In Constant Fear (20 page)

“Just the street—I told him.”

“Jesus!” he gasped.

“What?”

“Please, tell me he's got the implant?” he said, starting the engine.

“Sure,” I said, and then, I don't know why, maybe instinct, but I looked down at where he'd been sitting, and despite how small it was, it caught the light and I spotted it instantly. I also knew how it'd got there: when I'd jerked the laser out of his pocket, I must've pulled the implant with it. “No. No, he hasn't.”

“Oh no,” Doctor Simon moaned, accelerating toward the ramp.

“What's the matter?” I asked, thinking he was overreacting.

“I told you, you don't know what goes on anymore!”

He hit the speed-bump at the top of the ramp so hard I banged my head on the roof. “For chrissake!” I shouted, “what's the problem?”

But as we sped up toward the mall, I began to get some idea: a whole crowd of looters had been flushed out of the building and were now scattering in every direction; it was the same sorta chaos, the same sorta panic we'd witnessed earlier back in that square.

“What's going on?” I asked, sliding my window down to get a better view.

The Doc pulled in a little down the road from the mall, and on the opposite side. “I told you,” he said, fear now slicing at his voice. “Shadows.”

Before I could ask him to explain, this group of people, homeless by the look of them, came running past as fast as they could, their mouths wide open, their eyes bulging with fear. The last one, a woman, was screaming this constant, shrill note at the top of her voice. This was obviously why everyone had wanted to get in and out as quickly as they could, what they'd been running from earlier—but what the hell was it?

Then I saw them, coming out of the mall, one by one: squat black things, moving like launched missiles, the first one gaining on the homeless group with every stride. And suddenly I realized there was something chillingly familiar about that pursuit.

“Is that what I think it is?”

The Doc nodded, visibly shaking. “I hate those things.”

“Growlers?”

“Yes.”

Infinity kept growlers in underground bunkers around their headquarters: anyone who tried to break in, who got through the fence and attempted to cross an expanse of grass, was chased and simply torn to pieces—as we so nearly found out to our cost one night.

“I thought they only functioned in the Infinity compound?”

“They're shadow-growlers,” he told me. “They've got another purpose altogether.”

At that exact moment, the pursuing growler caught up with the fleeing group, leaping through the air and knocking the woman
flat on her face, clamping its huge jaws around her waist while she screamed and writhed with the raw terror of impending death.

I'd never seen anything like it and I never wanna again either, not as long as I live. With her body just hanging from its mouth, it shook her from side to side so violently and with such force that she fell apart, the bottom half of her flying off into the street.

“Jesus!” I groaned.

Her companions must've heard her screams but they didn't even look back, just continued their hysterical flight, and within moments the shadow-growler was joined by another and they both turned and went chasing after them.

“They won't get far,” the Doc said quietly.

It was only then, as I leaned outta the window to watch the pursuit, that I realized there was another shadow-growler standing right beside the Bentley, so close I could've reached out and touched it. It fixed me with these cold slashes of eyes, obviously checking me out, sifting through its software, and I gotta say, it damn near frightened the life outta me.

They weren't the same as the ones that guarded Infinity: dull black rather than shiny silver, stockier, with feet wider apart, I guessed to make them more stable. But it was the head that was most different: much broader—to accommodate even larger jaws—and across the expanse of its forehead a row of vicious spikes. At the center of the “face” where the nose might be was a gaping hole that looked like it might just latch onto you and suck out everything in your body. Jeez, it was an evil-looking thing, and I guess that was the whole point; someone had labored long and hard to design the most frightening deterrent a human being could ever have to face.

God knows why, but I pressed the window button, wanting something between that thing and me, though I suspected it could probably jump straight through the glass, bullet-proof or not.

“It won't touch us,” the Doc said.

“How d'ya know?”

“It's already scanned us for implants; it's only non-imps it's after.”

So that that was how it worked: if you didn't have an implant, one of those things would eliminate you. And the moment I appreciated that, it hit me that Gordie was out there without one.

“I gotta find Gordie,” I said, fumbling at the door.

“Clancy!” Doctor Simon cried, “it's too late—he's gone.”

“How d'ya know?”

“No one escapes the shadows. Believe me.”

He might've been right but I didn't take any notice, just carefully put Gordie's implant into my pocket, then opened the door, the Doc again begging me not to do it.

The shadow-growler stood there as I eased my way out, studying my every move—Jeez, all it would take would be one spring and a snap of those huge jaws and you could toss me on the barbecue already jointed.

“Clancy—” Doctor Simon pleaded.

“I'll be back soon,” I told him, sliding along the side of the limo, keeping my eyes on the growler.

“I warn you, even with imps there's often collateral damage.”

With those words still ringing in my ears, and the memory of how the Infinity growlers had attacked almost everyone that night we got in there, I ran toward the mall, deciding to go with the worst-case scenario: that Gordie hadn't been able to find anything for Hanna in the street, and not wanting to go home empty-handed, had gone inside.

It was one of the older-style shopping centers: four floors with balconies and the familiar laser-waterfall cascading down in the middle. All kinds of stores—furniture, clothes, techno—though food had obviously been the main reason for most of those people to risk their lives. For sure, a lot of them hadn't lived long enough to regret it: the place looked more like a slaughterhouse than a shopping center—dismembered bodies were strewn everywhere, lying in pools of blood that in places had merged into congealing crimson lakes. One or two folk were still looking for food amongst the carnage, trying to keep a low profile; I presumed they were imps.

“
Gordie!
” I hollered, my concern ousting all caution. “
G-o-r-d-i-e!
”

I started to check through the corpses, saying a silent prayer he wasn't one of them, still calling out his name from time to time.

There was no sign on the first floor so I went up to the second, again working my way through the corpses, though there were far fewer up there away from the food halls. I turned a corner, calling out to Gordie once more, the name dying on my lips when I was suddenly confronted by this shadow-growler standing directly in front of me.

It seemed to be staring, but I guess that I was being scanned again; that weird hole in the middle of its face was expanding and contracting like it was breathing. It was one helluvan irony, but for the first time since I'd discovered I'd got it, I was glad I had that implant inside me.

In the end I just plucked up courage and walked around it, again giving the thing as wide a berth as I could manage. I told myself not to, but after a few moments I took a quick glance back: it was still standing in the exact same place, watching me as if it was calculating, maybe even thinking. I walked on, trying to act as casual as possible, what the Doc had said about collateral damage going through my head. I was so grateful to turn another corner and be outta sight.

I came to this menswear store. God knows why, but it was a real mess. Someone—or
something,
maybe even the shadow-growler I'd just bumped into—had more or less totaled the place. The display window had been smashed, the counters flattened, the old-fashioned mannequins reduced to little more than piles of dismembered bodies and smashed limbs, as if they'd been massacred.

I entered for a moment, slightly bemused by the completeness of the destruction, then returned outside.
Jesus, Gordie, where the hell are you?

I was just about to move on, when I heard a voice, “Clancy!”

It wasn't much more than a loud whisper, but I still recognized it, and that it was coming from the menswear store.

“Gordie?” I called, going back inside.

There was no reply and I started searching, thinking he was hiding somewhere, but I couldn't find him. “
Gordie?
”

“Here,” came the reply, a lot closer, but weaker, too.

It was crazy: he was obviously only yards from me, but damned if I could see him. “Where are you?”

It wasn't until he finally managed to move that I saw him, hidden amongst the pile of destroyed mannequins, camouflaged by dismembered arms and legs and battered torsos, and looking almost as smashed-up as they were.

I crouched down, tossing the broken limbs aside so I could disentangle him. “Are you okay?”

“I think so . . .” he croaked, taking my hand, obviously in some pain as I pulled him up.

“What happened?”

“I hid amongst these guys,” he croaked, “hoping it wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but it just went crazy.”

Jeez, was that why that one'd behaved so oddly? They were programmed to recognize the human form, but when it'd scanned the mannequins, it couldn't understand: all those “people” but only one life-form. Eventually it'd got so frustrated it'd reacted in a worryingly human manner, by smashing the whole place up.

I quickly checked Gordie over. There were a few cuts and bruises, a helluva graze on his back, but nothing appeared to be broken. I searched my pocket for that tiny sliver of an implant, wanting to get out of there as rapidly as I could, but before I could find it, there was a long, low growl behind me.

Jesus!
 . . . I didn't get it. How much free thought were those things capable of exactly? It must've been suspicious of me, thought it over and decided to return. I also realized that there'd been another modification on the standard growler: it no longer made that same slurping mechanical sound when it walked, so it could sneak up on people like us.

It was standing no more than a leap away, giving out this synthesized snarling—a sound every bit as terrifying as its appearance, as if they'd somehow managed to mix the growls of the hunter with the screams of the hunted.

Again I rummaged in my pocket for the implant, but it was such a finicky little thing and that damn growler was gnashing and snapping away as if it was about to spring at any moment. The only thing I could think of to do was to get my implanted body between it and Gordie, to place myself face to face with that evil-looking son-of-the-Bitch.

I don't what they've done to them, but they've definitely got some human—or at the very least
animal
—qualities; it got really angry with me, repeatedly growling, obviously wanting me to get out of the way. I swear it was about to rip me out of there, to maybe consign me to collateral damage, but my fingertips finally located the implant, and snatching it out I thrust it into Gordie's breast pocket.

“What're you doing?” he asked.

But I didn't answer, just stepped aside and let the shadow-growler scan him, in absolute mental agony for those next few seconds. However, to our immense relief, it turned and stalked slowly outta the store.

We had a bad couple of moments outside the mall when we couldn't see the Doc's limo, but he'd just moved it a little ways down the street. Gordie and me tumbled in the back, the Doc urging us to hurry, but once we'd got away we had remarkably little trouble getting outta the City. We saw plenty more shadow-growlers chasing people, creating life-and-death panic, but thankfully, none of them were interested in us.

Gordie was fine. The Doc quickly checked him for any signs of concussion, but he was fine, though he'd taken a blow or two he could've well done without. After a bottle of the finest chilled mineral water from the mini-bar, he soon became his old self. Which wasn't something you could say about Doc Simon.

The whole way the guy was nothing but a pile of squirming exposed nerves: doing a three-sixty every time we stopped at a light or junction, scanning the sky for Dragonflies, I guessed, taking the biggest risk of his calculating life. Though to be fair, there weren't many who wouldn't have been terrified in his position: going behind Nora Jagger's back and helping people who'd once attempted to kill her; who'd wanna wear those shoes, no matter how soft the leather?
Then again, I was still far from sure I could trust him. Maybe it was all part of a plan?

Once we hit the long sweep around the mountain and through the pass, the Doc started to get that bit sleepy and I suggested I took over the driving. You would've thought I'd asked him if I could step in for him on his wedding night! I thought he was gonna jam the steering wheel down the front of his pants. But no more than ten minutes later he almost ran us off the road and I had to insist.

He made me swear all kinds of oaths about being careful, keeping my speed down, not doing
anything
without asking him. First five or ten miles, no matter how tired he was, I don't think he drew breath. I reminded him I used to be a professional, that driving for Mr. Meltoni was part of my duties, but I don't think he heard a word I said.

I guess you've been wondering—and it went through my head now and then—why I so rarely mentioned Mr. Meltoni anymore? In fact, why I so rarely talked about the past? When I was out on the Island, especially when I teamed up with Jimmy and a bottle of hooch, there were days when it felt like we were the best time-travelers this damn planet'd ever known. We could practically touch the brickwork of the City (or the way it was years ago), feel the heat of the sidewalk beneath our feet; the sound of the horns, the calls of the traders. We lived the past so well we were positively homesick for it. And I guess when you think about the Island, what a hellhole it was, what future apparently lay in wait for us all, that wasn't exactly surprising. Mind you, like a lot of senior citizens, I guess we were inclined to OD that bit on nostalgia, forever splashing our memories with a solution of fool's gold.

I mean, yeah, Mr. Meltoni
was
quite a guy: someone who started with the amount of time he'd been allotted on this Earth and hacked and chiseled and molded for all he was worth. And he did a lotta good things. But you know something . . . ? He did far more bad. Some, like I told you before, I did for him, and these days it's
that
I'm more inclined to remember. I'd give anything to be able to change that part of my life, to have spent my time working as a baker or a
chauffeur or screen repairman. But you know, that wasn't the reason I so seldom dwelled on the past anymore.

Took me a while to figure it out, but actually, the answer was kinda obvious: the way my life'd become, the way everything'd changed, well, the best hadn't gone any more . . . the best was still to come.

I might be nothing more than an old big guy, but I had this woman who I loved and who loved me, a child—
my son
—who also loved me, and maybe more importantly, who I was responsible for. And you know what? All those years of being a big guy, throwing my weight around and putting the fear of God into people, it was only then that I finally saw myself as a man. She'd done that for me—Lena. Fear ain't respect—how could I have ever thought it was? I was feeling so much better about myself, more confident, more sure of who I was, and it was Lena who'd done that. That's why I didn't think about the past anymore, 'cuz I'd got my eyes and heart firmly set on the future. Though the irony was, the way things were, I wasn't that sure I'd got one.

We arrived back at the farm late in the morning, everyone coming out when they saw the Bentley approaching. Despite the situation, Lile started teasing me, going on about “Hadn't I done well for myself in the big city.”

The Doc waited a few moments before getting out. I guessed he wasn't sure what sorta reception he'd get—apart from Gigi, no one had seen him since we'd dropped him off beside the road the night we broke into the Infinity Building. However, when I finally untangled myself from Lena's embrace, when I stepped back and he saw what we'd almost been crushing between us, he was out of that vehicle like dog out of a trap.

I guess it was his aftershave—she must've smelled him as soon as he emerged from the Bentley, 'cuz Lena instinctively held Thomas that bit closer to her, though the Doc was so busy gaping at the little guy I don't think he even noticed.

“Oh my God,” he cried, erupting with helpless laughter, “
Oh my God!
He's
beautiful
!”

That was the thing about Doc Simon: he might've been capable of sliding under a snake's belly with a top hat on, but sometimes he could really surprise you. The look on his face as he stared at Thomas was as joyful as any I'd seen. In fact, damned if he didn't have tears welling up in his eyes.

“Wow, little guy,” he cooed, “you really are something.”

I briefly considered handing him the baby, letting him hold him for a few moments, but Lena must've guessed what I was considering and immediately shrank away—and bearing in mind what he'd done to her, I guess that wasn't that much of a surprise.

“So, what d'you need?” I asked the Doc, wanting him to get busy as soon as possible.

“Somewhere isolated where I can set up my equipment,” he replied, not averting his eyes from Thomas for a second. “Power, of course. And just those who've got implants,” he added, making it perfectly plain that no one else would be welcome.

“Jimmy's workshop,” I suggested.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Jimmy chimed in before the Doc could reply. “You can't use my workshop.”

“Jimmy!” I protested, most of the others joining in with me.

“All my stuff's there,” he told us. “What about the kitchen? It's perfect.”

“Listen,” the Doc said, sounding mildly irritated, “I faithfully promise not to touch any of your hammers and nails.”

Of all the comments he could've made, that was not the most helpful. The look on Jimmy's face, how red he went, I thought we were gonna start our new situation with a fight. He advanced a couple of paces, and the Doc, suddenly concerned he might've badly miscalculated, started backing away.

I had to step in. “Jimmy, come on, man. It's the logical place.”

“The kitchen!” he persisted.

“Please!” Nick begged, his few infrequent words now always coming across like cries from the heart.

“
Jimmy!
” Lile shouted, about to bring her wrath down on him, and at that he finally buckled—though not before he'd made a big
thing of announcing that he'd fixed the corroded power-packs on the lasers, that thanks to him and his workshop we were no longer unarmed.

“It won't be for long,” I reassured him.

But he never answered, just turned and busily rushed over to the barn, obviously determined to get there before anyone else and put his stuff well out of reach.

Doctor Simon peered into Thomas's blue and white checked blanket one last time. He actually started reaching for the little guy's hand, but sensing Lena's unspoken objection, pulled away.

“Okay, let's get to work,” he said, returning to the Bentley and retrieving his shiny black case, carrying it with more care than Lena bore Thomas.

I grabbed his heavy case from the trunk and followed him over, managing a hushed conversation with Lena on the way, reassuring her we'd done the right thing—although when we entered the barn, I wasn't so sure.

Jimmy and the Doc were already squaring up to each other. The little guy was acting like some ponytailed prima donna, watching everything the Doc was doing, plainly ready to intervene for the slightest reason, snatching his homemade scanner away when the Doc started looking at it.

I was about to intervene when through the open barn door I saw Nick trying to squeeze Miriam's bed out onto the porch. I trotted back over to help, noticing how haunted he looked, those dark Mediterranean eyes that Delilah used to describe as sexy now more like shadows on a skull.

“How is she?” I asked.

He hesitated for a moment, as if he had a story to tell, but obviously thought better of it. “Not good.”

I turned to Miriam, peering down into the covers. There was never much to see, though I gotta say, I did do a bit of a double-take. Normally she had this kind of quiet absence about her, but this time there was a real sense of tethered agitation.

“Let's hope the Doc can get rid of these things,” I said, wondering if it'd make any difference that she'd been implanted that bit longer.

Nick said nothing more and I helped him lift the bed off the porch and wheel it over to the barn—whatever was troubling him, getting rid of those implants came first.

Jimmy might be a genius, but he's not a tidy one, and when I got back the two of them had moved onto arguing about clearing his workbench. Everything Doctor Simon picked up, he either slammed back down where it'd been, or bore it away as if it was made of finest crystal. Tell the truth, I didn't have the patience for it—I just scooped everything up in my arms and dumped it into a corner.

“Big Guy!” he screeched, ignoring Gordie giggling at how high his voice had gone.

I ignored him, doing as the Doc told me: wiping down the bench, helping him unroll and lay out this thick wired sheet of plastic. At last the contents of that shiny case were revealed as he took out what I guessed was the last word in medical computers.

Gordie, knowing he wasn't wanted, left us to it and headed back over to see Hanna. The only other person who shouldn't have been there was Jimmy, but there was no way he was going anywhere, and actually, as annoyed as he was to see someone threatening his position as the brains of the organization, I could see he was that bit interested. I reckoned he would've given the growth in his burgeoning ponytail for a session on the Doc's fancy computer—not that he would've ever admitted it. I caught him looking longingly at it, but the moment he realized I was watching, his face turned to a sneer, like he'd just seen a dyed blonde speeding in a pink Cadillac.

“Can I have Thomas?” the Doc said, ready to start.

For a moment I thought he wasn't gonna get him—that Lena might just wheel around and take him out, and I couldn't help but think the Doc would've done better to have started with someone else, but maybe he had a good reason.

“Clancy?” she said, as if to check I was monitoring the situation.

“It's okay.”

She reluctantly handed Thomas over, the Doc unable to resist a moment of just holding him up in front of him, staring at the little guy like he was the eighth, ninth and tenth wonders of the world.

Thomas was so sleepy he didn't, as I'd anticipated, start to cry, but instead just nodded off the moment he was placed on the bench. The Doc eased on these big pulsing goggles and started scanning him up and down, searching for the implant. A couple of times he paused to scrutinize different areas, frowning, then finally decided he'd seen enough.

“What is it?” Lena asked, sensing an atmosphere.

“Nothing,” the Doc replied, handing Thomas back to her. “Clancy?” he said, and indicated that I should lie down, also scanning me with those odd-looking goggles.

“Can you see it?” I asked, but Doctor Simon had fallen into medical mode and completely ignored all my questions.

Miriam was wheeled over, still motionless in bed, and Nick and me helped the Doc get her on the bench. As if he'd known it'd be there, he went straight for her head and immediately appeared to find what he was looking for.

“Well,” he said, taking off his goggles, “I've got bad news . . . and good.” He paused in a rather practiced manner, as if he'd delivered that particular diagnosis a million times.

“What?” Lena cried, as if she couldn't wait a moment longer.

“Sorry, Clancy,” he told me. “It's really made itself at home—won't be long now . . . And sorry to you, too,” he said to Nick, and I realized no one'd remembered to introduce them.

“No hope?” Nick asked.

“I'm afraid she's already been keyed.”

There was a heavy pause, but Nick never said a word, nor even reacted.

“What about Thomas?” I asked.

Doctor Simon paused for a moment, giving out with a kind of half-grunt, half-chuckle. “That's the good news . . . he doesn't have one.”

“
What?
” Jimmy cried.

“He doesn't have an implant.”

“Come on,” Jimmy protested, “I saw it—just like Clancy's.”

“I'm sure you did,” Doctor Simon replied, “the thing is, for obvious reasons, there's been no research on the effects of implants on babies. I think he's too young: the bone and tissue are still forming. I think the implant simply couldn't get a hold. I would guess that Thomas' implant was disposed of along with the contents of one of his diapers.”

I went to Lena and put my arms around her and the little guy, giving them both a big grateful hug. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”