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For one brief, alarming instant he second-guessed whether or not people survived inside at all, Doornails or Station men or anyone else.
He dropped to his hands and knees. The sidewalk was smooth and cold under his probing fingers, but he investigated every stone, every gravel- and dirt-littered brick until he found what he was looking for.
There, a few feet out. An engraving. A name.
Commercial.
And now he finally knew where he was.
Six
Rector was on Commercial Street, the street which had once run closest to the Sound and the piers. Now it ran closest to the wall, and parallel to it, all along the western edge.
Rising to his feet, he fought to find his bearings. The street ran north and south, but where had he emerged? The air was clumped and uncertain, and he was surrounded by tall shadows. He had no idea where the wall was.
But he remembered now: North went uphill. South ran downhill.
“Psst!”
Rector froze.
He swiveled his head, compensating for his reduced vision in the mask, looking from corner to corner and up above the street. He saw nothing. Only the fog, and straight lines where buildings punctured briefly through it.
“Psst! Hey, you!”
Rector unfroze and flung himself into the nearest alley. It wasn’t his imagination. It wasn’t a ghost. In his experience, ghosts never made spitty noises and called him “Hey you!” The ghosts all knew his name.
“Go away!” he fiercely whispered back—hoping he projected more menace than fright.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” asked the unseen person.
It was hard to tell with such an echo bouncing off the Seattle wall and all its encompassed buildings, but Rector was pretty sure the voice came from a nearby rooftop.
The hidden speaker asked again, “Who are you?”
“None of your goddamn business!” Rector replied more loudly than he meant to.
The silence that followed was stifling. It pressed up against his mask and pushed against his eardrums as the whole block listened to see what damage had been done. Had anything heard him? Was anything coming?
“Don’t holler like that,” the distant voice responded. The words were soft, lobbed with just enough of an edge to penetrate the space between them. This was the voice of someone accustomed to speaking where speaking was dangerous.
Any sound too sharp and the floodgates would open—Rector knew that much; he’d heard all about it. But there he’d gone, babbling regardless. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Go away, would you?”
Above Rector and somewhere to the right he heard the scraping push of feet. Someone scrambled, and the footsteps stopped, then came again—this time sounding against metal. The speaker was descending a ladder. Coming closer.
“Stay. Away. From me. ” Rector leaned on the words, wanting them to sound deadly and figuring they probably didn’t.
“No,” came the response.
“Why?”
“Because you’ll die down here, running around like an idiot. Can’t imagine how you’ve lived this long. Let me help you. ”
“I don’t want any help!” Again, the words were too hard. They scratched against the relative quiet of dripping water, creaking steel, and the patter of a single set of feet.
Getting closer. A lot closer. And definitely not a ghost.
Panic crept up Rector’s spine, gripped his neck, and warmed the back of his head. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said to himself.
