Wars and the destruction of the new city, it had all been forgotten again.
But Hawk had rediscovered it, and now it belonged to the Ghosts. Well, mostly. There were other things down there, too, though not other street kids because other street kids respected your territory. Freaks of various sorts.
Lizards, Moles, and Spiders mostly–not the dangerous kind, though he guessed they could all be considered dangerous. But these kinds of Freaks ignored them, stayed away from their part of the underground, and even traded with them now and then. These kinds of Freaks were slow–witted and shy. They could be bad and sometimes scary, but you could live with them.
The Croaks were the ones you had to be careful of. They were the ones who would hurt you.
Something metal clanged sharply in the distance, and the Ghosts froze as one. Long minutes passed as the echo died into silence. Hawk glanced at his wingmen, Panther and Bear, the former sleek and sinewy with skin as black as damp ashes, the latter huge and shambling and as pale as snow. They were the strong ones, the ones he relied upon to protect the others, the fighters. They carried the prods, the solar–charged staffs that could shock even a Lizard unconscious with just a touch.
Panther met Hawk's gaze, his fine features expressionless. He made a sweeping motion with his arm, taking in the surrounding buildings, and shook his head. Nothing from where he stood. Bear had a similar response. Hawk waited a few minutes more, then started them forward again.
Two blocks short of the Hammering Man, at the intersection of First and
Seneca, movement to his left stopped Hawk in his tracks.
A huge Lizard staggered out from the dark maw of a parking garage, its head thrown back and clothing all in tatters. It moaned as it advanced up the street toward them, its approach erratic and unfocused. Blood soaked through dozens of rents in the thick, plated skin. As it drew closer, Hawk could see that its eyes had been gouged out.
It looked like it had been through a meat grinder. Lizards, Moles, and
Spiders were mutants, humans whose outer appearance had been changed by prolonged or excessive exposure to radiation and chemicals. Moles lived deep underground, and the changes wrought were mostly in their bone structures.
Spiders lived in the buildings, small and quick, with squat bodies and long limbs. Only the Lizards lived out in the open, their skin turned reptilian, their features blunted or erased entirely. Lizards were very strong and dangerous; Hawk couldn't think of anything that could do this to a Lizard.
Panther moved over to stand next to him. "So what are we doing? Waiting for that thing to get close enough to hug us? Let's blow like the wind, Bird‑Man."
Hawk hated being called Bird‑Man, but Panther wouldn't let up. Defiance was too deeply ingrained in his nature.
"Leave it!" Panther snapped when he didn't respond quickly enough. "Let's go!"
"We can't leave it like this. It's in a lot of pain. It's dying."
"Ain't our problem."
Hawk looked at him. "It's a Freak, man!" Panther hissed.
Bear and the others had closed ranks about them. Their faces were damp, and their hair glistened with droplets of water. Their breath clouded in the cool, hazy air. Rain fell in a misty shroud that obscured the city and left it shimmering like a dream. No one said anything.
"Wait here," he told them finally.
"Shhh, man!" Panther groaned.
Hawk left them grouped together in the center of the street and walked toward the stricken Lizard. It was a big one, well over six feet and heavily muscled. Hawk was slender and not very tall, and the Lizard dwarfed him.
Normally, a Lizard would not intentionally hurt you, but this one was so maddened with pain that it might not realize what it was doing until it was too late. He would have to be quick.
He reached into his pocket and extracted the viper–prick. Tearing off the packaging, he eased up to where the Lizard lurched and shuffled, head turning blindly from side to side as it groped its way forward. Up close like this, Hawk could see the full extent of the damage that had been done to it, and he wondered how it could still even walk.
There was no hesitation as he ducked under one huge arm and plunged the viper–needle into its neck. The Lizard reared back in shock, stiffened momentarily, then collapsed in a heap, unmoving. Hawk waited, then nudged it with his toe. There was no response. He looked down at it a moment more, then turned and walked back to the others.
"You just wasted a valuable store on a Freak!" Panther snapped. His tone said it all.
"That isn't so," River said quietly. "Every living creature deserves our help when we can give it, especially when it is in pain. Hawk did what needed doing, that's all."
She was a small dark–haired twelve–year–old with big eyes and a bigger heart. She had come to them on a skiff down the Duwamish, the sole survivor of a plague that had killed everyone else aboard. Fierce little Sparrow had found her foraging for food down by the piers and brought her home to nest. At first, Hawk hadn't wanted to let her stay. She seemed weak and indecisive, easy prey for the more dangerous of the Freaks. But he quickly discovered that what he had taken for weakness and indecisiveness was measured consideration and complex thought.
River did not act or speak in haste. The pace of her life was slow and careful.
She's like a deep river, fitted with secrets, Owl had told him, and he had named her accordingly.
Panther was not impressed. "Nice words, but they don't mean spit. We don't
live in the kind of world you keep talking about, River. Most of those creatures you want to help just want to see us dead! They're nothing but frickin' animals!"
Bear leaned in, his blunt, pale face dripping rain. "I don't think we should stand out here like this."
Hawk nodded and motioned them ahead once more. They spread out in the
Wing-T without being told, disciplined enough to know what to do. Panther was still muttering to himself, but Hawk paid no attention, his mind on the dead
Lizard. If there was something in the city that could take on and nearly kill a
Lizard that size, then they needed to be extra careful. Up until now, there hadn't been anything that dangerous to contend with, not counting Croaks and Pukes. He wondered suddenly if maybe a pack of one or the other had done this, but quickly dismissed the idea. Croaks and Pukes didn't travel in packs and didn't inflict that kind of damage. No, this was something else–something that had either crawled up out of the deeper parts of the underground or come into the city from another place.
He would ask Owl when they returned. Owl might be able to learn something from one of her books.
They reached the Hammering Man and paused for a quick look, just as they always did. The Hammering Man stood frozen in place, a flat black metal giant with one arm raised and the other outstretched in front of it. The raised hand held a hammer; the outstretched hand held a small anvil. It was a piece of art,
Owl said. The building behind it had once been a museum. None of the Ghosts had ever seen a museum except in pictures. This one had long since been looted and trashed, the interior set afire and the windows broken out. The Hammering Man was really all that was left. Hawk drew them away and turned them uphill toward the city center. The streets were slick with mud and damp. Climbing the sidewalks was slow and treacherous. Candle went down twice, and Bear once.
Panther frowned at them and kept going, above such failings. He had worn his hiking boots for better traction. Panther always wore what was needed. He was always prepared.