Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  “If you had to find Connie in a hurry, what would you do?”

  “I’d want to search, same as you. But not at night.”

  “You people come in to work, don’t you?”

  “By heli, during the day. That’s why Dr. O’Neill couldn’t wait. Another few minutes and he’d have been stuck here for the night.”

  “We once took the Gray Line tour through Manhattan.” A lifetime ago, Amanda and I. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  He snorted. “Manhattan, on an armored bus, in daylight. The Crypsnbloods on the streets’ll eat them downtown grades, they ever stray this far.”

  “I have to find my wife, Mr. Gierra.”

  “You Navy types go armed?”

  “Not groundside.”

  “Well, there you are. You might try in the morning.”

  I stood. “If a cab won’t come for me, where can I get one?”

  “Across the river. Or maybe they’d land at the jerryhouse on One seventy-fifth; the block around it is cleared.”

  “Could I walk?”

  “Ever try walking in the Bronx? You have no idea what it’s like. They’d leave your carcass to rot.”

  “I’ve got to find my wife.”

  “Maybe in daylight, if you’re lucky. Believe me, Mr. Seafort. Don’t even think of going out tonight.”

  I sank back on the bed, shook my head. “Why build a clinic in an armed camp?”

  “We been on this site for years. It wasn’t so bad ’til the city abandoned the housing projects. When they went trannie, that was the end.”

  Annie was out there, somewhere.

  “Captain, stay in your wife’s room ’til morning. I’m sure O’Neill won’t flare jets over it, after he let her walk out.”

  “All right.” I had little choice. “Thanks, Mr. Gierra.”

  “Joe. I’m sorry I gave you face.” He stood. “I’m on all night. Tomorrow I’ll show you the neighborhood.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  I undressed for bed, eyes on Annie’s few clothes in the closet. I yearned to press her head to my chest. When I lay down in the dark, her pillow proved a poor substitute.

  I slept like the dead. In the morning I woke to an insistent hand on my shoulder.

  “Captain? Care for breakfast?”

  I groaned, opening an eye. “Give me a couple of minutes.” I ducked into the head. Joe Gierra was waiting in the corridor when I came out knotting my tie. “Where can I make a call?”

  “In the cafeteria.” He steered me along the corridor.

  I rang the Sheraton, waited several rings.

  Adam sounded sleepy. “You never showed up, sir. The clinic operator said you were staying in Mrs.—”

  “I’ll be out for a while. I’ll call around noon.”

  “Aye aye, sir. May I come wi—”

  “No.” I rang off.

  I chewed on a roll. “How do you get home, Joe?”

  “Helicab, usually. There’s a few armored ground taxis left, but they usually work the Holdouts.”

  “The what?”

  “The families who lived here originally. The Bronx was part of civilization, once. When the last subways stopped most everybody left, but a few diehards bricked up their windows and carried on. Their children still live here. They aren’t Uppies, but they have their own shops, their own way of life.” He tore a piece of syntho bacon, dabbed it in egg yoke.

  “But ... what do they do?”

  “Same as anyone, I guess. Try to survive. They go out in groups, armed to the teeth, and only in the daytime. Their convoys bring in supplies every week or so. They use ground cabs when they can get them.”

  “What a life.”

  “Me, I’ll take helicabs, even if they cost a few unibucks more. I don’t want to get caught in a tin can if the Crypsnbloods come out.”

  I finished my third cup of coffee. Each moment it became less difficult to keep my eyes open.

  “Come on, Captain. I’ll show you the gate.”

  Someone had alerted Dr. O’Neill to my presence. When we dropped off my duffel at the desk he popped out of his office. “Captain, I called the stationhouse just a few minutes ago. Still no word of Mrs. Seafort. I don’t recommend you go out alone.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” It was all I could do to maintain a pretense of civility. “Mr. Gierra?”

  A few moments later we were at the gate. He pointed. “These shacks run all around the old stadium walls. Maybe a squatter saw her leave. You can ask.”

  “Right.”

  “When you get past the shacks, One sixty-first runs that way, east and west.” He pointed. “Best to stay off it.”

  “Thanks, Joe.” As the guard clicked open the gate, Gierra hesitated, thrust out his hand. I shook it.

  I strode toward the nearest shacks a half block away, stumbling over broken asphalt barely discernible under waving weeds.

  “Hey!”

  I turned. Joe Gierra trotted after. He stopped, shrugged as if embarrassed. “I just thought ... Hell. I might as well go with you. Two’s safer.”

  “It’s not neces—”

  “She was a good joe, your lady. One of the nicer ones.” He buttoned his jacket. “C’mon, before I change my mind.”

  I smiled, feeling as if the sun had broken through the morning haze.

  We trudged toward a ragged line of huts built from the scrap of a crumbling civilization: broken alumalloy panels, crumbling brick mortared with mud. Not a soul could be seen, even in mid-morning.

  At the first hovel, I tapped on the dented door. Silence. “Are they abandoned?”

  Joe snorted. “Are you kidding? When we put out the garbage ...

  I moved to the next shack, knocked again. “Please talk to us. We won’t hurt you.”

  The door flew open. A haggard crone in a filthy jumpsuit. In her hand, a knife glinted.

  “I’m looking for—”

  “Get away!” Her voice was like a nail on slate.

  “My name is Captain Seafort. My—”

  She lunged. As I reeled back she darted into the hut and slammed the door.

  “Jesus, Lord Christ!” I didn’t know I’d spoken aloud until I saw Gierra’s face.

  We crossed the haphazard lane and knocked at another shack. The door opened at once, as if the occupants had been waiting. Perhaps they had. Two husky youths, in their early twenties. One leaned on a club. “Whatcha wan’?”

  “My wife was in the clinic. I’m trying to find her. I have a pic—”

  “Ain’ seen her, and wouldn’ tell ya if I did. Prong yaself!” The door slammed shut.

  I said with feeling, “Bastards.”

  “You’ll get the same from all of them, Captain.”

  “They’re all this bad?”

  “No. These are the civilized ones.” He spun, yelled, “We got blades, joey! Don’t even think about it!” A sullen urchin hefted his rock, spat, ducked out of sight.

  I whispered, “Did you really bring a knife?”

  “No, I didn’t plan on coming with you.”

  I tried another door. A woman with ragged children clinging to her knees peered at my holo, shook her head. “Ain’ seen her. If she been, she gone. No point lookin’.”

  “Did someone get her?” I felt a chill.

  “Must of. No one comes out here. Even us isn’t safe.” She picked up the smallest child, bared her breast, pleaded, “Go ’way, mister.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” She’d been the most civil of the lot.

  I pointed past the end of the lane. “What’s that way?”

  “The real street. Abandoned stores, old apartments.”

  “Let’s try it.”

  “Top far. Let’s look around the other end of the fence.”

  “All right.” I’d walk the street by myself, after.

  We retraced our steps. Joe stopped. “This is too risky. I’ll go back for a club or a blade. It’ll just take a minute.”

  Reluctantly, I walked him back to the gat
e. I checked my watch, anxious not to waste precious daylight. I said, “Meet me on the south side of the compound. I’ll start at the shacks nearest the fence.” He strode off, and I made my way to the ragged huts. A whiff of something foul; I wrinkled my nose. Perhaps Tolliver had been right; best to go back to London and let the jerries do their work. These people—

  “Whatchew wan’?”

  I whirled. Three men, two of them bearded. The third was flushed as if from exercise or fever. He held one hand behind his back.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Girl?”

  “You know about her?” My voice was eager.

  Their leader looked me over, rubbed his scraggly beard. “How much ya got?”

  I hardened my tone. “Enough. Where is she?”

  He pointed to the side lane. “Dat way.”

  The path was deserted. “Wait until my friend gets back.” I peered, hoping to see Joe.

  “Prong yo’ frien’.” Fever Face leered through broken teeth.

  “Bugger off!” My snarl surprised even me. I thrust my hand in a pocket. “Mess with me, you be dead!” They hesitated. “G’wan!”

  Scraggly Beard flashed a hand signal. I turned to Fever Face. Smiling, I took a casual step forward and kicked him in the groin.

  He squalled, fell to this knees, revealing the laser pistol he’d hidden behind his back. As the third joey lunged for it I stomped on his hand. He howled, scrambled to his feet nursing his hand as I snatched up the gun.

  I jammed the pistol in my pocket. Lord God knew if it had a charge.

  Scraggly Beard hurled a rock. I gasped as it slammed into my side. He hauled Fever Face to his feet. I braced for a new attack, but they disappeared around the corner.

  Joe Gierra was right; I couldn’t search alone. I would, need Adam Tenere, or a police escort. A Naval gunship might come in handy.

  A sound, as feral shapes emerged from a nearby shack. Teens. One twisted a rusty chain; another beckoned with a huge and filthy knife. The third dangled a splintered club. I turned to run, stumbled as the club caught me behind the leg. I needed a rock, a pipe, anything. I clawed in my pocket, pulled out the pistol.

  “Get away! I’ll use it!” The charge was so far down the low battery light didn’t even blink.—”

  “Ain’t no good, sailorboy! Empty!” The boy’s shirt was no more than rags.

  “Leave me alone, damn you!”

  The chain boy howled as he leaped. I hurled the pistol at his face. A spurt of blood. He dropped, clawing at his eyes.

  His companion charged. His club caught me on the side of the head. Blinking away stars, I clung to his neck. He reeked.

  “Leggo me, gayfag!” The boy tried to pull away, but my legs were unsteady. I hung on, weaponless.

  The last attacker circled, his knife twitching. He lunged. I whirled the joey I held so he was between me and the blade.

  With a shriek, the boy I clutched dropped his club, stood trembling. As if unutterably weary, he rested his head on my shoulder. His legs buckled and he slid slowly to the ground. The third attacker backed away, eyes wide. Blood dripped from the knife in his mate’s side. I gagged on the stench, rubbed my aching head.

  “Frazzing sailaboy!” The remaining youth snatched a fallen club, charged. I caught the blow on my arm. A white blaze of pain.

  I dug in, slammed my shoulder into his chest. He went down, rolled clear, sprang to his feet. I fled.

  He was scant feet behind me. I dodged aside, crashed through the door of an abandoned hovel. I needed a club, a brick, anything. I stumbled over a broken table, smashed it into the wall. It disintegrated. I snatched a table leg.

  The maddened youth charged through the doorway. As he raised his club I reared back, swung at his face with all my might. A crunch. His body flipped backward. His legs flew up and caught me in the gut. I lost my balance, slammed my head against the wall.

  Chapter 13

  MY SKULL ACHED ABOMINABLY. I pried open my eyes, saw only black. Was I blind? I groaned, probed the painful lump on the side of my head. I lay against a wall. I’d been in a fight. Running. Chains. Clubs.

  Crawling on hands and knees, I groped for the door. Fabric, on a stiff cold form. Something jagged and bony. And sticky. With a cry I pulled my hands free, rubbed them frantically on my jacket, the floor, anything I could find.

  I knew what I’d touched,

  Blind or no, I had to get out. I clawed to my feet, stretched out my hands, stumbled over debris. Where was the bloody door? If I had to touch that ... that thing again ...

  A breath of cool air thrust through the fetid stench. Shakily, I stood and sniffed, trying to sense its direction.

  Where in God’s own hell was the door? Hands outstretched, I lurched like an automaton. I collided with something hard that smashed my lip and nose. Cursing, I nursed my throbbing face. The edge of the damned door had passed between my. outstretched hands. Dabbing at a trickle of blood, I tottered into the welcome air.

  Why hadn’t Joe Gierra returned? If I called aloud, he might hear and help. But others might also hear. Perhaps they watched me even now. Help me, Lord God. Not for my sake, but Annie’s. She has no one else.

  A dim glow, as if in the distance.

  I rubbed my eyes.

  Lights.

  With a rush of orientation I realized I’d lain unconscious until night. The distant lights must be Manhattan’s Uppie towers.

  If so, the clinic should be ... that way. No, I couldn’t remember which direction I’d taken. I could think it through, if I didn’t panic.

  A dog howled. My skin prickled.

  Voices, quite close. I stiffened to immobility. Shapes passed.

  Without warning, I sneezed. Someone screamed. The thud of pounding feet. Silence. My teeth bared in a feral grin. The squatters were as fearful of me as I of them.

  As my eyes became accustomed to the night I saw lights flickering through imperfect walls. The shacks were occupied. I squinted, decided I could detect the end of the lane. I trotted toward it, fell flat on my face. Cursing, I scrambled to my feet. Why had I been so stupid as to go out alone, without lights or a caller?

  A heli droned far overhead. Its searchlight played on the broken asphalt. Jerries? How could I attract their attention? Not by noise; they’d never hear. Did they have heat seekers? No use, every living body would set them off. I needed a light. Break into a squatter’s shack, find something for a torch. My lips curled in a savage smile.

  The blow smashed me in the back, hurled me to the ground. Paralyzed, I gasped for air. Hands pawed at me. My breath returned in a convulsive sob.

  Someone pulled my jacket loose, flipped me over. Hands tugged at my boot, opening the snaps.

  I yanked back my free leg, kicked at a shadowy face. The form toppled. I heaved myself to my knees. A whistling sound; I ducked. The club missed by an inch.

  I ran as if from Satan himself. I caromed off a wall, found the lane again, turned a corner. A stone twisted under my loose boot; I hopped a few steps, ran again, my ankle sending warning stabs of pain. The voices faded.

  I blundered into a pile of garbage. A cat shrieked; so did I. Jesus, Lord God. Reeling, I fetched up against an abandoned electricar, realized I was in a regular city street.

  “Annie!” My shout rent the air. “I’m here for you. Come out, for God’s sake!”

  Running steps. I came to my senses, ducked behind the car, scuttled away low to the ground.

  Where in God’s name was I headed? The lights to my right must be Manhattan. Was that west? No, south. I was running ... east. Into darkness.

  I stopped, leaned against a building, tried again to catch my breath.

  The clinic was on One sixty-first. I strained to see its lights; without them I’d never find my way. Hide until morning, then. In daylight I’d have a better chance; these savages knew their streets as I could not. I peered down the block, searching for shelter.

  Ahead, a flickering light. Civilization? Behind me
, a can clattered. I bolted toward the sanctuary of the light.

  Some instinct made me slow as I neared. Stooped figures cavorted around a fire, in a vision reminiscent of Hieronymus Bosch. One toted a chair, another a bottle. A third held a bugle high over his head, cackling and cawing. A few of the dancers were naked.

  A spit was propped across the blaze. On the spit, a dog. A bald creature in women’s clothes capered in a dizzy circle, shrieking unintelligibly.

  Pace by pace, I retreated, my heart hammering. Behind me, a growl. I spun on my heel. Two red eyes; over a toothy mouth. I screamed. The creature backed away. So did I, toward the fire, where the dangers were human.

  The beast snarled again. Perhaps it was only a dog, but I didn’t stay to find out. I sprinted toward the flame and the gamboling tribe. The wild dance wavered. Someone seized a brand, another a knife. I bolted past them into the campsite, sent the bald woman sprawling, leaped over a seated figure, and was gone into the night.

  Favoring my aching ankle I galloped down the center of the road. I glanced over my shoulder. Naked revelers, a maddened hound, and the demons of hell pursued me. I was outdistancing all but the dog. A sprawl of gutted cars; I swerved left.

  The shouts behind me redoubled. I risked another look. The beast loped ahead of the rest, determined, tongue hanging. I stopped to seize a brick. As the animal lunged I hurled my missile. The dog yelped, skittered away. Again I turned and ran, breath sobbing in my throat. The dog limped after me. Behind him came the calls of the humans.

  I cantered on in darkness, my boot loose and flapping, a persistent hound and cavorting dancers in tow. Where were the jerries when you needed them? The nearest station was ...

  One seventy-fifth, Joe Gierra had said. I turned a corner, swerved left, charged on.

  Rocks bounced at my feet; the campfire lads had reached the corner too. Soon I’d be too weary to run, too tired to care. I had to save at least some strength for when they cornered me.

  In the black of the night a bugle sounded a charge. Its notes echoed along down the broad, silent avenue, over and again.

  Doors opened. Boys and young men poured into the road. Two more dogs joined the chase as the bugle sounded anew. I’d blundered into a fox hunt, and I was the fox.