A side door suddenly slides open and taunts and boos build as Gus is brought in.
He’s clad in blood-red clothes, which are visible under his purple robe.
His face is bruised and he’s sweating ropes and his neck is swollen.
His eyes flush with humiliation and terror.
I imagine he’s been kept confined somewhere without lights and windows because of the way he blinks and fights to shield his eyes from the ceiling’s halogen bulbs.
Gus’s head hangs low as he’s led around on a leash, the revelers crowing and hooting and hollering and verbally assaulting him.
Somebody shoves him down and a child rides him like a horse and I commit the faces of those who are scorning Gus to memory, each and every one. These are the nameless rabble I’ve seen for most of my life. The people I’ve passed in the halls and in the mess line and down through the staircases and anterooms. These people, my neighbors, my friends, are cursing and calling for the death of Gus. The members of the lynch mob aren’t thinking clearly, they can’t be. Nobody can think and hate at the same time.
A blubbering drunken female Burner confronts Gus. She rails at Gus and then flings a flask of liquid in his face as the others around her roar with delight.
Every neuron in my body fires.
Every muscle seizes up.
My face flushes and my blood boils in my ears.
I’m suddenly gripped by the thought that if I could break my bonds right now I would go forth and kill each and every one of the bastards standing out in front of me.
Someone kicks Gus in the side and his knees go weak.
I shout for him and he looks in my direction and then a leather thong loops around my mouth and a guard punches my right ear.
The same guard moves to do the same to Naia and she bites the tip of his finger off.
The wounded guard screams and slaps her and I kick him in the groin before more guards appear and subdue us.
Gus reacts to this, standing as a man elbows him in the side of the head and he folds up like a card table.
An old lady flops on top of Gus and mimics doing some sort of crude sex act to him and then Shooter appears, grinning, delighting in all that he sees. He pumps a fist and dances a little dance and shouts and eggs on those who are mocking Gus.
Then the music goes silent.
The crowd does too.
Odin’s here and smiling and urges calm because, he says, the celebration is about to begin.
CHAPTER SIX
Odin slips fully through the side door, wreathed by his personal guard.
The crowd waits on baited breath and then Odin thrusts up the crown I saw earlier and everyone cheers.
“And so here we are, my friends,” Odin says, hands crown still raised. “We find ourselves together for another celebration, albeit for an unusual reason.”
He does a slow circuit of the room and his halting mannerisms and look are not unlike a person trying awfully hard to hawk something he may not truly believe in. Then he stops and pivots.
“We are all here on earth to help other people,” he says, and then pausing, as if savoring the line that is to come next, “why the other people are here, I don’t know.”
A beat of silence and then a few nervous snickers and Odin smiles and so does everyone else.
“A learned man said that in the days before the Unraveling. It was a joke, but like everything said in jest, there was a kernel of truth in it. We know why we’re here,” he continues, pointing to select people in the crowd.
“We know what our purpose is, don’t we? To be an island, a safe place in the middle of a raging sea. To be a bulwark against the hordes that are trying to wipe out everything we know and hold dear. We know who we are, but what about those around us? We assume they’re like us, don’t we?”
More nods and murmurs, a few people holler “Damn straight!”
“We assume they share our values and our mandate, but that’s not always the case is it? Sometimes people have … ulterior motives.”
Odin strolls over and stops before Gus.
“You may have already heard this, but some of our brethren broke laws in order to sow confusion and bring about the end of our community.”
The murmurs become angry shouts. Fists are clenched and boots stomped.
“Our old friend Gus and Wyatt plotted with that girl,” Odin continues, stabbing a finger in the direction of Naia, “to find a way to let the Dubs into our building.”
Food is thrown at us and an old man kicks Gus in the ass.
Odin raises and lowers his hands like a man leading a band, getting his congregation (because that’s what they are) to simmer down. He stands in front of Gus for a few seconds as if protecting him. He looks magnanimous down there, but it’s all an act, it’s all bullshit.
“Our former friends wanted to do great and terrible violence to us because they’re jealous of what we have.”
“Kill them!” someone shouts.
“No, nobody shall lay a hand on them,” Odin says. “We won’t raise our fists or tongues in anger. If these misguided souls want to exist outside our walls then I say let them be. But let us send them out into the world in the proper manner.”
Odin whistles and the music pipes up, a jaunty tune this time accompanied by recorded horns and other instruments.
Gus is torqued up and Odin places the crown on his head.
“It’s been quite a while since I’ve had the opportunity to bestow a title, but I give you our king,” Odin says. “The Lord of Misrule. All our sins shall be given to him and his compatriots and carried out onto the Flatlands.”
Odin and his toughs march Gus through the congregation and strap him in place in his throne.
Gus groans and then closes his bloodshot eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Getting my mental affairs in order.”
His eyes flap open and stray to mine.
“You okay, kid?”
“Been better.”
“They hurt you bad?” Gus asks.
“Not yet.”
“Give it some time,” Naia offers.
Gus studies Naia for a few heartbeats, his eye twitching, a vein pulsing in his swollen neck.
“You know this isn’t how they normally treat visitors to our little community, young lady.”
“No?”
“Nope, usually it takes years to get this kind of special attention.”
We watch the people before us dance and frisk around, eating less, drinking more until small brawls break out. The music thrums at a fever pitch, the ground soon slicked in food and spilled booze.
“Look at them,” Naia whispers. “Look at the sheep.”
My eyes fix on Odin who stands in the middle of all of it.
“And there’s the shepherd.”
“He’s no shepherd, Wyatt. He’s too smart for that.” Gus says. “In a country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. That guy is the master string puller, the one who knows all the old tricks.”
“What kind of tricks?”
“Hundreds of years ago there was a way that many people dealt with uncertainty. They couldn’t explain why the crops failed or the weather was shitty so they searched for someone to blame. A lot of the time it was the king, the ruler, who ended up taking the fall, but more often than not the community settled on a scapegoat, a person who was sacrificed to make things right.”
“Who’s our scapegoat?”
“You’re looking at him,” Gus says, his head sinking.
“But it’s all lies. Everything they’ve said about how we were trying to let the Dubs in sabotage the building isn’t true.”
“It’s true to the people who want to believe it. It’s part of the grand myth that surrounds this entire place. All of us have bought into it at one point or another, even me for a while. And the beautiful thing about it is, once you’re created the myth, once you control how people think, you can get them to believe almost anything.”
Then the music fades and Odin turns and waves at one of his men who lobs a rucksack onto the ground. The ruck’s filled with what looks like food and gear and I can’t help but smile because I know it’s all for show. Nobody ever gets to use anything in the ruck, because they never make it more than a block away before they’re murdered.
Gus manages to undo one of his bindings.
He reaches out a hand to me.
“And so it comes to this, kid,” he says.
“We’ve still got a chance. When they come for you I’ll be ready.”
He smiles wearily as Odin and Shooter and Shaw and a line of armed muscle begin moving toward us.
“It’s all over.”
His head cants and he locks eyes with me.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Everything comes to an end eventually.”
“You’re the only real father I’ve ever known.”
Gus smiles.
“I’m going to miss you,” he says, chuckling bitterly. “Jesus, it hurts so much to even think about it.”
My nose burns and my eyes water.
“I love you, Gus.”
“I know that, kid, and I love you too. I love you more than life itself.”
Odin’s men are marching up onto the platform, headed for Gus.
“Hold my hand, Wyatt,” Gus whispers, his lip quivering. “Would you please just hold my hand for a sec.”
Gritting my teeth, I manage to wrench my hand out and take his in mine. I can feel the fear in his fingers.
“Are we interrupting a tender moment?” Shaw says, the other men snickering.
“Fuck you,” I reply.
“Not yet, but maybe later,” he says, grabbing Gus by the collar on his robe.
Gus reaches for me and I for him and Shaw grabs me in a bear-hug and muscles me out toward the corridor. I look back for Gus who’s being spirited off in the other direction. He waves at me and then he’s through the side door and gone and just like that, the man who saved me, who raised me up and gave me everything is no more.
He’s a ghost now like Dad.
Shaw grabs my chin, one of his filthy fingers tracing the contours of my lips.
“Show some fucking respect,” he says, angling my face toward Odin.
“He comes with me,” Odin says.
“And the girl?” Shaw asks.
“Put the harlot in the hole,” Odin replies. “Let’s see how long she lasts.”
I’m unbound and hoisted to my feet, turned around as Shaw hulks over me and then strikes my face as blackness fills my head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The white noise of air movers and room purifiers greet me as I awaken in Odin’s lair, my head jaw throbbing. A few bars of smoky light sneak through a nearby window, splashing my face.
I’m on my back, laid out on a couch near the diorama of the city.
Odin sits across from me on a chair, his legs crossed, fingers tapping his knees. Even when seated there’s an energy in the way he hunches over and scans me. I bet the evil sonofabitch never sleeps. I bet he hangs upside down by his feet in a darkened room like a bat.
I can smell incense and taste my own blood, Shaw’s fist having split my lip.
Elbowing myself up, anger wells up inside me and my right hand forms a fist.
“You have a choice right now, Wyatt,” Odin says, cold menace in his voice, pointing at the fist. “Choose unwisely and it will not end well for you.”
My hand unclenches and he flicks a finger at the floor.
“What happened before was all for show. It’s an opiate for the masses, just like professional sports was in the days before. I assume you know that.”
“Where are Gus and Naia?”
“You’re going there already?”
“There’s nowhere else to go.”
“My hands were tied on Gus. He broke the rules and that girl you sided with possesses some very damaging information, so I had to make an example out of him. He had to take the fall. After all, once a name always a threat.”
I think back on what Gus mentioned about the need to find a scapegoat.
“You lied. Everything you told the others was a lie.”
“Please tell me you aren’t this stupid.”
My face flushes and out come the words:
“Fuck you, Odin.”
Odin seems momentarily shocked, as if he never expected me to say that in a thousand years. And then a belligerent grin tugs at his mouth.
“Jesus, you aren’t very bright are you?”
“People will know,” I say. “People will figure out what’s happening and then they’ll frag your sorry ass.”
“No they won’t,” he replies, and then steepling his fingers under his chin, “oh, maybe one or two will. There’s always one or two who fit the pieces together. Outliers. Probably that black English fellow or your old pal Del Frisco.”
He can tell he’s hit a nerve.
“Del Frisco’s missing how many fingers now? Two? Three? Ever seen a Jumper do his job without any fingers? I suppose maybe he could book a gig here or there, but what if I was to take a few more fingers from him? Or maybe one of his hands?”
“Leave him out of it.”
“And that dog that was with you on your last op. A real throat-tugger. What was its name? Zeus? I’m thinking we’re probably going to have him for dinner.”
“What do you want from me?”
Odin stands and I catch a whiff of his musk. He smells somehow of fire.
“The average attention span of one of our citizens is approximately the same as a goldfish, fifteen seconds, give or take. They can only focus on one or two things at a time, usually big-ticket items, real concerns such as whether the Dubs are going to kick down our doors.”
“But they’re not. The Dubs can’t.”
“You know that and I know that, but the people outside do not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We need an enemy, Wyatt. It helps to destroy what I call ‘The Gray Zone,’ the area where things are murky. Once you do away with the haze it becomes easier to see things, to sort the good from the bad. Think about the Flood in the Bible, the Epic of Gilgamesh, swarms of locusts, wicked kings. Every society needs an enemy, something horrible to happen so they can band together to prevent it from happening again.”
My head swims and my mouth hurts and I’m in no mood for his word games.
“What the hell do you want from me?”
“Two things. First, I want you to publicly ask for forgiveness. I promise you there won’t be any weepy scenes or you having to get down on your knees to lick my boots. Just a simple statement that you were wrong and have seen the error of your ways.”
He judges my reaction and when I don’t say anything he looks pleased.
“Assuming you do the first thing, I also want you to provide details on the new threat.”
“There is no new threat.”
“No true. There are the tribes from upstate. The ones who sent a raiding party into our city.”
“What? Naia?”
He nods and smiles.
“But that’s a lie too.”
“Truth is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Why would I say any of that?”
“Because soon the Dubs will decrease in number. A moldering body can only stay erect for so long. It’s science. And thereafter, people will stop being afraid of them and turn their attention to, shall we say, other matters.”
“You.”
“Possibly.”
“They’ll see things for what they are.”
“But not if we divert their attention to a new enemy.”
“You’re insane.”
He laughs.
“Any stage in life beyond your own is often impossible to understand
. What you don’t get is that I’m a leader. And all leaders know that what’s best for society are docile workers, enthusiastic consumers, obedient soldiers, and civilians who will believe almost anything for a few minutes.”
Odin moves over and drops to his haunches and peers into my eyes.
“Now. What say?”
Somebody much smarter than me said no fool has ever made a deal with the devil. The fool’s either too much of a fool or the devil too much of a devil. I think that’s about right and I have a shitload of things I’d like to say in response to Odin’s proposition, but fear nibbles at me. I’m afraid of what he’ll do to Naia and Gus and if truth be told, I’m afraid of dying.
“What happened to my father?”
“Jesus – you – you’re asking me – seriously, Wyatt?”
“I need to know.”
“I think you already know what happened to him,” he says with a sneer.
He turns from me, bored and then I reach out a hand and grab his wrist.
“You used to say something, Odin.”
“I used to say lots of things.”
“‘The living don’t kill the living.’ That’s what you used to say.”
“Oh that,” he says with a tight smile. “That was just a marketing slogan.”
I’ve always heard the expression about “seeing red,” and never believed in it until now. I swear to God that everything suddenly turns blood red. It’s as if I’ve been dunked in a crimson pool under a scarlet sky, the anger rising up in me, animalistic rage, and then, without thinking, I slug Odin as hard as I can.
I put everything I have into that punch, flattening Odin’s nose as blood flows and I roll off the couch and smash through the diorama.
I find my feet and fling myself forward and then a buzzer sounds and the door opens and two of Odin’s goons tackle me.
My boot shoots out and I punt one in the groin, but the other, a rotund bruiser who’s missing an ear, belly-flops on me.
My hands are pulled behind my back and zipcuffed and then I’m hoisted to my feet as Odin shrieks in the background.
The rotund brute jams a knuckle in the back of my neck and I’m forced out the door and down the hallway.
Vertical City (Book 4) Page 3