Zane paused, pretending interest in a storefront window. He turned his head a little, using a sidelong glance. In the sparse crowd two blocks back, were three big men with short haircuts. They ambled afoot, talking discreetly into headsets. There was an ex-military cohesiveness to their coordination; one of them would flick his fingers in silent command and the others obeyed without a word. The bruisers looked alert, calm, and wore moderately expensive, dark suits.
Helps hide other people's blood. Beating up folks can be messy. Well, they aren't necessarily after me.
A second voice rung in his head: We can't take that chance.
Zane sauntered on, refusing the impulse to run. That would draw eyes, closing the few options he had left. More of the hunters prowled the street in a midnight-blue van with tinted windows. The vehicle trolled slowly along the curb, license plate smeared into illegibility with mud, more muscle probably inside. With such a professional operation, there would be other teams out in the night. The bad guys were being obvious, wanting to flush their quarry into blind panic, so he'd get swept into their nets.
I really ought to leave Sacramento.
The guys on foot swiveled their heads, looking at every passing face. Heading the other way, they hadn't locked onto him—yet—but time and luck were dwindling. In the back of his head, an annoying voice kept track of his odds of escaping: Forty-three point seven-nine-three-zero-two percent.
You're calculating to six decimal points?
You would prefer seven?
Never mind.
Zane's long strides took him along a window that harbored red, green, and blue neon signs. Several brands of liquid courage were offered. The name of the bar was Mike's Place.
And here I am without a fake ID.
He was an obvious sixteen; no way to pass for someone older, not unless the bartender was blind.
Probability: zero point nine-nine-nine percent.
His cells were more than functional, capable of extreme regeneration. He didn't age, being only technically alive. In the plus column, his cancer was gone and his hair had grown back at warp speed after the chemo.
And that's exactly why Med-Corp wants me so bad. I'm the key to perfect health. I can make them many more billions, or put them out of business if I fall into the hands of competitors.
A door opened with a ta-tink sound. Six college kids spilled out of the bar, three couples unsteady on their feet. They smelled of beer. Zane stumbled through them, creating an awkward group dance. Once clear, he backed into the bar. With the screen of confusion, there was a good chance he hadn't been seen by the hunters outside.
Ninety-three point seven-seven percent.
The bell on the door tinkled as it shut again. The evening had been warm and stuffy, typical of Sacramento in June without a delta breeze of the river to bring relief. Not that he was bothered. Stepping into the bar's air conditioning hadn't affected him either, apart from a rather abstract sense of temperature change. The nanobots that kept him operational and free from decay saw to that: one of the few compensations of being a cyber-regulated teenaged corpse.
There was no bouncer to stop him. The bartender's back was turned. Zane moved easy so he wouldn't attract attention, sliding through the gloom, following the polished mahogany bar through a turn to where two men sat on chrome-backed stools, staring into the vast mysteries of their frothy mugs. Out of sight from the door, Zane ducked low, setting his back against the metal post of an empty barstool. He listened intently for the sound of an opening door, but with a local band providing horrible music, it was difficult.
He scanned for a restroom sign. Restroom hallways usually had back doors to alleys. He spotted the sign not too far away. He could scurry that way if they came in the front.
The guys on the stools set their beers down; thunk-thunk. The closest guy stared down at him in drunken curiosity. "Hey, kid…?" The guy sounded like a burned-out rock star, his coarse voice a victim of too much whiskey and cigarettes, or so Zane imagined. The guy said, "You ain't getting served here. Old Mike ain't losing his license—and bar—over a high schooler that can't even sit on a stool."
Zane turned his crouch to better look up at the two men. Both were old with scraggly white hair that had missed recent shampooing. The man who'd just spoken had a military tattoo on his left forearm, a cartoon bulldog with a red, spiked collar. The animal stood on some letters: USMC.
The man's friend—who could easily have impersonated Willie Nelson—said, "'Xactly right. He'll be along soon, I expect, to toss you out."
"I'm not here to drink," Zane said. "I'm hiding."
Bulldog said, "Hide and seek? Aren't you a little old for that?"
Willie nodded sagely.
Zane used a hushed voice packed with urgency, "Just tell me if two men in black coats, suits, and sunglasses come in. They'll be wearing gloves, head-sets, and won't have a drop of sweat on them."
"What did you do to piss off the CIA?" Bulldog asked.
Zane risked a peek over the bar at the front door and sank back down. "They're corporate goons, not Feds."
Willie picked up his mug and took another guzzle. "What do they want with you?"
Zane thought over his answer. Deciding they'd probably not remember him come morning, he told the truth. "They want me cut into pieces, floating in jars, each appropriately labeled."
A new voice joined the conversation. "Who you guys talking to?
"Pink elephants." Bulldog said, "Hey, Mike, where would a kid on the run go to if he's in a hell of a mess and needs to hide out for a while?"
"Any port in a storm," Mike said.
Willie nodded, sagely again, the only brand of nod he seemed to have. "Darkhaven might take him. You never know."
"Hah!" Bulldog said. "Not freakin' likely."
The three-man band hit a lull between songs, creating a tense silence. The bell rang as the front door opened. Zane tensed.
Bulldog said, "Relax, kid. It's just Lucy Ann and her laptop. She comes here now and ag'in to use Mike's WIFI."
Zane let out a long sigh. "What's this Darkhaven place?"
"A private school for troubled students," Bulldog said.
Willie nodded. Sagely. "Only you don't find it. It finds you, though a few folks have seen it on misty nights under a hunter's moon."
"Yeah, after a few too many." Mike leaned across his bar. "Hey, is there really someone down there?"
Zane popped up to face an apron-wearing, balding man in his forties who sported a waxed, handlebar mustache. "Not if you've got a back door to this place."
Mike pointed at the restroom sign. "Door's at the end of the hall there."
Zane nodded thanks and ran. Breathing deep and slow, he flashed past the restrooms, burst through a door, and entered the back alley. A high wall cut him off to the left. The corner there had a dumpster near it with shadows to hide in, but nowhere to run if he were suddenly hemmed in. The other end of the alley looked clear, leading to yet another alley. He headed that way, planting his steps carefully so he'd kick nothing that might betray him.
He eased his face around the corner and peered into emptiness. That way led back to the street where the hunters had been. He ran back to the dumpster and leaped light as a cat. His feet created muffled thuds as he used the elevation of the dumpster to spring higher. He landed on top of the wall, pausing in the glow of a full moon.
Slathered in soft silver, he stared down into a gathering fog. The lick of a chill, that he shouldn't have felt, went down his back.
Fog in Sacramento, in June? This is not natural.
A small step dropped him beyond the wall, hopefully beyond pursuit.
Thirty-five percent chance effective, the regulator in his head informed him.
Zane ghosted through the fog, approaching another main street. He paused at the corner, looking around it. No pedestrians were in sight. A few cars streaked past, headlights cutting into the cloudy air. No vans in sight. He let the cars pass and moved out onto the sidewalk, pace smooth and unhurried. The billows thickened, reducing visibility. It was like becoming the last person on Earth.
Last zombie on Earth.
Odds undetermined, he was told.
Somehow, without him noticing, the sidewalk vanished, replaced by a dirt road. The lack of wheel ruts told him this way wasn't commonly used. He moved to the edge of the road and found yellow, withered grass. There was a dry ditch, and a downward slope bristling with white-barked aspen that didn't seem right for the area. Elm was more common, or oak.
Probability percentages are—
Just shut up, Zane thought.
Shutting up.
Clopping hooves reverberated behind him, reminding him of the carriages that worked the tourist trade in Old Sac. It seemed highly unlikely that corporate goons would resort to such vehicles in chasing him down. Curious, he held his ground as a dark, flat shape materialized, then became three-dimensional, breaking through the silver air. A single horse pulled a two-person seat suspended between great, wood-spoked wheels. The thing was a relic.
No freakin' way!
The cab had forward facing, folding doors that locked together to protect occupants' legs from stones kicked up by the horse. The reins stretched from the horse's harness, over the roof of the cab, to a driver seated at the back of the passenger's section. He stared straight ahead, dressed in a big black coat, wearing an English bowler on his head. Lanterns on the forward corners of the cab pulled color out of the graytones of night, making the horses brown. The middle-aged, lady passenger wore a veiled hat, a bright red shawl, and had a burgundy throw draped across her lap. Dove gray gloves would have made her hands nearly invisible in the fog except for the blanket's dark background.
She turned her face his way as the carriage came abreast. She knocked on the roof over her head. A door in the roof opened so she could communicate with the driver. Her voice was honey-sweet, the kind that made you listen every time. The kind of voice his long-dead mother had had.
"Pull up a moment, Hendricks, if you will."
"Aye, ma'am." The driver reined in the horse, but the cab passed Zane by a full yard before it settled.
Zane strolled up to where he could see the lady once more.
By then, the driver noticed him. "You there, what are you about?"
"Just enjoying a moonlit stroll," Zane commented.
"Tell me, young man," the lady said, "this fog—"
"This damnedable fog," the driver added.
The lady frowned, put off by such dire language. Smoothing out her face, she continued. "This fog has blighted our journey; might we still be on the outskirts of London?"
"Not hardly." And I doubt I'm anywhere near Sacramento anymore.
"Oh dear," she said. "In that case, is there an inn nearby where we might spend the night?"
"I don't know. To tell you the truth, I'm a bit turned around myself," Zane said.
That was quite true. His nano-buddies usually kept him updated with data hacked from satellite feeds, providing him with free GPS, but currently things were murky.
Geo-magnetic field in flux. Time/space coordinates unavailable. Extreme caution is advised.
Story of my life, he thought.
"Can we give you a ride to shelter?" she asked.
The driver interrupted, "That is not advisable, or safe, ma'am. Brigands might be afoot." The driver glared at Zane with firm suspicion.
"I'm fine," he said. "You folks go on. I'll be all right."
The lady bit her lip a moment. "Well, if you are very sure…"
He smiled and waved them on. The driver flicked the reins and the horse started off. The cab rolled on and was soon swallowed by the voracious fog.
"Yeah, I'm a cat," Zane said, "a zombie cat that always lands on his feet. Can't keep a dead man down."
He followed the road, listening as the gentle drumming of horse hooves faded into silence. A few minutes later he hurried his step as the rusty-hinge screech of a flying reptile savaged the air. A second screech answered the first.
Pterodactyls. That's all I need. Next thing you know I'll be running into Amelia Earhart. The driver was right; this is the damnedest fog I've ever seen.
As if insulted, the fog rolled away and he found himself jogging up a private drive. The road had become bricked, climbing a hill to a monstrous mansion with wrap-around porches, balconies, chimneys, multi-peaked roofs and numerous gables. Taking it all in, his steps slowed. The road became a red-brick courtyard. In the middle lay a round, cement wall that held a basin filled with dry brown leaves. The fountain's high-rise pistil poked at the moon. Something about the place called to him—a promise of sanctuary maybe.
He walked past the dead fountain, approaching the main entrance, noticing that the hansom cab wasn't parked anywhere around. I wonder how it had missed this place.
As he stared up at the elegant structure, restfulness washed over him; the feelings of a traveler finally coming home.
The soul of this place is touching me.
The thought defied logic, but he thought it was true.
He went to the big double doors and banged with the great loop of brass in the mouth of a bulge-eyed gargoyle head. The door knocker glared at him. The door opened at once.
Like I'm expected.
Odds are—
Don't, he said.
Wearing a pin-striped, sparrow-tail coat and trousers, a bald, scarecrow of a man stood on the threshold. He looked down a hawkish nose and smiled with easy restraint. "Ah, Master Zane! Good of you to come at last. Welcome to Darkhaven Academy. Do come in. You're just in time for orientation."
Zane frowned. This is damned creepy. He stepped over the threshold and felt a tingle go through him. "What's that?"
The voice inside his head answered. Data upload received from AI presence. We have acquired proficiency in multiple languages, several of them previously unknown to human kind.
Zane stared at the butler. "You're an artificial intelligence?"
"More of a magical construct." He closed the door. "As well as the Keeper of the Door. Proceed straight ahead, take the next right, then the first door on the left, and you will be dealt with." Smiling like a Cheshire cat, the butler faded to nothing, leaving Zane alone.
He sighed. "Just when I thought things couldn't get any creepier…"