The Grief Team (19 page)

Grey Kitty padded quickly down the long corridor, glancing over his shoulder and making sure that Cathy was right behind him. He waited at a door for Cathy to push it open and carried on through, moving at a pace which had the little girl scampering to keep up. Another door and through it. Another door and through it, until girl and cat were standing in front of a large, heavily-armoured vehicle.

“A CleanBus!” Cathy spoke. “But who’s going to drive it?”

Grey Kitty jumped on board and turned to yowl at her. Quickly, Cathy followed and, as the door whoosed shut behind them, the CleanBus uttered a throaty growl and began to move. Cathy dropped into the seat beside Grey Kitty, her eyes aglow. “It’s moving! It’s moving!”

Grey Kitty took a satisfied look, hunkered down into a furry coil and began to purr-snore, cranking it up a notch or two when a little hand began to stroke him.

As the CleanBus cleared the station, enroute to somewhere, a very angry man burst through the door leading to the platform and began shouting expletives and stamping around wildly. It took several minutes before he was calm enough to think clearly and, when he could, he saw a Grief Team ‘search-and-seizure’ vehicle parked twenty metres away. It was ready to roll.

Peter Heckbert punched the ‘start’ button and put it in gear. Mutt-no-last-name may have escaped (twice!) and SkyDome might be going-to-hell-in-a-bucket but he was going to see to it personally that Little Miss Stage Two was going nowhere but the cannery.

Not given to any type of regular exercise regimen, Emmett Strachan was allowing himself a generous rest period between each bout of lugging one two-hundred-pound tank after another from Crematoria storage room #2. The path was along the hallway, one turn to the left, one turn to the right and twenty metres along to the room with the sign: Air Filtration /No Admittance. Each tank took a little longer, scraping along the rougher parts of the concrete floor with a painful screech that, by now, seemed almost normal to his ears. His arms were on fire and rubbing the circulation back into them took longer and with less success each time. The door to the filtration room was at an angle, suspended by the single hinge that remained. A sledge hammer leaned against a nearby wall.

Tank…rest…tank…rest. Eight to ten to twelve minutes per tank and climbing as his arms protested Twenty tanks of Virus-Killer X, airborne decontaminate gas. It was mind-numbing work, but it would soon be worthwhile. And so he continued, doing the simple calculations over and over again in his head as he fought the searing pain.

Not all that far away, Elise Strachan was trying to handle her own crisis. Her hands were shaking above the Stream and she could not decide whether or not to release the terrible suspicions which she harboured about her husband. The late night returns from Square One, the truculence and bad moods, his unwillingness to let her touch him anymore. Something had gone wrong and she had to turn for help. She thought of Marcus and his future, knowing that nothing was more important.

Honour the child!

Elise sighed, choked back a tear or two, and dipped into the cool waters, allowing her thoughts to flow gently and naturally with the current. Soon, she believed, soon there would be help and everything would be as right as rain. That old adage made her smile briefly; it never rained in the Malls.

Ferria shimmied out of second-skin-jeans and pulled her blouse over her head. She worked her hair with practised fingers, adjusting the flow. She’d waylay one of the make-up people in the studio for a few minutes to ensure that she was camera-ready. Her lycra one-piece fit her as sleekly as seal’s skin and she ran her palms flat along her curved highway, assessing with great satisfaction that she wasn’t giving up anything to her competitors in that department. A glance at Jason-no-last-name, now apparently awake but by the looks of him not overly alert, told her that this was one sorry member of the male species: he had no interest in Ferria’s physical charms whatsoever. And it annoyed her immensely.

But there was no time left and the defining moment in her life in the Malls was waiting around the corner in Studio A. Ferria had used her position in the Mayor’s office to ensure that she was presented first. What happened after her presentation would be of little interest; her selection would be unassailable. The boy would play his part perfectly, of that she had no doubt. In his physical condition, she reckoned, he was no threat whatsoever.

“Get up!”

Jason-no-last-name rose and watched benignly as Ferria produced a pair of handcuffs out of her kitbag, fastening them over each of the boy’s wrists without difficulty.

Ferria studied the boy’s face for a moment, taking in the soft features. Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, sucking breathlessly as if she might pull the last vestige of life remaining in him into herself.

“All you have to do is stand close to me while I’m on the stage. Everything else is taken care of. You have nothing to worry about as long as you do as I say.” She took a moment to recognize the fact that she hadn’t considered finding the boy a change of clothing; his red T-shirt was stained and crumpled and he looked about as much like a prophet as your typical Wildkid. Ferria suppressed an errant giggle which bubbled-out-of-nowhere…she hadn’t a clue what a prophet would look like.

“Come with me, Jason,” she said, and she put an arm around his thin shoulders, leading him to the studio entrance where, above the door, a red “On Air” light was now flashing. Ferria shook her hair aggressively, took a deep breath, and went forward to meet her destiny face-to-face.

“Elias?”

Mary opened the door to the Mayor’s apartment a few more inches, enough to be able to pop her head inside for a quick look. If Elias was asleep on the couch, which was usually a pretty good bet, Mary would creep in, make certain that any cigarettes were extinguished, and clad Elias in the thin blanket which lay-at-the-ready at the other end of the chesterfield for such occasions.

“Elias?”

It was as she had expected but, two steps into the dimly-lit room, Mary had a terrible sense that something was very, very wrong. There was a distinct odor of smoke and she immediately looked at the ashtray on the coffee table. It was empty. A heightened sense of concern sent her eyes rapidly searching along the carpet and then up to the chesterfield itself. There were no signs of thin curls of smoke.

She froze as her eyes looked up at Elias.

Her scream, when it came, was sustained and loud.

The Mayor, her sometime lover and confidant, was bereft of life. That was immediately obvious given the horrific degree of his incineration.

Several flakes of ash released themselves from Elias’ right cheek and floated lazily onto the chesterfield. Mary watched them in horror and, quite naturally, screamed again.

Essentially, there were two things which Emmett had been trained to do in the Malls: he knew how to manage the various requirements associated with the Crematoria, and he could also handle the installation of faucets, sinks, and toilets. It had been some time since he had been called up to perform any task connected with the latter given the seniority of his position in Crematoria, but those skills served him well now as he worked out how to release the contents of each tank into the air supply which fed the E.C. Not very difficult really, he reckoned; simply unscrewing and removing one of the vents which sucked the purified air upwards out of the last filtration unit was the first step. Positioning as many of the tanks immediately below and turning their valves to the ‘Open’ position was equally as simple.

Given the severity of the effects that these actions would cause, Emmett paused, lowered himself onto the floor and put his back to the wall. He took a few moments to reflect on the brevity of life. Several homilies which, as the Assistant Director of Crematoria, he had often called upon when dealing with the bereaved came to mind. Not too far behind these thoughts was the image, becoming very clear as it took centre stage in his mind’s eye, of Little Arthur Connors leaning over the railing in the E.C. Emmett watched himself walk into the picture and observed with great satisfaction the terror in Little Arthur’s pinched face as he was propelled over the railing, falling, screaming, falling…

Emmett wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was breathing fast but he felt pretty good. His peripheral vision detected a change in the light from the doorway and he glanced at the man standing there.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Emmett expelled a long sigh.

Wasn’t it obvious?

He could trust Mary to keep the secret of Elias’ immolation and he spent a few minutes with her in her own apartment, offering soothing words and even making her a cup of tea in her little kitchenette. He knew where everything was, of course, having spent the night as often as his (late!) father had. He thought about making toast but decided it might not be prudent given Elias’ condition. Such was his nature that he had already filed away the knowledge that, when he had first arrived, Mary had been on her knees in prayer.

When it was time to leave, Gabriel kissed Mary lightly on the lips and assured her that he would have a Grief Team Removals Unit on the scene within a short while to do what had to be done. With that, Gabriel returned to his office and set about his own pressing business.

There was little time to spare in mourning his father or even venturing into the bizarre circumstances of his passing. All of that would have to remain on hold. Gabriel’s blood was alive with the knowledge that great events were coming to their conclusions and that he now wielded ultimate authority—not to mention the facilities—to bend those conclusions to his will. And he would be as ruthless as was necessary in ensuring that it was so.

Gabriel dropped into his padded chair and sent the castors rolling to the section of monitors which covered SkyDome. Rapidly, he surveyed each view, assessing the damage and the current situation. The riot, for there was no other word which fit, had apparently ended. Along with shots of severed parts of Yellowband anatomies scattered along the bloody turf, he noted that some of the Wildkids had also turned on their own in their frenzy and had done equal damage. Small fires burned in several locations as squats of Kids settled down to early evening meals. As he punched up macroviews of Kids arguing and chewing, his evaluation of the situation coalesced into a brilliant idea. Propelling himself backwards, Gabriel reached for an input terminal and dipped into the Stream. He began composing and dropping hook after hook, sending them flashing off like tiny tsunamis into the waters which flowed through Square One.              

He was announcing the opening of SkyDome to the Mulls. Food, the Stream proclaimed, food for the Mulls and free for the taking! He sat back and swam for shore, climbing out of the Stream as it began to churn and boil. The effect in Square One, he knew, would be immediate, violent, and unstoppable: the Mulls would penetrate SkyDome and, perhaps, even the cannery where some Crones would also fall victim. In any event, the stocks of Bammo! were under seal and, almost certainly, the Mulls would have little interest in canned WildKid when they could have fresh for the taking. Whatever havoc the Mulls would cause was subordinate to the fact that the Mulls would then have to be eliminated themselves. Elias, Gabriel knew, would never have allowed such a thing. But Elias was ashes.

Gabriel busied himself for several minutes sending orders to every Grief Team unit in the surrounding Malls. Every last member would be needed at SkyDome. He frowned as his directive to Peter Heckbert, the Director of Skydome, reversed flow, returning undelivered. Heckbert was either dead or not responding. Pity, thought Gabriel, knowing that he would have to micromanage the situation himself. He dropped another flurry of messages into the roiling waters, glanced over to a SkyDome monitor and paused. He quickly punched up the image on the monitor in front of him.

The Kids were quiet. What were they…as the joystick brought the vidkam full circle, Gabriel recognized the source of the distraction. Somehow, the Kids had been able to turn on the Jumbotron and they had settled in to watch Mall TV’s live broadcast of Revelation Night. Even better, Gabriel reasoned. The Mulls would have the benefit of surprise as well.

Through his monitor, Gabriel was able to view the giant screen inside the Dome. An image of Ferria d’Mont, a city block high, filled the screen. Gabriel pondered the moving lips but didn’t bother to switch on the audio. It mattered little what that little bitch was saying…he had already put his plan for her in place and the score would be settled shortly.

An insistent blue flashing at the bottom of his monitor diverted his attention. One of the hooks he had planted in Emmett Strachan’s pool days before had latched on to something. Retrieving it, he quickly scanned the catch and was mildly surprised. Mrs. Strachan, it seemed, had done her duty by her child.

“Shit!” muttered Gabriel. On top of everything else, he would have to deal with Emmett Strachan. Spitting out another choice epithet, Gabriel searched the Stream for evidence as to the whereabouts of the Assistant Director of Crematoria. In moments, it became abundantly clear that, seven floors below, inside something tagged as the Air Filtration Area, the little bugger was doing something he shouldn’t be. Gabriel banged his fist on the counter and the Stream, so sensitive to his needs, reacted by releasing a small tidal wave in all directions.

Dogs’breath! Gabriel sent his chair flying backwards, banging against the edge of the counter as he exited. His features were grim and determined. Whatever that little shit is doing, he thought, he will answer for it personally to me. He did not forget to pull a zipstick from the weapons locker.