And really, what did Azrael have to fear from them? The world which had once groaned under Man’s weight was quiet now. Cities made to harbor millions had been empty for decades, fallen in and grown over. The last dams had long since burst, the last bridges collapsed. Deer grazed on the old roads, Revenants patrolled the new ones, and folk mostly stayed home these days. So long as they did, Azrael seemed content to tolerate the living even here, provided they stayed well away from his city, his Haven, the land of the beautiful dead.
She was close now, so close. This fool’s journey, begun when Lan walked away from her mother’s smoky pyre two months ago, was now only a day from over, if only she could find someone to finish it for her.
Lan dragged her eyes open without any conscious memory of closing them. She was falling asleep and sleep was never safe in a strange town. She got up and dragged her mattress over to the cell door, propping it against the sliding panel so that she could not help but be jostled awake should someone try to come in with her in the night. Then she lay down, pillowing her head on her lumpy, uncomfortable rucksack, and went to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of that dark, dreamless night, a hand slipped through the bars of Lan’s cell to grip her foot. It was lifted, tersely shaken, dropped. Lan bolted upright, snatching her knife from its concealed holster on her back, but did not slash. She could see only a shadow among shadows in the moonlit cell, but the shadow wasn’t attacking. It appeared to be wearing a cowboy hat and there were glints here and there that might be a metal buckle, an ammo belt, a gun.
“You Lan?” the shadow said. The voice was a man’s, much older than she’d expected. Ferrying was a kid’s game, and a reckless, nihilistic kid at that. Everyone who’d ferried her this far had been her own age or younger. Here was a man who maybe used to live in a city, the way the cities used to be, all lit up and full of people. Maybe he’d had a job. Maybe he’d had a family.
“I’m Lan,” she said warily. “Did they tell you where I want to go?”
“They said you could pay.”
She unzipped her rucksack and showed him two quart-bottles of peaches. “This year’s,” she told him. “From Norwood.”
He took one and tested the seal, but even though she couldn’t make out his eyes, she had the feeling he was still looking at her. “What else?”
“That’s what you get to take me there.” Lan took the peaches back and zipped them up. “But you can have this and everything in it if you get me over the wall.”
She expected an argument, a laugh at the very least. Instead, as if he didn’t care at all, he said, “As soon as you’re ready, we can go.”
Lan blinked. “Really?”
The shadow turned around and started walking away. “Van’s charged up. Light don’t bother them and the dark don’t bother me. Let’s go.”
Lan scrambled up, struggling to find the door before remembering she’d pushed the mattress against it. She followed the ferryman in the dark, running after him even though he never seemed to walk any faster, catching up only when he reached his plain, unpainted van. The other ferrymen, sleeping in their vans, watched them go. Lan could see Jakes shaking his head, laughing at her as he put himself back to bed.
Once they were on the road, she got her first good look at him. Unnerving, was her first impression. Too handsome. Not as old as she’d thought in the hostel. Her mother’s age, maybe a little older, but he mostly wore it in his eyes. His skin was smooth, unlined. He had no beard, not even the shadow of one. His one flaw was a slash across the bridge of his nose and down one cheek. He’d cleaned it and sewn it shut (he’d cleaned it very well; it wasn’t even a little bit red or swollen. In the dim light, it was more like a painted line than a real wound), but it hadn’t yet begun to heal.
The ferryman caught her staring. He pointed at a book of CDs and gruffly invited her to pick one. Lan thumbed through the plastic pages and chose one at random. She didn’t like the music that played out through the ferry’s speakers. It was too strange, too full of complicated notes made by instruments no one could make anymore. On impulse, she asked him what the world was like before Azrael.
“I don’t remember,” he told her and after that, he did not speak.
They drove through the remains of the night and most of the next day, stopping a few hours before dusk at a waystation so close to her final destination that the clouds on the horizon were actually orange, reflecting the electric lights that lit its streets. Eaters milled stupidly around the fence, tearing themselves on razor wire and occasionally chewing at one another’s wounds if they were fresh enough. There were a couple of teenaged boys by the gate, smoking and shooting flares at the dry ones, and after the ferryman finished running over the Eaters to clear the gate, they let them in.
There was only one other van parked at the station, so there were plenty of charging ports open. There was also a greasy-looking diner that promised beds and hot food. Just what they might be serving, Lan didn’t know. Most waystations were built around small orchards or pens of goats or pigs. There was nothing here, nothing but the scorched black rubble of the wastes.
The boys seemed to know the ferryman, although they didn’t call him by name. Lan waited, watching the Eaters pick themselves up if they could and writhe around if they couldn’t while the ferryman got out and plugged the van’s batteries into a charger. When he came back, he asked her if she wanted something to eat. She said she did and he climbed into the back of the van onto the threadbare mattress there and looked at her.
“I’m not clean,” she lied, joining him. A girl alone learned a lot of lies.
He told her it didn’t matter, to do what she could, and then in a wistful tone at odds with his expressionless face, he told her to get naked when she did it. He wanted to look at her, he said. And that was fine. Lan undressed and used her hand while the ferryman felt up whatever he wanted to feel. He was cool in her palm, slow to respond. Too slow. Too cool. Curious, she put her mouth on him.
He didn’t taste dead, she thought uncertainly. Not that she’d know what death tasted like. Rotten meat, she’d assume. But he didn’t taste alive, that was for sure. He didn’t taste like sweat or musk or piss or man. He tasted…like licking leather. Old leather, too smooth for its age. So now she guessed she knew what a dead man tasted like.
She worked at it for a long time, but she knew it wasn’t going to happen. The ferryman stared at the roof of his van and rested his hand on her hair and didn’t speak. His penis warmed up gradually, but never got hard. After a while, he said, “That’s enough,” and moved her gently back. He zipped himself up and watched her get dressed. “Could you tell?” he asked at last.
“Not until I touched you,” she answered honestly.
He nodded and opened up the van’s rear doors. “I guess you could say something if you wanted to,” he said as she climbed out.
“I’d rather get something to eat.”
He nodded again and shut the door behind her.
They went into the diner, past another group of kids, younger ones, racings rats in a crudely-constructed arena. The kids were all shouting, cheering, shaking their guns in the air, apparently oblivious to Lan and the ferryman. Lan would be very surprised if she didn’t find their grubby little handprints on the inside of the van when they came back to it, but if the ferryman was concerned about robbery, he didn’t show it.