The City, Not Long After

by Pat Murphy

  She stopped thinking, stopped wondering where she was going. She followed the muffled drumming of the angel’s wings. Each time she thought she had lost the way, she saw golden light ahead, the only touch of color in the gray world.

  Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she hurried after the angel. She tried to run but she stumbled, her legs rubbery with sickness, her head enormous and light, like an unwieldy balloon that she towed behind her body. She turned the corner and the light surrounded her. The angel stood before her. Behind it, the darkness was complete.

  The right side of the angel’s face was human, a handsome face set in a benevolent smile. But the skin on the left side of the face had been torn away, revealing flat planes of metal. On the curve of the cheekbone, a thin line of corrosion marked where two plates had been welded together. The left eye was a golden light, bereft of eyelid or lash. The light flickered as she watched, threatening to die, then flaring back to full brightness.

  The angel was naked, and its skin glowed. It had no genitals, just smooth skin where the genitals should have been. It held its hands out to her. The skin had worn away: she could see the delicate metal joints that formed the knuckles. The seams were edged with rust.

  The woman stopped, staring up at the great inhuman face. She

  was suddenly cold, chilled by the breeze that blew from the darkness. “Where is my mother?” she asked in a whisper. “Will you tell me?”

  The angel did not reply. She took a step toward it. “Tell me,” she said, her voice breaking. “Where is she?”

  The angel held out its metal hand. When it moved, she heard the creaking of ancient machinery.

  “No,” the woman said and took a step back, out of reach of the angel’s metal hands. But she could not take her eyes from the ravaged face, the glowing golden eye.

  She heard a sound in the shadows. A small hairy animal crouched in the darkness just behind the angel, staring at her. She recognized the creature from an alphabet book that she had seen when she was a child: M is for Monkey. The animal studied her with rheumy eyes that seemed to hold a sort of sly intelligence. Then it barked once—a sudden commanding sound—and ran past her.

  She turned from the angel and ran after the monkey, drawing on her last reserves of strength, ducking around corners like a rat in a maze. She ran blindly, fearing the thunder of wings overhead and the cold touch of metal on her back.

  As she ran, the light returned to the world. The buildings no longer pressed close. Her breath came more easily. She reached the abandoned Mercedes. The monkey was perched on the car’s roof, idly searching its fur for fleas. It looked up as she approached, then returned to the task at hand, ignoring her. She looked back in the direction from which she’d come. The angel had not followed.

  Exhausted from running and from pain, she tugged on the car door and tumbled into the back seat. Sprigs of wild anise had taken root in the carpet and their aroma filled the car. At last she slept.

  Danny-boy pedaled his bicycle down Market Street, heading for the warehouse district just south of downtown. His bicycle trailer, an awkward but functional vehicle constructed from the body of a grocery cart and the wheels of a mountain bike, rattled and bounced behind him. On the previous afternoon he had discovered three Coleman lanterns, miraculously unbroken, in the corner of a fire-gutted warehouse. That morning he was returning to see what other treasures might be hidden in the wreckage. As always, he was searching for more blue paint to use on the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Jezebel, Danny-boy’s mongrel bitch, trotted after the bicycle and trailer. Sometimes she lingered behind to sniff at an abandoned car. The rusting vehicles provided shelter for the cats that prowled through the buildings of San Francisco’s downtown.

  It was early and the fog had not yet burned away. Gray mist crept through the streets, languidly embracing the lampposts and caressing the buildings as it passed. As he pedaled, Danny-boy admired the patterns that the fog made as it eddied around the buildings. The dark windows showing through tendrils of mist reminded him of a set of old lace curtains that he had noticed in a house in Pacific Heights. He wondered, watching the fog, if he might be able to do something interesting with the curtains—maybe some kind of sculpture that moved in the wind. He filed the notion away—he would have to mention it to Zatch or one of the other sculptors.

  On mornings like this, Danny-boy sometimes saw things that he could not explain. A crowd of ghostly people in Market Street, dancing to music he could not hear. A flock of angels, flying just above the buildings. A woman, driving a chariot drawn by flaming horses following the course of the sun. He did not mind these things; they were a part of his life. He knew that such visions came from the city, caught somehow in the asphalt and cement, sprouting up like the weeds that grew in the cracks on Market Street, curling among the buildings like the fog.

  Few people lived in the city, but the dreams of many lingered in the burned-out buildings, the abandoned cars, the empty streets. It was these dreams, Danny-boy thought sometimes, that shaped the city. The dreams of the dead, Danny-boy suspected, made Lily collect skulls and display them in the Emporium Department Store window.

  Danny-boy stopped pedaling his bicycle as he came to the corner of Fifth and Market and coasted to a stop by the Emporium. Arranged behind the glass of the display window was a neat array of polished human skulls. The clean white anonymity of bone fascinated Lily.

  Beside each skull was an object: a pair of wire-rimmed bifocals, an empty whiskey decanter, a naked plastic doll with curly blonde hair and baby-blue glass eyes, a hash pipe, a Bible, a lace glove. Each time Lily selected a skull, she also took an object from the skull’s surroundings. She polished each skull with floor wax, pilfered from supermarkets and hardware stores, and arranged them to suit herself.

  Since Danny-boy’s last visit, Lily had added a toothless skull and a set of dentures. Danny-boy admired Lily’s skill in selection and arrangement. The bifocals, the glove, the dentures, the Bible—these things changed the array of skulls from something morbid and commonplace to something profoundly human. The window had the look of a memorial, an offering to appease the souls of the anonymous dead.

  Danny-boy stood for a moment by the window, studying the display. Then he whistled for Jezebel, who had wandered off among the cars. The dog did not come to his whistle, but began barking from somewhere nearby. Danny-boy whistled again but still the dog barked, an eager baying that clearly demanded Danny-boy’s presence.

  Danny-boy followed the sound to a Mercedes parked in the middle of the street. A monkey crouched on the roof of the automobile, chattering angrily at the dog. At Danny-boy’s approach, the monkey bounded away, disappearing into the open door of a nearby office building. Jezebel sniffed anxiously at the car’s closed door and wagged her tail furiously.

  Danny-boy peered through the broken windshield. A young woman huddled inside, as far as she could get from Jezebel. “It’s OK,” he said. “You can come out. Jezebel won’t hurt you.”

  The woman did not speak or move. Her face was very pale and she clutched her worn leather jacket tightly around her, as if for warmth and protection.

  “Are you all right?” Danny-boy asked. She regarded him with the fearful gaze of an animal too sick to defend itself. She blinked as if struggling to keep him in focus. Jezebel barked again and scratched on the door of the car.

  Strangers rarely made it to downtown. Traders usually headed straight for Duff’s Trading Post on the edge of the Presidio. Few wanted to risk encountering the strangeness that lone travelers so often found in the heart of the city. Occasionally one of Oakland’s gangs crossed the bridge to scavenge. But a gang would not have abandoned one of its own.

  “Are you hurt?” Danny-boy asked. As he watched, she closed her eyes, as if watching him were suddenly too much of an effort. He pulled on the car door, and her eyes opened wide. She lunged forward, leaping past him to run for cover. But a few steps from the car she stumbled and fell, rolled once, then lay curled on the
asphalt. The knife in her hand clattered to the ground beside her.

  Danny-boy approached cautiously. Her face was smeared with blood from a scrape on her forehead. Her jacket had fallen open and her right shoulder was wrapped in cloth that appeared at first glance to be decorated with a floral pattern in red and brown. Danny-boy looked closer and realized that the red blossoms were fresh blood that had soaked through the cloth; the brown background pattern was old blood that had dried in place.

  From the Emporium’s bedding department, he took blankets, which he arranged in his trailer, making a sort of nest for her. As gently as he could, he lifted the woman into the trailer. Then he took her home.

  On his way to the Saint Francis Hotel, he met Tommy and asked the boy to run and find Tiger. Tiger, who had worked as a paramedic before he took up tattooing, was the closest the community had to a doctor. Danny-boy carried the woman up the stairs to his rooms and put her into his own bed.

  Tiger arrived with his medical bag. He studied the woman who lay on the bed, and then shooed Tommy from the room, despite the boy’s protests.

  Danny-boy supported the woman while Tiger stripped off her leather jacket and shirt. She remained unconscious, for the most part, while Tiger examined her. Occasionally she roused enough to blink her eyes and babble at them, saying something about ghosts and something about angels.

  “Looks like she must have taken quite a fall,” Tiger guessed. “Mild concussion, I’d say. Broken collarbone. Give me a hand here.” Danny-boy supported her in a sitting position while Tiger arranged an elastic bandage in a figure-eight pattern that looped around the woman’s shoulders and crossed in the back. “This should keep the break together. I’ll need to tighten it up tomorrow or the next day. She’s young enough. It should heal fine, but she’ll have to take it easy for the next week or so.”

  “She can stay here,” Danny-boy said.

  “Good thing,” Tiger said. “Doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere.” He sponged off the scrapes on her back and shoulders; then he let her lie back on the bed.

  Danny-boy pulled the covers gently over her. He watched her sleep and wondered what had brought her to the city of San Francisco.

  Over the years Danny-boy had filled his hotel suite with things that he liked, and the rooms had acquired a peculiar sort of grandeur. The original carpet was buried beneath piles of oriental rugs that yielded underfoot like the leaves and mulch on the forest floor. More rugs hung on the walls, creating a confusion of geometric patterns and rich colors: deep crimson, royal blue, cream, and amber.

  In one corner, a trio of cuckoo clocks dutifully kept three different times. Danny-boy told time by the sun, but he liked the clocks for the tunes they played on the hour.

  In one window, an array of multicolored pinwheels spun in the light evening breeze. In the other, a chain of diamond necklaces hung. Danny-boy could have traded the diamonds to Duff for blue paint or other necessities, but he liked the way they caught the light on sunny days, and he could always find other things to trade.

  The hotel was a comfortable place to live. The carpets provided insulation. A kerosene lantern hanging from a hook in the wall filled the room with soft yellow light.

  Danny-boy sat on the floor, leaning back against a tapestry-covered pillow. Jezebel lay curled on the carpet at his feet.

  The Machine poured himself a glass of the potent amber-colored brew that Duff called brandy. His third hand, which was strapped into place just below the elbow of his right arm, mimicked the motions of his right hand a fraction of a second later. The Machine made many people nervous, but Danny-boy got along with him well enough.

  Just that week The Machine had found an industrial painting rig in reasonable shape. The nozzle was clogged, but The Machine had promised to fix that and give the device to Danny-boy for use on the Golden Gate Bridge. To repay The Machine for his help, Danny-boy had invited him to dinner. On a tray were their leftovers: half a meat pie, two muffins, a few slices of cheese.

  “So you know nothing about this woman,” The Machine was saying. “Except that she attacked you with a knife when you tried to help her.”

  “She was scared,” Danny-boy said. “I think she was just trying to get away.”

  “You’re too trusting,” The Machine grumbled.

  Danny-boy grinned. For years The Machine had been telling him that he was too trusting. The Machine trusted no one. “Think of it as a survival strategy,” Danny-boy said. “I’m so wide open that no one tries to hit me.”

  “Bad strategy,” The Machine said.

  “She’s just a kid. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m not afraid.” The Machine’s right fist clenched and his prosthetic hand echoed the motion a moment later. “I just don’t think you’re acting wisely.”

  “When have I ever acted wisely?” Danny-boy asked, then grinned at The Machine’s silence. “Got you there, didn’t I?” The Machine didn’t smile. “I don’t see what you’re so worried about.”

  “She could be a spy.”

  “For who?”

  “For the Church of Revelations, for the Black Dragons, for Fourstar. For anyone at all.”

  Danny-boy studied him. “You really are worried.”

  “According to the traders at Duff’s, Fourstar has been talking about an invasion.”

  “When Fourstar decides to invade, he won’t send a spy. He’ll figure on walking in and taking over the place,” Danny-boy said. “I don’t think he’s worried about our military might or—”

  “Danny-boy,” The Machine interrupted. “Your friend’s awake.” Danny-boy glanced toward the bedroom just in time to see the young woman dart out and snatch the bread knife from the tray. With the knife in her hand, she backed away until she stood in the bedroom doorway. She was naked except for the white bandage that looped around her shoulders. The lantern light tucked shadows beneath her breasts, between her legs. Her skin looked smooth and polished. She reminded Danny-boy of a bronze statute of Diana that he had seen in one of the city’s art museums. Diana had held a bow, ready to fire, and the gaze of her bronze eyes was cool and steady. This woman’s eyes were wild and feverish.

  She glared at Danny-boy. “Are you a ghost?”

  The tip of the knife blade was trembling slightly, but her gaze was steady. Her nakedness seemed unimportant to her; her attention was focused entirely on Danny-boy.

  Danny-boy returned her stare. “A ghost?” The words were slow in coming. He felt trapped by her intensity. “What do you mean?”

  “My mother told me the city was filled with ghosts.”

  Danny-boy shrugged easily. “There are some ghosts around. But we’re real enough. I’m Danny-boy and this is The Machine.”

  “The Machine?” She and The Machine exchanged looks of mistrust.

  “What’s your name?” Danny-boy asked.

  “Name?” She shook her head quickly. Her grip on the knife relaxed a little and she lowered the blade. Danny-boy saw that she was looking at the dinner leftovers.

  “You hungry?” he asked. Moving slowly, he leaned forward to pour brandy into a glass. He took the pillow from behind his back and tossed it so that it landed near the tray of food. “Sit down,” he said softly. “Help yourself.”

  Her wary gaze reminded Danny-boy of the feral cats that haunted the city’s abandoned buildings. When he offered them scraps of food, they ate. But any truce was temporary. They did not trust him. They did not need him. They wanted only to be left alone. They were not frightened, but cautious. Not openly hostile, but faintly contemptuous. Opportunistic: ready to seize any chance to pounce or to slip away into the darkness, as the situation demanded.

  The woman stepped into the room and awkwardly lowered herself to sit on the pillow. She hesitated, then used the knife to cut the pie. She ate with great appreciation, chewing the food slowly, like a person who had been hungry before and who knew better than to bolt the first meal after a fast.

  “Where did you come from?” Danny-boy aske
d.

  She swallowed a mouthful of pie and washed it down with a sip of brandy. “Up near Sacramento. Not far from a town called Woodland.”

  “You came down I-80 and over the bridge?” he asked.

  She nodded. Her face was relaxing. She took another sip of brandy. “Came to warn you that Fourstar’s coming. He’s going to take over San Francisco.” Danny-boy glanced at The Machine. So much for her being a spy for Fourstar.

  “How did you break your collarbone?”

  “Back on the other side of the bridge, men on motorcycles chased me. Got thrown from my horse. I hid until it was dark, then came over the bridge.”

  “Black Dragons,” Danny-boy said. “That’s the gang that controls most of Oakland. So you walked eight-and-a-half miles with a broken collarbone?”

  She gave him a cool look. “I didn’t walk on my hands.” “Oakland’s a dangerous place to travel alone,” Danny-boy said. Her mouth twisted in a kind of smile. “Do you know a safe place to travel?” she asked him. “I don’t.”

  “Oakland’s worse than most,” Danny-boy said.

  She did not reply. She had finished the meat pie and was working on the second muffin, but she was slowing down. She yawned, as un-self-conscious as a cat stretching. For the moment, she seemed to have decided to trust them. Her eyes were half closed. “I’m a little tired,” she said. She set the muffin back on the plate, half eaten. She swayed, her eyes closing. Danny-boy caught her as she fell.

  For the second time that day, Danny-boy tucked the woman into bed.

  “Real nice,” The Machine said sarcastically. “Completely trustworthy, I’m sure.”

  Danny-boy wasn’t listening. He stroked her forehead, pushing back the ragged strands of hair.

  CHAPTER 8