I turned the doorknob slowly and slipped into a storage area filled with shipping boxes. Something was burning inside the building. Smoke drifted past my legs and escaped out the open doorway. The smoke had a burnt, greasy odor that appeared as a blackish-red color in my mind. It smelled as if a chunk of fat-covered meat had just been dropped into a campfire.
I entered the main room and stopped. A burning body lay in front of me. Black smoke rose up from the flesh and the remnants of the clothes. The dead man’s right foot and ankle were still clean. A blue tennis shoe and a lime-green sock had survived the flames.
As I moved forward, I saw more bodies. Lorcan and his men had killed everyone in the bunker, doused the bodies with gasoline, and set them on fire. Black smoke swirled around my shoulders and I started to cough. I heard a popping sound like a string of firecrackers as sparks rose up from the burning flesh.
Searching for Emily, I wandered through the haze and discovered Helen McClatchy curled up like a sleeping child near a desk. Her clothes and hair and skin had burned away, leaving a blackened effigy of a human being. Keep moving. I found another two bodies lying next to the Polish girl, Lidia. Her legs were black and her blue skirt was now a tissue of ash that broke into bits and rose up into the air.
The fire from each body radiated a foul smell, but my Spark took control, forcing my Shell forward. Circling the conference table, I almost tripped over Thomas Slater. His forehead, nose, and eyes were still untouched, but the rest of his body was black and burning. The two dogs lay a few feet away. Hildy had been shot in the head and there was a bullet wound in the center of Newton’s chest. My Spark slowed down—the world slowed down—as I knelt beside the dogs and touched Isaac’s soft black ears. In my mind, he snarled and leaped forward as he tried to protect his master.
So where was Emily? I got down on my hands and knees and crawled forward. The fire from the bodies had started to spread and now the wooden floor was burning near the old boiler. Smoke surrounded me and all I could see were points of harsh red light. Since my Transformation, I had tried to stay separate from the corrupt world, but now I had fallen into a dark place.
I crawled back across the room, coughing and spitting out bits of ash. When I reached the work area, I stood up and looked around one last time. Helen’s leather shoulder bag lay on the table. I reached inside and found my cell phone. As I headed for the back door, I saw that the flash drive with the stolen data was attached to the quarantine computer. I pulled the drive out and stuffed it into my pocket.
Flames rose up from the floor and touched the walls and now the light fixtures began to flicker and die. I staggered past the first body, pushed out the back door, and collapsed onto the wet ground. My Shell kept coughing and gasping for air as my lungs tried to expel the memory of what I’d just seen. For the first time since the Transformation, my Spark felt pain and longing and regret.
After a few minutes my breathing became slow and regular, and I stood back up on wobbly legs. Like a lost child, I retreated into the forest and moved to the left, away from the bunker. I stopped when I saw Koji and the bearded man carrying jerry cans of gasoline into the main house. The young man with the curly hair finished tying a rope to Bobby’s ankles and dragged him inside.
I didn’t have my computer and couldn’t ask Edward to suggest a plan. Hiding behind a pile of logs, I watched Lorcan drag Emily over to the truck. Her hands were tied behind her back and she was crying. Lorcan forced her to kneel in front of the headlights and grabbed a handful of hair. He was talking to her with a quiet voice and I couldn’t make out the words. When she shook her head, he touched her cheek with the tip of his right forefinger. She screamed. He held her tighter, and then touched her again.
As his right hand moved upward, light was reflected off the blade of his straight razor. He was holding his weapon like an artist’s paintbrush, and whenever she said no he would make a quick dabbing motion. Two lines of bright red trickled down her cheeks. It looked as if she was crying blood.
Emily shook her head and tried to get away. Once again, Lorcan touched her with the tip of the razor. More cuts. And now the lower part of her face was a mask of blood. I had heard Lorcan describe the way he could torture women for hours, but there wasn’t enough time for that. The bunker was burning and the other enforcers were setting fire to the main house. He would probably cut Emily a few more times for pleasure, and then slash her throat.
I had no weapons and all four men were armed. Only one person could stop Emily from dying. Switching on the phone, I dialed Miss Holquist’s number. One ring and she answered. “Yes? Hello? Hello?” For the first time in any of our conversations, she didn’t sound calm and confident.
“It’s Underwood.”
“Good! Wonderful! We were worried about you!”
“That’s not true. You sent Lorcan and three enforcers to kill me and everyone else. They’ve been partially successful. Thomas Slater and six other people are dead. I’m free and hiding in the forest. And Lorcan is using his razor to question Emily Buchanan.”
“I swear that they weren’t going to kill you. I promise that—”
“Stop talking, Miss Holquist. It’s important that you listen to me. Lorcan set fire to the bodies, but he was moving too quickly and didn’t search for the flash drive with the original data. I have the flash drive and I know all about Alexander Serby’s meeting with Danny Marchand. That’s a secret that’s worth something.”
“How much money do you want, Underwood? I could transfer the payment in a few hours.”
“I want Emily Buchanan alive. I’ll trade the stolen data for her life when I figure out a safe way to make the exchange.”
“I can’t agree to that. She’s too great a security risk.”
“No one will believe anything she says about Marchand. Without the video, it’s just another conspiracy theory without any evidence. You know me, Miss Holquist. Unlike most Human Units, I keep my promises. Call Lorcan right away and stop this business with the razor. I’ll contact you at this number when I’m back in New York City.”
“Forget about Emily Buchanan!” Miss Holquist shouted, and her voice echoed slightly. I pictured her pacing back and forth in a restaurant ladies room, her heels clicking on a white tile floor. “This girl is nothing. Less than nothing. There’s no reason for you to care about her. You don’t really care about anyone. That’s why I hired you.”
“Yes. I know. Bosons and fermions. You explained reality.”
“Right! That’s right! Step back and consider what you’re—”
“Call Lorcan. We’ll make the exchange in the city.”
I switched off the phone and remained in the shadows. Lorcan gripped Emily’s hair tightly and jerked her head back, exposing her neck. He gazed down at her, enjoying this moment of power, then suddenly lowered the razor. Had he seen me? No, his phone was ringing. He reached up and switched on his headset.
Was he talking to Miss Holquist? A few seconds passed, and then he let go of Emily, pivoted around, and stared at the forest. He knew I was watching him.
I touched the flash drive in my pocket and stepped farther back into the underbrush. By now the main house was on fire. A second-floor window burst from the heat and smoke rose up into the night sky.
I had to find my way to a road, and then to the train station. When I asked Laura for directions she kept saying: “I’m searching. I’m searching.…” But didn’t give me an answer.
Thomas Slater was right. Everyone had the power to say no. That was the true response to Descartes’s statement. Cogito, ergo—
No. I don’t believe you.
No. I won’t obey you.
No.
Laura’s voice finally returned to my phone and she guided me down the dark country roads to the Westerly train station. Nobody was watching Sean’s car and I was able to drive out of the parking lot and head south on the interstate. As the sun came up, I stopped at a gas station and tried to come up with a plan. My first objective was to
get enough cash to buy weapons and other supplies. I could access my overseas account at a British bank on East Forty-Seventh Street, but a withdrawal required a thumb scan and my fake fingers were back at the loft. Lorcan or one of the enforcers could already be in my building or watching the entrance. The only unknown factor was Emily. It would take some time to transport her to a secure location, and someone would have to guard her.
I parked near the Brooklyn Bridge and walked to Chinatown. All the tourists had disappeared and garbage bags from the neighborhood restaurants were piled up in the street. The early morning air was cold and damp. Steam billowed out of an orange and white pipe bolted over a manhole, and people held Styrofoam cups of tea in both hands as they hurried to their obligations. An industrial laundry was on Mott Street and I watched as workers carried out blue bundles of clean clothes and racks of dry cleaning on hangers. The men had been working all night and they looked exhausted; their drawstring pants and sleeveless undershirts hung loosely on their bodies. Perhaps they were also dead, but alive.
When I reached the end of Catherine Street, I looked for the white delivery van or the blue pickup truck. No one was sitting in a parked car or waiting on the bus bench near the intersection. I wanted to save Emily’s life and that need, that desire, made me feel vulnerable. Back at the hospital, I had decided that reality was a logical sequence of events. Now I wasn’t sure about that idea. Maybe everything that happened was just a larger version of Dice Night at Crawley’s, but our Sparks surveyed the random incidents and imposed their own order.
I reached my building and began climbing upstairs to the loft. If Lorcan was waiting for me on the top landing, he would step out of the shadows and fire at his target. The Chinese immigrants who lived in my building avoided the authorities and they wouldn’t call the police.
I unlocked the door, pushed it open, and waited. No one appeared and I enjoyed the silence of an empty room. Moving as quickly as possible, I found the cardboard box containing the fingers and stuffed it into a shoulder bag with a few bottles of ComPlete. A minute later I was back on the street, walking past two old ladies arguing in Chinese.
The British bank on Forty-Seventh Street opened up at eight o’clock in the morning. I bought a roll of flesh-colored surgical tape at a drugstore, taped a gummy finger to the underside of my thumb, and got in line behind the other customers. These days, many of the larger banks used nubot employees, but this branch had a human teller—a middle-aged woman with a straight line of bangs across her forehead. She looked solid and steady, attached to her chair.
“I’d like to withdraw eight thousand dollars.”
“For that amount, we need double verification. Press your right thumb against the sensor, then type in your security code.”
I wondered about the man who gave me his fingerprints. Was he still alive or was the warm plastic molded around a cold thumb? I pushed the finger against a sensor, flattening the plastic, and nothing happened. The teller stared at me through the Plexiglas barrier as I tried again. This time the green light appeared. After I punched in my security code, the teller’s brain told her mouth to smile.
“Thank you, sir. And how would you like that amount?”
Rush-hour traffic clogged the streets as I drove uptown to St. Theodosius. This time I parked down the block and sat in the car, making sure that no one was watching the entrance. Twenty minutes later I approached the church and pushed the buzzer for the basement apartment. Gregory opened the door a few inches and stared at me with his pale blue eyes.
“It’s not my fault.”
I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about. “No one is saying that you made a mistake, Gregory.”
“I told Lorcan, the big guy with the long hair, that I couldn’t guarantee results. If something didn’t work … that’s your problem.”
“I’m not here to complain about anything. I’ve been given a new assignment and I need some equipment.”
The old man pulled open the door and allowed me to enter the vestibule. Quickly, he snapped the lock shut as if demons were trying to break into his sanctuary. “Nobody called me. Usually your lady friend calls me.”
“I’ve encountered an unexpected problem.”
“What kind of guns are we talking about?”
“I’d like to buy the same equipment as last time … a small revolver for my ankle holster and a nine-millimeter automatic.”
Gregory considered the idea for a few seconds, then nodded and shrugged. “Okay. I can do that. But I’m adding twenty percent to the standard price.”
“Let me see the weapons first.”
The old man’s bedroom slippers made a scuffing sound as I followed him up a staircase. When we entered the church, candle flames flickered in their red glass holders. The church was cold, but the air smelled sweet and moist—like the rotting mulch in a garden. As we circled the altar I saw that wreaths and vases of cut flowers surrounded a coffin resting on two black sawhorses.
“Who’s that?”
“Some old lady. The viewing starts at three o’clock. Mass begins at five.”
“Then what happens?”
“They take the coffin away. A few days pass, then someone else dies and they bring in another box.” Gregory searched through the key ring, found the right one, and unlocked the bottom drawer behind the altar. Nine handguns were concealed beneath a priest’s robe and he began sorting through the collection.
“I got two options for a revolver that would fit that ankle holster. For the larger gun, I’ve got a Glock thirty that’s chambered for a forty-five-caliber cartridge.”
“How large is it? Let me see.”
Still kneeling in front of the drawer, Gregory handed me the weapon. “It holds ten rounds … very light and easy to carry … but I don’t have a laser sight that fits the frame.”
I pointed my new weapon at a murky painting of an angel delivering news to a monk holding a cross. “Why did you think I was here to complain?”
“Because that was the first time I ever placed a tracking chip in a handgun. Lorcan gave me the nine-millimeter automatic I sold you a couple of weeks ago. Remember?”
“That’s right.” I removed the magazine and made sure that the firing chamber was empty. Then I squeezed the trigger and dry fired at the angel.
“I couldn’t test the chip because I don’t have that kind of equipment. So I put it inside the grip and gave it back to Lorcan.”
“You don’t need to worry, Gregory. Everything worked perfectly.”
Ten minutes later I walked out of the church carrying a new revolver in an ankle holster and the Glock in a plastic shopping bag. I got back into Sean’s car, but I didn’t start the engine.
By now Lorcan or another enforcer was inside my loft, waiting for me to return. The loft was not my home; I felt no attachment to the kitchen table or the rusty pencil machine. But at that moment I needed a quiet, open space where I could hammer a nail into the floor and revolve around it in a perfect circle.
Although Miss Holquist had lectured me about bosons and fermions, she had also made sure that she could monitor my activities. Gregory had placed tracking chips in my two handguns and I had become a little red dot moving across a GPS map. Emily was right. I was the one who led Lorcan to Thomas Slater. I was the reason why everyone was dead.
Lorcan probably thought he was a wolf surrounded by a herd of sheep, but he was just another predictable Human Unit. The moment I handed over the flash drive, he would try to kill Emily. That meant I needed to figure out a way to protect her after the exchange. Sean might offer a solution to that problem, but I had to find him first. The night we met, Emily had walked to the furniture factory. That meant that she had to live somewhere nearby. I allowed my memory to see her again, drinking hot chocolate as she joked with Millicent and Sean. And what did she say when she took off her parka? We live in a warehouse surrounded by thousands of broken machines.
I asked Laura to search for a parts supply store within a two-mile radiu
s of the Vickerson factory. It took only a few seconds for her to find a recycling business on Skillman Street called U-Find-It. Laura guided me across the bridge to Brooklyn and I parked outside a three-story building surrounded by a chain-link fence. There were iron rails embedded in the street, half covered with asphalt, and I wondered if the building had once been a repair shop for subway cars. I passed through the gate and followed a short driveway to a loading dock with hand trucks and cargo dollies. A sign over the open doorway read:
U-FIND-IT
EVERYTHING MECHANICAL—EXCEPT CAR PARTS
BUY AND SELL—NO DELIVERY
Two men were loading a used washing machine into a van while a growler girl with tattoos on her arms carried out three record turntables. Directly inside the entrance was an Airstream trailer with a rounded aluminum body. The trailer had been turned into a cashier’s booth, and a sallow-faced man sat behind a Plexiglas window glaring at the customers.
“I’m looking for Sean.”
“Walk to the back. He’s in the security trailer.”
The U-Find-It building was an enormous room with a forty-foot ceiling. The interior was lit by fluorescent light fixtures and divided into a grid of shelves—each aisle marked with a street sign. I turned left and walked down an aisle marked WESTSIDE DRIVE that went from the entrance to the end of the building. The massive steel shelves were twenty feet high and the shelves were filled with discarded machines and plastic bins filled with parts. Movable ladders with platforms at the top were scattered around the building so that customers could reach the machinery stored above them.
The aisle labeled FIRST STREET had water pumps, elevator cables, and the jigs and cutters for tool and die machines. Second Street had a section for nubot parts—mostly arm and leg assemblies. But there was also a bin packed with detached heads, the mechanical eyes open and staring at the wreckage around them.