“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.
Chapter eleven
Dying to meet you
After what seemed like hours in snarled Seattle traffic, Logan Cale finally pulled up to the well-worn seven-story brick structure that was the Armbruster Hotel — at one time, the place to stay in the Emerald City... of course, those days had ended not long after the Gold Rush of 1896. The canvas awning over the front door, once forest green, had long since faded into a limp pastel pup tent, while the grand entrance — wide smoked glass that had at one time been clear — was attended by winos, not liveried doormen.
Logan punched numbers into his cell phone.
Asha picked up immediately. “Yes?”
“It’s me. I’m finally here — with the price of gas, you wouldn’t think traffic jams would be a problem. How’s our guest?”
“He’s been a very good boy.”
“I wonder if he’s for real,” Logan said.
“If he isn’t...”
“Asha will spank. Okay, start the clock. If you haven’t heard from me within half an hour, you know what to do.”
“Roger that,” she answered, and the line went dead.
Entering the lobby, Logan was greeted by an aroma that was a cross between one of Mole’s cigars and a YMCA men’s locker room. Ratty carpeting and shabby furniture were overseen by an elaborate cut-glass chandelier that loomed like a reminder of better days; and, off to the right, the front desk remained impressive, too: it looked like an oak bar from a western movie. When this place was torn down someday, the chandelier and that oak piece would be about all that anyone would bother to salvage.
Behind the counter, seated on a high stool, was a lumpy-faced sixtyish guy so white that Logan would have mistaken him for an albino Manticore experiment, if the man’s eyes hadn’t been so dark, like a couple of raisins adorning a dish of ice cream. The desk clerk was hunkered over a magazine — Barely Legal Teen — which, Logan realized as he drew close enough to get a look at the cover, was neither about the law nor aimed at a teenage audience.
The white-haired clerk made no effort to hide the porn mag when Logan got to the counter, nor did he look up.
“Excuse me,” Logan said.
Finally tearing himself away from the photos of naked girls, the clerk glanced up at Logan with eyes that were deader than rap music.
“You have a guest here named Thomas Wisdom. Could I have his room number, please?”
“No.”
“No?”
“We don’t just hand that information out to anybody who asks. Don’t you think our guests deserve their privacy?”
Logan glanced at the magazine. “How much is a subscription to that fine periodical?”