by Karen Diem
Andy flushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I had the luck to pass out on a university bench near a frat house. I’m hoping it’ll fade soon,” he explained, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Her peripheral vision caught Trixie withdrawing from the crowd and moving toward the stairs. After whining about her hatred of stairs, she uses them tonight? If I can find out where she got the information about the stolen items, it might help if I need to escape. “What a bunch of fu- losers!” she commiserated, moderating her language at the last minute. As the doctor slipped out the stairwell door, she added, “Aideen is here too! We should spar, er, talk, and stuff. Listen, Jerome, will you introduce Andy to Remus? I want to catch Trixie and ask her a couple questions about Wyn.”
Jerome nodded. “Sure thing.”
Andy threw her a questioning look, but remained silent.
“Hasta, guys!” Zita tossed over her shoulder, already halfway out the metal stairwell door. She closed it with as little noise as possible. She let her eyes adjust to the light and listened. Footsteps sounded… from above? The only thing up there was the entrance to the roof. After removing her flapping shoes, she padded up the stairs without sound, eyes wide in the dim light.
Trixie squatted at the top of the stairs, messing with the combination lock and chain on the roof access door. Her back muscles were tense, but her feet had the wrong placement for combat.
Zita let the doctor poke at it for a few more minutes before leaning against the wall and flicking a pebble at her back.
Trixie jumped. She turned around, holding two bread knives at ready.
Based on those holds, the doctor can throw a knife. Zita wiggled her fingers. “Hi there. Is this when you tell me they’re so cheap you have to scrape penicillin off moldy bread?” she asked in a soft voice.
The doctor straightened, and brushed her jumpsuit, pocketing the knives. “I like that one. I’ll have to remember it. This isn’t what it looks like, I have a fresh air addiction,” Trixie began.
Pushing off against the wall, Zita walked the couple of steps over and tapped the door. “It looks like you’re trying to get onto the roof to do something you don’t want people to know about, like planning an escape. You have to do it at night because people watch the rooftops in the day.” She left out her own rooftop excursion earlier, ended when she spotted movement on another building. Jerome had nearly caught her coming down the stairs, and the lock was new since then. She weighed her options: trust or not?
“Okay, maybe it is what it looks like,” Trixie whispered back. “You’re awfully well-informed about their security measures for someone who woke up yesterday.”
“I pay attention when someone around me has guns,” Zita answered. She regarded Trixie, and then surrendered. When in doubt, she went with her instincts. “You owe me—if bad things are coming down, tell me. An option to escape would be awesome, but I won’t hold you to that. Neither one of us has to mention anything about this to anyone, either.” She tilted her head and watched Trixie’s response.
“Deal,” the other woman whispered. She held out her hand, a pinky extended. “Pinky swear.”
Solemnities concluded with finger oaths, she set down her shoes beside the door to have both hands available. Taking the lock in her hand, Zita studied it, pulled, and turned the knob a few times. She snorted and opened the lock. I don’t even need to be a locksmith for this one. High school kids can pick this. “An ass picked the combination numbers. The combination is 36-24-36.”
“What accountancy school did you attend? I like it! Thanks!” whispered Trixie. She shoved the roof door open and stepped through.
Zita slipped out behind her, and drew a deep breath of air that had not been recycled. The air was sultry, and the river rocks forming the gravel of the roof radiated the heat of the day up through the soles of her feet. Tar warred with the scents of distant cooking. Air vents and little stovepipe things speckled the rooftop, all dwarfed by the roof entrance shelter. It was otherwise bare of anything other than herself, pigeon crap, and the other woman. No one had bothered to install lights up here, so the entire roof was dark, lit only by ambient light from elsewhere. She tilted her face up and soaked in the freedom, false as it was. Her shoulders relaxed and she purred. I’d go home if it were possible. I would leap off the roof and fly like that hawk earlier, she thought wistfully.
Trixie interrupted the picture of home so distinct she could almost touch it. “Ahem!”
“What?” Zita said, her concentration broken. After looking around, she located the other woman.
Arms crossed over her chest, Trixie stood near a group of three vents. Ambient light is enough to do a fair amount without turning on lights, because that frown wouldn’t be visible otherwise. Good to know, Zita thought. The blond doctor looked back and forth across the roof as if searching for the source of Zita’s voice. Guess my night vision is better than hers is if she can’t see me. Trixie’s voice had chilled when she stated, “I like my fresh air alone. It’s like a ritual. I might have to get naked for it. You’re not my type.”
“Oh, fine. Enjoy your happy fun naked-time, then!” Zita answered. I’ll come up here later and find out what she’s hiding. Unless… if she can’t see me… Walking loudly, she moved over and shut the door to the inside of the building. She ducked behind the corner, crouching low and breathing shallowly, trying to make her bare feet as silent as a cat on the stalk. After a moment, a penlight clicked on, and headed her direction. Zita prowled around behind the roof entrance, circling it as Trixie came over and checked to see if she was gone. If there had been other cover, she would have taken it.
After panning the roof with her light, Trixie finally clicked it off. Both waited. It was probably ten minutes before Trixie headed back to the three vents.
Zita peeked out from her hiding place, her eyes well adjusted to the dark after the wait.
Reaching the vents, the doctor poked at them. One responded, as Trixie pulled a bread knife from her pocket and removed the grill. Trixie pulled out a coil of metallic cord, and something else that her body hid from view. The penlight clicked on again and paper rustled. The other woman turned off the light, stowed her paper in her pocket, and hid her things away again.
Ay, I’d like a look at that love note. Later tonight, I will sneak back to see the whole cache. But if she locks the chain behind her now, I’m hosed! Zita used the sounds of the grate being returned to its position to glide back in through the roof access door. Putting her shoes on her aching feet, she ran downstairs.
Chapter 4
Three weeks later, Zita put the last load into the dryer, and turned it on. She ran a hand over her hair and exhaled deeply. Wyn’s migraines had grown more frequent, but the medical staff could not rule out brain tumors. When cornered, Trixie admitted the quarantine building lacked the right machines. Brain scanners should be higher priority given Wyn’s history of cancer. If it were Caroline the tool, they’d beg, borrow, or steal the equipment. Could it be a ploy to pressure people into the research group? Study participants get extra privileges, but denying medical services seems extreme. I convinced others to refuse to participate in Singh’s study. Was it wrong to do so? Would the cost be so high? Wyn insists the omphaloskepsis, whatever that is, and her visualization exercises to wall off the pain are helping. Dios, a sign would be helpful. She growled, and then glanced at the clock above the ancient washing machine and dryer. If the machine finished soon, she would have time to work off frustration before the minimal breakfast they served here became available. Her stomach grumbled at the thought of food.
Dreaming of chilaquiles, fuba cake, and bacon, she put the soap away and started folding clothes from the last batch, separating them by owner. She shook out one of Jerome’s jumpsuits with more force than necessary; somehow, he had gotten her to agree to wash his things in exchange for his participation in their peaceful protest. Her mouth twisted in reluctant amusement. At least he had brought his new lawyer girlfriend into the group w
ith him, an expert on business and civil liberties law. Andy, who had lived on the Navajo reservation, and Wyn, who preferred holistic medicine, had required little persuasion. Aideen was participating in the research project. The prickly cop had even laughed and implied she was a paranoid fool for resisting, straining the détente they had arrived at due to their shared past. You’d think a cop from a cop family would have less faith in the system by now, being a part of it and all.
The old dryer coughed and rattled, and Zita smacked it. Just as the sting of her flesh on the metal registered, the room went dark and the dryer stopped. “Seriously? You have got to be kidding me,” she said. When the lights remained stubbornly off after a count of ten, she fumbled her way to the dryer. She pulled out the wet clothes and dropped them on top of the dry things in the laundry basket. “Guess it will all air dry or mold, whichever happens first,” she grumbled, stepping into the hallway with her basket. After a moment to orient, she headed toward her room. The diffuse glow of the city outside provided the only illumination, leaking through the windows at the end of the hall. It must be a localized problem if the streetlights are still on. If the outage is an extended one, we’ll all develop eyesight like a cat or an owl. Probably more like a cat, at least it’s mammalian.
The fifth floor hallway was empty, but stirring whispered behind some of the doors she passed. Hefting the basket, she strode down the hall. When cloth rustling warned her of another moving in the common area, she slowed. A small circle of light, a penlight, bobbed at a rapid clip toward Zita, held by a dark shape. As it drew closer, she recognized a familiar face barreling toward her.
“Oye! Be careful where you’re going!” Zita exclaimed as she dodged. Wet clothing, probably her underwear, slopped out of the basket and hit the floor.
Trixie gasped and shuffled back a step. “Zita? What are you doing wandering around?”
Zita threw a hand in front of her eyes when the light lifted towards her face. “Could you not wreck my night vision?” She snorted and scooped up the clammy clothing, dumping it back into the basket. “I was doing laundry until the power died. Us rebels only get into the laundry room after dark and before dawn, remember? What’s your excuse?”
Trixie took a step toward the stair exit. Her voice was shrill and tense. “I was getting in a quick phone call. The guards are usually gone for a couple minutes about now when the shifts change, but they seem to be running late getting back.” She crossed her hands over her chest, rubbing her arms.
Oh, a phone call without an audience would be awesome. My brothers will survive if I wake them up. It’s not like Quentin and his conquests hesitated to wake me when I lived on his couch in college. Still, I won’t be grabby. “Are you done with the phone?”
“It went dead seconds before the lights went out.”
A chill fluttered through Zita. “The guards are missing, the phones are dead, and the power’s out.”
“Sounds right, Captain Obvious.” Trixie’s mouth was a thin, tight line.
A muffled, hollow sound detonated below several times. The wash became airborne. Both women dived to the floor that smelled of feet and cheese curls. Their eyes met. Trixie’s eyes were wide and feral; Zita assumed her own eyes matched.
“Gunfire!” they said at once.
Trixie rose to a crouch. “Jinx. Assault rifle,” she identified. Her hand went to her side and then her back.
Zita nodded and added, “We are so chingado.” She got to her feet, stooping low, her mind whirling. I can’t help everyone; I have to get my friends to safety! Start with Wyn and Andy, get to Jerome if possible since he’s at the other end of the floor. Aideen too, I guess, she used to be okay. While she was thinking, Trixie scurried toward the stair exit, penlight flickering with her movements.
The sharp claws of memory pricked her. “Hey Trixie? If you use your rope to get out, please leave it up so we can try to get out of here too. And good luck!”
Trixie paused, a hand on the door. “Aren’t you a clever one? I will, but you’re on your own with it. It’s not meant for a crowd, though I’d bet that was a planned contingency.” She giggled, a high, strained sound with little of real mirth in it. “Good luck to you too!” she called, switching off the penlight and slinking through the door.
Adrenaline pouring through her, Zita sprinted to her room, leaving her slippers and the scattered laundry behind. As she went, she pounded on random doors and shouted. “Wake up! Guns!” At least they won’t be asleep when whatever it is happens.
In her room, she pulled a sleeping Wyn onto the floor. “Wake up!” Zita hissed, then added, “Keep down!”
Wyn let out a shocked yelp as her body contacted the cool linoleum. “Wha? Zita?” Indignant hazel eyes peered out of the tangle of woman and blanket. An arm flailed in a punch that would have been vicious had its owner hefted more dumbbells and fewer books. “It’s not even dawn yet!” she slurred, with sleep, menace, and the South coloring her voice.
“Get dressed, but stay low. Someone’s got guns!” Zita said. She threw open the bathroom door and banged on the connecting door to the other room. “Get up! Get dressed! Guns!” she shouted. When she returned to her room, she crept to the window and peeked into the predawn. Several nights’ effort in removing the film had resulted in a wide-angle view. Most of the time, she watched the local birds squabbling and calculated escape routes.
She squinted, trying to decipher the feverish activity below. A handful of white trucks parked haphazardly on the remains of the chain link fence. Brake lights glowed red in the darkened morning and the low rumble of motors was audible this close to the window. Dark figures moved about, but in irregular patterns that did not follow the standard patrol routes. Her stomach roiled at dark, immobile blotches on the ground of a size and shape to have been men.
“Coffee,” Wyn muttered, “Tall skinny mocha, extra foam.” Blankets rustled. “What time is it?”
Zita glanced at her roommate, who propped herself up on one arm, rubbing her eyes with the other. “Before dawn. Get up and dressed. Keep low. Somebody isn’t playing, and we don’t want to meet them.” Elsewhere on the floor, someone shouted. Gunfire spat again, and she flinched, banging her knee on the air conditioning unit.
Wyn inhaled sharply, and a hand flew to cover her mouth. She got to her feet and grabbed clothing. Another spate of gunfire, this time closer, elicited a whimper and increased speed. “Hide where? These rooms don’t even have dressers!”
“Excellent question.” Zita scanned the sparse room and moved toward the door. After cracking it open, she checked the hall. Flashlights moved and lit the halls enough to show the outlines of men with guns. One light headed their direction, so she eased the door shut. She leaned against it and planned.
Words became intelligible in the shouting. “Stay in your rooms! Remain in your rooms and you will be safe!” The command repeated, growing louder, and then fading away.
The women looked at each other. Zita spoke first. “I bet they got a bridge for sale, too. You gonna trust the gunmen in the hall or you want to hide with me?”
Wyn hesitated. “Is there a way to do both? If that’s Homeland Security, I don’t want to be arrested. This is bad enough.” She struggled into her jumpsuit, wincing when she caught the zipper on her skin. Done, she smoothed her hands over her clothing.
One hand rubbed her hair as her brain raced and Zita pulled out her emergency stash: a purloined roll of duct tape and a sharpened bread knife. Her mind drifted, back to the Brazil debacle and another friend. Swallowing to free her throat from a lump, she took a deep breath and pushed all that away. Deal with now. The past is gone, and I won’t let anyone die through inaction again. She forced a smile. “Here’s the plan. We use the beds to get up to the ceiling, and then put the tiles back in place behind us. Stay still and stick to your wall once we’re up there, since the ceiling won’t hold our weight. If we’re lucky, they won’t look up there, and the bad lighting will hide any marks we leave.” She pushed Wyn’s bed
into position by one wall, and then her own by another. Shoving her Greek texts aside, she angled a table to arch over the head of each bed for extra height, though they seemed too unstable to help. Her friend gaped at her. Something thudded loudly nearby.
“I don’t know if I can get up there,” Wyn said. Her steps slow, she walked over and stared at the ceiling as if memorizing the water spots.
“Can you free climb a building?” Zita asked, knowing the answer. If Wyn had been able to, they would have gone out the window already, despite her guilt at leaving the other quarantined people to their own devices. Gunmen reaching the fifth floor that fast had to have more haste than care. Someone barked a command in a nearby room.
Wyn shook her head and chewed her lip.
“Right, and they’re in the halls, so we’re stuck in the room. That leaves under the beds or up in the ceiling. Which of those sounds best? If you’ve got a better idea, princess, let’s get on it.”
The other woman clambered onto her bed. Stepping on the table, Wyn moved aside the panel, and tried to pull herself up. Her hands groped at the edge and slipped off. A fine white dust drifted down from the open hole. The table teetered underfoot. Another clunk sounded, closer.
Zita hurried over to help. After climbing on the bed, she steadied Wyn. Her toes sank into the blanket on the bed. “Forget the table. I’ll heft you up. Step into my hands and try again. You can do this. Let’s go!” she said, lacing her fingers together. Her friend nodded, took a deep breath, and stepped into her hand. Grunting with effort, Zita heaved her friend up. This time, Wyn managed enough of a hold to start dragging herself into the ceiling.
Most of Wyn was in the ceiling when the door to the room flew open. A bright white beam of light speared the dark, blinding bright after the predawn murk. The ceiling groaned. A stream of dust poured down on her head. Coughing and sputtering, Zita hopped off the bed and away from the opening, hoping to draw his attention.