Tim Akers - Dead of Veridon

Wilson just ran to the window, snatching up a chair for protection as he went, and plunged straight through. No time to adjust, once I knew what he was doing, so I stuttered to a halt and fell through the open window. Of course, the next window over was a fire escape. Nice, reliable ladder, just out of reach. Wilson snagged it with his spindly spider arms and swung away. I fell.

Just far enough that it hurt when I got a hand around the iron filigree that lined the second floor. Hurt a lot. The skin of my hand opened up, my shoulder wrenched, and then I swung like a battering ram into the wall. Winded, my grip slick with my own blood, I was sliding down before I could get a better handle. Hit the floor with both boots and my knees crumpled. I curled onto the ground and gasped until my lungs opened up. Wilson landed next to me and started pulling at my elbow.

"Get up, man. Get to your feet," he hissed without looking at me. I tried to convey the seriousness of my wounds, and how a lot of it was his damn fault for leading me through a window, but all I could get out was a squeaking wheeze. Finally he looked down at me. "Stop screwing around, Jacob. We're very interesting to all the wrong people."

I looked up and saw the girl, leaning out over the blood-spattered railing. She had her strange eyes on the street below. I followed her eyes. A second group of the Badge were nearly on us. I could hear the ones who had rushed inside still yelling. Our waitress was nowhere to be seen. Typical. The girl looked down at us, almost curiously, then disappeared.

"Come on," I croaked. "We should be going."

"I've been saying that," Wilson said. We went in opposite directions, then I stumbled to a halt and ran after him.

"Remember next time," I yelled after him. "Walls. Windows. Open pits." I spat a wad of blood onto the cobbles. "I need ladders for that sort of thing."

"You need to learn to adapt, Jacob. Take some risks."

I muttered nonsensically, because that's all I could think of. We scrambled around a corner and lit off down an alley. The Badge was behind us, clumsily pushing past the stacked crates and rubbish bins. Those jackets of theirs were not made for pursuit. They needed to rethink their uniforms.

"So who do you think that was?" Wilson asked me as we came out into a wider avenue and I caught up with him. I looked over at him with wide eyes. Still trying to catch my breath after that fall.

"Talk about it. Later. Now is running," I gasped.

"Fair enough. But it's an interesting question. I mean, was our waitress trying to get the Badge because of her, or because of us? Or did she send the waitress to get the Badge, to help capture us?"

"Fascinating," I puffed. "Run."

"Yes, yes. This way," he said, then darted into a side alley. Again I stumbled to a stop, had to double back to follow. We were going to have a talk when this was over.

The alley went about ten feet, turned sharply twice, then ended in a high, brick canyon. No ladder.

"Oh, for the love of gods, Wilson," I was bent over, hand on my knees, trying to find some oxygen that could do the job of completely filling my lungs. "We talked about this. Walls. I can't just…" I fluttered my fingers. "I'm not a damn butterfly."

"I would never have mistaken you for one. You know, you're really out of practice with this stuff. Like you've forgotten your buddy Wilson here plans for this sort of thing."

He bounded up the wall, spider arms clattering against the bricks. He disappeared over the lip of the building. A second later a knotted rope coiled down the wall, landing at my feet. Wilson's narrow face and sharp smile reappeared.

"Up, up," he said, then was gone.

I put a hand around the rope and gave it a tug. It wasn't too far up, but farther than I'd climbed in a while.

"Not much better, buddy," I whispered. Didn't want him to hear me. Cutting the rope wasn't out of the question, if he got in one of his moods. Arm over arm, feet pressed against the bricks like a mountain climber, I went up. Halfway there, the Badge arrived.

"You!" they yelled, because there were so many other people they could be talking to. "On the rope! Come down from there!"

Wilson reappeared, counted heads, and drew his knife. He jerked his head, indicating that I should hurry, because clearly I had been taking my time. This was like a vacation for me. Words, Wilson. We were going to have words.

"Come down or we'll fire!" one of them yelled. He drew a shortrifle, to emphasize the point. I found that I could go faster. Another of them started up after me. A healthy lad, who had not recently fallen from a window. He was making good time.

"Come on, come on, son. Up, up!" Wilson spat. My arms were getting numb, and I couldn't keep my boots on the wall. Everything that wasn't numb was on fire. I tried to give him an angry look, but I suspect it came out as plumb exhaustion. He grimaced, sheathed the knife and then disappeared behind the lip of the building.

A second later the rope shook. I almost let go, but then Wilson's straining face popped into view.

"Hold on!" he said through tiny, gritted teeth. I held. He pulled with all his many arms and his unnaturally hard legs. Up I went. The Badgeman yelped and fell. The first bullet skittered off the brick just as I rolled onto the roof. Wilson and I lay in a tangle of very many arms. The rope tensed again, and Wilson casually leaned over and cut it.

"You're in terrible shape," he said. "Getting soft in your criminal ways."

"Falling from a window does that to me," I said, still trying to get my breath sorted. I took the loose end of the rope in my hand and gave it a shake. "You have these all over the city?"

"Escape routes? Some. Not as many as I used to. It's been a quiet couple of years for us." He stood, and pulled me to my feet, though I'm not sure I was ready for that much verticality. "Good to be at it again, huh?"

"Huh," I answered. Dared a peek over the edge, ducked back when all I saw were shortrifles pointing at me. A couple shots went off, but nothing too close. "Well. What now?"

"They'll go around in a minute. Come up the stairs or something. We should try to get to the next. Huh."

"Huh?" I repeated. Looked at him, then where he was looking.

The girl was several buildings over, moving across the roof with a dancer's grace. She came to the edge and leaped, like a gazelle clearing a pond. Beautiful to look at, if not for the mask. If not for the chase. If not for the fact that everything about her stank of predator, not prey.

"Interesting," Wilson whispered. I grabbed his coat and pulled him away.

"Interesting later," I spat, and we ran. So much running today. I really was out of shape.

We went rooftop-to-rooftop for a while, until it became clear that I was the weak link in that exchange. She was fast, Wilson was fast. I was tired. Wilson pried open a rooftop hatch and we clambered down into a shuttered factory. It was set up to manufacture the sort of machinery that cogwork couldn't replicate. The first ladder took us to a catwalk that creaked dangerously under our feet. The factory floor was bisected by machinery that was draped in white sheets and dust. A partially dissected assembly line snaked between the ghost machines. The only light was what little leaked in from the stained skylights in the roof. In that semi-dusk glow, the draped machines loomed in a field of darkness.

At the prompting of the unstable catwalk, Wilson and I found a ladder down to the main floor. We'd barely touched boot to concrete when we heard footsteps on the shingled roof. I pulled the anansi into the forest of machinery and ducked under some of the drapery. Dust puffed up around us. The floor was littered with dead bugs that crunched underfoot. I tried to not think about the dead body in Crane's room, and its plume of maker beetles.