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Houjin replied around a mouthful of blush-colored cherries. “Saw it about as good as he did, through the fog, and the Blight. I don’t know what it was. ”
“But you don’t think it was a rotter. ”
“No,” he said. Then, with more confidence, “No, it wasn’t a rotter. It was shaped different. Arms were longer, and legs were shorter. It … it’s hard to describe. Do you believe us?”
“Do I believe you? A bit, mostly because the thing you described reminds me of something. Not something very likely, so don’t get your hopes up, but let me look into it. We can talk about it later. ”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rector said, more disappointed than he cared to admit. It was nice that she hadn’t called him a liar outright, but it would’ve been nicer if she’d simply said, Oh sure—that’s something I know all about, and you’re not a loony case or anything.
After Angeline left, Houjin and Rector munched quietly on the cherries, each lost in his own set of thoughts. Finally, there was nothing left between them but a pile of pits and stems, which Houjin swept away with his palm.
“You want to go find Zeke?” he asked, spitting the last pit into his hand, then tossing it over his shoulder.
“Sure,” Rector said. But the more he thought about it, the less sure he was.
Eight
The meal made Rector feel almost human again, which was good, because Houjin intended to show him every single sight in the underground at top speed. Rector tried to keep up, and he tried to respond when a response was called for; but the underground was full of stairs. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them. Surely thousands of them, maybe just in the Vaults alone. And since people don’t just fall their way underground, unless they’re being chased by long-armed monsters and happen to land in a chuckhole, the residents put in stairs. That was fine—even sensible—but Rector would’ve given anything to stumble upon one of the “elevators” Houjin mentioned in passing. Apparently there had been hydraulic lifts installed in King Street Station. They sounded wonderful.
“So where are we going, again?” Rector asked, trying to keep the gasping out of his voice as he followed behind Houjin, his cane adding an extra beat to the rhythm of his pace.
Houjin, thereby reminded of his slower companion, dragged his footsteps back to a more followable level and replied, “Fort Decatur. Zeke’s supposed to be helping Captain Cly, but he’s more likely getting in the way. Given his druthers—did I say that right? That’s how people say it, isn’t it, druthers?—he’d be off with Miss Mercy making the rounds, but his mother said he had to give that poor woman a break from his company, so he’s off to the fort. ”
“Miss Mercy … the nurse, right?”
“Right. She’s twenty-four, and Sheriff Wilkes says that’s too old for Zeke, but Zeke follows her around anyway, pretending to have an interest in medicine. ”
“Pretending?”
“As long as he makes himself useful, Miss Mercy doesn’t mind him. But it’s pretty obvious,” Houjin declared, reaching up for a large lever beside a big round door, “that she doesn’t like him half so much as he likes her. Hey, put your gas mask on. ”
“Are we almost outside?”
“Almost. You’re all right running around under the city, most places. But not topside. ”
Houjin pulled the lever and heaved his full weight onto the huge round door, shoving it outward. It slipped on perfectly quiet hinges that moved without a squeak. The door looked far too large to be moved by someone so small, but something about the angles let it swing open despite the imbalance.
“Follow me,” the kid prompted, taking a mask out of some pocket Rector hadn’t noticed.
Rector fished his own mask out of his satchel, then mumbled, “Hey, this isn’t mine. Mine got all busted up. ”
“I know. That’s one of mine. Put it on. ”
“Like I’ve got a choice. ”
“Everyone has a choice. ”
As Rector climbed up the last set of stairs (he hoped), he watched the other boy slip the mask over his face with the practiced ease of someone who did this a dozen times a day, every day. With somewhat more difficulty, Rector put his on, then went over the threshold, joining Houjin outside the vaults.
The scenery wasn’t terribly interesting—there was just a dark roof made of earth and reinforced timbers where the sky ought to be. Basement walls and building foundations disappeared upward like ordinary building fronts without windows, and the streets between them were packed and damp. The walkways were littered with barrels and buckets, stones, brooms, tracks, bricks, ladders, bird skeletons, rusting junk, and handwritten signs that advertised directions or left messages.
Houjin scanned those messages, some of which were written in Chinese, and shrugged to indicate that none of them were directed at him. “Let’s go,” he urged, his voice muffled by the filters.
Already, Rector hated the masks. They were uncomfortable and tight, and they made it hard to see and breathe.
Houjin used his foot to shove the door closed once more, locking it with a loud, low clank and pop. He explained, “It’s easier to shut it than push it open. Are you ready?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He might’ve been grinning behind that mask, but Rector didn’t like it.
