Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [94]
Cardboard shelters built in doorways where the homeless slept standing upright.
Dirt that settled, stinging, into your eyes and gathered on your hands and on the bridge of your nose where the breathing mask stopped.
Dogs lying panting under parked cars, trying to get enough air to breathe. Thin cats with fat tumours on their faces prowling on the stoops and in the alleys.
Vincent saw it all through Justine’s eyes. He felt his heart beating with her anger. The beating stirred the power inside him. Pressure grew behind his eyes, mounting so fast it took him by surprise. It was getting quicker every time.
The emotion and memories surged out of Justine, fast and unstoppable. They ignited the power inside him. He looked at the pack of boys running towards them.
Vincent let it happen.
It was over as quickly as a flash photograph.
Suddenly the boys were all sitting on the footpath, flat on their asses, coughing and choking. Some crawled into the thin yellow grass to vomit. They showed no interest in Justine and Vincent as she led him along the footpath, walking through their midst. Some of the boys moaned, rocking back and forth uncontrollably, hugging themselves or hugging their friends. Others just sat, staring blankly, their lips moving, like shell shock cases in a psychiatric ward. As Justine reached the far side of the group she began to smile, then she turned to Vincent and laughed. They broke into a run, both of them laughing.
They ran through a tunnel under a low bridge and out again, then off the footpath into a patch of bare trees. As they paused to catch their breath, Vincent reached for Justine. His fingers were in her thick braided hair, drawing her face towards his, when he felt her go rigid. She was staring over his shoulder, looking back at the footpath. Four women in white overalls were walking among the stubs of the melted park benches, examining the piles of newspapers and damp cardboard where the winos slept.
‘It’s just the Butler Institute,’ whispered Vincent. ‘They sweep the park every couple of hours.’ The women in white were pausing, bending over, lifting up a big sheet of corrugated cardboard. Underneath it was a man, an unconscious drunk or junkie. The women unfurled a stretcher and rolled the man on to it. ‘They pick up anything that’s warm and breathing,’ said Vincent. ‘Use them for biostock. Spare parts for the organ banks.’ Justine put her fingers on his lips. She kissed him and they clutched at each other, trying to keep their balance, clumsy in their thick jackets as they got their arms around each other. They stood there under a dead black tree with the smell of wet newspapers and methanol all around them. It was a golden afternoon in late autumn and dead leaves covered the park. Somewhere in the bushes nearby an OD was moaning.
‘You know,’ said Vincent, ‘we never really kissed before. You didn’t kiss me the other night.’
‘We were too busy doing other things.’
Vincent sighed and held her as close as he could. ‘You know, the last time a girl kissed me something bad happened. I guess my luck’s –’
He looked down at the sharp pain in his arm.
Justine was holding a heavy old chrome syringe. She had slid the needle into his wrist, into a thin blue vein.
Vincent looked up into her eyes. They were as beautiful and as unreadable as a cat’s. He looked down again and now there was a flowering of blood in the syringe. As she finished draining it, he looked up again, feeling his muscles moving slowly, sad and slow, looking for her eyes. But her eyes were gone and the world was rushing out from under him.
Justine watched the boy’s eyes as they flickered shut. She dragged him to one of the few remaining intact benches, checked his breathing, and left him lying there.
She waited, watching from the trees, until the next sweep by the Butler Institute bio‐acquisition unit team found him and collected his unconscious body. Then she left the park, slipping away into the darkening city.
* * *
‘Everything is