Human Revolt 02 - Vampire LA

by Phil Tucker

  She was so tired. So tired of fighting, of running, of risking her life. She wanted Cloud. She wanted him to hold her. She wanted to lose herself in his arms. But he was gone. She wanted Mama B, to see her face, to feel her love. But she was far, far away. She thought of Theo, of his stern strength—she might have drawn some of her own from him. But who knew where he was. She was alone. Here on this lonely road outside the Wall, filthy and caked in blood, facing what might be her last day as a human being.

  With a groan Selah sat up. She struggled to her feet. She looked like a zombie. Best Halloween costume ever. Shaking her head, she limped over to where her pack lay. It was so battered and shot through with holes that when she picked it up all her stuff fell onto the ground. For some reason that was almost too much, and Selah looked up at the sky, mouth pulling down once more as she fought off despair. The sight of her clothing lying in the dirt, riddled with bullet holes, was so pathetic and sad that she decided to simply leave it all right there. She plucked out the Omni. The screen was cracked, the back casing shattered. Without much hope she thumbed it on, but it was dead. Selah let it fall from her fingers, and turned to look down Telegraph Road. If she headed south, she should be able to find I-5 and follow it down into Buena Park.

  The first step was the hardest. The world was vague, damp, and completely enervating. It took all her resolve, all her courage and desire to live to take that first step, but once she got going, she found it easier to keep moving. To keep stumbling forward, her left leg painful, her hip so sore it felt like glass was embedded in her pelvis. Pressing her fingers into the pain, she moved along Telegraph, and then stopped at the first major intersection. Orr and Day Road. A broad boulevard. Too close to the Wall for the slums to have been built around here, but it headed straight south. Selah closed her eyes, thought of Mama B, and pressed on.

  The morning sun cleared the mountains to the north and burned away the fog. For the first hour Selah walked through a twilight world, the highway an island of asphalt beneath her feet, which remained the same no matter how far she walked, hedged in on both sides by vague distances of nebulous white. Finally, the rays of the sun speared through, the sky became visible above, a clear and delicate blue that looked as if a firm blow could crack the eggshell it was painted on.

  Selah felt her strength return as she walked. While her limp slowly faded, the burning pain in her hip remained. The contusions and scrapes also faded, so that she would pick a scab only to find smooth, brown skin beneath. It felt like a betrayal; her body was healing as a vampire’s would, was showing its true colors, its new allegiance. It wasn’t her own body, not the one she knew. She should be dead. That realization hit her like a stone to the back of the head, and she simply stopped where she stood. She should be dead: any normal human would have died after last night’s stunt. In a way, her humanity lay back there on Telegraph Road, broken and bloodied, a ghost to be dissipated along with the morning fog.

  The further she got from the Wall, the more the slums encroached upon the highway, surging up like waves of a degenerate ocean that had crested and frozen before it could break. Shacks and larger brick buildings crowded right up to the chain-link fence, and some had broken through right onto the road’s shoulder. The sounds just off the highway’s shoulder grew louder as she walked, people calling to each other, the blare of music from myriad speakers, children laughing, the occasional yell. People passed her on the highway, most whizzing by on bikes, a few hauling small carts behind them laden with goods. Indifferent glances skimmed past her. What was one more dirty and bloodied black girl to them?

  She tried asking a handful of people how much farther it was to Buena Park, but most of them only spoke Spanish. Finally, a somber man wearing a straw hat and a massive woven pack over his angular shoulder stopped and considered her question. He looked back and shaded his eyes against the sun. “Another couple of miles. You’ll be wanting to look out for Artesia Boulevard.” He studied her. “But that’s not a safe place right now. You should steer clear.”

  Selah shrugged tiredly. “I know. People fighting, right?”

  The man nodded. “Yup. If you don’t know your way ’round, might be best to go elsewhere.”

  Selah sighed and looked down the road. “Artesia Boulevard? Thanks.”

  It was more than two miles, but not by too much. An hour later she saw the large green sign indicating that she should take the next exit. Foot traffic on I-5 had become scarce, and the few bikes that she saw raced past, their riders glancing around worriedly. Selah didn’t really care. The tension in the air slid right off her. She walked forward doggedly, and took the Artesia Boulevard exit when she found it, threading her way through the ephemeral shacks and sheds on the off-ramp. Gunfire rang out, the staccato burst of a machine gun, and when it stopped, the silence seemed to ache in the midday air.

  Selah moved up to the first shack that lined Artesia, and banged on its corrugated iron wall. No response, so she peered in through a window. A score of kids looked out of the gloom at her, eyes wide.

  “Any of you guys know the way to San Antonio Drive?” They all shook their heads. Selah nodded, and walked over to the next shack. She had no luck there, either, but an old man with a face like a creased paper bag knew the way. Selah listened, frowning, and then thanked him and moved on.

  It was hot. Dry. With no vegetation anywhere, the air shimmered and baked off the narrow roads, radiated off the metal siding and tin roofs that thronged the streets. She felt a headache coming on, and her mouth was parched. Occasionally she saw somebody running as if for cover, but for the most part, the alleys and paths that traced the old streets were abandoned.

  A group of young men staggered around the corner up ahead, two of them wounded and with their arms slung around the shoulders of friends. They held rifles, handguns, and kept looking behind them as if expecting to be attacked at any moment. Selah froze, and then recognized the man at the front. He had been with Armando in the hospital lobby.

  Selah stepped aside, and the men swept past, ignoring her. She waited till they turned another corner, and then began to follow them. They were hurt, which meant they were heading somewhere safe. Where Armando was, probably, and maybe Chico.

  The men moved mostly in silence, the wounded groaning and cursing as they tried to keep up. Three more cramped blocks, and then a left at a narrow alley that was all trash and sewage underfoot. Selah hurried after them, but when she stepped out the other end of the alley, it was into the muzzle of a shotgun.

  “Why you following us, eh?” asked a nervous Hispanic kid, whipcord lean and badly bruised, yellow and purple patterning his shoulder and chest visible beneath his tank top.

  Selah raised her hands. “Chico. Chico Estevez. I’m his friend. He told me to come to 424 San Antonio Drive.”

  The kid studied her. He had to be her age, maybe a little younger, but his eyes were alien, harsh, as if he had seen too many atrocities. Her own were probably no better, thought Selah. “You know Chico? Then what was he before the War?”

  “A Jesuit.”

  The kid nodded reluctantly. “Fine. If he doesn’t know you though, you’re gonna get yourself shot. Got it?”

  Selah nodded, and then moved ahead to walk before him after he gestured she do so with his gun. She jogged slowly, keeping pace with the group ahead, and considered how different she felt from her nighttime glory. The power of Sawiskera had healed her, true, but she felt as human and mortal as she ever had.

  Finally they stopped and before a random building, pre-War construction but as filthy as any shack. Two extra levels had been built on top of it, and she saw sentries watching the street from windows above. The front door opened. Chico stood there, blinking in the sunlight, visoring his eyes with one hand, scanning the street. “Selah?”

  “Chico!” Relief flooded her. She waved and walked forward. “It’s me!”

  “Selah! Oye, deja-la entra, ok?” Chico waved to the Hispanic kid, who reluctantly nodded. He beckoned for her to
hurry, and she jogged over. He gave her a warm hug, and then stepped back. “I’m not sure you should have come. Things have gone crazy around here. I don’t think we’re going to last the night.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The room was large, dark, and filled with angry, dour-faced men. A table in the center was covered in guns, and a number of people were trying to sleep on filthy mattresses on the ground. Others sat on benches along the wall or stood in tight knots. Open doorways led to other rooms, rooms Selah realized that had once belonged to the neighboring buildings. The walls had been knocked down so that a warren of interconnected rooms ran behind the façades of the buildings along the street.

  Chico stopped and peered at her. His eyebrows rose in alarm. “You’re covered in blood. What happened? You OK?”

  “Yeah,” said Selah, looking down at herself. Most of her blood had dried and flaked off her skin, but a lot remained soaked into her clothing. “It’s somebody else’s. I’m fine.”

  Chico looked intently her. “Where’s Cloud? What happened?” Selah hesitated, aware of the number of people listening, and Chico caught on. “Here, follow me.” He led her into a small room that served as a kind of crude infirmary, a number of wounded men lying on more mattresses, faces slicked with sweat, eyelids fluttering. Selah averted her eyes, and followed Chico on through into a room the size of a walk-in closet. Chico shoved the door closed and then pushed Selah down onto a chair and took a stool across from her. “So. What happened?”

  For the first time Selah felt as if she could stop, could rest, could take comfort in Chico’s creased and concerned face. With the door closed and the crude cinderblock walls providing an illusion of safety, the immediacy of all her problems felt one step removed.

  “Cloud left.” She looked at the ground. “He stopped trusting me. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “Shit,” said Chico softly, and rubbed his face with both hands. “Selah, I’m really sorry. So there’s no cure?”

  “There is, but it’s not one I can take.” Selah closed her eyes pressed the base of her palm to her temple. It was splitting with pain.

  “You all right?”

  “Just … a headache. It’s nothing.”

  “When’s the last time you drank water?”

  “Water?” Selah looked up at him. She had no idea.

  “You’re probably dehydrated. Hold on.” He stepped out. Selah looked around the tiny room. A large map was pinned to the wall, red marks and slashes made across certain streets, certain buildings. A heavy-duty Omni sat on a shelf, twice the size of any she’d ever seen, an industrial unit. She wanted to get up and study it, but couldn’t do anything more than focus on her breathing.

  Chico came back with a large plastic cup. “Here. Drink this. All of it.”

  She did so, taking steady sips until the container was empty. It was delicious, soothing her mouth and throat. She poured the last few drops into her hand and wiped her face.

  “So.” Chico’s voice was soft, but serious. “How much longer you got?”

  “Maybe another night. Two at most.”

  Chico nodded. “Same goes for us. We never expected the kind of retaliation we got. We figured we’d have at least a week or so before any of the other gangs got their act together. But the same night Armando told the vampires he was done? The Culebras came charging into our territory like they’d been waiting for the signal. It’s been hell ever since. Armando’s men are dedicated, but they’re starting to wonder what they’re fighting for, and why.”

  “What about the government? The NGOs?”

  Chico laughed bitterly. “They’re very concerned, but they won’t get involved until the fighting stops. They told me it’s not safe to send in their people.”

  “But they promised military help.”

  “Yeah, they did. But only once they’d evaluated the situation. Which they can’t do until things calm down—which they won’t unless they send in help.”

  “So Armando has no backup?”

  “And no money coming in. Louis already started doing business with other people.” Chico smiled sourly. “Guess who? The Culebras.”

  Selah leaned back in her stool. Her headache was letting up. “Louis? The last time I saw him he wasn’t doing so well.”

  “No?” Chico looked confused. “Still, he’s going to sell his Dust to somebody. We just didn’t know it was all going to go down so fast.” The energy seemed to go out of Chico. He shook his head. “We came so close. I had everybody lined up, ready to fly in and talk. This was going to be first district to step away from violence and drugs. ” His sadness, his bitterness was palpable. “Now we’re getting gunned down left and right. Armando’s no pushover, and he’s got cash saved up, but everybody knows that there’s no more coming in. No Blood Dust, no payment. He can’t pay One World to keep bringing in fresh water and food, either. Soon the whole neighborhood is going to turn against him. Especially when the Culebras start handing out the supplies. Then the fight will really be over.” Chico sighed and leaned back. “But what can you do?”

  Selah looked down at her hands. The whorls over her knuckles were dark with blood. “Maybe I can help.” Chico raised his eyebrows. “Tonight, that is. When the sun sets. The one thing this curse has given me is that I get … I become pretty dangerous.”

  Chico frowned. “You do? But … do you stay the same? I mean, would you still want to help out, even after your… change?”

  Selah laughed but forced herself to stop before her bitterness came through. “I change. But not so much that I’d turn on you. So maybe I can go and hunt down some Culebras. Maybe I can make a difference.”

  Chico stood. Tried to pace around the room, but it was too small. “I don’t know. God, I don’t know.” He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “How did I get here?” He put his glasses back on. “One moment I’m approaching Armando for permission to build a children’s center, and now I’m planning the murder of god knows how many people.”

  Selah drew back. “Hey, I was just trying to help.”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry. It’s just that this isn’t natural for me. All of this.” Chico waved at everything beyond the door.

  “Me, neither,” said Selah, and then stopped. “Or, it wasn’t. Until recently.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Let me talk to Armando, see what he says.” Chico stepped out.

  Selah moved over to the Omni and turned it on. The screen was deliciously large, and she navigated to her Garden for the first time in weeks. It stood as desolate as before, wiped clean by the vampires in Miami. She’d never gotten around to rebuilding it, though some friends had placed some grass down, even built a new fountain in its center. She hovered around, and entered her login information so as to access her Shrine. Immediately, the screen flooded with messages, video feeds, photographs, updates, and notices. It was out of control. Selah’s eyes opened wide as thousands of them scrolled down the left side of the screen. Thousands. The messages from her old friends were highlighted, but there were also gold messages from official news organizations, requests for interviews, requests that she get in touch. There were three tagged messages in navy blue from the actual government—the Department of Homeland Security. Hundreds of other sites had sent requests, and then there was a deluge of messages from random people she didn’t know. Blinking, she closed down her Inbox.

  She peered at her Wall where the public could post items to her Garden, and recoiled. It was a nightmare mix of videos, requests, links, and so much commentary that it was like sticking her head into a white noise machine.

  Instead, she retreated into her Shrine. It was also empty, reset by the Miami vampires when they hacked her account. She examined its serene stillness, and opened a video-recording message only to close it right back down. She looked awful. Instead, she opened a voice-recording message, and addressed it to Mama B.

  “Hi, Mama, it’s Selah. Things—things—haven’t worked out.” She felt her eyes begin to burn and swall
owed hard. “I’m not sure I’m going to make it, Mama. I think I got another night or two left. We found the cure, but I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I won’t tell you what it is, but it’s real bad. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

  She reached up and rubbed at her eyes. “I miss you, Mama. I miss you so bad. Cloud’s gone. He left me. He got scared, and I guess I don’t blame him. I’m not myself anymore. I don’t know who I am.” She paused, and swallowed. Stared at the cinderblock wall. “I’m here with his friend Chico, but … I just miss you.” She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Lower jaw trembling, she paused the recording and looked away with a hiss. She wiped at her face, coughed, sniffed hard, and gathered herself. Pressed record once more. “I’m sorry Mama. I love you more than anything. I might not be able to get in touch again, but I just wanted to let you know, OK? Take care of yourself. I love you.” She hit stop and once again wiped her eyes. Before she could reconsider, she sent the message.

  She logged out. She didn’t want to deal with anything else. Chico was still gone, so she navigated to a news aggregate site and narrowed the scope to LA. Was anybody even paying attention to what was going on here? Selah read the first title: Colonel Murdered by Vampire Leader, Military Demands Retribution. She felt shock flare through her like a sun going nova, and opened the article, scanned it, and leaped to a second, a third. Each repeated the same facts, showed the same photographs. Colonel Caldwell, senior commanding officer of the Forward Operating Base in LA, had been murdered by an LA vampire known as Arachne. The military was demanding that she be turned over for justice and was threatening a retaliatory strike if they didn’t comply. A couple of articles had noticed the uncanny similarity between Arachne and the girl who had supposedly killed Sawiskera a few weeks back, and were rife with conspiracy theories. Another stated that the Treaty had been broken by the vampires, while others questioned the Colonel’s presence within the LA Core that night. President Lynnfield had issued statements demanding that people remain calm, and stated that the situation in LA was being closely monitored. No statements had yet been made by an LA vampire. Plessy had not been reached for comment in Miami, and Selah Brown’s location was still unknown.