Division Zero (40 page)

I can’t either, now.

Her eyes glowed as her vision extended into the realm of spirits, chasing away the darkness. The phantasmal echo of the real world superimposed itself over the physical one, lit by the glow of spiritual energy. She ducked under pipes and around girders, doing her best to avoid puddles of unidentifiable substances on her way to the secondary ladder mounted to the side of a support column. The first had taken her to the bottom of the city plate’s insides, twenty-five meters down.

This one led to the Earth.

Thick clumps of grey matter crumbled under her boots as she climbed down the outside of a metal column. The thought that her bare feet touched this decay the last time she came down here made her regret eating earlier. In The Beneath, no wind threatened to tug her off the precarious ladder, but she trembled from the height regardless.

Twenty feet from the ground, she squeezed through a hole where the column plunged through the roof of an ancient house. The builders had not even bothered to level it.

Four centuries ago, the dwelling would have been considered expensive. Now, it lacked a front door. She tiptoed through broken wood and rubble despite her boots, remembering her first time down here. Exploring these huge houses and empty neighborhoods had been quite fun compared to home―for a little while. The thrill of having a town of her own wore off in a few days, leaving her lonely and wanting the surface once more.

Kirsten glanced upward as she walked, staring at the mass of grey fifty meters up. It extended in all directions, an infinite network of pipes and struts blending together with a repetitive pattern of dull metal. The taller buildings had been sheared off just below the underside of the plates. Down here, she found it hard to imagine another civilization above all of this―a city atop a city. This place could pass for an old suburban neighborhood if not for the enormous columns that came down from the steel sky, ignoring everything in their path on their way to the Earth. By all rights, none of these structures should still be standing, but the new city shielded its ancestor from the wind and the weather, creating a tomb of stagnant air.

She went along an old concrete sidewalk to the end of the street, trying to remember her way around. Rapid semi-human hissing from behind froze her in place.

A shrill squeaky voice. “Whazzat?”

An even higher pitched one chimed back. “Tasty bitsy.”

“Me wants!” That one sounded throaty and rough, accompanied by a dragging pipe.

A deep gurgle drew the words out longer than needed. “Too… same!”

“Eats us well!” The first one cried out with a squeal of delight, chain rattling.

The Discarded had found her.

Kirsten whirled to face the sounds, pulling her E90. A dozen figures emerged through a gap between two rotten houses. Clad in tattered grey rags, they held rods tipped with sharpened metal. One twirled a length of chain studded with weights and nails. She fired over the head of the closest one, hoping to scare them off.

The advancing spears did not flinch.

Dorian stepped in front of her, his body surrounded by a luminous outline as he forced his presence to manifest. Behind the Discarded, the under-city shimmered from whatever he did. Spears clanged to the ground; the dozen ruined men wailed like frightened boys, scattering into the distance without regard to what they had to smash through to get away. To Kirsten, he changed transparent, a sign he had become visible to anyone.

“I doubt they’ll be back.” When he turned, he looked normal to her.

Lowering her weapon, she resumed breathing. “Thanks.”

A building with dingy aluminum siding draped from old wooden walls sat at the corner where she expected it. Stained glass windows hid behind a crisscross of rotting planks and a deep sense of foreboding settled over the entire area. The darkness in the surrounding dirt lot and alleys contained shifting patches flitting about, hinting at a presence that moved just out of sight. Two glimmering flecks of light appeared on an unseen face, hanging for an instant and gazing into Kirsten’s soul.

It doesn’t like being seen.
She averted her eyes, lest it remember her.

Dorian’s usual bravado faded to a normal sounding voice. “I’ll… uhm, wait right here.”

“What are you afraid of?” She blinked.

He offered a cheesy smile. “Let’s just say I’ve come to second guess some of my decisions in the field.”

She frowned. “Summaries?”

“They weren’t exactly official.” He fidgeted.

“I’m sure you had your reasons.” She looked at the figures in the windows, wondering what she would do if she walked in on a scene like the kitchen. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

The watched feeling intensified as she crossed the street to the lonesome old church. A shadow darted behind her and she spun. No sooner had she turned than it happened again, still behind her.

Why are they checking me out?

Shivering, she tried to ignore them and trotted up three stone steps to the door. Her shaking hands defied her as she fought to get the bronze latch to yield. Finally, it gave up and the door opened with a deep, creaking groan lifted from the pages of bad dreams. She raised her arm against the curtain of dust falling from the top as the ancient wood moved.

The ill presence did not enter the building, replaced by a somber sense of regret inside. Her echoing footfalls chased bats from the roof and rodents from the debris. Shattered pews lined the room, ages ago collapsed to the floor. Dead ivy adorned the walls of a building forgotten by the touch of living men for centuries.

Her voice pierced the silence with a tenuous warble. “Ri… Ritchie? A… Are you still here?”

The crunch of stepped-upon glass came from the right. Her hair whipped around as she turned and took a step back from a man that coalesced out of a mass of fog. Out from the darkness he strode at an alarming pace, his unblinking gaze through ragged hair locked upon her. A twinge of menace underlined with lust glinted in his eyes as he drew closer. Not until he came within arm’s reach did his head lift enough for her to see his face.

Filthy dark hair hung halfway down his back; it would have been light brown if clean. He looked aged before his time, the ravages of drugs and a hard life evident in wrinkled skin and yellowed teeth. He told her he had died at thirty-two, but he seemed closer to fifty. A green military jacket covered most of him save where tattered jeans peeked out. Sneakers held together by miracles clung to his feet, the sole of the left flopped open to reveal blackened toes. Wisps of fog swirled as the spectral chill of his breath rode down his voice onto her chest.

“You…” His voice scraped to a pause. “I know you.”

“Ritchie.” She stared at the thick yellow fingernail pointing. “It’s me, Kirsten.”

A grin wet with decay deepened the creases on his cheeks. “I dinnae recognize ya now ya got tits.” He made a dry chuckle. “Nice’uns too. Sorry fer what I was thinkin’ there at first, kiddo.”

Kirsten brushed it off. The last time she had seen him, as a ten-year-old, she had to work to see ghosts. “I had a feeling you’d still be here.”

“Oh, aye!” he wailed, nodding. “They’re out there, surroundin’ the place.” His arm waved at the wall, chased by the tatters of his sleeve. “They won’ come in here, no siree.” Hands on his hips, he rocked back with a chuckle.

“I need your help.” She tried to look like an innocent. “You saved me once.”

“Aye.” Hard wrinkles softened. “Helpin’s not me usual way, but ya had eyes what would melt the Devil’s own heart.” His voice drifted with the faintest trace of an Irish brogue.

Kirsten swallowed, remembering her dream self. “There’s a spirit out there that I need to catch. He’s hurting people and I have to stop him. I just don’t know how to find him.”

Ritchie shook his head with a hiss and waved his arms at the window. “Why don’ the damned blackies go after
him
an’ leave me to mine? If he’s da’ bad why don’t they?”

She sat on the edge of the only intact bench. “I can’t claim to understand them, but I think the more focused a spirit is, the less power they have over it. This one is furious, not to mention strong for his tenure as a ghost. It seems like they can’t just drag a determined spirit away unless they are weakened.”

“Why didn’t they grab him new? I had ta run like the devil.” He cackled with a manic stare at the wall.

“I don’t think he had a dark soul when he was alive. He’s turned. He’s been killing random people to make the corporation responsible for his death look bad.”

“Now what kind of cockamamie sense is that supposed to make, girl?” Ritchie ambled over and leaned in for a closer look.

“He’s pissed at a company, not a person. He wants to destroy them financially.”

Ritchie muttered a series of incoherencies, understanding but not agreeing. “So why ya bring yerself ta me?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing… and I hoped you could help.”

“Baww…” He waved her off. “No one wants ta see Ritchie, cept them blackies outside. They wanna see ol’ Ritchie pretty fuckin’ bad.” His hoarse laugh smelled like vodka and dust.

“That’s not true. You saved my life. It took me a long time to realize it, but if it wasn’t for you, she’d have killed me.”

She rendered her body tangible to ghosts and took his hand. He recoiled at the sudden sense of contact, but relaxed as he saw the gratitude in her eyes. He managed a nervous smile; it had been a long time since he had felt the touch of another person, much less a woman. Ritchie’s eyes went right to her breasts, apples dangled before Adam. He looked away, complaining in an inaudible murmur and trying to picture the little girl he first saw.

She squeezed his hand. “You got her off me and gave me the courage to take a chance. The street was dangerous, but staying there was even worse. I don’t know what you were like when you lived, but I know what you did for me.”

Ritchie traded a weak smile for a grimace, and then stared at the wall with a mournful glance. “Wish them blackies thought tha’ way. Been trapped in here longer than I can remember.”

Kirsten looked up at the great stained glass windows at the far end of the church. This place had been abandoned for many times her lifespan, yet for some reason the Harbingers refused to enter it. A pang of guilt simmered through her as she pondered that fact. If religion represented the product of humanity’s need to control the weak-minded, why would the Harbingers care about sanctified ground?

“Well, they haven’t gotten you. It may not be too late. Whatever you did in life stained your soul, but there’s always repentance.” She hoped he did not see the look on her face. She felt like a hypocrite for saying it, sounding too religious for her liking. “An evil person would not have helped me ten years ago.”

“If you’da seen yourself. The way you looked, the Prince of Darkness himself would’a shed a tear.” Ritchie smiled, shaking, and threw edgy glances about the room. He half-shrugged and offered a weak grin. “Still, though, I don’t wanna risk it just yet, ya know. Walkin’ outside, that is.”

She wondered if Ritchie kept them out. He seemed to be a religious sort and Harbingers could not just grab strong spirits. If he had enough strength, his belief this old chapel protected him might just be how he focused his will into the world. She found it more appealing a thought than the machinations of deific influence, though a glance at a dour face in the imposing stained glass brought back her doubt.

He came here to find salvation… isn’t that what he gave me?

Kirsten sat quiet for a moment. “Ritchie, can you help? I need to find this guy before he kills again.”

His face warped with an internal argument. He pondered before nodding, taking a step, and hesitating again.

“What’s wrong?”

The innocence in her eyes chased a glower of distrust from his. “It’s makin’ me a bit nervous, what I gotta show ya ta do it.” Scrunching up his face, he relented. “Oh, fine. Follow me, lass.”

At the rear of the church, Ritchie pointed at a hole in the floorboards. “There be a bag in’er, gwon’ take it out.”

Kirsten squatted at the edge of the dark opening. Amid a staggering amount of dust and dirt, she made out the outline of something. After sifting through loose debris, she lifted a rough canvas sack out of the space below the floor. Trying not to inhale any of it, she rummaged at the package until she found the flap. Inside, among drug paraphernalia, burglar’s tools, and a rusting pistol so old it had no electronics, she found a human skull stained brown with dirt and age.

She held it up, turning it through her gaze. A cracked bullet hole broke through, just to the side of the right eye. Open cavity dominated most of the left posterior cranium. She glanced back and forth from it to Ritchie, noting the similarity in the teeth. Inside the brain pan, cigarette ash stained the bone.

“Took me head back to his boss.” His wrinkled lips curled into a grin. “Fucker snuck up on me. Damn cop.”

She gave him a sad look.

“Be careful with it, please.” The question emerged in a staccato whisper. His hands edged toward her as if he wanted to take it.

“Okay… did you want me to bring this somewhere?”

“No!” His outburst echoed through the room and made her jump. For an instant, his presence changed, growing dark and menacing. Shrinking, he flashed a contrite look. “No, please… I just wanted to show you what you asked. I’m just a wee bit protective of me skull.”

Kirsten thought about Dorian and the car. “Okay.”

“All spirits are bound to our mortal remains. It’s like our bed. We go back to rest and gather ourselves. If they’re gone, it be hard for us to recover from things, kin take years.”

Kirsten listened, clinging with care to the skull as she crouched over the hole in the floor.

“If you have some of the bugger’s remains, you can use ‘em to find him. Take me skull and think ‘bout me. Remember when you had to work ta see me? It be almost like that. Look for a trail.”

“A trail? What, like astral projecting?”

“Whatever that is.” He traced a corkscrew through the air. “There’ll be a faint wisp o’ smoke.”