Levels: The Host (27 page)

CHAPTER 31

A
lot of things can go through a person’s mind in a fraction of a second. When the pressure’s on, a fraction of a second is an enormous length of time, mentally speaking. Life slows down under stress, and the brain goes
into overdrive.

Watly’s brain shifted into just that mental high gear as the enormous vehicle approached with Narcolo’s face up behind its windshield. He thought at first his uncle had gone crazy. Stark raving mad. The old man wanted to kill Watly for some reason. Wanted to kill him before the state could—smash into him and crush his body with the huge machine.
Why, uncle? Why?
But there was no insanity in the determined eyes. There was complicity. The eyes said:
Here I am, my friend. Here I am, kiddo!
It was obvious Narcolo saw himself as the cavalry, coming dramatically to the rescue in the nick of time. But how? By mowing down the one he intended
to rescue?

And then, a split second before the bus reached him, just as Ogiv Fenlocki dove to safety, Watly felt a familiar rhythm. A rhythm from his youth. A long-forgotten ritual. Narcolo had a plan after all. Narcolo knew Watly—the old man knew the young one’s past. Well enough, at least. He’d thought the problem through. Yes, the angle was wrong. And yes, the bus was going much too fast, and yes, the street was too crowded—but still.
..
it could
be done.

Uncle Narcolo had plans. Watly was expected to go shin-scrimming. Shin-scrimming like he was a daredevil
kid again.

Shin-scrimming for
his life.

The movement came back to him. Watly sidestepped the bus at the last minute, twirling out on one foot, and reached up a hand, waiting for the cylinder loop to take him. It did—incredibly quickly—one tremendous jerk and Watly thought his arm was being wrenched out of the socket. The bus had him—he was flying along, pinned to the side, one arm on the loop of the blazing cylinder and the other flailing. His legs were bent, toes pointed, as his knees and calves bounced and scraped along the rough road surface.
I’m taller now,
he thought to himself absurdly.
My legs are long, so this
is harder.

There was a loud burst of gunfire from behind. The bus swerved evasively but the sound of slugs rupturing metal still reached Watly’s ears. He could do nothing to hide his body. He felt naked and vulnerable. The bus was racing up the avenue, turning from side to side. Another round of
tunk tunk tunk
as the slugs hit nearby. And then a bad pain came to Watly. Not from the shin-scrimming. No—that would be scraped knees and shins. It was a slicing pain in his left arm—the loose one. A slug had got him, gone clear through his upper arm. His vision blurred. The pain echoed outward from his arm and rippled over his whole body. Burning pain. Ripping pain. More slugs clanked into the bus. Someone was in hot pursuit, probably racing along just yards behind.
Tunk tunk tunk thud
. Another pain. This one in his side. A slug in the side.
How bad was it?
Pain now and lots of it. The arm, the side, the shin-scrimming knees.
..
his body was going.
How bad? How bad was it?
Maybe just a flesh wound in the side. Just surface. Could be just that. But the arm
was bad.

The bus turned wildly and headed down another street. As Watly was jostled and bounced through the turn he caught a glimpse of what was following. No cops—just two unmanned coppers. Apparently it had all happened too fast for the police— they’d been left in the dust. But the coppers were right behind— right behind all the way, putting holes in the bus. And
in Watly.

This side street was narrower so the coppers couldn’t come up alongside. They continued firing, though, and the slugs landed real close.
You can’t lose these guys, Uncle,
Watly thought.
They’ll stick with us till we’re
both dead.

Something wet was dripping down his arm and his side. He wanted to believe it was fuel from the cylinder. Or maybe drips from above. That’s all he let himself think. He felt dizzy and a
little sick.

The coppers fired again and Watly could feel Narcolo strain the old bus’s frame by bringing the speed up even more. The shin-bouncing was almost too much to
fight against.

I’m too old for this shit,
Watly thought.
This is ridiculous. I’ve had just about enough. After all the crap I’ve been through, and now they’ve got me shin-scrimming like some pre-pubescent with a death wish. Shot, no less. Arm and side. I’m a real mess. And the raping machines keep on shooting. Shoot shoot shoot. Give me
a break.

Tunk tunk tunk
—the metal ruptured with ragged slug holes near Watly’s head.
Oh, good,
he thought.
Get me in the brain where it won’t do any damage. A fine idea. And Uncle, how about slowing down to the speed of sound? What do
you think?

Uncle Narcolo
did
slow down. He did more than that. He slammed on the brakes. Slammed them so hard Watly’s body flew up totally horizontal, his arm still hooked in the ring. His side smashed painfully into the top of the cylinder and then he was jerked back the other way—this time by a tremendous double crash as the coppers plowed into the back of the bus. They both exploded on impact and pieces of metal went flying in all directions. Flames lashed out angrily from the rear of
the bus.

Watly hung from the one arm, totally limp. The bus wasn’t moving anymore—it had thumped down to the road surface, dead. The nearby fire was warm, so very warm. Comfortable, really. Just close enough to toast the skin. Watly felt himself slipping into a
pleasant daze.

His mother’s voice was there. “Caring for others,” she was saying, “is caring for yourself. If you don’t care for yourself, you can’t fight for others. That’s the trick, Watly. Be selfish. Be selfish and the love of self will spread to the love
of others.”

Had she really said that? Watly didn’t know.
It’s all catshit. All damn catshit.
Watly was tired and warm. So warm. Burning and burning like in that baby-dream
....

And then there were arms around him, helping him out of the loop. He was loose again. The same arms guided him away from the burning bus.
Leave me. I like
it here.

It was Narcolo. Weak little old Narcolo Caiper, practically carrying his nephew to safety. Uncle Narcolo: the strong one. And then there was a loud boom and an increased billow of warm air at their backs.
A summer breeze.
Narcolo led Watly to the side of the street and up on the sidewalk. Their shadows flickered from the fire
behind them.

A nearby building—three or four limps away—had basement steps. As was customary, the basement was sealed but, crouching low, they could climb into the space under the front stairs and hide in the trash there. They did that, and Watly let himself collapse on a pile of smelly clothes there in the shadows. A few cats scampered off fearfully.
Hey, kitties!

Narcolo knelt over him and ripped at Watly’s bloody jacket to see how bad he
was hit.

“It looks here.
..
” the old man whispered, “looks here like they got you. Shot at you, kiddo. Got you good. Side’s not too bad. Looks to me—to my eye—like it’s just on the edge. Slug skimmed right along by you, really. Gave you a kiss and went away. But that arm. That’s nasty, kiddo. A nasty
wound there.”

Watly looked up as his uncle worked over him. The wrinkled face was expressive, the eyes alive. There was nothing but concern and love showing on the old features. Watly felt a wave of warmth and gratefulness wash over him. A giggle erupted from Narcolo’
s throat.

“Your knees and shins aren’t in great shape either, kiddo. Gettin’ a little on in years for shin-scrimming, huh? These pants of yours’ve been ventilated from the
thigh down.”

“It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Watly said with a
weak smile.

“That it was. That
it was.”

Narcolo tied up Watly’s arm with a piece of his shirt and used the rest of the fabric to throw together a pressure bandage for the injured side. Watly felt really awful. The pain from both his arm and side was intense now—a continuous burn that gained a little kick with each heartbeat. Worse than that, though, worse than all the slug holes in the world, were his knees. His calves. Everything down there. The skin had been scraped off real bad. It wasn’t serious—not at all like the other wounds—but it hurt even more. Too much skin surface scraped—scraped like when you were a kid and kept falling down on a rough sidewalk. Times ten. Times
a hundred.

“You’re gonna be fine, kiddo.” Narcolo winced in sympathy as he applied the makeshift dressings. “
Just fine.”

“How’d you get the bus? Where’d you get the bus?” Watly asked, trying not to look at all the blood he’d just noticed—
his
blood. It had spread in a dark stain over almost all
his clothes.

“The bus? The bus? I commandeered the sucker. Took it over. It had no passengers on it anyway. I flagged it down and threatened the driver. Yes
I did.”

“Threatened? Threatened
with what?”

Narcolo grinned mischievously. “Ho, ho—threatened with.
..
this
.” The old man reached into his wrinkled jacket and pulled out the scalpel—Watly’s scalpel. The donor’s scalpel.
The
scalpel. It was still coated with dried blood from the Alvedine murder. “Found this little gem on my apartment floor after you left me. Right before the cops came looking and put that damn
surveyor’s
lens in, or whatever you call it. Guess
somebody
must’ve dropped this little knife while changing.” He laughed quietly and passed it on to Watly as he spoke. “It came in handy, though. You’d be surprised how quickly people leave you alone if you wave a bloody scalpel at them. Bus driver only needed
one wave.”

“You’re crazy,” Watly said weakly, turning the blade in his hand. “Why? Why’d you
do it?”

Narcolo turned toward the light from the street above. “Heard on the CV. They said they’d got you. Captured you. Bringing you down for execution. I couldn’t have that. No, I couldn’t let that be. Not
at all.”

“How could you take a chance like that with your own life? Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve pulled yourself into it. You’ve—”

“Shhh!
Traffic coming.”

There was a
whish
sound from the street above. Coppers and cruisers. Lots of them. Then footsteps and loud voices. The police had finally caught up. Watly and his uncle held perfectly still. After a moment Narcolo whispered very quietly, “Don’t worry, kiddo. We’re too near the bus. They’ll never expect that. They’ll think we ran away. No one’ll bother looking right next door. We’re
safe here.”

“They couldn’t have gotten very far.” Sergeant Fenlocki’s voice carried well above the others. “You and the unmanneds go west. Melltez and her group are going north and east. You go south with the others. And you, trace me all the routes to Sexsentral—it’s the easiest place to hide. Akral, stay here
with me.”

There was the sound of more footsteps, cruisers moving, and then the sergeant’s voice again, loud. Almost
too loud.

“Akral, let me give you a little lesson in
police work
....
”

“Yes, sir.”

“Some things are very easy, Akral,” Ogiv continued, his voice echoing. “Like this stuff on the sidewalk. What’s that look like to you?
Quickly now!”

Watly gripped the
scalpel tightly.

“It looks like blood, sir.”

Their voices seemed to be getting much closer. Watly felt himself go cold. He couldn’t tell whether it was fear or the loss of blood or both, but he was suddenly freezing. He held the scalpel as if it would magically protect him
from everything.

“Excellent, Akral. Excellent. That’s exactly what it is. Exactly. A trail of blood. Looks brown to the untrained eye, but actually it’s red. Excellent. A perfect trail of blood. Where does
it go?”

“It goes.
..
” Akral’s simple voice was much softer than the sergeant’s, “it goes from the bus all
the way—”

“All the way down those steps there, right, Akral?”

“Yes, sir.”

Now Watly could see the sergeant’s boots and the bottoms of his pants. Behind him, Akral’s thick legs were
also visible.

“Good work, my friend. Good, simple police work. Let’s have a seat on these steps, shall we?” The feet disappeared to the right. “There we are. Quite comfy, actually.”

The sergeant’s voice was coming from directly above Watly and Narcolo now. He was right on top of them. Watly could even hear the slow breaths Fenlocki took
between sentences.

“Rape!”
Watly whispered
to himself.

“Sergeant, a question
....
” Akral
sounded bewildered.

“Not just yet, Akral. Not just yet. Another quick lesson for you. Things are not always what they appear to be. The drops.
..
they could be some kind of sauce—or soup, even. Yes, soup. Perhaps someone went down below us for dinner but spilled on
the way.”

The daylites abruptly cycled down to night setting.
It’s that late?
Watly could no longer see Narcolo’s features clearly there in the shadows. All was dark. Only a faint shaft of light made its way down to their cavelike
hiding place.