Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel Page 2

  Roni's beady eyes became as black and as lifeless as marbles. "Excuse me?"

  Zeika strode back to Roni's booth, leaned her hands against the tabletop, and came in close to her face, leveling their gazes. "Okay. Here I am. Up close so that you can hear me when I speak. As you can see, I have other customers. So you're going to eat your meal and like it. Otherwise, you can get the hell out of this establishment."

  "How dare you!" Roni jumped up, knocking over her glass of water.

  Zeika never moved, but instead her fists tightened as she looked up at the woman who now towered over her.

  The husband stood up, wringing his hands. "Can we have the check, please Miss?"

  "With pleasure." Zeika snatched the order from her tab book, balled it up, and tossed it onto the table. "Pay. Then get out."

  "The sheer nerve. I won't be told what for by some teenaged civvie scamp who can't do any better than some shabby diner!"

  "Veronica, please," the husband murmured, a high color blazing in his cheeks.

  "Mortimer!" Roni shrieked. "Get your ass out here, now!"

  After a few seconds of pan rattling, Manager Morty Hatton came out of the back, drying off his hands with a dingy dishtowel. His right eyebrow lifted as he approached Roni in squat, jiggling strides, but as hard as he tried to look casual, Zeika knew that he had been cowering in the kitchen. Her gaze on him was no less caustic than Roni's.

  "C-can I help you, Mrs. Webb?"

  "How dare you allow my food into the hands of this foul-mouthed Koan-bound brat?!" She spat, pointing a long talon at Zeika. "You expect me to pay after being served by this- this poisoner?"

  "I am not Koan!" Zeika shot back. "I just work here! Keep your stupid war out of this, Azure!"

  "Be quiet!" Mort hissed. He turned to Roni. "Madam, please. I assure you that we're doing all we can to accommodate you. She meant no offense, and I assure you that our food is perfectly healthy and safe."

  "No offense? She practically spat on me as she told me to eat like I'm some child! You know who I am, Mort! I'll have my family shut this little dive down and have you living with the rats!" She poked a talon into the soft dough of his drooping pecs, lifted the pendant around her neck, and shoved it into his face.

  The remaining customers stared at the scene wide-eyed, and in a slow, creeping trickle, they began to file out. Mackey had already taken cover behind the service counter to "ring people up". His head drooped lower than a thirsty flower.

  Mort took off his hat and wrung it in his hands. "Please. Our establishment meant no such offense, my Lady--"

  "How dare you serve such insults to an Azure when we are the ones who protect and shelter you! If it weren't for my family's good name, this place would be a pile of rubble by now! It is by our patronage and protection alone that your families are able to eat!"

  As she said this, she swung her gaze around the diner- to Zeika, to Mackey, to Mort, to the chefs who were now gaping at the scene, and even to some of the people in the diner whom she seemed to recognize as Civilians, not Azures.

  Roni's acidic gaze settled back on Zeika. "So when I want a different meal, that's what you're to bring me. I put food on your table, civvie. Now put food on mine... and be grateful for the opportunity."

  Zeika stood there, her chest heaving. Her eyes burned, her hand squeezing the side hem of her apron as she stepped towards the woman, hate filling her up.

  "Z! Just relax." Mort turned and put his hands on her shoulders, stopping her in her tracks. He stared at her, and after a few seconds, she unballed her fist, letting the apron hem fall limply to her side.

  "That's what I thought," Roni said, smiling smugly. "Now, I'd like a short stack, some fried eggs, and a decaf coffee with milk and sugar. Snap to it. I don't like cold food."

  Zeika turned on her heels and stormed into the kitchen. She glanced around, looking for the short stack, having already decided to spit on every single layer before bringing it out.

  Give the special house sauce to Miss Bitch and Three Quarters.

  She clenched her fist again, only to wince as a sharp pain shot through it. She opened her palm and looked.

  Ah shit...

  A long shallow cut had lacerated her palm, and blood was eking out of the open slit. She lifted the hem of her apron to the light to see a matching crimson stain. She shook her head, allowing logic to cool the fire in her chest, and mental images of Croni Roni and tainted short stacks were replaced by a more sobering thought: she'd almost lost it today. She had almost lost control.

  She walked to the sink and twirled the faucet, allowing cool water to flow over the cut. With her free hand, she reached into the kitchen pantry mounted above the sink, searching blindly for the first aid kit.

  Bad, Zeika. Bad. Gotta be careful.

  The clip-clop of feet broke into her thoughts as Mort came into the kitchen and put a hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

  Zeika popped open the first aid kit and grabbed the wad of gauze from inside. "Just dandy. Hit the water for me, will you?"

  Mort turned off the faucet for her and then gazed at her with an apologetic look she had come to know well in the past three years she'd worked with him. She had come to hate that gaze of his, the sheer powerlessness of it.

  "Stop it. That pathetic puppy dog look doesn't give me back a drop of the dignity I just lost out there." She wrapped her hand in the gauze and tightened it, tying it off.

  "I'm sorry, Z. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you."

  You could tack your balls back on, for starters. She glared at him, ready to share this little pearl, but then she sighed, giving up.

  "Look," she breathed out, forcing a smile. "Don't worry about it, okay? I'll get over it. I understand."

  Mort hunched his shoulders in a sheepish relief. "Thanks, Z. I--"

  "Yep."

  She ran to the fridge, popped it open, and grabbed two tight plastic containers, packed with food. Her customers' uneaten orders. She packed the heavy container into the bottom of a tattered knapsack that she'd just pulled off the top of the fridge.

  "The kid?" Mort ventured more conversation as he watched her scurry around.

  "Yeah, in about an hour. That's why I'm rushing and not talking. Not to be rude. Sorry."

  She flopped on the floor, ripped her waitress' flats off her feet, and jumped into her decrepit traveling boots. She laced them, and in less than half a minute, she was on her feet again, walking to the far end of the kitchen to get her traveling robes.

  Trying to be helpful, Mort scooped up her waitress flats along with a worn pair of ballet slippers. He put them both in her bag, and closed it up tight. "I'll take care of the close-out on your tabs."

  She threw a nod over her shoulder as she took a crumple of traveling robes off the far hook and threw them on. She tied them closed around her waist with a wide obi sash, pulled on a pair of fingerless mittens, and then threw the dingy hood over her head, the brim of it hanging low over her brow.

  Mort handed her the knapsack, and she tightened its straps around her shoulders. "My next shift?" she asked.

  "I'll call you when we need you."

  "Heh. That's what all the boys say." And she forced a playful smile at him before slipping out of the door.

  Slices of orange in rosewater spilled across the sky as the sun sank down in the west of the Seventh, pulling a warm lacy veil over the atmosphere. Usually, Zeika would stroll down the quaint streets after work and take it all in, but not today. Her robes flew out behind her as she dashed down the long blocks of the Seventh Demesne, all her thoughts focused on getting back to the daycare on time. The bakeries, antique shops, and colorful boutiques that lined her path became nothing but blurs of color and sound as she fought the urge to slow down.

  I'm sorry, sweetie, her mind rehearsed. I tried to get here as fast as I could. The pouting little girl wouldn't give half a damn about the apology, especially if she had to spend the night at the daycare. She
had forty-five minutes tops.

  A mile later, she was running past the zoning line that separated the Seventh from the rest of the world. Like a slow rot, the blur of vibrant colors around her began to cool into a cheerless sludge. Sweet scents of the local bakeries' chocolate croissants wisped out beneath a sudden miasma of soot and sewage, and the bright pebbled roads beneath her feet began to fade and crack. Before long, all of the trimmings of the Seventh Demesne had faded, and her boots crunched madly over broken asphalt as she sprinted across the George Washington Bridge. Dead murky water crawled hundreds of feet below, marking the end of Demesne Seven and the beginning of no-man's land.

  Keeping light on her toes, she hopped and scaled the potholes that gaped open on the bridge, swinging and balancing on the metal railings where the concrete had disappeared. Alighting onto one of the broken rails, she sprinted, leapt, and landed on a long stretch of bridge, breaking into another run. She was moving fast, her parkour more agile than usual, but she still wouldn't get to Manja in time.

  A light rumble rolled across the sky, and she didn't have to look up to know that she had just run back under the Canopy. Black and thick, the muddy chemical clouds hung in the skies in random patches, casting a long darkness over the road ahead.

  Brrr!

  She slid to a stop. Her eyes widened. Another tremor, this one louder, was reverberating through the world, causing the bridge to creak. Almost a mile northwest, a large flock of ravens had just rushed up into the air, putting a crackling blight on the orange-pink sky.

  Not ravens. Smoke. From an explosion.

  She set her jaw, pretending that her fingers hadn't started to tremble. Whether the attack was Koan or Azure, it had to have happened at a border. Koan insurgents wouldn't breach the remaining Civilian safe zones. And Azures didn't want to spur on the rebellion... at least not publicly.

  Still, this explosion had happened close to Demesne Six. Dangerously close.

  Always keep moving.

  Of all her flurried thoughts, it was the only one that made sense. She tore her eyes away from the inky twisting plume and kept running, forcing herself to keep her eyes forward.

  Councilman Micah Burke set the new legislation on his desk-- slowly-- as the Earth moved in the distance. Clearly, all had gone to shit down below.

  And on the border of a protected Civic Desmesne, no less.

  Or so he imagined. He wouldn't actually know; his binoculars only saw so far. The most recent explosion had come from at least a mile or two westward, but it wasn't his business anyway. So when the ground groaned and the sickly-sweet scent of charred flesh gushed over him minutes later, he barely budged. So long as they didn't bring that shit over here, they could blow each others' brains out for all he cared.

  He turned back to the bills he had been editing, looking between them and the political map of Demesne Seven. The hot issue of the day were the zoning laws that Azures were lobbying for, on the grounds that Civilian presence in Azure neighborhoods would bring down property values. As obnoxious as the sentiments were, Burke couldn't ignore the facts: Azures just didn't want to live with Civilians, even if the Seventh was a part of the Civic Order. Though that wasn't going to be the greatest selling point on the council floor.

  He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and started to jot down a list of pros and cons, the very effort making him feel traitorous. Damned Azures. Much as they were his people, they knew how to piss on a party, and he was always charged with clean up. The Civilians didn't deserve this, really, but truth was, if housing zones weren't established, the market would plummet and hurt Azure investment in Demesne Seven--

  Burke straightened, feeling hopeful. Yes, that was the angle. He began to write. "A loss in revenue is the last thing the Seventh needs, especially now. As the three Protecteds are all yoked together-- politically, financially, socially-- a good move in the Seventh means security for the Fifth and Sixth Demesnes as well. Security is top priority, especially with the Koan insurgency at our doors..."

  ...and how about a side of shovel to go with that bullshit?

  He sighed, balled up the paper, and threw it over his shoulder. Stand against Koa by letting some fat Azure build his million-dollar condo over the local Civilian school? It was a stretch.

  The phone rang, and he picked it up.

  "Go suck on a blood bag, asshole," he snarled, and slammed the phone down, uncaring if it was a reporter or lobbyist. He didn't feel like talking to ass-headed Azures on the issue of zoning laws, he didn't give a damn who it was. He'd been pushed enough already, and it was time to make some decisions on his own, in the quiet comfort of his own crazy. Especially after what happened last spring.

  Could've been a Civilian lobbyist, though...

  Yeah, right. It also could've been a high-nosed hooker with a pound of hash, but even that would've had to wait. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, irked that he even had to care about this. He'd done so much for these ingrates over the years, dodging bullets, dealing with death threats, all while lobbying for a people that hated him. The hearings were Friday, and for all his hard work, the Civilians were going to sink their fangs into him, accuse him once again of favoring Azure interests over their own. The room would explode, the debate turning into a political mud fest of who lost most in the war, and how Burke himself couldn't be trusted because he was an Azure. In fifteen years, nothing had changed.

  He got up and walked out, heading for his gardens. He needed some fresh air.

  The cool croons of swallows met him as he stepped out, and the sun he hadn't seen for nearly ten hours drew pink across the sky as it sank. Most Azures in the Seventh would be heading home and locking their doors for fear of having to meet-- or sometimes, exchange blows with-- the local civvies. He was safe, of course, as he lived right at the heart of the Seventh Demesne on a hill, his abode set up comfortably in an Azure-built biosphere. Nothing was more secure or more beautiful, and it was an appropriate gift for his service. Still, in war, nothing was safer than a Colt Government .45, and he kept it with him at all times. Aside from his daily regimen of bullets and gunpowder, nothing had changed. Nothing was going to change.

  And what can one man do anyway?

  A flutter of wings responded, and it was a noise he knew all too well. Burke looked back towards his home to see a slim carrier pigeon perched on his birdhouse. The bright-eyed thing looked at him with expectation, much as it did everyday. A carrier jacket was strapped to its chest, and the message phial was full. The phial detached, clattering into the birdhouse.

  He frowned. Another one. The twentieth one, and probably from that same troublesome woman. He gritted his teeth as he locked the feeling of obligation back. Opening and reading these was no longer his responsibility. He had done his job.

  Suddenly, the pigeon jerked, bristling and shaking its head. Its black beak parted, releasing a low and angry squawk. Then with another sickened caw, it flew off, shaking its head violently as it did.

  Burke cocked his head. It had never done that before...

  And who the hell cares?

  He stormed over to the message-filled birdhouse, ready to empty it. Damned woman sending her poltergeist pigeons. There must be some sort of complaint or call he could put into animal control, and God what was that smell?

  He stopped, scrunching his nose and lifting his head, his senses opening to the revolting haze that had settled over his property. The bomb had gone off minutes ago, but the feel and taste of it was different. Not like Koan pipe bombs. This was something else.

  He sniffed. Carbon. He sniffed again. Blackened blood, seared fat, all tinged with the strange scent of copper. The nectar of death, as rich and layered as aged wine. Musky yet strangely saccharine, the smell of human sacrifice had come too close.

  He tensed, letting his hand fall to the .45 kept religiously at his right thigh. He closed his eyes and reached out to the world as far as his mind could go, trying to feel any forms of life in the immediate vicinity. Al
l he got back was the gentle pulse of the trees, vegetables, and flowers in his garden, no more threatening than a cloud was to the wind. He pivoted, letting his gaze search the area. Nothing. And yet, that smell...

  "You need a nap old man," he muttered, shaking his head.

  He turned back to his home, ready to tackle the bills again-- and that was when he saw it. A misshapen pile of black folds crumpled up at the far corner of his garden, almost fifty feet away.

  "The hell..."

  He drew his gun from its holster and stepped over the flowerbeds, his hands slick with sweat. At thirty feet, he saw that the folds were actually a small black sack, filled and slumped like chilled tar. Twenty feet. He slid his finger over the trigger firmly, noting the large lumps that formed the bulge of the sack. And when he was nearly ten feet away, the scent of burning hair and muscle had already engulfed him. An inky steam edged out of the lips of the open bag, and Burke understood that the smell of death had been coming from here all along.

  He clenched his jaw, steeling himself, and he knelt down near the steaming parcel. With the nose of his gun, he opened the mouth of the bag.

  "SHIT!" His heart hammering, he leapt back, pointing the gun frantically. He had only seen a slice of it, but didn't have to linger to understand what it was. A piece of scathed, flaking meat, too charred to be alive, too fragile to be anything but human.

  He swallowed hard as he released the trigger, knowing that it was too late to turn back. He took a moment to compose himself and then knelt back down. Cringing, he ripped open the bag, and the dead thing fell out onto the ground, a glob of shiny obsidian under his blooming yellow rose bush.

  "Oh, God..."

  Three bodies, all of them tiny. Infantile. They were incinerated together in an unrecognizable alloy of parts so that each was slurred into the other, distinct yet inseparable. Their limbs, now protruding awkwardly from different sides of the mass, were curled into their shriveled torsos, like the legs of a dead spider. The battered heads hung from the collective corpse like crushed, blackened fruit. One sizzled half-opened eye, the bottom lid curled back from it, stared at Burke with the pallid and lifeless gaze of the dead.