Yesterday's Hero (22 page)

And then it’s off me and over me. It barrels towards Devon and Kayla. Devon stares, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, horrified. Kayla steps in front, sword drawn. And then they are lost to me, swallowed by the thing.

It swirls around them, pulsing, distorting. Wing after wing after wing unfolds in a great swath. A limb made of limbs. Each individual component flaps madly. Each one in desperate need of a body. Feathers and bone unfold then dissipate, fold back into the mass. Something like a head rises up. A hundred heads. A hundred pairs of black eyes twisted in pain and fear. A hundred gray beaks. The thing writhes and twists. I hear a woman screaming at the heart of it.

Then it rises. It swarms upwards, elongating, fluttering. Kayla and Devon lie in a heap, streaked with blood and guano. Devon is clutching her arm to her stomach, face twisted in pain.

Kayla’s sword is still drawn. But the gleaming blade is free of blood. Not a single avian body part lies upon the ground. And surely, even on an off day, Kayla could filet that bird and serve it up for barbeque in under eight seconds.

And when exactly was the last time I saw her actually stab something?

Above us the pigeon wheels, screeches, circles back for more.

I can’t rely on Kayla. “Clyde!” I yell. “Clyde get something between us and it. That wall spell. Go, go, go!” He lies there on the ground.

“Clyde!”

His arm spasms.

“Clyde! Offline now! I need you here!”

The pigeon is almost on us.

“Clyde!”

Then it’s too late. The mass of bird hits me in the gut, drives me back and down. I roll, face mashed against smooth and fresh asphalt. The stink of tar fills my nostrils. I feel my jacket tear, feel the shirt beneath giving way. I’m dragged by the momentum of the bird, tumbling, grazing down the street, barreled over and over.

I come up on my knees, haul my pistol bodily out of its holster. I point it at the thing as it swarms over Kayla and Devon. Lift you bastard. Lift up so I can fill you full of holes.

“Clyde!” I scream. “Clyde get out of cyberspace now, you bastard!”

“Sonics.” Clyde’s voice is barely audible as the pigeon-thing shrieks and lifts to the sky. “High-fr—” And then the roar of my pistol cuts him off.

The gun kicks in my hands. Blood and feathers explode out of the mass of pigeon. I bring the gun to bear again. It’s easy to hit something this damn big. I fire. Again. Again. The pigeon twists through the air. Up and away behind a building.

I’m sweating, breathing hard. My hands are shaking. I turn, sitting back on my heels. I stare at Clyde, still lying on the street.

“Sonics?” I ask him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Not our usual near-death-experience banter, I admit, but I’m a little on edge right now.

“High-frequency sonics,” Clyde repeats. “Should drive it off.”

“Should? Should?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You know what
would
drive it off? Spearing the fucking
thing on a spell. Now—”

But it’s too late for more chastisement.

It’s down at ground level, streaking down the street towards us. I drop onto my stomach, sight past Clyde, pray that I can aim at least that well.

Boom. The gun kicks. Boom. Again. Die you fucking thing. Just die. Boom, boom, boom. The clot of birds spins and careens, sheds parts of itself. Chunks of bird fly loose, folding in on themselves as they spiral away, folding into nothing, non-events.

The pigeon slams into Clyde, barrels him over. Regardless of internet connectivity, sonics, or spells. Then it’s over him, storming into the muzzle of my gun. I fire. I fire. I fire. I stare into a thousand beaks stretched wide. Boom. And then, moments before beaks and wings strike, it pulls up and away, keening.

Click. My gun runs dry. Click, click, click. I keep firing anyway, finger spasming.

A fresh magazine. I need— I tug one free. I can hear someone sobbing. Devon curled up, fetal, Kayla standing, impotent over her. The old magazine falls away from my gun. There are police sirens in the distance. Too far away.

“Clyde,” I say. “Clyde I need—” But then I look at him. A tall pale-skinned man lies, face staring empty-eyed up at the sky.

Where is it? Where’s the goddamn mask?

The pigeon swoops down. And there. Caught in a jagged tangle of feet. The mask is coming down at me.

I slam the new magazine home. I aim. I try to think of something that Kurt Russell would say.

“Oh shit and balls.”

I
close my eyes. It’s coming at me like a storm. Like a bolt from Zeus’s hand. I stretch out my arms, my gun. The once-pigeon is screeching, is screaming, and then the sound of my gun eclipses everything. I fire. Over, and over, and over. Pulling the trigger for as long as I can. Until it’s on me. Until I’m overcome.

But then, still standing, the screeches crescendo, breach even my pistol’s barrier of sound. And then: a crash, loud and meaty.

I open my eyes. My finger still twitches. My gun still fires. Bullet after bullet slams into the brickwork of a house.

The mass of pigeon lies on the floor, convulsing, shedding parts of itself. Clusters of wings, torsos, feet roll away, shrink, twist down into nothingness. Not all parts stay fresh as they go. I see mold bloom in fast-forward in some, flesh flake away, exposed bone blacken and fragment. It’s like watching stop-motion photography. Months of decay in moments.

I manage to stop firing.

And still the central mass of the bird shrinks. It becomes something more like a single pigeon. And then it is just a bird. Just one, lying dead in the street, its head mashed by a bullet. My bullet.

I killed it.

It takes a moment for that to sink in. It’s over. I took this thing down.

I’m still breathing hard.

I
took this thing down. Single-handed.

Well suck on that, Coleman.

The pigeon is still moving, still twisting and contorting. Not quite dead. Despite the bloody wound that used to be its cerebrum.

And then I realize, it’s not the last spasms of life, but something else. One of its wings contracts, sheds feathers, becomes a stubby furry thing. A chick’s wing. A leg falls off, and rots away before my eyes.

Jesus. I’ve never seen anything like this. What the hell happened to it?

And then… some lateral leap in my head. The bird’s corpse. Parts of it accelerating through time. Parts of it moving backwards. The road. Parts brand-new. Parts so old. Unstuck in time.

And also—the way the pigeon moved. Existed. A wing here. A wing there. Unstuck in space.

Space and time.

Russians.

More proof. This is more proof.

I spin to seek out Clyde. He still lies in two parts. His unconscious body lies in the street. His mask lies a few feet away. I seize it. And maybe with too little concern for his health, and too much enthusiasm for his corroborating story, I jam the mask back on his body.

He arches back, an almost feline contortion of the spine. Beneath the mask I see the jaw muscles stretch, the mouth opening wide. A noise like static blasts from Clyde.

I reel back. That noise. It’s so… it’s… Jesus. Again. Again that word.

Inhuman.

Slowly, the sound becomes something more recognizable, more guttural than electronic. Clyde gasps, collapses, pulls in his legs, folds himself up, and rolls onto his side. He lies that way for a moment.

“Clyde,” I say, reaching out a hand towards him. “Clyde are you OK?”

“Oh,” he says, the word small and hurt. “Oh.” He staggers onto his front, coming up on hands and knees, head down, blond hair hanging down around the mask. “Oh that is why they tell you to shut down all the programs before you turn off the machine. Ow.” He shakes his head. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“Clyde?” I say, as much confused as I am concerned now. He twists, sits. His arm is tremoring hard, I see. “Is everything OK?”

“Just…” He shakes his head a few times. With his good hand he puts the shaking one between his knees, holds it tight there. “Shouldn’t take the mask off while I’m connected to the web apparently.” His arm is still convulsing despite the pressure of his knees. “Give me a moment.”

I glance over my shoulder. Kayla is over by Devon, trying to coax her to her feet. Devon is proving resistant to her efforts.

“Get off me. Get—” Devon shakes, then moans, clutching her arm again. Her clothes hang in tatters. I realize I’m in no better shape.

The police sirens. I remember them now. They’re becoming more insistent. They are very close, I realize.

“Quite frankly the last person’s help I want right now is yours!” Devon’s voice booms out of the whispered argument she is having with Kayla. She turns, sees me looking at them.

“Arthur,” she says, as matter-of-factly as it is possible to say anything when you are streaked with blood, bird shit, and mascara, “please come over here and help me up.”

To my chagrin, I hesitate. There again, given the look I’m getting from Kayla, I think it’s understandable. All the violence I wished she’d do to the pigeon she appears to now be wishing on me.

“We have to get out of here,” I tell them. We have to go back and tell people this story. Prove I’m right.

Devon nods. “As soon as I’m on my feet.”

I swallow. I just need to remember: Kayla didn’t hurt the bird. Surely I’m less of a threat. I get close enough to extend an arm out for Devon to reach. She heaves herself to her feet. She’s still clutching her arm.

“Are you OK?”

She shakes her head. Kayla circles us, on the edge of being predatory.

“OK,” I say. “Clyde can you—”

“Team back at the office, all fully appraised.” He’s standing now, still clutching his shaking arm. Something seems off in the way he’s talking. Something less Clyde-like.

But the sirens sound less than a minute away. We have to leave.

We have to get back and wipe that bloody smirk off Coleman’s face.

“Back off!” Devon snaps at Kayla who is still circling us, sword still drawn. “And put that bloody thing away if you’re not going to use it for anything useful. I mean,” she looks at me, “what is the point of carrying around such an absurdly outdated weapon if you just wave it at stuff like a duster? Not the most effective deterrent. Certainly nobody enjoys dusting. Well, maybe yes, someone does I imagine. But, I think if we were to get properly scientific here. P-values and hazard ratios, and all of those marvelous little numbers, well, I believe we’d find that the only people who thought it was an effective defense against physical attack were missing a few of the more critical IQ points. Don’t you think, Arthur?” She grimaces as she reclasps her bad arm.

I pretend I’m too busy steering her towards another side street to get involved. And thank God, I can see an entrance to the Underground.

“This way.”

And even as I herd the cats, my head is spinning. Proof. Proof that they all saw. If I can get them to acknowledge it. To see it the way I’m seeing it.

Despite it all, I have a grin on my face as we duck out of the rain and beneath the earth.

85 Vauxhall Cross—Temporary MI37 headquarters

I
n the confines of the conference room it is increasingly obvious that Clyde, Kayla, Devon and I smell very strongly of bird shit.

“You’re sure it was you that shot it?” Coleman, standing by an open window, sounds incredulous.

I don’t deign to answer.

“Yes,” Clyde finally says, still trying to hold his right arm steady. “Yes he did.”

His responses to queries have been getting shorter and shorter as time goes by. To be honest I’m scared for him. I’m a little scared of him. He is changing…

And of course there would be changes. He died. He’s a digital copy of a person, but… but… I don’t know what exactly. In some ways he’s the biggest barrier between me and acceptance of my theory. It was his voice that took my argument apart so definitively. It’s his argument that Felicity and Coleman are picking up and running with.

But he’s a friend. And now, with the proof of the pigeon, I have a chance to win him back onto my side. I just need the right opening.

“Kayla?” Felicity stands at the door, hands on hips, not providing the opening.

Kayla works her jaw several times, something between anger and self-loathing. “I used my sword,” she says. “Drove it off.”

“But did you cut it?” I think Felicity is trying to get to the reason behind Kayla’s non-involvement, but it sounds a little like she’s as unbelieving of my active role in the pigeon’s defeat as Coleman is.

Kayla says nothing.

By the window, Coleman is looking smug.

God, I need this opening to come soon. I need us to unite around this proof. We’re falling apart. Felicity’s team. And she is where our buck stops. Our mistakes become hers. And each time one of us makes her look worse, Coleman looks better.

Felicity exhales, hard and angry. “And you Clyde?” She wheels on him. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was just…” Clyde starts. “I was already online. The frequency plan would have worked. I needed more time.”

“Spells, Clyde.” Felicity’s complaint echoes mine. “Would that have worked quicker?”

“Perhaps.” Clyde finally gives a shrug, but it seems perfunctory.

“We are a team.” Felicity looks at us. “You are a team. You have roles. You work because you work together.” I nod along. Neither Clyde nor Kayla move a muscle. “Is that clear?” She asks the room. I nod again. Still nothing from the others. “Is that clear?” She barks it, tendons suddenly stark in her neck, red spots on her cheeks.

And I want to go to her then. I still do. I want to comfort her. I want that prick Coleman with his Cheshire cat grin to fuck off back where he came from so we can do this right, do this our way, fumbling and stumbling as it may be.

But Coleman pushes off the wall, like a mustachioed shark smelling blood in the water. “So this bird,” he says, “this terrifying pigeon.” He shakes his head. “Describe it again.”

“It was…” I look to Clyde. This would sound better coming from someone else. Someone else should say space and time. Because if anyone is going to believe them, they can’t come from my mouth.