the other side are the five ovens, their doors shut. She doesn’t scream but her eyes are wild with fright and I have to be firmer than I want to be to keep her from fleeing back up the stairs. I grab both forearms and hold them tight in front of her.

  “We have to get into the ovens.”

  She shakes her head violently, refusing to look at me, trying to break free.

  I can’t do anything else but speak slowly and calmly as I hold her in a tight grip. “Listen to me. It’s standard procedure. The operator raises a lever to open a trap door in the oven. It’s to release any remaining ash or fumes before opening the oven door. The trap door opens to a bin in the sub-basement. From there we can get out. They’ll be here any minute. Abby, look at me.”

  Slowly she stops fighting and stares at me.

  “There’s no other way.”

  I don’t know if she’s trying to figure out if I’m mad or if this whole thing isn’t some sort of sick mind game of the Counselors, but finally she nods.

  Relaxing my grip but still holding her arm, I lead her to the nearest oven. She keeps her head down, her eyes on the floor. I grab two paper masks from the dispenser and hand one to her. “Put it on.”

  The twin doors creak as they open. It’s better than I thought. There’s little residual ash, but there’s some; the remains of a human being who’s last minutes were spent here. Abby leans against me. I can only see her eyes now over the mask, but they plead with me not to do this. I don’t look at her for long.

  A table for sliding the bodies sits in front of each oven and I help her onto it, then get up myself and we crawl inside. A small plume of ash kicks up. I can hear sounds in the stairwell and quickly close the oven doors behind us. The space is tight and we’re pressed close together.

  It’s dark as a well inside. The air, even through the mask, is heavy and tainted with a sick, oily scent. She shudders, but doesn’t make a sound. I never let go of her hand.

  The noise from the room grows louder. People talking, joking; the sounds of carts and gurneys being moved; the clanging of metal. Someone turns on a radio. Suddenly the bottom of the oven drops out and we fall. I manage to twist in time to catch the blow on my back, Abby on top of me. The drop is only four or five feet and we land in a large bin meant to catch the ash. Mercifully, it’s been emptied.

  She tries to get up immediately, but I hold her still for a moment, listening. But the sound of our fall doesn’t appear to have been heard. We climb out of the bin and I lead her to a small window high on the wall. It’s latched from the inside and once opened, I help her up and out to the alley. As soon as she’s outside, she drops to her knees and tears off the mask, losing the contents of her stomach. I climb out behind her. We don’t have time for this, but I give her a little space. That was probably the worst thing she’s ever had to do. I can’t say the same.

  When she looks like she’s ready, I take her through the alleys and side streets, heading northeast toward the nest in the one-twelve.

  She glances at me as we walk. “Thank you… I’m sorry; I don’t even know your name.”

  “It isn’t important. And don’t thank me. You’re a paycheck, nothing more.”

  “A mercenary?”

  “Nothing so glamorous. Just your garden-variety thief.”

  “Did Kingston send you?” she asks.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s…”

  “Lady, I really don’t want to know.”

  “All right,” she says, “if that’s the way you want it. But thank you anyway.”

  We’ve gone maybe six or seven blocks when she stumbles and falls. I help her up and she puts
her hand to her forehead. “I’m all right, just a little weak.”

  Even without the availability of an interrogation cell, they would have followed standard procedure and given her minimal food and water rations—enough to keep her alive while also keeping her constantly hungry and thirsty. After four days, it’s not surprising she’s weak.

  I know the neighborhood around here well enough and take her to a shadowy corner near the trash bins in the delivery area behind a row of storefronts.

  “We can’t stop. They’ll be after us soon,” she says. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen Counselor vehicles pouring out of the station by now.”

  “We’ve got a little time.” We huddle for warmth against the building and I relate the events of the last few hours.

  “Who’s Keillor?” she asks.

  “Obercounselor, promoted to his position by the Director General himself. Many in the Council took exception to that. Advancement is almost always done from within. He’s known as the Director’s personal lapdog and has never been completely trusted by the rank and file.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  I give her a glance that makes it clear there won’t be an answer forthcoming.

  “Fine,” she says. “I suppose the less we know about each other the better. So how long before they come after us?”

  “It’s not like Remy can just call the Ministry and accuse Keillor directly. He’ll have to be subtle and it’s late. I don’t think he’ll know anything definitive until morning. But Ellison will miss his checkin in a few hours and someone will come looking for him.”

  After we’ve rested a while, I help her up and for the first time, notice that she’s wincing. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’ll be fine, but I could use some water.”

  “Stay here.”

  I walk down the alley, scanning the names above the delivery doors until I see one with the word, ‘bakery’. I don’t have my tool kit with me, but it shouldn’t be difficult to force the door. Scrounging around in the trash I find a thin piece of scrap iron, about four feet long. I wedge it in the door jamb and pull hard. As expected, the lock snaps easily and the door swings open. Even in this precinct, there will have been silent alarms, but I have a few minutes before the Blueshirts arrive.

  I enter through the back mixing area filled with large steel vats, shiny and empty. I run my hand along the inside of one and come up with a good amount of dust. Hasn’t been used in some time. Bread’s been in short supply too.

  Farther in, I find a tall rack with a dozen large metal shelves. Most are empty, but two have a few loaves ready to sell in the morning, cheap as day-old. I grab a loaf and continue to look around, finally coming across cases of gallon-jugs of water. No decent baker would use the stuff from the tap. I take a jug and head out the back, not bothering to close the door. The Blueshirts will take care of that.

  I get back to Abby and we work our way northeast a few more blocks, still heading toward the one-twelve, but far enough away from the station house to not risk running into Blueshirts. There’s an abandoned building and I force open the boards covering a street-level window, helping Abby inside. It’s dark, but enough moonlight filters in through the higher windows for us to find our way around. We’re in what was probably a nice living room at one time, but is now just a dusty space crowded with junk. We find a couple of chairs and pull them into the center of the room. It’s cold even without the wind, but I won’t risk a fire.

  I open the water and hand it to her, grabbing it as she tips it back and starts swallowing great mouthfuls.

  “Slow. You’ll cramp up if you drink too fast.”

  She lowers the jug and wipes her mouth on the back of her sleeve. The bread is hard and cold, but she doesn’t seem to mind as I break off a piece and hand it to her. We eat in silence.

  Half the loaf is gone before she speaks. “You’re sure Pen is safe?”

  “Safer than with you.”

  She flashes me an angry stare, her eyes iridescent in the moonlight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Hey lady, you want to martyr yourself against the government, go right ahead. But don’t pretend you didn’t know they’d come after your sister as well.”

  “Of course I knew, but what was I supposed to do, leave her to face the authorities alone? And stop calling me lady. My name is Abby.”

  “I know, the Angel of the City.”

  She looks away, a blush rising on her cheeks visible even in the dim light. “That was Kingston’s idea. He thought it was good propaganda.”

  “Are you kidding? Rich girl from good family leaves the wealth and comfort of the Garden District to fight for the downtrodden masses? It has recruitment poster all over it.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re pretty cynical for a common thief.”

  “Garden-variety, not common. There’s a difference.”

  “I’ll try and remember that. So how is it a garden-variety thief knows so much about me?”

  “I wouldn’t call it much. About all I know is that you were a math major in college and didn’t get along with your father.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Pen. She’s been staying with me.”

  An icy stare. “What do you mean, ‘staying with you’?”

  The unspoken accusation sets off something inside me. Suddenly I’m on my feet, glaring down at her. “That’s what yer worried about? The two o’ ye are bein’ hunted by Cosags and yer worried I might ‘ave diddled yer little sister?

  “Yer nae wanted fer some petty crime; yer the face of a movement that has directly challenged the gov’ment. Is it possible ya dinna know what that means? When they find ye again—n’ they will—they’ll keep ye in an interrogation cell fer weeks. Any horror stories ye might o’ heard about Counselor interrogation are nothin’ compared to the reality. Long ‘afore they end yer life, they’ll have ye crawlin’ on yer hands n’ knees like a beast, beggin’ fer daith!”

  She closes her eyes and turns away.

  “And anythin’ they do tae you, they’ll do tae Pen. Only they’ll do it tae ‘er first. And they’ll make you watch.”

  “Shut up!”

  The fit passes and I stagger back to the chair, falling into it, breathing through my mouth, my head hung low. The pain in my head is excruciating, so bad it blurs my vision. But at least I’m not in danger of throwing up in my lap—for now.

  Abby glares at me, her eyes moist. “You’re a bastard.”

  I make an effort to swallow back the bile that has crept up into my throat. “Aye, ah know. An accident o’ birth.” The headache is unreachable, but that doesn’t stop me from rubbing my forehead in a vain attempt to get at it. “A joost… I just want you tae understand what you’ve done.”

  “You think I don’t know? I’m not an idiot. I didn’t ask for this. I had no other choice.”

  I try closing my eyes, but it just makes me dizzy and I quickly open them. “There are always choices.”

  “Believe that if you want,” she says wearily.

  I want to wash the taste of bile from my mouth, but I don’t trust my stomach. I pour some water into my hand and wipe the clammy sweat from my face.

  “Alba district?” she asks, avoiding my gaze.

  I nod

  “You hide the accent well.”

  “I had a determined teacher.” I don’t want to get further into it and change the subject. “Pen said the two of you were raised by your father.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “What?”

  “I was asking about your father.”

  “So what, we’ve moved on to small talk now?”

  “If you like.”

  She shakes her head, wiping her eyes. “You’re not a very complicated man, are you?”

  I don’t take the bait. I’m not trying to argue with her, I’m just giving myself some time; trying to come up with a reason to sit here until I can move without throwing up all over myself.

  “Fine. Yes, my mother died when
I was nine; aneurysm, they said.”

  “I’m sorry. What was she like?”

  “My mother?” A pause. “I remember her being a very gentle woman.”

  “But not too fond of the Ministry?”

  “What has Pen told you?”

  “Not much. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  She stares back with a look like she’s not going to answer, but she surprises me. “I guess you’d say she wasn’t supportive. She was always fretting about people, especially those that lived outside the Garden, about how hard their lives were. She used to talk about it a lot.”

  “I didn’t think people in the Garden worried much about what went on outside it.”

  “Most don’t. I remember once she took me in our car and we snuck out of the gates. Just drove around the city. I was scared, but she made me look out the window the whole way. She told me I should never forget that this was the way most people had to live. I never did.”

  “And your dad?”

  “He was furious when he found out. Said he didn’t want her filling my head with ridiculous ideas. I don’t think he ever really understood her. After she died, he didn’t have much to do with us. He wasn’t cruel, just sort of detached, especially with Pen.”

  “So, you’ve been a rebel since childhood.”

  I wasn’t making fun, but her lips turn up in a smile anyway. “Only in my own home. I never spoke out until I was in university and even then, only to a few trusted friends. I’m not brave by nature.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  The unexpected praise puts her guard down. Something like gratitude reflects in her eyes. “Thank you, but it’s not hard to be brave when you have no other options. My mother once told me that her dream was to see a better world than the one we live in. I suppose that’s my dream too.”

  “Big dream.”

  A shrug. “Dreams should be big, or why have them?”