27

 

PEOPLE RUSH OUT of their homes within a minute of the dusk siren. Everyone is already dressed and eager as they head out, all in the same direction. Toward the Convention Center.

“Wait for more traffic,” I whisper to Sissy. “We’ll stick out less.”

Horses trundle by, all single ridden, as more pedestrians hit the sidewalk. Within minutes, it seems like the whole neighborhood has hit the pavement. A few of the wealthier families rattle past in their carriages.

“Okay,” I say in a low voice. “Now.”

We walk down the path, turn left at the sidewalk. I stay ahead of Sissy about ten paces as per our plan. We need to stay apart to lessen the chances of being jointly recognized, and she doesn’t know the way. But now I wish we’d reversed our positions—I want to keep an eye on her, monitor how she’s doing.

I move off to the side, bend down, and pretend to do my laces. She passes me a few seconds later. I stand up, and slowly—slowly—catch up with her. Nobody speaks, nobody makes small talk, nobody offers a greeting. Nothing is wrong: This is just the way they are. Bland, sullen faces, everyone donning shades or Visors at this early hour of the evening.

I can tell the silence of the crowd is unnerving Sissy. Her gait is too stiff, tight, not enough to attract attention, not yet, anyway. I walk to catch up with her. She senses me beside her, doesn’t turn her head in acknowledgment (good), but she’s breathing too fast (bad). It’s the proximity of fangs and claws, the potential for brutality to erupt in a split second, that’s unsettled her.

When we find ourselves in a slight clearing, I whisper to her, “You take the lead. The bus stop is two blocks down. Look for the yellow sign.”

She doesn’t reply, but she starts walking too quickly, her arms swinging too high.

“Slow down. Arms,” is all I’m able to murmur before the crowd fills in around us. But she gets it. She slows her pace, stabilizes the swing of her arms. I slowly drop back.

There’s already a line at the bus stop, about seven people. Standing perfectly still, their pale faces turned sideways in our direction. I’m paranoid, on edge, and for a moment I think they’re staring at us. But they’re only staring down the road, past us, looking for the long carriage of the bus.

Sissy gets in line, and I stand behind her. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the people queuing up seem to stiffen slightly. In front of us, horses and carriages roll by, the clip-clop and occasional squeaky wheel breaking the monotone thumping of boots on concrete.

The bus arrives, an extra-long carriage used on special days when ridership is high. The six horses are already chuffing with exertion, their combined heat radiating out. We board. And as we do, the nearest horse suddenly swings its head toward me, nostrils flaring wide and wet. It smells us. Hepers.

Discreetly, I nudge Sissy from behind. A hurry up, get on already prod. She ascends the two steps, glides down the aisle slowly but deftly, avoiding body contact. No easy feat considering how crowded it is. She finds a seat in the second-to-last row. Opens the window quickly. Good. Wind gusts in. A few passengers, annoyed, turn to look at her. Sissy only stares out the window. Even after they look away, she keeps her head perfectly still, face turned looking outside. Perfect. She’s doing great.

I find an empty seat across the aisle from her. Place the backpack down on the aisle seat, carefully. I open the window wide, feel the glorious rush of air. So far, so good. Everything according to plan, not a hitch yet.

Behind my Visor, I glance sideways at Sissy. She’s rock still, holding strong. Her breathing controlled, her shoulders not too tense. Only her hands give away the stress she feels—her fingers are fidgeting in her lap. But nobody’s sitting next to her; nobody can see her hands.

The bus moves along, the sound of the horses’ hoofs on concrete synchronized almost perfectly with one another. The wood-shelled carriage creaks as we move forward.

Several stops along the way. More people pile in. Somebody approaches. Points to my backpack on the seat next to me. I ignore him, stare out the window. He doesn’t say anything, only stands in the aisle. He reaches up and grabs a strap dangling from above. Bodies fill the aisle now. Somebody sits next to Sissy. Then a wall of bodies in the aisle blocks my view of her.

People staring at me, annoyed at this young punk who’s too self-absorbed and selfish to move his bag so others can sit down. I keep my head facing outward, even as my eyes scan from side to side behind the Visor.

A sudden turn at an intersection. The bodies tilt and sway slightly and I catch a brief glimpse of Sissy. Her shoulders bunched and taut, her neck unnaturally canted. She’s tense. But she’s still got her wits about her. She’s facing outward, pushing her breath through the open window. Capable, this girl. Something like pride swells in me.

Minutes pass. More bodies pile in. Then we’ve made our last residential stop, and the bus-carriage is flying along the street. The road is filled with other horses and carriages, the sidewalks bursting with the pace of thousands walking to the Convention Center. No one speaking, everything quiet except for the sound of hoofs and the pounding of thousands of boots on concrete. The buildings grow taller, no longer the low domiciles of the residential zones. We’ve entered the business sector.

And minutes later, we arrive at the Convention Center. A water show is on full display in the large fountain out front. High arching, spiraling streams of water jet out of the pool, twenty, thirty meters into the air before splashing into the rippling, frothing surface. Music is piped in through outdoor speakers, synchronized with the water show. Sissy gets off the bus before me, walks with the flow of pedestrian traffic. Everyone’s pace faster now, the start of the event drawing closer, the excitement level building. She walks slowly, knowing it’ll be easy to get separated in such a crowd.

She stops in front of the fountain. I sidle up next to her. Our eyes stayed fixed on the water shooting up in wide symmetrical arcs above us. Phosphorescent liquids have been added to the water, and the soaring twirls of water glow lightly in the dark.

“Okay?” I whisper.

“Okay.”

“No. Really. Are you okay?”

She doesn’t respond immediately. “There’s so many of them. Too many.” Her voice catches, hitching. “How are we ever going to pull this off? What were we thinking?”

“Sh-h-h. Don’t stand so close to the fountain. They’re afraid of it—the water, the depth, the lights.”

“Why do they have it then?”

“The danger’s a huge part of the thrill for them.”

She takes a step backward. “I don’t think we can do this. There’re too many of them. They’re everywhere.”

“No, we’re doing fine. Just remember the game plan. Focus on that. And on nothing else, not the people around you. Okay?”

After a moment, she whispers, “Okay.”

“Stay close,” I say, and we rejoin the crowd streaming into the Convention Center.