Armageddon's Children

by Terry Brooks

  Eyes shifted quickly to Panther with the release of this bit of information, but no one said anything. Panther frowned slightly, but kept his eyes on Hawk and his mouth shut.

  “So, Panther, you take the point, be in the lead,” Hawk advised, noting the glimmer of excitement that sparked to life in the other’s eyes. “Bear and I walk the wings. Fixit and Chalk form the rear guard. Candle stays in the middle. We keep to the center of the streets and we don’t break formation unless I say so. We don’t take any chances. We stick together.”

  He paused. “Remember. We’re Ghosts, and we walk the ruins of our parents’ world. Eyes open.”

  They set out for midtown, walking down the middle of First Avenue, prods held at the ready, eyes shifting from building to building, peering through the mix of shadows and light. The sun was still out, the day still bright and cheerful, the air still sharp with cold. The road was scattered with the same junk with which it had been scattered for as long as Hawk could remember. He scanned the familiar refuse—the hollowed-out vehicles, the broken pieces of pipe and railing, the splintered boards, and the bones and old clothing and trash.

  To one side, up against a building, lay a solitary pink tennis shoe, its silver laces ragged, its bright fabric soiled by what might have been blood but was probably oil. Still bright and new looking, it stood out. He hadn’t seen it before and wondered where it had come from.

  It was midafternoon by then and later still by the time they passed through the city and reached the north end. They were still a dozen blocks below the Space Needle, but the slender obelisk towered over them, visible through the framework of the abandoned buildings, stark and spectral and oddly sad. Panther took them close by the warehouse that contained the hidden stash of purification tablets, but turned them up into the maze of apartment buildings that filled the blocks above First Avenue before they reached it. The sun had passed well into the west and cast shadows of the buildings down the streets in broad dark stains. It was later than Hawk would have preferred, but there was nothing he could do about it other than to turn back, and he had no intention of doing that.

  Finally, as they approached an intersection, but while they were still in the shelter of the buildings to either side, Panther brought them to a halt and pointed ahead.

  “Around that corner to the right, second building in across the street, that’s their kitty-cat home,” he told Hawk. “Big old apartment building with lots of floors.”

  Hawk nodded. He broke down the formation and put them in a line, Panther and himself in the lead, Bear in the rear, the others in the center. They walked against the walls of the buildings on their right until they had reached the end of the last one before they would have to enter the intersection. Motioning for the others to stay where they were, Hawk peered carefully around the corner at the buildings across the street. The second one in was a huge old redbrick structure with its windows and entry boarded up. There was no sign of life.

  “How do they get in and out?” he asked Panther.

  The other boy threw up his hands in exasperation. “What do you want from me? I found them; I didn’t go in for a visit.” He shook his head in disgust. “I saw a couple of them looking out from the windows, up on the higher floors, keeping watch. They thought no one would see them, I suppose. Frickin’ idiots.”

  Hawk studied the building for a long time, thinking about what he should do but unable to come up with anything particularly good. He looked back at the others. “Wait here.”

  He stepped out from behind his hiding place and walked to the edge of the street where he could be clearly seen. “Tiger!” he called out. “Come down and talk to me! I have the medicine for Persia!”

  He was taking a big chance. Street kids were very protective of their hiding places, aware that secrecy was their best defense against the many things that could hurt them, not the least of which were other street kids. The tribes had protection in numbers, but the dangers were the same. None of the tribes ever revealed to the others exactly where they were living. Some of the other denizens of their neighborhoods—Lizards, Spiders, and such—knew of their presence, but left them alone, for the most part. It was only the Croaks that were predatory enough to come hunting you while you slept.

  Hawk waited for a response, but none came. He tried again. “Tiger, I have the pleneten! You didn’t show for our meeting, so I brought it! Come down and get it!”

  Still nothing. He waited several minutes, searching for any sort of sign at all. Time was slipping away. The afternoon shadows were lengthening and the light was fading. He did not want to be up here so far away from home when it got dark.

  He considered his options, then called the rest of the Ghosts out of hiding and brought them all into the center of the street. Splitting them into two groups, with Panther taking one and himself the other, they began working their way around the block, searching for an entrance. Fifteen minutes later, they were back, having failed to find one.

  “Maybe through one of the other buildings?” Fixit suggested hopefully.

  The buildings on either side were not as heavily boarded up as was the brick structure, and they gained entry easily into the one on the left. It yielded nothing; an alleyway separated the two buildings aboveground, and a blank wall closed off any possible access through the basement.

  They moved to the one on the right. This one looked more promising: it shared a wall with the building they were trying to get into. It might have been a hotel at one time, its entrance more imposing than those of the buildings surrounding, its ground floor a broad stretch of mostly broken-out windows. There was an eerie feel to the building, the fading light glinting off jagged pieces of broken glass and the darkness gathered inside so thick they could not see past it. They walked up to the entry, glancing at one another for reassurance, and stopped at the revolving doors when they refused to give. Panther moved to one of the side doors, reached through the broken window to release the catch, and slipped inside. The others followed.

  They stood in the lobby, an imposing hall with a high ceiling and old furniture set about its broad open space in carefully arranged clusters. The stuffing was coming out of most of it, the leather and fabric cracked and split. They could hear the scurrying sound of rodents, and tiny dark forms shot into view in sudden bursts and were gone.

  “Playmates for the pussycats,” whispered Panther with a grin, but nobody smiled back.

  The silence was deep and pervasive and troubling. Hawk glanced around uneasily, searching for the entrance that would admit them to the adjoining building, but found nothing. They spread out across the room, peering down corridors and up stairways. Because the buildings were connected, the entrance, if it existed, could be anywhere.

  Fixit tugged on Hawk’s sleeve. “Cats are climbers,” he said softly, glancing over at the broad stairway leading up.

  Hawk had counted the floors from outside, and there were at least seventeen or eighteen—several more than in the adjoining building. He didn’t like the thought of climbing that high with no idea of what he was getting into. He didn’t like leaving the relative safety of the open streets. He considered his options, and then gathered the others about him.

  “Panther and I are going up. The rest of you wait here. Watch our backs. Don’t let us get trapped up there. We’ll be quick.”

  He was just turning away when Candle suddenly doubled over, clutching at her head and sagging to her knees. She moaned softly, her eyes squeezing shut, her breathing turning quick and harsh. Hawk knew at once what was happening and knelt in front of her, gripping her slender shoulders.

  “What do you see?” he whispered. He could feel the others pressing close about them.

  “Blood everywhere,” she whispered.

  “That’s enough for me,” Panther said at once. “I don’t like how this place feels, either. Let’s get out of here.” He made as if to leave, but Hawk and the others stayed where they were. Panther wheeled back. “Are you paying attention, man? Are you l
istening to her? Are you listening to your own self?”

  Hawk ignored him. He stroked Candle’s blond head and cradled her against him. “It’s all right, sweetie, it’s all right. Tell me. Where is the blood? Whose is it?”

  The little girl shook her head, then opened her eyes and looked at Hawk. “Here. It’s here. But I can’t tell whose it is.”

  Hawk went cold and for an instant thought about doing what Panther wanted and just leaving without taking this business any further. He forced himself not to begin looking around the room for whatever might have caused Candle’s vision to come to pass.

  “Do you see anything else?” he asked softly, holding her gaze, showing her he was not afraid.

  She shook her head again. “I’m sorry, Hawk.”

  “No, it’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

  He got back on his feet, bringing her up with him, still holding on to her, waiting until she was steady enough to release. Then he looked at the others. “I’m still going up. I’ll do it alone. No one else needs to go. I want to see what’s up there, take a quick look around. The rest of you wait here, and I’ll be right back. If something happens, get out right away.”

  “No!” Candle said at once, reaching for him anew, grabbing his wrist. “Don’t go up there, Hawk! Don’t!”

  “Candle, let go,” he said firmly, and he disengaged himself, moving her back into Bear’s arms. “I’ll be careful.”

  Her head lowered, her eyes closed, and she began to rock. “Don’t go, don’t go,” she said, over and over.

  The rest of them kept silent, but they were saying the same thing with the looks they gave him. He turned away quickly and started up the stairs.

  “Aw, man!” he heard Panther exclaim. “Wait up!”

  Then the other boy was beside him, his dark face clouded with anger. “Can’t be letting you go alone. You die up there, who you think gets the blame? C’mon, let’s get this over with!”

  Hawk nodded, and together they began to climb.

  IT TOOK THEM awhile to get to the top floor. Hawk had decided that it would be best if they worked their way down rather than up. He thought that Fixit might be on to something. Cats liked to climb, so it figured that Tiger and his bunch, true to their name, might have chosen a place on the upper floors. If so, the passage from this building to the next was probably going to be found there.

  But the top three floors were higher than the adjoining building, and a quick look out one of the windows on the highest revealed that there were no ladders or ropes allowing for descent to the other building’s roof. So they went down to the first floor that allowed direct access and began searching. The rooms were all the same, their windows broken out, their sleeping and living rooms cluttered with decaying furniture and trash, their carpeted floors water-stained and worn, and their papered walls cracked and peeling. Hawk searched them swiftly, aware that the light was continuing to fail, conscious of a quickening in the approach of darkness. He did not like this building. He did not like how it made him feel.

  Finding nothing on that floor, they descended to the next. Almost immediately they discovered the makeshift door that had been knocked in the wall of the rearmost sleeping room. After a futile pause to listen for signs of life, they stepped into the adjoining building and found themselves inside a warren of rooms that had once been offices, filled with desks and filing cabinets, with shelving and books, and with machines that no longer ran. The rooms were shadowed and empty of life, and there was no sign of the Cats. They searched the entire floor without success, then went down another floor and started again.

  “How many we gonna search?” Panther whispered, his voice conveying a mix of uneasiness and frustration. “This gonna take us forever!”

  Hawk agreed. They began moving quickly from floor to floor, not bothering with a thorough search, but settling for a quick scan that would reveal any sign of occupancy. They got all the way down to the ninth floor before they found what they were looking for. Nine floors, nine lives, Hawk was thinking before he realized what he was looking at.

  “Frickin’ hell, Bird-Man,” Panther breathed softly.

  A huge section of the wall was broken out near the stairwell, and Hawk could tell at a glance that the damage was recent. It hadn’t given way on its own; it had been forced. Beyond the rubble of the wall a body lay half buried in the debris. Farther in, doorways and entries had been forcibly broken out and widened, their jambs shattered, the supporting walls ripped apart. Even in the heavy layer of shadows and thin veil of weakening light, Hawk could detect other bodies scattered about.

  Everything, for as far as he could see through the damaged walls and entries, was in ruins.

  He stepped into the room, climbed over the rubble, and bent down to the first body. He had to pull part of an old curtain off it to make certain it was one of the Cats. It was an older boy, his eyes open and staring, his face contorted in pain and horror. There was a huge swollen purplish mark on his neck with a dark center, as if he had been stung. Hawk had never seen a wound like it. He studied the body for other damage and didn’t find any. With Panther following, he moved on.

  They found a dozen dead boys and girls of varying ages, some of them bearing the same purplish mark and others simply crushed. One was decapitated and another missing both arms and one leg. The level of violence was shattering; the Cats had been caught unawares and unable to defend themselves. It looked as if they had tried to flee, but there had been no escape.

  Despite his revulsion and Panther’s whispered insistence that they get out of there, he pressed on. In the very back room, they found Tiger and Persia. Tiger had apparently been trying to protect her, his body half flung across hers where she lay sprawled on a mattress that was pushed up against the back wall. The short-barreled flechette lay on the floor to one side, bloodstained and bent. Hawk picked it up. Both barrels had been fired. Tiger’s head was almost torn loose from his body, and his neck bore the same strange purplish mark they had seen on the bodies of the other Cats. He had fought hard to protect his little sister, but in the end it had not been enough. Hawk stared down at him, unable to find the words to express what he was feeling. He could hear Panther mumbling from across the room, the words dark and angry.

  He glanced at Persia. She bore the same sting mark, but her face was peaceful. Perhaps she had died quickly and without knowing what was happening to her. Sadness emptied him out. She was only eleven years old. No one should die at eleven. He knew it happened every day, that it had happened every day for as long as he had been alive and much longer before that. But knowing it didn’t make witnessing it any less horrific. He wished he had come earlier to his meeting with Tiger. He wished he could have done something to prevent this.

  He looked around at the wreckage of the rooms and the scattering of bodies. What in the world had done this?

  Then he caught sight of Persia’s right leg. It had been severed cleanly at the ankle, and the foot was missing. On the other foot, clearly visible against the white surface of the bloodstained mattress, was a pink tennis shoe with silver laces.

  He remembered that on his way here he had seen its mate not two blocks from their underground home, and he felt his heart stop.

  Owl!

  Shouting frantically for Panther, he raced from the room.

  O WL SAT QUIETLY in one corner of the common room, poring over another of the medical books she had been researching since Hawk and the others had left, her eyes scanning quickly from page to page. It was the fourth book she had opened, but she still didn’t know anything more about the Weatherman’s form of plague than when she had started. There just wasn’t enough written about the plagues; so many of them had developed in the aftermath of the chemical attacks and poisonings that there hadn’t been time to write anything down, let alone find the means to publish it. She was relying on texts that were out of date twenty years ago, but it was all she had—that and her personal experience, which wasn’t much better given the rapid
evolution of sicknesses all over the world.

  She rubbed her eyes to ease the ache of her weariness. She wished sometimes that she could walk, that she wasn’t confined to this wheelchair. She wasn’t being selfish, although she had her share of those moments, too. She was simply frustrated at being unable to just get up and see what could be done instead of having to rely on others. She wanted to go down to the waterfront and have a look at River’s grandfather, but Hawk would never allow it. He might agree to bring the old man to their underground home, but only if she was able to give him some assurance that doing so would not endanger the family. It was bad enough that River was already exposed to whatever her grandfather had contracted. Hawk would never risk exposing the other children, as well.

  She wasn’t even sure, thinking on it, that he would allow River back. It seemed inconceivable that he would not, but Hawk could be intractable about certain things, and this might prove to be one.

  Across the room, where he lay curled up in his favorite spot, Cheney stirred awake suddenly and lurched to his feet with a low growl. It was the second time he had done so in the last few minutes and the fourth or fifth since Hawk had left, and she knew right away what was happening. The big dog was reacting to the noises in the wall they had both been hearing for the last two hours.

  Sparrow appeared in the bedroom doorway, her young face dark and intense. “It’s back there now,” she said. She gave a quick toss of her blond head toward the rearmost bedroom, which was Owl’s. “And it’s moved into the ceiling.”

  Before, it had been under the floor of the boys’ bedroom, and before that somewhere outside the walls entirely. Each time, Cheney had leapt up and gone sniffing from corner to corner, hackles raised, a low growl building in his throat. He did the same thing this time, working his way to the back of their quarters, big head swinging from side to side, nose to the floor and then lifting. Owl had no idea what was going on, so she watched Cheney’s progress, searching for clues.