Metaltown (7 page)

“Hi, Colin.” A girl waved to him from the pack of females, curly hair tied back with a rag. She smiled sheepishly, and when he returned her wave she ducked back into the huddle and giggled.

“Hi, Maggie,” said Zeke, far too late. He made a show of waving, though the water girl from Small Parts didn't return the gesture. “What do you think they're talking about, anyway?”

“Probably you.”

Zeke looked hopeful. “You think?”

“No.” He tensed his gut a second before Zeke punched him.

Other days Colin would have braved the group, flirted with Maggie, maybe even convinced her to go somewhere private, but he didn't feel up to socializing. He should have been home, anyway. It was Hayden's night to take care of Cherish, but that didn't mean anything. Colin had been hoping to find him here, but he was probably down at Lacey's or one of the other bars gambling.

A lone figure sat on the cracked sidewalk, staring out into the divide between the two towns and the still train cars below. Colin tossed the blanket he'd bought in Market Alley on the ground and took his place beside her, fitting his legs through the railings and letting his feet dangle, as she did. This was often their spot, and always Ty's. They didn't talk about all the places they might go like they had when they were younger, but they thought about them all the same.

“I need to go get a bunk,” Ty said after a while. She slept at the Board and Care, where beds were doled out on a first-come, first-serve basis.

“I need to go home,” he said. Neither of them moved. An icy wind swept over the beltway, and he hunched deeper into his coat. The sun was setting; here on the edge of Metaltown you could actually see the sun—or at least a round white ball—through the haze.

“Your home or Maggie's?” Ty launched a pebble onto a train car below.

He didn't know why he was surprised Ty had seen Maggie wave at him. Ty saw everything.

“She's a pinhead, you know,” Ty added.

Colin smirked. Maggie did have a pretty narrow face. But so did Ty. For a moment he looked at her, wondering if she might be pretty if she cleaned up a bit, or smiled every so often. Then he felt weird, like he was staring at his ma, and shook the thought from his mind.

“What do you care?”

“I don't,” Ty retorted. “I don't care what you do. Do whatever you want.” She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered against the cold.

Colin suspected the black mood had followed her from the morning. He passed her the blanket, and she jerked it around her shoulders.

They were quiet for a while, watching the crane trucks below load freight into the rusted metal cars. Then Ty said, “You ever have one of those toy trains when you were a kid? The wood ones with the metal tracks.”

An image formed in his mind of the small rectangular blocks on tiny wheels. He'd painted it red, but only because the store had been out of yellow.

“Sure. Didn't everybody?” He regretted saying it when she gave an exasperated sigh.

“No, Prep School. Not everybody.” She tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “I had a dream about one last night.”

He didn't know why she was frowning.

“That's sweet,” he said. “I'll get you one for your birthday. You can set it up on the line and play with it during your break.”

He braced for a shove, but instead she just snorted.

A hiss behind them caught their attention, but before either could untangle their legs from the railing, there was an earsplitting crack from over by the concrete dividers. A flash of light, and a spray of dirt, and then silence.

“MATCHSTICK!” Martin, smeared with grime, emerged from the cloud of dust and charged after the rail-thin boy, who darted through the crowd. A cheer rose from those around, always game for a little demolition.

“Lifting from Small Parts again,” said Ty, but her lips quirked up. From the opposite side of the street, Matchstick hollered for someone to save him.

Colin laughed, and then Ty laughed, the ugliness of the day having burst like Matchstick's explosion. He laughed so hard the tears burned his eyes and his stomach cramped, and it was only when he saw that Ty wasn't laughing anymore that he realized he'd slapped his hand on her leg.

He followed her gaze down, and then withdrew, feeling a little awkward. Not that he should have. Ty was family.

He stood.

A kid rammed into him from behind. He was smaller than most, pushing through the others like he owned the whole beltway. His dark hair was crunchy with sweat, and his shirt was dusted with the white powder all the workers used to keep their hands dry. That meant he worked at Small Parts, though Colin had never seen him before. As he went to shove past, he tripped over his own feet.

Colin reached down automatically to grab his arm and almost laughed. The kid's shoes were huge—men's shoes. Clown's shoes more like it. And white leather, like part of a chem factory uniform.

Exactly
like part of a chem factory uniform. The kid was a thief—you had to be eighteen to apply there, and he couldn't have been more than ten. Plus, it was just plain stupid to steal uniforms—the workers all wrote their names on them so they wouldn't mix them up.

It rubbed Colin the wrong way. Not that he hadn't taken things he'd needed before, but the way the kid was tromping around, showing off, irritated him. It was plain disrespectful.

He kept a hold of the boy's arm, mind set on telling him to watch himself. But when he leaned down, he recognized the inscription on the instep, scratched in black marker.

H. Walter.

Hayden Walter.

In an instant, he'd wrapped the boy's collar in his fist and shoved him against the railing. Small, narrowed eyes burned up at him with fury, though not as hot as Colin's. Ty jumped up in surprise.

“What are you doing?” She'd immediately gone for their hands to break them up.

“Where'd you get those shoes, kid?” Colin rammed him against the railing again. The metal clanked, drawing the attention of those packed closest.

“
Colin,
” Ty hissed.

“Get your hands off me!” the boy squeaked. No one dared defend the kid. No one pushed Colin when he was angry.

“Fight!” someone called. The word caught like wildfire, and after a brief, frustrated moment, Colin released the boy. He wasn't looking for attention, he wanted answers.

“The shoes,” Colin said, jaw locked.

“There could be ten H. Walters working there,” Ty said after a moment. But Colin recognized the handwriting, and he remembered the night Hayden had marked them, just after he'd started at the plant.

The kid tried to run, but Colin snagged the back of his shirt and dragged him back into place.

“Where did you get those shoes?” Colin asked again. “Last chance to tell me before I make you tell me, kid, and trust me, I don't care if you're six or sixty, I will.”

Ty swore under her breath. She was going to intervene. There were rules about picking on someone half your size, rules she'd taught him once upon a time. Even Metalheads had a code.

Fine, so Colin wouldn't kill him.

“Try it, you big stupid … giant,” the kid managed, practically walking on his tiptoes as Colin hoisted him up.

The crowd of bodies grew denser as Ty attempted to drag them away from the railing, toward the center of the bridge. In order to get a better grip, Colin abandoned the shirt for the kid's arm, bending it at an awkward angle behind his back. He was careful not to break it. Good God. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as the kid was carrying on.

“Ow!” the kid whined, falling dramatically in a heap against a concrete barrier. Several workers Colin knew had stopped what they were doing and were watching with interest.

He stepped forward.

Ty slapped a hand on his chest, a stubborn look on her face. “Don't make me stop you.”

He glared at her.

“I lifted 'em fair, okay?” the kid belted. “From some junkie sleeping off his bender underneath the bridge.”

“When?” Colin bent down and ripped one shoe off, then the other, tying the laces together.

“Hey! I got those fair, I told you!” said the kid.

“You stole them. How's that fair?” But he knew as well as anyone, what you didn't claim was ripe for the picking.

“Last night.” The boy pouted. “I got 'em last night. You happy?”

Ty kneeled beside him. “There's free shoes at the Charity House.”

“Wood shoes maybe,” he spat. “Shoes that don't fit, maybe. Shoes that got holes in 'em, maybe.”

Ty crossed her arms over her chest. He was mouthy, that much was for sure.

One good smack across the jaw, that was what the kid needed. God knew Colin had gotten his fair share of them after moving across the beltway. But the flash of fear in the boy's eyes stayed his hand. Ty was right.
What did picking on a kid prove? That he was Minnick, that's what.

A final hard look, and Colin stood. He had to find Hayden. Make sure he was alive. He hadn't been home in three days now. A shudder passed through him as he considered just how cold the previous night had been.

He shrugged into his coat and tucked the blanket under one arm. The switchblade in the front of his belt beneath his shirt moved, reminding him of its presence. Turning toward the river, he paused when he felt Ty's hesitation. She was staring at the shoes hanging over his shoulder.

“Go get your bunk,” he said, letting her off the hook. He could have used her help, but winter nights in Metaltown were too cold to sleep outside; maybe Hayden knew firsthand, but Ty didn't have to. He was on his own.

“Get out of here,” she said, the strange, sad look on her face sticking with him as he jogged away.

*   *   *

He searched for hours. Hayden wasn't under the bridge where the kid had said. Even the normal bums had scattered, leaving the tagged concrete pylons and asphalt to the rats. Part of him was grateful for it; his brother could have frozen so near the murky river water.

After clearing the area, Colin pulled up his collar, hid the blanket inside his coat, and began his normal drill—a systematic check of all the places he'd found Hayden before. He ducked into shady clubs and talked to bouncers, a few who knew his brother by name. He asked a couple working girls if they'd seen someone tall, like him, but a couple years older and with longer hair. Not a sign.

Dusk had long since faded to black, and with the night came a familiar tingling at the base of Colin's neck. He palmed the blade from his waistband and cursed himself for telling Ty to get her bunk. He could have used an extra pair of eyes, if for no other reason than to watch his back.

Resigned to kicking Hayden's ass all the way to Bakerstown when he found him, Colin returned to the bridge and climbed the concrete steps to the pedestrian path. Half the suspension wires had busted since the famine, but that was back when cars traveled this route. Now it was all foot traffic, and only chem plant employees who came this way. Though he doubted they did so this late at night.

He kept his eyes sharp across the bridge, ignoring a man near the edge who was yelling at no one, and a trio that eyed him suspiciously as they passed around a glowing dope pipe. The air smelled sweeter over here—sweet enough to make the bile rise up Colin's throat. Still, the river rushed twenty feet below him, and for a moment the water, lapping against the man-made levies, brought a small sense of calm. He wondered if the ocean spoke this language, or if it made a different sound when it hit the sand.

In the dark it was impossible to see the hulking stone asylum, or the sign that hung from the edge of the bridge, but he knew it was there. Hampton Industries, Division III. Chemical Plant. Half a dozen biohazard signs had been erected on the path, but most of them were rusted or tagged with graffiti. At thirteen he'd thought this was the creepiest place he'd ever seen. His opinion hadn't changed much in the last four years. He gripped the knife harder, wishing he had some source of light.

If Hayden wasn't dead, Colin was going to kill him.

The gates were close. He could hear the clink of metal on metal as a breeze came through. And then the slide of a chain against it, like fingernails scratching up his spine.

“Hayden,” he called. And damn it all if he didn't sound like a Bakerstown pansy. He swore and stood a little taller.

Something stirred near the base of the gate. Everything inside of Colin told him to run. Every muscle flexed against his skin. Who knew the type that came out here this late. The type who killed people and pawned their effects, that's who. The type who'd gone crazy from the food testing plant. Who lured orphans down to the river and maimed the girls that worked the Metaltown corners.

The thing moved again—a shuffle of cloth and a scrape against the dirty pavement. Colin almost guessed it was a rat until a distinctly human moan whispered over the breeze.

“Who's there?” Colin's voice cracked. Now part of him was glad Ty was across the river; she would have ridden him for weeks about it.

Another moan.

“I'm looking for Hayden Walter,” Colin said, taking a risk and stepping closer. He was only a few feet away now. The knife was braced before him, but the stranger wouldn't have been able to see it unless he had cat's eyes.

“Hayden,” the man repeated. In a voice Colin knew as well as his own.

“Damn you.” Colin tucked his knife away and knelt down beside the pile of rags on the cement. A sliver of skylight, just for a moment, revealed the soiled white canvas of his brother's uniform. A deep breath, and Colin's head spun. Hayden smelled worse than he did. Sticky sweet, like the air. Like the plant.

“
Nitro?
” Colin asked in disgust. He swore again. Nitroglycerine. The stuff was worse than dope. Workers in Hayden's team breathed the heavy, colorless oil all day while they packed it into bomb shells. Anyone outside would have gotten a headache from the fumes, even had a heart attack if they'd gotten too much, but those on the inside developed a tolerance. Which turned the hours after work into a slow grind of withdrawal.