20
ANSON
Vincent was first to reach the top of the narrow steps, and when he did, he froze. “Holy shit.”
By the time I saw the monster of a boy holding the shotgun, he’d seen me.
He nearly fell from a stool near the opening, took a lumbering step back, and jerked the barrel back and forth between us.
His thick finger was halfway between the guard and the trigger.
When Paul slammed into my back, causing me to lurch forward, I thought for sure the kid would shoot.
To his credit, he didn’t—probably because Twill was shouting at him, and some things were more frightening than potential intruders.
“Back the fuck off, Pudge!”
When he didn’t lower the shotgun, Twill pushed through us and grabbed the barrel. She shoved it down and to the side before getting in the boy’s face. “Stash is never going to let you load that thing if you keep swinging it around like some extension of your pecker at everything that moves.”
He towered over her by more than a foot. “Stash told me to watch the stairs!” The boy’s voice was heavy and thick, like his tongue was too big for his mouth.
Twill jerked her thumb at a red lightbulb above the doorframe. “Did Matilda hit the panic button?”
The large boy glanced at the unlit bulb and shook his head. “No.”
“And what’s the rule?”
He lowered his head. “Weapons stay hidden unless there is a viable threat.”
“And how do we know if there is a viable threat?”
“Matilda,” he said in this defeated voice. “She’s our eyes and ears. She’s our protector. She pushes the button, and the light goes red.”
“Exactly.”
His bottom lip was quivering, and his gaze had dropped to his feet. “I’m sorry, Twill.”
He was maybe six-two or six-three. Taller than Vincent and as wide as a wall. He probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. As intimidating as he first appeared, there was a gentleness there, a subtle warmth living behind his eyes and the harsh lines of his face.
Twill patted the side of his stone-like arm. “It’s okay, Pudge. Can you find Stash for me? I need to talk to him.”
The large boy nodded and vanished through an open doorway on the left, his shoulders wide enough to nearly touch both sides.
“We don’t know much about him,” Twill told us when he was gone.
“Rumor is he had a tumor in his pituitary gland when he was younger. His mother couldn’t deal and abandoned him at the hospital.
They got the tumor out through his nose, of all things, but not before it did whatever tumors do in that particular gland to make him grow like that.
He bounced around the system until he found his way here.
We think he’s seventeen or eighteen, but nobody knows for sure.
For the most part, he’s harmless. Mostly. ”
“Where is . . . here?” Paul muttered from behind me.
From the top of the stairs, a long hallway branched off. One side ended at a large stained glass window under a peaked roof; the other went on as far as I could see, with additional rooms or hallways breaking off on either side, all of it bustling with people.
Twill gestured around. “We call this place the Quick. I guess the easiest way to think of it is a large attic. Right now, we’re above Market Hall, but it continues on for nearly four blocks, covering the entire marketplace down below.
It was originally built as some kind of boarding house during the Great Depression.
Later, it housed some of the people who worked the shops and booths.
Storage, too—all kinds of old crap found its way up here.
But over time, the homeless have taken it over.
Most of the entrances have been hidden since the fifties, so most people have no clue this place even exists.
We’ve got power, running water, even cable TV.
Whenever a city official stumbles into some mention of it, they tend to look the other way. ”
“Because it keeps the homeless off the streets,” I said, glancing around.
“Out of sight, out of mind.”
There was no light coming through the stained glass window. Twill caught me looking at it.
“At some point, they bricked over that. If you look up at it from the outside, you can’t see the window at all; just this ugly yellow stucco.
A place this old has all kinds of secrets hidden in the walls.
Up top, too.” She nodded toward the ceiling.
“Because most of the windows are closed up, we get our light and airflow from skylights. Can’t be seen from the ground, even at night, which is an added bonus. Follow me . . .”
Paul, Vincent, and I fell in line behind her as she started down the hallway, pointing at random rooms and hallways like some tour guide. The place was huge.
“Bathrooms and showers are down there. I hope you’re not shy.
We’re co-ed here; there’s not much room for modesty.
There’s a kitchen at the end of that hall—all cooking has to happen in that room.
We do that to prevent fires. If you happen to score a hotplate, you can’t use it in your room; only in there.
Best to lock it up, though. That kind of shit tends to disappear. Same with food.”
In some of the narrower portions of the hallway, the air was heady with sweat; in others, there was a breeze.
With every open doorway and nook we passed, curious eyes landed on us—old, young, tired, and scared.
Some people said hello to Twill; others ignored her.
When we reached an arched opening, Twill slapped at a painted handprint up above in the brick and stepped through into a room filled with bunk beds fashioned together from thick wooden planks.
“We call this the dorm,” she told us. “It’s where most of us sleep.
Some of the older people find quiet corners in other parts of the building, maybe hang a sheet to get a little privacy, but us younger folk tend to stay in here.
” She pointed at a bed against the wall on her left covered in a stained Snoopy sleeping bag.
“That’s me. The one above me is open.” She pointed at another set of bunk beds across the aisle. “So are those two right there.”
“We can stay here?” Paul asked, his voice filled with relief. “For how long?”
“That’ll be up to Stash. He’s kinda in charge.”
“I’m hardly in charge,” a deep voice grumbled behind me. “But you’re welcome as long as you like.”
He was maybe fifty. Short-cropped black hair riddled with spots of gray.
Salt and pepper, Father told me. His eyes are different colors, too. Did you catch that? One blue and one brown. Like a wolf. You’d best get out of there, Champ. No good will come of this.
Stash stepped deeper into the room and eyed Twill worriedly. “Griff and Derringer brought in a boy about twenty minutes ago. He’s in bad shape. I’m thinking you might know him. He muttered something about that Finicky place before he passed out. Isn’t that where you came from?”
My heart thumped.
The Kid. Had to be.