Zhukov's Dogs by Amanda Cyr Page A

sprawled out across the stairs and stared up at the distant ceiling of the underground. He coughed and rolled over to spit in the canal. When he sat up, he pushed the sopping bangs out of his eyes and shook his head slowly. He spat into the canal again before saying, “We can’t stay here. Granne’s men will come down the river looking for us.”
    “Great,” I mumbled.
    “Oh, don’t bitch. At least we’re alive.”
    I snorted in response. I was too mad to even speak to him anymore. Val got to his feet and held his hand out to help me up, like it would somehow make up for everything he’d just put me through. Had I not been frozen and exhausted, I might have been stubborn enough to refuse.
    We climbed the stairs and walked through the city without a word to each other, our wet shoes squishing with every step. The few people still on the street this late looked either homeless or too drunk to stagger home. They curled around broken streetlamps and tucked themselves in the corners of shop doorways, faces hidden from sight. All cities had their bums, so I didn’t pay much mind to them. The further we walked, though, the more people I saw sleeping outdoors or wandering aimlessly down dark streets.
    I knew that for the sake of my mission, I needed to understand the way the city worked. Was there a reason for all the people in the street? Were they there by choice? Even though I was less than thrilled with how he’d mucked up things at the governor’s home and dragged me along for an impromptu swim, I needed Val to explain.
    Before I could let go of my stubbornness, Val cleared his throat. I looked over to find him staring at me. He turned away and mumbled, “Yeah, there’s a lot of them.”
    “Why are there so many?”
    “Times are hard, Nik. Not everyone down here is healthy enough put in the long factory hours.” Val let out a heavy sigh and looked up at the ceiling as he added halfheartedly, “And, of course, there are those who’ve just plain given up.”
    I scowled. “Given up?”
    “Don’t sound so offended.” Val lowered his voice as we walked past three women sleeping in a drugstore alcove. One of them lifted her head and stared at us until we were around the corner. He continued, “Living underground in a city with no sun, no prospects, and an oppressive douchebag for a governor makes people depressed… Me and the others, we’re trying to change all that. Make life easier.”
    “One broken Fabergé egg at a time?”
    “That was just for fun. We’re a lot more organized when it comes to the real deal,” Val said with a grin. I waited for him to elaborate on exactly what “more organized” entailed, but he didn’t say anything more.
    The silence that settled between us, and the cold wind which swept behind me, reminded me why I was mad at Val in the first place. The cupboard, Tristan, and the unpleasant swim through the canal. By the time we reached the monorail station and collapsed on a bench to wait for the train, I was fuming. I removed my bag and peeled my coat away from the rest of my body, dropping both on the end of the bench with a loud, soggy plop. To my right, Val snickered.
    “What about this do you find funny?” I asked.
    “There’s something in your hair,” Val said. He reached over and worked a slimy brown weed, a gross souvenir from the canal, out of my bangs. He held it up with small smile. I wasn’t amused. Val tossed the weed onto the tracks, and silence settled between us once again.
    If he thought I was going to ignore what happened, he was sorely mistaken. A breeze blew through the station and sent shivers up my spine. I folded my arms over my chest to try and trap in what warmth I could as I asked, “What was that back there?”
    Val said nothing. I glanced over and saw him staring at the weed on the tracks, eyes unfocused. The guy was lost somewhere in his own head, and the longer he stayed silent, the more impatient I became. I swung a leg over to the other side