in my hand. It looks a little like the HK that Deirdre carries, only instead it reads HM USP. It has a compensator on the end that makes the barrel longer, but I know from Deirdre that this is only a stylish way to weight the barrel, reduce the kickback, and make the gun more accurate.
My heart beats a little faster as I turn it over in my hands. This is a gun that means business.
“We’re going somewhere else to study the blueprints and crash for the night.”
He doesn’t have to say any more. He wants to get out of his apartment, sleep somewhere else tonight. I don’t blame him. I’m not anxious to stay here any longer than I have to, and I certainly don’t want to hang out here alone while he does whatever it is he’s got to do.
“Not a problem. Let’s go.”
I follow him to the door, but before we head out, he turns to me. “Same rules as on the way here. Keep your hood up and eyes down. Stay quiet and stay by my side.”
I pull my hood up and follow him through the hallway, down the elevator. But instead of getting off at the lobby, we go ten floors down to P10.
“Are we taking your car?” I ask. I don’t add that I think that might tip off some of the city cameras, but it’s on the tip of my tongue.
Barclay shakes his head as the elevator doors open to a very empty and dimly lit parking garage that smells like mildew and looks like it hasn’t seen use in at least five years. We exit into the alley at the back of the building. It doesn’t exactly have the red-light vibe of the alley we portaled into, but in a way it’s worse.
This is what anyone would call the slums. Graffiti-covered buildings seem to droop rather than stand. There are broken windows, collapsed doors, boxes piled awkwardly and adorned with thin blankets to make some kind of tentlike structure. We walk at a brisk pace, not fast enough to call attention to ourselves, but not slow, either.
The smell of burning rubber and cigarette smoke hangs in the air. It reminds me of old New York, from before Giuliani, when the city was covered in graffiti, drug needles, and worse. When the crime rate was the highest in the country and no one felt safe walking alone. It’s the New York from Taxi Driver.
It doesn’t take much for me to realize the glitzy buildings near Barclay’s apartment in New Prima are hiding a lot of the same problems that are a big deal in my world—poverty, drugs, organized crime. I’m surprised. I thought they were more advanced here, smarter somehow. If they’re policing the interverse, surely they should be able to create better lives for their own people.
04:20:00:29
We turn a corner and Barclay leads me down a set of stairs and into an underground subway that smells like urine and worse. I stick close to him even though there’s no one else on the platform with us.
When the downtown train comes, it’s only three cars that look like they should be out of commission. The windows are broken or just gone, and when we get inside, most of the seats are cracked, stained, or falling apart. I follow Barclay’s lead and sit down next to him on one of the cleaner seats. I’m already looking forward to a shower.
There’s one other guy in the car with us, slumped in a seat at the opposite corner. From the color of his skin and the smell, he’s either passed out or dead. I look at Barclay, about to ask if there’s anything we should do, but he shakes his head.
At the sixth stop, Barclay stands and nods his head toward the door. I get up, following him out, with one last glance at the guy we’re leaving behind. I might die tomorrow in an attempted prison break, but I still can’t help feeling like I’m better off.
We come aboveground into another alley that looks like it’s straight out of a movie where the naive girl gets off at the wrong subway stop and ends up dead. We’re facing the back of a line of abandoned row homes that look like they were boarded up years ago and forgotten about.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Home sweet home,” Barclay says.
I look around.
Barclay smirks. “I grew up here. This neighborhood is called the underground.”