Rise Again Below Zero (37 page)

There wasn’t a damned thing she could do about her companion’s suspicions, but she didn’t like the feeling she had that Vaxxine guessed more than she said. She didn’t like that Joe guessed even more.

As if cued by her thoughts, Joe knocked at the door and let himself in. Danny glimpsed a new armed guard in blaze orange vest in the hallway, getting in the way of the nursing staff as they went back and forth.

“So you’re not feeling any better,” Joe said, and pulled up a chair. “What a pity.”

“I’m not?” Danny said, failing to catch on. Then, when Joe and Vaxxine had both stared at her for a while, she stated, “Yeah, no, I’m not.”

“That’s too bad,” said Vaxxine.

“Why are you doing this?” Danny asked Joe, watching his face carefully.

“I’m a doctor,” Joe said, fanning himself with the clipboard he held in his hand. “You are my patient, and you have bleeding in your brain. That’s why you’re having the headaches.”

“Okay,” Danny said. She’d known this since the conversation she’d eavesdropped on the previous day. She didn’t bother trying to fake a reaction.

“We can talk about that later, if you’re not in the mood,” Joe said, nonplussed. He had clearly been expecting a bigger response. But he had something else to say: “Also, there’s something I feel personally responsible for. That boy of yours is in our custody, and you didn’t get to choose what happened to him. Miss Vaxxine here was dealing with you and they sent him off with the other children. He was only supposed to be here for a few hours, but they put him in the system and would not listen to me or Vaxxine when I said he hadn’t been released by you. He’s waiting for the train with the other children. I hold myself personally responsible for that.”

“Don’t stick your neck out too far,” Danny said. “I’m a big girl. I came here with a migraine, you lost my kid, I took a long shower last night, and
now I don’t feel good. That’s it.
I’ll
deal with the boy.
You don’t fucking touch him
.” The calm she’d started speaking with had boiled off and rage had replaced it.

“I wasn’t offering to,” Joe said, taken aback by Danny’s sudden anger. He held his hands up in front of his shoulders like he wanted to push the fury away from him. “I just want to help. Jesus.”

Danny felt helpless and it made her anger worse. Vaxxine dragging the kid here while she was out cold, and now sitting there wide-eyed like she didn’t get it. This amateur doctor with his stolen medical supplies and his smug conspiratorial manner. That damn kid with his big worried eyes, expecting her to save his ass. She felt the fury spit, sizzle, and turn to steam, drying up like the calm that had preceded it.

Then she said, “Listen. We can’t operate as a team. I don’t know how far either of you dare to go. You’ve gone too far already, I think. I can’t count on you. There’s a guard outside this door and they’re looking all over town for a murderer and there’s a trainload of kids waiting to get shipped off, and my kid is not supposed to be there. This is a sick, fucked-up town. The less you’re involved in my business, the better.”

That was a long speech for Danny. She had to suck in air at the end of it and was reminded of the crucified one, the Risen Flesh. Vaxxine looked hurt; the good-guy enthusiasm had gone out of Joe’s face. Danny looked defiantly at them both.

“I see why you’re alone,” Vaxxine said, presently, and wheeled herself to the door. She knocked, and the guard held the door open, his arm extended out awkwardly against the hinge side.

“I’m out. Leaving town,” she said. “They don’t need my kind here, and apparently neither do you.”

Vaxxine rolled away.

“Well,” Joe said, after he’d run out of rhythms to tap out on his clipboard, then spent a while examining the papers on it as if he’d written anything there, “anyway, you’ll need to stay another night for observation. And I think you’re going to have visitors soon, so you’ll want to be prepared for that.”

He gave her a doctorly look as if peering over the top of a pair of bifocals, although he wasn’t wearing any, and then stood decisively and strode out of the room, nodding curtly at the guard. The guard took a brief look at Danny with an expression so blank it felt like an accusation, then swung the door shut.

Danny hardly had time to sort through what had just transpired when she heard boots and voices in the hallway. She feigned sleep, one eyelid parted slightly so she could see watery globs of shadow moving beyond her eyelashes. In case anyone rushed her. Two large men, not dressed like the guards, but unmistakably paramilitary, entered the room without fanfare; the orange-vested guard on her door remained outside in the hall. Another man stepped between them and approached her bedside.

Danny opened her eyes. He was clad in a button-down shirt under a safari jacket and his graying hair was discreetly rinsed to give it a little color. He was about fifty, and slightly overweight, which was something Danny hadn’t seen in a long time. He wore gloves and tinted glasses.

“Cad Broker,” he said, and at first Danny thought he was telling her his job.

Then she understood. “Danny Adelman. What’s going on?”

She sat up, feigning feebleness, and tried not to look like she was ready to attack them if anyone made a fast move. Her new hospital shirt had zebras printed all over it.

“Well,” said Cad, in a way that made Danny think he was going to add “I’m glad you asked!” Instead he paused, collecting the words in his head. Then he said, “My employer—the mayor, if you will, of Happy Town—wishes to speak with you, and he thought tomorrow might be too late, given how things are speeding up around here. If you’re fit enough to be moved, he wants to see you now.”

“He’s coming here?”
He has balls,
Danny thought.
Dead balls.

“No, your doctor has agreed you’re well enough for a short visit. Come with us to the bank.”

•   •   •

Danny didn’t have a choice, of course. The hallway guard joined the others in formation behind her, and she knew there was no way she could do them enough damage to escape. It had been more than three-quarters luck that she’d been able to kill the acolyte in the church before he killed her. He had been a poor fighter, slow and uncoordinated. These men appeared to be seasoned and hard, even the guard with the goofy orange vest.

But her spirits improved when the group reached the stair hall she had crept through the previous night, and they were stopped by a brisk-looking suntanned woman with tan hair. She was carrying a grocery bag.

“You’ll catch your death in those things,” the woman said, rocking her
head back and forth like a music teacher keeping time. “Here are some clothes.”

Danny emptied the bag and pulled the garments on over her hospital pajamas, right there in the hallway—partly to show she didn’t care how she looked, and partly because one more layer would help keep her warm if she did make a break for freedom once they were outside. Jeans four inches too long, a baggy red turtleneck, a brown hooded sweatshirt with a pink sequined unicorn on the chest. She took her sweet time putting on the provided socks and shoes—cheap drugstore sneakers a little too narrow, but a hell of a lot better than hospital slippers. She double-knotted the laces. The woman handed her a musty quilted parka with duct tape patches—a worn-out discard from someone. Danny didn’t mind. With shoes and clothes, she had two of the three keys to any escape: distance and time. The shoes would carry her far, and the warm jacket would stave off hypothermia as long as she kept moving. The third key to escape was opportunity. She was going to have to improvise that part, if it became necessary.

She didn’t see Joe or any of the hospital staff as they left; she suspected the way had been cleared on purpose. There was a big late-model American sedan idling in the school yard. They got in, with Cad in the passenger seat, Danny in the middle of the backseat next to the tan woman (whose name was Nancy), a guard crushed in on either side, and the third guard driving. Despite the cramped quarters, Danny made a show of cuffing her jeans so they didn’t get caught under her heels. In fact she was also leaning forward to take an inventory of the guards’ equipment. If anybody had an unsecured knife sheath or a boot pistol, she might be able to take control of the situation. They hadn’t handcuffed her or put a gun against her neck. She certainly would have.

But they drove through the suburb and got onto the main street (Galveston Avenue, Danny saw it was called), and drove halfway down to the train station past the memorial statue. Several guards were stationed along the route, watching the civilians who moved around the streets. Then the sedan pulled up to the curb in front of the bank opposite the church. It was a typical small-town establishment designed to look reliable and permanent, with granite steps and windowsills and clean white trim, the kind of bank where old people looked at their jewelry in the vault.

Everyone got out of the car. Danny didn’t feel any violence emanating from the men. It didn’t mean a thing, but at least they weren’t trying to
menace her. They were strictly at work. She followed Cad and Nancy into the bank with the three guards in a wedge behind her; they were as watchful as the security detail on a Mexican district attorney.

•   •   •

Inside, they crossed the marble-armored lobby to an elevator hall. The car was already open to the ground floor. The guard in the vest stayed in the lobby, probably not cleared for the inner sanctum; the other two accompanied Danny, Nancy, and Cad up to the third floor. The ascent of the car felt bizarre to Danny—it had been a long time since she rode in an elevator, since before the evacuation of San Francisco. The doors opened on a big wood-framed mirror and a hallway extending to either side. Danny saw her reflection as they got out of the car and turned right: a gaunt, green-eyed face, florid and chapped like a bricklayer’s hands, surmounted by an owl’s nest of red hair. She didn’t look like anything much. Not a warrior. Not the Sister of the Dead.

There was an office at the end of the wood-paneled hall. The glass in the door was frosted, and on the glass was written
MANAGER
in gold paint. Cad knocked on the door with one knuckle.

“Mr. Vormann?”

“Come in,” said a voice behind the door.

They went in.

The office looked like the set of a western movie musical: Everything was brown and heavily ornamented, and the opal glass shades on the brass lamps were green as a gambler’s eyeshade. It was dark in there, the velvet window curtains drawn shut. The air stank of cigar smoke, which wasn’t a surprise—the man seated in a fat red leather chair by the unlit gas fireplace was smoking one. He sat in the angle of the darkest shadow in the room. The only light cast back by his figure was a reflection from his dark-tinted spectacles. Danny immediately understood why he smoked filthy cigars and sat in the dark—if this was the Architect, he was a zero. Mask the smell and hide the face.

“Sit,” he said, and aimed the glowing ash of the cigar at a chair beneath a bright pendant lamp. That put her in the best-lit corner of the room—a disadvantage. She sat in the chair next to it, partly in shadow. One of the guards stepped outside into the hall; the other stood by the door, rocking his heels on the thick green carpet. Nancy and Cad remained standing to Danny’s left, like nervous parents at a school interview. She waited, unwilling to start the conversation.

“I trust you’re not too unwell for this conversation,” he said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Danny didn’t respond. She was here. Get on with it.

“I’m Martin Vormann,” he said. “I am the provisional head of operations here at Happy Town, and helped found the place. The Architect, they call me, because I am the architect of the system. I don’t know how much you know about our situation here, Miss Adelman, but to be blunt it isn’t good.”

He paused to take a drag on his cigar. Danny noted that he didn’t take a breath after his speech: He inhaled directly through the cigar, inflating his chest. Nobody alive could suck down a lungful of acrid cigar smoke that large. She said nothing.

“You see,” the Architect continued, smoke puffing out with each syllable like frozen winter breath, “we have so many parents here who sent their children down the line and now regret it. It breaks our hearts. But this place isn’t safe. There’s an immense swarm not a half-day’s walk from here. We hold the line, but these out-of-control people rioting and making demands and trying to get their children back, it’s taking far too many of our brave guards off the front. We’ve had to triple security and enforce a curfew, can you imagine? If this keeps up, one of these days that swarm is going to spill over our defenses and this town will be overrun. Are you aware of our program for securing America’s future?”

“Government bonds?” Danny said.

“I assume that’s a witticism. The program to which I refer is the Children’s Security and Wellbeing Initiative. Once a child is brought here, we check him or her for illness. The sick go to the hospital in which you have sadly languished; the others are sent once a week to our secure facility.”

“That’s great,” Danny said, so without feeling she might as well have been undead herself.

“You must be curious about that,” the Architect said. “Everyone is. We send the children five miles upstream to a defended island position. It’s a resort, in fact, once a luxury spa retreat for wealthy Victorians taking the train to the West Coast. The place is in the middle of a deep reservoir, connected to the land only by a bridge, and it’s entirely secure. There is also a hydroelectric station at the dam. That’s where we get our electricity from.”

“Excellent,” Danny said. She tried to look like this was all news to her.

“Now you may think I’m joking about the resort, but I am not. The children
are fed, bathed, even given a little education. There’s a heated swimming pool. How about that? Children playing in a heated swimming pool, in this day and age!”

He’d taken a further two cigar-breaths by this time; watching the amount of smoke he consumed made Danny’s guts squirm. Even if he couldn’t feel it, Danny could. His lungs must have been as dry as stale bread. She didn’t know why he was spinning a tale for her. Did he want her to believe what he was saying? Or was he compelled to talk to his victims before he killed them, like the villain in a spy movie?