Authors: Mark Souza
Moyer was weak and tired, his ability to think dulled. However it seemed to make sense. He nodded. “What about him? He’ll put out an alert the moment we leave.” The agent considered for a moment, and then rounded the desk. Perko didn’t move other than to raise his chin in defiance. “Do it and you will pay with your life,” the boy spat. “I’ll see to it.” The agent hit him in the neck with the wand and Perko jerked into unconsciousness.
“Let’s get going,” the agent said, taking Moyer by the arm.
In the elevator Moyer slumped into the corner. “Are you with Begat?” he asked.
“Yes,” the agent said. He stared straight ahead as he spoke, in a military posture, the product of years of conditioning.
“Did you know Nastasi?” Moyer asked.
The agent nodded his head.
“What’s your name?”
“That is not something you need to know.”
“You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”
The agent was silent a moment. “You would be surprised what you will say when you are tortured. The less you know, the better.”
The doors of the elevator opened. The agent grabbed Moyer’s arm and jerked him forward. The receptionist dodged out of the way then scrambled to get ahead of them to open the outer door. Outside, the sun had crested the skyscrapers and radiated off the red brick of Freedom Circle.
Well into the workday, the Circle was empty. The air was warming, but still Moyer’s breath billowed out in a foggy plume. The cold seized his lungs. A cough rattled his ribs, and then another. His head felt weightless and then dizzy. Moyer collapsed to his knees. The agent lifted him to his feet. “Move. If you draw too much attention to us, we’re both dead. You have to make it across the Circle. Do you understand?”
Moyer nodded. The agent held him up while they walked until Moyer’s legs regained enough strength to support his full weight. The fatherly image of Viktor Perko reflected in shadow onto the bricks of the Circle. Moyer and the security agent walked directly over it. Few noticed.
A pair of agents emerged from Digi-Soft dragging Hugh Sasaki toward the SecurityServicesBuilding. Once inside, Sasaki’s final destination would be the incinerators. “Can we help him?” Moyer asked.
“No, it is too late.”
Sasaki’s face bore the bemused smile of a simpleton unaware he was shuffling across the Circle to his execution. And maybe that was it. Maybe to Sasaki, having lived as a caricature of his former self, death was a better option than living the rest of his life as the butt of jokes. Moyer raised his thumb, hoping Sasaki might see and know he had been successful after all. Sasaki either didn’t notice or didn’t understand.
The Circle seemed to stretch out for kilometers. Sweat soaked Moyer’s clothes and his legs wobbled by the time the station entrance came into view. The agent helped him down the stairs and through the turnstile. “Can I come with you?” the agent asked, “I will be a hunted man the moment Perko or Haynes wake up.”
Moyer remembered how the agent stood at attention in the elevator on the way down from Perko’s office. Obedience was part of agent conditioning. Yet, here he was, a walking contradiction. A paradox. “Give me your wand, agent.”
The agent hesitated. Moyer saw his own reflection in the agent’s visor.
Look into an agent’s visor and you will likely see a criminal staring back
. The image he saw alarmed him. Moyer’s face was pale as fog and he appeared ready to fall down. The agent unclipped his wand and offered it handle forward. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Something inside me says I can. But you have a lot of conditioning to overcome and I’m too sick to trust what I think. For the welfare of many others, I can’t afford to be wrong. I’m getting on the next train. You can catch the one after and hide in Labor Housing. If I see you following me, I’ll use the wand.”
The agent stepped away. Moyer heard a train slowing. The doors hissed open. He backed into an empty car, his gaze fixed on his savior. “Peace be with you, brother,” he said.
“And with you,” replied the agent. Moyer kept his eyes on the agent until the doors closed and the train moved away. He waved goodbye and collapsed into a seat.
A camera peered down from the front of the car. Moyer tipped his hood down to obscure his face. If someone observant was manning the cameras, they might have already recognized him. He decided to get off the tube a few stops early and take a roundabout route to the old train station at the collector field just in case.
Moyer jolted awake when the tube stopped, not having remembered falling asleep. He managed to raise heavy eyelids enough to read the route map. Three stops remained. He staggered from the car and slowly scaled the stairs to the street. A coughing jag emptied Moyer’s lungs until he feared he’d never inhale again. The gray fog of oxygen deprivation constricted Moyer’s vision to a narrow tube. His strength ebbed. He sagged onto the stone landing, his head resting on the stairs. His wind ran out and the vacuum inside his lungs drew his windpipe closed. When he was finally able to draw a breath, it felt as though he’d been underwater for minutes. He coughed again and was fighting for air once more. When the jag stopped, he was soaking with sweat.
At street level, the sun shone on his face. It was mid-day, and he had hours to kill until dark when the collector fields would be cool enough for travel. The streets were empty. Small cafes and markets interspersed among the housing blocks were open, but Moyer had no way to buy anything. Swiping his hologram would signal his presence and bring agents in a matter of minutes.
He found a narrow gap between buildings and settled in to wait amid a pile of discarded boxes. Labor dayshift was hours from ending. Once the streets were bustling again, he could move freely without fear of detection.
The wall across the alley blazed with Begat graffiti sprayed in a kaleidoscope of colors like a piece of old urban art. It was a wound on the gray skin of the city letting the color and joy restrained beneath ooze out.
Moyer concentrated on it, the layers of color, the curving flow of line, the amount of time it must have taken, and the fact that it had never been stripped off. It meant the laborers didn’t mind, and the government didn’t care. Why should they? In theory the laborers couldn’t read it. But they did understand the message, and its presence meant at the very least, that at some level they embraced it.
As he lay back and made himself comfortable among the cartons, Moyer noticed a woman’s body resting motionless in the net stretched between buildings over his head. The dead girl rested face down, suspended in air, like one of the angels painted on the walls of the Mannington church, eyes open and peaceful, mouth turned up in a modest smile. A depressed factory worker had gotten it right and managed to snap her neck on impact despite the net. She was a girl, really — late teens or early twenties. Her body didn’t smell, so her death must have been recent. It was sad. It reminded Moyer of the top floor apartment he lived in with his parents before his mother died. Birds would hit the glass door unaware it was there. A flash of color and graceful flight one moment, limp and lifeless the next without ever knowing what happened.
Moyer felt sorry for the dead girl. Though she had gotten what she wanted, it was awful that anyone so young preferred death over life. But a second consideration troubled Moyer. Someone would eventually come to take her down and Moyer might be discovered. He tried to push the thought from his mind as he was too weak to do anything about it, too weak to find another hiding spot. He wondered if she died from depression due to work conditions, or if she had been pushed to suicide as a result of the Worm and her death was his fault.
Chapter 43
M
oyer awoke, teeth chattering, muscles rigid as porcelain. It was dark. Sodium vapor lamps lit the streets, sapping the color from the graffiti across the way. The dead girl still hung in the net overhead. He found his feet and stumbled into the street. The few people outside hustled along quickly, bundled up against the cold. Moyer walked two blocks to Indiana Street and started west for the collector fields.
Four young men spilled from a bar ahead. They spoke loudly and laughed. One noticed a woman across the street. He hurled a beer bottle at her and narrowly missed her head. The bottle exploded against the building façade and the woman scurried away. The four men laughed.
Moyer turned up a side street to avoid them and headed further away from Michigan Street. Within moments, footfalls echoed behind him. He glanced into the windows across the street and saw the reflection of the four men from the bar stalking him. He turned west again at the next corner. The group also made the turn and followed. They were quietly closing.
He thought of increasing his pace, but feared it might trigger a chase instinct from the pack following him, and a coughing fit from Moyer. He was in no condition to flee and in no condition to fight. Instead, he stopped and waited for them to pass. They didn’t. The four surrounded him and pinned him against a building. “What do you want?” Moyer asked.
The men grinned at one another. “We want whatever you have,” the tallest one said. His breath, sweet and sticky, reeked of half processed alcohol.
“I don’t have any money.”
“What do you have?” The two at his sides tugged at his pockets. The tall one swiped at his hood. His eyes opened wide when he saw Moyer’s gold mesh cap. “Look what we have here. What do you think this is worth, Bobby?”
The stocky man rifling through Moyer’s pockets paused. “Oh, that’s at least two hundred credits. Five hundred if we sell it ourselves.” Bobby reached for the cap.
“Don’t! I need it.”
Bobby hesitated. He snorted out a laugh. “He needs it. What do you think, Rick? Do we care about his needs?”
The tall thug in front of him said, “Not so much?” Someone giggled.
“Well guess what, Bucko?” Bobby said. He reached for the cap. Moyer pulled the wand from under his sweatshirt and struck Bobby, then Rick. Both jerked and fell. The remaining two punks ran. Moyer flipped the hood back over his gold mesh cap, stepped over the man named Bobby, and continued his trek toward the collector fields.
Glass shattered against the bricks next to him. Moyer turned in time to duck another incoming bottle. Two punks scampered down the street ahead of him laughing, leaving their two cohorts unconscious on the walkway.
There was no train at the station when Moyer arrived. He’d missed it because of his run-in with the punks. Frost spread its hoary fingers across the few remaining shards in the station windows. He went inside and hunkered down in a corner, shivering despite the hot sweat rolling down his forehead. He needed sleep, but quaked so violently he couldn’t manage it. And yet as he sat on the floor trying to get warm, he slid into unconsciousness, the wand clutched in his hand for protection.
He awoke once to see light flooding through the windows. From the slant of the beams it was morning. Heat from the collector panels radiated through the walls. Groggy and disoriented, Moyer managed to strip off his coat before slipping once again into fitful, dreamless sleep.
It was dark again when Moyer was shaken. A pleasant face with fine soft features hovered over him. An angel. “Get up Moyer,” she urged. Moyer, pleased that the angel knew his name, thought perhaps there might be a place for him in heaven despite being an unbeliever.
The angel tugged at the lapels of his coveralls. She managed to raise him into a seated position, but it was all she could do and he was so weak he was unable to help. She drifted out of sight into the darkness from whence she came. How ironic that he would be so weak he couldn’t even walk with the angel into heaven.
He heard her again. “We haven’t got much time,” she said. She latched onto his boots and pulled. He was jerked from his seated position and fell back flat onto the clapboard floor. As he was dragged, the floor pulled at his clothes. The rasp of fabric raking across coarse-grained wood filled his ears. Never had he imagined being dragged through the gates of heaven.
Ahead, a section of missing floorboards created a chasm. Moyer’s buttocks dropped into the gap and wedged. His forward momentum lurched to a stop. The angel shifted her grip up his legs locking his knees in the crooks of her arms. She lifted and groaned. He barely budged. She tried again, and quickly flagged. Why didn’t God send a stronger angel?
“Help me, Moyer,” the angel begged. “Lift your ass! Your child is not going to be born without a father.”
Moyer lifted his hips, and she pulled. His rear rose out of the hole and she slid him forward. His back raked over the two edges defining the breach, then his head dropped into the gap and he heard a hollow thud and felt a jolt of pain.
The angel slowly skidded Moyer’s body toward the open end of the terminal. Metal squealed against metal. A large shape filled the station, long and rectangular. The angel lifted his legs and hips and dragged his lower body onto a small platform.
A motor whirred. His body started in motion, sideward. His head skipped along the floor toward the end of the building, picking up speed as if the angel was trying to take flight but couldn’t get airborne. He was accelerating, his head bouncing toward an imminent collision with the terminal wall. The angel loosened her grip on his legs, grabbed his collar, and rolled back raising him up. “Help me Moyer,” she said. “Sit up!” Moyer did, unsure how this would help the angel fly. He tumbled forward and fell atop her. She moaned in pain.
“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” Moyer said. A cold breeze lashed his skin. Darkness gave way to the Prussian blue blanket of the night sky dusted with glittering stars. He was in motion, but getting no closer to heaven. Had he blown his chance, been too weak and clumsy to help the servant God sent for him? Yellow street lights faded into the distance. The angel panted next to him as Moyer drifted back into the soft arms of unconsciousness.
“Moyer!” she screamed. “Stay awake. Stay with me.”
She had tried so hard to save him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered before drifting into the bottomless black pit waiting to receive him.