Pocket Apocalypse
Page 62
Riley continued to eye them angrily. “So? Who said that we were dead? Speak up, I’m waiting.”
“Everybody,” said a man, stumbling forward. “I don’t remember who said it first. It was just everywhere all of a sudden.”
Great: a whisper game. The man didn’t seem to be lying. He met Riley’s eyes anxiously, searching for approval, before he melted back into the crowd.
These people were still too worked up to tell us anything useful. They needed to feel like normalcy was returning. That, at least, was something I had a reasonable amount of experience with, thanks to working with school groups back at the zoo. I turned to Charlotte, lowering my voice, and asked, “Is there any way we can move people inside?”
“I think I can manage,” she said, before turning back to the crowd, cupping her hands around her mouth, and shouting, “Tea, coffee, and Tim Tams in the main hall in ten minutes! Anyone who wants to come in and help me brew things gets first crack at the goodies!” Then she strode forward, heading toward the house without a second glance. The muttering increased again, but dropped in volume as what looked like half the crowd peeled off to follow her.
“Clever boy.” Shelby kissed me on the cheek before pulling her shirt back on over her head, tugging it into place.
“I try.” I looked to Riley. “Who is in charge of the central stock? I’d like to talk to them.”
“I can do you one better,” he said. “I’ll take you there.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Shelby.
“Gabby and I will help Mum with the coffee and see if we can’t find out who started the rumors,” said Raina quickly. “Not trying to ditch you, Shelly, but if Dad’s going to kill your boyfriend, I’d rather not be there to witness it.”
“Thanks,” said Shelby dryly.
“No worries,” said Raina, and trotted off after Charlotte, Jett tagging at her heels and Gabby following at a somewhat more subdued pace, shaking her head and looking wearily up at the sky.
“This way,” said Riley.
We followed him.
Riley led us around the house to a door I hadn’t seen before, set flush with the foundation and accessible only by descending three shallow stone steps. “We used to have flooding issues here, before we got the drainage systems up to date,” he said, producing a key from his pocket and unlocking the door. “Probably would have again if there were a really major storm.”
“You could hire a siren to waterproof the place,” I suggested. “They can’t work miracles, but they’re good at convincing basements not to flood and houses not to float away.” They were also good at luring men—mostly men; some sirens lured women, and that was okay, too, except for the part where it wasn’t okay at all—to watery graves. I figured that part probably didn’t need to enter our discussion of do-it-yourself home improvement.
“You really do like turning to monsters to solve your problems, don’t you?” asked Riley. He opened the door, revealing the barren hallway on the other side. He stormed inside, leaving me standing with Shelby on the steps.
“I’m really starting to understand why you nearly shot my cousin in the chest,” I said.
“Things here aren’t like they are in America,” said Shelby, almost apologetically. She followed her father inside. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve convinced me to appreciate monsters for what they are.”
“I honestly don’t know whether that helps,” I said. “Should I shut the door?”
“Nah. It stays open when there’s someone in here. Tells people to shout before they come stomping around the corner, reduces the odds of anybody getting stabbed without a good reason.”
“What a lovely way of doing things,” I said, trying to keep my voice low enough that Riley wouldn’t hear me. “Do you get a lot of accidental stabbings around here?”
“Not as many as we did before we started leaving the door open,” said Shelby, and followed her father down the hall. After a pause to absorb this information, I went after her.
The hallway leading to the central stock was as clean and generic as the rest of the house, if not more. No effort had been made to pretend that this was a place where people lived: the walls were barren, the carpet was industrial gray hardpack of the sort usually found in auto shops and hospital waiting rooms, and the air smelled faintly of gun oil. It was a sweet, indelible scent that seemed to have been worked all the way down into the walls, becoming a permanent part of the house. From cleaning out ammo dumps and helping my grandmother—Alice, the dimension-hopping one with the grenades—reorganize her stockpiles, I knew that it would take more than just soap and elbow grease to wipe that scent away. They could sell the house, and three families later, people would still be asking about that funny metallic scent in the basement.
I caught up with Riley and Shelby in short order. They were waiting for me in front of a large door with reinforced hinges. “The frame was built by one of our folks who used to rob banks for fun, before he decided to go straight and start working with the conservation movement,” said Riley, without preamble. “The hinges are designed to be impossible to remove without damaging them, and there are patterns on the metal that couldn’t be replicated without contacting the man who did the initial install. Anyone who opened this door did it with a key.”
“Or was the man who did the initial install,” I said, more out of reflex than because I thought it was an important concern. We already knew that whoever was trying to feed us to werewolves was working with, and hence a part of, the Thirty-Six Society. Since I was the only nonmember on the premises, and the only person not allowed to have a key, their security was a nice afterthought, but not anything that would actually keep our adversary—whoever it was—away from the bullets.
Riley snorted. “Have to throw aspersions wherever you can, don’t you, Covenant boy?”
“Since you’ve started calling me ‘Covenant boy’ when I have never belonged to the Covenant of St. George, and am definitely of legal age, I don’t think I’m the only one casting aspersions,” I said. “We already know that whoever swapped out the silver bullets for painted lead ones is a part of the Society. Which means the only reason I can think of for you to be bragging about your security is because you don’t want me to think I can just waltz in here and start shopping for a new set of throwing knives. I’ll stop being a suspicious bastard if you will.”
“Everybody,” said a man, stumbling forward. “I don’t remember who said it first. It was just everywhere all of a sudden.”
Great: a whisper game. The man didn’t seem to be lying. He met Riley’s eyes anxiously, searching for approval, before he melted back into the crowd.
These people were still too worked up to tell us anything useful. They needed to feel like normalcy was returning. That, at least, was something I had a reasonable amount of experience with, thanks to working with school groups back at the zoo. I turned to Charlotte, lowering my voice, and asked, “Is there any way we can move people inside?”
“I think I can manage,” she said, before turning back to the crowd, cupping her hands around her mouth, and shouting, “Tea, coffee, and Tim Tams in the main hall in ten minutes! Anyone who wants to come in and help me brew things gets first crack at the goodies!” Then she strode forward, heading toward the house without a second glance. The muttering increased again, but dropped in volume as what looked like half the crowd peeled off to follow her.
“Clever boy.” Shelby kissed me on the cheek before pulling her shirt back on over her head, tugging it into place.
“I try.” I looked to Riley. “Who is in charge of the central stock? I’d like to talk to them.”
“I can do you one better,” he said. “I’ll take you there.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Shelby.
“Gabby and I will help Mum with the coffee and see if we can’t find out who started the rumors,” said Raina quickly. “Not trying to ditch you, Shelly, but if Dad’s going to kill your boyfriend, I’d rather not be there to witness it.”
“Thanks,” said Shelby dryly.
“No worries,” said Raina, and trotted off after Charlotte, Jett tagging at her heels and Gabby following at a somewhat more subdued pace, shaking her head and looking wearily up at the sky.
“This way,” said Riley.
We followed him.
Riley led us around the house to a door I hadn’t seen before, set flush with the foundation and accessible only by descending three shallow stone steps. “We used to have flooding issues here, before we got the drainage systems up to date,” he said, producing a key from his pocket and unlocking the door. “Probably would have again if there were a really major storm.”
“You could hire a siren to waterproof the place,” I suggested. “They can’t work miracles, but they’re good at convincing basements not to flood and houses not to float away.” They were also good at luring men—mostly men; some sirens lured women, and that was okay, too, except for the part where it wasn’t okay at all—to watery graves. I figured that part probably didn’t need to enter our discussion of do-it-yourself home improvement.
“You really do like turning to monsters to solve your problems, don’t you?” asked Riley. He opened the door, revealing the barren hallway on the other side. He stormed inside, leaving me standing with Shelby on the steps.
“I’m really starting to understand why you nearly shot my cousin in the chest,” I said.
“Things here aren’t like they are in America,” said Shelby, almost apologetically. She followed her father inside. “If it’s any consolation, you’ve convinced me to appreciate monsters for what they are.”
“I honestly don’t know whether that helps,” I said. “Should I shut the door?”
“Nah. It stays open when there’s someone in here. Tells people to shout before they come stomping around the corner, reduces the odds of anybody getting stabbed without a good reason.”
“What a lovely way of doing things,” I said, trying to keep my voice low enough that Riley wouldn’t hear me. “Do you get a lot of accidental stabbings around here?”
“Not as many as we did before we started leaving the door open,” said Shelby, and followed her father down the hall. After a pause to absorb this information, I went after her.
The hallway leading to the central stock was as clean and generic as the rest of the house, if not more. No effort had been made to pretend that this was a place where people lived: the walls were barren, the carpet was industrial gray hardpack of the sort usually found in auto shops and hospital waiting rooms, and the air smelled faintly of gun oil. It was a sweet, indelible scent that seemed to have been worked all the way down into the walls, becoming a permanent part of the house. From cleaning out ammo dumps and helping my grandmother—Alice, the dimension-hopping one with the grenades—reorganize her stockpiles, I knew that it would take more than just soap and elbow grease to wipe that scent away. They could sell the house, and three families later, people would still be asking about that funny metallic scent in the basement.
I caught up with Riley and Shelby in short order. They were waiting for me in front of a large door with reinforced hinges. “The frame was built by one of our folks who used to rob banks for fun, before he decided to go straight and start working with the conservation movement,” said Riley, without preamble. “The hinges are designed to be impossible to remove without damaging them, and there are patterns on the metal that couldn’t be replicated without contacting the man who did the initial install. Anyone who opened this door did it with a key.”
“Or was the man who did the initial install,” I said, more out of reflex than because I thought it was an important concern. We already knew that whoever was trying to feed us to werewolves was working with, and hence a part of, the Thirty-Six Society. Since I was the only nonmember on the premises, and the only person not allowed to have a key, their security was a nice afterthought, but not anything that would actually keep our adversary—whoever it was—away from the bullets.
Riley snorted. “Have to throw aspersions wherever you can, don’t you, Covenant boy?”
“Since you’ve started calling me ‘Covenant boy’ when I have never belonged to the Covenant of St. George, and am definitely of legal age, I don’t think I’m the only one casting aspersions,” I said. “We already know that whoever swapped out the silver bullets for painted lead ones is a part of the Society. Which means the only reason I can think of for you to be bragging about your security is because you don’t want me to think I can just waltz in here and start shopping for a new set of throwing knives. I’ll stop being a suspicious bastard if you will.”
