Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition (30 page)

Chapter 51

Up above, the shelling and gunfire had stopped. Brand went up the ladder and told Conroy to keep the viewer close and to stay down in the hole. At the top, Brand scanned the sky. The gunships were gone. Only the broadcast ship remained, still mocking the scene with its fabricated picture show and phony reports.

Brand cursed under his breath and edged up higher to look out from the mouth of the shaft. Desolate ground surrounded the old well. All around were bits of trees like bone fragments, hedges scattered like confetti, and pieces of rock mixed in with churned earth and mud. Around the park in every direction, flames stood out from rooftops, waving to Brand through the dark night. Haze and soot filled the air. A clicking sound to Brand’s right nearly sent him down the ladder in fright. But he spotted the crab and lurched out of the hole to grab it. He slid in the mud and overshot the little device, falling against a mound of rocks and earth.

Conroy came out of the hole after him, carrying the viewer against his chest. The crab turned toward them, flicking its single lens back and forth. A whirring sound came from the machine and a light shone out from a small port in its shell. Brand scurried around to its right and scooped the crab up in his hands. The single eye rotated left and right as Brand, still crouching, carried it over to Conroy. He aimed it at the ground as he approached and told the kid to get the viewer out. Conroy worked the lever and soon enough the view screen showed an image of Brand lying on his belly, his face smeared with mud. The image moved then, showing Brand rising slightly onto his hands and knees, then crouching and coming forward, to the right edge of the image view. Then only his foot remained in the view screen.

“This thing gets more than one picture,” Brand said, examining at the crab. It was a new type he hadn’t seen before. At the base of the little machine’s shell, on the back, Brand saw the trademark of Tesla Electromagnetics.

“C’mon,” he said, holding the crab with one hand over its lens. “This is our ticket to the truth.” Brand set out at a march, dodging around fallen trees and the small craters that turned their course through the park into a trip backwards in time. Conroy slid in a mud puddle and nearly went down. Brand slowed their pace, but kept moving. If he stopped, he knew he’d find himself back in the trenches of memory.

“Let’s get into the neighborhood,” Brand said as the kid tagged along beside him, eyeing the crab like it was a box of candy. His face drooped at the mention of the neighborhood though.

“What’re we after? I thought we needed pictures of what’s happening.”

“We do. I’d like to get some of the people who live around here. I just hope if we find them we can still ask them for a picture.”

#

Following his boss through the ravaged landscape of the park, Aiden darted his eyes in every direction, and waited for the sound of gunfire. His excitement had waned in the space of their last few steps. Maybe it was the way his boss talked about seeing people and asking for pictures.

They marched through the park, finally reaching a small grove of trees at the edge of the devastated ground. Mr. Brand stepped into the trees and made to crouch down among them, but he backed up and motioned for Aiden to follow him around the grove. As they moved on, Aiden looked for a reason for their detour and saw two bodies tumbled together in amongst the trees. Two soldiers were lying dead, their guns missing and their boots, too. Their bloody faces told Aiden the men had been beaten up. Aiden looked at his own hands and remembered the soldier he and his boss tried to save in the trees earlier. He could still feel the sticky wetness of the man’s blood on his palms.

Bringing his eyes up to level again, Aiden returned a half smile from his boss and then retreated into his thoughts as they paused by the last tree. He wanted to get somewhere safe and soon. The man who had died in the trees haunted Aiden’s memory.
Don’t, don’t, don’t.
Aiden heard the word and felt the weight of it like a command. He kept adding to the soldier’s dying breath.
Don’t kill me. Don’t leave me here. Don’t let me die.

Mr. Brand was moving again, and Aiden made to follow. He stopped in his tracks when his boss gave a jerk and stood stock still in the night. Worried that Mr. Brand might be panicking again, Aiden went up and put a hand to his shoulder to jostle him. Instead, Aiden saw the city behind the curtain, and he saw who his boss really was.

#

Brand felt a hot piercing run from his guts up to his head. He shook his head and stiffened where he stood. The world around him split apart, fracturing like window glass around a bullet. The trees flickered in and out of sight, and the nearby buildings did the same. Like when he’d been with Chief on the bike. He saw the world of memories behind the curtain, and he saw the city he knew, the real world around him with the grove and its gruesome secrets, the burning houses, and the blackness of night swelling from every shadow. Chicago City wavered and Brand struggled to focus on anything solid, anything that might tether him in place against the threatening nausea that upended his perspective and made the world into a halo of memories that belonged to other people all mixed in with his own. He felt a touch on his shoulder and sensed Conroy trying to nudge him.

The sensation inside Brand shifted, from a burning insight to an expanding intimacy. Brand shook his head, unable to believe what he saw or deny what he felt. The sense of expansion filled his chest, like he’d taken a breath that could blow out every fire in the neighborhood. He felt his presence extend out into the city around him, touching everything and everyone in the space of the park. He felt and saw Conroy, standing behind him and filled with a warm light that emanated trust, like the bond he’d felt with the boys in the trenches.

Brand felt the Governor’s soldiers, too, still roaming the streets of the neighborhood. They appeared in Brand’s mind as steel-gray automatons marching with a single purpose and no direction of their own. He saw the citizens fighting back, too. Some appeared as reddened husks, empty of anything but a desire for battle. They picked up weapons from fallen soldiers they had just beaten to death. The war-maddened fiends fired wildly at their enemies, furious with bloodlust. Others looked empty of everything but a need for vengeance, their will a black vortex, whirling them around the neighborhood and guiding them only to satisfy that single goal. Still others danced in and out of Brand’s inner vision like extensions of himself; they seemed prepared to survive at any cost but were moving away from the fighting and from a swelling sensation that Brand could only describe as the city’s pain.

Brand saw these people in his mind’s eye, saw them helping each other, fleeing and running and lending a hand to anyone they found along the way. Gypsies and negroes held each other as bullets flew overhead. Jews and Italians. German and Irish and Greek. They all held together like a net spread around the ruined parts of the city to catch anyone who might fall.

Brand felt the most intimately connected to these people, and he sent his gratitude out to them, and a promise that their work would not go unnoticed. And in a flash, his every nerve flared with fire. Brand turned to Conroy. The kid leaned against a tree, his mouth open in shock, staring at Brand like he’d just done some kind of magic trick. Brand opened his mouth to tell the kid it was all right, even if he had no idea what all right meant anymore. As the first words hit his tongue, the tree Conroy leaned on quivered and seemed to ripple. The kid fell back as the air around the tree lifted aside, revealing a Bicycle Man. Brand had to smile when he saw his old friend again.

“You picked a fine time to give me the rest of story, Chief.”

Chief’s eyes didn’t return the kindness Brand felt in his heart. “I’ve got something here for you, Mitch,” Chief said, reaching into his satchel. He withdrew a slender metal object, like a cigar tube stopped by corks at both ends. Brand felt his smile drooping, but forced humor into his voice.

“Funny stuff from you, and at a time like this. That’s rich, Chief. Now how about it?”

“It’s a— It’s a message. For you,” Chief said.

Brand’s smile crumbled then, straight into his shoes. He tucked the crab into his coat and held it trapped against his side. With his free hand, he swiped at the tube and flicked a cork out of one end. A scroll of paper slid out and uncurled in his hand.

Integrity,

I am pleased that you have joined us at last. The actions of Industry and Hubris cannot go unabated, and with your assistance we may see an end to their folly. Your memories will serve you. Please continue as you were. The people must be told. And shown.

Yours, Propriety

“What is this?” Brand asked, looking up at Chief, who had gone to looking sheepish, like a common bum confronted by a man of any station above his own.

“Did you have a reply?” Chief asked.

“Reply? So I’m a set of clothes for one of them, is that it?”

“Seems that way, Mitch. I mean—”

“No. Don’t use that name. It isn’t mine. If it’s on me, then it’s because he put it there, and he’s welcome to it.”

“Okay,” Chief said. “I’ll just be going then.”

“Wait a minute,” Brand said. He held the message face up and tapped it with his finger. “This bit about memories? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s how you get around back there. If you need to get someplace, you just remember it and soon enough you’re there.”

Chief nodded and put a finger to his brow. “I’m sure I’ll see you around again,” he said and slipped out of sight. Brand shivered in the cold for a minute, staring at the space where his friend had just stood. At his left, Conroy fidgeted and tugged on his sleeve.

“Yeah, what is it, Conroy?”

“Mr. Brand,” the kid said, looking past Brand and into the neighborhood. “There’re some folks over there.” Brand followed the kid’s gaze. Sure enough, a group of people moved along the street, all in a furtive crouch. One of them held a weapon. Brand spotted a gun barrel jutting like a spine from the clutch of shadowy figures. They ducked in and out of hiding as they went, behind the ruins of wagons and fallen trees, past the odd jalopy that found its way into the neighborhood, never to leave. Brand reached out to the people, feeling for their intent. It came back as a flickering brightness amidst the dark terror of the night.

Another glimmer came from the next street away, and Brand shifted his focus. He found the source as the shots rang out. A steel-gray group of soldiers, moving like predators, wound their way to the people, firing as they came. And behind them, a pair of Tesla’s auto-men, their weapons raised with bursts of electric fire shooting forth.

Chapter 52

Two soldiers came into the shed, one with a pistol that he kept trained on Emma. The other went to the prisoners with a rifle and menaced them before ordering them outside. The Conroys went first, hustling out ahead of the wounded negro. When the shed was empty, Wynes came in with the Tommy gun. He tucked it under his arm and undid Emma’s cuffs from around the pipe, then closed them again and led her out to join the others.

Outside, the prisoners had stayed apart. The ironwork hound stood in front of them, its bulky torso a tangle of tubes and pipes racing around the machine’s core. Emma had only seen one this close at her father’s plant, when he’d brought it in to watch the yard at night. She’d feared the thing then and felt no different now. Emma gave a sudden start when a jet of flame licked out of the hound’s snout like a tongue tasting the night.

“He’ll leave you be, Miss Farsnworth,” Wynes said with a sneer. “Unless I tell him different.”

She glanced at Wynes. In one hand he held a small box that he waggled in the air before pocketing it. Behind Wynes, Eddie stood in the open space before the shed, his hands raised to his shoulders and his right arm tucked in tight against his side where he’d been hit before. The soldier with the rifle looked at Wynes. Emma saw him jerk his chin up and down. The soldier swung his rifle around and hit Eddie in the back.

Eddie let out a deep angry groan and dropped to his knees, holding his injured side. Emma screamed when she saw him slump forward, collapsing into the dirt like he’d passed out from the pain. The soldier grinned and lifted a foot to kick Eddie. Emma flew forward past Wynes and knocked the man down, slamming her balled up fists onto his chest and arms. She caught him a good one on his chin and he reacted by bringing his rifle around to crack her in the side. Emma cried out and rolled off the man, curling up around her sore hip.

Wynes came over, followed by the ominous step of the ironwork hound. Emma tried to stay curled up, but a soldier grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. The other one came over and kept his rifle trained on her. She eyed her captors through a glare, curling her lips back and then bringing them together tight over her teeth. Her bitterness and rage roiled within Emma’s chest until she felt her gaze drop on its own, down to Eddie. His breathing was shallow and slow. Emma felt her guilt burning her cheeks crimson and for a moment she thought about trying to run. She lifted her eyes to look out into the yard. The lakeshore was only a short distance away. The line of airships hung above the water, tethered on stout chains. Back to her left, past the Vigilance and behind the shed, a large tree offered shadows to hide in and protection from the bullets she knew would follow her.

She wouldn’t make it. They’d shoot her, and then they’d shoot Eddie and probably the rest of these poor people around her. The couple here, the other negro. The people in the tents.

As if he sensed her thoughts, Wynes spoke up from behind her.

“Miss Farnsworth? I think we’ve had enough run around tonight, don’t you?”

“Go to hell.”

“With such a charming tongue, I don’t know how you escaped attention on the dance floor all these years. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because you were sloppy for a smoke.”

Emma turned around and stared hard at Wynes. He’d slung the Tommy gun over his shoulder and was holding a coil of rope now. She let her eyes bore into his with all the rage she’d ever felt at how Chicago City had forced her to live.

“You think you know about me, Wynes? You’ll never understand the real difference between Eddie and the guys I let take me onto the dance floor. The only reason I let them even touch me was because I had to. I played hard to get like any girl should, but I never played too hard. If I did, I knew someone would get their nose out of joint and start saying they smelled smoke. So I let them spin me around the floor because they thought it was their right to hold my hand. Just because I was a Farnsworth. Because I was from their set. Only they didn’t know I’d given up on that set the minute I laid eyes on it.

“They’d never understand why I love Eddie, just like you’ll never understand, and it’s not my damn job to teach you anyway. I did what I was told when I had to. I did my best to keep my nose above the stink in this town. I lived the way I wanted to, and loved the man I wanted to. If that means I have to die tonight, I don’t care. Just get on with it.”

Wynes slapped her once, turning her face to the side. He lifted his other hand and Emma’s eyes rounded in terror when she saw the coil of rope with a noose tied at one end.

“Oh, I’ll be getting on with it, Miss Farnsworth.”

#

Wynes frog-marched her around the shed, calling for the soldiers to bring the others along. Emma felt numb as she let him lead her to stand in a clearing around the tree. She turned to watch over her shoulder as the others followed. The Conroys stayed to the side. They stuck close together, and moved quick when commanded. Behind them, the soldier with the pistol threatened the injured negro and ordered him to get Eddie on his feet.

Emma’s heart broke watching the two men staggering along, both upright but leaning on each other for support. Eddie held his side and grunted with each step. The man with the ball and chain on his ankle dragged his burden through the dirt and snowmelt. Emma could feel his bare feet chafing and freezing against the ground as he stepped a halting haggard path to his own execution. Wynes cursed under his breath and ordered the soldiers to hurry Eddie and the other man along.

“Get ‘em over here already. We don’t have all night to wait on a couple of dumb niggers.”

Emma spun to holler at the man, but she still felt the sting of his hand on her cheek. The look in Wynes’ eyes told her she’d be better off keeping quiet. So she pressed her lips together and bit her teeth down on the anger she felt. Wynes stepped over to the shed and lifted a post away from the wall and came to stand beside her. Emma brought her hands to her face when she realized it wasn’t a post he held but a wooden cross.

“Hold this for me, will you, Miss Farnsworth?”

“Not on your life,” she said, shaking her head and backing away. She came up against a soldier who shoved her to the side and went to assist Wynes in his grisly preparation. The soldier went to the shed and picked up a coil of wire and some stakes and a mallet.

“See, Miss Farnsworth? There are still men in Chicago City who know what’s what. Guys like these two here. They remember the town that my father and his father made safe for the good people until the Dagos and Rigos and Jews and niggers moved in and turned it into a pit. That’s what this city is now,” he said, leaving the task of erecting the grim totem to the soldier.

Wynes stepped close to Emma, his breath reeking of drink and tobacco smoke and forcing her nose to the side. “This city, the place where men with the name of Wynes have walked a beat for nearly seventy years. Where the streets used to be safe and clean. It’s nothing but a pit with greased walls, and all the good people are stuck fighting each other to get to the top. You want to hear about stink? It’s gotten so bad you have to stick it to your neighbor if you want a chance to breathe good air again.

“I remember when Chicago City was a place a man could be proud of, a place you didn’t mind hearing about in the news. Before Capone. Before the Micks came out of the Eastern Seaboard. Before the Chinamen rolled in on the rails from out west and the niggers came up river from New Orleans. That’s the city I remember, Miss Farnsworth. And if I can’t have it back the way it was, then I’ll give my worst to the people to blame. People like your Eddie Boy here,” he said, grabbing Eddie by the shoulder and hauling him to the tree.

One of the soldiers grabbed the other negro and ordered him to stay still while they unlocked the shackle on his leg. Then they shoved him forward to join Eddie under the tree.

Emma screamed at the soldiers and roared her hatred at Wynes. The cross was in flames and the whole night seemed ablaze with angry firelight. Emma kept screaming, letting her rage tear at her throat. She whipped her head left and right as she shrieked, begging the night for help. She only saw the Conroys, who stayed against the shed, mute and still.

The ironwork hound marched a path in front of Emma, the spurt of flame licking from its snout. Emma shot her eyes back to the scene below the tree. A soldier held Eddie’s arms behind his back and tied his wrists together before doing the same to the other man. He then moved to stand beside the metal dog and covered Emma with Wynes’ chopper.

Emma shuddered as she watched Wynes lift the noose and toss it over a tree branch. He caught the menacing loop in his hands and passed it to the soldier beside him. The man stood in front of Eddie and draped the rope over his head. Emma shook with sobs. She felt so numb inside that she barely flinched when she heard a shot ring out from her right just before the night exploded in fire and pain.