Angel Of The City (20 page)

“
So was I.”

She looks surprised.
“You used?”

“
Just once. I was trying to impress a girl.”

The melancholy of the situation evaporates in Abby
’s sudden laughter. “Oh. And was she?”

“
I think scared might be more accurate. I was too. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach for two nights.”

She looks back down the tunnel.
“You said a lot of those people are still tagged. How do they get away with being down here?”

“
Counselors don’t consider Panners high-priority targets. They’re more of a nuisance than anything. Besides, letting people think they’re getting away with something is just another tool to control them. Even better if that something is an addictive drug like Pan or Coal.”

“
So what are you saying? That the Council has something to do with that?”

“
I’m not saying anything. I’m simply pointing out the obvious, that a population preoccupied with fueling their addiction, is a population not engaged in anti-government activity.”

“
But if they wanted people addicted, why make the penalties for illegal drugs so severe?”

“
First rule of manipulation: never let people suspect they’re being manipulated. And remember, the Ministry writes the law; Counselors just enforce it. The two don’t always see eye to eye.” I start walking. “There’ll be scenes like the one we just passed and worse, all the way to the end. Everyone knows what this place is used for, so just being here implies consent. At least as much consent as any Panner is going to care about. Keep your head down and don’t speak to anyone. With luck, we’ll get to the other side with as little trouble as possible.”

A
s expected, in each alcove we find groups of Panners engaging in every imaginable sort of sex and a few I hadn’t considered. Some are no more than unorganized orgies, with bodies thrashing about in the filth and whom we have to carefully step over. Others, like the one we find ourselves in now, look like carefully choreographed theatrical productions.

But it
’s different from what I remember. A certain amount of sadomasochism is to be expected among Panners, especially in chronic users, but there’s an underlying tone of anger now that was absent the last time I was here. The expressions are more hostile, the sex more aggressive. Maybe it’s a reflection of the rioting above us. Some of these people have no doubt been a part of the fighting and have brought that rage with them. This is no place to linger and I’m glad we’re getting to the end.

It
’s the last alcove and unlike the other rooms, this space is lit not by a blazing fire, but by hundreds of candles placed around the floor. As usual, the participants are naked, but this time they’re all wearing masks, most of which seemed to represent some sort of animal. In the dim, flickering light, it’s difficult to tell.

There
’s a commotion from the other end of the tunnel and a man enters, bare-chested but wearing pants. He looks as dirty as the rest and has a girl with him, struggling and with her arms bound behind her. Unlike the other people we’ve seen, she’s obviously not from the Bonifrei quarter. Huenta maybe, from the looks of her, or Aramaic.

She
’s dragged to the opposite wall from us and roughly tossed to the ground. Only now can I see other bound women as well, all with characteristics of different quarters.

“
I thought you said Panners weren’t violent?” Abby whispers.

“
They usually aren’t.” But then, the city’s never come apart like this.

Two women with animal masks pull the
bound woman’s head back as a second man approaches, holding a long thin tube to his mouth. He places one end of the tube near the captive woman’s nose and blows. A thick yellow powder ejects from the tube to cover her face. She chokes and coughs as everyone in the cavern laughs.

One of the bound women has caught my attention. She
’s lying on a soiled mattress on her back, apart from the others. She appears unbound, yet she doesn’t move. One of the men walks past her carrying a lit torch and I get a better look. What I took for filth on the mattress is blood. Her neck has been cut all the way across, her eyes stare vacant up at the ceiling.

I tug on Abby
’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Maybe it
’s the dim light or maybe I was too focused on the girl, but I don’t even pick up his movements until he’s standing right in front of me.

He
’s tall and hairy-chested, with a horse-face mask and the equipment to match. I can’t see his eyes, but that he’s taken a good dose of Pan, is painfully obvious.

“
Just passing through,” I say and try to push past him, but he doesn’t move.

“
You ain’t of the clan,” horse face says.

“
As I said, we’re just trying to pass through.”

“
No, I don’t think so.”

There
’s movement to my left and I duck just as a cloud of yellow powder hits Abby square in the face. Horse-face suddenly has a machete in his right hand and swings for my head, missing wide. I kick out viciously, my heel finding his crotch and something snaps. He lets out a scream and crumples to the floor.

I grab Abby
’s arm in one hand and my gun in the other and run for the tunnel, but the commotion has attracted attention of others. Three men armed with knives and clubs are already blocking the exit with more moving toward us.

Against overwhelming odds, terror can be a potent weapon.

I don’t even slow down as I raise the gun and fire into the head of the middle man. The blow spins him around, flinging blood on his two companions before he falls to the ground. The two remaining drop their weapons as they give way, but a crowd is converging on us. I have five shots remaining and no time to reload.

We reach the
mouth of the tunnel a few steps ahead of the horde and I hurl Abby forward as hard as I can. She falls and slides along the slick concrete a good twenty feet. Turning, I fire blindly into the rushing mob. Three bodies fall and that seems to give the others pause. In the lull, I tear into the trench coat’s inside pocket, pulling out the explosive I’d disarmed from Devon’s place.

The device is a simple handmade grenade, one I
’ve handled a thousand times as a Counselor. Even in the darkness, it only takes me a second to re-arm it. As the mob begins moving again, I toss it into the alcove and run back to Abby.

I open my eyes to total blackness, but slowly my sight adjusts. My ears are ringing and I have a sharp pain in my back. The tunnel is collapsed behind us. There’s some light filtering in ahead. Not the red glow of fire, but sunlight. We must be near the southern entrance. I turn to see Abby sitting next to me, covered in a fine layer of dust. Yellow powder still cakes her face.

She smiles as I
stand, but her hands are shaking. Her eyes are dilated and her lips full and open, almost panting. She reaches out to touch my leg, then pulls back, unsure and confused. Her hands come to rest between her legs and I can see the conflict raging within her. The primal urges Pan inflames can be overwhelming, especially in high doses.

“
Are you hurt?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

I beat the dust off me and kneel, gripping her arms. “Abby, you’re drugged. Do you understand?”

She nods, trembling in my grasp.

“Inhaling makes the effects more intense, but shorter lived. It should be out of your system in a few hours.”

“
I feel strange. I don’t think… I don’t think I can walk.”

It can
’t be more than midday. It’s probably safer to leave the tunnel after dark anyway. “All right. We’ll wait here.”

I sit across from her
as she struggles against the drug. Her eyes briefly close, then open; her tongue flicks out to moisten parted lips; her breathing is deep and ragged. She’s staring at me, fighting to keep her hands from her body. Each touch, no matter how slight, elicits a small gasp. I sense the hunger in her, but I don’t take it personally. She doesn’t want me, she just wants release.

I lean back and close my eyes, t
hankful for the sleepiness that suddenly comes upon me. There’s nothing I can do for her. The drug will have to work its way out of her system and until it does, she’ll have to deal with this herself. The least I can do is give her some privacy.

When I awake, the first thing I notice is that the light in the tunnel has dimmed, but it isn’t completely dark. I can’t have slept for more than a few hours. Abby is lying on her right side, her left arm draped across her face, deep in sleep. Her shirt tails are pulled out, the top now held closed by a single button. Her left leg crosses over the right, her right hand lodged somewhere between the two.

I get up and move a few paces toward the tunnel exit, en
ough so that she’s behind me as I flick on the flashlight. I bang it loudly on the concrete floor before shining the beam down the tunnel. The noise rouses her.

“
It must be near dusk,” I say. “Close to curfew. Hopefully we can get out of here without running into Counselors.” I keep up the chatter, pretending not to hear the sounds of shirttails being tucked in and a zipper being pulled up.

“
Yes,” she says. “I mean, I think we should leave.”

I don
’t look at her until she moves to my side. “You ok?”

She nods.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

There
’s a still a slight tremor to her movements, but she looks like she’s back in control, just a little worn out. Understandable.

It
’s just over fifty meters to the end of the tunnel. The opening above us isn’t sealed, which is unusual. We climb a rusted ladder and exit through the open manhole.

We come up on a street littered with debris and heavy with the burned charcoal scent of a recent fire. Smoke and ashes float in the wind as thick grey bands, forcing us to cover mouths with our sleeves. Ahead, a block of row houses has been reduced
to smoldering pyres of embers.

Abby looks around in dismay.
“Counselors?”

It
’s possible. The Council’s been known to raze sections of the city that were particularly troublesome, but this looks too messy to be a Council operation. “More likely tribes from the Bonifrei. There’s been bad blood with the Chojo for decades.”

She shakes her head.
“Is it ever going to end?”

“
If you mean the ethnic hatreds, then probably not. If you mean the riots, then yes. All riots end. They burn themselves out. This one will too, but not before they’ve had a chance to vent their anger.”

“
It’s so stupid. They should be uniting against the government, not killing each other.”

“
You can’t direct hate, Abby. That’s what this is—pure, savage, hate. Kingston may have set it loose, but he can’t control it.” I know before I say it that it won’t do any good, but I say it anyway. “And killing him won’t stop it.”

She lowers her sleeve
from her face. “He used me, then he set me up. He’s the reason Pen is dead.”

I could remind her that killing
Kingston won’t bring Pen back. That his death by her hands won’t change anything, but that would be trite. Trite, but true. Anyway, revenge is never about changing things, it’s about making good on a debt, about tallying that which is owed, against accounts receivable. It’s a simple calculation whose sum always equals zero. You’d think a mathematician would know that.

I take her by the arm and lead her east.

“The hospital is south of here,” she says.

“
We’re not going to the hospital. Kingston would have abandoned that place just as soon as we headed to Devon’s with the guns. He’s moved again and we need to find out where.”

“
From who?”

“
Jirou.”

She stops abruptly.
“No. No, I can’t involve them anymore than I already have.”

“
Involve them? Abby, look around you, the city is eating itself alive. Everyone is involved, whether they want to be or not.”

I guess that particular aspect of revolution escaped her.
To her credit, she actually wavers. “Do you think they’re all right?”

“
I have no idea, but Jirou is the only lead to Kingston we have. So, we either go see him, or you give this up.

It only takes her a moment to make up her mind. “All right then, let’s go.”

It’s six blocks to Jirou and Meki’s home. Rioters have passed through here as well, though the damage is less. The moonlight reflects large stains, probably blood, on a street strewn with broken glass, bricks and boards. Their home hasn’t been spared either. The glass in the picture window is broken, replaced by a thick blanket nailed to the clapboard. It ripples and snaps in the wind as we step onto the porch.

Abby
knocks. Not surprisingly, there’s no answer. I’m just grateful we weren’t greeted by a shot through the door. After the last few days, I’m not so sure that wouldn’t have been my response. When no one comes to the door, she pulls an edge of the blanket aside and stage whispers her name several times. Finally, we hear the latch turn. The door opens just a crack, the security chain still in place, and a small face appears.

Meki
’s expression is easy to read even in the moonlight. It’s obvious she never expected to see Abby again. She doesn’t open the door.

“
Meki, may we come in?” Abby asks.

“
Abby?”

“
Yes.”

“
They said you were dead.”

“
I know. Meki…”

“
People did this, because they think you’re dead.”

The
unspoken accusation is biting and unfair, but Abby doesn’t protest. She lowers her eyes and says nothing.

I step into the light of the doorway.
“It wasn’t Abby, Meki. It was Kingston.”

“
Meki, Please,” Abby says. “We need to talk to Jirou.”

Meki glances behind her, hesitating, then finally nods. The door closes and I can hear the sounds of locks being pulled back.

We step into a dim room, illuminated only by the red coals of the stove. Jirou sits crouched in a corner, two children sleeping near him. All are wearing coats. The blanket in the window does little to keep out the cold.

I nod as I enter, but he doesn
’t acknowledge me, or Abby. The friendly, trusting look is gone. He’s holding a large axe in his hand and regards me with a detached, somber expression. The side of his face is swollen. The blade is notched and stained with something dark.