The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (16 page)

In just a few moments they’ve run two sets of lights, nearly taking out a taxi in the process, and are already passing the twenty-four-hour McDonald’s and service station, shooting up the hill past the Fourex brewery, leaving mayhem in their wake. Cars are piled up at both intersections, their horns blaring, shattered windscreens glittering.

“Their driving’s almost as bad as Sam’s,” I say. Lissa drifts between the road and me. She looks tired and tenuous, her skin lit with the mortuary-blue pallor of the dead, and I wonder how much longer I’ll have her with me. Not too much, I reckon. I ram that thought down, push it as deep as I can.

“Sam was flying, wasn’t she?” Lissa says.

“Don’t you mean, ‘Miss Edwards’?”

Lissa’s eyes flare, but she doesn’t take the bait. “She and Don should be at least a couple of suburbs away by now.”

I hope Lissa’s right, but it’s out of my control. “We need to keep moving,” I say. Then, in the cold and the hard inner-city light, I’m suddenly dizzy. I stagger with the weight of everything; all those pomps. The ground spins most unhelpfully.

“You right?” Lissa’s hand stretches out toward me but she doesn’t touch, of course.

I take a deep breath, find some sort of center, and steady myself. Shit, I need food, anything. A Mars Bar is not enough to keep you moving for twelve hours, and I’d been running, hung-over, and on empty all day. Could I have picked a worse night to get so damn drunk?

“Yeah.” I’ve started shivering, I am most definitely not all right. “I need to sleep.” Exhaustion kneecaps me with an unfamiliar brutality. I almost convince myself that I could stumble down to the service station, or the McDonald’s—both are open—but it’s too soon on the tail of the passing Stirrers. Besides, those few hundred meters seem much, much further now. I need some rest, and a bit more time.

I look at my watch. It’s 2:30. Dawn is a long way off. I walk under the train overpass, find a spot hidden and away from the road and try to ignore the smells of the various things that have lived and died, and leaked down here. Then I curl up under my coat, with my head on my bag, which makes a less than serviceable pillow.

“If I don’t wake up,” I say, smiling weakly, “well, see you in Hell.”

“If you don’t wake up, I don’t know how I’m going to get there,” Lissa says.

“You’re resourceful, you’ll find a way.”

I slip—no, crash—arms flailing, into the terrible dark that I have no doubt will fill my dreams for the rest of whatever short fraction of life I have left. There’s only sleep and running for me now. I’m too tired for self-pity, though, so that’s one blessing at least.

I wake to the sibilant bass rhythms of passing traffic, with the bad taste of rough sleep in my mouth, and a host of bleak memories in my head. This is the first day that my parents weren’t alive to see the dawn. I stamp down on that wounding thought as quick as I can.

My watch says nine, and the light streaking into my sleeping pit agrees with it. On the other hand, my body feels like it’s still 2:30 am and I’ve been on a bender. I stretch. Bones crack in my neck and there’s drool caked on my coat collar. How delightful.

“That was hardly restful,” Lissa says.

“For you or for me?”

“I wouldn’t call this resting in peace, would you?”

She points at the space around me, and there is blood everywhere. Portents. Stirrers. I’m not surprised but it’s unsettling to see all that gore drawn here from the Underworld. It’s a warning and a prophecy. Well, I’ve seen blood before, even if it’s usually in the bathroom, or my own, curling down my fist, potent and ready to stall a Stirrer.

“I slept. That’s one thing, no matter how poorly. How’s my hair?”

“You really want to know?”

“You’re chirpy.”

“What can I say? I am—I
was
—a morning person.”

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know I was once a person who hated morning people.”

“What changed your mind?” Her face draws in close to mine, well, as close as she can comfortably get without me pomping her. I’m treated to the scrutiny of her wonderful eyes. My cheeks burn.

My stomach growls. There’s nothing like a stomach gurgle to change the subject—and this one is thunderous, a sonic boom of hunger. I rub my stomach. “I really need to eat.”

Lissa gestures at all the blood. “Even with all this?”

I nod. “I can’t help it. I
have
to eat.”

Which is how we end up at a dodgy cafe in Milton, eating a greasy breakfast with black coffee. It’s busy, but then again it’s Thursday morning. The whole place smells like fat—cooking fat, cooling fat and partially digested fat being breathed out in conversation. That’s the odor of the twenty-first century. I grin and bite down on my muffin.

The city’s covered with a smoky haze. There have been grass fires around the airport. Spring’s always dry and smoky in Brisbane—storm season’s a good month off—and my sinuses are ringing. Everything about me is sore and weary, and even the sugar and coffee isn’t doing much to help that. But it’s something. Just like my snatches of nightmare-haunted sleep were something.

My head’s buried in the
Courier-Mail
, partly because my face is on the cover. It’s not a great picture, and I’m bearded in it, but it’s enough. The article within is brief and speculative in nature. It doesn’t look too good, though. I’ve been around too many explosions of late and too many people connected to me have died. I’m wanted for questioning. There’s no mention of Don, Sam, Tim or Morrigan and there are suggestions that this is all part of some crime war. They’ve got the war bit right at least.

I give up with the paper. I need to think about something else for a moment, before the crushing weight of it all comes back.

“Could be worse,” Lissa says. She’s sitting opposite me.

“How?”

“You could be reading that in jail.”

“Thanks.”

“And you’re really not that photogenic, are you.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean, you’re much, much better looking in the flesh.”

“You’re far too kind.”

“Where did they get that photo anyway?” She peers at it.

“Facebook.”

“Well, then, it really could have been worse. You’ve never dressed up like a Nazi obviously, or they’d have chosen that for sure.”

I stare at some kids playing in the courtyard of the cafe, working out their weird kid rules, which generally seem to be about making someone cry while the rest look on, or shuffle off to their parents.

“You want to have children?” Lissa asks.

“Not really. OK, maybe, but look at me. I’m sleeping under bridges… I’m twenty-seven years old, with only a small chance of living more than a few hours. Not exactly great parent material.” I shake my head, and my neck cracks painfully, again. I feel sixty-five today. “Did you ever want to have kids?”

Lissa shifts into the daylight, maybe so that I can’t see her face.

“I don’t know, maybe, I never felt settled enough. Wasn’t much of a nester.”

“Robyn—my ex—wanted kids,” I say. “She just didn’t want them with me.”

“Then it was lucky you broke up.” She doesn’t come out of the light.

I wonder how Don and Sam are going. I haven’t felt them pomp through me, so I hold onto the slim hope that they’re alive. I mean,
I
am, and those two are infinitely more capable. They managed to rustle up a hideaway and some alone time. All I’d done was arrive in time to see my house, and then my car, explode.

After breakfast, I stand in the car park, looking at all those cars, wondering if that’s the answer. I certainly need to get moving. A little further up Milton Road squats the bulk of the Fourex brewery. The whole suburb smells of malt and smoke, like a poor-quality whiskey, and though it was only yesterday that I had the mother of all hangovers, I surprise myself by actually desiring a beer.

I consider mentioning this to Lissa then think better of it. I’m sure she already thinks I have a problem.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Lissa says.

The sparrow has been looking at me for some time, I feel. It gives an exasperated chirp. So Morrigan has found me again. I’m a bit nervous about that, thanks to Don. But I bluff it.

“Hey,” I say. “Sorry, little fella.” I have to remind myself that being patronizing doesn’t improve an inkling’s mood. I’ve never seen a sparrow glare before.

I reach out my hand and it jumps up, pecks my index finger hard, much harder than is necessary, drawing blood. It’d be a hell of a lot more pleasant if the buggers just needed a handful of seed.

The sparrow drops its message, then gives my arm another savage peck and strikes out at the air with its wings. I curse after it, then my jaw drops as two crows snatch the bird out of the sky and tear it in half before it can even shriek. It forms a small puddle of ink and brown feathers on the ground. Then, with a black and furious crashing of wings, the crows are gone. It looks like human Pomps aren’t the only ones doing it tough.

The message is brief.

I hesitate, then look at Lissa, who shrugs. “What have you got to lose?”

We both know the answer to that. But there is so much more to gain, even if it’s just clarifying who my real enemy is.

I switch on my phone, holding it like it’s a bomb.

It rings immediately. I jump, swear under my breath, then pick up.

“Steven,” Morrigan says.

I can hear a background rumble of traffic. “Where the fuck are you?” I ask. He’s not the only one who can skip over small talk.

“Look, we don’t have time,” he says. “The phones, they can trace them. And the sparrows, well, I’m running out of tattoos. Something’s attacking them as well.”

“Crows,” I say. “It’s crows. I just saw them then.”

“If someone’s using Mr. D’s avian Pomps, they’re more powerful than I’d thought. This just keeps getting worse.”

“Yeah, it does,” I say. “How do I know you’re not in on it?”

There’s a long silence down the other end of the line. “The truth is you don’t. But how long have you known me?”

I don’t answer that one.

Finally Morrigan breaks the silence. “Steven, you have to trust me. I’m telling you, Mr. D has a rival. They need to kill all the Pomps, then they can start up their own outfit. There’s going to be absolute chaos. Because while that’s going on, there’s no one to stop the Stirrers. In fact, I believe whoever is behind this is actually dealing with the Stirrers.”

I could have told him that.

“Which is why we need to get together. If enough bodies stir, the balance will tip. We’re talking end of days, Regional Apocalypse. It’s not far off.”

That chills me. The idea had already crossed my mind, but I hadn’t really wanted to consider it. I may not have the greatest knowledge of Pomp history, but I know about this. Every one of the thirteen regions has experienced one or two of these down the ages. Death piled upon death. Stirrers outnumbering the living. It’s a vast and deadly reaving. And there hasn’t been a Regional Apocalypse in a long time.

Sure, there’s been some bloody, terrible crap that’s gone on in this country, all of which could be considered that way—genocides and wars—but this would be an end to life.
All
life. Stirrers don’t stop at people. They don’t even start at them, it makes sense to start at the bottom. Everything from microbes up would go. And it wouldn’t be like a motion picture zombie apocalypse, or remotely close to an alien invasion—they’re a walk in the park compared to a Regional Apocalypse. Stirrers don’t bite their victims, they don’t need to touch an unprotected person, they don’t even need to be that close to them after a certain threshold point is reached. They’re like a black hole of despair, and once they’ve taken enough joy and light, their victim is gone and there’s another Stirrer getting about, snatching even more energy from the world.

“I don’t know if I believe you. Maybe you’re trying to draw me
out.” I feel terrible because I might as well be saying this to Dad. Before last night and Don’s comments I would have trusted him with my life.

Morrigan sighs. “Who are you going to believe? Look, how can I be certain that you’re not in on this somehow? Steven, you need to trust me.”

Well, if he’s actually the perpetrator he’d know.

“We’re running out of time,” Morrigan says. “Meet me at Mount Coot-tha, the cafe there. One o’clock.” He hangs up on me.

I look at my watch. It’s 11:30 already. I explain what’s just gone on to Lissa.

“I don’t like it,” she says, which is beginning to sound like something of a running joke.

“Neither do I. But he’s right. If enough bodies stir, things
will
tip, and there’ll be nothing left within weeks.” And I’m not being melodramatic. Where Pomps are conduits to the Underworld, Stirrers are gaping wounds—they’re the psychic equivalent of blowing out the window in a pressurized plane, only instead of air, you’ve got life energy torn out of this world and sucked into the Underworld. One or two Stirrers is bad enough, but that would be only the beginning if we didn’t stop them.