Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel (14 page)

Zeika snatched the exchange slip back from him and stuffed it in her pocket, ending the conversation.

"At least let me give you this tidbit of information that might be good for your business--"

She was already shaking her head. "Sorry. I don't deal to Koa."

He smiled, admitting defeat. "Current events, then?"

"I'm listening."

"I've heard rumors that there was a raid last night, at Lot 12 at the borders of Demesne Six."
 

Zeika froze. "Raid?"

"We don't know who moved first, but shots went off," Anthony continued. "Very few of the Civilians survived. Those who did fled the compound."

Zeika set her jaw as the information tore into her calm. First the explosion. And now a raid. In a Protected Demesne. She looked at Manja, and with two fingers, she motioned at her. Just like that, Manja understood, and taking her food and stuffed bear, she ran into the back. When the girl was out of ear shot, Zeika turned back to Anthony.
 

"Who ran the raid?" She asked. "Azures? Koa?"

"No. Civilians."

"How do you know that?"

"It had to have been. Azures know better than to attack a lot in a Protected Demesne; that's political suicide. And Koa... they're a lot of things, but they're still for the people. It was an in-house job. Civilians. I'm pretty sure of it."

"You're 'pretty' sure of it?"

For a moment, she and Anthony locked gazes defiantly. He didn't know who had orchestrated the raid; she could tell from his face. He probably wasn't even sure the raid had actually happened. But he seemed intent on believing what he wanted. Geezers were like that.

Not in the mood for a debate, Zeika changed the subject. "And the bobbleheads?"

"Come on, what do you think? Politicians over there are keeping the situation as quiet as possible."

"CPs?"

Anthony raised his brow, and she knew the answer before he even opened his mouth. The 'CPs' or Civic Police--
their
policemen-- were few and far between nowadays now that the Azures had begun to occupy the Protecteds. But to her memory, there were still a few of them scattered throughout some of the precincts.

"Give it up, Z," Anthony said firmly. "Their phones ring, but no one's picking up, if you get what I mean. I think maybe a couple of them have been through the lot, but there just aren't enough of them to clean things up. The only people who have been through there are a couple families of the victims, trying to retrieve the bodies. And those are few and far between."

Zeika pursed her lips. She wanted to ask more about the survivors, but it seemed that Anthony had more to say.

"It's a gruesome idea to mention to you, but I know you need supplies for your work. Now that Lot 12 is abandoned, you may want to see if anyone left anything behind. Silverware, metal, guns. If the APs haven't cleaned it out already, of course. Once word of the raid gets out to the Protecteds, orders will be high. People will want to stockpile. You'll be a busy girl." He motioned with his chin to the goods on the table.

She nodded. Two breaches of a Protected Demesne in just 48 hours. That no one was raising a stink about this was disturbing. Maybe people were too afraid to believe that their peace had finally been disturbed. Even Anthony seemed to want to believe that the raid was led by a bunch of Civilian punks, and not by Koa. After all, acknowledging the raid meant acknowledging that the war had finally come to their homes. The three Protecteds were poor but still safe as far as safe went in times of war, only because Koa and the Azure military had promised not to ever set foot here. But maybe times were desperate. Maybe Koa was desperate. Maybe the attacks in the Sixth were just the beginning--

BABA!

She leapt up as her mind screeched to a halt. Baba was a free agent worker of the Protecteds, and his most recent contract had put him in Demesne Six. What if he had been caught in the raid?

Anthony furrowed his brow. "What's wrong, girl? You look like the Devil before a cross!"

Gladys whisked back in, setting down glasses of water, but Zeika was already buttoning up her traveling robes, trying to keep the shaking out of her hands.

"I'm really sorry to be in such a rush, Mr. and Mrs. Cartegena. I just remembered something I have to do." She forced a weak smile, trying to flatten the tremors in her voice. "I think the little one and I will continue our route. But as always, thank you so much for your hospitality."

"Oh of course, darling. Thank you so much for stopping by!"

Zeika and Anthony exchanged one last grave look before she called to her sister. Manja ran out from the back, gripping her teddy bear in a chokehold. Zeika packed up the Cartegena's exchange package, two containers of Gladys' food, and finally, Manja. The little girl bade the couple a cheerful goodbye, and then they both ventured back out into the rain.

      
Xakiah felt nothing as the oven thermometer
tinged
gently, alerting him that it was now preheated to 500 degrees Fahrenheit. He grabbed the handle and jerked the oven door open. As the dry heat wafted over his skin, the man cowering at his heels whimpered.

      
"Oh God, please, please don't do this. I'm not a bad person. I'm really not. Please!"

      
Xakiah looked down at the man he'd bound at the wrists and ankles. He pulled the five-fingered oven mitt over his hand.

      
"Goddamnit man, I didn't know how old she was!" The man's desperation went high. "I didn't know any of the circumstances! I didn't know anything! They just told me to pick up someone, anyone--please you've got to believe me! I don't deserve to die like this!"

      
Xakiah looked at him and couldn't help the sudden smile of amusement on his face. The junkie was practically working himself into a froth. He hadn't had a hit of kunja in days, that much was clear. K-heads were always easy to find. Their faces always looked like they had just tongue-fucked a bowl of flour. But they were even easier to squeeze... especially when they hadn't had a fix in a long time.
 

      
"My dealer asked me to bring her, okay? He said he'd trade her for a ticket--
five
tickets!"

      
Xakiah raised his brows. This is what he had been waiting for.

      
"A Koan dealer?"

      
"No. A Jericho. Local.
They
deal out flights around here, okay? No Koa, no how."
 

Xakiah's interest flickered. He hadn't picked up info on a Jericho in a while, but they were some slippery bastards. Traitorous militia nut jobs that hired themselves out to Koa and anyone else on a freelance basis. They trained as doctors, scientists, surgeons-- combining their craft with all sorts of alchemical science. Jerichos were usually rogue Civic Alchemists, who slinked around as the last vestiges of their fallen nation... or they were rogue Azure Alchemists who had escaped imprisonment, who needed a way to survive.

      
"Where is the Jericho?" Xakiah asked. "And don't hold out for the authorities, Haddick. If they get here before I'm done, I'll just kill them too. They are only APs, after all."

      
"I don't know! Really, I don't!"

      
"Right," Xakiah said coldly.
 

      
Without another word, he picked Haddick up and threw him face first onto the scalding oven door. The screams split the air as his skin cooked on the iron surface. Ignoring the k-head's shrieks, Xakiah stepped on his head and pressed his cheek down onto the burning metal. Haddick howled even louder.
 

      
"I'm only going to ask you one more time," he said calmly, "Where is the Jericho?"

      
"Man, please! I'll do anything
―
" Haddick's words eked out between squeals. "Oh, Jesus, please! It burns!"
 

      
"Oh yeah? Then let's pull you up."

      
Rubbery ribbons of skin and flesh had welded onto the oven door, and now peeled away from Haddick's face as Xakiah yanked his head by the hair, his cheek sticking to the iron like melted plastic.

      
"AARRHH!!" Haddick screamed.

      
"Feel like singing?" Xakiah's cool voice cut into the shrieks.

      
Haddick's courage suddenly faltered beneath scorching agony. "He's under St. Ahlan Street! In the old sewer lines!" He bawled. "That's where he'll be tonight! Fuck!"

      
Satisfied, Xakiah released his head, letting him fall back against the stove door. "Much appreciated," he muttered, and he reached into his back pocket to pull out the folds of dark blue cloth.
 

      
The junkie turned, one raw and ragged cheek gleaming up through trickles of blood.
 

      
"W-what are you doing?"

      
Xakiah smiled and unfurled the flag.

      
"Please... I already told you, I was just following orders!"

      
Xakiah grabbed the cowering man, wrapping the blue material around his head.

      
"No! Plea--mm!"
 

      
The k-head's cries muted under the fabric. Xakiah pulled tightly, mummifying the man's face until on the last wrap, the silver of the Monas Hieroglyphica lay flat against his forehead. He gripped the extra folds of the flag in a tight fist, suspending the man's head. Then, he lifted his gun and aimed.

      
"Wait! No! NOO!"

      
Haddick's body went lifeless, and brains and blood splattered over the hot iron. Xakiah released the fabric, letting the junkie's body drop. It fell forward onto its shattered face, bowing on the insignia of the Alchemic Order.

      
A slight sizzle and a strange tangy aroma rose into the air as flesh began to fry... then burn. Haddick should have considered himself fortunate. The one before him had gotten it worse. The Jericho wouldn't be so lucky.
 

      
Xakiah whisked out of Haddick's apartment, heading towards St. Ahlan. He was eager to make the Jericho's acquaintance.

Finally home, Zeika and Manja walked into the fragrance of pressed olives, garlic, and freshly baked pita. The
tit-tat
of a kettle against iron straight-keyed the warm darkness of their hut, coming from the bean-and-egg soup that simmered on the stove. Greens and yams roasted in the oven, and a cornbread pudding rose in a cast-iron skillet. Mama was home, and strangely enough, she had cooked. There was more food than usual, though. Zeika decided it was better not to wonder where it came from.

"You've been gone for almost three days... were you really that angry with me?" A voice said from the chair in the corner.
 

Zeika turned to see her mother sitting, sewing a patch onto a pair of Manja's jeans. She turned to Manja. "Go wash up, okay?"

The little girl nodded and ran into the back, eager to eat, and as soon as she disappeared, Zeika turned back to her mother. As she took Mama in, her eyes softened, and her worry about Baba somehow diminished. Mama's fingers were calloused, probably from her day in the sewing factory, and her arms and face were gaunt. If she had any doubts about Mama being hooked on kunja again, her misgivings were blasted away by the bloodshot eyes that peered out at her.
 

"Your father's fine," Mama continued. "He wasn't caught in the raid, but they're sending workers back home until that gets resolved. I know you came back here for him. Not for me."
 

She stood up, wobbling on her feet, and Zeika felt something inside her break. Her eyes filled with tears, and she crossed the room, locking her arms around her mother.

"I'm sorry for those things I said to you before," she whispered. "I was angry, but you didn't deserve that. I will
always
come back for you."

She felt her mother's hand on her head, warm, as warm as the tears that plopped onto Zeika's cheek as her mother cried. When they finally stepped back from one another, Mama kissed her on the forehead.

"Mama, can we talk about this?" Zeika lifted a small glass tube, no bigger than an inch long, up for her to see. A fine white powder filled it, creating a small blizzard as her movements unsettled the grains.

Her eyes wide, Mama reflexively jammed her hand in her pocket where the phial had been just seconds before. Zeika had picked it when she hugged her.

"Mama, I know it's hard. This life is hard. But we need you. Do you understand? You can't check out on us. Now please, tell me where the rest of them are."

Keys rattled their way into the lock of the front door, and Mama's eyes bounced between it and Zeika. Zeika slipped the phial into her pocket. Baba needed to know, but not like this.

"I'll tell him myself," Mama said. "Okay?"

Zeika nodded tightly, just as the door opened. The rare smell of seashore wafted into the house, and she turned, smiling with relief as her father walked in. Baba was a salt miner.
Today
he was anyway. On any other day, he might have been a construction worker in Demesne Seven or a lumber jack in the upper Sixth, where the trees still grew tall and thick. Didn't matter; nowadays, he was whatever the Civic Order needed him to be to get paid.