Skin Game

Chapter ten No place like home

Alec opened his eyes to terrible, harsh brightness, and immediately shut them again. He tried to move his arm up to shield his face, but found the limb restrained, the other one too. Keeping his eyes closed, the light warm on his face, he tried to move his feet; they too were tethered.

“You’re not going anywhere, 494,” a familiar caustic voice said.

Alec’s gut tensed: Ames White.

The X5 did not move, eyes shut, as if opening them had just been a twitch, a flutter in his sleep. A hand settled on his face, thumb under his chin, fingers and palm on his cheek, a chill snake-belly touch. The fingers began to tighten — White had the strength to crush a man’s skull, even a transgenic like Alec.

“Open your eyes, 494,” White said. “Or would you rather I close them forever?”

Alec opened his eyes and stared into the face of the cold-eyed NSA agent, who removed his hand from the X5’s cheek, though the man still hovered over the right side of the bed like a vampire caught in the act. The agent — in his typical dark suit — had the sick pale look of a bloodsucker at that, his skin an unnatural white brought on by the fluorescent lighting.

Alec’s head was swimming. “Is this... prison?”

“Don’t be silly,” White said, a small smile playing on thin, cruel lips. “It’s a hospital. You’re getting the best of care — your furry friend, too.”

His head was settling down. “How did I get here?”

“The police. A friend of mine on the department whispered in my ear — something about your friend’s dog snout that made some people think you two might be transgenic.”

Restrained though he was, Alec was able to survey the small hospital room — it was empty but for himself and White. “I don’t see a police guard. Is there one in the hall?”

“Maybe you’d like a map of the building? How else can I be of service?... The guard is federal, 494. Transgenics are the NSa’s jurisdiction — but surely you know that?”

Alec smirked back at the man. “And you haven’t killed us yet, because...?”

“Why, I’m hurt, 494 — you transgenics are citizens like any American.”

“That’s funny — I seem to remember you telling Congress we’re a bunch of homicidal freaks.”

“Aren’t you? You stumbled in on the road show of Silence of the Lambs, didn’t you? Courtesy of one of your own?”

“What the hell do you want? Why am I alive?”

The jokey mask fell and the emotionless, dead soulless son of a bitch Alec knew White to be was revealed in all his antiglory. “Because, 494 — we’re going to have a little talk, you and I.”

Alec shook his head. “Could you have a nurse turn me over? So you can kiss my transgenic ass?”

A little half smirk colored the dead-eyed face. “Your choice — this is America, after all. You can die fast, or you can die slow, or — here’s another option — you can die very fucking slow.”

“How about none of the above?”

“No — not on the docket. Bottom line is, 494... you and I are going to talk... and when we’ve explored our various areas of discussion, you’ll be dead. Quick and painless, or slow and drawn-out — one from column A, or one from column B.”

Alec spit in White’s face.

Slowly, White wiped the saliva glob away with a middle finger, and flung it back in Alec’s face.

“And while your body begins its inexorable journey to putrefication, I’m going next door and have the same chat with Dogboy. He should be easier — a chew toy, a little Alpo, and he’ll be howling at the moon.”

Alec managed a smile. “If Joshua ever gets his paws on you, White, you’ll learn a whole new meaning for ‘chew toy.’ ”

“I don’t think so. I think he’ll spill his canine guts and then we’ll take him over to the pound — afraid we’ll have to put the pooch down. Pity, isn’t it?”

Taking a quick inventory, Alec decided that other than aching all over, he seemed to be pretty much all here; the conversation with White had given him time to gather his wits, and his mind felt clear.

He seemed to be wearing only a flimsy, sleeveless hospital gown, and he could sense the bandage from his bullet wound still covering his left shoulder. Straining against them, Alec realized he was cuffed to the bed, the metal bracelets jangling a little when he relaxed.

The X5 had a vague recollection of seeing a stun rod swing toward him, but that was his last memory.

Standing over him, making sure Alec saw every movement he made, White slowly opened a straight razor and seemed to savor the way the light caught the blade and winked.

“One of the many ways my people are superior to transgenics,” White said conversationally, “is that we don’t feel pain — simply don’t experience it. Transgenics, on the other hand... when you prick them, they bleed.”

“You’re the prick who’s gonna bleed,” Alec snarled, fighting against the cuffs holding him down; but they wouldn’t give. The metal dug into his wrists, the pain somehow calming, giving him strength.

“Where shall we start?... How about with your friend 452?”

Pulling against the cuffs with everything he had, Alec said nothing.

White slowly moved the blade back and forth, watching the light dance on steel. Against his will, Alec found himself watching the blade as well, as if it was a hypnotist’s watch, trying to lull him into a terrible trance. The restraints continued to dig into his flesh, but he kept up the fight...

“I want you to tell me how I can get to her.”

“Climb the fence at Terminal City and whistle, dickweed.”

“You and Lassie ‘climbed the fence,’ 494 — and yet no one saw you do it. That compound is under close surveillance, but there must be a way out — and in — that no one knows about.”

“Click your heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like home.’ That should do it.”

“A sense of humor. I like that, 494. I have one too... watch...”

White leaned down close, his face only inches away from Alec, their eyes locked, then the agent made a narrow two-inch slice in Alec’s right shoulder. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the young transgenic said nothing.

“I’m so pleased you’re not cooperating, right away,” White said. “You see, for all my strengths, I have one weakness... I do hate transgenics...”

He opened the slice another inch.

Alec strained harder against the cuffs, his gaze still on White, the blood warm as it seeped from the wound and ran off his arm, the pain only spurring him on.

“I’ll ask again, 494. How can I get to 452?”

“Go to hell and take a left.”

White walked around the bed, his eyes never leaving Alec’s. “I certainly hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”

“How could I enjoy it as much as a sick sadistic shit like you?”

The razor carved into his other arm, below the bandage covering his bullet wound. White made this cut about the same length as the first but a little deeper, the wound weeping tears of blood.

“There’s a back way into Terminal City,” White said. “I need to know what it is — you see, I want 452 in my own personal custody, before the Army swings through having their fun.”

Alec, blinking away tears of pain, had to wonder: “Why?”

“Maybe I want her head to put over my fireplace — what concern is that to a dead man? Now, why don’t you tell me the truth and I’ll speed this up for you.”

The door creaked open, and White spun. Alec, like White, threw his attention to the doorway, where a young, pretty African-American nurse stood, her mouth agape, hands flying up to cover it.

“What in God’s name!” she cried.

Razor in hand, dripping rubies, White lurched forward and barked at her, “Get out! This is federal government business!”

The nurse — who apparently did not find this typical behavior from a federal law enforcement officer — shrieked bloody murder, and — with White momentarily distracted — Alec summoned all of his remaining strength to pull against the cuff around his wrist. With a shrill whine, the metal tube of the bed frame snapped and Alec’s hand burst free.

As White spun back toward him, the razor rising in a wide arc, Alec swung his fist with everything he had behind it, catching White in the sternum, sending the agent sprawling, tumbling backward across the room and smacking hard into a wall, the razor flying out of his hand.

The nurse screamed again, turned and fled.

Alec knew he only had seconds now.

Jerking the bed frame on the left side, he broke that and slipped his left hand free. White had slid down the wall, and sat there in a rude pile, his eyes bleary, his mouth sagging open, sucking air in and out like a leaky bellows. The man might not feel pain, but physical damage nonetheless slowed him down.

From out in the hall, Alec could hear approaching footsteps. Sitting up, ignoring the blood running down his arms in narrow scarlet ribbons, he yanked off the bottom rail of the bed and slid it out, freeing his feet.

White used the wall to prop himself up and get back to his feet, his free hand disappearing inside his jacket, toward his pistol.

Alec leapt from the bed and ran over, blurringly fast, to pummel White with a right, then a left.

The agent hit the wall again and slid back down into his dazed sitting position, his gun clattering to the floor.

Sweeping out with his foot, White caught the backs of Alec’s legs and sent him sprawling, as two more men in black stormed in, guns drawn. They hesitated for a moment, taking in the sight of their fallen leader. Rolling back under the bed, Alec came up and out on the other side, the bed now between him and his thoughtful visitors.

“Kill the bastard!” White bellowed.

The two swung their guns toward Alec, but the X5 was ready for them: he picked up his side of the bed and lifted, the whole thing coming up in front of him like a shield. Barreling forward, he felt bullets punch through the bed and exit, slowed, on either side of him. He heard the pistols’ further reports just as he slammed the thing into the two agents and knocked them to the ground.

White was rising now, but Alec dove, and they reached the pistol at the same instant. As they wrestled for control, the two agents under the bed started moving and Alec heard shouts in the hall.

Only seconds remained.

Head-butting White, Alec knocked the agent senseless, grabbed the gun, and found the cuff keys in White’s jacket pocket. As he spun, the two agents were clawing, climbing out from under the bed, both searching for their lost pistols.

Alec kicked the first one in the head, sending him promptly to dreamland, then spun and caught the second one under the chin with the butt of the pistol. He too went down for a long nap.

Stepping into the hall, Alec saw agents coming from both directions. He fired at both groups — aiming high, wanting to scare and back them off — and they scampered back around the corner, leaving the hall, for the moment, to Alec.

He sprinted to the door to the right of his room, opened it... and saw an empty bed. That made sense — White would keep the room next door vacant for security purposes.

Then he quickly ran to the door on the other side of his, on the left, and ducked inside. White had referred to Joshua being “next door” — Alec hoped that was literally true. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, no one in here but the patient in the bed.

If this wasn’t Joshua’s room, he knew he’d never get his friend out. He could hardly search the building, and would hate to have to abandon the naive dog man.

He looked quickly toward the big figure under the sheet. “Is that you, Joshua?”

“... Is that you, Alec?”

Now, he — they — had a chance.

Sticking his head back out into the hall — still no men in black — Alec fired a couple more rounds in either direction, just to encourage the suckers to keep their distance. Moving to the bed, he uncuffed Joshua’s right hand and gave him the keys.

“You all right?” Alec asked.

“I feel good — why are we in the hospital, Alec?”

“Okay, uncuff yourself, big guy. We gotta go. Ames White and his bozos are after us.”

Scooting back to the door, Alec peeked out. The agents were making their move, hugging the walls and pushing tall stainless steel carts that held the food trays in front of them, as mobile shields.

Alec emptied the clip at them, bullets whanging off metal, and turned back to Joshua. “You ready?”

Joshua jumped off the bed. He too wore only a hospital gown, looking not a little absurd in it. “Let’s blaze.”

“Through the window,” Alec said.

But when Alec went to it, the thing was firmly locked.

“Alec needs to stand back,” Joshua advised.

And, in two steps, Joshua was standing in front of the wall-mounted television. Wrenching the box free, he pitched it, the glass of the window shattering as it flew through, the curtains jerking off the wall and going along for the ride. A few seconds later they heard the TV crash onto the concrete in a glass-shattering explosion.

Joshua looked out the now open window. “We’re up high, Alec.”

“There’s a ledge. Move it! Go!”

Joshua climbed through the broken window, skillfully avoiding the teeth of glass waiting to bite him; soon he was out onto the ledge, and Alec quickly followed.

They were a good six or seven floors up, with a concrete expanse of parking lot beneath them. His back to the building, Alec could see something down in the parking lot, off to his right — a dumpster maybe?

Already sliding along the ledge, Joshua headed toward the window of Alec’s room. Looking in that direction, Alec realized that White had opened the window in hopes they’d come that way.

“No!” Alec yelled.

But it was too late.

As Joshua neared it, Ames White leaned out, pistol in his hand.

Reacting instantly, Joshua grabbed White’s gun arm and pulled. White came flying through the window. He squeezed the trigger, the shot going wild, into the sky. Sunlight off the window blinded Alec for a second. Then he heard White’s yell of rage — not fear — as he fell.

Regaining his vision, Alec looked down to see White sprawled like he was making a snow angel in a dumpster full of garbage bags.

Turning to Joshua, Alec yelled, “Jump!”

“Jump?”

“Now!”

Gunshots exploded from the rooms on either side of them, and they both leapt into the afternoon air.

When they hit, even though the bags were soft, it felt like concrete. It took Alec only a few seconds to gather himself, and as he rose, he caught a whiff of the dumpster — medical waste disposal was pretty casual, in these post-Pulse times — and felt the sudden urge to vomit. From above, he heard no more gunfire — the agents were probably coming down after them — and he knew they had to shake it.

“Joshua!”

His large friend rose from the muck with Ames White tucked under his arm in a headlock.

“We’ve got to go,” Alec said. “Kill him or drop him, I really don’t give a shit.”

Yanking White’s face up by the hair, Joshua thrust his leonine countenance into the agent’s barely conscious, slack features.

“You should die for the things you’ve done,” Joshua said. “But if I kill you, Max says you win — you make us look like monsters. But you’re the monster.”

White’s upper lip curled back in an awful grin. “Freak.”

Joshua punched the agent once, knocking him out.

“Soon,” he said to the slumbering agent. “Soon you’ll pay for Annie.”

“We’ve got to blaze,” Alec urged, “gotta jet,” using the Max idioms that would get Joshua moving his hairy ass.

The two friends in hospital gowns climbed out of the dumpster and took off at a run, their bare feet slapping against the pavement as they went.

Alec knew how much Joshua wanted to destroy White for killing Annie Fisher, Joshua’s one friend among the ordinaries, a blind girl who hadn’t cared what the dog man looked like, and who could “see” past Joshua’s stunted social and intellectual growth to the sensitive, intelligent being just starting to blossom after a lifetime of Manticore abuse.

But Alec knew Joshua had no desire to disappoint Max, and she’d kept him from killing White once before. The big fella wouldn’t go against Max’s wishes.

And if Joshua knew how Alec had manipulated him into leaving Terminal City — very much against Max’s wishes — Joshua would be angry as hell... though Alec knew his friend would forgive him. He always did.

As they made their way through the streets, their gowns flapping in the breeze, Alec realized they had to get back to Terminal City, and fast — and they had to tell Max they now knew the identity of the killer.

The problem was, they were miles away, with no transportation, and — in broad daylight — the normal-looking Alec was running along next to a seminude six-foot-six-inch 240-pound dog boy. And, of course, both were wearing hospital gowns, not exactly a current fashion trend.

Alec almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Of all the contingencies that Manticore had trained their test-tube soldiers for, this particular one had never come up.

His arms didn’t hurt, but the now-dried stripes of blood on his arms might draw attention as fast as them running with their asses hanging out of the gowns. They had to get off the damn street, toot sweet.

The neighborhood they were sprinting through looked vaguely familiar to Alec, and he realized suddenly — when Joshua made a right past a grocery store — that the big guy knew right where they were and where he was going. They had been held at County General less than two miles from Joshua’s old pad — “Father’s” house.

So they should be able to easily make their way to the large Gothic home that had belonged to Sandeman, their Manticore creator — about whom they knew little — before the man — the only benign presence at the project — had disappeared. Better to be lucky than smart, Alec thought. They both had clothes on hand from when they’d lived there together, and the phone had been reconnected once Logan had taken over. Should still be working...

Cars were sparse in the neighborhood in mid-afternoon, and the sidewalks were all but empty. Then, in the distance, Alec spotted a car coming toward them, a dark model that just might be government issue.

“Joshua,” he said. “Car!”

But Joshua seemed to be ahead of him. The car, stopping in the middle of the next intersection, was a little over two blocks away when Joshua pulled off a manhole cover and climbed down out of sight. The vehicle now only a block away, Alec followed Joshua down and pulled the manhole cover back in place only seconds before he heard wheels rolling over it.

The aroma down here wasn’t any more pleasing than the dumpster back at the hospital. Standing in dirty brown water that came almost to his knees, Alec shivered in the foul, frigid stuff; but Joshua didn’t seem to mind or even notice. Alec took off walking after his towering friend, who knew these tunnels as well as anyone in the city.

In the months since Max freed Joshua from Manticore, the sewers had served as a mini-underground railroad for the big guy, allowing him to move around the city without detection. Alec figured the sewer system was how Joshua had managed to stay in touch with the janitor, Hampton, without anyone knowing that he was ever gone.

Twenty minutes later, they dried off and changed into their own clothes in the run-down house, the interior of which had been taken over by Logan after the trashing of his penthouse; no sign of Logan right now, though.

Joshua’s wardrobe ran exclusively to T-shirts — size XXXL — and jeans, while Alec had left little more than that behind himself. While Joshua never made inconspicuous company, getting the big lug out of that hospital gown was, Alec knew, a good start...

Picking up the phone, Alec dialed Max’s cell. In the silence before the ring, his transgenic hearing picked up a low frequency hum, and he knew someone — the NSA? the National Guard? — was trying to trace the call.

He slammed down the receiver.

Should have thought of that. He’d seen how many times Max had used her cell, so of course the government would have the number and be tracing all incoming and outgoing calls. Another reason to get back to Terminal City, to tell her to ditch the phone.

But how to get back?

It was miles away and would take them hours, even if they did use the sewers to avoid being seen.

He needed someone on the outside, and neither Original Cindy nor Sketchy had wheels; still, they were the only two people he knew that he could trust, so he started dialing.

Original Cindy’s cell went unanswered; Alec didn’t know what to make of that. He had no time to spare to ponder it, though, and he dialed Sketch.

“A car?” Sketchy asked when the greetings were out of the way. “I guess I could borrow a car.”

“We need you to pick us up at Joshua’s house,” Alec told him.

“What are you doin’ on this side of the fence?”

“Not now, Sketch. Just get the car and haul ass over here. I’ll explain everything on the way back to Terminal City.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Sketchy said. “Half hour, tops.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were still watching out the window when a beat-up van pulled to a stop in front of the house.

“I gotta get myself a better support system,” Alec said.

“Yeah,” Joshua added. “We gotta blaze.”

They climbed in the old van and Sketchy hit the gas. But soon they were lumbering through heavy traffic, and Alec explained what had happened, and who the killer was.

“Bobby Kawasaki?” Sketch said, suddenly very white. “From Jam Pony, you mean?”

“Yeah — he’s a transgenic, passing... You okay, Sketch?”

But Sketchy’s eyes were wide and woeful. “Christ! I think I saw him this morning, with Original Cindy. I’m pretty sure they left together. Then I didn’t see either one of them the rest of the day. Never reported back from their first deliveries — Normal was really pissed.”

Alec looked at Sketch and the van went dead quiet.

“Sketch — you better step on it.”

Bobby Kawasaki sat in the worn wing chair and watched the crappy signal on a TV produced in some third-world shithole back before Pulse. The cheap motel room was dusty and dingy and had seen few customers on more than an hourly basis for most of the last ten years; but the desk clerk, a tiny Asian man with thick glasses and thinning hair, asked only one question: “You got cash?”

Bobby’s project hung safe in the closet on a hanger — he’d had to leave the mannequin behind — and Original Cindy lay on the sagging bed with a compress on the nasty bump on her head. He had meant to scare her, but when she’d taken that tumble off her bike, the woman took a much nastier spill than he’d anticipated. Glancing over at her now, he wondered if she would ever wake up.

After her crash, he’d left her bike lying in the street, loaded her onto his own bike and pedaled straight back to the motel, with her riding in his lap, her legs tossed up over the handle bars. From a distance she would have looked like she was having a joy ride, her face pressed into the cheek of her boyfriend. It wasn’t the greatest ruse, but people minded their own business in Seattle, and it had gotten them back here to safety and seclusion.

Taking her to a hospital was out of the question. He’d lose control of her there, and be right back where he started. That was also the risk of keeping her here. If she died, she would be of no help to him, which would be a pity, after all the trouble he’d gone to. The trap he’d laid for her this morning — letting her see him take the Tryptophan — had worked like a charm.

Well, at first it did, anyway. Bobby had gotten the woman talking, and she seemed about to help him of her own volition, when something he’d said seemed to make her wary. Though he’d run the conversation over and over in his head, he still didn’t know where he’d made the mistake.

It didn’t matter now anyway. If she died, he’d dump her — her skin was the wrong shade and size to be of use to his project, after all. If she awakened, she would help him. If she didn’t help him, he would kill her.

Bobby watched her ample chest as it rose and fell in shallow breaths. She was still with the living — the question was, for how much longer? Turning back to the television, he watched the Satellite News Network, looking for stories about Terminal City.

Though the national news still covered it, the siege seemed relegated to the back burner as earthquakes and other catastrophes started shoving at each other for space on the little screen. The local news still seemed largely focused on the siege, however; interestingly, a few protransgenics protesters had also shown up — FREAKS ARE PEOPLE TOO, one sign said, and BAN TRANSGENIC TESTING, said another.

Original Cindy moaned, and Bobby went to check on her. Slowly, as if every centimeter of movement caused excruciating pain, she moved a hand up to the washrag on her forehead. She touched it gingerly and her eyes fluttered, then opened wide.

Looking up at him, she managed to say, “You — Bobby.”

He smiled a little. “You remembered my name. I’m flattered.”

“What... what happened?”

“Your bike took a tumble. I picked you up and brought you here.” He could tell by her eyes that she didn’t remember clearly, yet, and what he was saying made little sense to her.

“Where’s... here?”

“Just a motel.”

She tried to sit up, but the pain obviously forced her back, her hand again going to the lump. “This bitch hurts.”

“Probably a concussion,” Bobby said.

“Why did you bring me to the No Tell Motel? If you think you’re gettin’ some, you ain’t been payin’ attention to Original Cindy’s predilections — short form: you ain’t gettin’ none. Concussion or not, I’ll kick your scrawny ass.”

He smiled. “That’s not what I want from you.”

Confusion tightened her eyes.

He went on: “I just want to join the others.”

She still didn’t get it.

“At Terminal City, I mean.”

“That’s right,” she said slowly, her voice thick with discomfort. “You’re a transgenic.”

He watched her wrestling with that. If she remembered what had freaked her out this morning, they’d have to do it the hard way. If she didn’t remember, then she might still help him on her own. Her eyes cleared slowly; from the look of her, she didn’t remember a thing.

“I should probably get my beautiful booty over to the ER,” she said. She tried to sit up again, but had no more success than the first time.

Helping her lean forward, he propped up the pillows behind her. “Aren’t there doctors in Terminal City?”

Her eyes tightened again, this time mockingly. “You shittin’ me, right? They make doctors out of any of you Manticore men? You killin’ machines, not healin’.”

“I don’t know — a lot of the X5s and X6s have medical training.”

“Maybe so, but I don’t know if I can make it over there — can I rest for a while first?”

He didn’t like that, but she’d been cooperative enough, so he said, “A while longer, Cindy — then we’ve got to go. Or do we need to wait till dark?”

She studied him. He knew what she was thinking: if she trusted him, and Bobby turned out to be a spy for the feds or something, she might be endangering everybody inside those fences.

Finally, she said, “No — I can get us in, during the day. No problem.”

“Great — but you better be quiet and rest, because I’m really anxious to join my brothers and sisters.”

Lying back, she closed her eyes.

Original Cindy was tired, and still woozy from the probable concussion. But as she began to drift off to sleep, she suddenly remembered why she’d crashed...

It had been him — Bobby Kawasaki — he’d scared her.

So tired, so tired, but she thought something about his wanting into Terminal City so badly was... whack. She didn’t know what that was, exactly — it was her gut, and Original Cindy listened to her gut, it was a goddamn eloquent instrument, and she knew this nondescript little brother was wrong... and she had to buy as much time as she could until she figured out a way to warn Max.

In what seemed like seconds — which was a little over an hour later — she felt hands on her, as he shook her awake.

“Come on, Cindy — rise and shine! Time to go.”

Groggy, she managed to sit up; but the pain filled the whole side of her head, ran into her neck, down her shoulder and into her arm. It might only be a concussion but, damn, girl! Everything hurt.

“I’ve got to call them,” she told him, “to tell them we’re coming.”

“No — no calls. Come on. Get up. You need my help?”

“They... they won’t let us in.”

He shook his head. “If they’re not maintaining radio silence, they should be, and I’m not going to be the one to break it. We’ll worry about getting in when we’re there. Come on.”

“How... how are we going to get there?” she asked. Her legs were rubbery. “My head’s poundin’ like a bitch. I can’t walk.”

“We’ll flag down a cab.”

He let her lie there while he pulled out a large suitcase and laid it open on top of the dresser. She watched as he pulled something big and tan out of the closet and gently folded it inside the case. The object looked like leather, a patchwork garment, very amateurish, even primitive; but she couldn’t be sure what she was seeing, exactly. Between her fuzzy vision and the duskiness of the room, it could have been almost anything...

Bobby put a small flashlight in one pocket, tucked a long knife and scabbard into his boot, and carried a stun rod under one arm.

She noted this, the knife and the stun rod reasonable precautions for a transgenic... but that intelligent stomach of hers was sending warning signals...

Once Bobby had packed up, he none too gently led her outside. She recognized the neighborhood, once they exited the motel. The only good thing was that in a slum this dumpy, it would take them forever to get a cab, even in the middle of the day.

Unfortunately, he’d been kidding about the cab. The first car they came to, he broke into, tossed her inside in the front, put the suitcase in the back, and hot-wired the car.

As they drove, she focused all her energy on trying to think of a way to warn her sister.

Max was worried, and wishing she could trade this leadership gig in on kicking the crap out of some bad guy, any bad guy.

Alec and Joshua were still missing, Logan had been gone for some time now and she hadn’t heard so much as a peep from him, and when she tried to call Original Cindy, her Boo’s cell phone had this odd buzz to it, and no dial tone. Stomping into the media center, she tossed the phone on a table.

“Any ideas?” she asked Dix.

His half smile was only technically a smile. “Cell phone ain’t working, is it?”

She shook her head angrily.

“None of ’em are,” he said. “Looks like the feds are taking the gloves off. Instead of just monitoring our transmissions, they’re jamming them now. They cut off the power into the area, a couple of hours ago. By now they’ve figured out we have our own generator.”

Luke walked in, an empty glass in his hand. “They just cut the water.”

“Is our system up?” she asked.

Dix shook his head. “But we’re close — fifteen, maybe twenty-four hours, we’ll be up and runnin’.”

“Hope we’ve got that long,” she said.

Those who were the closest to her — the inner circle of Logan, Joshua, and Alec — were now all outside the perimeter, and she could no longer contact any of them. Well, at least she could talk to Clemente. Who woulda thunk that cop would be her new best friend?

She said, “I’ll be back,” and strode out of the media center.

Max bounced down to the fence line and found the Guardsmen and police officers huddled behind the cars in tense silence. “Hey, guys! Where’s Clemente?”

Several of them shrugged, and a couple said, “Don’t know.”

Across the way, Colonel Nickerson came out of the restaurant where she’d met Clemente. She watched as he marched over, ramrod straight.

“Colonel, I need to talk to Clemente.”

He shook his head. “Detective Clemente’s on assignment and can’t be reached.”

“Well, reach him anyway.”

“No.” He frowned in such a way that it encompassed his whole body. “Detective Clemente’s off the front lines. You may have noticed, we’ve turned off the power and water and jammed communications in and out. This is going to end, 452. It’s going to end soon.”

She thought about leaping the fence, kicking his ass, then jumping back over. Can’t do it, she told herself. Gotta be mature... Damn leadership, anyway.

“Thanks ever so,” she said, and turned back toward the compound.

Time to call a meeting.

Half an hour later, the whole mess of them had gathered again in the garage.

“There’s no water!” someone yelled.

Dix stepped forward. “We’re working on it. One more day at the most.”

The crowd grumbled at that.

“We’ve got bigger things to talk about,” Max said, taking over again.

“Is the Army really coming in?” one of them called, and several others more or less echoed the question — literally, in the cavernous garage.

“That,” she said, “is the threat.”

Contradictory shouts erupted everywhere:

“We’ve got to go!”

“Fight ’em!”

“Fight with what?”

Max held up her hands but it did no good. The crowd — this outcast mix of the beautiful and the grotesque — was only a heartbeat away from chaos.

Stepping forward, Mole raised his shotgun, aiming it up the ramp into the next level. He glanced at her for permission — and Max nodded her go-ahead: the cops couldn’t possibly think they were being fired upon, neither could the crowd, and cement dust wouldn’t come raining down on them if he fired it straight up into the roof.

Mole fired once and, when the roaring echo had died, the place went eerily silent. He had gained their undivided — if somewhat momentarily hearing-impaired — attention.

“A week ago,” the lizard man yelled, circling as he spoke, “I wanted to run!”

A voice shouted, “You were right!”

Mole looked in the direction of the voice as he pumped another round into the chamber — the pumping of the shotgun was a small sound that seemed very loud. “Shut the fuck up. It’s my turn to talk.”

No one argued.

“I wanted to run,” Mole said, “and Max made her speech about not living in fear anymore... and it was a goddamn good speech, that all of us heard, and took to heart... and yet here you all are, a buncha candy-asses ready to run as soon as the goin’ gets a little tough.”

They were all listening attentively.

“Well, not me!” He chewed on his cigar, wheeling around, seeking any face that might disagree. “This place is a shithole — and some of us have been here a hell of a lot longer than a week — but it’s our shithole... and I think that no matter what comes, it looks like this is our home.”

Some of them nodded.

“Every pioneer carves his home out of the wilderness... Well, this is our wilderness, and this is our home. And I’m ready to fight to protect my home, if it comes to that. If there’s a peaceful solution, fine. If not,” he raised the shotgun over his head, “they can bring it on.”

Scattered cheers erupted, and began to grow. Applause followed, and built into an echoing simulation of machine-gun fire, over which could be heard chanting: “Term-i-nal City... Term-i-nal City... Term-i-nal City!”

Max waited, enjoying the enthusiasm, the esprit de corps; finally she stepped forward and raised a fist.

The room fell silent; and fists were thrust high.

Max said, “We will do everything we can to end this peacefully!... But Mole is right. Terminal City may be nothing to brag about, but it’s our home... and we’re not running anymore.”

Luke came in carrying the flag Joshua had made. He handed it to Max and she waved it overhead as the crowd cheered.

Like their surroundings, it wasn’t much, but it was theirs, and if they had to defend it, they would do so to the death.