Elizabeth Hand - 12 Monkeys

“James — please, I want to help you—”

Suddenly he spun wildly, grabbed her by the wrist. Kathryn tried to pull back, but he yanked her to him, close enough that she could see his bloodshot eyes, wide now and too bright, like a meth freak coming off a three-day run.

“Don’t — don’t run away. Don’t do anything crazy ,” he stammered. “I’ll — I’ll hurt somebody.”

Kathryn spoke with deliberate calm, glad he couldn’t feel her heart racing. “I’m not going to do anything crazy, James. But none of this is what you think it is—”

From behind them came a small rustle. “You can’t hide from them, Bob,” rasped a deep voice.

Cole whirled, dropping Kathryn’s hand.

“No sir, Old Bob — don’t even try! ”

A derelict stood there, clad in a khaki trench coat stained almost black with mold and filth. Cole stared at him in horror.

That voice! The voice from his cell, croaking in the same conspiratorial tone as the ragged man pointed a warning finger at him.

“They hear everything,” the derelict whispered. His rheumy eyes glittered malevolently. “They got that tracking device on you. They can find you anywhere. Anytime. Ha! ” He cackled, his laughter tripping into a fit of coughing. Cole watched, stunned, as this urban apparition leaned closer.

The coughing died away as the derelict tapped his back jaw. “In the tooth, Bob, right?” He grinned triumphantly. “But I fooled ‘em, old buddy…”

He opened his mouth wide, an ulcerated hole. “ No teeth!”

With a final leer, the derelict turned and shambled off. Cole and Kathryn stared after him. Suddenly, Cole grabbed Kathryn and pulled her into an adjoining alley.

“What are you doing ?” protested Kathryn, her purse bouncing against her side.

“They’re keeping an eye on me,” Cole said in a low voice. She looked at him: he was obviously shaken by the encounter with the street person.

“ Who do you think is keeping an eye on you, James?”

He yanked her closer to him, the two of them foundering through a sea of plastic bags, broken glass, desiccated paper.

“The man with the voice!” Cole hissed. “ Them! People from the present. What for?” he added in a hurt tone. “I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. They don’t have to spy on me. They—”

He stopped short. Kathryn pitched forward, catching herself before she fell onto a heap of smashed beer bottles. Her purse landed in front of her. She picked it up and when she straightened, saw Cole staring rigidly at the brick wall. Across it was drawn another red graffiti: the stenciled image of a circle inset with twelve dancing monkeys.

“They’re here!” Cole’s voice was jubilant. He pulled Kathryn after him and ran further down the alley, scanning the walls. She had no choice but to follow, crying out once when a twisted bit of metal slashed at her leg and watching as Cole anxiously scanned the walls for graffiti. There was plenty of that — mostly obscenities, a few wan attempts at consciousness-raising. FREE N’BERO MAM! YES ON SARAJEVO! Kathryn looked nervously over her shoulder. The alley entrance looked very far away, a tiny bright mouth in the fetid darkness. She let out a small cry as Cole abruptly tugged her after him, into a dark and forbidding doorway. Just inside, two oblivious women leaned against the rotting sill, sucking at crack pipes.

“James, no .” With all her strength Kathryn pulled herself upright, resisting him. “We shouldn’t be here—”

Ignoring her he pulled her through the door. Something scuttled into the shadows. Beneath her feet the ground was spongy, heaped with decaying clothing. She almost gagged on the overwhelming smell of putrid water and the burning reek of crack. Cole barged on like a man possessed, finally stopping in the gloomy hallway. In front of them broken drywall held another stencil of the twelve dancing monkeys, this one apparently painted with a brush. Red paint had dried in long oozing lines beneath the circle and splotched onto the floor, forming a trail. Kathryn looked at the floor, then slowly raised her head. Her eyes widened.

“James,” she whispered hoarsely.

Scarcely ten feet away, two shadowy figures kicked at a third figure hunched over on the floor. At the sound of Kathryn’s voice one looked up and without a word nudged his partner. The two men took in first Kathryn, then Cole. They exchanged a glance, and soundlessly started toward them.

“James!” Kathryn repeated frantically. “ We have to go back . Those men—”

Too late. “Hey, buddy,” the taller man said. Startled, Cole blinked stupidly at him, as the other man lunged for Kathryn’s purse and grabbed it from her.

“No!” she screamed.

With a grunt Cole tried to grab it back, but—

Whack! Something smashed against his cheek. Kathryn cried out again, more desperately this time. Dazed, Cole drew a hand across his face, stared at the blood staining his fingers. Before he could react something cold and hard ground into his other cheek. Looking out of the corner of his eyes, Cole saw a tin-bright pistol, so shiny and cheap looking it was like a kid’s toy.

Biting back a cry, Kathryn turned to run. She took only two steps before the second man knocked her roughly to the ground.

“Stick around, bitch,” he said, smiling. Looming above her he began to unzip his fly. Kathryn looked around wildly, saw Cole drop to his knees.

“Please!” he whimpered, clutching pathetically at handfuls of moldering paper. “Please don’t hurt me!”

The man stared down at him. He stepped closer to Cole and kicked him contemptuously. He drew his foot back for a second kick when Cole suddenly lunged upward, wrapping his arms around the man’s calves. In one fluid motion he lifted the man from the ground.

The pistol fired, its echo nearly drowning Cole’s enraged roar. He staggered forward and rammed the man into the brick wall. There was a crack like stone hitting stone as the man’s head smashed against brick, then lolled onto his breast. The man fell into a heap, the pistol dropping from his limp hand.

“Uh, later, lady.” The second man hastily zipped his fly. Before he could run Cole was on top of him, fists crushing into him again and again, savagely. The man staggered backward, bloody and dazed. Kathryn watched dumbfounded. Cole’s fist crashed into the man’s jaw one last time. Cole turned back to his first assailant, saw him reaching weakly for the pistol.

Without a word Cole kicked him viciously in the jaw. Kathryn covered her mouth as the man’s head whipped back.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. She heard a small pop , as though a dry stick had been stepped on. The man collapsed against the wall. She glanced furtively behind her and saw the second man running haphazardly down the hallway, one arm flapping uselessly at his side. When she looked up, Cole was standing there above her in the blue-tinged darkness. He no longer looked merely insane, or even dangerous. With his bloody face, eyes staring grimly at her, and the cheap pistol gripped in his immense hand, he looked positively lethal.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, shoving the gun into a pocket. He sounded as though it pained him to talk.

Kathryn stumbled to her feet. “Uh, no. Yes—” She glanced down quickly at her torn skirt, blood threading the cuffs of her blouse. “I mean, just some scrapes—”

He wasn’t listening. Instead, Cole was bent over the motionless body, quickly going through the man’s pockets. He held up a wallet, then a handful of bullets; he tossed aside a set of keys and shoved the other items into his own pocket.