by Phil Tucker
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hope I didn’t—” Her voice caught in her throat. “I hope I didn’t hurt anybody else.”
“Wasn’t you that did the hurting,” said Padrino Machado, voice somber and low. “That was the devil that rides you. Just as it isn’t me who does the healing, but Almighty God, if he sees fit to do so.”
“I guess he didn’t,” said Selah, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“No,” said Padrino. “No, he didn’t.”
They stood awkwardly in the silence. Selah felt awful, despair flooding her as she looked at the ground, endlessly kneading the hem of her shirt. “What do you think happened? Why did I act like that?”
“I believe that the devil arose within you to defend itself,” said Padrino. His voice was heavy, worn with fatigue. “It sensed danger to its corruption, and took control of you. Possessed you and escaped.”
“Your eyes went black,” said Cloud. She looked at him, anguish cutting into her. How could she have hurt him? How could she have? “Your eyes went black like they do at night.”
“Your wrist.” She felt helpless, clumsy. Did she have any right to ask? “Is it … hurt badly?”
He shook his head. “No. Just sprained.” His eyes were bright, with pain, sorrow, and tenderness for her. And fear. She couldn’t deny it. If not fear, at least … a new hesitation that hadn’t been there before. Could she blame him?
“Cloud has explained everything to me,” said Padrino Machado. “We have had a good talk. He has told me that you are going to see Chico Estevez, and that he is going to connect you with the Buena Vista Locos. Arrange for transport into the city. That you planned to walk there. Is that right?”
Selah nodded her head.
Esteban stirred. “You don’t have to go that far. I can get you into the Core. Not a problem.”
“I…” Selah looked to Cloud for guidance. He shook his head subtly. “Thanks. But we’d like to hook up with Chico. He’s a friend.”
Padrino shrugged. “I have business with the Locos. I was planning to go in a few days, but I can go tonight. I will give you a ride. It will save you a lot of time.” Padrino lowered his hand to the desk, palm flat. “Time is important now. The healing might have awoken the spirit. It may come faster for you now. If you are to find a cure, it must be within the next few days, or not at all.”
Selah’s excitement quickly crumbled. She shot a questioning look at Cloud, who nodded. He was coming. She felt herself go weak at the knees, wanted to sit. This was all too much. He was coming, he wasn’t leaving her, abandoning her. She wanted to hug him, kiss him, hold him tight, but Padrino was watching, and despite it all, those walls in Cloud’s eyes—they were still there.
“Thank you. And—how much time? You think I got a week?”
“Who knows? These things are not exact. But I would say yes, a week or less. This is a powerful spirit that rides you, very powerful, very old. Cloud told me that its blood is inside you, and that explains much. With its blood in your body, it has a grip on you like tree roots curled tight about your spirit. I will pray for you, ask for the saints and the Virgin to stand by your side.”
“Okay.” Selah nodded, inhaling briskly. Get a hold of yourself, girl, she heard Mama B’s words in her head. Only way to get through this is one step at a time. “Okay. When do we leave? I didn’t think the roads were good enough for us to drive on.”
For the first time Cloud smiled, and it did her heart more good than she could admit. “We’re not going to drive. Padrino Machado here is an important man.”
Selah looked to him, confused.
“We’re going to use my helicopter,” said Padrino gravely.
“Helicopter?” Selah wanted to laugh. Of course he had a helicopter. She’d been envisioning two days of long hiking through gang-infested territory, crossing the hills, the headache of trying to find Chico in this vast mess of slums. “Thank you.” She rubbed her hands over her face. Words were such paltry things. “Thank you.”
Padrino smiled ruefully. “I couldn’t let you walk for two days when you only have a week left. You will need to hurry. And each night, when the spirit comes forward to ride you, you will need to fight it.”
“Fight it,” said Selah, voice small. “Sure.” How could she explain that there was no fight? That she simply changed, her very thoughts and desires becoming different? But she would. She would find a way. She had to. She glanced at Cloud, at his wrist, up at his face, and then away. She would.
“We leave within the hour. That gives you time to shower, to eat. I will have one of my daughters pack food for you. For both of you, for the next few days.”
“Thank you,” said Selah. “Thank you, Padrino Machado. For helping us.” She looked at his lined, care-worn face, his sloping shoulders, his thick moustache, his small, glittering eyes.
He nodded, accepting her thanks. “Perhaps one day you will be able to help me. I can read the currents, sometimes. I can feel … ripples in the fabric of destiny, of fate. You and I will have more business together, Selah. Whether you find the cure or not. We shall see each other again.”
Selah nodded slowly. She didn’t know exactly what he meant, but it didn’t matter. “Well, good. That’ll give me the chance to repay this favor.”
Padrino Machado stood, and a moment later so did Esteban and Cloud. “For now, prepare yourselves. Hernan, see them to the Rose Room. Then stop by the kitchen and tell Maria to prepare them enough food to last a few days. Yes?” Padrino smiled, the expression seeming to suddenly switch on, and came around the desk to take Selah’s hands in his own. They were warm, callused, and dry. “Be strong. Stay rooted in yourself. Surround yourself with memories of who you are. This is a war you are fighting, and you need to stand in your power.”
Selah nodded. It seemed the only thing she could do right now, agree and listen and then agree some more. “My power, yes. Thank you.”
“Good. Excuse me.” Padrino released her hands, walked past her and out of the room.
Selah turned to Cloud, but was saved by Hernan, who spoke, voice gruff as if he were trying to sound dangerous, “Vamonos. Follow me.”
He led them through the glass palace that was Padrino’s home, but Selah saw none of the finery. She was only aware of Cloud walking by her side. They entered the bedroom, and Hernan gave them a suspicious look, and stepped out and closed the door.
“You should shower first,” said Cloud.
“Cloud.”
He looked away.
“Cloud.”
He stiffened, straightened. Looked over his shoulder at her.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice husky, low. He looked down. “Don’t worry. I know it wasn’t you in there.”
Selah moved up to him, slipped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek against his back. He was angular, lean, and she could feel his shoulder blades through his shirt. He stood still, and then turned and held her in his arms, chin resting on her hair for a moment before he lowered his face into her neck.
They stood in silence, just holding onto each other. Selah felt an empty anger rage within her. What could she say? What could she promise? Nothing. He would come with her knowing that he was in ever more danger. That within a week, she might not return to herself. That she might become the very monster that he hated. She pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder, and then looked into his eyes.
Cloud leaned down and kissed her, and she sank into him, allowed the taste of his lips to wipe away the fear and doubt, or at least smooth them over, put them to rest. She held onto him, held him close, and kissed him, tears running down her cheeks. Kissed him as if something were about to tear him from her arms, toss him into the heaving night and leave her alone with her madness and darkness.
“Hey,” said Cloud, “hey, shhh.” The tears were coming full on now, and she was having trouble breathing. She buried her face in his shoulder again and felt him press his hand o
nto the back of her head. The faces came back to her, the strangers in the gazebo, the old men rising to restrain her and how they had screamed as she had tossed them aside. As if they were children, less than children, as if they were dolls. The looks of terror.
There’s no such thing as fair, she heard Mama B say, and it was a truth made all the more bitter for how it withstood the test of time. “Don’t leave me,” she said, voice muffled into Cloud’s shirt. “Please, please don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” said Cloud. “I’m here. I’m here till the end.”
The helicopter scudded forward over the San Bernardino Valley. Selah looked out through the curved window, examining the world below. The sound of the blades overhead where a muted roar, a white noise that helped her feel isolated, cut off from everybody and everything else. If she looked outside and not around, she almost felt as if she were alone. That Cloud wasn’t sitting by her side, Hernan and a second guard across from them, guns stowed, with Padrino riding in the front with the pilot.
The Valley was vast. On some level she knew New York was just as big, infinitely more dramatic with its jungle of skyscrapers, but she’d rarely left Brooklyn, and Manhattan had seemed almost hypothetical, a surreal presence beyond the borders of her vision. What had been real was the tangle of streets she’d lived among, the school she’d walked to, the shops she’d loved, the whole of her world reduced to a handful of blocks from which she rarely ventured. Here, looking out over LA, she realized that all this was just one valley. That the bulk of the city existed over the hills ahead, barely visible to her right.
From above, it was easy to see where the old city had been engulfed by the new slums. Make out the grid of the streets and avenues, even choked as they were by the new settlers. Other helicopters made their way over the Valley, from a large military chopper with two sets of rotor blades to a handful of small passenger ones like Padrino’s. She watched as a green helicopter with the white logo for One World NGO on its side descended into a neighborhood to her right.
So many people. Back in New York, before her father had disappeared, she’d been fascinated with the vampire cities. Yet most of the coverage had been of Miami. South Beach, Brickell Avenue, even the desolated horror of the suburbs. Reporters speaking with vampires, interviewing them, flattered by the access they were granted. Narratives there could be crafted, shows hosted.
LA had always been different. Here it was as if the reporters were on the outside looking in. Never entering the Core and passing over the Wall into the abandoned heart of LA. Rather than sensational, the stories here were always grim and desperate. Tales of the masses, the teeming millions as they scrabbled to survive, infrastructure collapsing and government oversight failing. Stories of atrocities, lawlessness, the rise of gang power. Comparisons to Third World country metropolises, to the shantytowns in Rio de Janeiro and the Kibera slums in Nairobi. There were no personalities to interview. What sensationalism they could muster was bleak. After the first few years, they’d stopped paying attention. It took an exceptional atrocity these days to draw national attention.
Cloud leaned over to look out the window. “Can you imagine trying to cross that on foot?” His voice was strange in the cabin, as if wrapped in velvet. “What were we thinking?”
Selah snorted. Fifteen, twenty miles of sprawled-out chaos. “Optimists, I guess.”
“What was my plan? Drive in as far as we could and then ditch the car to continue on foot”
Selah leaned back into him, resting on his shoulder, and looked to the west. To the gap between the Pueblo Hills and the San Gabriel Mountains, through which she could see what had to be the distant Core. Where they were ultimately headed.
Cloud was in the mood to talk. “I don’t think we can thank Padrino Machado enough. First the healing, now this ride.”
“Yeah,” said Selah. “Quite a ride.” Padrino’s helicopter spoke volumes about his connections. Painted matt black, it had a fin jutting out each side behind the doors, under which was loaded two sullen looking rockets. Wide eyed, Selah had simply climbed into the chopper and strapped herself in.
Looking out the window now, she felt a sense of wonder. Everything looked so abstract from up here. The city, its problems. She tried to recall the stench of sewage in the alleys, and found that she couldn’t. Maybe that’s why rich people had trouble understanding the world as it was. They were just too far above it. Living in the clouds, where everything was clean and efficient and the way they wanted it to be.
Cloud seemed to be waiting for a stronger reaction from her, but she couldn’t quite muster it. She was sure Machado had his own angles on this. “Do you know why’s he going all this way south? What’s he want with the Locos?”
“Apparently he’s connected with all the main dealers. Like a spiritual advisor of sorts. Flies around making house calls.
Selah looked down at the city. Thought of how empty Padrino’s neighborhood had been. “I wonder what kind of spiritual advice he gives them if they keep on dealing Dust.”
Cloud shrugged. “I know what you mean. But he told me that they do more than that. There’s no government here anymore. So it’s the dealers that bring in food and water. Who execute a kind of street justice that people can appeal to if something goes wrong. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in favor of all this, but he made it pretty clear that without the dealers and their money, all these people would starve.”
Selah nodded. “Street justice. Like how Guillermo had every Duster shot. And was going to shoot us without question.”
“Yeah,” said Cloud. “I know. But the problems in LA are so huge, it’s hard to know where to even start. What to try and fix. Padrino and I talked about it. He showed me that every real solution depends on first getting rid of the vampires, of the Core. And since they’re not going anywhere, you’re stuck with imperfect solutions.”
“Sounds like a convincing guy, Padrino Machado.”
“Hey,” said Cloud. “He’s doing all right by us. And he’s not the one dealing Dust. I’m not saying he’s a good guy, but he’s not exactly vampire level evil either, right?”
Selah laughed quietly, and bumped against Cloud. “Yeah, you’re right. Don’t mind me. I’m just … it’s been a strange day.”
He slipped his arm around her back and squeezed her close. “Yeah. I know.”
They flew in low over the hills. Overgrown trails and roads crawled over their slopes, and Selah saw what looked like sporadic checkpoints. Then they were over the hills, soaring out over more city, but ahead stretched the Pacific Ocean, glittering and beautiful under the late afternoon sun. Selah pressed her hand against the window and felt something rise up within her at the sight. It seemed paler than the ocean in Miami, a faded slate blue, the waves crashing down powerfully along the coast’s length, real waves, not the quiet undulations that washed South Beach.
People were surfing. Tiny dots riding the waves. That surprised her. She thought—had felt—that with life being as hard as it was, people wouldn’t be able to enjoy themselves, do something so free, so simple. In fact, she realized, it only made more sense that they would. She smiled. Gave Cloud a squeeze. The helicopter banked to the right and began to descend. Selah tore her eyes away from the ocean and looked down. The city below seemed the same. That would be—what, La Habra? Strange to see the complexity of it below after so much time spent studying neat maps.
Down they went, the streets resolving themselves into ever-greater detail. There were more trees here, more green. The scaffolding of the old pre-war city was more evident. The great flat rectangular roofs of commercial buildings, the red tiles of homes. Avenues and highways, parks and golf courses all covered in shacks. Endless dry swimming pools.
The helicopter swung around and aimed itself at the roof of a tall building. The pilot touched down on the large painted “H” with ease, the helicopter settling down into its trestles with a springy lightness. Guillermo and Hernan drew their revolvers as Selah and Cloud undid their c
hest harnesses.
“What’s going on?” asked Cloud, keeping his voice calm.
“Change of plans,” said Hernan. “You two are staying put.”
“Staying put?” Selah moved to open the helicopter door, but Hernan raised his gun and she froze.
They heard the pilot and Padrino Machado get out, the blades overhead slowing down quickly. Selah’s door slid open and Padrino Machado stood before her, face grave.
“What’s going on, Padrino?” Cloud sounded like he was still trying to give the man the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m afraid you will be staying in the helicopter while I talk to Armando,” said Padrino. He frowned and shook his head. “I can’t risk your safety. This is better. Trust me.”
“No,” said Selah. “We came here to meet with Chico. We’re not staying.”
“I must insist,” said Padrino. “I have thought this through. You want to go into the Core and meet the vampires, no? Ask them for a cure? I will give you a direct ride to them as soon as I am done here. We will go together. There is no need to cross the Wall by yourselves.”
It almost made sense. It was what she wanted, after all. To get into the Core, to meet with the vampires. Padrino was promising to do just that. But she wasn’t buying it. “Thanks for the offer, but we’ll take our chances.”
Padrino smiled. It was a reflexive, automatic expression, and he shook his head. The second guard climbed out of his seat and hopped down onto the landing pad, leaving Hernan with them, revolver trained on Selah’s chest. “I will be back in an hour, maybe less. Armando is needing some guidance. Then we shall talk further, all right?”
Before Selah could answer, he slammed the door closed, turned and walked toward an entrance that led into the building, the pilot and second guard flanking him. The door opened and two men stepped out, guns at their sides. Padrino raised his hand in greeting. Helpless, seething, Selah watched as Padrino’s linen-suited form disappeared through the doorway, and it closed behind them.