Armageddon’s Children

TWENTY

NOON WAS LESS than two hours away, and Hawk was thinking about who he would take with him when he went to his meeting with Tiger. Midday today was the designated time for delivery of the pleneten, and while Hawk was anxious to get the serum into Tiger's hands so that he could help Persia, he was troubled by everything that had happened over the past few days. He might have been willing to dismiss both their encounter with the dying Lizard and the Weatherman's discovery of the nest of dead Croaks as all–too–familiar occurrences in a world where death and dying were commonplace. But Candle's vision of something bad coming their way, coupled with their chilling experience in the warehouse basement, had left him convinced that things were changing in the city and not for the better.

So he spent more time than he normally would considering who to take and who to leave behind, not wanting to put anyone at risk when he already knew there was no avoiding it. In the end, he settled on taking Panther and Bear and leaving the rest behind with Cheney. If they carried prods and viper–pricks, the three of them would be safe enough. The meeting would take place on the open streets and in daylight and would be over quickly. All that was needed was for him to deliver the pleneten and return home. Then he could begin deliberating anew about how to persuade Tessa to leave the compound and come with him.

But he had no sooner come to a decision than Owl appeared at his elbow.

Her eyes were troubled as she took him aside where the others could not hear.

"River is gone again. She slipped away right after breakfast. I thought she had gone to retrieve water from the roof, but Candle says she went out into the streets. She's been gone for more than an hour."

Hawk glanced over at Candle, who was cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

"River didn't tell her where she was going? She has no idea?"

Owl shook her head. "It's the same as before. She goes out on her own and won't tell anyone what she is doing." She paused, and one hand rested lightly on Hawk's wrist. "I think you'd better go after her this time. I think we have to find out what she is doing."

He almost said no. He almost said that he already had something he had to do and shouldn't be wasting his time chasing after an irresponsible child who couldn't be trusted to do what she had been told to do and who lied on top of it. But he recognized a voice he didn't care for in that kind of thinking, a voice that spoke out of frustration and impatience and not out of caring. Owl was clearly worried about River, and he knew that Owl did not worry easily.

He nodded. "All right, I'll find her."

He glanced around the room, rethinking his earlier plans. He would have to take Cheney if he hoped to track River. That meant he would have to leave Owl and the little ones with someone else and send someone besides himself to the meeting with Tiger.

He settled on Bear to stand watch in the underground. He could rely on Bear to keep everyone safe—Bear, so steady and unflappable, never acting out of haste or panic. He wished he had a dozen Bears in his family, but families don't work like that.

That meant Panther would have to take the pleneten to Tiger. There was no one else old enough or smart enough to send out alone to a meeting like this. It was chancy, sending Panther. He despised the Cats and Tiger, in particular. The source of his dislike was not entirely clear to Hawk, but it didn't make it any less potent or potentially volatile.

He walked over to Panther, telling himself to keep calm. "There's been a change of plans. You're going to take the pleneten to Tiger without me."

Panther didn't exactly glare at him, but his displeasure was clearly reflected on his dark features. "Why do I got to do this, Bird‑Man? Why not someone else?"

"Don't you think you can handle it?" Hawk pressed.

Now Panther did glare. "I can handle anything, and I can do it better than the rest. You know that."

Hawk nodded. "I do know it. That's why you have to be in charge. I can depend on you to be ready for whatever happens. Take Chalk and Fixit with you.

For a show of strength."

"You think those pussycats would try something with me?" Panther sneered.

"Like to see them try. Like to see them even think about it. Anyway, I don't need Fixit and Chalk. I can do it alone."

"You know the rules. No one goes out alone to a meeting. If you don't want Chalk and Fixit, take Sparrow."

"Huh! Don't want nothin' to do with Sparrow. Lemme take Bear. At least he takes up some space."

Hawk shook his head. "Bear has to stay here and look out for the others. I need Cheney with me."

"For what? What you doin' that's so important, taking Cheney away now?"

"I'll tell you later. Just get the pleneten to Tiger. I know you don't like him, but we made an agreement and we stick to our agreements. We keep our word."

"I know that. But I don't have to like it."

Hawk nodded. "Just get it done. Take Chalk and Fixit with you. The pleneten's wrapped in brown paper in the cold storage."

Panther shook his head and made a snorting noise. "Frickin' Cats."

Hawk moved over to the storage locker, selected a prod, pocketed two of the viper–pricks, and slipped on his heavy–weather jacket. Owl wheeled over to where he was standing and watched him get ready.

"What do I do when I find her?" he asked quietly.

"You find out what's wrong, you try to help her make it right, and then you bring her home."

He looked at her wise, cheerful face and caring eyes. Her smile told him that she was only reaffirming what he already knew. She gave him such confidence just by her presence that it was impossible for him to measure its importance.

She always knew what needed doing and how it could be done. Once, he had thought of her as crippled and helpless. He didn't think of her like that anymore. He thought of her as the strongest among them. Of all of them, she was the most indispensable, the most necessary to their survival.

"I won't be long," he promised.

"Be as long as you need to be," she told him. "River needs to feel safe again. I don't think she feels that way now."

She was saying that River needed to know that she could tell them anything, that she didn't need to hide whatever it was she was doing. Hawk wasn't sure Owl was right, but he had sense enough to keep quiet and hope she was.

He called to Cheney and went out the door and up the stairs to the streets. The day was clear and bright, the sky a blue dome empty of all but the wispiest of clouds. He glanced up at it, squinting despite himself, the brightness unexpected and somehow out of place. The world shouldn't look so clear when life felt so cloudy.

A sudden gust of wind brought him back to reality. The air was chilly and biting and sharp with cold. He hunched down into his jacket and called Cheney over to him. Taking out an old T-shirt that belonged to River, he let the big dog sniff it, and then told him to track. Cheney never hesitated. He wheeled away and started down the street, big head swinging from side to side, muzzle lowered in concentration. Hawk followed, eyes shifting steadily to the darkened doorways and alleys between the buildings they passed, keeping watch. He knew they would find River. He'd had Cheney track things before; once he had the scent, the big dog always found what he was searching for.

They moved down First Avenue toward the center of town, and then Cheney abruptly turned left toward the waterfront. Together, the boy and the dog made their way through the rubble and along the cracked pavement toward the oily shimmer of Elliott Bay, its surface glaring sharply in the bright sunlight. A pair of Spiders appeared in a doorway and disappeared back inside instantly.

Hawk and Cheney continued on. A gull lay dead on the street in front of them, its graceful form broken, its sleek feathers matted with dirt and blood. There was nothing to show how it had died. Hawk glanced at it, thought about flying things brought low, and looked away.

Cheney went straight down to the piers, never deviating, working his way ahead at a steady pace, shadow–dark even in the bright sunlight. Hawk stayed close, cautious and alert. The wind blew off the bay like the coming of winter, bringing tears to his eyes as he squinted against its sharpness. The smells of decay filled his nostrils, causing him to duck his face deep into the collar of his coat in an effort to escape them. He found himself wondering if the waters of the bay would ever recover. He guessed that in time, if left alone, nature would find a way to heal them. But he couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure there was any healing to be found.

Cheney stopped suddenly, freezing in place, hackles raised. Hawk stopped with him, eyes sweeping the streets in all directions. Then he caught sight of movement on the waterfront south, down by the cranes. A cluster of dark figures wearing what looked like red armbands were working their way through the trash, headed away. Another tribe, one he did not recognize. Some came from outside the city to forage, tribes that lived in the hills behind the city, in what were once the residential communities. Some were very dangerous, as bad as the Croaks. One had moved into the city a year or so back, hard–eyed street kids with no compunction about killing. It would have been bad for the rest of them if the group hadn't made the mistake of angering one of the Lizard communities.

When it was over, only the Lizards were left.

He waited until the cluster of armbanded figures had disappeared from view, then urged Cheney ahead again. They walked out onto the flats at the foot of James Street and toward the docks. Cheney was sniffing the ground again, returned to his task. He swung south, and then stopped, casting about in some confusion. A moment later, he started away again, headed north toward the remains of the aquarium.

Hawk found himself wondering what River was doing down here. This was where Sparrow had found her nearly four years ago, an orphan rummaging through the buildings in search of food.

Cheney padded along, then turned toward one of the larger piers and nosed his way over to the crumbling building. He stopped at the door and waited, not looking at Hawk, barely lifting his head as Hawk came up beside him.

River was inside, he was saying.

Hawk hesitated, and then moved in front of Cheney. He held the prod in front of him as he stepped through the door. Inside, light streamed through broken windows and collapsed sections of the upper flooring and metal roof to chase back the shadows. There were two floors and dozens of rooms, and the building was deep and high. Again Hawk hesitated, wary of entering a largely unfamiliar place. He had been in this building once or maybe even twice, but not for long and only to look for useful supplies. It had been several years since he had last entered it.

There was nothing he could do but continue, so he did. He sent Cheney on ahead, hoping he would find a trail. It wasn't all that easy given the amount of trash and the confluence of smells that permeated every surface. The building smelled of the bay, but also of dead things, mildew, and defecation. There didn't seem to be anything living in it, but you never knew. Shadows rippled in the corners of the rooms he passed, disturbed by the sunlight. Hawk kept the prod in front of him. He couldn't imagine what River was doing here.

They wound their way to the back of the building and finally outside again. Now Hawk really was confused. But Cheney kept moving forward, heading for a large storage shed set back against the edge of the dock inside a barrier of heavy metal fencing. It was a structure that seemed somewhat sturdier than the building they had just left, although its metal surfaces were badly worn and rusted.

Cheney stopped before the fencing and growled.

Instantly River appeared in the doorway of the shed. "Cheney!" she exclaimed, shock mirrored on her child's face. Then she saw Hawk and gave an audible gasp. "No, Hawk! You can't come in here!"

She said it with such force that for a moment Hawk felt as if she might be right, that he had somehow trespassed and would have to turn around and leave.

Her words sounded dangerous, and she had gone into a defensive crouch that suggested she was ready to fight.

"Tell me what's wrong, River," he answered.

She shook her head fiercely, then broke into tears and stood shaking in front of him. "You told me … the rules," she sobbed. "I know … what I've done. But I … had to!"

He had no idea what she was talking about. "River," he said quietly, "let me come in. What's going on in there?"

"Just … go away, Hawk," she managed. "I won't come … back home … or anything. Just go away."

Leaving Cheney where he was, Hawk walked the perimeter of the fence, found the hidden section that swung open, and stepped inside. River rushed to stop him, but he was through before she reached him. She brought up her fists as if to knock him back through the opening, then simply collapsed in a heap on the heavy planking, crying harder than ever. Hawk had never seen her like this. He knelt beside her, stroked her dark hair gently, then put his arm around her shoulders and sat next to her.

"Shhhh," he soothed. "Don't cry. There isn't anything we can't work out between us; you know that. Nothing we can't solve."

She cried some more, and then said suddenly, almost angrily, "You don't understand!"

He nodded into her hair. "I know."

She didn't say anything more and didn't move; she just sat there as the sobs died away. They she stood and without a word started for the shed. He rose and followed. It was dark and cool inside, but there were brightly colored hangings on the wall and stacks of packaged goods and blankets. Ropes hung from hooks, and books were stacked to one side on makeshift shelves. Someone had lived here recently.

A low moan from the shed's deepest recesses caught his attention, and he peered into the gloom.

The Weatherman lay on a mattress suspended atop a low wooden bed frame, his ancient face twisted with pain, his hands moving under the blankets tucked about him. Hawk took a quick look at the blotches on his face and backed quickly away. "He has the plague," he said. "You can't stay here, River." She replied in a whisper so soft he could barely hear her. "You don't understand. I have to."

"He's an old man," Hawk objected. "I like him, but it's — " "No," she interrupted quickly. "He isn't just an old man." She paused, struggling to get the words out. "He's my grandfather."

SHE TOLD HIM her story then, of her family and of how her grandfather had brought her to Seattle.

Even before there were only the two of them, she was always his favorite.

A quiet, introverted girl with a waif's big eyes and a skinny, gawky body that she found embarrassing, she followed him everywhere. For his part, he seemed to enjoy her company and never told her to go away like her brothers always did. He enjoyed talking to her and told her things about herself that made her feel better.

"You are a special little girl," he would say, "because you know how to listen. Not many little girls know how to do that."

When she cried, he would say, "There is nothing wrong with crying. Your feelings tell you who you are. They tell you what is important. Don't ever be ashamed of them."

He was tall and strong back then, even though he was already old, and she had heard that he had once been a professional athlete back before they stopped having teams. She imagined that must have been a long time ago, years before she was born, but he never talked about it. He mostly talked about her, and he was the only one who did so. No one else ever even paid attention to her except when they needed something. Her brothers ignored her. Her mother was a strange, distant presence, physically there, but mentally off in a place only she could visit. She barely acknowledged the rest of the family, lost in distant stares and words spoken so softly that no else could hear. River's grandfather said it was because her father had broken her mother's heart.

River didn't know if this was so, but she supposed it was. She remembered very little about her father. She remembered that he was a big, noisy man who took up a lot of space and made her feel even smaller than she was. She was only three when he left. No one ever knew what caused him to go, but one day he simply walked out the door and never came back. For a long time, she thought he would. She would stand in the yard and look for him in the trees, believing he might be hiding there and daring them to find him. Her brothers laughed at her when she told them what she was doing, and eventually she tired of the game and gave up looking for him.

They lived in a small woodlands community north of the big Washington

State cities, out on the Olympic Peninsula where it was still heavily forested and mountainous and empty of people and their problems. Their isolation protected them, they believed, and so they stayed in their small community, a group of about thirty families, waiting for things to change back for the better, keeping hidden and secret as the rest of the world slowly receded into a distant madness they knew about only from listening to radio and from infrequent encounters with travelers. But her grandfather was wary.

"You must never go out alone," he would tell her, even though the others said it was safe and nothing would happen to her.

He didn't explain, and she didn't ask. She believed what he told her, and so she was careful not to go anywhere by herself. She was reminded of the disappearance of her father, even though she did not believe anything bad had happened to him. But when her youngest brother vanished one sunny afternoon without even the smallest trace, she knew that it was because he had ignored her grandfather's warning. The others laughed, but she knew.

Then, two months later, when the red haze passed overhead, even though it was gone in less than a day, he told her not to eat or drink anything taken from the earth. She did as he said, but the others didn't listen. When they began to get sick and die, he warned them they would have to leave, but they didn't listen to him then, either. They refused to leave their home, insisting that things would get better, that the sickness would pass. They believed themselves protected in their sheltered enclave, so far removed from the rest of the world.

They believed themselves safe from its horrors.

Even though she was only nine by then, she knew they were wrong in the same way they had been wrong every time before.

It was only after all but fifty of them had died, her mother and brothers included, that they acknowledged that her grandfather was right and made preparations to leave. They built rafts to ferry themselves down the waters of Puget Sound in search of a new place to live. There were islands all along the western shoreline; one of them would provide them with a safe haven to disembark and start over.

They set out in good weather, four rafts in all. Within twenty–four hours, a storm caught up with them. Winds reached fifty miles an hour on the open water in a matter of minutes. The trailing raft was lost, capsized with all its goods sunk and its passengers swept away. Plague surfaced on the second raft a week later, and the passengers on the other two made the decision to abandon it, leaving those aboard to fend for themselves. Some talked afterward about the need for sacrificing the few for the good of the many. Fear set in as the journey wore on, and everyone began to realize how much danger they were in. It was going to get much worse, her grandfather told her privately. Bad enough that they were going to have to leave the others because sooner or later their behavior would turn irrational and everyone left alive would be at risk.

Two nights later, while the rafts were tied up in a small cove and the others were sleeping, her grandfather woke her, held his finger to his lips, and led her into the dark. She looked back once or twice as they slipped away, but no one saw them go. They walked inland through forests and fields, past empty farms and houses, skirting the towns and keeping to the countryside. They foraged for food, which her grandfather seemed to know something about. Most of what they found was bottled or packaged, so they were not afraid to consume it.

They slept in empty buildings when they could and outside when there was nothing else. Her grandfather had stuffed blankets and medicines and changes of clothes into a backpack, and they were able to get by.

Then, five days into their journey, somewhere west of the islands that dotted the waters across from Seattle, her grandfather came down with plague. He turned hot and feverish, and his skin darkened in broad purplish patches all over his body. She didn't know which form of plague he had contracted, and it wouldn't have made any difference if she had because she was too little to understand which of the medicines would help. She tried them all, one at a time, but none of them seemed to make any difference. She washed him with cool water to help keep his temperature down and tried to make him drink so that he wouldn't become dehydrated. For a time he tried to coach her by telling her what he thought would help, suggesting what she might do for him. But his sickness turned worse, and he became incoherent. He raved as if he had lost all reason, and she became afraid that someone–or something–would overhear. She gave him sleeping medication because she didn't know what else to do. She kept bathing him in an effort to lower his fever, kept trying to get liquids into him, and waited for him to die.

But, against all odds, he recovered. It took weeks, and it was a slow, torturous process. Afterward, he was never the same. His hair had gone white.

His face was marked by the struggle he had endured, his once strong visage lined and pinched and gaunt. He was frail and gnarled in a way old men become when all of their youth has been bled out of them. It happened in the span of about four weeks, and even after he was sitting up and eating and drinking again, he was only a ghost of himself.

She looked at him warily and tried to hide how afraid she was for him. But she could tell by the way he looked back that he knew.

They set out again, but he was no longer her grandfather of old. He sang ditties and spoke in odd rhymes. He talked incessantly about the weather, about forecasts, storms, fronts and pressure ridges, and things she had never heard him speak of before. None of it made much sense; it frightened her in a way even the ravings hadn't. He only rarely spoke of anything besides the weather.

Nothing else seemed to matter to him.

At night, he would wake her sometimes with his muttering, talking in his sleep of black, evil things coming to get them. She would wake him, and he would look at her as if she were a stranger.

When they reached the shores of Puget Sound, they began walking south until they found a rowboat. Without so much as a word about what he intended, her grandfather loaded their few possessions, placed her aboard at the stern, climbed in after her, and pushed off. It was nearing sunset, and darkness was almost upon them. He didn't seem to notice. He rowed them toward the islands, seated with his back to them, facing her, his haunted eyes fixed on her face. He rowed all night without stopping, and even though it was black all around them, the weather stayed calm. They reached an island sometime just before dawn, pulled the boat ashore, and slept. When they woke, her grandfather rowed them around to the other side of the island, where they stopped again. The following day, he rowed them all the way across the channel to the city.

She could have run from him at any time while they were on the island. She was quicker than he was; she was probably stronger and possessed of more endurance. She could have slipped away while he was sleeping, as well. But she never considered leaving him. He was her grandfather, and she would stay with him no matter what.

In Seattle, they lived in derelict buildings on the waterfront, scavenging supplies and foraging for food. She waited for him to tell her it was time for them to leave, but he seemed to have lost interest. He barely acknowledged her presence now, growing more distant by the day. He never spoke her name, even when she called him Grandfather. He would wander the waterfront for hours and sometimes days before returning. She tried to go with him, but he refused to let her, telling her there was a storm coming or a change in the weather and she needed to stay close to home. Their home was an old container down by the cranes. Her life had turned to ashes.

Then, one day, when she thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, he went out and didn't come back. She waited for a week for his return, but there was no sign of him. In desperation, she went looking for him and was still searching ten days later when Sparrow found her and brought her home to live with the Ghosts.

"THREE MONTHS AFTER he disappeared, I found him down by the docks. He looked at me and didn't say anything. I could tell he didn't know who I was. I spoke to him, but he just smiled and said something about the weather."

River looked away from Hawk to her grandfather. His breathing was ragged, and sweat soaked his clothing. She moved over to a bucket of water, wet a rag, and wiped his brow carefully.

"I know the rules," she said. "No adults can be Ghosts. I didn't want to leave him alone, but I didn't want to leave the Ghosts, either. I didn't know what to do. I went back to check on him when I could, but sometimes I couldn't even find him. Sometimes I thought he was dead. He wasn't, but I thought so. It was okay until now. It was a little like having him live next door. I could still go see him. I could pretend he was still a part of my family."

"You should have told me, River," Hawk said softly. "You should have told someone."

She shook her head, her lips compressing into a tight line. "No adults, you said. Only kids could be members of our family. Ever."

The words felt like a condemnation. He had said it because he blamed adults for so much, said it because he didn't want the Ghosts ever to be dependent on adults again, said it to keep them from even thinking that adults had a place in their life. It was easy to say it when they were all orphans and street kids and there wasn't any real family left and no one wanted anything to do with them anyway.

"I found him two days ago, lying in his bed here in the shed. He'd been well for three years, but the sickness has returned, same as before. I still didn't know what to do." She looked at him, her eyes solemn and depthless. "What if he dies?"

"We won't let him die," Hawk said at once, even knowing it was a promise he could not keep.

"In a way, he already has," she whispered. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away quickly.

"I said no adults in the Ghosts, but I didn't say we wouldn't ever help an adult if one needed it. I didn't say that." He tried to think of what to tell her. "River, remember when I went down to the docks maybe a week ago? I went down to speak to your grandfather about the dead Lizard, to see if maybe he knew something. You know what he did? He asked me to take him with us when we left the city. Like he knew we were going." He hesitated. "I told him I would."

She stared. "You did? You said that? Did you mean it?"

Did he? He couldn't remember for sure. He thought about the way the Weatherman had asked him, almost as if it was an afterthought, a throwaway. He lifted one eyebrow at River. "Sure, I meant it. I was thinking, though. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, he still knows who you are. Otherwise, why would he have asked to go with us?"

She seemed doubtful, but didn't disagree. "Can we give him some medicine?"

He nodded. "But we have to ask Owl what to do for him. Maybe one of her books will tell us what sort of sickness this is and how to treat it. She knows a lot. Let's go ask her."

But River shook her head. "You go, Hawk. I don't want to leave him all alone."

Hawk considered arguing the matter, then decided against it. Instead, he reached into his pocket and handed her one of the precious viper–pricks. He left his prod leaning against the shed wall as he moved to the doorway.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised. He gave her grandfather a final glance as he went out. The old man looked like a bundle of sticks lying beneath the thin blanket. "It will be all right," he said.

But in his heart he felt that maybe it wouldn't.

WHEN HE GOT back to the underground, he told Owl what he had discovered about River and the Weatherman. Owl did not recognize the form of plague that the old man had contracted, but she began searching her medical books immediately to see if she could find a sickness that matched what he was describing. He watched her from across the room, absorbed in her work. They had medicines for some plagues, he thought. Or they could get others from Tessa, just as they had done for Persia.

Thinking of Persia, he was reminded that Panther had not yet returned.

Leaving Owl to her reading and Cheney to his nap, he went back up the stairs and outside into the streets to wait. Soon Panther reappeared with Chalk and Fixit, his dark face radiating anger that Hawk could detect from fifty feet away.

"What happened?" he asked as the other came up to.

"Didn't nothin' happen, Bird‑Man. We got there like we was supposed to, stood around waiting for those pussycats to appear, and no one showed. We waited more than an hour 'cause I knew you'd say we didn't wait long enough otherwise.

Whole thing was a frickin' waste of time."

Hawk blinked. Tiger wouldn't have missed this meeting unless he physically couldn't come. Even then, he would have sent one of the others. Persia was too important to him. He would do anything to protect her.

Something was wrong.

"Wait here while I get Cheney," he said. "We're going back out."