George Martin - Suicide Kings

The zombies screamed as one, wordless. They advanced.

“Damn it.” Jerusha pulled her hand from the pouch, fisted around the contents there. She flung them wide. As soon as the seeds hit the ground, they were rising, a wriggling carpet of vines that tore through the pavement of Jackson Square. Kudzu. Jerusha guided the growth in her mind, snarling the vines around the zombies’ legs, bodies, and arms, encasing them in living green chains. She coiled them around Joey and Ink for good measure. Hoodoo Mama glared at her, cursing wildly.

The SWAT officers were piling back into the vans, hustling the LaFleurs back to their limo. With a scream of sirens, the cars backed away and sped off again.

“Stop them!” Joey screeched. Spittle was flying from her mouth. “God damn it, Gardener, you’re a fucker just like them. Just like them. You’re letting them kill her.”

Jerusha had no answer. “I’m sorry,” she told them.

“Fuck you’re sorry,” said Hoodoo Mama. “And fuck you, too, cunt. You better hope that Bubbles doesn’t die. ’Cause if she does, you’re next.”

Stellar

Manhattan, New York

After the meal-after the clink of silverware and the random chorus of burps and satisfied mmmmm ’s died down, after the last slice of pumpkin pie had been tucked away (Wally had two pieces), when most of the conversation in the room was a hushed murmur as people slipped collectively into a digestive stupor-Wally excused himself and went over to Lohengrin’s table.

Klaus was deep in conversation with Babel when Wally clanked up to their table. They must have been discussing something pretty intense because it took them a few seconds to notice Wally. He caught something about New Orleans, Sudan, and the Caliphate before they tapered off to look up at him. Babel grinned. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rustbelt.”

Wally said, “Thanks. Um, you, too.” He didn’t know her very well, but she made him uncomfortable. He remembered how she’d sabotaged DB when he split with the Committee, and wondered if she’d do the same thing to him, since he and DB were friends.

Lohengrin yawned. Two empty wine bottles rattled on the table when he stretched his legs. He motioned for Wally to sit and join them. “A good feast, ja?”

“Oh, you bet,” said Wally, taking a chair. “I like them sweet potatoes with the marshmallows on top. Real tasty.” He nodded, and patted his stomach. His cummerbund muted, ever so slightly, the clang of iron against iron. “Hey, I have a question.”

Lohengrin sat a little straighter. “What troubles you, my mighty friend?”

“Well, see, I was wondering if we’d be doing anything in Africa sometime soon. I mean, you know, the Committee.”

Babel assumed the tone that people did so frequently around Wally. The tone that spoke volumes about what they thought of him and his faculties. “Well, Rustbelt, it’s a very complicated situation. The Committee’s involvement with Noel Matthews in New Orleans put us on precarious footing with Tom Weathers, and by extension the Nshombos.”

“Oh, sure. Sure. But I didn’t mean about any of that. It’s just, see, I have this pen pal. My friend Lucien. He and his family live up in the Congo thereabouts.”

Babel cocked an eyebrow. “Pen pal?”

“I sponsor him. I send a few dollars every month and it pays for his school and medicine and stuff.”

“Ah.” Lohengrin nodded. He approved of noble causes.

“Anyway, his last letter kind of worried me. He was real excited because he’d been chosen to attend a brand-new school. But he said that the soldiers who picked him told him he wouldn’t be allowed to write to me no more. And that when Sister Julie tried to stop them from taking the last bunch of kids to the school-Sister Julie is a nun in his village, you see-well, he said they hurt her. And I thought, that doesn’t sound right. I mean, what the heck kind of school has soldiers? So I figured, maybe the next time I go somewhere, you could send me to Congo and I could check in on him.”

Babel said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Rustbelt. There’s no telling how Weathers and the PPA would react if they believed the Committee was encroaching on their territory.”

“But I wouldn’t be, not really. I’d just be visiting Lucien and making sure the little guy is okay.”

Again, that tone. “Yes, certainly. You know that, and we know that, but the Nshombos would never believe it. And, let’s face it, you aren’t inconspicuous. They’d know you were there. Ostensibly on Committee business.”

Lohengrin yawned again. “Frau Baden is correct that the situation is complicated. We must be careful with the Nshombos.” Wally slumped in his chair. “But,” Lohengrin continued, solemnly putting a hand on Wally’s shoulder, “your cause is just. I promise to do what I can to help your missing friend.”

“Well, gosh. That’s swell, Lohengrin.” Wally practically leaped out of his chair, grinning. The Committee would help him go find Lucien! “I can’t wait.”

“Yes. I believe that if I ask him, Jayewardene will make careful inquiries through diplomatic channels.”

Inquiries? Oh. Wally tried to hide his disappointment. “Right. That’ll be a big help, no doubt. I sure do appreciate it.”

He returned to his table, just long enough to say good night to Ana; the Llama had already left. Wally didn’t much feel like hopping in a taxi when he got down to the street, so he started walking in the general direction of Jokertown.

A thin dusting of snow covered the sidewalks. It fell in large flakes that drifted slowly to the ground like cotton. The clouds overhead and the snow underfoot reflected the soft glow of the city in all its colors, making everything look like a Christmas tree decoration.

Back home, Wally and his brother Pete used to make snow forts during Christmas vacation. He remembered countless snowball fights on winter mornings, too, waiting for the school bus. Lucien had loved hearing about stuff like that; to him, snow was the white stuff on distant mountains. Wally had secretly hoped he’d get to take him to the mountains someday, so he could see the snow firsthand.

But Lohengrin and Babel had been pretty clear. If he wanted to go to Africa, he’d have to go privately.

The Winslow Household

Boston, Massachusetts

They finished off the evening playing bridge and eating another round of pie before retiring to Niobe’s old bedroom. Niobe found this embarrassing and Noel found it charming. He investigated her bookcase filled with a collection of late Victorian and early twentieth-century children’s books- The Bird’s Christmas Carol, The Secret Garden, The Little Princess, Little Lord Fauntleroy. He rooted through the closet and discovered a stuffed animal collection (now consigned to the top shelf), and picked out a few choice specimens to take home to New York. For our baby, he thought, but neither of them gave voice to that. This was the fourth try, and they were both too superstitious to invoke the child out loud lest it lead to another miscarriage.

Noel read aloud from Fauntleroy until Niobe’s eyelids dropped and her breathing slowed. “He had a cruel tongue and a bitter nature, and he took pleasure in sneering at people and making them feel uncomfortable…” Noel’s voice died away. He slowly slipped his arm from beneath her, snapped off the light, and settled down to sleep.

It took a long time because he kept replaying the conversation with Siraj, and wondering what it all meant.

Rusty’s Hotel Room

Jokertown

Manhattan, New York

“Um, hi? DB?”

The phone receiver compressed the noise of a raucous party into a dull roar. “What? Who is this?”

“It’s me, Wally.”

A long pause. “Ollie?” DB sounded distracted. Then, more muffled, he shouted, “Hey! Leave that fucker for me!” This was followed by peals of high-pitched laughter. Wally had looked online; it was a little after eleven in Mumbai.