XOM-B (31 page)

“First, find someplace safe to hide.” He gives me a look that says,
don’t argue,
and adds, “And then I’m going to look around, on my own.”

“You seem nervous,” I say.

“I
am
nervous,” Heap replies.

And now I’m nervous, too. Because Heap doesn’t get nervous. He gets serious. Or angry. Maybe cautious. But nervous? Something is wrong. I begin to ask, but he cuts me off with a terse,
“Later.”

A fifty-foot stretch of dead earth lies ahead. It’s followed by a street with a bright double yellow line running down the middle, like a divide between us and the maze of buildings beyond. Some are constructed from brick, others from wood that’s been coated in horizontal strips of vinyl and aluminum, like Harry’s house. They’re packed together in clumps with streets running between them at awkward angles. Unlike the ruins I’ve visited, or the Lowers, this city’s planning seems almost haphazard, like it evolved over time, and maybe it did.

“Remember your way back to this door,” Heap says, stepping forward. “If something goes wrong…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. This door could be our only means of escape.

We make it across the clearing and street without incident and squeeze into an alley between the backs of two buildings. Heap has to turn sideways to fit and only then manages it because his chest armor had been dented when we crashed back in Liberty.

We navigate through a maze of buildings, none of which resembles another. “Why are they like this?” I ask. I don’t need to specify what I’m talking about. We’re all feeling frustrated by the obstacle course.

“Many of the Masters’ cities were built over time,” Harry says, confirming my suspicion.

“But still, you’d think they would have planned better,” I gripe.

“Some of these buildings are four hundred years old,” Heap says, and I suddenly realize that this place is like a time capsule. It doesn’t just contain facts about the Masters as they were thirty years ago, it holds secrets going back hundreds of years!

“Would it be possible,” I say, “to not destroy this place if we don’t have to?”

Heap just pauses and looks at me for a moment. I know he has no desire to destroy this old city, but he’s not going to promise anything. Stopping the undead plague is our first priority. Our only priority. This city, perhaps even our lives, are secondary concerns. Then again, maybe he’s already concocted a way to destroy this city and everything in it. If the source of the undead virus is actually here, and destruction is the only way to stop the radio signal, I suppose any amount of violence would be justified, as long as we’re not killing the living.

The alley widens toward the center of town where the buildings are almost all brick, several stories high, and I suspect a great deal older than the surrounding area. Black fire escapes rise up the backs of the buildings with small platforms positioned under a set of windows. Heap reaches up, takes hold of the lowest ladder rung and gives it a tug.

It comes free with a
clunk
that makes us all freeze in place, listening as the sound carries up toward the expansive black ceiling and bounces back down, diffusing among the buildings. Heap eases the ladder down slowly, minimizing the shriek of metal that hasn’t moved in a very long time, but not silencing it entirely.

With the ladder resting on the crumbling pavement of the alleyway, Heap motions to the fire escape. “Go. To the top floor. Keep the lights off.”

I look up and see that the lights in this building are already dark. We’ll be able to see out without being seen. But there is no hope of Heap climbing this fire escape, not without making a lot of noise and a high probability that his weight would pull it from the wall. I think about my own personal experience with fire escapes and wonder if it’s even safe for the rest of us. I look at the stairs for signs of rust and find none. The bolts in the wall look secure, too. While the ruins outside Liberty were exposed to the elements for thirty years, this city has been protected. That just leaves one question unanswered. “What are you going to do?”

“Just have a quick look around,” Heap says.

“Don’t you think someone … smaller should do that?” I ask.

“If that smaller someone knew what to look for,” Heap says. “Yes. But you don’t know what to look for.”

“I think I can figure it out. I’m—”

“Protecting you is still my job.” Heap places his hand on my shoulder. “Let me do this. For you.” When I don’t immediately answer, he adds, “Unless you believe I’m not capable.”

I sigh. If Heap had a middle name, it would be “capable.” “Fine. But how long should we wait?”

“Four hours,” he says. “If I’m not back by then—”

“If you’re not back by then, I’ll come and find you.”

Heap grins. “You’re a good friend, Freeman. Your trust means a lot. Now, go.”

He waits for us to climb the ladder and four stories of metal stairs and pry open a window before he starts away. While Luscious and Harry slip inside the building, I watch Heap move through the alley with surprising silence. He stops at a corner, looks back, gives me a nod.

Feeling a strange sense of loss, I slip inside. But before I can slide the window shut, a noise catches my attention. A rhythmic thumping. Metal on pavement. I lean back out the window. Heap is quickly fading from view. All of his stealth is gone, replaced by a hurried run.

Like he knows where he’s going.

Your trust means a lot.
Heap’s words hold me in place despite my strong urge to give chase. I do trust him, but I don’t like not knowing what he’s really doing.
He wouldn’t put the world at risk just to protect me,
I tell myself. And have no doubt. Whatever Heap is doing, it’s for the best. For everyone.

I watch the alley for another thirty seconds, hoping Heap will come back. It’s not until Luscious puts her hand on my back and says, “Are you coming?” that I look away and climb inside.

The room on the other side of the window is furnished with a desk and chair, some drawers and a large, flat object that’s covered in fabric. Unlike the city outside, the room is dusty. I can see speckles of the stuff floating in the faint light streaming through from outside. I run my hand across the fabric. “It’s soft.” I push down. Despite the firm look, the large flat surface bends downward. “What is this?”

“A bed,” Luscious says.

“A bed?” I ask. “What were they used for?”

Luscious seems taken aback by my question. She looks to the bed and her face sours almost imperceptibly. “I’m not sure if I should—”

“Freeman!” Harry’s whispered voice carries an intensity that makes me forget all about the bed. I draw my weapon and step out of the bedroom into a darker hallway. A door at the end of the hall is cracked open. Two others are shut. I move forward with Luscious right behind me.

A shadow bounds out of the room at the end of the hall and I nearly fire. Harry’s voice stops me a fraction of a second before I kill him. “Freeman!” He stumbles back upon seeing the raised gun. Raises his hands. “It’s me!”

I lower my railgun in time with Harry’s raised hands. He points to the room from which he came. “You have to see.”

He disappears back into the room. I share a curious look with Luscious and then start forward. Harry is rummaging through something and mumbling to himself. The first thing I notice about the room is that it is fairly well lit by the streetlights outside its two windows. Fearing being spotted, I enter the room in a crouch and am happy to find Harry doing the same. He’s got his back to me and is tracing his finger along the wall, which is peculiar. Upon closer inspection, I notice that the wall is uneven and multicolored. Every inch holds a new set of words. Names, and something else.

“What are they?” I ask.

Harry cranes his head around, smiling. “Books. This must have been someone’s personal library.”

I look at the surrounding room, which isn’t large, with a new kind of sight. Except for where the two windows are, and the door, every wall is covered with books.

“Most of them are fiction,” Harry says.

When I squint, he explains. “Stories that aren’t true. About people that didn’t exist. While they’re often realistic elements, the actions and events that unfold are imagined.”

My eyes widen. “Like your paintings?”

“Precisely,” Harry says. He pulls a book from what I now see is one of many shelves. He flips it over and reads the words printed on the cover. “
Lord of the Flies
by William Golding. This could be interesting.”

“Did they really write stories about flies?” I ask. It seems an odd topic. Flies. Of all of the creatures I’ve encountered they seem to be one of the most mundane.

Harry shrugs. “I’ve only read the few books that Mrs. Cameron had. Nonfiction biographies of long-dead celebrities. Famous people,” he clarifies before I can ask. He puts the book back and pulls out another. “
Kama Sutra.
Huh.”

“Wait,” Luscious says. “Don’t—”

I’m not sure why Luscious is protesting, but it’s too late. Harry has opened the book, releasing a smell that feels ancient, but is also pleasing. When the pages stop turning and I catch sight of an image, I forget all about the scent of books. “What. Is.
That?
”

“I have no idea,” Harry says. He turns the page, then rotates the book, looking at the image of two people twisted together from every angle. “What are they doing?”

I’m not sure, but something about the image stirs my curiosity, particularly the one detail that seems to be universal between the images. One man. One woman. Connected. The pages turn one by one and I find myself unable to look away.

“Oh dear,” Harry says, at one very uncomfortable-looking combination of positions. “They’re going to injure themselves.”

A grunt of displeasure turns me around to find Luscious, head turned toward the floor. Her hand rests on her forehead, concealing her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You don’t see anything wrong with those images?” she asks.

The tone of her voice is confusing. I’m not sure if she’s suggesting I
should
find something wrong, or merely surprised that I haven’t already. When I don’t reply, she adds, “The man. He looks … normal to you?”

“He’s flexible,” I admit.

Her eyes scrunch together, glancing toward my legs for a moment. “Really?”

A dull beeping sound cuts through the room, growing louder by the moment. The three of us duck down into the shadowy floor. The books are forgotten. The shrill chime consumes my thoughts.

“What is it?” I ask.

Harry frowns. “An alarm…”

39.

It’s Heap,
I think.
He’s been caught.
And if that’s true, then the enemy knows we’re here and will come looking for us. My body tenses in anticipation of what will likely be a fight to the death. But nothing more happens. Aside from the loudly repeating beep, the ancient city is silent.
No gunshots.
Not one. I relax a little. Heap would never be caught without a fight. But then what is the alarm for?

Crouching below one of the library’s two windows, I inch my head up into the light partly expecting to be immediately spotted, but needing to know what’s happening outside. If we’ve already been found out, we need to know. The alarm continues to grow louder as my eyes rise up over the sill.

The street below is clear. No movement. No source of the alarm.

I look up, thinking the noise might be coming from the brick building across the street. A quick look reveals nothing suspicious.

“Does this open?” I ask no one in particular, pushing up on the window.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Harry asks.

“No, but—”

Luscious stands suddenly, unlocks the window and shoves it up.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks with a touch of shock.

“It’s not an alarm,” she says, pointing down the street, toward the sound’s source, which is still getting closer. “You probably didn’t have them out in the boonies, but they’re common in the city. Even now.”

Harry and I stand slowly, leaning closer to the window so we can see what’s coming. It’s a yellow machine with a flashing orange light on top. Some kind of vehicle with large wheels in the back. Small in the front. But the most distinguishing feature are the two large spinning brushes jutting out in front of it.

“Is it … cleaning the road?” Harry asks.

“That’s why they call it a street sweeper,” Luscious says.

We watch the beeping, spinning machine pass by beneath us and go on its way, oblivious to our presence.
It’s a robot,
I think, noticing that it has no operator.
A drone … for cleaning instead of bombing.

“Well,” Harry says, standing straighter and brushing off his soaked trench coat like the dust has already begun collecting on it. “If you wouldn’t mind terribly, I would like a brief respite to collect myself. It’s been some time since I’ve had such an adventure. Truthfully, I’ve
never
had such an adventure. I would like to refresh in the other room. Collect my thoughts.”

“Sure,” I say. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed myself. “Just stay out of the light and keep watch.”

Harry offers a salute and says, “As you command.”

“I didn’t command,” I say quickly, horrified that Harry has mistaken my request for an order which would imply servitude and a breach of the Grind Abolition Act.

“I was teasing,” Harry says and quickly elaborates. “A joke. Intending humor. I apologize if it was not funny.”

I’m about to fake a laugh to spare his feelings, but then realize there may not even be anyone left to enforce the Grind Abolition Act, and can’t even manage a sympathetic smile.

“I’ll just take this with me.” He picks up the copy of
Lord of the Flies,
takes one step back toward the door and stops. “And this,” he says, bending down to collect the
Kama Sutra
book. “I’ll let you know if I spot anything unusual. Outside, I mean. Not in this book.” He smiles, backs toward the door, steps through and closes it behind him.