"No, you're right," I said. "This is it. If those are map coordinates, then this is where we should be."
We looked at the building across from us. It was not a cute house with a picket fence, suitable for bringing a baby home to, a baby that would later be turned into a mutant bird kid by mad scientists. No, it was a pizza parlor.
On this block were a car wash, a bank, the pizza joint, and a dry cleaner. On the opposite side of the street was a park. No houses, no apartment buildings, no place where someone could have lived.
"Well, crap," said Fang.
"I concur with that assessment," I said, crossing the street. "Maybe there was an apartment building here and it got torn down."
We stood in front of the darkened store and peered inside. Hanging on the wall was a black-and-white photo of a bunch of people standing in front of a new, shiny version of the store. "Here since 1954," the caption under the picture said.
"So much for that theory," said Fang.
"Do you want to swear this time or do you want me to?" I asked.
"You can," said Fang, stuffing the page back into his pocket.
"Well, crap," I said. "Okay. Let's try the next one. Maybe we'll get lucky."
And we did get lucky-in that the next address was actually a house.
Unfortunately, it was an abandoned apartment house in the middle of a hellhole block inhabited by some of the more scum-sucking members of society-many of whom were conducting "business" right now, at two in the morning.
"Let's check it out anyway," I said, drawing farther back into the shadows.
We had landed on the tarry roof of the building next door. Half an hour of waiting and watching had shown us that at least two guys, and maybe more, seemed to be squatting in this bombed-out wreck of a building.
Twenty minutes after the second guy left and didn't come back, I stood up. "Ready?"
"Ready," said Fang, and we jumped across to the other roof.
27
"Least favorite place," I whispered to Fang. "Sewer tunnels of New York? Or abandoned home of squatting crackheads?"
Fang thought about it, moving silently across the room, staying out of the squares of moonlight coming through the gaping windows.
"I'd have to go with sewer tunnels of New York," he whispered back.
We started on the second floor and moved down, opening doors, looking up fireplaces, tapping walls for hidden compartments.
Two hours later, I rubbed my forehead with a filthy hand. "We got nothing. This stinks."
"Yeah." Fang breathed out. "Well, get this last closet and we'll split."
I nodded and opened the hallway coat closet. It was empty, its walls nothing but broken plaster, showing the bare laths within.
I was about to close the door when a thin strip of white caught my eye. I shone the penlight on it, frowning, then reached down to pick at it. Something was wedged in back of a lath.
"What?" Fang asked quietly.
"Nothing, I'm sure," I whispered back. "But I'll just get it..."
I pried it out with my fingernails, and it turned out to be a square of paper, about four inches across. I turned it over, and my breath caught.
It was a photograph.
Fang leaned over my shoulder while I focused the light on the photo. It was a picture of a woman holding a baby in her arms. The baby was plump, blond, blue-eyed... the spitting image of the baby Gasman-cowlick and everything.
28
"Holy moly," I breathed. Just then we heard heavy footsteps coming up to the front door.
"They're back," Fang whispered. "Upstairs!"
We whirled and ran up the steps. But the moonlight streaming through the windows cast our shadows down the stairs.
I heard the front door shut, and then a voice bellowed, "Hey!"
Heavy, uncoordinated footsteps pounded up behind us, and it sounded like someone swung a baseball bat against a wall. We heard a heavy thunk and then the sound of breaking plaster.
"That's your head!" one guy shouted. "We're gonna bust you up!"
At the top of the stairs, I darted to the right, the way we had come in. I was past several rooms when I realized Fang wasn't with me. I skidded to a halt and spotted him at the other end of the hallway.
I motioned to Fang, but just as he started toward me, the two crackhead squatters lurched into the hall between us.
One of them slapped the bat against his open palm with chilling smacking sounds. The other held a broken bottle.
"So," one growled. "You think you can pop our crib?"
Pop their crib? Come again?
They stopped for a moment, then their smiles grew wider. Grosser.
"It's a chick, man!" one exclaimed.
The bottle-holding slug pulled a wicked-looking knife out of his belt. He held it up so it caught the moonlight.
Fang? You go ahead and make your move. Any time now, I thought tensely. Where are you, Fang?
"We don't care whose chick you are," one said. "For the next hour, you're gonna be our chick." The guys were totally scuzzy, grinning horribly, showing holes where teeth should be.
"Excuse me?" I said acidly. "Can we say sexist?"
They didn't have time.
"Boys, God doesn't like you," Fang intoned behind them.
Whaaaaat? I thought, dumbfounded.
"Wha!" they said, whirling.
At that moment, Fang snapped out his huge wings and shone the penlight under his chin so it raked his cheekbones and eyes. My mouth dropped open: He looked like the angel of death.
His dark wings filled the hallway almost to the ceiling, and he moved them up and down. "God doesn't like bad people," he said, using a really weird, deep voice.
"What the hell," one of the squatters muttered shallowly, his mouth slack, his eyes bugging out of his head. "I'm trippin'."
"I see it too," whispered the other one. "We're both trippin'."
I whipped my own wings open-impressive as all get-out. Fun, anyway.
"This was a test," I said, using my best spooky voice. "And guess what? You both failed."
The bums stopped dead, looks of horror and amazement on their faces.
Then Fang growled, "Rowr!" He stepped forward, sweeping his wings up and down: the avenging demon. I almost cracked up.
"Rowr!" I said myself, shaking my wings out.
"Ahhh!" the guys yelled, backpedaling fast. Unfortunately, they were standing at the top of the staircase. They fell awkwardly, trying to grab each other, and rolled down two flights like lumpy bags of potatoes, shrieking the whole way.
Fang and I slapped each other a quick high five-and we were out of there, jack.
And then my Voice was in my head. So glad you're having fun, Maximum. While the world burns.
29
I'll say this for the world, and civilization: The whole hot-shower thing totally worked for me.
Reluctantly, I turned off the water and got out, then wrapped myself in my own personal towel, Dove fresh. On the other hand, civilization had its own quirky demands: remembering to brush your hair, wearing different clothes every day-details I wasn't used to.
But I was dealing.
"Max?" Iggy knocked on the door. "Can I come in? I just have to brush my teeth."
"No-I'm in a towel," I called back.
"I'm blind," he said impatiently.
"No! You're kidding! Are you sure?" I grabbed my comb and rubbed a hole in the fogged-up mirror-then stifled a shriek. Eraser Max was back.
"Very funny," said Iggy. "Well, don't take forever. Primping's not going to do much for you, anyway."
I still hadn't taken a breath by the time I heard his footsteps reach the end of the hall.
Swallowing hard, I reached up with trembling fingers and touched my cheek. It was smooth skin. The mirror showed a hairy paw with ragged claws, caressing my muzzle.
"How is this happening?" I whispered, terrified.
Eraser Max smiled at me. "But we're not so different," it said. "Everything is connected. I'm part of you. You're part of me. We can help each other."