All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [209]
“That exit there!” Eliot shouted, and pointed.
Robert veered onto the off-ramp. They raced past a sign that read
COSTA ESMERALDA, CENTRO DE CIUDAD 8 KM
Eliot recognized this stretch of jungle coastline. It was the same place Uncle Henry had driven him a month ago, crowded with palm trees and ferns and flowers, and flocks of parrots that called out to him. In the roar of the wind and surf, he heard his rejuvenating song echoing still.
His guitar was wedged next to his thigh. He’d never be able to play such a delicate song on this new version of Lady Dawn, and almost regretted her transformation.
Eliot ran his hand over the mirror-smooth wood, the bold brass fittings, felt a thrum with her coiled steel strings. But there was more power in her now . . . or in him, and that was a good thing.
The jungle thinned; there were patches of bare dirt, and then pavement, and small buildings that crystallized into suburbs: tiny houses with dark metal roofs. Clean, too—not a speck of trash or pollution.
As they sped on, the houses became factories and then rose into clusters of office towers arranged in orderly rows.
And all of them without color: faded black asphalt, concrete sidewalks and walls, bare iron pipes and lampposts—everything shades of gray. It was depressing.
The strangest thing, though, was the traffic. There were three lanes full of honking cars and trucks, but all going north. On the southbound lane that they traveled on . . . it was empty.
Pretty weird, if there was a Mardi Gras.
Robert slowed as they approach the end of the off-ramp and looked around. Down either side of the street was a towering canyon of office buildings. The only movement was papers blowing in the gutters. No people.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Eliot asked.
“Positive,” Robert answered, annoyed. He sounded unsure now about the reliability of his sure thing Mardi Gras tip.
A few blocks away, thumps echoed from the city center.
“Come on,” Robert muttered. “Sounds like something’s going down. Maybe the party’s started or it’s a parade.”
Eliot nodded, but he detected something in Robert’s voice he didn’t often hear: worry.
Eliot’s hand rested on Lady Dawn’s strings, just in case.
Robert eased the Harley into gear and went slow, the bike’s engine shaking the frame.
Eliot had an urge to get out and walk, so, if nothing else, he could properly hold his guitar. It was claustrophobic in this sidecar. Sure, the leather padding was comfortable . . . but it kind of reminded him of a coffin on wheels.
On the other hand, maybe it was best to stay in the vehicle that could accelerate past the sound barrier—in case they had to make a quick exit.
They moved closer to the downtown office towers, each with the same dirty square windows, the same square entryways. There were, however, splotches of color here and there. Plastered on the walls were posters. In them, a man stood in a heroic pose holding a pistol in one hand, a sword in the other. He was drawn in angular red, white, and black lines. A red flag waved behind him. At the bottom of each poster, black bold letters proclaimed: COL. V. C. BALBOA. PRESIDENTE DE POR VIDA.
This guy gave Eliot the creeps.
Robert pulled up to a four-way stop and predictably rolled through the ALTO sign into the intersection. This gave them an unobstructed view into the center of Costa Esmeralda.
And they saw exactly who was throwing this “Mardi Gras.”
There were hundreds of soldiers. They wore faded green uniforms and held rifles with bayonets. A few hefted bazookas. Squads moved among the buildings, rounding up civilians and ordering them to stand against a wall.
One man shouted at the soldiers—and got clubbed to the ground for his trouble.
Eliot’s hands rolled into fists. Seeing this enraged him more than anything, even the unfair, potentially lethal classes