by Phil Tucker
Chico smiled, obviously amused, and pulled a battered Omni from his jean pocket. It was a small model, almost an antique, from the years when everybody was trying to shrink them down as much as possible. “Here you go. There’s no lock on it. We don’t get much bandwidth here though.”
“Thanks,” said Selah. The last time she’d spoken with Mama B had been a couple of days back in Barstow. She wandered off a dozen yards, and navigated through the menu system and entered Mama B’s number. It rang three times before Mama B’s face appeared on the screen.
“That you child?” Her voice was tinny and distant, but the sound of it brought tears to Selah’s eyes.
“Hey Mama,” she said, smiling widely. “We’re here. We made it to Chico.”
“I knew you would,” said Mama B. “Ain’t nothing going to stop my girl. How are you? Have you been eating?”
“Yes,” she said, though the thought of food made her stomach rumble. “We’re doing well. It’s been—it’s been an interesting trip. How are things with you and the General?”
It had been agreed that Mama B would stay with General Adams after Selah left. The General had established a number of homes across Miami over the course of his years of exile there, and after abandoning his first home had gone to ground with Mama B and Maria Elena, her friend from her brief stay in Miami.
“Things are fine,” said Mama B, though from the way she said ‘fine’ Selah could tell that Mama was working on the General. “We’re keeping our heads low and fixing on avoiding trouble. Miami’s been turned upside down since you left. All these promises of change and who knows what coming out of Downtown. I’ll believe it when I see it, and maybe not even then.”
Selah felt a pang in her chest. She missed Mama so badly. She wanted nothing more right then than a big hug. “Good. We’re going into the Core tonight. Through the Wall. Armando—that’s this local drug dealer—who’s going to quit dealing, I think—he’s connecting us with some vampires inside. Who knows, Mama? By tonight I may know of a cure.”
“God willing, child. God willing. How is Cloud?”
“He’s good,” said Selah, turning to look at where he stood talking with Armando.
“Good?” Mama B was too perceptive.
“Yeah. I mean, he’s hanging in there, but it’s not easy for him. I mean, I’m not making it easy for him either. You know?”
“He’s a good man. His head and heart are in the right place. Tell him I’m praying for you both.”
Selah thought of Cloud falling to the ground as she knocked him aside during the healing ritual. The wary way he had watched her as she had intimidated Hernan, or convinced Armando to get them through the Wall. For a moment she wanted to truly open up and tell Mama B about all her fears, how she was changing, becoming colder, more callous, but instead she just nodded her head. “Sure.”
“Selah.” Mama B knew her too well. “Hold onto your convictions. Hold on tight. You are a beautiful human being, and I love you. I don’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but I do know you, and have since you were born. Don’t let nobody tell you that you aren’t a good person. You are. No matter what, remember that.”
More tears. Selah smiled and rubbed them away with the back of her hand, and then nodded. “Thanks Mama.”
“All right then. Now, you had better be eating. How you supposed to run around figuring this mess out on an empty tummy? You’d better take care of yourself.”
Selah laughed. “OK. I’ll look into getting some dinner before we cross the Wall. Promise.”
“OK then.” They both paused, watching either other.
“Love you, Mama,” said Selah.
“Love you to, Selah Brown. You take care of yourself. Tell Cloud to take care of you too. Tell him I told him so.”
“I will.” Selah didn’t want to end the connection. Didn’t know when she might next have a chance to call. “You take care too.”
“Don’t you worry about me. Go on now. Call me when you can.”
“I will. Bye.” She ended the connection, and the screen went blank. Selah lowered the Omni and looked up at the sky. In the far distance some kites were bobbing and weaving, and a pall of oily smoke was drifting through the air over to the left. From all around her came the sound of the slums, distant laughter, radio music, the muted throttle of a dirt bike. She felt alone, small, insignificant in the midst of this vast and chaotic flood of humanity. She took a deep breath, looked once more at the Omni’s screen, and then turned back to the other two.
Chico looked up as she approached. “You get through? Good. I was telling Cloud that we’ve got a couple of hours till you guys need to be back here. How about I take you around? Show you the area a little, maybe get us some food?”
“Sure,” said Selah. She stepped up to Cloud, who placed his arm around her and pulled her in. She closed her eyes, rested her head against his chest, and listened to his heartbeat.
“Everything good back home?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Selah. “Yeah, I think they’re all right. Mama B told me to tell you she’s praying for us.”
Cloud didn’t respond. He just held her tight, and then tilted her head back so that he could kiss her lips gently. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. His smile was tender. “That’s good to hear,” he said. “You ready for some tacos? Chico said he knows a place that serves them up with real cheese.”
“Sure,” said Selah, smiling. “That sounds great.”
The sun was setting when they made it back to the hospital. They had eaten at a taco stand run by three earnest and heavily armed kids, and had walked along several crowded streets where everybody seemed to know Chico by sight. He’d shown them a variety of his projects, which ranged from running a registration center so local kids born since the War could be entered into the US databases to coordinating the delivery of food to local soup kitchens, from setting up neighborhood watches to running what he proudly said was the first Blood Dust rehab center.
Selah felt her pulse accelerate when they turned onto the street that ran past the hospital. The sun was barely visible over the treetops to the west. Wispy trails of clouds burned like light bulb filaments above the sun, thin, scrawling lines of refulgent gold against a backdrop of rich orange and crimson. It was a vast sky, glorious, the shadows cast by the sun long and eerie as they advanced down the street.
An avocado green van was parked outside the hospital entrance, a familiar white logo and One World title printed across its side. Selah looked at Chico, who shrugged and smiled almost apologetically. “Stolen,” he said. “Or bought. Who knows? Everybody’s corrupt around here.”
A handful of people stood next to the van, though it was immediately obvious that Armando wasn’t there. As the three of them approached, the others turned to regard them. There were two Locos, one a slender brown man with a doleful face and cornrows, the second some variation of Latino, his face as hard and expressive as concrete. Both wore coveralls the same green hue as the van, and both seemed as natural in them as a coyote in a tutu.
A young woman was standing beside them, her clean face fine boned, pale in the evening light, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Slender eyebrows arched over her quick eyes, and she was surprisingly broad shouldered, with the tapering waist and long legs of a track star. She studied Selah with avid curiosity before examining Cloud and Chico. She had a rugged backpack resting against her leg, and a second case—the kind that might hold an expensive camera—held in one hand.
“Hey, Alex, como estas?” asked Chico, moving up to clasp hands with the hard-bitten Latino man, and then he turned to the guy with cornrows. “What’s up, Lunchbox? This is Selah and Cloud. Armando said they could catch a ride.”
“Chico,” greeted Lunchbox, his voice surprisingly deep and powerful for such a slender man. “What’s happening? We’re about to head out. You guys know the drill?” Selah shook her head, so Lunchbox continued. “We going to drive to an entry point in the Wall. We’re po
sing as One Worlders, and our paperwork checks out. However, when we get there, they’re gonna know who we really are, and they’re gonna let us through without doing all the normal checks. That’s if you guys stay quiet in the back. If they hear voices, or make a ruckus, they’re ain’t going to have no choice but to take a look. Then we drive to the meet, and you guys get out and do whatever the fuck you wanna do from then on.”
“Sure,” said Cloud. “Got it.”
“Hi,” said the girl, stepping forward and sticking out her hand. “Chico? My name is Fernanda Ribeira. I’m with CNN.” She spoke quickly, her consonants sharp, her vowels strangely soft. Brazilian? wondered Selah. “I have been trying to find you since I got here, but you are a hard man to find. Could we talk when I come back out?”
“Hi,” said Chico, taking her hand in both of his, smile warm as always. “CNN? Are you doing a story?”
“Yes,” said Fernanda, her smile widening, clearly proud of her assignment. “I’m doing a feature on LA, on both sides of the Wall.” She curled a strand of dark hair behind her ear, naturally at ease, engaging. “I’ve read much of your work, and really would like an opportunity to sit with you. We plan to be back out in a week. Will you be in this area?”
“Sure,” said Chico, nodding. “Do you know what you are doing, inside?”
Fernanda laughed. “No, not really. I would be lying if I said I did. But I have experience in the field.”
Another man walked from out from behind the van, swinging a heavy backpack over one shoulder. He had the same fresh, clean look as Fernanda, but with a weathered face and a mess of dirty blond hair. Early forties, perhaps, with a quiet confidence to him. He came to stand next to Fernanda, and nodded to the others.
“Okay, everybody in the van,” said Lunchbox. “Gotta keep on schedule. Chico, you take care of yourself.” Alex walked to the back and opened both doors, and after giving Chico a hug, Selah climbed in. The others followed suit, and Alex swung the doors closed behind them and locked them in.
“Hi,” said Fernanda. She’d sat down across from Selah, and in the gloom her face seemed to hover in the dark like that of a ghost. “You said your name is Selah? This is Michael, and I’m Fernanda.” The van rumbled to life, and pulled forward. “You two are going into the Core?”
“Yeah,” said Cloud, when Selah stayed quiet. “We are.”
Fernanda’s smile was visible even in the gloom. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Everybody thinks because I’m a reporter, I’m going to write everything they tell me and publish it. I won’t, I promise. But we would appreciate any information you might have that would help us inside. Have you been there before?”
“Selah?” asked Michael, voice sharp. He leaned forward and scrutinized her. Lit a small hand flashlight that he pointed at the ground, allowing the ambient light to warm everybody’s face from below. “And Cloud?” He turned to Fernanda. “You don’t recognize them?”
“Recognize them?” Fernanda peered more closely, and shook her head. Stopped. “Wait. The Selah and Cloud? From Miami?”
Selah closed her eyes, and leaned her head back. Fuck.
“Uh …” said Cloud, clearly trying to think. “No?”
“Oh, wow,” said Fernanda, sitting forward. “No way! I don’t believe it. This is incredible.” She caught herself, sat back, and looked from one to the other. “I would love to talk to you both. You have no idea how big you two are. The last anybody saw of you was when you rescued Cloud from the Freedom Fight in front of, what, a thousand cameras? The same night that Sawiskera dies, and all of Miami goes into chaos. Everybody wants to know: what happened? Were you involved? Where have you been?”
Selah opened her eyes, was glad for Hernan’s shades. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Fernanda shot Cloud a speculative look, and then came back to Selah. “I understand. I’m coming onto you like a high school reporter. I’m sorry. It’s just a shock. I didn’t even recognize you. Okay.” She smoothed down the fabric of her jeans over her thighs, and sat back. “Okay. Can I at least ask you a couple of questions? You can ignore me if you like.”
Selah rolled her head over to Cloud. He had crossed his arms over his chest, but gave her a thoughtful look. If anybody appreciated the value of media attention, it was him; he had based his entire resistance movement on getting information out to the media. Which was strange; she’d never met anybody who valued their privacy so much.
Fernanda was clearly thinking rapidly. “Are—are you two here to start a rebellion in LA?” Cloud shook his head. “No. We’re strangers here, just like you.”
“Okay. Are—can you talk about what happened in Miami? Even just a little?”
Selah looked stonily at the ceiling of the van. Cloud shifted beside her. “What questions do you have?” he said.
Fernanda and Michael were both sitting forward by this point. “What questions?” Fernanda laughed. It was a light sound, delightful, the kind of laugh that somebody who was used to being liked might make. “I don’t even know where to begin. My god, what a mess. All right, look. We’re both heading into the Core together. We’re being dropped off at the same place. Could we perhaps have a proper conversation inside? Just the four of us, no pressure, but an informal interview of some kind? You can have complete control over what I reveal. But you have to know the country is going crazy trying to guess what happened. A lot of people think you died, or are still in Miami.” She looked from Cloud to Selah. “Could you maybe even just release a statement? Just saying you’re alive or …?”
Selah pursed her lips. Fernanda’s breathless excitement was starting to really aggravate her. Cloud shrugged again uneasily. “Maybe. We’ll think about it. What are you two? You have any idea what you’re getting into?”
Michael gave Cloud a sour grin, but Fernanda laughed again. She laughed too much, Selah decided. “It’s not so bad as people say. We have connections inside who are willing to help us. We’ve reached out to one of the vampires called Louis, and he’s agreed to allow us to attend his ‘court.’ That’s why we’re coming in through Armando’s gang. They are the ones who work with Louis, who can get us in.”
“And what’s the angle of your story?”
“No angle. We’re going to just report back on what we find. Social, economic, political. Karl Plessy has said that there is a ‘new generation’ of vampires that are different from the old. We want to see if that’s true here in Los Angeles. How are they living in the Core? What does this trade in Blood Dust signify in terms of values for the vampires? Do they need the money, and if so, why? What are their goals, what are they doing with their unlives? What is life like for the hundreds of thousands still trapped inside the Core? We’re going to try and interview military leadership after, speak to the ex-governor of LA, and then follow the chain of power right to the top. We want to present a complete view of what’s going on here, or at least, as complete a view as two people alone can capture.”
There was real fire in Fernanda’s voice, real sincerity. She spoke with the fervent intensity of a woman with a mission. Selah studied Fernanda’s face. She felt conflicted. Part of her wanted to sneer, to ridicule her good intentions and naïve approach. Another part couldn’t help but be impressed that she was risking everything for her story. Fernanda was completely focused on Cloud now, leaning forward once more, a smile playing on her lips.
One of the men up front pounded on the metal partition that separated them. “We’re arriving,” came Lunchbox’s deep voice. “Shut up already.”
The van slowed. Fernanda sat back and took out a compact Omni of a design Selah had never seen. She activated its recording function, and Selah realized that she had set it on pan-recording mode, the full 360-degree function that took in every sight and sound around it. She leaned forward and snatched it out of her hand and turned it off before Fernanda could react. The reporter stared at her, mouth open, hand still outstretched.
“Don’t. R
ecord. Me.”
“I—sorry.” Fernanda nodded. “I just wanted to catch our entry into the Core.” She sounded genuinely abashed. Selah forced herself to scowl once more, and then handed the Omni back and looked away as the van came to a stop. She heard voices outside, and felt a shiver. They’d arrived at the Wall.
Chapter Eight
They sat in silence, the sound of their breathing loud in the confines of the van. Michael switched off his little flashlight and they were plunged into darkness, only the raised metallic surfaces of the van’s walls and the whites of their eyes catching the faint glimmer of light that came through the front partition. Voices outside, low and easy, an exchange that seemed to go smoothly. Laughter, and then somebody smacked the side of the van twice and the engine rumbled to life. They pulled forward, clattering over what felt like a cattle grate, and were through.
Everybody breathed a sigh of relief and sat back. Selah did the same, and closed her eyes. The sun. It had just dipped below the horizon. In a strange, impossible way, she had felt it go. Outside it was fully dusk now, passing into night, and her eyes—she felt them grow black as Sawiskera’s curse swam across their surface and drowned out her sclera and iris. She took a deep, shuddering breath as that fey energy began to arise within her. A source of power that seemed rooted in her pelvis, that spread through her like ink dropped into water. It was unlike the vertiginous rush of what she’d experienced each time a vampire had drunk of her blood back in Miami; that had felt like being immersed in a river of flame, or swamped by a raging fever. This was different; she felt as if she were becoming a vast and dark watered lake of immense depth, her very being changing, her mind growing strange and predatory.
Selah shivered. The others were talking. Cloud and Fernanda, at any rate. He’d asked about her background, how she’d come to be here. Fernanda seemed only too glad to oblige, and talked about a connection through an old college professor who’d linked her to Colonel Caldwell, who ran the Forward Operating Base here in LA. How she’d worked to interview him, and parlayed their nascent friendship into connections with Armando and Louis.