“You’re …”
“Like, I can spot stupidity, because I know it so well. The way an exterminator knows bugs really well, and can spot where they’ve been? I’m like that. A stupidinator.”
“Never say that word again,” Prof said.
Well, it made sense to me. He let go, and I pulled open the door and stepped inside. After pulling it closed, I strapped my mobile to my shoulder and turned on the light. The stairwell led upward in a dark incline, wet, partially rotting. Like the forgotten steps you might find in some old horror movie.
Except people in those movies hadn’t been armed with a fully automatic Gottschalk assault rifle with electron-compressed magazines and a night-vision scope. I smiled, dimming my mobile and raising the rifle, engaging the night vision. Prof said this place was abandoned, but it was best to be certain.
I climbed the steps carefully, rifle at my shoulder. I still wasn’t completely satisfied with the Gottschalk. My old rifle had been better. Sure, it had jammed now and then. And it hadn’t been automatic, and had needed the sights adjusted at least once a month. And … well, it had just been better anyway. So there.
Megan would laugh at that, I thought. Getting sentimental about a clearly inferior gun? Only fools did that. The thing was, we talk that way—but we all seem to get sentimental about our guns anyway. I reached to my side, suddenly realizing that it felt wrong not to have Megan’s handgun on me any longer. I’d need to requisition a replacement.
At the top of the long stairwell, I entered what had once been a well-furnished reception room. Now overgrown with the ubiquitous Babilar plant life, it was draped in gloom and vines. No windows gave light to this room, and though fruit drooped from the trees and covered the floor, none of it glowed. That only happened after nightfall.
I inched forward, stepping over old expense reports and other paperwork. The room smelled terrible—of rot and fungus. I found myself oddly annoyed at Prof as I walked. What did he mean by “reckless heroism”? Weren’t we supposed to be heroes?
My father had waited for the heroes. He’d believed in them. He’d died because he’d believed in Steelheart.
He’d been a fool in that regard. But somehow, more and more, I found myself wishing I could be the same kind of fool. I wasn’t going to feel guilty for trying to help people. Prof could say what he wanted, but deep down he felt the same way. He’d agreed to bring down Steelheart because he’d sensed that the Reckoners weren’t making enough of a difference.
He would make the right decisions. He’d save this city. Prof was a hero. The Epic who fought for mankind. He just needed to admit it. And—
Something under my foot crunched.
I froze and scanned the small room through my scope again. Nothing. I lowered the gun and turned on my light. What in Calamity’s shadow …?
I’d stepped on a cluster of small objects that were growing from vines at the bottom of one of the trees. The bizarre plant tendrils grew out from under the bark like whiskers on a man wearing a mask. I had to take a closer look at what I was seeing because I could swear that at their tips were … cookies.
Yes, cookies. I knelt down, fishing among them for a moment. I pulled out a piece of paper. Fortune cookies, I thought. Growing from the tree.
I flipped the paper over, reading the words.
Help me.
Great. I was back in the horror movie.
Unsettled, I stepped back and snapped my rifle up into position. I looked around the room again, shining my mobile into shadowed corners behind tree trunks. Nothing jumped out at me. When I was convinced I was alone, I bent down to the cookies again and searched among them, reading other slips of paper. They all said either Help me or She has me captive.
“David?” Tia’s voice sounded in my earpiece. “You into position yet?”
I jumped almost to the ceiling.
“Uh, not yet,” I said, stuffing some of the pieces of paper and the bits of cookie into my pocket. “I just stumbled onto something. Um … has anyone ever reported finding cookies growing from the fruit trees?”
Silence on the line.
“Cookies?” Tia asked. “David, is something wrong with you?”
“Well, I’ve kind of had some indigestion lately,” I noted, moving toward the room’s other door, behind a decomposing receptionist’s desk. “But I don’t think that’s causing me to hallucinate cookies. Usually indigestion strictly causes cheesecake delusions.”
“Ha, ha,” Tia said dryly.