Dead Mann Walking (35 page)

She pounded against the metal. “Bastard! Bastard! Filthy freaking liar!”

“Watch the screams, Misty. They attract ferals. Any luck and I'll be back soon.”

She was right. I had lied. It wasn't about Turgeon's victims. Anyone else who might care was either dead or the next-best thing, except maybe Booth, and I wasn't going to risk my dry ass for that fuck. It was about me solving my wife's murder, chasing a shadow of what I used to be.

In case more of the riot decided to head my way, I stuck close to the walls. At the entrance, I caught a final, brief glimpse of the mad, mad world. Any shape to the chaos was gone. The was no composition to the scene, no choreography to the violence, no orchestral score rising and falling. Ferals chased livebloods; livebloods chased chakz. Cars were flipped, windows smashed, bones broken, skin flayed. Things burned.

My existence was just as pointless. The recording wouldn't change a thing. Hell, the MRI magnets probably erased the whole thing anyway. But I'd been going through the motions for so long, I had to finish the dance. If I didn't make it, just as well. If I survived, instead of my being D-capped by a psycho, the authorities would do it, or I'd be carted off to some chak camp. I didn't have the heart to tell Misty that if I were in a pen, keeping her off crack wouldn't be enough to keep me going. If I could
prove
I was innocent, then at least I'd have a story to tell myself in the dark.

I went through the entrance, down the hall, scanning the floor. Just as I stumbled past the radiology sign near the MRI room, the floor shook. I heard a sound like an enormous bubble bursting deep in the belly of the earth.

The bomb had gone off.

I tried to run, but cement floor cracked beneath me. The walls folded in like cards. Support beams shattered. Holes opened. Everything moved in on itself. Nothing under me anymore, I fell. As I spun in midair, the stench of something thick and burning hit my nose. I think I saw a fireball, a huge blossoming flower, but my eyes might have already been closed.

It went dark. The crashing and moving continued for what felt like hours. When it settled at last, I was still there. Things hurt, but I couldn't be sure if what hurt was even part of me anymore. Lost limbs still hurt amputees. They call it phantom pain. Hell, I had a whole phantom life.

I was in some air pocket, some crappy little corner; I'd be here forever. I'd go feral, I'd lose my mind, but I'd still
feel
, still see and hear. Same nightmare as being a head. It wasn't until that moment that I realized what a bad idea this was. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And the recorder was gone forever. For some reason, it didn't depress me, not yet, anyway. It struck me as funny, but I couldn't laugh.

I was lying on my side, legs stretched out beneath me, right arm stretched in front of me, my head cradled on my shoulder blade. I felt like I was lying in a narrow ship bunk on a jagged, concrete mattress. Head turned down, I opened my eyes. I didn't expect to see anything, but I did. There was mist in the air, dripping water. Past my feet, far off as a star, a security light swayed and flickered.

The hallway I'd been standing in had been shoved into a space a quarter of its original size. I wasn't completely flat. I was at an angle. There was a space above me, maybe a foot or two, narrower spaces right and left. Ahead, past my hand, I thought I saw daylight.

Then I heard something rattle deep below. The hospital wasn't finished dying yet.

I thought I should try for the daylight before my little hollow collapsed, but I couldn't talk my body into it. Trying to get motivated, I told myself Misty would be pissed if I didn't get out. Nothing. I imagined being stuck here for good. Still nothing. Then I told myself it would mean Turgeon had won. All his victims would be gone. That did it.

With my right hand, I grabbed at the debris, trying to snag something heavy enough to pull myself along. I moved an inch or two. There was another rattle. I tried to move faster, but it felt as if the ceiling were closing in on me. I closed my eyes to better concentrate, but when I did all I saw was Turgeon's leering face. It made me angry, but I still couldn't move faster. So I kept my eyes open, even when the dust fell into them.

All of a sudden it got dark. Ahead, something had blocked my little view of sunlight. Had the way out collapsed ? Was it over? No, the light returned. A shadow was wavering in front of it. It looked like a drape, its wispy shape created by the breeze. Then it got thicker, longer, larger.

Something was moving toward me.

Some
one
. Too big for a head. Chak or liveblood? Couldn't tell. It came near as it could and knelt right in front of me but I still couldn't make it out. It vanished again, but a few seconds later it reappeared and shoved the back end of a fire hose at me.

“Take it,” a rough voice said.

Someone was saving me. Had Misty gotten out of the bin?

I wasn't going to complain. I grabbed hold. Whoever was at the other end pulled. I pushed with my good leg until I passed into a larger hollow. There I got up on my elbows to get a look at my benefactor.

It wasn't Misty, but it was a woman. At least, it was shaped like one. I stared, trying to focus. When I recognized the pale skin, black hair, and green eyes, I was startled and confused.

“You came back?” I whispered, pushing myself up on my knees.

It was Nell Parker, silhouetted in the gloom.

She took a step back as if I were a dog that might bite. “I was hiding when I saw you run back in. I heard the blast. I couldn't leave you in here. Not after you . . . after you . . .”

Turns out maybe some of the dead do have feelings.

I
didn't have the recorder, but I had something else, maybe something better. Nell wasn't like Misty. She was definitely lighter, despite the remains of dancer's muscles. She was hesitant, too, unsure if she wanted to touch me. But side by side, we staggered into a smoky day.

The firemen found us before the police, saving us some trouble. They were more concerned about the collapsing building, so it was easy to convince them we weren't feral or interested in putting up a fight. They even believed me when I told them Misty was trapped in a bin. Not right off. I had to beg them to listen, to let her out. I didn't care what it looked like to Nell. She already thought I was nuts. Anyway, they'd never seen a chak beg before, so it worked.

A stocky first responder, Thompson, I think, who seemed to have sweated through to the surface of his black rubber coat, headed for the garbage to let her out. I hoped he'd tell Misty who sent him. I wanted her to know I was still . . . whatever it is you call what I am.

While he was gone, two cops came by. Their barely fitting uniforms gave them up as auxiliary. The regulars handled the more important stuff. These rubes were left with the cleanup work, like rounding up the rioters. Each led his own row of chakz, all shackled at the ankles like a monster chain gang. We were not so politely asked to join the line. I tried to refuse, but they insisted. They didn't bother sorting men and women or children and adults. There were only two kinds of chak: those who obeyed and those who wanted to eat them. Lucky for them, I wasn't hungry.

“It'll be okay,” I told Nell as they clamped the iron on my good ankle. She gave me that look again. I imagined there was some fondness to it now, like she was beginning to think of me as a mentally challenged younger brother.

They led us, leashed, to the plaza. The fires still smoldered, but it was relatively empty now, except for the piled bodies. Show over. Buses lined the street. Any chakz who'd somehow kept themselves sane through this mess were being herded on.

It was pretty orderly, considering. Orderly enough for me to spot the master of ceremonies, Jonesey. His left arm looked shot to shit, but his sandy hair was intact, and he still wore a bit of that smile. It didn't quite match the dazed look on the rest of his face. I was surprised he hadn't lost it, and wondered how long he had left.

They were about to shove him on a bus when I thought I'd say hello.

“Jonesey!”

He saw me and stopped, nearly pulling the chak ahead of him back out of the bus. Like a windup toy, the chak, not one of the smart ones, kept trying to climb in, unable to turn, unable to realize what held him back.

Jonesey raised his good hand. “Mann! You still hiding out among the living?”

“So far,” I said. “Looks like you made it, too.”

His smile widened. “Have to keep a good thought, right? I mean, it was a start, wasn't it?”

I furrowed my brow. “A start?”

A cop pushed him into the bus. Good thing, too. I was about to tell him what a fucking idiot he was. Well, he'd figure it out soon, or give new meaning to the word
denial
. Made me wonder, though, if I'd let him go feral back in that alley whether it would've been better for everyone.

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one recognizing faces in the crowd. Of course Tom Booth was there; it was his job, after all. He must've heard Jonesey call my name. Puffed up like a fighting-mad turkey, clipboard stuffed under his arm, temple throbbing, he stormed toward me, ignoring all the men asking for orders.

“Hi, Tom.”

He pointed at me and barked at my walkers.

“Where was it found?”

The auxiliaries looked like startled fawns. One fumbled for words. “At the hospital. The firemen found him.”

Booth looked at the thick dust on my coat, scraped some of it off with his finger, then rubbed it, looking like he was touching someone else's shit. “You were in the blast.”

It wasn't a question, but I nodded.

“That bug, Jonesey, the terrorist who organized the attack, he's your pal, isn't he?”

“Terrorist? He's an asshole. And it wasn't an attack. It was a rally.”

Booth sneered. “And I'm Miss America.”

“Maybe if they left out the swimsuit competition.”

“
You
set the bomb.”

Nell, who'd been quiet all this time, grabbed my hand and squeezed. She may have been afraid, or she just wanted to let me know she was there.

I met Booth's eyes and tried to glare back.

“That's lame even for you,” I said. “It was a fucking psychopath, the one I was after. Those two
contractors
you hired to do that work on me? They were his. He was after Odell Jenkins, a remediation worker down in the basement. There must be some record of him, at least. Tom, this psycho,
he
killed Lenore.”

As soon as I mentioned her name, I knew I'd gone too far.

“Shut up.”

“He saved me,” Nell said.

He looked at her with equal disgust. “Take them out of the line and bring them back to the station.”

“Both?”

“That's what
them
means, shithead,” he said. “I've got you now, Mann. This time we're going to figure out a whole new way to kill you.”

He stomped off, a dust devil twirling through the dry, flat, smoky terrain.

We were unshackled, taken from the line, and put in the back of a squad car. Nell and I didn't speak much during the drive. I was afraid that anything I said would earn me another condemning stare. We did hold hands. Hers were cool, white and smooth beneath the dirt, like some kind of cotton. Mine were gnarled and gray, like tree bark.

At the station, we were separated. I was put into holding and left to sit there rotting for days. No reason to let a chak out to stretch his legs, right? They didn't offer any medical care, but they did let me keep my foot. To be fair, it was still attached by a little flap of muscle, so it probably would've been too much trouble for them to find a pair of scissors.

My old partner, Jimmy Hazen, came by once. If he was sorry he'd betrayed me to Booth, he didn't say so. He just shoved a needle and thread through the bars and walked away like he'd done all he could. I wished I knew how to sew.

Better yet, I wished I had that recording. If only . . . At least I had Nell Parker to think about. Ever since she saved me, I figured I might as well try to stay saved, at least until I understood why.

As for the rest of the world, I didn't have access to news, but my guards talked. Over two hundred feral chakz had been put down “humanely”—though there was a bullshit rumor that they'd developed some kind of virus that could spread to livebloods. I'd heard crap like that dozens of times, whenever the LBs got scared. We could walk through walls, bend steel in our bare hands.

I did believe the rest—sick and tired of waiting for the feds to do something, the state was passing its own legislation. Meanwhile, all the chakz were being rounded up and put in camps. At worst we'd all be incinerated. At the liberal end of things, we'd be forced to register and undergo monthly exams. Somewhere in the middle, we'd be stuck in those camps forever. Liberals, unfortunately, are worse at organizing than chakz. They'd do well to hire Jonesey. Didn't matter much. Thanks to Booth, I was already in my very own special five-by-five camp.

My mind had little else to bounce off of other than itself, but I kept thinking of Nell, and Misty, and the fact that I finally knew what had happened to Lenore. Once, as I sat there, I even remembered, I think, what it felt like to love my wife. It was possible, I guess, that if I got out of here I could convince someone what'd happened even without the recording. Colby Green would want to know, but I wasn't about to write or call him. If he was my best bet, there were times during the long, slow days when I thought those camps might not be so bad.

About a week later, they let Misty in to see me. She was so worried about the broken foot and all the tears in my skin, she forgot to be angry with me for locking her in the Dumpster.