“Whee doggy.” Then got to his feet. He looked around, the gun light as a toy in his big hand, and tipped his chin. “See there?”
Trip stood groggily and looked. A small form lay on the ground at the far end of the park.
“Nailed her,” the man said. “But she wasn’t on wheels. Not that she wouldn’t’ve taken you out,” he added. “Fuckin’ A. But they nailed you BT, buddy—”
He slid the gun into the holster, flicked a catch, and let the overcoat fall across his chest, made a gun with his finger and cocked it at Trip’s forehead. “What’s your stats, pro?”
“Huh?” Trip’s jaw ached. He swiped at his face and saw a smear of blood on his hand. “Aw shit—”
“Your status, man,” the man went on. “You’re losing some bodily fluids there, don’t you got a bandanna or something?”
“Oh—yeah, yeah—” Trip shoved his hand into the knapsack and pulled out a T-shirt, mopped his face with it. “It’s okay, it doesn’t really hurt—”
“Fuck if it hurts, man! Are you fucking negative?”
Trip looked at him through a fold of dark cloth. “Yeah, I’m fucking negative.”
“Well, here—” The man tossed him a silvery object. Trip caught it, a little sani-pack of sterile gauze treated with Viconix.
For Travel and Emergency Use. For When You NEED to Feel Safe, the label read, with smaller letters proclaiming, THERE IS NO KNOWN CURE FOR THE FOLLOWING VIRUSES. FOR PROPHYLACTIC USE ONLY, PLEASE CONSULT A HEALTH CARE PROFESSIONAL IF—
Trip tore the packet open, took the damp towelette, and swabbed his forehead with it, wincing at the cloying smell of vanilla and antiseptic.
“I’m taking your word on that, buddy,” the man said. He cocked his head and watched Trip, nodding agreeably. “Can’t suspect everyone, right? Plus it’s only a scratch”—he squinted at Trip’s forehead—“plus only a lily-white tourist’d be out here by himself on New Year’s Eve.”
The man turned and spit, surveyed the encroaching shadows, and shook his head. “Fuck this shit. Let’s get outta here. Come on.”
He stood expectantly. Trip wadded up the Viconix pad and threw it at a bench, looked at that small form motionless on the ground. He took a deep breath. His throat hurt, he felt winded and a little bruised but otherwise okay.
“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
The man shrugged. In the darkness, all coiling orange clouds and cobalt sky, the spiral tattoos on his cheeks glowed. “Hey, it happens. Listen, I found out where that place is. Walked right by it. You probably did too.”
He headed for the street, coattails flapping, alligator boots clacking loudly on the asphalt. “My name’s Clovis Tyner,” the man said. “I come up from Houston, and you know I ain’t gonna take no shit from some little fuckass kid like that—”
He thrust his chin in the direction of the park. “Used to come here on business two-three times a year, before the shit came down. Commodities. Pissed away more money’n my ma made her whole life, not that she woulda known what to do with it, ’sides buy a thirty-aught-six. You ain’t even holdin’ a piece there, are you?” he asked, giving Trip a curious look. “Fuckin’ A. You’re here in this part of town—hell, you’re right here in this city, you must be the only little peckerwood here ain’t holding. My my.” He laughed. “You’re pretty fucking lucky I came along, huh? This must be your goddamn lucky day!”
Trip managed a sickly grin. The man just kept on walking. Trip had to jog to keep up. They were across from the park now, heading back toward the abandoned library.
“So you gonna introduce yourself? I ain’t gonna jump your bones, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Clovis drawled. “Fuck no. You’re too skinny for one thing. For another, you got a dick!”
He threw his head back and hooted. “Admit it! You thought I was playin’ for the pink team—well, fuck that! Yo, this is it—”
Trip looked where he was pointing: the library. “This?”
Clovis paid no attention. He was peering over the wrought-iron fence at the crowd on the front steps. Tie-dye and crinkly plastic clothing—pink, green, turquoise—glowed among the ubiquitous patchwork overcoats, sleek short hair, dreadlocks braided with strands of glass and metal, shaven heads and foreheads branded with arcane symbols and the names of bands: Commanche Baby Music, Diskomo, 334. The wind brought a haze of marijuana smoke, something that smelled like bug spray. Shrill galvanic music echoed from somewhere, drum machines and what sounded like distant traffic. More people were crossing the street now, animated groups all merging on the sidewalk. A few joined the crowd on the steps, but the rest jumped the fence and headed for the building’s perimeter, where the massive structure made its own night. At the end of the block four younger children on blades whizzed back and forth, yelping obscenities. Trip swallowed, a stab of the terror he had felt before; but the people around him seemed pumped up with more attitude than anger. They reminded him of the crowds that had shown up for Stand in the Temple: college kids, kids who still managed to have money, whether it came from parents or hustling drugs or rolling cars in the suburbs.
“Hey, let us in!” someone yelled from the steps. A jar went whizzing past Trip’s head; he ducked as it crashed onto the pavement behind him, sending out a whiff of raw spirits.
“Whoa, dude!” laughed Clovis. He grabbed the fence, gazed through twisted iron railings at the building’s facade. “C’mon, we better go, else we won’t get in at all.”
With a grunt he hauled himself over, cursing as his coat snagged.
“Here,” said Clovis, urging him to follow. “Give me your bag, you can climb over—”
In your fucking dreams, thought Trip; though there was nothing of any value in the knapsack save Martin’s sextant. Still, he checked to make sure the catch was secure, hitched the bag tight onto his shoulder, and clambered the way Clovis had gone, gasping as his hurt knee scraped against a jagged edge.
“Awright,” Clovis sang out as Trip jumped. He pounded Trip’s back so hard he staggered. “Here we are now, entertain us!”
Clovis spun around and began to walk. Trip followed. Heavy shadows fell across the ground, broken by columns of pulsing pink and crimson where the night sky streamed down. Kids darted in and out of the light. Some of them wore luminous coils around their necks; others had patterns etched into their skin or scalps that shimmered eerily when they dipped back into shadow. Trip glanced at Clovis: the swirls on his face burned ultraviolet. He looked down at his own ripped white pants and old grey anorak.
“Hold on,” he muttered. Clovis stopped and bounced restlessly on his bootheels. Trip pulled off the anorak and shoved it into the knapsack, stood shivering in his flannel shirt and the thick wool sweater Martin had given him. He ran a hand through his hair, traced the outline of the cross branded above his eyes—he must look like shit, no one would recognize him now. He shrugged the knapsack back onto his shoulder.
The way in proved to be not via the library’s main entrance, which was blocked off with sheets of stainless steel and plywood, but through myriad service doors and windows that had been linked via a slapdash array of building materials—foam rubber, plastic bags, planks and Styrofoam insulation and hurricane fencing—to form an elaborate network of chutes and passageways, all leading into the basement. Dozens of solar panels leaned up against the building’s exterior walls. Like the makeshift entryways they had a haphazard look, but people seemed careful not to knock into them. And while the crowd had grown substantial—Trip guessed there might be a thousand people out there in the frigid wind, which seemed pretty good for an abandoned library in a city with no electric lights—once some secret signal had been given, and the doors and windows opened, everyone disappeared inside within minutes.