Cloudwalkers

by Mark Wayne McGinnis

  Conn, looking left then right, leaned in closer, his voice just above a whisper. “You’ll have heard about the fall the other night.”

  “We hear certain things.”

  “Well, I’m on a special mission. Here to retrieve certain articles of clothing that were absconded with.”

  “Heard the poor bloke was buck-naked,” Sergeant Dresden offered back, in an equally quiet and conspiratorial voice.

  “Here’s the thing,” Conn said. “We can’t have a Grounder putting on a dead man’s duds, then sneaking up here disguised as a Cloudwalker.”

  The old man, raising his two bushy eyebrows, said, “I guess I see your point.”

  “The boy here kens who has the dead man’s kilt and blouse. We’ll have to pay for them, probably, but it’ll be worth it, keeping out the riffraff, aye?”

  “I don’t know. My orders were pretty explicit.”

  Conn slowly nodded. “No worries. Let’s have one of the younger lads make that tough decision. I’m willing to take a risk and go out on a limb for a friend.” Conn signaled to one of the other Dorcha Poileas.

  “Hold on! I can make my own decisions. These youngsters don’t know their arses from a smoking chimneystack. You just be back here before my shift ends at ten. Arrive after that, and you’ll have a bit of explaining to do.”

  “I’ll be back long before then, Sergeant. Oh, and um, best we keep this secret mission just between ourselves, okay?” Conn tried to move toward the door, but the sergeant put out an arm to stop him.

  “Now hold on a bit. I can’t exactly allow you to pass, but if we were to be looking the other way . . .”

  “Understood,” Conn said.

  After a brief huddle, the sentries, sending a parting glance their way, began wandering off in multi directions. “Go!” Conn said. Heading for the door, Brig was close on his heels.

  *

  Close to two hours had passed since Brig left Misty alone in his cluttered room. Prior to leaving, the boy showed her where all the facilities were. She was astounded and delighted by the concepts of flushing a toilet and having hot water with just a quick twist of a faucet. The Skylanders heated it in great vats and tanks at the top of each building, Brig explained with childlike glee, and with a little help from gravity, piped it down through the walls for heating and hot water. There was nothing so elaborate below ground, not by any measure. They heated water on a ChemBurn pad when they needed to, and the scarcity of water meant that washing up was limited to special occasions. Anything more would be a waste of a precious commodity. As for toilet functions . . .

  Suddenly mortified, Misty thought of Conn. God, he must think I’m some kind of primitive beast. When you come from a place that actually has running water and flushing toilets, instead of chamber pots and grey water storage cauldrons, the difference must seem horrific. She felt her face flush with embarrassment then became angry with herself for even caring. Just who was he to her, anyway? Judgmental ass, that’s who he was!

  Wandering around the boy’s room, picking up this and that while examining the strange things mounted on the walls, she heard a muffled noise. That has to be Brig, she figured, standing quietly and listening. When she heard multiple footsteps approaching, she suddenly wasn’t all that sure. Dashing across the room, she stood right behind the door, so when it opened she would be well hidden behind it. Damn, why didn’t I think to lock it!

  The door suddenly swung open. Whoever was there was being quiet as a mouse. If it’s Brig, surely he would have said something by now, right? Obviously, it was someone else, perhaps some of the men dressed in black who’d been looking for her yesterday. She stared at the door, knowing another person was mere inches away on the other side. Oh no, can they hear me breathing? She covered her mouth with one hand to stifle the noise.

  “Well, Brig, I guess she went down on her own, so I might as well go back upstairs. Make sure she kens I kept my promise . . .”

  Misty recognized Conn’s voice. Ha ha, very funny, she thought. Using both hands, she shoved the door hard and heard it thump against something—his big head, no doubt.

  “Hey! Ouch!”

  She moved out from behind the door and found both of them standing there. Brig, in the hallway, was smiling back at her, while Conn, leaning over, rubbed a red spot on his forehead.

  “Why’d you have to do that?” Conn asked, seeing no humor in the situation.

  “Poor sensitive Skylander baby,” Misty teased, but she was grinning. “Are we going now, or what? I’m worried about my father. And I don’t even want to think about what might be happening to my mother. I thought you were coming here last night.”

  “I couldn’t break away. Sorry, but I am here now. Grab your coat. We should go.”

  Misty rolled her eyes. “Ready when you are, Cloudwalker.”

  Descending the stairs was certainly a lot faster than going up. As they reached the final flight of stairs, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. “You know, you don’t exactly blend in, wearing that bright-red skirt. Couldn’t you find something less conspicuous to wear while you’re down there?”

  “It’s a kilt.”

  “I know it’s a kilt, Cloudwalker. Everyone knows what a kilt is.”

  “It’s my kilt. It’s who I am.”

  “Whatever.” She’d forgotten what an ass he could be. But truth be told, it wasn’t like she’d be sticking around down there. So what if the Skylander was seen? She and her father, along with her mother—once they’d rescued her—would be leaving that quadrant immediately.

  Down they went, descending one flight of stairs after another in relative silence. Stepping off the stairwell’s last step, she waited for Conn and Brig to make the final bend then head down too. In spite of her exhaustion, she realized she’d raced ahead in an attempt to prove to Conn that she wasn’t the weakling Grounder he clearly thought she was. She was gratified, noting he and Brig were both huffing and puffing.

  Once they all stood together on the cement landing, she remembered how dark it was behind the door. She wondered if she’d ever be content beneath the cloudbank again, now that she’d seen the sky. “Before we go,” she said, suddenly feeling shy. “I just wanted to thank you again for helping me and my family.” She looked up but couldn’t really make out Conn’s face; his eyes were shadowed and unreadable.

  “Don’t mention it,” he responded. “I haven’t really done anything yet.”

  “Can we get out of the dark now? It’s stuffy in here,” Brig pleaded.

  As they cracked open the door, an outer shaft of dim light entered the confined space. Brig poked his head out.

  Misty and Conn exchanged a quick glance. She still wanted to hate him and that crooked smile of his, but the Skylander was proving to be nothing like the haughty, arrogant man she expected. She gave him an annoyed expression and looked away.

  “I’ll go look farther down the alleyway,” Brig said, disappearing outside.

  “Do you hear that?” Conn asked.

  “Hear what? It’s an old building. It creaks and moans—”

  “Och, do you ever stop blethering? Just listen. There, hear that rumbling sound?”

  Misty, listening hard, heard it too. As the noise grew louder, she looked up to see Conn place a hand on the wall.

  “It’s trembling,” he said quietly. A small avalanche of loose cement and tiny rocks spilled onto the floor.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” said Misty urgently. She grabbed his hand and tugged. His skin was warm.

  He glanced down at their entwined hands and then looked up to meet her eyes. “Aye,” he agreed. “And I think we’d better hurry!”

  Chapter 23

  Sprinting from the building, they made it halfway through the alleyway before the ground started shaking violently beneath their feet. Ahead, Brig stumbled and fell to the ground. Conn thought, Is this it? Is this building going to come down right on top of us? Great plumes of dust swirled and rained down on them from high above. Conn le
t go of Misty’s hand and almost lost his balance as he bent down to swoop the boy up in one arm. What had sounded like mere rumblings only moments before had now become so incredibly loud that Misty, ahead of him, needed to cover her ears with her hands while she ran, herky-jerky, toward the street. Conn watched in abject horror as an immense slab of concrete struck the rubber-shingled wall to their right, erupting into countless tiny fragments.

  “Let me down!” Brig yelled, trying to twist free of Conn’s grip.

  Conn ignored him until they were well out of the alley with Misty, standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. The horrific rumbling sound suddenly ceased. Setting the squirming boy down, Conn spun back around to see if the Drake building was still standing.

  Barely visible behind the settling cloud of dust, the building was, in fact, still standing, though dramatically off-kilter and leaning against the shorter building just south of it. He then knew for certain why the Dorcha Poileas had added extra sentries above. Others must have heard the same sounds of rumbling, coming from the Drake, and known them for what they were: the sounds of the building’s superstructure faltering. “It’s just a matter of time before she crumbles down all the way. Could be days, could be a year. No way of knowing,” Conn said.

  He stared at the partially collapsed building, and suddenly let out a defeated breath. Quietly, he said, “Every time a building falls, it’s just another reminder of how fleeting the Skylander way of life could be. Soon, they will all fall, and it will be over for us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Misty said, her voice genuine for once.

  “Me too! I live in that building, ye ken,” Brig said, not pleased. “All my stuff is in there!”

  Conn forced himself to look away from the fallen Drake building. “We should go. You both okay?” he asked, looking from Brig to Misty to see if either had been hit with pieces of falling rubble.

  “You’re the one who’s bleeding,” Misty said, reaching her hand up and wiping at his cheek with her thumb. She held her hand up so he could see the blood.

  “I think I’ll live.”

  Misty pulled her hood up over her head, casting her face in shadow, and said, “Follow me. It’s not far.”

  Conn noticed other people starting to emerge onto the sidewalk. Hesitant, they stared up at the now-leaning Drake building, which distracted them enough not to notice how he was dressed. Again, he became aware that it was never wise for a Skylander to roam the streets of Manhattan—especially at night. He felt exposed in his kilt, and suddenly missed his long jacket, ruined by the blood and gore of carrying Janis’ body up from the ground.

  At the 34th Street subway entrance, they descended the stairs together. Not a moment too soon, either, to be inside and away from that caustic mist. Conn’s arms were protected by his long sleeves, but his bare legs, exposed by his kilt, were starting to badly itch. He watched Brig frantically scratching one of his elbows.

  Misty slowed and then turned around to face them. “Listen to me,” she said gravely. “Neither one of you—nor me for that matter—can be discovered by any of the deacon’s parishioners. They’re his strong-arm brutes, and they’re always milling about. I have little doubt that the deacon has issued new standing orders to have me apprehended on sight. I’m guessing the punishment for those helping me would be extreme. Skylander laws and noble titles won’t protect you down here.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Conn said, a bit too loudly.

  “What did I just tell you? Be quiet, and keep your eyes open. Be ready to hide. You both got that?”

  Brig nodded, saying nothing.

  Conn held a hand out, gesturing for her to lead them on. She headed away and, picking up her pace, entered into a long narrow service corridor.

  “Are we going to your family’s place?” Conn asked. He had to admit, he was curious to see the environment that had bred such a strange young woman.

  “No. No one lives there anymore.”

  Although the tunnel was dimly lit by the occasional torch on the wall, Conn still felt disoriented by the deep level of darkness beneath the city. He wondered how people did it, how they survived without the light and warmth of the sun in their lives. They passed a number of small, shanty-like dwellings, tucked away into the shadows. An old man, standing within a corrugated steel shack, was methodically stirring the contents of a large black pot. The escaping aroma made his nostrils flare.

  “What’s that smell?” Brig asked, over-dramatically pinching his nose.

  “Rodentia stew,” Misty said in a quiet voice. Brig glanced up at Conn with his brows raised questioningly.

  Over her shoulder, Misty explained, “Various kinds of mushrooms and vegetables, herbs and spices, and rat meat. It’s somewhat of a delicacy down here. Not everyone can afford rat meat.” Her voice was cold and defensive; Brig’s reaction had obviously offended her, though she was trying not to show it. Shooting an embarrassed glance back at Conn, she added, “Welcome to life among us sullied Grounders.”

  Conn looked down at Brig with a stern expression and then shook his head. Insulting someone’s home was not nice, and he reminded himself to tell Brig just that later, when Misty was out of earshot.

  “This way,” Misty said. “Best you keep to the right, stay in the shadows.”

  To Conn, everything around them was pretty much in the shadows, but he did as he was told. They entered a grotto farm where the air was thick with the musky scent of soil and fresh-cut mushrooms. Brig tugged on his arm and pointed to something overhead. Hundreds and hundreds of reflective pieces of metal shimmered high up on the ceiling. Grounder version of starlight, Conn supposed, and thought of the brilliant, star-filled skies above the cloudbank. Perhaps he could show that starry sky to Misty someday. He knew it would make her smile. Catching himself, he inwardly chided himself for that dangerous thought.

  As they approached a better-lit area, Conn sensed, more than saw, a few people nearby. Misty, who’d removed her long coat somewhere along the way, was turning her head from side to side, as if looking for someone.

  Two teenage boys, both holding long wooden hoe handles, stepped into the light just off to the left as two women exited the main structure. Conn recognized one of them—the girl who was about Misty’s age—from up on the street.

  “Aurora! Mrs. Romano! I’m so glad you’re home!” Misty exclaimed, sounding profoundly relieved to see them both. The three quickly moved into a tight embrace.

  Conn noticed it even if Misty hadn’t: their nervous expressions and forced smiles. Aye, there is something most definitely amiss here.

  Mrs. Romano, taking a step back, held Misty at arms length and stared at her, her expression solemn.

  “What . . . what is it?” Misty asked, turning to Aurora. Confused and frightened, she said, “Tell me, is it my mother? Has the deacon—”

  Aurora said, “No, not your mother. It’s your father. He was improving. Was able to move about, some. He had started to eat. But he then began asking questions about your whereabouts . . . and about your mother.”

  “Where is he? What’s happened? Just tell me!” Misty cried out, her face twisted in frustration, then in anger. “Tell me!”

  “He’s gone, dear.” Mrs. Romano said softly. “I’m so, so sorry. He hanged himself not more than two hours ago.”

  Chapter 24

  “I want to see him. Take me to him,” Misty said, a surprising lack of emotion in her voice.

  Aurora’s arms, holding her in a tight embrace, said, “I’m so sorry, Misty. We thought he was, you know, dealing with everything. We thought he was at least somewhat okay.”

  “I want to see my father’s body,” Misty repeated in that same emotionless voice. She felt an empty buzzing in her head.

  “You can’t, that’s not possible,” Aurora responded.

  Misty pulled away from her. Stone faced, she turned from her friend to Mrs. Romano. “Let me see him!” Her now-raised voice echoed around them.

  Behind her, C
onn and Brig remained silent, both clearly concerned and uncomfortable with the situation.

  “Dear girl, Mr. Romano has already taken your father’s remains—”

  “He took him where? Disposed of him with the rest of yesterday’s rubbish?”

  “Come on, it won’t be like that, Misty,” Aurora pleaded. “You know us. Dad will pay him the proper respect. He said he knew an appropriate Scripture; he’ll send your father off—”

  “Send him off? To the river? He can’t!” Her cheeks were still dry, but her voice shook with the effort of not crying. “Tell him to come back. Tell him to bring my father’s body back.”

  “Misty,” said Aurora softly, reaching out a hand to her friend. Misty flinched away.

  “Which way did he go? I’ll go find him myself. You can’t put him in the Hudson—that foul river. You can’t!” Misty knew she was being unreasonable. The dead were laid to rest in the river, it had been the Grounders’ way for eons. She knew that. But she didn’t want to be reasonable—didn’t want to be nice—she only wanted her father back.

  “Actually, I think it’s the East River,” Aurora said, apologetically.

  Misty just stared at her. Is she trying to be funny . . . at a time like this? No, she just hadn’t known what to say. Didn’t know how to console someone who’d just lost everything in the brief span of two days. All at once, something inside Misty crumpled.

  “I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she said quietly, and the tears finally began to fall. She wiped them from her cheeks with her hand, then inhaled a deep steadying breath and held it. She slowly exhaled, and said, “Thank you, Aurora, Mrs. Romano, for being here for him.”

  “Misty, listen to me carefully,” Mrs. Romano said sounding grave. “You can’t stay here, not for very long. Twice now, the deacon’s men have come looking for you, his parishioners, too. We’d have you stay with us forever, but—”

  “No, I’d be putting you all in danger. And there’s nothing left for me here, anyway.” Belatedly, she remembered Conn’s presence. She glanced over at him, and the sadness in his blue eyes almost made her lose control again. She looked away and added, “I’m going to find my mother. Conn’s going to help me get us out of Midtown. Far away from the deacon’s clutches.”