“What face?”
“Like the poster. That picture must’ve been after you struck someone out.”
Puppy spread his mouth in a deranged clown smile. The owner stepped back, terrified by the recognition.
“Get out.”
“Please. You have to help.”
The owner picked up a fireplace poker. “Now.”
Annette wrenched the poker out of his hand. “He didn’t do it. We got here on the mail plane.”
“What plane?” The man sunk deeper into confusion and fear.
“It doesn’t matter,” Puppy said. “Listen. Albert Cheng killed Grandma.”
“Bastard. Always was one. I tried telling her once, but I think Grandma loved him.” The man’s face colored with anger. “I can’t help. I’ve been cut off.”
“Meaning?”
“The Paris and Berlin Collectors are also down. Probably everyone in the whole bloody ME. The Allahs let us operate to keep information going, even if it was distorted. Anyone I knew who could tell me what’s happening in your country has vanished. I was planning on slipping away myself.”
“You know more than us.”
He frowned, perplexed again. “Why are you here? There are safer places to hide. South America. Africa.”
“I don’t want to hide. I want to contact the Mufti’s son and let him know there are people in America who don’t want another war.”
“Who knows if he’s even alive?” The owner made a cautious face and they fell silent until an Allah couple stopped window browsing and moved on. “The Mufti could be dead. Or the Son. There are all sorts of rumors. I do know there was a rebellion near Dublin. Bad battle between the Irish Martyrs Brigade and Holy Warriors.”
“We’ve still got soldiers in the field?”
The man shook his head and spit-polished a smudge on the glass. “Converts. Supposedly. God love the Irish, pretending all these years, just waiting. From what I hear, they gave the Camels a good pasting before vanishing. But the Allahs torched Dublin in retaliation.”
“So everyone’s fighting everyone?” Annette asked.
“It could be isolated. Or not. Certainly Abdullah and his father. How much….” His voice trailed off. “Their news is piping up about the battle near Iceland, but that’s a lot of bollocks. They’re using old footage.”
“Least that’s something,” Puppy murmured.
“We can’t get to the Allahs anymore.”
“But Puppy’s a hero here,” Annette jumped in.
“I won’t be an Allah hero.” Puppy snapped.
“You already are.”
The owner cleared his throat, waiting until they simmered down. “There is John. He could help.”
He scribbled an address on a slip of paper. “This is the only contact info I have for his people. He’s in Rome. Or somewhere in Italy, if he’s still alive. He and Abdullah recently spoke. I just know, trust me.” He held up his hand. “Yes, John could help.”
“Why?” Puppy asked.
The owner took a deep breath. “He was the last Pope.”
The window-browsing couple bustled in noisily.
“I can only offer ten quid for your filthy heresies. Take it or leave it.” The owner brusquely dismissed them, greeting the Allahs with a careful smile. “Masa al-khayr.”
Two jeeps overflowing with black-robed soldiers chased the English off the streets, brandishing rifles and shouting. Puppy and Annette ducked down an alley, crouching behind a garbage can.
“Italy was famous for leather goods,” Annette said hopefully, making him laugh. They drifted asleep for a moment.
“Hiding?” A long-faced man in a black robe tottered towards them, a whip at his belt.
“No sir,” Annette said casually. “We’re just getting out of the way.”
“Nah.” The man grinned fiendishly. “You’re hiding. Papers?” He stank of alcohol.
“Left them in the flat,” Puppy said firmly. “We’ll be heading home now.”
“Curfew.” He weaved slightly. “No papers, you die. Allah will be pleased.”
The whip curled around Annette’s shoulders; she fell with a scream. The Allah pulled a long knife from his boot and lunged at Puppy, who punched him in the mouth. The Allah toppled against the garbage can. Puppy wrapped the whip around the man’s throat, tightening the leather until the Allah’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
Puppy kicked the dead man in the head.
“Shit, Puppy, shit,” Annette moaned at the blood oozing out of Puppy’s side. He blanched and sat down, watching with dull eyes as Annette ripped apart the corpse’s robe, tying it around Puppy’s side.
She wrapped her arms around Puppy’s waist and dragged his leaden body down the alley. Annette stopped twice to make sure he was still breathing. They staggered down a narrow cobble-stoned street of tightly packed houses. She kicked at doors, crying for help.
A door finally opened slightly.
“Please, help.”
The Allah woman frowned at the blood falling outside her neat flower pots. She hesitated, then nodded them inside.
Annette couldn’t hold up Puppy anymore and he collapsed to his knees. A wiry old man hopped out of a battered armchair a few feet from a loud vidscreen and shouted at the pretty young woman, who shouted back. She and Annette carried Puppy into the bathroom and laid him on a thin rug. The woman jerked her head for Annette to leave.
“No way.”
“Go,” the woman said coldly. “Or you both leave.”
Annette wanted to smack the woman silly, but Puppy gestured weakly and she reluctantly left. The old man yelled at her.
The woman tore away Puppy’s shirt, cleaning and stitching the deep wound.
“You allergic to penicillin?”
Puppy shrugged; she jabbed a needle into his arm.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“I’m a doctor,” she said angrily. After washing her hands, the woman fetched a woolen shirt and pants from a bedroom, engaging in another shouting match with the old man and ignoring Annette’s anxious question about Puppy’s condition. She closed the bathroom door, dressed Puppy and called for Annette. He sat up like a puppet on the stained rug.
“You will go now,” the doctor said.
“Is he okay?”
“As good as he can be.”
Annette didn’t like Puppy’s white face. “Can we rest here a little first?”
“No,” she said harshly. “Or else they will find you and kill all of us.”
The doctor helped them to the door, ignoring the old man’s shouts. She tucked a handful of pills into Annette’s pocket.
“Give this to him every four hours. And keep the
