Chapter 9
I'd guess that I had been asleep for a few hours before a rhythmic sound slowly woke me up. Breathing. When I realized I wasn't dreaming, I sat bolt upright. Down the hall, Bruce was on hands and knees on the floor.
"What the hell are you doing?"
He didn't look up. He wheezed, and all the muscles in his body seemed to strain as he struggled to breathe. It sounded painful.
I began to worry. "Hey," I tried again, walking over to him. "Where's your inhaler?" I asked a little more urgently.
He shook his head. "Empty," he croaked, and coughed violently.
I looked around, as though some solution might have spontaneously appeared in the other room. I'd never seen him have an attack this bad. I wondered if he might die. "Should I get a doctor?"
"No," he wheezed hoarsely. "It will...pass."
I knelt down next to him, watching him closely. Who buys a goddamn asthmatic slave, anyway? "You sure?"
He nodded. Admittedly, he looked pained, but not worried. This surprised me. If it was me, I'd be a lot more anxious than that. I was, in fact. "Look, maybe you should sit back?" I suggested, as though I had any idea what I was talking about or whether that would help or just make it worse. But I couldn't just sit there and watch. "Just try to relax, alright?" I said in a way that I hoped was reassuring. I'm not sure it came out that way, particularly. 'Reassuring' isn't really my thing.
I put a hand on his chest and pushed him gently back until he was leaning against the wall. I could feel the rattling in his lungs, and his heart pounding behind them. The feeling was weird. I hadn't expected it for some reason. It was like thinking about a brahmin's heart beating. I guess I knew it was there, I'd just never exactly taken the time to think about Bruce's heart.
He watched me suspiciously. I took my hand away, sitting back on my heels. His shoulders rose and fell tensely with each breath. He closed his eyes.
I stared, fascinated by his calmness. He was compliant enough when he was dealing with me, but no one could call him a coward. Apparently this had happened enough that he'd learned to control it, and it was no longer something that frightened him.
Over the next few minutes he somehow managed to get the attack under control. His breathing slowed and quieted until it was almost normal. He opened his eyes, glancing over when he saw me still sitting in front of him.
"Why did that happen?" I asked, now that he seemed more capable of speaking.
"Attacks are sometimes triggered by...exerting myself too much," he replied haltingly. He took a deep breath. "But also by irritants, like smoke in the air...or by emotional stress, and...frequently by lying down too long."
"Frequently?"
He shrugged tiredly. "Once or twice a week. Less when I have adequate medication."
"We can get adequate medication," I said, a little irritated that he hadn't mentioned earlier that he was out. "Will you take me to the chemist tomorrow?"
"Yes," he said, and I could hear the relief in his voice. "Of course."
So that was how, the next day, I found myself in the industrial area in the south end of the city hiding behind a wall in a half-demolished building, sniping raiders through the window and dodging bullets. We'd come down the viaduct again, avoiding the majority of the raiders, but we had to turn off of it in order to get to our destination, which was in the middle of their territory.
"Why does he live in the middle of a bunch of raider tribes, exactly?" I asked loudly over a rain of bullets hitting the other side of the wall and coming through the window. They didn't worry me. The wall was concrete. They weren't getting through any time soon.
Bruce crouched at the other side of the window. "It's a good defense. It makes it harder to get there, but that applies to people who aren't welcome there—" he winced as something banged against the opposite side of the wall, "—as well as those who are."
"Who wouldn't be welcome there?"
"Come out, chickenshit!" a girl outside shouted.
"Could we talk about this later?" Bruce said as there was another stream of gunfire followed by a scream. Probably someone shot by their own ricocheting bullet. That tended to happen when you shot at concrete walls, unfortunately.
I nodded. There was a break in fire. I peered over the windowsill and shot the raider as he reloaded. He hadn't bothered to duck while he was doing so. Raiders weren't exactly known for being master strategists, though. Or even average strategists.
Bruce crept to the third window away from me. He waited until I went to fire again, then aimed out his window at the same time I did. Several more raiders went down. There were only a few left. As Bruce traded fire with two of them, the third reached into his pocket. I didn't need the scope on my other gun to see that it was a grenade. I muttered a curse under my breath. I went to shoot at him, but ducked back behind the wall when bullets hit the other side of the concrete.
The raider pulled the pin, held it for a moment, then hurled it toward the window. His aim was annoyingly perfect. As the object arced toward me, I stood, and just as it was about to pass through the window I caught it in one hand, sent it flying back to the ground, and ducked again in time to dodge a laser that I swear singed off the hair on the side of my head.
There was a shrill cry, and then the explosion. There was a flash of light and the floor shook. Then it was quiet.
I glanced over at Bruce. He was peeking out his window, scanning the street. I looked out my own. Bodies were everywhere. A couple of burnt corpses remained, circling a splotch of blackened, smoking pavement. Nothing moved.
"We should go before more of them come, ma'am," Bruce said in a low voice. He stood, but didn't put away his gun.
"Couldn't agree more," I said, and followed him down the crumbling stairs. The buildings in this area were in worse repair than those in central downtown. I stepped over a body in the doorway as we exited. One of the other raiders must have accidentally shot him in the back, because he was at too extreme of an angle for Bruce or me to have hit him from our windows.
"Shooting the raiders doesn't bother you?" I asked. The quiet around us rose up in response to the sound of my voice. It never seemed particularly loud where we lived, but there must have been some background noise that I hadn't noticed, because now the silence was very conspicuous.
Bruce looked at me sideways. "Shooting anyone bothers me," he said. His eyes swept the area for enemies as we walked. We turned corners at several intersections, and stopped short when we came upon another group of raiders, sitting around a fire burning in a metal trash can. At a glance, most of them seemed to be either high or asleep, which is probably the only reason they didn't notice us right away. We backed around the building beside us before they could turn and see us. Instead, we walked back a block and went around them.
"I'm not like you," Bruce continued unexpectedly, and I turned to look at him. "I can't just...not care about other people." It was not meant as a rude comment, just a matter-of-fact one.
I shrugged. "It's a violent world. The sooner you get over that mindset, the better off you'll be."
"I've tried," he assured me. "We're here."
"Huh?"
He led me around the next corner and we were suddenly standing in front of a ten foot tall blue monster. I jumped, swearing loudly, and raised my machine gun. Before I could fire, the nightkin grabbed my arm and wrenched me sideways. I reached for my knife, but my other arm was also seized before I could draw it. I was sure he could tear me limb from limb with no problem, and I was just as sure that he was going to do just that before Bruce frantically shouted for him to stop. Surprisingly, the nightkin paused, deigning not to rip me to shreds quite yet.
"Why does your master attack?" he rumbled at Bruce.
"It's not her fault," he said breathlessly. "She's had a head injury. She lost her memory. Of everything. She doesn't know you."
The mutant glared down at me silently, his enormous hands still tight around my arms. He probably didn't even notice how tight he was holding on to me. He didn't look crazed, like I thought all nightkin were supposed to be. He didn't even look angry. After a moment, he apparently decided that Bruce's statement was true, and let go of me. He took the gun from me, and held out his other hand. "Your rifle," he said.
"No fucking way," I protested, still in shock.
"I will return them to you when you leave," he said flatly, his eyes half-closed. "You won't be harmed inside if you make no aggressive actions."
Inside? I suddenly noticed the barbed wire and chain link fence behind the mutant, enclosing a very large space with a wide, short building at the far end of it. There was a locked gate directly in front of us.
"We've been here many times before," Bruce said to me. "There's nothing to worry about. I'm sorry—there aren't usually guards posted outside or I would have warned you. He must be increasing security."
I glanced back up at the strangely calm nightkin. Reluctantly, I took my rifle from my shoulder and placed it across his outstretched palm. "Don't break it," I said.
He made a grunt that might have been laugher or a sound of annoyance, I couldn't tell which. Holding my weapons in one hand, he turned and slid open the heavy gate. Then he stepped to the side and promptly ignored us, scanning the streets instead. He didn't take Bruce's gun, I noticed, which had found its way back to its holster.
We crossed through the gate into the compound. The nightkin shut the gate behind us with a metallic rattle.
I turned to Bruce. "Nightkin?" I whispered.
"They're guards. He makes them medication in exchange for watching the grounds."
"Medication?"
"For mental instability. The stealth boys—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know about that," I interrupted. "I didn't know there was a way to fix it."
"Not fix," Bruce said, "but it does suppress some of the symptoms."
I wondered how many of the things were wandering around. They, Bruce had said. I didn't see any. But then, with nightkin, you usually didn't.
The building looked like it had been a warehouse in the past—all square edges and symmetry and unadorned grey walls. There was an intercom on the wall to the side of the front door. Bruce pushed a button and announced himself. For a minute there was silence, then a mechanical whirring and thump as the deadbolt on the door was drawn back remotely. He tugged open the door. Inside was a long, dark hallway. There were light fixtures along the ceiling, but none of them were on. I had nearly bumped into the nightkin standing beside the intercom on the inside before I realized he was there. He seemed less calm than the one outside. The way he growled as I passed said that he'd be baring his teeth even if he did have lips to cover them.
There were even more of the mutants farther inside the building. One grumbled continuously to himself as we passed him. There was another one that must have been twelve feet tall, but was slouched down and staring lethargically at the ground as he trudged along, practically dragging his fingers on the floor. I was sure his head would have collided with the ceiling if he stood up straight.
After a few turns we came to what felt like about the middle of the building. The hall was gradually brightened by a light emanating from a doorway. One last mutant stood against the wall in front of the opening. He glanced at us as we neared but seemed to recognize us, and remained in place as Bruce turned in through the doorway. A weird, sharp smell, like someone had cleaned too much, emanated from the room.
We entered what looked like a laboratory. It was a wide room with counters lining the walls and long tables in rows through the middle of the space. They weren't all the same height, so whoever put them there had arranged them in the most even possible arrangement—from lowest to highest. The tables and counters alike were covered in decanters and beakers and bottles of every size and shape, filled with liquids or powders or nothing at all. A few papers and notebooks were scattered amongst the other objects. There was a sink in one of the counters and a small stove down the way from it, and standing over it was a ghoul in a pair of stained khaki pants and an equally discolored shirt. Because fate had decided there weren't enough zombies in my life, apparently.
He turned away from the pot on the stove as we came in and looked at us in a rather bored way. "Hello, Bruce. Albuterol?" He asked after a moment, turning down the flame.
"Yes," Bruce replied.
"It's about that time, I guess." He left the stove and brushed past us, going down the hallway. "How are you?" he asked, and he and Bruce launched into a small talk. No one bothered to try to include me. As Bruce followed him and I followed Bruce, I wondered how well we knew him, and if we trusted him. I was really wondering about a couple things, but it would sound strange to ask if they were things I already should have known the answer to. It seemed like it would be a good idea to keep the whole 'amnesia' thing as quiet as possible.
After a time, the conversation died, and the ghoul looked over his shoulder as we walked. He looked me up and down briefly. "What happened to your weapons? The only other time you've been in here without them was the first time you came in."
"The nightkin at the gate took them," I said, not without some bitterness.
The ghoul cocked his head slightly, though he was looking ahead now. "Now why would he do that?"
I hesitated, so Bruce answered for me. "There was a slight altercation."
The ghoul slowed to a stop and looked back then. "Altercation?"
Bruce repeated what he'd told the mutant outside. So much for secrecy. Apparently it wasn't necessary. The ghoul looked me over, as if checking for any changes since the last time he'd seen me. There was an overall air of suspicion about the look.
"It wouldn't have happened if he'd warned me," I said defensively. "I didn't know you had a bunch of pet nightkin."
He turned away and continued down the hall. "Yes, it's all your slave's fault."
I ignored the comment. "So who are you?
"Dr. Dawkins," he said shortly, not giving a first name. "Who are you?"
So I hadn't told him, either. I wondered if there was anyone who knew my name, or if it was lost forever. "I don't know."
"What are you calling yourself now, then?"
"I don't call myself anything."
"Ma'am?" he suggested.
"No."
"Lady?" he went on. "Madame? Woman? Smoothskin?"
"I don't care. What's albuterol?"
"Commonly marketed as Breathe-Easy. Back when things were marketed, that is," he muttered.
"Were you there back then?"
"Mind your own business."
I raised an eyebrow, but didn't really care enough to keep asking. "So what's with all the security?"
We turned into another room. Dawkins opened a drawer and took something out. It was a canister like the one in Bruce's inhaler. "The League and the Regulators both want me gone, and they're a lot less likely to try to make that happen with all the mutants around."
Bruce took the empty canister from his inhaler and traded it to Dawkins for the new one, which the ghoul placed back in another drawer.
"Why would they want you gone?"
"Because I'm the maker of half of the addictive chems in Seattle. The League doesn't like me cutting into their profits in the chem trade, and the Regulators, while they don't usually have time to worry about chem abuse, wouldn't mind eliminating their source. But didn't I tell you to mind your own business?"
"You know, you're an awfully rude little man," I said.
"Yeah, you've said that before."
"I wonder if you'd be so brave if you didn't have all the nightkin around."
"Probably not. But I could still function before they were here. Would you be able to keep doing your contracts without getting caught if you hadn't bought a human shield to hold in front of you?"
I stared at him, speechless. He knew. "That—doesn't even have anything to do with... of course I could function without him," I finally managed, snorting. "He's not a shield." And it's not like I even bought him, I added silently. He was there when I woke up. I can't be held responsible for things she did before I got here, can I?
Dawkins stared at me, arms crossed, leaning against the counter. Bruce stood still and silent beside me, as though we weren't talking about him like he wasn't there. He'd put away the inhaler somewhere.
"Thanks for the Breathe-Easy," I said as I turned to leave, not wanting to spend any more time there.
"You're welcome," he replied equally insincerely.
I walked out the door and started down the hall, on the lookout for nightkin. It was a few seconds before I noticed that Bruce wasn't behind me. I paused, then backtracked to the door. When I stuck my head in, he and the ghoul were still speaking in lowered voices. They stopped as soon as I appeared.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Nothing," Bruce said, and quickly moved to follow me.
