relief.
The huge red mushrooms that dispensed the drugs stuck to a strict
schedule. Monday and Friday. Stanton had already gone through
what he'd gathered the day before. Finch didn't think he'd last
another month.
When they left Stanton, he was trembling under his pathetic shelter.
Eyes wide open and dilated. Gone someplace better. Someplace
temporary.
The train station was empty. But way in the back, under the shadowed
arches populated by pigeons and bats, they found a gambling pit.
Almost a grotto, for all the fungus surrounding it. Fuzzy clumps of
muted gold and green hid the entrance. Cockfighting. Card games.
Betting black market goods.
Not much of a conversation. Wyte stuck his gun up against the
lookout's cheek. Convinced her it would be better just to lead them
in. The hardened men and women they surprised, lantern-lit and
reaching for knives or guns, thought better of it, too. But they had
a hard time restraining the roosters. One fire-red, the other a muted
orange. Razor talons moving like pistons.
A heavily muscled man in his twenties who had done some piecework
for Bliss gave him up, quick. Called Bliss a slang word for foreign.
Even though the muscled man looked foreign himself. Seemed to dare
any of the others to argue with him. They didn't.
Wyte and Finch receded into the gloom. Shoved the lookout
inside. Barricaded the door from the outside with a couple of heavy
rusted barrels. Hoped there wasn't a second entrance. But knew
there always was. Got the hell out before anyone could start thinking
about an ambush.
"Fuck, but I hate this job!" Wyte exclaimed, as their boots kicked
up water pooling between rows of bolted-down chairs alongside the
abandoned track.
Said he hated it, but looked a lot happier than at the station.
The address turned out to be a modest-looking two-story apartment
building west of the Religious District. Shoved up against more of the
same, with the billowing dome of the northernmost camp beyond.
Finch recognized it as a former Frankwrithe & Lewden neighborhood.
It had retained some sense of order. Of discipline. A few men with
red armbands stood on the sidewalk like guards. While people
traded goods.
Finch was nervous. Always worried when they went to F&L places
that someone would tag him as an ex-Hoegbotton Irregular. Maybe want
to put a bullet through his brain. He would've liked to have told the
detectives in this sector what they were doing, but the gray caps frowned
on cooperation. They liked to keep the stations as separate as possible.
Make themselves the conduit.
It began to drizzle. Had been damp and warm all day. A mist gathered
around Finch. Moistened his hair, his face. Green sweat had darkened
the armpits of Wyte's shirt and now leaked through his overcoat.
Would Wyte hold up? Truff, please let him hold up.
Inside. Down the hall. Gun drawn. Leaking.
Wyte always went first now. He'd accepted that role voluntarily. It
only made sense.
At the green-gold-purple splotched door of Bliss's apartment on the
first floor, Wyte signaled his intent. The door didn't look that strong.
Wyte would batter it down. Finch would storm through behind him.
A strange mewling whine came from inside. Just strange enough to
make Finch shiver.
Finch mimed, Wait.
Took out his handkerchief, turned the knob.
The door opened.
Wyte was through before Finch could stop him, yelling, "Detectives!
Hands up! Weapons down!"
Finch followed. Heart like a hammer. Gun squirting out a little
between his hands in his hard double grip.
The first four rooms: empty, trashed. Someone had destroyed or
ransacked everything. Tables, couches overturned. Books shredded.
Torn pages everywhere. A smell of shit or rot or both. And blood.
Lots of blood. Sprayed. Pooling. But no bodies. From the looks of the
furniture, the arrangement had always been meant to be temporary.
Or at least, it was now.
In the back bedroom they found the source of the mewling.
"Oh
The huge red mushrooms that dispensed the drugs stuck to a strict
schedule. Monday and Friday. Stanton had already gone through
what he'd gathered the day before. Finch didn't think he'd last
another month.
When they left Stanton, he was trembling under his pathetic shelter.
Eyes wide open and dilated. Gone someplace better. Someplace
temporary.
The train station was empty. But way in the back, under the shadowed
arches populated by pigeons and bats, they found a gambling pit.
Almost a grotto, for all the fungus surrounding it. Fuzzy clumps of
muted gold and green hid the entrance. Cockfighting. Card games.
Betting black market goods.
Not much of a conversation. Wyte stuck his gun up against the
lookout's cheek. Convinced her it would be better just to lead them
in. The hardened men and women they surprised, lantern-lit and
reaching for knives or guns, thought better of it, too. But they had
a hard time restraining the roosters. One fire-red, the other a muted
orange. Razor talons moving like pistons.
A heavily muscled man in his twenties who had done some piecework
for Bliss gave him up, quick. Called Bliss a slang word for foreign.
Even though the muscled man looked foreign himself. Seemed to dare
any of the others to argue with him. They didn't.
Wyte and Finch receded into the gloom. Shoved the lookout
inside. Barricaded the door from the outside with a couple of heavy
rusted barrels. Hoped there wasn't a second entrance. But knew
there always was. Got the hell out before anyone could start thinking
about an ambush.
"Fuck, but I hate this job!" Wyte exclaimed, as their boots kicked
up water pooling between rows of bolted-down chairs alongside the
abandoned track.
Said he hated it, but looked a lot happier than at the station.
The address turned out to be a modest-looking two-story apartment
building west of the Religious District. Shoved up against more of the
same, with the billowing dome of the northernmost camp beyond.
Finch recognized it as a former Frankwrithe & Lewden neighborhood.
It had retained some sense of order. Of discipline. A few men with
red armbands stood on the sidewalk like guards. While people
traded goods.
Finch was nervous. Always worried when they went to F&L places
that someone would tag him as an ex-Hoegbotton Irregular. Maybe want
to put a bullet through his brain. He would've liked to have told the
detectives in this sector what they were doing, but the gray caps frowned
on cooperation. They liked to keep the stations as separate as possible.
Make themselves the conduit.
It began to drizzle. Had been damp and warm all day. A mist gathered
around Finch. Moistened his hair, his face. Green sweat had darkened
the armpits of Wyte's shirt and now leaked through his overcoat.
Would Wyte hold up? Truff, please let him hold up.
Inside. Down the hall. Gun drawn. Leaking.
Wyte always went first now. He'd accepted that role voluntarily. It
only made sense.
At the green-gold-purple splotched door of Bliss's apartment on the
first floor, Wyte signaled his intent. The door didn't look that strong.
Wyte would batter it down. Finch would storm through behind him.
A strange mewling whine came from inside. Just strange enough to
make Finch shiver.
Finch mimed, Wait.
Took out his handkerchief, turned the knob.
The door opened.
Wyte was through before Finch could stop him, yelling, "Detectives!
Hands up! Weapons down!"
Finch followed. Heart like a hammer. Gun squirting out a little
between his hands in his hard double grip.
The first four rooms: empty, trashed. Someone had destroyed or
ransacked everything. Tables, couches overturned. Books shredded.
Torn pages everywhere. A smell of shit or rot or both. And blood.
Lots of blood. Sprayed. Pooling. But no bodies. From the looks of the
furniture, the arrangement had always been meant to be temporary.
Or at least, it was now.
In the back bedroom they found the source of the mewling.
"Oh
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