Vertical City (Book 4)

by Mahaffey Jr. , George S. .

  Everything that happens next, happens incredibly fast.

  The brute hits the ledge and is surprised to see Naia.

  She shoves him off.

  He falls back onto the glass and skims down.

  The man’s mouth opens as he slides toward me. I’m able to plant my left hand and throw up my right, bracing for impact.

  He whacks into me, shrieking, his hands groping for purchase. He grabs my left hand and I punch him with his right and now we’re fighting, brawling on the edge of the goddamn building.

  He spits, bites, and kicks at me and I hold on for dear life.

  “You scrap of o’ dog shit!” he snarls, scissoring his legs around mine, trying to dislodge me from my perch.

  I head-butt the man and he falls—

  —Only to grab my right arm.

  “You’re coming with me!” he screams.

  There’s a whistling sound and then we both look up to see Naia.

  She’s holding a huge piece of brick that’s broken off from the ledge wall.

  “Get the girl!” the pumpkintoothed brute shouts and then Naia drops the brick on the glass and it flashes down and strikes the man in the head, making a sound like a hammer hitting a piece of thick wood.

  The man’s eyes roll back and he lets go of me and drifts away, semi-conscious, ghosting down over the edge of the building.

  Turning back, I see the other men reaching down, grabbing Naia by the hair. She swings at them and falls from the ledge and now she’s streaking down the glass. Unlike me, she fans out her hands to slow her descent, expertly maneuvering across the glass to the other ornamental bird which she latches onto, five feet away from me.

  The bird does not break, remaining firmly planted in the roof and she exhales deeply even as the men above her scream and threaten to open fire.

  “Stay where you are,” I say.

  “Didn’t have any big plans to go anywhere else.”

  Beneath us is a thick metal frame at the edge of the glass and under that another section of glass that is without bars.

  My left hand edges back and I’m able to wedge my fingers in the joint where glass meets metal.

  Inside the joint there’s some caulk or remnants of a water membrane that’s liquefied over the years, so I’m able to jam a few fingers into the putty-like substance.

  Then I free my other hand from the spot where the metal bird was and plant it in the joint and now I’m hanging off the edge of the glass as if I’m about to do a pull-up. I swing my legs back and kick the glass that’s directly below me. The entire section of the wall we’re hanging from shakes.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” Naia shouts.

  I don’t have the strength to answer, focusing instead on torquing my body back for maximum impact.

  Over and over I kick the glass and then, when I’m nearly spent, I feel a section give way.

  My boot crunches through a webbed grid in the glass and I rotate it around to widen the hole and then I hammer the hell out of the hole with my other boot.

  In seconds, the hole’s large enough for a slender person to fit through.

  The only difficulty is in determining how we’re going to get down.

  “There’s an opening right below me,” I say.

  “How are we going to get down?”

  “By letting go.”

  She swallows hard and I reach a hand out and grab hers.

  Then I hook my legs under the frame and through the opening in the glass as best I can.

  “Now!”

  We both let go and I say a prayer and my abdomen is suddenly on fire as I suck in my stomach and fall back, Naia in my hands, and then slide myself in.

  By some miracle, the angle’s perfect and my body slots down through the broken window.

  Naia screams and I fear-grip her as she swings out and slams against the glass.

  I’m hanging halfway in and of the glass, holding her by both wrists.

  “Don’t let go!”

  “I wasn’t planning to!”

  Gritting my teeth, I pull back, my lat muscles feeling like they’re going to peel away from my body, every neuron in my body singing at once.

  In a blur of motion I pull her up and then she grabs me and we crash back through the window which gives out under our weight, the two of us falling in a heap on the floor.

  We sit silently for a few seconds, processing the whole thing, the exposed flesh on our wrists and hands (and my back) ripped raw by the edge of the glass.

  And then Naia’s up and about, doing a circuit of the room which was once one of a series of interconnected conference rooms with impressive stone-topped wooden tables and excellent views of the city. On one wall is a plaque, a remnant of the days before the Unraveling that says, “Pain is weakness leaving the body.” Naia grabs the plaque and flings it to the ground as I rise and peer through walls of pebbled glass only to immediately duck and drag Naia down with me.

  She’s about to bark in opposition, but I motion for her to follow me and we kneel and then crouch run while looking up.

  Against the faraway echo of sirens Odin’s muscle are visible through the glass.

  There’s nearly a dozen of them, all geared and weaponed up, doing a sweep through the other rooms.

  Naia and me dive forward and panic-crawl toward an exit door.

  The hallway near the back side of VC1 is deserted and we sprint down and into a stairwell. We soon emerge into another corridor where we hear the sound of crying babies.

  We’re on the sixteenth floor and the sirens, which are presumably located many floors above, are barely audible.

  Before I can tell Naia to head back, we’re approached by a nurse, a woman I’ve seen a time or two before. Her eyes are hooded and one of them twitches and I’ll bet she’s been working for the better part of eighteen hours.

  She doesn’t react upon seeing me other than to say:

  “You know you’re not allowed in here on account of the infants and all.”

  I dredge up a huge smile and fumble for the right words.

  “I know, I just – we just heard the cries and wanted to make sure there weren’t any problems.”

  The nurse nods and warily eyes Naia and says:

  “We’re fine, thanks.”

  Then her eyes go to my arms and hands which are skinned and misted with blood.

  Before the nurse can utter another word I gesture in the general vicinity of one of the alarms.

  “Dubs broke in down on ten.”

  “It was hairy for a while, but it’s all good now,” Naia adds, forcing a smile that’s bigger than mine.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I nod.

  “Probably want to lock your door though. Just in case.”

  The nurse returns our smiles and I take Naia’s hand and lead us around the nursery, the two of us keeping our heads down, fighting to blend in as we mix with a few other people strolling past.

  “Why aren’t we heading straight down?” Naia whispers.

  “Because there’s somebody I need to see.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A pair of jumpy guards appear out of a side door, probably scoping for us as Naia and I veer right and head through an office that loops around to the infirmary.

  Moments later, I spot my old buddy Stanley Storch hitting the hell out of his drumsticks against an old pipe in a corner of the day room.

  There are only a six or seven residents in sight and fewer staff as my hand hoods my face and Stan sees me and frowns.

  “What’s the good word, Z?” he says.

  “Got a minute to walk and talk with me, Big Stan?”

  He looks at me sideways, squinting.

  “Is what they said true? Did you do those terrible things?”

  “Do you think I did?”

  “If you did, Dad’s gonna kick your ass.”

  A half smile curls up my lips and I take his arm.

  “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”


  Pleasantries are exchanged between Naia and Stan and then I lie to Stan and tell him there’s something he needs to see. We turn and exit as a pack of residents stream past us.

  “Hurry,” Naia says under her breath.

  We round a corner in the hall and I bump into a ragged little man with a mop of black hair. Helping him up, he searches my face and gasps.

  “I knows you,” he says, spittle flecking his mouth.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen you—”

  “You’re the one that done it aren’t you?! You’re the one that was in heavy with the fella that wanted to let the Dubs in!”

  The man shouts and throws up his arms and now the other residents are doing the same.

  I shove the man back and the three of us barrel down the corridor as doors open behind us and men with deep voices yell for us to stop.

  We don’t, choosing instead to fly through an open pocket-door and down another stairwell where we weave our way through an electrical room peopled by startled workers.

  I grab Stan and take him aside behind the safety of a solar-water tank.

  “Remember what you told me before, Stan?”

  He just stares and smiles.

  “Remember all the times you told me you knew a secret way down to the Flatlands?”

  “Sure, Z, sure.”

  “Where is it?”

  He frowns and glances at Naia.

  “You ain’t from around here are you, miss?”

  Naia doesn’t respond as I grab Stan’s hand.

  “I really need you to focus here, Stan.”

  “Sure, man, sure. Like a laser.”

  “How do we get down?”

  Stan looks to the ceiling as if running down a mental checklist and then he snaps his fingers and marches off through the tanks and the bundles of wiring and the jungle of metal and plastic tubing that Naia and I are forced to limbo under.

  We enter another hallway and we follow Stan for a good ten minutes as he bobs and weaves up and down several floors. Eventually he opens the door on a utility closet and kneels and pops out the zip screws that hold a sheet of metal across an HVAC access panel.

  He crawls into the space behind the panel and we follow him and now we’re inching through oversized aluminum ductwork as gales of air periodically stand our hair on end.

  There’s a junction in the ductwork ahead and more panels on either side.

  Stan mouths something and then points at the panels and counts silently.

  He shimmies up and removes a green painted panel that’s four feet by four feet.

  We flank Stan and look inside to see a metal chute of some kind, much larger than our present space.

  The chute seems wide enough to fit two men standing side-by-side and appears to be constructed of much heavier-gauge metal, possibly steel.

  The interior is gloomy, but there’s a ladder bolted to the far side.

  “That’s it,” Stan says, smiling. “Don’t nobody know about it but me and a few others.”

  “How far down does it go?”

  “All the way down, brother. All. The. Way. Down.”

  I climb forward and Naia follows and then I look back at Stan.

  “Are you coming?”

  He shakes his head and I hold out a hand.

  “I don’t want to scare you, Stan, but there might be some bad things that happen here soon.”

  “Dad’ll fix everything,” he says. “I’m gonna wait for him.”

  “Dad’s gone, Stan.”

  “Long gone?”

  “He went out for a walk and I don’t know whether he’s coming back.”

  Stan frowns and hugs himself.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “There’s no time to argue about it, Stan, we need to—”

  “Dad wouldn’t do that!”

  So saying, he turns and runs off back toward the door to the utility closet as we watch him go.

  “Is he blood to you?” Naia asks.

  “No, but he thinks he is.”

  I’m about to run after Stan, but then I realize some people are better suited for this place. For all of its flaws and evils, VC1 provides a barrier against the outside world. Stan wouldn’t last a minute on the Flatlands so I grab the first rung on the ladder and look down.

  The bottom can’t be seen and I’m readying to complain about the distance we’ll have to climb, but there’s no other choice. We either go down or try and fight our way up. We discuss this for a few seconds and then commence the descent, the two of us fumbling together down the ladder which I imagine runs through the heart of the building. As we go we feel the changes in temperature between the floors and listen to the sounds of shouts and laugher and the booming noises made by the heavy machinery that give life to the building.

  We’re likely down around the tenth floor when a horde of terrible sounds punctuate the air: angry howls and creative obscenities unleashed against the backdrop of someone that appears to be singing a song.

  A few rungs down and the voice grows clearer, familiar even.

  It’s coming from the other side of a metal grill ten feet below us.

  I’d know the voice anywhere.

  It’s Del Frisco.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Scrambling down the ladder, I squint through the gaps on the metal grill and Del Frisco is indeed visible.

  He’s in a room on eleven that we used to train in. The space is without windows and painted red and I remember Shooter using it to mimic being trapped in the dark on the Flatlands. He’d put you in the middle of the room and kill the lights and you had to defend yourself for sixty seconds as people came at you from every direction.

  By all appearances Del Frisco’s been worked over good, face swollen and bloody, his wrists tied behind his back by ropes that are fastened to a faraway wall.

  There are at least seven well-armed men surrounding Del Frisco, including Strummer and Shooter who are overseeing the torture.

  Strummer stands at a distance as Odin’s thugs take turns beating the holy hell out of Del Frisco even as he belts out a series of old rock and funk tunes.

  A fist opens up a cut near Del Frisco’s eye and he winces and continues to sing about watching the wheels go ‘round and ‘round.

  Strummer screams for him to shut up and he sings louder.

  Strummer kicks Del Frisco in the stomach and my hand goes for the grill and Naia grabs it, her face nearly pressed against mine.

  “There are seven men in there, Wyatt,” she whispers.

  “I know.”

  “Seven men with guns.”

  “I know that too.”

  “So what then?”

  “So I know the guy being roughed up.”

  “Is he family?”

  “He’s my friend,” I say, shaking my head. “And sometimes a friend like that is closer than family.”

  She looks from me to Del Frisco and a frown creases her face.

  “You’re seriously shorthanded and we have to go.”

  “We could try and save him.”

  “You’re not good enough to take on seven men.”

  My gaze smokes into hers.

  “I watched you for weeks, remember?” she adds. “I studied you. I know your limitations.”

  I don’t respond and she squeezes my hand.

  “I’m sorry, but your friend’s beyond help.”

  “He’s being beaten because of me. Because of us.”

  “I’m leaving,” she says, continuing past me.

  What Naia said is true, there’s no way I can help Del Frisco, but that doesn’t make any of it easier to swallow. How does it benefit anyone for me to break inside and get to within maybe ten feet of my friend before Odin’s boys shoot me down? How can I find Gus and tell others about what happened here if I’m dead? If the tables were turned, I’m pretty sure Del Frisco would do the same, but I’m still ashamed by what I have to do.

  I turn back and watch Del Frisco, the bravest sonofabitch I
ever met, absorb punch after punch, still singing and figuratively flipping off his interrogators. I say a prayer and hope that he crosses over lightly and then I grab the ladder and pause.

  I hesitate and punch the grate as loud as I can and listen to the interrogators startle and shout as I climb down into the semi-darkness.

  We reach the bottom of the ladder about thirty minutes later and are shocked to see no access panels, no exits from the metal chute at all.

  I’m beginning to realize how stupid it was to rely on someone like Stan and then Naia pulls a few hairs from her head and holds them up and they flap side-to-side like blades of grass.

  There’s something, some breeze coming from the faraway wall.

  Naia drops to her knees and follows her nose like a dog and then she blows into the dust on the floor.

  There’s a nearly invisible wire in the grit that she plucks up.

  The wire leads into the wall and Naia tugs back on it as a section of metal sheathing groans on invisible hinges.

  She inserts her fingers in the corners of the sheathing and pulls it back to reveal a hatch that leads to a clutter of industrial and heavy-moving equipment perched on top of a loading dock that slopes to a fortified roll-up door and a metal fire-door with a white smiley-face painted on it.

  We quickly maneuver between the equipment and I glance at the ground which is covered in a fine layer of dust. There are no prints of any kind and it doesn’t look like anyone’s been this way for some time.

  We press ourselves against the fire-door which is locked, but unchained.

  “I’m gonna come back,” I say. “I just … I wanted you to know that.”

  “Come back where?”

  “Here. I’m going out and then I’m going to find Gus and get help—”

  “There is no help.”

  I’m about to reply and she silences me with an icy stare.

  “We looked for other places, Wyatt. Me and the others I came in with. Other compounds, other safe havens. Up and down the coast we went, back and forth and all around. I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think there are any. Aside from upstate, this place was the last, best hope and look what it turned out to be.”