The Supernaturalist Page 4

  A set of steel cuffs lay on the bench beside the simulator. Cosmo felt a lump in his throat. The last remaining evidence that Francis Murphy had ever lived, and they didn’t even know his real name.

  “Let’s go, Francis,” he said, picking up the cuffs. “It’s time you saw the city.”

  One of the warehouse windows faced across the river toward Satellite City’s famous downtown skyline, dominated by the cylindrical Myishi Tower. The Cuzzy Cola building fizzed from across the bay, its walls animated by computer-generated rising bubbles. And a red light winked in the Statue of Endeavor’s stone hand, an eight-hundred-foot colossus, pointing at the Satellite overhead.

  Cosmo climbed through the window onto a balcony, trying to get his bearings. Judging by the position of the Journey River, he was somewhere on the Westside. The piercing wail of sirens, and the overhead whup-whup of police birds confirmed this theory.

  Cosmo dangled the cuffs over the edge. There should be something to say. Something special to mark Ziplock’s passing. Cosmo thought for several moments, but he couldn’t find any words to describe how desolate he felt. Maybe that was the point. How could any words capture feelings like these? He knew how he felt, and that’s what was important.

  Cosmo tossed the cuffs into the Satellite City air, and they twinkled through the neon like shooting stars.

  Cosmo’s hosts seemed to go from one crisis to the next. He had barely latched the window behind him when they burst through the elevator’s grille, bearing a shopping trolley before them. Mona was folded into the trolley. Her skin had a greenish tinge and she was shivering violently.

  Cosmo hobbled after them. “What happened?”

  Stefan did not answer, clearing a laminated work surface with a sweep of one arm. “Close the curtains!” he shouted.

  Cosmo pointed at the react-to-light control panel beside a window. “But the glass. Why don’t I adjust . . . ?”

  “Because the police birds see right through react-to-light. That’s why it comes with the building. Get it?”

  Cosmo hauled the sackcloth curtains across the windows. Seconds after he had finished, a government bird swept past the building. Cosmo heard an electronic crackle as the windows were remotely depolarized. With the curtains open, the room would have been exposed. Which was fine, so long as nobody was fleeing the scene of a crime. Which they obviously were.

  Stefan was bent over Mona. Her slim frame was racked with pain, every muscle and tendon stretched tight. Long streams of Spanish fluttered from her bloodless lips, and her black, sweat-drenched hair slapped the table like strands of seaweed.

  Ditto hopped up on the table, pulling a screwdriver from his belt. He jammed the tool’s handle into Mona’s mouth, to stop her swallowing her tongue. “I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “This is a new one on me. I’ve never seen this strain before.” He peeled the adhesive back from a thermostrip, sticking it to her forehead.

  “She’s on fire,” he said, reading the temperature off the strip. “Going critical.”

  “Get a bucket of ice,” said Stefan to Cosmo. “Whatever you can carry.”

  Cosmo lurched to the refrigerator, emptying a fire bucket of sand on the floor. He jammed the rim against the fridge’s ice-dispenser toggle, watching while the cubes rattled out with infuriating slowness.

  “Come on, come on!”

  It took almost a minute to fill the bucket halfway. That would have to do. Ignoring the pain in his knee, Cosmo hurried back to the table.

  Stefan grabbed the bucket and began packing the ice inside Mona’s clothing. Ditto’s gaze remained fixed on the thermostrip. “It’s not working. A hundred and twelve, and still rising.”

  “No!” shouted Stefan. His features tight with worry. “We need to take her to a hospital.”

  “What hospital?” snorted Ditto. “I’ve worked in every hospital in the city, remember? There’s nothing but General on the Westside, and believe me, if I don’t know how to fix something, they don’t know how to fix it either.”

  Cosmo peered in around Stefan’s frame. Mona’s convulsions grew more violent. Green tendrils spread across her eyeballs.

  “Should we give her an antibiotic?” wondered Stefan aloud. “We have to try something.”

  “No!” Cosmo blurted. The word was out before he could stop it.

  Ditto hopped down from the table. “No? What do you know, kid?”

  Cosmo’s aches and pains picked that moment to come back. “I don’t know. Something, maybe. I’ve seen this before at the institute. What happened to her?”

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Stefan. “We have to take her to General. Take our chances.”

  Ditto stood up to the tall boy. A molehill facing down a mountain.

  “Take our chances? By the time we get processed, she’s dead. You know it as well as I do. Let’s hear what the boy has to say. Now, kid, what do you need to know?”

  Cosmo avoided Stefan’s gaze. “Just what happened. How did she get this way?”

  Stefan kneaded his brow. “There was an explosion at Komposite chemical plant. We were doing a sweep for Parasites. Some of the local marshals caught us, and one got a dart into Mona. She’s been getting worse ever since.”

  Cosmo racked his brain. By law, private marshals were not licensed to carry guns. They got around the problem by arming themselves with nonlethal lightning rods that fired cellophane slugs or various chemical darts. The darts were clever because they were technically nonlethal, so long as you stayed around for the antidote.

  “What color was the dart’s casing?”

  Ditto frowned. “Casing? I’m not sure. Green, maybe.”

  “With a white stripe along the side?”

  “Maybe. I can’t swear.”

  “Yes,” said Stefan. “A white stripe. I remember pulling it out of Vasquez’s leg. Green and white.”

  Cosmo closed his eyes, remembering the institute. “Those Komposite darts were tested at Clarissa Frayne. I remember. The green-and-white ones were the worst. We called them Creepers. Guys were sick for hours, even after they got the antidote. The institute’s plumbing got all backed up. One guy found a cure, though. He ate a moldy sandwich, and felt better. It wasn’t the bread, it was—”

  “The mold,” completed Ditto. “Of course. This is a flora virus. Cellulose would shut it down. We need some plants.”

  Cosmo limped to the cellophane-wrapped flowers. “Here. Right here.”

  He pulled a single flower from the bunch and ripped the lily’s stem and leaves into bite-size pieces, cramming some into his own mouth. The rest he handed to Ditto, who did the same. Stefan grabbed another bloom, folding the stem into his mouth.

  They chewed furiously, ignoring the acrid taste seeping down their throats. The stems were tough, splitting into stringy lengths, refusing to be broken down. But Cosmo and the others persisted, grinding the strings between their molars. Green juice dribbled over their chins. Finally they spat wads of green paste into their palms.

  “Do the wound,” Cosmo instructed.

  The Bartoli baby ripped Mona’s trousers apart, spitting the goo directly onto the puncture mark on the girl’s thigh. Stefan added his wad of paste to the wound, kneading it into the inflamed hole.

  Cosmo removed the screwdriver from Mona’s mouth, force-feeding the paste between chattering teeth. Mona gagged, shuddering, her body naturally rejecting the plant, but Cosmo rubbed her windpipe until she swallowed. Gradually, more and more green ooze slipped down the girl’s throat. By the time he was finished, Cosmo’s fingers were chewed bloody. For what seemed like an eternity, there was no change in Mona’s condition. Then . . .

  “A hundred and eleven,” said Ditto. “She’s peaked.”

  Mona’s eyes continued rolling, but the green tendrils pulsed gently, then disappeared.

  Ditto checked the thermostrip. “One hundred and eight. It’s working, wrap me if it isn’t.”

  Something flickered in Mona’s eyes. Recognition?

&
nbsp; “One hundred. Ninety-nine.”

  The girl’s slight frame slumped onto the table. Gradually, tension lost its grip on her muscles.

  “Ninety-eight. Normal. She’s going to be all right.”

  Mona turned on her side, throwing up green sludge onto the tiles.

  Ditto grinned an angelic baby grin. “That’s what happens when you eat cow food.”

  They cleaned Mona off and put her on a cot.

  “Sleep is what she needs now,” said Ditto. “Better than any medicine.”

  Cosmo could have done with a few hours himself. A lot had happened in the minutes he’d been awake, but there were a few things he had to know. “Who are you people?” he asked. “What’s going on here?”

  Stefan was repairing what was left of his bouquet with tape. “We live here. So I think the question is, who are you?”

  Fair enough. “Cosmo Hill. When you found me I was escaping from the Clarissa Frayne Institute for the Parentally Challenged.”

  Ditto laughed. “Cosmo Hill. You were found on Cosmonaut Hill, right?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “The orphanages have been using that tired old trick for centuries. I once knew a man from San Francisco called Holden Gate. Guess where they found him?”

  “Marshal Redwood will come looking for me and Ziplock.”

  Ditto shook his head. “No. As far as the authorities are concerned, you’re as dead as your friend, Cosmo. I worked in an orphanage sick bay for a couple of months, before I found out what goes on there. All the orphanages, and the other human trade institutes, use micro trackers in your pores to keep an eye on their residents. That rooftop generator would have fried any tracers in your skin. You’re clean and clear, a nonperson.”

  Cosmo felt the worry lift from his shoulders like a physical weight. “Now, it’s my turn. Who are you?”

  “Who are we?” Ditto pointed dramatically at Stefan. “This is Stefan Bashkir. A second-generation Satellite City native, of Russian descent. I am Lucien Bonn, also known as Ditto, due to my annoying habit of repeating whatever people say. And Mona Vasquez, I believe you already know.”

  “So we know each other’s names. But what do you do?”

  Ditto spread his arms wide. “We, Cosmo Hill, are the world’s only Supernaturalists.”

  Cosmo grinned weakly. “What? You don’t like clothes?”

  Stefan couldn’t help smiling. “That’s naturists, Cosmo. And nobody does that anymore, not with the ozone layer spread thinner than cellophane. We call ourselves Supernaturalists because we hunt supernatural creatures.”

  “Not me,” interrupted Ditto. “I’m a medic. I try to heal people, that’s all. I leave the hunting to Stefan. He’s the one with police academy training.”

  Cosmo glanced at the sleeping girl. “What about Mona? She’s not police. Not with that tattoo.”

  “No,” agreed Stefan. “Mona takes care of transport. She’s had some . . . eh . . . training in that area.”

  Cosmo nodded. So far everything had been straightforward enough, but he felt that his next question would open up an entirely new world. “These supernatural creatures. What are they? I suppose you mean the blue ones on the rooftop.”

  A frown cut a slash between Stefan’s eyes. “Exactly. The Parasites have been preying on us since god knows when. Sucking the very life from our bodies. You know. You’ve seen it. Not everyone does.”

  “You called me a Spotter?”

  Stefan took a seat opposite Cosmo. He was a charismatic figure. About eighteen, with haunted features. His jet-black hair stood in unruly spikes, and a pink scar stretched from the corner of his mouth, giving the impression of an impish grin, an impression that did not match the pain in his eyes. Eyes that were probably blue, but to Cosmo seemed blacker than outer space. It was obvious that Stefan was the leader of this little group. It was in his nature. The way he slouched in his chair, the way Ditto automatically turned to him, even though the Bartoli baby was several years older.

  “There aren’t many of us,” said Stefan, looking Cosmo straight in the eyes. Cosmo made an effort not to look away. “Not enough to be believed. It doesn’t help that most Spotters are kids. Maybe our minds are more open. Ditto is the only adult Spotter I’ve come across, if you can count Ditto as an adult.”

  “Oh? Did Stefan make an actual joke?” said Ditto, reaching up to punch Stefan in the side. “Not actually funny, but not bad for a first attempt.”

  Stefan grasped his side in mock agony. “You’ve never seen the creatures before that night on the rooftop, have you, Cosmo?”

  Cosmo shook his head. He would have remembered.

  “The sight usually comes after a near-death experience, and I think what happened to you qualifies as a near-death experience.”

  “About as near as you can get,” added Ditto, rapping the plate in Cosmo’s head.

  “Usually the sight goes again just as quickly,” continued Stefan. “But sometimes when the new spectrum is opened it stays open. Sometimes for a week, sometimes for good. You could lose the sight tomorrow, or in ten years, or never. You’re a rarity, Cosmo. Your choice is to be a rarity with us, where it will do some good, or go back to Clarissa Frayne.”

  What choice? Cosmo would take his chances with a thousand Parasites before returning to the orphanage. A person can only take so many medical experiments.

  “I’d like to stay.”

  “Good,” said Stefan. “You’ll need courage and determination to be part of this little family.”

  Family, thought Cosmo—I’m part of a family. Stefan used the word lightly, but to Cosmo this was a very big deal.

  “We’re a family?”

  Stefan hoisted Ditto off the ground. “Yes, this grumpy little man is Granddad. And Mona is our kid sister. It’s a dysfunctional group, but we’re all we have. We’re all anybody has. Sometimes it seems that we can never win, but we save who we can. You, for example. If it hadn’t been for us, that Parasite would have sucked you dry, and no one would have ever known.”

  “They can suck us dry?”

  “Of course—it’s what they live for.”

  Cosmo shifted on the stool. “Then, they could be here, any minute.”

  Stefan’s good humor disappeared. “No, this is the one place you’re safe. We insulated the walls with hydro-gel. Parasites don’t like water. There’s even gel between the glazing.”

  “But as soon as we step outside?”

  Stefan shrugged. “Then we’re fair game.”

  “Things have changed over the past year,” explained Ditto, opening a bottle of beer. He drank deeply and belched. A little blond boy drinking beer. It was a bizarre sight.

  “Ditto’s right,” said Stefan. “It used to be that the Parasites would only show up at night. At the scenes of accidents or at hospitals. They would find someone on death’s door and leech the remaining life force right out of them. The doctors never suspect a thing. It’s how they’ve stayed hidden for so long. That monster you had on your chest the other night probably sucked five years off your life before we popped him.”

  Cosmo rubbed his chest instinctively. “But now?”

  “But now, nobody is safe,” said Stefan bitterly. “For some reason there seems to be even more of them. The rules have changed. They can strike anytime, anywhere, at anyone. The Parasites come calling if they sense even the slightest injury.”

  Cosmo swallowed. “So how do you fight something like that? How do you kill ghosts?”

  Stefan pulled a lightning rod from inside his jacket, spinning it between his fingers like a cheerleader’s baton. “With one of these. They want energy, I give it to them.”

  Ditto snatched the rod. “Show-off,” he said. “There are various projectile options on this thing, depending on which cartridge you choose. A certain kind of slug sends the Parasites into overload. You saw the results. These are called Shockers, a slug initially developed by a weapons company as an alternative to the Taser. Even if we do miss, the charge i
sn’t enough to injure the smallest person. Unlike the shot Stefan gave you, which could have barbecued a wild boar.”

  Cosmo remembered the creature on his chest exploding into a cloud of blue bubbles.

  “Or you can choose regular nonlethals—gumballs, shrink-wrappers, and so on,” continued Ditto. “The last thing anyone wants to do is hurt someone. But sometimes we need to buy a little time, and nonlethals can really help us out.”

  Cosmo blinked. “I understood about sixty percent of that.”

  Stefan stood, buttoning his coat. “That’s more than most people understand. Ditto, would you give Cosmo the tour. I have to go out for a while.” He tucked the bouquet inside his overcoat, heading for the elevator.

  Cosmo called after him. “One question.”

  Stefan did not turn around. “Make it quick, Cosmo.”

  “I know what you’re doing, but why are you doing it?”

  “Because we’re the only ones who can,” said Stefan, tugging the cord on the elevator grille.

  I’m inside a cartoon, thought Cosmo. This is all a graphic novel. Someone is turning the pages right now and saying,

  This is too weird, who could believe something like this?

  “Stefan was a police cadet three years ago,” said Ditto, tossing his beer bottle in the recycler. “His mother was on the force too. She was one of the city’s chief trauma surgeons. After she died, he spent a year in the widows-and-orphans’ home. When he got out, he spent every dinar of the insurance settlement on this place.”

  Cosmo glanced around. The building was not luxurious, even by an orphan’s standards. The cots were army issue, the paint was bubbled with damp, and the windows hadn’t seen a cloth in years.

  “Not exactly the Batcave.”

  “The what cave?”

  “Never mind.”

  The blond boy pointed to a bank of mongrel computers stacked on a workbench. The latest crystal screens sat side-by-side with last-century monitors.

  “Most of this stuff is black market. We observe Satellite sites, waiting for disasters.”