The Children Without Mouths march through the crowd, which splits immediately to make way for them. I move to the side like everyone else, keeping out of their direct line of sight. They’re almost cute, these little enforcers. They might be 5- or 6-year-olds if they were wholly human. But like the Girls Who Crawl the Alley, there’s not much human left in them.
Fifteen of the little fascists stalk by my position, turning their tiny heads in every direction. Their big, round eyes scan the crowd and the stalls, looking for who-knows-what. Their tiny fists clutch curved knives and barbed whips. They wear dirty rags beneath cloaks of gleaming silver chain mail. Their faces would be adorable if not for the complete lack of lips or mouths, and the raw menace bleeding from their eyes. A smooth layer of waxy flesh covers the lower half of their skulls, beginning just below their tender little noses.
When the last of them passes by, I resume my walk. I hear the cracking of whips behind me, the shouts of alarm. They’ve found a victim, someone to haul away for whatever mysterious reason drives them. I used to think they worked exclusively for the Limousines, but I learned better. There are other powers in the city. The Children Without Mouths are mercenaries. Like everyone else in the city, they’re for sale to the highest bidder.
At the far end of the avenue I reach the riverwalk. Black water stretches away from the shore, and dark shapes swim in its depths. The fogs hang thick above the rippling surface, so dense that the far shore is impossible to see. The big venus flytrap flowers growing along the riverbank yawn wide as I approach. Sometimes they capture a stray pigeon or some other bit of vermin. They’ll take your arm off if you get too close.
Here on a platform overlooking the rainswept water, the Women Who Dance with Fire begin their nightly performance. Thirteen of them, naked as savages, swirling lit torches through the air, juggling them back and forth with hands, feet, and knees. Tattoos of ancient fire gods writhe across their backs and breasts. Their smooth skin is marred and scabbed over in places where the fire has caught them over the years. Their faces are invisible behind masks of polished bronze carved into the likeness of leering demons. The demon-masks are vaguely Asian in design, yet the Woman Who Dance with Fire are of no specific race or nationality. They come from all over, drawn to the fire like addicts are drawn to the Junk.
I lean against a light pole, watching the cross streets. Waiting for the White Limousine to come by. I know it will be here eventually. Waiting is a part of my job.
The fire-women undulate to the rhythm of drums from hidden speakers. The twirling fires mesmerize me, make me less conscious of my surroundings than I should be. I sip from the flask, and the taste of Old Kentucky makes me remember what it should be helping me to forget.
I remember Carolyn. I met her here, twelve years ago, on this same street. We watched the fire-dancers and took a barge along the river. We ended up in her father’s penthouse, looking down over the whole rotten, steaming city. I had never been up that high. I knew I didn’t belong there, but it was Carolyn who made me feel like I did.
Days later her father found out she was seeing me. He did what any father would do: forbid his daughter to hang out with a no-good street hustler. Next time I went to meet her I wound up tied to a chair in a burned-out warehouse. Her father and his goons stood over me in their pinstriped suits, looking at me like I was an insect. I was certain they were going to stomp me then. But they just worked me over good, broke my nose and a couple of fingers.
I remember her father’s face close to mine. The sour hell of his breath, his crooked nose.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
I nodded. My lips were too swollen to speak.
“Stay away from my daughter,” he said, “and you’ll stay alive.”
I nodded again. I would have told him anything to stop the beating.
They threw me in the river, and I barely crawled out of the frigid water before something ropy and hungry could pull me to the bottom. I vomited riverwater and was sick for a week. I promised myself that I’d never see Carolyn again. But eventually I went looking for her.
She wasn’t hard to find. She had been waiting for me here, by the fire-dancers. We decided to run away, leave the city and her father behind. She stole some money from his safe, bought a used vehicle, and we bribed our way across the border.
We built a life together in the sunshine, made a little home surrounded by green living things. Had a baby. Best time of my life. I almost forgot about the city.
Six years we were happy together. Safe. Content.
But all of it ended when the White Limousine found us.
Before I realize the flask is empty, I’m already half-drunk. The city has that effect on me.
The fire-women are still spinning, and the drums are making my head throb. I think about finding a flophouse to spend the night. I might have to come back here tomorrow and resume my watch.
Before I move away from the light pole, something slips about my neck, pulling me backwards. My skull slams against the pole, and the wire digs deep into my esophagus. A black bulk rises before me, blotting out the flame dancers. Dark glasses reflect twin images of my panicked face. A pair of black-gloved fists on either side of my neck, straining, pulling.
The man before me removes his glasses, and I look into his eyes. But they’re not eyes at all, just pulsing orbs of translucent mucous, glistening like toad flesh. He croaks at me, and the last of the air rushes out of my lungs.
Sleep or death comes now. I’m not sure there’s much of a difference.
I wake up to a spash of icy water in the face. Deja vu strikes me like a fist to the teeth, followed closely by an actual fist to the teeth. My head jerks back. I spit blood from swollen lips. The skin of my neck burns and bleeds. There will be a nasty scare there if I survive. A big “if.”
Three men with bull-necks stand about me. Their coats are long and black, although one of them has shed his outerwear. His shirt is gleaming silver silk, his well-tailored pants charcoal gray. His fists are covered by black gloves, and the gloves are covered with my blood. His eyes are gleaming toad-flesh.
My arms are locked about something, secured behind my back. A metal chair.
“Hit him again,” says a voice from the shadows. It echoes in a way that lets me know this is one of the hollowed-out factories that line the River District.
Thunder rolls into my skull again. A tooth flies from my mouth.
It takes a few seconds for me to come back from this one. My vision is blurred, the ribs of the chair are cold against my naked back. At least they left my pants on. And my boots.
“Die with your boots on,” they always say. Makes a kind of weird sense.
The sound of a purring engine fills the dank air. Twin points of light draw near, defining themselves as two headlights. The White Limousine pulls up close, its windows black as tar, revealing nothing of who’s inside. But I already know.
The door opens and Carolyn’s father steps out. He’s every bit as tall and broad as I remember. A granite statue with a few more wrinkles carved into its face. His suit is immaculate. A silver skull pin decorates his lapel, like the kind Nazi SS commanders used to wear. He walks with a cane, fat fingers wrapped around its platinum head.
He comes to stand in front of me, silent as death. I spit more blood and force my head up to meet his eyes. They’re cold, like blue ice. Carolyn’s eyes were the same color. I bite back the hate and the sickness in my gut. Force a smile across my inflamed lips.