George R.R. Martin - [Wild Cards 18] (48 page)

Wally added, “I think the house might be broken, too.”

“No shit?”

“Maybe we should get everybody out.”

“On it,” said Blrr. She disappeared.

Hardhat peered over the fence, down into the canyon. “Yep, we’re boned. Used to be a couple support columns at the end of the deck.” He pointed to a pair of jagged concrete buttresses perched on a narrow outcrop on the otherwise sheer canyon wall, about thirty feet below the end of the deck. “Quake ripped those sonsabitches right off.” Wally tried to see where they had landed, but the shadows and the tinder-dry brush in the canyon were too deep. Hardhat continued, now speaking with the professional authority of a fourth-generation construction worker. “Now the fuckin’ deck is coming down, and that cantilever’s prying the house apart like a cheap hooker’s gams.”

Wally had no idea what his roommate said. But he got the gist of it: the house was coming down around their ears.

“What kind of moron would build a house that way?” Pop Tart tossed her arms up, clearly exasperated. “This has got to be the stupidest thing in the world to do in an earthquake zone.”

“Jesus, don’t be so goddamn naïve, sweetheart. These old houses get grandfathered in all the time. Grease a few palms and any shithole can—”

CRACK!
This time the deck sagged a full foot in one go. Glass shattered on the second and third floors. A quieter “pop” followed the crack as Pop Tart reappeared briefly on the far side of the canyon. She came back a moment later, after apparently deciding that the building wasn’t going to collapse just yet.

A luminous yellow scaffold blinked into existence, extending from the severed buttresses all the way up to the deck. Hardhat grimaced. “I can’t do this all day long, but—OH FUCK—”

The scaffolding suddenly dropped, like it had fallen through a trapdoor. The deck sagged again. An assortment of yellow
beams and crossbeams of various sizes flickered in the canyon for several seconds before stabilizing again.

“What happened?”

Hardhat gripped the railing, frowning in concentration. “Pool water caused a mudslide. Now the goddamn buttresses are gone, too. Gotta build this motherfucker all the way up from the bottom of the canyon. It’s the only solid ground.”

Wally peered over the fence again. Sure enough, now the ethereal scaffold extended all the way from the road, sixty or seventy feet down.

Blrr herded the others out of the house. Nobody spoke. They stood on the crowded patio, listened to the wail of sirens echoing across the Hollywood Hills.

Through gritted teeth, Hardhat said, “I’d appreciate it if you cocksuckers did something besides stand around with your thumbs up your asses all day long.”

“Maybe Ana could help.” Holy Roller shook the unstable structure every time he moved.

“No good,” said Earth Witch, leaning on Bubbles for support. “I won’t move earth up from the roadbed down below—that would make it impossible for emergency vehicles to get through. If I start moving things inside the canyon, this whole house could end up at the bottom. The pool water has made the foundation unstable.”

“Now you’re talking my language,” said Gardener, pulling a handful of seeds from a canvas pocket on her belt. She flung them over the fence and down into the canyon. A few fluttered away on the breeze, but in seconds the muddy hillside turned vibrant green, as shoots and vines snaked up the canyon like one of those fast-forward nature documentaries. They burrowed into the soil, too, making little sucking and squelching sounds. The smell of fresh vegetation wafted up on an updraft from the canyon.

Wally looked up at the deck again. Pebble-size chunks of concrete rained into the pool, making a patter like hail on a tin roof. In some places he could see the steel cantilevers that now imperiled the house.

Holy cow.

Still looking up, he said, “Um, would getting rid of the deck help?”

Silence. He looked down again. Some people rolled their eyes, others shook their heads. “Yes,” said Joe Twitch like he was talking to a five-year-old, “the-the-the
deck
is our
p-p-p-problem.”

Cripes. Why did they have to get so sore at a guy just for asking? He
knew
the deck was the problem.

What’s worse than being hated by some of the biggest weirdos you ever met?

He tried again. “If we got rid of the deck, would that make things better or worse?” He forged onward. “Because the deck is connected to the house with steel beams.”

More silence.

“So they got iron in them.” Wally held up his hands and wiggled his fingers to make his point.

Through clenched teeth, Hardhat said, “Son-of-a-fucking-bitch, yes, get rid of the deck!”

The construction worker’s approval galvanized the group into action. It was the work of just a few minutes before they had a plan. Most of the discards went out to the street in front of the house, where they’d be safe if things went wrong. Wally, Hardhat, King Cobalt, Dragon Girl, and Pop Tart stayed behind.

Wally went back inside the creaking house and came out on the deck. King Cobalt took a position under one end of the deck, with Pop Tart at his side. If things went wrong she’d whisk them both away to safety. Hardhat kept his temporary scaffold in place at the other end of the deck. Dragon Girl and Puffy circled over the house.

Wally kneeled at the junction between the deck and the house.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
Using his ironclad fist like a jackhammer, he perforated the concrete every two feet. The noise echoed through the hills. Soon a fine layer of pulverized concrete coated his skin. When he scooped away the rubble he found three I beams inside the deck. Two ran along the sides and one went straight down the middle.

He took a deep breath. Then, like a blue collar Midas, he
touched the central I beam. Steel flashed into oxide under his fingertips. A creeping stain spread out from his handprint, first in little needles of rust, then in an orange wave that coursed through the beam. Chunks of corroded metal flaked away and danced around his hand as the house shuddered. Wally willed the rust deeper until it sundered the beam. Puffs of red dust eddied up around his fingers, sparkling in the sunshine until a gust of Santa Ana wind carried them away.

“That’s one,” he called.

The outer beams were too far apart for him to sever at once. As he weakened the second beam, the deck let loose a high-pitched groan. Then it tipped sideways with much shaking, cracking, and the screeching of tortured metal.

King Cobalt called out from underneath:
“Oof!”

The last remaining beam was so badly stressed that it tore apart even before Wally could push the rust all the way through. The entire deck dropped several feet to where, presumably, King Cobalt held one end overhead. Wally leapt for the second-floor entrance to the house before the masked strongman hurled the deck into the canyon.

“Yikes!”

Wally was in midair, approaching the doorway, when he noticed the cameraman standing there. He’d been too busy concentrating to notice the guy filming him as he worked. The cameraman saw a man-shaped lump of iron speeding at him. He yelped, dropped the camera, and hit the floor. Wally tried his best to tuck and roll to the side. He came to a clanking halt in the hallway after rolling over the camera.

He helped the guy to his feet. “Cripes, are you okay?”

The man nodded, but he made little wheezing sounds as he breathed. He looked down at the shattered camera. “Damn. That was some beautiful footage.”

They watched as Hardhat released the scaffold he’d erected with his mind. At the same time, King Cobalt used his prodigious strength to hurl the entire deck out into the midmorning air. Puffy swooped down, caught it in his talons, and gently set it down across the canyon.

The house didn’t creak anymore.

Wally went back down to the pool. The others started to
congregate and congratulate each other. A few even smiled at him, and gave him “OK” and “thumbs-up” signs.

A second cameraman was taping “confessionals” from Hardhat, Pop Tart, Dragon Girl, and King Cobalt about how they had felt as they saved the house. Nobody bothered to ask Wally how he felt about it.

The masked wrestler came over when his stint in front of the camera was over. “You’re not too bad,” he said.

Wally shrugged.

“Have you ever thought about wrestling?”

“Um. No.”

“Give some thought to my Wild Card Wrestling Federation, okay? Because I tell you, once this thing takes off it’s gonna be huge. And you could get in on the ground floor. You’d be great. The Iron Giant!”

Wally hadn’t given much thought to what he’d do after
American Hero.
Probably go back and work in the strip mines with his dad and brothers. But professional wrestling? Gosh.

“Do I have to wear a mask?”

“If you want to. But I think people would dig your appearance. Oh! I know! Can you do different accents?”

“Accents?”

“Different than that
Fargo
one you’re always doing, I mean. Russian would be awesome. Imagine it: Iron Ivan, the Russian Robot.”

Wally wasn’t sure he wanted to be a wrestler, but the masked man seemed very excited, and this was the most anybody had spoken to him since the Stuntman thing. “Well, that’s different. I’ll sure think about it.”

“Yeah?”

“You bet.”

“Great.” King Cobalt slapped him on the back. It sounded like somebody hitting a gong with a steak. Then he went off to mingle with the growing crowd.

“Nice work, cracker.”

Brave Hawk sidled through the crowd, illusory wings and another cameraman in tow. Simoon tagged along behind the camera, looking uneasy.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, ‘Nice work.”’ His lips curled into a half-smile as he added, “You must be exhausted. It’s hard work.”

“It wasn’t so bad. Um, what is?”

The half-smile turned into a full-blown grin. “Trying to convince people you’re not such a bad guy. Pretending you’re something you’re not.”

“Pretending?”

“It won’t work, though. I won’t let the others forget that you’re a racist at heart.” Brave Hawk turned and went back to the crowd on the patio. As the cameraman followed him, he said, “Shameful. Just shameful.”

What’s worse than being hated for what people
think
you are?

“Just ignore him.” Simoon patted Wally’s arm. “You did a good job today. He’s just a jackass.”

Cruel, too. Thing is, I’m darker than Brave Hawk and Stuntman and Gardener and everybody else. Way darker.

He looked down at Simoon.

Darker than Simoon and even those poor folks in Egypt.

“Stuntman made it up, didn’t he?” she whispered.

Wally went back upstairs to his room. He didn’t come out the rest of the day.

The studio must have pulled some strings, because housing inspectors arrived bright and early the following morning. Wally thought they’d have to move out, but now that the deck wasn’t tearing the mansion apart, they were much better off than some of their neighbors.

Electricity was restored soon after that. So while workers from the studio poured over the Discard Pile, patching the cracks and holes, stringing new lights and replacing the cameras that had been damaged in the quake, Wally stayed in his room, rereading Bugsy’s blog.

Bugsy had updated his blog with more photos and video clips. The shaky video—as if Bugsy had been on the run while he captured it—showed desert-camouflaged tanks rumbling down dirt roads, tossing up plumes of dust, mowing down refugees.

Wally watched the steel-plated Egyptian tanks.

He glanced outside, to where the deck had been. He remembered how good it felt to help out, how satisfying it felt when the beams crumbled under his touch.

And then he looked at the tanks again.

Holy cow.

He was still rereading the blog, and studying the photos, when Ink, one of the production assistants, called everyone into the TV lounge for a “special meeting.” Maybe they’d decided to move everybody out of the damaged mansion after all. Without the gas hooked up, the hot water hadn’t lasted through one morning of showers.

Wally followed Jade Blossom and Simoon down the stairs. He tapped Simoon on the shoulder. She stopped at the bottom of the staircase; Jade Blossom went on ahead.

“Simoon?”

“What?”

“Do you, I mean, I was wondering—”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, no. Look, Rusty, I meant what I said yesterday about you doing a good job saving the house, but you’re not my type. You’re a nice guy and all, but you’re made of iron, and I’m not. I just don’t think we’re compatible.” She looked him up and down. “At all.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry, though. I’m sure you’ll meet a nice…metal…girl someday.”

“Oh, cripes, no, no no no. That’s not what I meant.”

Her gaze darted sideways, toward the TV lounge. A frown flickered across her face and creased her brow. She looked back at Wally. “Then what?”

“Did you live in Egypt a long time?”

“Egypt? No. I’ve never lived there. Not ever.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t the response he’d expected. “Do you know a lot about it, though? Egypt, I mean.”

It took her a few seconds to answer. She sighed, and lowered herself to sit on the bottom stair. “I guess. Why?”

“I was reading Bugsy’s blog, you know, the bug guy that was on the show with us?” She nodded. “Since he went over there with John Fortune and that German fella—”

“I never meant for that to happen, I swear.”

“… he’s been writing about the whole thing, and it’s a heckuva mess.”

“I know,” said Simoon, looking down. “Look, can we talk about something else, please?”

“Well, I was wondering if you knew how a guy might—”

A cameraman sidled closer. Wally stopped in mid-sentence. He wasn’t too keen on the cameras.

“Hey!” Mr. Berman stood in the archway to the TV lounge. “Go flirt on your own time, you two. We’ve got an episode to film.” He tapped his watch. It probably cost more money than Wally had ever seen in one place in his life. He wondered why the executive was there at all.

Wally helped Simoon to her feet—she looked real unhappy all of a sudden—and followed her to the lounge, where the other discards were sitting in a large circle. He stopped dead in his tracks. Not only was Mr. Berman here, but so were Peregrine and the judges: Topper, the Harlem Hammer, and Digger Downs.