Into the Fire (6 page)

We hadn't been walking more than thirty minutes when the screens cleared of “individual advertising” and all came up with the same thing:
Infinity News
. Sure enough, the first items up were the looting, the anarchy on the streets and the way the authorities were dealing with it. Over and over they showed the extermination of those in the supermarket, sparing us nothing: looters being lasered and cut down, getting exactly what they deserved. Bleeding corpses sprawled on the ground, close-ups of the most horrific injuries and of the shock and agony of those who suffered them. Mind you, they were careful not to show what kind of store it was, or suggest that people had been trying to take food and not, as one clip led us to believe, luxury items. Not to mention pointing out that some of the dead looters were Detainees, that these people had already committed a Crime Against the State punishable by death. It was pretty fearsome stuff, and if Infinity's aim was to frighten the hell out of faint-hearted looters, to convince people how uncompromising they intended to be, I imagine it worked.

We must've walked a mile or more watching the same images being played over and over 'til it reached a point where I could pretty well tell you what was gonna happen next. Where I knew that that woman was about to be blasted to pieces and her partner would throw himself on top of her a second too late. Where those two people would get melded together with the same shot. And where that young girl died just as she was putting a piece of chocolate into her mouth. It was a bit like being beaten senseless over and over, and
even when I told myself to turn away, within seconds I was looking back again—we all were.

Finally they must've felt the point was well and truly made and they moved on to the next item—though it was connected. At first it was such a shock I really couldn't take it in. Some stretches of street it can be as much as a couple of hundred yards to the next screen, and with the smoke you can't see anything, but as luck would have it, the next story came up just as we were approaching a profusion of screens, big and small.

I turned to Jimmy, then back to the screens, then back to Jimmy again, hardly believing my eyes.

“What the hell are you doing up there?” I asked.

They were images taken from a satellite, looking down on his freckly bald head with his trademark straggle of a ponytail, some with him using his stick, others not, around the Village mostly, though there were a couple out on the tips. It made me wonder if they had photos of us all or if he was picked out later—if they'd been doing a little investigating.

“What've
I
done?” Jimmy protested.

We paused by a screen so we could catch what was being said, though I think we both had a pretty good idea. Sure enough, having shown how they deal with looters—those hell-bent on civil unrest, the “anarchists on our streets”—Infinity were now revealing the person responsible for this situation, the “monster” who destroyed not just the satellites, but Life, Law and Order, and the very fabric of our society. Viewers were advised that “this evil man, this master terrorist with a death sentence on his head” must be apprehended, and that a substantial reward was being offered to anyone who had any information as to his identity—or, even better, could bring about his demise.

I turned to Jimmy. Even in the murky light, I could see all the color draining from his face.

“Oh, Jeez!” he whined. “Not cool!”

Without saying another word, he put his head down and began to peg it away from us as fast as he could. For some reason Gordie found the whole thing highly amusing; he just stood there laughing and pointing after him.

“Jimmy!” I called out.

He stopped and turned around and hurriedly retraced his footsteps. “Big Guy!” he hissed, “are you
crazy
? Don't call out my name like that!”

I apologized—then had something of a brainwave. I dug into my backpack and tugged out one of the parkas we took from the camping store. “Put it on.”

He looked at it for a moment as if I'd lost my mind, then realized what I was getting at: as long as he kept the hood up, there was every chance he'd go unrecognized.

“I'm not scared,” he kept saying as he was zipping it up. “Just aware I'm an irreplaceable part of the team.”

Nevertheless, all the way back to the church, he kept a real watchful eye out. Withdrawing his head as far back into his hood as he could whenever anyone approached, then extending it out again to check all around once they'd gone. In and out, in and out, like some turtle on speed.

When we finally descended the steps into the crypt, the others were so relieved by our return, and what we laid out before them, our meal turned out to be a bit more of an impromptu party. We'd found a couple of wind-up emergency lanterns that, at first lit the crypt just fine, but as they began to run down, they created some disturbing shadows that kept little Arturo looking around as if he expected to see a ghost appear at any moment.

Gordie, surprisingly generously for him, handed out some of the candy bars he'd brought back, not only to Arturo but to Hanna as well; while Delilah started modeling her new parka as if it was an expensive fur, parading up and down, looking about as pleased as she could be. I couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since she'd had any new clothes. Or maybe she'd never had anything but hand-me-downs.

Jimmy'd asked Gordie and me not to say anything about him being on the screen, that it would only cause ructions with Lile. As long as he lay low, it'd be fine, and once the fires died down, we'd be out of this city and it wouldn't be an issue anyway.

For his sake, I hoped he was right, though I gotta say, those Infinity people really worry me. They're not like the Wastelords: a disorganized rabble united only by a love of cruelty and violence, they go deep into everyone's lives, with a power and position they're utterly ruthless about enforcing. They might not know Jimmy's name, but the fact that they were already broadcasting his image just two days after our escape was a real cause for concern.

Lena gave me a big hug when I first got back. I thought it was 'cuz she was so pleased to see me, but she hung on for so long I realized there might be more to it. The rest of the evening she never once left my side. It wasn't like her at all. I mean, we're talking about someone who spent four years alone underground, who had self-sufficiency down to an art form. But over here, on the Mainland, she doesn't look so comfortable. I mean, it's only natural it'd take time to get used to it, but I gotta admit, she was starting to worry me.

Later, warmly ensconced in our new sleeping bag, whispering to each other so the others couldn't hear, I asked her if she was okay.

“Of course,” she replied, a little surprised by the question. “Why wouldn't I be?”

For a while I left it at that, not wanting to make matters worse, but in the end I couldn't stop myself. “Sure?”

“What do you mean?”

She waited, as if she wanted me to clarify what I was saying, but she knew what I was talking about.

“Clancy . . .” she sighed.

“I'm worried about you.”

“Well, don't! It's my problem.”

“So there is a problem?”

“No!” she said, turning over, repositioning herself for sleep, getting used to the confines of the sleeping bag.

She didn't say any more, but I could tell she was still awake. I gave her a squeeze but she didn't respond. “Lena?”

Eventually she gave a long sigh and turned back over, I guess realizing I was going to keep on 'til she told me.

“I'm no use here. Not to you, not to anyone.”

“What d'ya mean?”

“Oh, come on! It was fine on the Island, down in the tunnels, but over here . . . I'm just another mouth to feed, slowing you down, complicating things.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes! You might not want to admit it, but the truth is . . . you'd be better off without me.”

“Whoa, whoa,” I said, tugging her toward me, no longer worried the others might hear. “There are no circumstances in this world in which I'd be better off without you. None whatsoever. D'you hear me? . . . Lena?”

“Yes.”

“Please. Never ever talk about this again. Not for any reason.”

She gave a long sigh, as if she really wanted to say more.

“Promise?” I persisted.

Eventually I felt her nod, but it was a long way from convincing. The two of us opted to pretend the subject was closed and returned to our search for sleep, but I knew the issue was far from resolved: she was still troubled, I just didn't know how deep it went. And you wanna know something? The worst part of it? It's left me with this awful feeling that maybe—just maybe—I can't trust her anymore. Not 'cuz I'm worried she might do something wrong—more 'cuz I'm worried she might try to do something
right
. She might think about sacrificing herself for us, slipping away, heading off on her own, under the impression that it would be what's best for everyone. And to be honest with you, try as I might, I can't think of one thing in this world that frightens me more than that.

I spent almost the entire night turning things over in my mind, thinking of what I could do or say to put her mind at rest, to convince
her she was as valued here as on the Island. Once we got out of this damn city and found ourselves somewhere to live, far away from all this, everything would be so much simpler. Well, maybe that's not doing her situation justice, I mean, no matter how strong she is, it's always gonna be a battle she'll have to fight.

It was just as the daylight was beginning to spill weakly down the stone steps that the idea came to me. At first I kind of played with it, running this way and that, waiting for the jolt when I hit the wall, when I ran up against the obstruction that told me it couldn't be done. But do you know something? I never reached that wall. I couldn't think of any reason at all why I shouldn't at least explore the possibility.

I lay there until the day had well and truly arrived, still churning over what I had to do, and eventually came to the conclusion that, as always with my ideas, the best thing was to just go ahead and do it and that there was no time like the present.

I managed to untangle myself from Lena, unzip the sleeping bag and make my way across the crypt without waking anyone. Later I'd tell them I thought of something else we needed, that we forgot the previous day. Maybe I could pick something up just to support my story? For sure, I wasn't gonna let any of them know what I was really up to. Especially not Lena. I mean, it wasn't gonna be easy, and, actually, I probably wasn't the best guy for the job, schmoozing ain't exactly my specialty. On the other hand, if I did succeed, it would change our world.

Despite my new green parka, I'm aware I don't cut much of a figure these days. I remember when I was working for Mr. Meltoni, I had eleven suits hanging in my wardrobe. Can you believe that? All handmade by a little Moroccan guy down on Union and set off with genuine French or Italian silk ties. Actually, that was Mr. Meltoni's idea. He thought his boys should reflect his status, especially his Number One minder, but after a while, I kind of got into it myself. You feel good when you're wearing nice clothes. They move with you, instead of against you. And I'll tell you something else too, a
big guy badly dressed is nowhere near as impressive as one done up to the nines. You get more respect, which means you don't have to get your hands dirty so often.

Now, of course, apart from the parka, I'm just about dressed in rags, which ain't that surprising given that there was rarely anything in the Island's garbage big enough to fit me. I knew I needed to smarten up if I was going to get where I wanted to go. Not that I had a great deal in the way of options. All I could think of was trimming my beard with the knife Gordie found, then wetting and combing my hair back with my fingers. There wasn't a lot I could do with my pants, but I did clean my boots and give them a bit of a polish on the lining of my parka.

It was better, but not a whole lot. Maybe the most persuasive thing I had going for me was my absolute determination not to let anyone fob me off, but if I thought that was going to intimidate people, I was wrong, 'cuz whether it took ten seconds or ten minutes, in the end, I was still shown the door.

There was one other place to try, and a name that had cropped up several times already that morning. Dr. Evan Simon had his own private clinic but worked two days a week at St. Joseph's—and fortunately for me, that day was one of them. He was one of the new breed: “techno-doctors,” they're called, though compared to those we had when I was a kid, I don't reckon they're doctors at all. There are no medical specialists any more—far as I could see, some of them know little more about the human body than I do. What they do specialize in is programming; it's computers do all the work now, diagnose, treat, operate. You don't need the knowledge of years of medical school, just cutting-edge data. The really gifted ones are those who create their own programs—and apparently, when it came to gifts, Dr. Simon was “the man,” or even something a little
higher
. He certainly required you to fall to your knees when he entered the room, far as I could work out. Whatever, all I knew was, if I wanted a miracle, he was the most likely source, so I headed off through the smoke and debris to St. Joseph's.

I got directions from this young guy at reception who kept looking me up and down as if I'd accidentally rolled in dog crap and he didn't know whether to tell me or not. I knew the first thing he'd do once I was out of sight would be to warn security, and that meant I had to get to Dr. Simon's office as quickly as possible, otherwise I wouldn't get there at all.

I just sailed past his clucking secretary, pushing some assistants out of the way, and barged straight in. He was on the screen, talking to someone—maybe his PA at his private clinic? It sounded like he was going over his schedule for the week. I gotta say, one look was enough to know I was in the presence of real twenty-four-carat-gold success. I might've enjoyed dressing up when I worked for Mr. Meltoni, but this guy oozed his own brand of aftershave: traditional English shirt, country-club tie, gold cufflinks, metallic midnight hair with polished silver sides: the very picture of success.

“What do you want?” he asked, immediately looking over my shoulder for someone to come and rescue him.

I came right out with it. “I need you to look at my partner's eyes. She's blind. I wanna know if there's any chance of her seeing again.”

He just stared at me as if he couldn't believe my nerve. “Have you got an appointment?” he asked, plainly not having heard a word I said.

“She's been blind for four years—got caught in an explosion,” I told him, determined to tell him everything before I was thrown out. “She can't see a thing, but there's no visible damage.”

“Make an appointment. My secretary will tell you my fees and availability,” he told me, again looking to the door.

“I don't have time for that!” I growled, knowing I'd never get back in again, that this was my only shot. “I need you to see her right away.”

“I'm afraid that's impossible,” he replied, getting that look about him, that tone, as if he'd just realized he was dealing with a madman—one who might have to be pacified.

I heard someone enter behind me and saw his look of relief. Security had arrived. “Please,” I begged, 'you gotta help her!'

Two guys grabbed me and one stuck a taser in my back and told me to calm down. They half-wrestled, half-shoved me toward the door, ignoring my efforts at digging my heels in.

“Please! Dr. Simon, you have no idea what she's been through. She's the bravest woman I've ever known—she lived all alone for four years in the old subway tunnels on the Island,” I cried out, willing him to listen. “Can you imagine? Could you've done that? Please, give her a chance!”

There was a pause and I realized that not only had the security guys stopped pushing me toward the door, but Dr. Simon was actually listening.