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They wouldn’t see him—not all the way up there. Would they?
Rector kept moving, swinging one foot in front of the other, using the wall itself as a brace for his shoulder, his bag, and his hips.
While he climbed, he struggled to recall where he was headed. What was it called again? The place where the tunnel that Zeke took would’ve emerged? Surely he wouldn’t have survived an hour beyond that.
If Rector had ever even known the name, he couldn’t remember it now.
But north felt like a good enough direction, so he’d stick to that. There was always a chance, he mused, that the Doornails weren’t as bad as all that. He might be able to ask around, find out if anyone had spotted the body of a boy about his own age, some newcomer who hadn’t made it far. Somebody might know. For all he knew, they might have a place where they put bodies. The dead have to go somewhere, don’t they?
Yes. They come here.
He steadied himself and kept moving until the path droppe
d away in front of him.
With a gasp, he jerked himself back against the wall, pushing like he could shove himself right through it and back to the Outskirts. Maybe this was all an awful idea. His breath froze in his throat and for a few seconds he couldn’t breathe at all—or didn’t dare to try.
Then he noticed a ladder continuing his path downward.
It wasn’t the usual kind of ladder—rungs and sides and whatnot—and it wasn’t a rope ladder like the one he’d climbed to the platform. This ladder was made of iron, and bolted to the side of the wall.
Rector crouched and reached for the top rung. His bare hands were already warm and reddening with a rash brought on by the Blight, but he ignored the discomfort and tried to give the bar a good, solid grip.
Gripping was trickier than it sounded. The metal had been coated with … tar? Pitch? Glue? He didn’t know, but it was thick and mucky, and probably intended to work against the corrosive power of the tainted air. And indeed, he could see how some of the bolts without this protective goop were rusting with alarming vigor.
The metal groaned under Rector’s boot. He pivoted so that he faced the wall, then brushed the side of the ladder with his free hand until he could reach, and lean, and get a good hold.
With his back to the ruined city, his arms and legs shaking with effort and fear and the unfamiliar posture of the forced vertical … he began to descend.
As he dropped himself one rung at a time, not knowing what was at the bottom—or how far away that bottom might be—he watched the rusting bolts scroll past his visor. He winced and squeezed tighter as the iron’s covering made his hands gummy; he flinched as the fixtures wobbled in their settings, puffing soft red dust into the yellow air. Finally, after what felt like forever, the ladder came to a stop—giving Rector another fresh infusion of terror when he realized that the rungs had run out, and nothing but open air awaited his dangling foot.
Now it was time to look down. He did, and he gave a wheezing bark of relief: Below him, just a short hop away … he saw a flat surface.
With something akin to joy he released his grip on the nasty ladder and spun, dropping himself down. It was farther than it looked, enough to throw off his balance when he hit, landing oddly on one set of toes and the back of his other heel. He stumbled, swore, and recovered—then stood up straight and proud, feeling accomplished for the first time in recent memory. He’d made it to the roof.
“Now what?” he asked himself, and the words echoed wetly around in his mask. “Got to sort myself out, that’s all. Got to find which way’s north. ”
Rector had spent several years trafficking in maps, and he knew what the city ought to look like. There’d been a big Sanborn survey right before the Boneshaker happened, and the resulting charts told him where all the roads went and what they were called. But those black-and-white diagrams weren’t a whole lot of help when he couldn’t see the streets.
He thought hard. He could do this.
All the downtown corners had their intersection names cut into the stone curbs, but Rector concluded, with no small amount of irritation, that he’d have to be sitting right on top of one to see it, much less read it. Still, the wall was at his back. Given where he entered, that meant he was facing east. If he wanted to go north, toward the spot where the old water runoff tunnels came out, he’d have to go left, up the hill and along the wall.
He walked around the roof in small semicircles, taking in his surroundings and making sure that nothing horrible lurked in any of the corners or shadows. He saw only bits of trash—newspapers wadded and soaked, broken bottles, discarded rags, and a stray shoe.
He also found a doorway that no doubt led down inside whatever building this was—not that he wanted to go down into the darkness, because he didn’t. But he had a plan again, and it was easier to stick with one plan than figure out a second plan. He opened his tied-up blanket-bag and retrieved a box of matches plus one of the taller candle stubs he’d pilfered on his way out of the orphanage.
The little candle struggled, flared, and settled into a steady flame that gave him another few feet of sight. It told him that yes, he was right—and no, there was nothing else on the rooftop with him.
He didn’t really believe in God, but he thanked Him anyway on the off chance it’d do him good to be polite.
You never know. You might find out, soon enough.
“Stop it,” Rector hissed at the wispy forms that came and went, billowing and eddying between the roof’s raised corners, and against the wall behind him. “You’re not really there. ”
You’re getting closer. You’d better keep your promise.
“I’m working on it, ain’t I?” he asked almost frantically, searching the swirling air for some sign of the familiar phantom, and seeing nothing. Except there, perhaps … at the edge of … something. The edge of the roof. His vision. His sanity.
