Gods of Chicago: Omnibus Edition (25 page)

Chapter 42

Keeping to a crouch, Brand moved down the street. They passed shot up houses, and the sounds of battle came louder and harsher to Brand’s ears as they neared Humboldt Park. With Conroy at his heels, Brand kept on toward the fighting. At the end of the block, he pulled up against a shattered sedan and immediately jumped back a pace, nearly tumbling into Conroy as he caught up. A soldier was lying dead on the ground behind the car and Brand had just missed stepping on the man’s outstretched hand. The barrel of a Tommy gun poked out from beneath the body and a pistol still hung on the soldier’s belt, strapped into a holster.

Brand dragged the body aside and lifted the Tommy gun. He struggled to balance it in his hands and settled for tucking it under his arm with his hand on the forward grip.

“You want a sidearm, Conroy?” he asked, noticing the kid’s eyes were fixed on the still holstered pistol.

Conroy nodded, but his face said different, so Brand fished the pistol out and stuck it into his own pocket. The kid seemed to understand. His face fell, but Brand could see it was more from relief than shame.

A burst of gunfire sounded close by and they both tucked in tight against the ruined car. The park was across the street. Brand sneaked a glance around the sedan’s grill and his eyes went misty with grief at the sight of soldiers and citizens fighting hand to hand on the wide open lawn of the park. Some of the people held shovels and other tools, anything that would serve as a weapon. Others had rifles or pistols and kept up a steady exchange with soldiers, trading shots from behind park benches and waste barrels. Down the street to the right, buildings burned at the park’s edge, casting an amber glow over the whole scene beneath the gray clouds above. To the left, a thick grove of trees extended empty branches into the wintery sky.

Tapping Conroy’s shoulder to alert him, Brand edged back the way they’d come and raced for the tree line. The kid followed close behind. At the tree line, Brand scurried up to a thick tree and knelt down, looking out at the park. He motioned for Conroy to keep his eyes open and to follow close. The kid nodded and followed Brand to the next set of trees. Silently hoping Conroy had it in him to stay alert if the bullets came their way, Brand lifted the mic off his belt and opened the channel.

#

Aiden crouched behind his boss at the first tree, then followed him deeper into the grove. As they moved, Aiden thought he should ask Mr. Brand for the pistol he’d picked off the dead soldier. He should have reached out for it when it was offered instead of just nodding. Now his boss knew he was afraid of using a gun, that he couldn’t be trusted. Shame warmed Aiden’s neck and cheeks.

Mr. Brand was taking them to where the soldiers and citizens fought. Aiden hoped they wouldn’t have to shoot it out with anyone. If he got lucky, he’d only need to get pictures with his boss’s camera box. He clutched it against his side, wrapping the heavy coat around it so it would be protected if he fell or had to drop down quickly. Mr. Brand waved a hand to get his attention and Aiden watched carefully as his boss used hand signs to communicate. Aiden knew enough from his scouting days to follow Mr. Brand’s signals. He didn’t know if he’d be able to keep up if the soldiers saw them and started shooting, but he told himself he’d do his best. He had to tell himself that with every step to ignore the raging fear in his chest that a bullet was already on its way to find him.

At the next set of trees, Mr. Brand lifted the microphone off his belt and reported about the scene in front of them. Aiden looked into the park and had to clamp both hands over his mouth when he saw the fighting closer up. Through the maze of trees, citizens and soldiers locked together in a violent dance. Shovels and axes swung in the night air and were followed by cries of agony. Guns fired back and forth farther into the park, and beyond that a ring of burning buildings created a hellish backdrop to the scene. Aiden had never imagined anything like it, even when Mr. Brand had told him, Digs, and Jenkins about the Great War, and he knew those stories were short versions of what really happened. Looking at the terror and mayhem in front of him, Aiden knew why Mr. Brand had kept hush about things.

#

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Chicago City, this is Mitchell Brand reporting from the ground in Humboldt Park. Can you hear the gunfire? I’m going to hold the microphone up now. The battle will speak for itself. You’ll hear voices mixed in with the gunfire. Shouting. Some cries of pain. If any children are listening, this is a good time to get them out of the room.”

Brand lifted the microphone away from his face and held it facing out beside the tree. Gunfire and shouts echoed out of the fray, but they were indistinct. Knowing the sounds of fighting wouldn’t come through unless he was closer, Brand clipped the mic onto his belt again and got ready to move.

“Stay with me, Conroy. And stay down.” The kid nodded and kept flat. Brand crawled out from behind his tree and lifted the Tommy gun to ready position. With the gun up, he felt safer, ready to defend himself and Conroy if he needed to. But the gun was like an unsteady dance partner in his hands, forcing him to contort his body in ways he never had before. At the next tree he glanced back and saw Conroy was right behind him, at the tree they’d just passed. The kid made a motion with his hands, waving like Brand should come back to him. Then he lifted a hand with the forefinger extended and the thumb up. Brand fished the pistol out of his pocket. He looked back at Conroy and the kid’s eyes were still rounded in fear, but his jaw said different this time.

#

Aiden lifted his hands to catch the pistol before it hit the ground. He tucked down as he caught the gun and saw movement in the corner of his eye, through the trees to their left. A dark shape passed between the trees, in the shadows at the heart of the grove. Aiden whispered, trying to get Mr. Brand’s attention, but his boss was focused on the fighting ahead of them.

Then Aiden heard a snarling and saw that his boss heard it, too. Mr. Brand whipped around to face into the grove, aiming the Tommy gun in the direction of the noise. Aiden rushed over to his boss’s side, lying flat and pointing the pistol out into the darkness between the trees, watching for anything that moved, anything he might shoot at. He saw it then, a hulking dark shadowy figure crouched behind a stout tree about ten yards away. Its arms and legs seemed longer than normal, like it was some kind of circus freak maybe. But Aiden knew what he was looking at. He’d seen the same figure in Mr. Brand’s camera box the night that Digs was killed.

Whispering through his fright, Aiden asked, “What is that, Mr. Brand?”

“Keep quiet,” his boss whispered back as he raised up on his elbows to point the Tommy gun at the thing in the trees. Aiden heard a scraping sound, like a piece of steel raking along hard ground. Mr. Brand jerked as he fired the Tommy gun and Aiden pressed himself flat to the ground. The sound of the gunshots bounced against his ears and sent ripples of panic into his guts. The steel scraping sound became a rasping screeching roar and the shadowy figure disappeared deeper into the trees. Aiden had no doubt it was still alive. He’d seen it stand up and take the bullets from Mr. Brand’s gun, the shadowy mass wobbling from the impacts and then stepping to one side like nothing had touched it at all.

Aiden’s heart bulged into his throat. The punchy
chop-chop-chop
of the automatic gun echoed in his ears and he still felt the dull pressure of the shots in his stomach. He flipped around and drew his legs up, pressing his back against the tree. Mr. Brand grabbed his shoulder.

“We’ve got to get out of here. That thing doesn’t take a powder.”

“That’s the thing killed Diggsy. What the hell is it?”

Mr. Brand didn’t reply, but kept his eyes moving between the shadows in the trees. As they sat there, Aiden shivering and too frightened to move a muscle, a speaker crackled to life from overhead.

Looking up through the bare tree branches he saw the outline of an airship, dark gray against an even darker sky. The side of the ship glowed like it was on fire and Aiden wondered how it could be in the air still. Then the ship turned and Aiden saw an image flickering, like a cinema screen, on the side of the craft. The picture showed a soldier being shot down by two negroes whose faces were twisted with rage and hatred.

“What the blazes—?” Mr. Brand said and then cursed.

The speaker crackled again, and Aiden felt his stomach turn when he heard Jameson Crane’s voice echoing out over the night.

#

Brand couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Crane’s voice cut through the sounds of battle from overhead and poured out a litany of nonsense.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, citizens of Chicago City, this is your Minister of Public Information, Jameson Crane. I’m afraid we’ve had quite a mix-up here at the Ministry offices, and I want to apologize for the inconvenience. There are reports of vandals and unruly behavior by certain savage segments of the population. These people are being led by fugitives, including the saboteur, Mitchell Brand. I assure you that officers from the Ministry of Safety and Security are working to correct and contain the damage caused to your city.”

Brand lifted the microphone off his belt and then remembered the monster was nearby. He clipped it back on just in time to see Conroy whipping a glance around the tree.

“It’s gone,” the kid said. “I don’t see it nowhere.”

“It’s not gone. I told you, that thing. . .” Brand remembered how it had stepped out after taking Nitti apart, but leaving enough of him there to have a chat with the G-man who’d come in. It came back though, at the end.

“It’ll be back. C’mon.”

Brand moved them farther away from where the monster had been hiding, which put them closer to the fighting. He kept shooting glances over his shoulder, hunting the shadowy grove for signs of movement or hulking shapes hiding in wait. It was one of these times, as Brand turned to face forward again, that he tripped over the soldier lying in the dark.

The man groaned in pain behind him. Brand wheeled around on his knees and brought the chopper up, ready to fire. The kid had his pistol out, too, aimed at the soldier’s face. Conroy’s hands shook like mad and the gun fell from his grip to land in the dirt. Brand looked at the soldier and saw a dark stain spreading into the fabric of the man’s uniform.

Lowering his gun, Brand turned the soldier’s head as he coughed. Blood sprayed onto Brand’s sleeve and wrist. He put both hands over the wound in the man’s chest, pressing there, trying to stop the blood spilling out between his fingers.

“Conroy, help,” Brand said, his eyes wide and his lips curled back. The kid froze for a second and Brand hollered at him until he jerked forward and added his hands to the task. The soldier coughed again, his head rolling from side to side. He waved a hand in the air and said, through a gasp wet with blood, “Don’t. . .” and then he was gone. Brand sat back on his heels and looked at the dead man, his own pain lining his face and brow, curling his mouth into a frown of regret. Remembering the threat hiding in the trees, he stood, leaving the Tommy gun on the ground, and moved off to the tree line.

The kid caught up to him. “We tried to save the guy, Mr. Brand. I thought you were gonna shoot him, but—”

“I know,” Brand said, rounding on the kid, who recoiled in fear. “Don’t fool yourself, Conroy. It isn’t easy shooting a man. Hell, just looking down the barrel at him is enough for most guys to call it a day. You should know that better than anybody now. And if you ever feel any different, I hope I’m there to remind you that life is worth more than the piece of lead that can end it.”

Chapter 43

Screams and animal snarls came across the night air to Emma’s ears. She aimed for the silos at the far end of the bridge, running from the sounds with Eddie and Marta. Emma followed Eddie into the narrow space between two silos, pulling Marta in with her. The echoing violence and horror retreated into the night, leaving a frigid regret in Emma’s chest. She held tight to Marta’s hand and wished she could free herself from the memory of her father’s voice.

Run, my girl. Run!

“That wasn’t no tramp, Lovebird. That was your daddy. Sure as I’m a black-skinned man, that was your daddy back there.”

“I know. And now he’s dead twice for me.”

“Truth be told. That thing. . .”

“What was it, Eddie? What’d you see?”

“I didn’t see nothing but a shadow. Big and angry, like some kind of bear or wild—”

“Is not bear!” Marta shrieked. “Is the monster. The rat. It kills my father, too. Like it kills anyone who goes against gods.”

“What are you talking about?” Emma asked, flinching as Marta ripped her hand free and backed away from them both. “Marta, wait. Please!”

But the girl had already decided her path. She ran from their hiding place and down the wharf road, disappearing into the night.

“We should go after her,” Emma said. “She’ll get caught. Those soldiers—”

“They’ll catch us, too. We go after her, we’re as good as nabbed and that’s no lie. You know as well as I do. She’s on her own now.”

Emma knew he was right, but for a different reason, she thought. Marta had lost her mother earlier in the day, and her father only moments before. She was just like Emma now. Alone in a city that had no room for her except in places she would never want to be. Emma said a silent prayer that the girl would find someplace safe for the night, even as she knew the cards were stacked against them all.

“Let’s go, Eddie. We’ve got to find that yard if we’re going to get out of Chicago City.”

They moved low and quiet as they could, keeping to the line of silos and ducking into every hiding spot they found along the way. A jeep traveled in the opposite direction along the wharf road across the river. They watched its course, fearing a searchlight would stab out at them. The vehicle turned down the bridge and the light did come on, but it stayed fixed on the abandoned jeep. A radio crackled to life back there, and Emma urged Eddie to keep moving. The soldiers would be occupied figuring out what happened to their comrades.

It took them nearly an hour to cross the five city blocks between the river and the marshaling area for the fair. They stayed south of Polk Street, following the narrow alleys and side streets around Dearborn Station. A light snow began to fall as they moved around the apartment blocks. Emma wished she’d had a chance to ask Marta or her father about tunnels on this side of the river. There must be some, but she had no idea where to begin looking. At the last intersection across from the fair site, Eddie pulled her into a doorway facing Michigan Avenue.

After their long journey through alleys and narrow side streets, the wide stretch of pavement seemed like part of another country. Emma peered across at the yard, a huge open space that extended from the street all the way to the lakeshore. Stacks of equipment and materials filled the yard. In amongst it all, digging machines stood ominous and menacing in the darkness, all angles and corners, jaws and augurs picked out by the Tesla lamps that lined the street.

Canvas tents filled the yard off to Emma’s right, and stretched in a line to the lakeshore. At the far end of the tent line, Emma spied the billowy mass of an airship bobbing in the night sky. A row of them hung there, clearly tethered to the shore below.

A few soldiers walked a shambling patrol around the tent perimeter at this end. Emma spotted at least three men with rifles plodding along in a circuit. As she watched them, a fourth came into view. This last one waved for another to join him and they left the patrol duties to the others. The two departing soldiers laughed and traded sips from a flask. They stepped into a guard shack that stood across an open area between the tents and the piles of material and machinery. Emma waited until the soldiers closed the door to the shack before she spoke.

“What do you bet the people are in those tents?”

“Sure enough, but what good are we gonna be to them?”

“I don’t know, but we’ve got to do something. There’s only four soldiers that I can see. Did you spot any more than that?”

Eddie said he hadn’t. Together, they moved down the street, away from the tents. They avoided the halos cast by the Tesla lamps and ducked into hiding as often as they could. Halfway down the length of the yard, Eddie drew them up in the mouth of an alley. Across the street a lone figure marched a steady beat along the edge of the yard. At the figure’s side was an ironwork hound. Its piston-like legs thumping a threatening rhythm on the gravel and frozen ground. Emma and Eddie waited for the figure and metal dog to pass them by.

“I say we go across now,” Eddie said, motioning at the shadowy street in front of them. “Them fancy lamps don’t spread far enough through here.”

“Let’s go then,” Emma said and moved fast across the dark street. Eddie followed and soon overtook her. She came up behind him in between stacks of lumber and what looked like an enormous pile of jackstraws. Close up, Emma saw it was a mound of rakes and shovels. Nearby was a second pile and next to that a third that looked like furniture, all jumbled together.

“These must be things they took from the neighborhood. From the people’s homes.” Emma moved deeper into the yard through craggy collections of furniture intermingled with masses of old automatons and the little picture crabs. She passed stacked up bed frames of iron and wood alike, dressers and highboys, end tables and parlor chairs. The pieces had been heaped together as though whoever had brought them here began with a plan of organizing the items but was soon overwhelmed and took to putting things wherever they fit or happened to land. Emma examined the nearest chair, which was lying on the ground. One of its legs was broken and an obvious trough in the dirt showed where it had skidded after being thrown from the back of a truck. The fabric on the chair was an older pattern, but the stitching was sound and the woodwork as good as anything she’d grown up with.

“All their lives are here, Eddie. Their homes were burned and their possessions looted for the fair. Anything worth taking, the soldiers brought it here.”

Eddie pulled on her hand and put a finger to his lips. Emma darted her eyes around the piles and into every open space she could see. Finally she saw him, the figure from the edge of the yard. She wouldn’t have spotted him if it weren’t for the mechanical steps of the ironwork hound by his side. The man wasn’t a soldier. Or if he was, he wasn’t in the same uniform as the others. He had no visor covering his face. The man wore a fedora and heavy coat and carried no rifle. He passed their hiding place from a few feet away and kept on through the yard.

Emma and Eddie moved slow and careful, watching their steps to avoid shuffling gravel when they came to it. After a short time moving through the yard, Emma realized the gravel had been laid down to make roadways. She and Eddie crossed one of the gravel paths and left the stolen possessions behind. On this side of the roadway were stacks of tools and rope, lumber, raw materials for building and painting the fair installations. In the nearest pile of material, they came across the tools that would allow them their escape. Emma spotted the box of flares first, but Eddie snapped them up and stuffed his pockets with them.

“We’ll get a good blaze going, maybe some of that furniture.”

“No, Eddie. That’s—” Emma wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. They had to make a diversion, something to get the soldiers and the lone watchman busy enough that they wouldn’t notice two fugitives releasing the prisoners in the tents.

“If they can’t have it in their homes, the Governor sure as hell won’t get to decorate the fair with it,” she said, grabbing her own set of flares before they set off into the yard.

#

They moved fast, with Emma following Eddie through the maze of materials and tools. Their plan sent spikes of worry and anxiety into her chest, but when Eddie threw the first flare she felt the thrill of revolution and let it drown her fears. Emma struck a flare on the chassis of an old automaton and hurled the burning wand into a pile of chairs and ottomans. Wood and fabric caught fire and flames spread throughout the tangle of furniture. Emma let the glow warm her before racing off through the yard to find the next pile.

Eddie had already lit three more stacks before she caught up to him. Beds and highboys burned bright and harsh in the cold night and behind it all came the shouts and cries of the guards. Emma ignited her flare and threw it into an open chest of drawers, enjoying the dance of flames that licked out at the chill air. Turning to the side, she spotted a painter’s wagon. Its deck was laden with buckets and piles of rags. Emma lit her last flare and tossed it into the mound of cloth.

Within seconds fire engulfed the wagon as the rags caught and the blaze spread. Emma and Eddie backed away,  tucking themselves behind a mound of automatons and metal scrap. The paint wagon erupted in a ball of fire and cast embers in all directions. Moments later, with the shouts of soldiers drawing closer, the buckets of paint ignited and burnt a sickly orange, blue, and green. The containers spewed an acrid chemical smoke that made Emma gag. She and Eddie retreated further, moving ever closer to the lakeshore and the airships tethered there.

They made it to the tent nearest the lakeshore. Their path traced an arc out and away from the bonfires they created. As they moved, Emma saw the four soldiers racing in the direction of the flames. The fifth, the lone watchman, was still in the yard somewhere, and she feared he might have stayed behind to guard the prisoners.

Eddie lifted the tent flap aside and they ducked in. Cots filled the center of the space. They’d clearly been set up in ranks, but the people had moved them together around two iron stoves that kept the tent heated. The fires in the stove’s bellies had nearly gone out, and the air at the edge of the tent was already chilled.

“They’d be lucky to get a week’s work out of them,” Emma said. “They’d be frozen after tonight.”

Heads turned in their direction and Emma spied curious eyes in the dim glow from the stoves.

“We’re not soldiers,” she said as she stepped closer to the huddled prisoners. “We. . .we’re friends. Of Nagy and Biros. And—” Emma debated mentioning Peter and his daughter, Marta. Someone might ask what happened to them. The girl’s mother might be among the crush of bodies piled together around the stoves.

“I know Nagy,” a man said. “He drinks too much.”

Someone else spoke in the language of the neighborhood and a third person chuckled. The man who first spoke translated.

“One says Nagy drinks too much, but still he makes best shoes in Chicago City.”

A woman asked, “Why are you here? What is happening outside?”

Emma explained their plan, what they’d done. “We don’t have much time. I’m sure they’ll be back any minute. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“How?” asked the first man.

“The airships. I can fly one, maybe some of you know how. . .” The weak point in their plan now clear, Emma trailed off as her sense of failure deepened and red heat ran through her cheeks.

“How does woman who hides in shadows know to fly?” the man asked. Emma shuffled forward, not knowing what else to say but feeling she owed these people the truth. Eddie came with her and stood by her side. When they were both visible in the fire’s feeble glow, the prisoners came alive with gasps and hushed comments.

“You are woman who helps us escape,” a young voice said. Emma couldn’t tell if it belonged to a boy or girl, she couldn’t see the speaker, so she just nodded and said “Yes, that was me.” She did her best to ignore the memories of her father, dressed as a tramp and making soldiers disappear as if by magic.

“I helped you before, and I wanted to help you again, get you out of this. Eddie and me, we both want to help. But—”

“But soldiers will stop us,” the young voice said, and was echoed by others. Shouts from outside broke in on the scene and the prisoners as one retreated from the conversation. Many bundled themselves together around the stoves and pretended to sleep. Others left wary eyes aimed in Emma’s and Eddie’s direction, but were prepared to lie down again at the first sign of authority.

“Go,” a voice hissed from within the mound of prisoners. Feeling an ache of shame and regret that she could barely control, Emma backed away and finally spun and fled the tent. She stood out of sight of the yard, behind the tent. The icy air blew off the lake and scraped against her face. Eddie came out of the tent and stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. She wanted to shrug them away, just send the whole damn city off her back and away from her, let her crawl into a corner somewhere and forget trying to help people or trying to do anything.

“Ain’t got time to stand around, Lovebird,” Eddie said. Shouts echoed across the open space between tents and the main portion of the yard. Angry voices called for the prisoners to awaken. Then, for the second time during the whole awful day’s ordeal, Emma heard a name that magnified her thoughts of helplessness. A soldier called out around the corner of the tent, shouting into the yard.

“Underminister Wynes, sir? I think we’ve found the saboteurs. They’re in this tent here.”

Emma’s heart leaped into her throat when a familiar young voice cried out in protest.

“No! Is not me!”