Veniss Underground by Jeff VanderMeer Page B

some more. They held their faces away from the light, even those who had no eyes. Those who lacked limbs were somehow more normal than those who had limbs.
    Shadrach approached the nearest cripple—a little old man in a faded green suit. He had no legs. He was positioned in a tray on wheels, his pant legs floating out in front. A gray beard accentuated wide cheekbones. His eyes were large and a watery blue. He had the delicate bone structure of a thrush. Shadrach knelt beside him.
    â€œYou're not from here, are you,” said the old man.
    â€œI used to be. Is it all like this? All the levels?”
    â€œYou must have been gone a long time,” the old man said. “It's worse. Every level lower is worse.”
    â€œIs this the line for the organ bank?”
    The man considered him for a moment, bending his head to one side, then said, “Yes.”
    Shadrach stood up.
    â€œHow long is the wait?”
    â€œYou should ask, ‘How long is the line?'”
    â€œAll right then—how long is the line?”
    â€œAs long as the wait.” The man cackled.
    Shadrach reached down and slapped the man. “How long is the line?”
    The man flinched, his eyes wide.
    â€œFour miles,” he said, choking back a sob.
    â€œFour miles! That could take days. I can't wait even an hour.”
    â€œYou looking to donate?” the man said, his gaze running hungrily over Shadrach's legs. “'Cause if you are, I'll do the waiting and you can come back later. We can go in together and—”
    That was the last Shadrach heard, for he had plunged into the tunnel, gun and badge held out before him like talismans against the dark.
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    AT FIRST, it wasn't so bad—they shied away from his gun or his badge or his scowl, as if there were an inverse relationship between where they were in line and their level of resistance. But the closer he got to the front, the more people packed into the tunnel, and the more they resented being asked to move for a line skipper. They clawed and pushed at him with a hatred grown strong in the absence of their flesh, until he had to fire his gun to get them to back off. A mother with child screamed at him and he pulled out John the Baptist, who screamed back until she was screaming for an entirely different reason. A tall, muscular man with only one eye fancied himself a fighter and tried to stop Shadrach, only to find himself on the ground holding his balls. Shadrach was surprised to find meerkats in the line, but confused them by holding up John the Baptist and saying, “I have to find a body for this
now
.” The smell of sweat and urine grew stronger; claustrophobia began to grow inside him. He began to flail out at the multilimbed creation he was fighting. He shouted, he kicked, slowly surging forward even as he felt he was going to drown, and then, when he didn't think he could take it any longer, the tunnel expelled him into the antechamber of the organ bank.
    He faced five burly attendants. A polite secretary. A professional-looking nurse.
    â€œYour name, sir,” the nurse said, frowning, as she consulted the purple holographic list that lay between them like scrawlings trapped in a semi-invisible spiderweb. The secretary's makeup made her look demonic. The burly attendants had scars around their heads, a nervous tremor to their bulk.
    Shadrach held up his badge, pocketed his gun.
    They led him to a door, quite solicitous when faced with Quin's badge.
    â€œGo in here,” the nurse said. “Wait for the surgeon. He'll be able to help you.”
    He opened the door, went through, and gasped as he came out from the antechamber to a raised dais below which lay the main floor of the organ bank and from which rose tiers of columns to a ceiling some two hundred feet above him. Ahead, a series of tall stone archways led the eye onward to a faraway horizon. On first glance, it reminded him of nothing so much as