Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [11]
She was dancing.
Dancing to The Clash in a hot basement, the walls crawling with sweat and condensation, floor vibrating under her. Back in California. With that vibration always making her wonder if the earthquake was arriving. The big one. The final one. The one they kept promising. Maria thought an earthquake wouldn’t he such a bad way to die: most likely very quick, very exciting, and with a lot of other people to keep you company. Maria was sixteen years old again, strong and lovely, flicking the sweat out of her hair in the heat of that basement. Dancing and knowing that one day she’d have to die. Knowing it but deep in her healthy young body, on a cellular level, not really believing it.
That was a long time ago.
The guard finally pressed the release button and the wire gate slid back, allowing Maria to walk through the barrier, across another stretch of wasteground, and up on to the steps of the King Building. It was a tall structure, impressive even in this city of skyscrapers. When Maria raised her eyes to look at it the sight made her dizzy. Black glass rising forever through the cold night. But Maria didn’t want to feel dizzy tonight. She didn’t want to raise her eyes any more. She kept them aimed down, focused on her feet as she walked slowly up the steps to the building. Taking them one at a time, saving her strength. Not thinking about the pain.
Maria concentrated on thoughts of dancing and the smoky sunlight of the west coast. Looking back on it, those had been the good years. They had also been the years when President Norris launched the economic opportunity initiative. Local Development was one of the slogans. It meant if you didn’t have a job you stayed exactly where you were until they could find one for you in your neighbourhood. No need to travel in search of work. The TV campaigns showed Okie migration of the 1930s. Skinny children eating apples in the back of skeletal Model T’s. The modern‐day Republican administration recycling dustbowl propaganda.
Those were also the years that saw the redevelopment of the inner cities in California. Maria observed pretty quickly that redevelopment seemed to involve bigger and better barriers between her part of town and the richer suburbs, along with the private police forces expanding and acquiring newer and more devastating weaponry, some of it even approaching the quality of the stuff used by the big gangs.
Maria knew a scam when she saw one. Local development meant that the homeboys got to stay at home. Forever. You could see the rest of the world on your TV set. If you stepped outside your neighbourhood you’d get a bullet or a dog or a ground‐to‐ground missile that floated like a ghost and thought carefully about where its target went. A missile that could lock on to a heat image of your car and track it around five right‐angle turns before it snaked up the dead‐end alley where the trash cans formed a barricade and you couldn’t get out again. Then it locked in and came screaming towards you and detonated in your engine block, blasting the streering column up through your spinal column.
Maria always wondered what Jerome’s last thought had been. She wondered if maybe he’d been thinking of her. More likely he was cursing the approaching missile and wishing he could get at some of the hardware in his trunk. Knowing Jerome.
When Jerome died Maria decided that it was time for her to get out. Alone if necessary.
Maria’s friends didn’t give a damn. They were all young and living under the thunder. Life meant partying with beer and blow and listening to Black Leader. None of them read the newspapers. Neither did Maria. But she could read between the 425 phosphor lines on her TV screen. She saw the government’s ads and she saw the evening news, which was much the same.
She knew what was coming. She didn’t have time to dance any more. She was making plans.
Maria managed to