The Inexplicables

Anyway, these days he knew a third means into the city. A very recent one, still under construction: a gate cut into the wall about forty feet up. He’d seen men working on it by the water’s edge where the old piers rotted in the tidal muck. They’d picked a spot where no one was likely to see them working, and with King Street Station just on the other side of the barrier.



As a professional delinquent and occasional trafficker in illicit substances, Rector had access to a great deal of information that wasn’t strictly common knowledge—including the often disbelieved truth that people still lived inside the city … and the fact that most of them weren’t very nice.



Some of the city’s least nice residents lived and worked in King Street Station, which was ruled like a small, wicked kingdom by a mysterious Chinaman named Yaozu. Rector had never personally set eyes on Yaozu, but his imagination suggested an enormous, evil-looking man in billowy black clothing and a gas mask set with spikes. He might have tattoos on his face, or fingernails filed to points, or a terrible voice that sounded like it came from the chest of the devil himself.



No man who rules by the power of his name could be anything less than fearsome.



Rector knew roughly how the world worked, and he had no interest in meeting the monstrous Chinaman or his army of minions. Even if his empire had been built on sap, and even if his Station was where most of Rector’s drug of choice was presently made. But somewhere in the back of Rector’s head—bouncing feebly among the parts of his brain that still worked the best—he was prepared to admit that he had considered asking Yaozu for a job.



Of course, this would only come up if he survived his little quest, which he didn’t expect to. Which was fine by him. And even if he did survive, there was always the chance that Yaozu wouldn’t be in charge very long anyway. Nobody in the Outskirts except the chemists cared whether or not Yaozu managed the flow of sap that oozed out of the walled-up city. If some newcomer came along, up from Tacoma or Portland, or even from as far away as San Francisco, or wherever Harry was talking about …



Rector cared only insomuch as it might affect the supply chain, but he didn’t give two small shits if the operation was run by a Chinaman named Yaozu, or an Irishman named Hark O’Reilly, or a New Yorker named Louis Melville, or a Californian named Otis Caplan. Let them fight over it all they liked. Just let the best man win, and let the sap flow.



Let the whole world burn, for all Rector Sherman cared. After all, it had no place for him.



Four



Rector’s quest was fuzzy, but it was not altogether ridiculous: If he could find his way into the city, locate his deceased friend’s corpse, and treat it with a smidge of dignity, he could perhaps be freed from the nagging phantom that dogged his waking dreams.



It was not the worst plan he’d ever had. It didn’t rank among the finest, either, but the end of Rector’s rope was dangling near, and it was this or nothing. It might even redeem him a little bit if his last act on earth was an attempt at recompense, in case of pearly gates or skeptical angels.



A short, sparkling pang of guilt poked through the muffling layers of sap and jabbed him in the chest. “Zeke, I’m coming, goddammit. Isn’t that enough?” he said under his breath. “Christ, that’s all I can do now, ain’t it?” He trudged through darkness over the mudflats, to the wall looming blacker than any starless midnight—a false horizon created from something thicker and worse than the mere absence of illumination.



He could see the wall best when he did not look at it directly. It was most apparent from the corner of his eyes, from a sideways gaze as he hiked past ramshackle clusters of houses and businesses.



Over at the waterworks plant a steam whistle blew and something heavy clanked, like a large clock’s gears tipping together. One shift was ending, and another would soon begin. The plant ran day and night because there’d never be enough clean water if it didn’t—and without clean water, the Blight truly would have wiped out the Sound.



Rector remembered a stray, sharp fact in an uninvited flash: Briar Wilkes, Zeke’s mother, used to work there. She’d gone inside the wall after her son. She’d never come out, and, like her son, she was almost certainly dead. It weighed on Rector somewhat less than Zeke’s untimely passing, as he hadn’t liked Briar at all: the last time he’d seen her, she’d threatened him with bodily and spiritual harm, so if she was gone, well, that didn’t keep him up at night—and neither did her ghost.



The churning cranks and hisses of steam from the waterworks plant faded as he hiked farther away from the Sound, higher up the ungroomed hills, and along the worn dirt roads that had settled into uncomfortable ruts. He left the ruts and took to the grassy spots between the houses and sheds and barns. As these buildings thinned out, the open spaces became wider, more open, and almost more frightening because they gave him nowhere to hide.



Standing out in the wet scrub with mossy rocks and trees that rotted where they’d fallen, Rector felt small and conspicuous as he approached the looming monolith of the Seattle city wall.



Flat and plain, the wall was made of unevenly sized stones, mortared swiftly together. The overall color was gray with a hint of sickly green, for even the ever-present mold and mildew took its cues from the Blight-tainted air. It was inscrutable and blank. It appeared unbreachable by all but the most foolhardy daredevils, given the slippery flora, wet slime, and treacherous patches of fickle moss that would slough away without remorse even under the desperate fingers of a fervently praying climber.



But once he got up close, Rector could see that it harbored secrets and promises.



He tiptoed, moving his legs more carefully through the vegetation and keeping his eyes peeled against the heavy darkness that kept him guessing about his progress. He did not want to light a candle, not yet. Besides the fact that he had so few, he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Not until he figured out exactly where he meant to go, and exactly whose attention he needed.



This next part would be tricky.



He listened for all he was worth and, around the swirling fuzz of the sap still sparkling between his ears, he heard the gruff, intermittent chatter of men who were bored and not very happy. Rector turned himself sideways and walked along the tall stone barrier, its shadow made thicker still by the wee morning hours and a moon smudged over by clouds.



The men were somewhere above him and ahead of him. He followed their voices.



His footsteps ground into wet grass and against slippery pebbles, leaving streaked prints along the groove at the wall’s base. The path was uneven, broken by tree roots and fallen pieces of rock; it was clotted with the detritus of leaves, dead grass, and human trash blown by ocean winds to collect against the stones like snowdrifts.



At times, he sank to his calves in rotting mulch, the compost of things lost, forgotten, and turned damp by the climate.



Rector muttered a sour curse and wished out loud that, just this once, the June Gloom would take it up a notch and freeze. Frozen mud would be easier to navigate, and ice was no slicker than the vitreous slime that squished down the grade.



The conversation above him grew louder.



Both participants were wearing gas masks. Rector could hear it from the muffled hum to their words, and the way their consonants were rubbed off around the edges, but as he came closer, he could pick out the gossip more clearly.



“I just don’t want to hear about it later, that’s all. If Yaozu tries to cuss me about it, I’ll … I won’t be real happy. But if we’re late, that’s what he gets for putting a kid in charge. That ain’t right.”



“Can you install the gears?”



“No.”



“Then you aren’t right for the job. Me either,” the other man added quickly, possibly in response to some threat Rector couldn’t see. “If Houjin knows how, let him. He mess it up, it’s not our fault. He do it right, we look good for helping. See?”



“Yeah, I see,” came the grudging response. “That don’t mean I like it.”



A crackling snap of pleasure or pain—Rector couldn’t tell which—zipped across his vision and was gone, leaving a comet trail of contentment in its wake. He smiled and listened a little longer, until he was absolutely confident that these were workmen and not guards. Almost certainly an older white man and a somewhat younger Chinese man.



Rector took a deep breath and flinched as a pang of tomorrow’s hangover made itself known in the soft spot just behind his ear. He shook it off and stepped away from the wall, but not far enough out to be easily seen or shot at.



“Hey, you fellas up there?” he called, not in a big shout, but loud enough to make it clear that he wasn’t sneaking up on anybody.



The two men above went silent, then the Chinaman called back, “Who is there? What do you want?”



“Rector Sherman here. I want to get inside the city.” It sounded grandiose when he put it that way, but he decided he was all right with that, so he let it stand. “I don’t want any trouble, and I don’t want to bother nobody. I got business inside, that’s all.”



“Business? What kind of business you got in the city? Did Yaozu send for you?”



“No sir,” he said—fast, so the two words ran together in his mouth. “I’m looking for work.”



“How old are you, son?” the white man asked.



“Not sure what that’s got to do with anything. I’ve been selling for a couple of years already.”



After a pause, the other man concluded, “So you want to come on up.”



“That I do, sir. That I do.” He took this opportunity to step out of the wall’s shadow and into the lesser dark of the cloud-covered evening, which left him somewhat less invisible but still quite fuzzy to anyone that far overhead.



A brilliant white shaft of light flared to life. It swiped at the night, curving back and forth as someone up there adjusted a focus-beam lantern. The beam settled on Rector without mercy, blinding him outright and forcing him to close his eyes against the sudden, painful attention. He crooked his elbow and tried to shield his face without hiding it. The last thing on earth he wanted was for these men to think he was up to something … which he was, but it wouldn’t do for them to suspect it.