The Ward (33 page)

On it, albums. Stacks and stacks of albums, all dusty and worn.

I find the one that looks the oldest, and open to the first page: a faded black-and-white photo. It’s not dated, but the somber faces tell me this was taken before people started smiling in pictures.

Three men stand beside three women, all dressed to the nines. For the men, waistcoats and tall hats. The women, though, wear half–American Indian garb, half-white-settler fashions. Poufy, embroidered dresses, but also strands and strands of beads. Feathers dangle from their hair while pearls dangle from their ears. Moccasins for their feet, and stockings for their legs.

I lean in closer.

The first and second couple I don’t recognize at all, though one of the men looks a lot like Derek. But the last . . . Even without color, I know the distinct glint of his copper hair.

I almost drop the pack dangling over my shoulder. Why the
brack
is he still alive?

Guardian of a magical healing spring was one thing, but this? This is . . . this is
immortality
.

Maybe I should have known. Maybe I did know. Somewhere, in the way, way back of my mind. It’s just . . . Seeing him like this. It changes everything. I can’t deny it, or ignore the possibility.

I choke, cough, and in my stomach, a snake pit. I can feel it writhing.
I’m
writhing—he guards the water from people like Aven, who need it, and yet here he is . . . alive.
For centuries
. No wonder he’s quick to let us die—he’s juiced up on a spring that keeps him young. No expiration date.

But the picture shows me more than just that. I keep looking, hunched over the album. Next to Derek, a woman stands straight. Fearsome and commanding despite her lack of height. Glossy, pin-straight liquid metal. It’s Kitaneh, and his hand rests on her shoulder.

His hand. Her hand. Gold bands on the fourth fingers—

They’re married
.

My eyes water, but like watching some horrible accident, I keep riffling through the album. Page after page, Derek and Kitaneh. Him in the militia, her the good colonial wife. Decade after decade. She’s smiling, sequined; he’s got a floppy grin on—New York City in the nineteen twenties. Thirties. On and on.

I slam the album shut and start opening drawers left and right, looking for . . . who knows what. More of the story. More answers. Forcing myself to breathe, I push down the feeling that I’m about to be sick.
He kissed me. . . . How could he?

The drawers are mostly empty, or filled with papers.

Except for one. In it, a small wooden box with words carved on the lid:
“Bellum Pesti—”
I can’t read the rest, so I reach down.

Brack
. Crisscrossed red laser lights web across the drawer. Overhead, a siren sounds.
But the water?
I’ve found nothing. . . .

Except, there’s no time.

Beelining to the airlock, I push aside ottomans and guitar cases, framed paintings and old leather trunks. The hatch is closing all on its own even though I left it open specifically so I could make a quick getaway. The alarm must’ve triggered it. I duck low to the floor and, sticking my feet through first, wiggle myself back into the pressurized room—

With only two inches to spare. And still in one piece. I get no chance for relief though.

My feet . . . they’re losing their balance—

The grate slides away. Opens up to a cavernous water-filled space below. I fall to one side, avoiding the gap. Pretty soon, though, there’s gonna be nowhere left to stand.

Then, from a dozen nearly invisible vents, clouds of vapor fog up the room.

What the hell is that?

I hold my breath as long as I can while trying to keep my footing. Looking down, I notice that not only is the grate moving, the water that drained down earlier is now rising up. I reach for the handle on the first hatch and turn, expecting it not to budge.

The wheel rotates easily.

This makes me stop
—too easy
. It makes no sense. Unless whatever just came out of those vents was supposed to do something to me, but failed.

Something tells me not to take the bait. Something also tells me not to stand around like an idiot. Call it a hunch . . . call it intuition. I think there’s a spring down there, wherever that water is coming up from. I brace myself, glad I’m wearing Callum’s neoprene suit, and kneel at the edge.

Then, I dive-roll in.

My forehead, and after that my cheeks, are the first to burn from the freeze. Neoprene keeps the rest of me warmish, but it’s still a shock.

A few feet down and light’s just a memory. I flick open my cuffcomm and activate the laser light on the side. It’s small, not made for this sort of thing, but bright enough to shine a path.

Too bad my frog stroke ain’t exactly conducive to keeping a beam steady. Every time my left wrist pushes through the water, the light shines backward in the opposite direction. I wish I had one of those silly flashlights that you attach to your head.

Though I know I’m swimming deeper, the temperature doesn’t seem like it’s getting colder. Warmer, maybe. But definitely not colder. My eyes start to burn from the brack water, but this tunnel is too small for me to want to keep my eyes shut.

Then the first pang of air hunger hits.

I swallow the gasp my body wants to take, and keep on.

Eventually, my fingers stop grazing the sides. The space widens. I wave my wrist ahead, just in time to follow the change in direction. A curve, and I’m swimming back toward the surface. My Hessians drag me down. I should leave them, kick them off.

Never. Now we’ve
really
been through too much together.

Air hunger pang two . . .

I open my mouth a bit, let some air escape. That helps, like there’s less pressure inside me. As I close my mouth, I notice the water—it don’t taste salty.

Once more, I take in the tiniest bit.

Sure enough, the taste is sweet. Somewhere in this tunnel, the water went from bitter brackish to fresh. I must have hit another pocket that bleeds into the Strait, mixing together.

Then, all of a sudden, I’m warm. Warmer than warm. The neoprene has locked in my heat, and I’m actually sweating. I must be close, but even with the light from my cuffcomm, there’s no way to be sure.

I keep pulling myself up and up.

Through the blur
—I must be imagining it
—the sides of the tunnel seem to be glowing.
Bright green?
Dots of speckled neon. Just as I grapple with air hunger pang three, my head breaks the surface.

I gasp, sucking down air, fighting the wave of dizziness that follows. My arms flail, exhausted, and my beloved boots keep trying to drown me—but looking around, I see I was right. Under the surface, all around me, the walls of the cavern are spotted with the stuff. I dunk my head again and swim closer.

Through the underwater blur, the stuff is unidentifiable . . . some sort of plant, I think, but what do I know? So I pluck a few from the side of the wall’s slick mushiness, and swim back for air. Once I’m breathing again, I look down into my palm.

The neon-green spots—they’re tiny, glowing mushrooms, with droopy tentlike caps and nearly invisible stems.

So, basically—aliens.

These must be the plants that the phytothingies come from. I should take a whole bunch of them, ’cause if I’m right, they’re probably going to have the antiviral goodies that the spring water was missing.

And . . .

I guess the jury’s still out on whether Callum will be needing my blood for this evening’s science experiment.

I swipe a few fistfuls of the extraterrestrial buggers from the tunnel walls for him, then pull the waterproof sack from my side to fill up with fresh. The weight of the sack, plus the liquid inside, drags me under slightly. The trip back will take longer for sure.

I don’t wait.

Sliding the sack over my shoulder, I take one final breath of air and dive under, following the cavern back the way I came. My cuffcomm lights the way, enough so that I don’t swim into the sides. I keep my feet kicking and wait for the air hunger pangs.

Every few strokes, I stick my tongue out. The longer I taste the sweet, the more anxious I become.
Return trips always pass quicker
, I remind myself.

This time, when the temperature shifts suddenly to cold, I feel it like a glacier. I’m chilled straight through despite the neoprene, and soon, my fingers are numb. Then, the first hunger pang hits.

I’m ready for it. I know how to swallow it, choke it back down to where it came from. I feel the round of the curve, start to swim up again. When I stick my tongue out again, the water finally tastes normal. Like brack.

I’m close.

Time passes
—I’m gonna make it
. I can see light coming from the pressurized room’s ceiling, and the tunnel has started to narrow. My fingers graze the sides.
One final push forward . . .

I reach for air—the light’s right there, right on the ceiling. But instead, my fingers graze metal.

I’m touching the ceiling.

How am I touching the ceiling?

Then I remember . . . when I dove into the tunnel, the space filled up after me.

I open my mouth; I swallow gulps of brack water because there’s no air in the room. None at all.

38

5:00 P.M., SUNDAY

M
y chest spasms. A burning spreads throughout.

Backpedaling through the water, I reach for the first latch. Using hands I can’t feel, I rotate. The door lifts up, and I shimmy myself underneath, finding myself outside the building once again. A hundred plus feet to the surface.

Not too far off, the thrum of an engine stirs the underwater silence. As the dull sound grows clearer, I’d bet money it’s not just everyday canal traffic. A bright beam of light like a neon-green laser cuts through the murk. Whoever’s in that mobile is cutting beneath the boardwalk—not a good sign, so I swim upward, again fighting the weight of my Hessians. I kick and kick but they weigh me down like boulders.

You’re staying on my feet, y’hear?
I tell the both of them, pulling myself closer to the purple Omni. That bright beam closes in, shines on me directly. I feel like an underwater Santa, with this big red sack over my shoulder. Whoever is manning that other mobile will see me, too.

The engine thrashes my way.

I dive under Callum’s mobile, where I pull myself into its belly and close the bottom barrel door. At the telltale muted click, I push another button—green this time—and immediately start gagging, retching up water, while the water trapped in the hatch gets sucked out a series of one-way pipes.

It drains away in a rush, and I damned near have a make-out session with the roof, I’m so starved for air. Within moments, only an inch or so of water is left in the airlock crawl space, but I’ve got no time. A tide sweeps by, rocking the Omni, and I open the hatch into the pit.

The floor will flood slightly. So be it.

Just then, my neck jolts forward, whips back. A garbled crunch, then I see the other mobile—also an Omni, sleek and black—lurching from the collision.

Oh no
.

I shove in the key and hit the acceleration, not caring about a case of repeat whiplash.

My Omni jolts forward, but it feels heavier—like it’s dragging in the back. Bright neon draws my eye to the dashboard. On the screen, an outline of Callum’s Omni flashes. The airlock hatch flashes, too. Both red.

That crunch I heard wasn’t just external damage. The airlock is filling up with water—it’s gonna drive slower than it ought to. I check the steam and gas levels; both are in good supply. Still, I hope it can get up enough speed.

I keep driving straight, knuckles bone white against the wheel. Above, a circular brass button. If that is what I think it is . . . I push it.

Yes—
a brass periscope extends downward. The lens falls to about eye level. For someone
not
five feet tall. I curse all the non–vertically challenged Omni manufacturers out there.

If I lift my butt up, I can easily see the other mobile behind me.

I force myself to ease my grip on the wheel, notice I’m holding my breath. Again. I exhale, willing a slower rhythm onto my heart.

Whoever’s riding me, they’re maybe only fifteen feet back.

I can do this
. I’ve made it so damned far. I’m Santa. I have the water.

I remind myself of that fact, thinking it’ll comfort me, but instead it sets my nerves wild. I’ve just reminded myself how much there is to lose.

Now it’s not just Aven—it’s every HBNC-infected person in the Ward.

But the very thing that set my nerves off is the same thing that calms them. I think of Aven. How she’d scold me first for landing myself in this mess, and next give me a kiss on the cheek for finally doing something she’d approve of. That makes me laugh.

The other mobile and I are both stuck in this narrow alley, brick walls on either side and only a few inches of wiggle room. One sideways rip and I’m crunchy toast. But I have to turn soon. If I keep straight, I’ll end up in a suicidal brick maze of gutters like this one. Not smart.

I need to get under an avenue.

I tear my eyes away from the periscope and buckle myself into the seat.

This is gonna hurt.

Turning off the back props entirely, I wrestle with the wheel as the mobile slows. “Don’t hit the walls, now,” I say out loud, and flick on the belly props. The Omni shoots up to the surface.

I still need to get out of here though, and the nearest avenue is behind me. There’s also no room to turn around.

Looks like I’m going to have to steer upside down.

The teensiest, most minuscule part of me is excited; I’ve always wanted to do this. Never could, what with my Rimbo and all. I just wish it didn’t have to happen now. There’s a bit too much on the line for me to be entirely comfortable with death-defying mobile stunts.

But it’s the quickest way out.