were better than adults.
Purer, he said.
More perfect. Like drinking the blood of an angel.
More beautiful.
And…
And when they were weak from blood loss, he said, when the Light Of God was in them…
They never said 'no' to anything…
He went on and on and on, and when he was done I patted him on the head like he'd done well, pushed the silver needle into his jugular so the blood went out of him like a balloon losing air, and when he was on the ground I stamped on his head with a noise like a cockroach crackling.
And there were choirs of angels singing, and shafts of light, and the warm gaze of divinity to assure me I'd done well. But then again I was hallucinating like a motherfucker, so I ignored the whole stupid show and told myself – one way or another – I'd made the world a slightly better place.
'Architects of tomorrow.' John-Paul had said.
Heh.
Sometimes architects have to tear down before they can build-up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Predictably, the place was in uproar. Things were moving too quickly now, cascading towards a shit-littered abyss before anyone could even prepare for the fall. I wondered why. I wondered what was going on. I wondered why I couldn't give a damn.
Tangled cords of scent-trails braided and split apart in the air of the bunker; a three-dimensional map in the hallucinogenic chambers of my mind that documented fear and panic and confusion. Men in Clergy robes sprinted along corridors, rushing up tangled stairwells and queuing five deep at the cavernous elevators. Somewhere high above, on the first or second sub-level, shouts filtered downwards. Everyone seemed to be ignoring me.
The drug made me giggle. Or maybe I just felt like it. I don't know.
With my senses on overdrive – whole body thrumming to some internal beat, like an iron butterfly flapping great wings inside my chest – it was all too much to bear. The noises and smells and sights. Eventually I stopped paying attention, turned away and just… walked.
I found myself, eventually, back outside the Comms room, and slumped to the floor on the opposite side of the corridor. Just staring. Wondering.
Was she here, once?
Did she… did she die here?
Where are the bodies?
I killed some time picking lumps of brain and bone out of my boots.
The drug was doing something to me. Not just hotwiring my senses and overloading my brain, but picking away at parts of my mind, doing something insidious and unwelcome. Something that involved the wolf, somehow. Something that tugged at the upper layers – those useless skeins of civility and rationality – and went nestling below, into the 'Old Brain', into the scratching suspicions of the subconscious and paranoia.
Something gnawed at me. Something that had been gnawing for a long, long time… Something I'd noticed and disregarded, or ignored without concern. Something that had been clanging and shouting to grab my attention, formless and silent; beginning to piece things together moment-by-moment, to build me a message.
To show me something.
It had to do with Bella, I think. With something she'd said.
Doesn't matter. Not your proble No, not that. That was solved, now. I'd made it my problem. For her and Rick, and the crew of the Inferno, and the scavs and citizens and misguided klansmen and everyone, I'd made it my problem. A regular little hero. But that wasn't it.
My brain itched.
What else?
What else did she say after we'd fucked, in the pub outside Heathrow, as we lay on the barrel chute and I curled my fingers through her hair, thinking of someone else? My Jasmine. Thinking of my Jasmine and feeling guilty and dirty and wrong, and not evening listening to what the poor girl, poor little Bella, was saying.
Further along the corridor, a hurrying Choirboy limped towards me, hood-up, a red pack slung over his shoulder, with a medical stand used as a support. I knew it was Nate without even looking around. The drug made him smell of sweat and fear and chemicals.
And guilt.
What?
'T-that you?' He said. 'What you doin'? We gotta get out of here.'
I stared at the door of the Comms Room. Was I ready for it yet?
Instinctively, I felt it should be the last thing that I did. It should be the last mystery to be solved. I should get everything else out the way first.
Don't you get distracted, boy.
Don't you let things slip.
Know everything. Cover the angles.
'Just thinking.' I said.
'Yeah? Well… well you do it and walk, man. Crazy shit goin' on.' He leaned down and waved frantically at the other goons, face buried in the folds of his robe. I didn't ask where he'd got it. 'They saying… they saying the Abbot's dead. You know 'bout that?'
I shrugged.
'They saying there's boats out on the lake. Circling round and round. They saying one of the choppers been knocked-out. They saying it's the… Hau…Howdenoh…'
'The Iroquois?' I said, barely interested.
'Yeah! How the fuck'd they do that?'
I shrugged again. Good for them. Wouldn't have been difficult, I guessed. Impossible to invade the island, but easy to prowl the lake. Sneaking about, exploding a lorry or two, taking down the choppers from afar. No big undertaking, for enough people.
I wondered how many survived the fight by the reservoir. How many of them got away because Cy and his shitheads were so busy collecting me and Nate.
I wondered if the Tadodaho had planned it all along.
Who knew?
Who cared?
I imagined Malice's baby, gurgling on the distant shore, listening to the fireworks.
I cared.
How annoying.
Nate tried to pull me upright. I shook him off.
'C'mon!' He burbled, eyes bulging. 'N-now's the time! We can… we can slip away, maybe. Huh? In the confusion, you know? It's your show! 'S what you do, man! We gotta… we gotta look out for each other!'
I translated in my head. It was almost pitiful.
You've got to look after me! I saved your life! Protect me! Protect me!
He tugged at me again, staring off down the hallway.
'Ain't no fucking way Nathaniel C. Waterstone's gonna die here today…'
And there it was.
I stared at him. He was struggling out of his robe, yanking the eye patch out of his pocket to cover the tattoo, muttering under his breath.
'Nate?' I said.
'Huh?'
