Vertical City (Book 4) Read online

  “Whatever, Wyatt. The point is we need to stop worrying about problems and start thinking about answers and a way out. Like now.”

  She spots something and drops to the ground. There’s a single electrical outlet near the wall. She eases a fingernail into a groove on a screw and starts jimmying the socket plate.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “Screwing up. If it wasn’t for me we wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

  “I was the one who was stupid enough to leave you those numbers,” she says, loosening the screws, tugging the socket plate free. “I should never have come here.”

  “It wasn’t always like this, Naia. Right before the city fell I was with part of a group that tried to get out. We were on helicopters headed out to ships, floating cities, when we crashed here, way up on top. It was hard at first, but then it got better.”

  “And then it got comfortable.”

  She looks over at me. She’s got a single strand of copper wire from behind the socket plate in hand.

  “It was never comfortable.”

  “Had to be,” she says. “That’s always what happens. You get in a routine, let your guard down, and some whack-job takes charge.”

  “Odin fooled us. Most of the others thought he was a good guy, a shepherd tending his flock.”

  “If he’s the shepherd, who are the sheep?”

  My face flushes because I know the answer to that.

  “Did the same thing happen upstate?”

  “We stopped it before it could,” she replies.

  She separates the strand and twirls half of it around one finger. It’s almost impossible to see, but she’s able to twist the end until there’s some substance to it. She practices jabbing the ragged end of the wire at an imaginary target and then she pockets the wire at the instant that the door opens.

  Strummer’s there, pistol in hand, along with Odin’s personal bodyguards. There’s pure misery in his face as he saunters over and kicks me in the stomach hard enough to knock the air from me. He does this again and when Naia moves to help, he jams a gun in her ear and runs a hand over her chest, groping her.

  “I’d really love to prang the both of you right fucking here, but the man says it wouldn’t be in the spirit of things on account of how it’s such a special day.”

  “I love special days,” Naia says, smirking, as Strummer produces a length of chain.

  “That’s good bitch, real good, ‘cause you two are gonna be the guests of honor.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Strummer holds the chain yoking me and Naia, forcing us down a rear hallway. He pays extra attention to me, making sure to keep a thumb planted in the small of my back, twisting it occasionally before plucking my ear-lobes.

  “You thought you were so smart didn’t you, Wyatt?”

  “In comparison to what?”

  This confuses him as he yanks the chains, digging the metal into the flesh near my wrists.

  “You put a lie on me when you talked to Odin and Shooter.”

  “You’re the one who ratted me out.”

  “I just reported what I saw.”

  I decide to make a play for whatever scrap of decency Strummer still has.

  “They killed them, Strummer. They killed every person that was ever shunned. I saw it happen!”

  “So what if they did? They were all used up anyway. Decrease the surplus population, that’s what Odin says.”

  “If Darcy was here she’d kick your ass.”

  “But she’s not is she? She’s on the low down, the death frequency.”

  “They’ll do the same to you. Maybe not today, but they’ll turn on you and send you out and hunt you down like a Dub.”

  “Not if I’m part of the elect, ace. Not if I’m in the inner circle.”

  “You’ll never be there.”

  He jerks me to a stop and leans around.

  “Yeah? And why the hell is that?”

  “Because they know you’re a goddamn coward.”

  The punch that comes next is so sudden I barely have a chance to clench my abdomen. Strummer’s fist thumps my midsection and I fight to hold onto consciousness, the blow doubling me over. Strummer rises up, knuckles clenched, readying to finish me off when someone whistles. Strummer steps aside to reveal Ed Brixton who’s fronting a metal door.

  “The hell do you want?” Strummer sneers.

  “I come to take the traitors the rest of the way.”

  “Says who?”

  “The man hisself.”

  “Bullshit. I’m taking ‘em.”

  A ghost of a smile grips Brixton’s face.

  “Fine, chief, you do that, you take ‘em. But when Odin asks why you disobeyed a direct order, I’ll be sure to give him something other than the quick and dirty.”

  Strummer hesitates, grumbles, and then steps aside as Brixton grabs me and Naia.

  “Get your arses moving,” he growls.

  We head through the door into an anteroom. Brixton checks the door to make sure it’s locked and that nobody else is in sight and then wheels on me.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Jumper?”

  “I went outside.”

  “I know goddamn well what you done, prat.”

  “I didn’t break any rules.”

  “Not any of the tier-one, written kind, no. But from what I heard you seen things you shouldn’t have seen.”

  “They’re killing your people,” Naia offers. “They’re letting them out and then shooting them down.”

  “Who in the holy hell are you?” Brixton says.

  “Naia.”

  “Mind your own business, Naia.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  Brixton dwarfs Naia by many inches and probably a hundred pounds, but she holds his look.

  “What did you just say, young lady?”

  “I said kiss my ass which I’ll gladly say again if you’re losing your hearing, pops.”

  “Your friend here’s got a real lip, Jumper.”

  “She’s from another settlement upstate.”

  “And should’ve bloody well stayed there.”

  “She’s right, Brixton. They’re killing everyone they shun.”

  “What you evidence you got?”

  “There’s a building with cameras and computers-”

  “Where?”

  I point.

  “Out past the river and down about ten or so blocks there’s-”

  “That might as well be in outer space.”

  “I’ve seen it!”

  He rubs his face.

  “You know I’m telling the truth,” I continue.

  “What I know is that you’re twenty feet below where most people find themselves when they’re in deep shit.”

  “You knew about what they were doing down near ten. You knew about the people that went missing.”

  His face softens as he leads us down to another door and I hope he realizes the truth of what we’ve told him.

  “They’re evil, Brixton. All of the Administrators.”

  “This,” and here his tone changes from puzzlement to irritation, “from the twat who was doing public relations for Odin only a day or so ago.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “When have you ever been right?”

  He stops before the door and I pin him with a look.

  “You were the one who was telling me how horrible things were. You were the only one who really seemed to know.”

  “So what does that mean? That I’m somehow responsible for you being stupid enough to sneak out at night?”

  “No, but I thought you’d help.”

  “Last time I tried to help people was when the world started to fall. Guess what happened? Everyone died.”

  “At least tell me what happened to the guy who was with us,” I say quietly. “He’s a good friend. Gus is his name.”

  Brixton doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and then:

  “I know exactly who
your boy Gus is. The dogman. I also know what they’re doing to him.”

  “What? What have they done?”

  “It ain’t what they’ve done, but what they plan to do. They’re getting him ready, ready to be shunned.”

  I knew he was going to say it, but a shudder still drives through me when I hear it.

  “And by the look of things, this one’s going to be different. They’re doing something they used to do in the way, way back,” Brixton says. “A ‘Feast of Fools’ they called it.”

  “What’s gonna happen?”

  “Nothing good,” he replies, “cause it’s all in the wind now.”

  He opens the door to reveal an anteroom filled with chairs and a mirror on one wall and guards and a clutch of women who are perusing trunks filled with clothing.

  The women turn and usher us into the chairs despite our chains which are not removed. I watch Brixton fling a final look my way and then exit the room.

  One of the women holds up a flashy red blouse under Naia’s neck and asks:

  “Are you ready, my dear? Are you ready for it to begin?”

  My eyes turn from this and I peer into one of the trunks where I spot two items: a purple robe and a gold crown. My pulse quickens because I know who’s destined to wear them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Straps are secured around our upper bodies, tethering Naia and me to the chairs.

  I’m forced into a pair of brown pants and a red shirt and Naia is wrapped in a white singlet, her hair bunched atop her head, a tiny crystal crown pinned in place.

  “Don’t you look lovely,” one of the ladies says to Naia. “Super cute,” says another with red hair.

  The women buzz around us and the red-haired one leans in close and holds out an old cellphone and takes what I believe used to be called a “selfie” with Naia. Words can’t describe the look of disgust that washes over Naia seconds before she spits in the woman’s face and knees the phone away, shattering it.

  The woman wipes the spittle from her cheeks, her demeanor darkening.

  “You just wait, whore,” she hisses softly, “you just wait and see.”

  They soon leave exit the room, leaving us alone.

  “What the hell did you spit at her for?’

  “Relax,” Naia says, “it’s not as if they’re gonna get more pissed at us.”

  Naia scans the room and bobs her head toward a CCTV camera that hangs like a spider from the far wall.

  “They’re watching,” she says.

  “Someone’s always watching.”

  “Why are we dressed like this?” she asks.

  “It’s part of the ceremony I guess.”

  “I assume your buddy Gus is gonna be the man of the hour?”

  My head sinks and I nod.

  “They’re kicking him out on account of what happened and because he’s too old.”

  A look of recognition washes over her.

  “Jesus, the other people on the videos we saw—”

  “All shunned,” I say.

  “Will they do the same to us?”

  “I think they’ve got something else planned for you and me.”

  For a moment looks like a frightened little girl and then something comes over her and she straightens her back and sets her jaw and whispers:

  “To get out of here we’re going to have to kill some of them, Wyatt. You know that don’t you?”

  My thoughts are so scrambled by everything that’s happened, I can’t respond.

  “If you want to survive and help Gus you’re going to have to help me. You’re going to have to do things you might not want to do.”

  My gaze smokes into hers.

  “I’ve spilled blood if that’s what you mean,” I say.

  “Human blood?”

  “No.”

  “Well I have.”

  “You’ve crossed over a real, live person?”

  “People,” she mutters, eyes on the ground. “I’ve … yes … people.”

  “How could you?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. When the end came we didn’t have a big, tall building to hide in. My dad had his restaurant and me and him and my sister hid in the walk-in freezer when the main power first went out and all the craziness started. Generator was good for a few days and then we heard the sounds outside. Shouts and screams and we thought it was those things, but it was people. The people my dad had served for as long as I could remember. They were scared and hungry and they broke the door down first. My dad tried to reason with them and somebody punched him and then I grabbed the first thing I could find, this cleaver, and I wasn’t thinking, y’know? My sister was screaming her head off and I just swung at the first thing that came at me and it felt like chopping into a melon. I didn’t stop, I couldn’t, and there was blood … so much blood everywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Naia. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “I’m not,” she replies. “I did what I had to do just like I’ve done every day since. And I’m alive because of it.”

  “Well I haven’t done that so I guess I’m weak.”

  “No, just naïve.”

  “There a difference between the two?”

  “They’re spelled and pronounced differently.”

  A tight smile etches her face and there’s a cunning and intelligence in her eyes that makes her look much older than her age.

  “There’s a way we can make this work,” I say. “When the other people find out what’s happened they’re gonna be on our side. They’re gonna … revolt.”

  “I hope so, I really do,” she says. And then, listening to the sounds of footfalls and muffled voices from the other side of the door, “but until the others rise up and help us I’ll do like I always do. Hope for the best and expect the worst.”

  The door opens and Shaw enters.

  “Get fierce, ya turncoats,” he says, “get fierce. The shit’s about to get real.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bennie Katz was his name.

  Big lug with librarian’s glasses on a green chain looped around his neck who was short a front tooth and walked with a lilt.

  He was one of the original designers of the Keep.

  He’s also the only person I’ve ever seen shunned before.

  It happened maybe three years back when Bennie was staring down the barrel of forty and his eyes were getting foggy which meant he was a liability.

  When he forgot his glasses and didn’t properly inspect a re-weld on the metal barricades down on ten, three Dubs somehow slipped through a gap and nibbled on a few of his colleagues. It was time for him to go.

  Gus told me not to attend, said the sight of a shunning would be seared in my memory cells, but I went anyway. They held it in the multi-purpose room on twenty and did it up nice. There was raucous music and lots of food and everyone seemed to have fun, including Bennie, who was drunk or drugged, I couldn’t tell which.

  He sat up on a podium with a loopy smile and people gave testimonials about everything he’d done and tears were shed and then Odin brought the house down by leading us all in an emotional prayer to the powers of the air (whatever the hell that meant).

  And when it was over, when the last song was played (Bennie’s selection of course), Bennie was presented with provisions and gear and taken down to the Flatlands, but not before whispering that, one way or another, we’d all soon meet again.

  Gus’s shunning, at least initially, is nothing like that one.

  There is no festive music.

  No heapings of food or good cheer.

  Just an ocean of angry faces and accusatory eyes.

  Some of the guests are seated, others standing, the space humming with muffled voices and lots of pointing fingers and angry looks.

  I hear whispers and conspiracy theories about why we would do it and about how we tried to let the Dubs in and I want to fight back and tell everyone that it’s all lies, all bullshit concocted by Shooter and the others, but I don’t think any of thos
e assembled will believe me.

  We’re led right through the middle of the crowd, close enough to be heckled and spat at, and then we’re manhandled up onto a metal stage that’s about fifteen feet long.

  The platform is cluttered with heavy chairs criss-crossed with nylon straps and in the center sits a mock wooden throne with the words “KING” marked in yellow paint that’s been seeded with tiny sparkles.

  We’re planted in the metal chairs and strapped in place, a pair of guards flanking us.

  Music is soon piped through a series of overhead speakers, background stuff without lyrics that reminds me of the soulless crap they used to play in building elevators before the Unraveling.

  More people enter the room until there’s about a hundred pissed off building dwellers peering at us.

  Some of the invited are seated, but most stand, milling about, sharing words and gesturing to us. My eyes roam the space before us, eventually finding a young girl who smiles at me and mimes dragging a knife across her neck.

  “She’s a real sweetheart,” Naia says.

  “I thought they were my friends.”

  “If you pick up a dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means it’s funny how quickly people turn on you. How quickly friends become your judge, jury, and executioner.”

  I register this and then look up to see Brixton and Asian Phil and a few others standing at the very back of the room. Brixton exchanges a long look with me and then Asian Phil holds up a balled fist as if in solidarity before vanishing with the others through another door.

  Food is wheeled in along with containers of “Shine” and other homemade booze and people commence to eat and drink. Time passes and the music changes to something sly and festive, old-timey tunes that I imagine were once played before the machines stopped in great ballrooms.

  Gus said they once held these kinds of receptions hundreds of years ago. Back when whole towns would shut down so people could get together to drink and eat and mock church leaders and holy-roller types and at the end of the celebration, somebody would rise up and be crowned “Lord of Misrule.”

  Shouts ring out and food is thrown and my nose pricks up because the place is starting to stink. It’s all the people crammed into a small space, the sweat, the funk of urine and food that’s been left out for too long.