“And now you want to sell it to me?”
The old man shook his head. “Not sell. Give it away, as it was given to me. That’s only right. You helped me, Mr. Murray, and I never thought I’d be able to properly thank you. But now I can.”
“If you expect me to believe?—”
“Then don’t. It is, as I said, freely given. At worst, it is an amusing addition to your collection.”
Murray snorted again, but he dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills. He took the paw. When the old man didn’t reach for the bills, he let them drop. Then he walked away.
Cole ducked back as Murray passed, but the man was preoccupied, too busy shoving the paw into his pocket, as if he planned to toss it into the nearest trash.
Cole looked down the alley. The old man was walking away. He’d left the bills on the ground.
Cole slid soundlessly down the alley. When he reached the bills, the old man looked over his shoulder. Cole froze. He could easily scoop up the money and run, but too many of his brother’s teachings had stuck and instead he pointed down.
“You dropped those, sir.”
“Take them,” the old man said.
Cole hesitated, but he seemed serious. Cole supposed Tyler would say it was the principle of the thing. The old man had tried to repay a debt, and if Murray was too uncouth to accept the gift freely, that was his problem.
“Thanks,” he said. “Here.”
He tossed one of his apples. The old man caught it and nodded, unsmiling. Then he continued on, dragging his bad leg behind him. Cole scooped up the cash and took off after Murray.
Colewanted that paw. He didn’t believe it had any special properties. There was no magic in this world. He wanted it because it would amuse Tyler. He’d tease Cole about it every time his little brother complained.You miss Pepsi and burgers, bud? Why don’t you ask the paw? Just be sure to ask carefully, or you’ll get rat and piss.
Lately, making his brother laugh practically took magic. Hell, most people hadn’t found much to laugh about in ten years. Not since H2N3.
H2N3. A boring name for what had, in the beginning, been a boring virus. People got it, they suffered through a mild flu and they recovered. Then they’d get it again. And again and again. Traditional treatments didn’t work and the rate of spread was insane. Soon it was putting a massive strain on health care and workplaces across the world. Something had to be done. A vaccine had to be found. And one was.
Later people would say that the vaccine testing process had been rushed, that the results were faked, that it was a conspiracy by the drug companies in collusion with the government. But Tyler said no—he remembered their parents nursing them through round after round of the flu, grumbling at the government to hurry up and approve the vaccine. Finally, people got it and everything seemed fine.
Then the reports started coming in. Gangs of ordinary people roaming the streets, attacking passersby for pocket change. People on the subway being murdered for a sandwich or a cup of coffee. The victims who survived reported that it was like dealing with a wild animal—clawing and biting and ripping.Then those who’d been bitten began to change, to become like their attackers.
“It was a zombie apocalypse,” people said, “just like in the movies.” Which was crap. Cole had seen a zombie movie once, sneaking in when Tyler’s friends brought one over. The infected were not zombies. They hadn’t died; they weren’t rotting. They’d just changed. They’d become feral—that’s the word Tyler used. Whatever stops a hungry person from attacking a kid for an apple, that’s what the infection robbed from its victims.
Ten years later, most of the population was infected. The rest had retreated to fortified cities like New Chicago. If there was any real hope left, it was that eventually the infected would annihilate themselves out there. But they sure weren’t hurrying to do it. In the cities, things weren’t much better, as the increasing shortage of food and clean water meant that you could still lose your life over an apple, killed by a regular person who needed it to survive.
In a world like that, if you could do something to lighten someone’s spirits, you did it. Murray had looked ready to toss the paw away. When Cole caught up, he was holding it.
Just toss it in the trash,he thought.Or in the gutter.
Murray paused outside a soup shop. The smell made Cole’s mouth water, but even with those bills in his pocket, he wasn’t tempted. Before Tyler worked for McClintock, he’d run errands for these shops—killing rats down at the river and digging rotted vegetables out of the market trash. That’s what you could expect from prepared food in New Chicago.
Murray didn’t seem to know that. The rich scent of hot soup caught his attention, and he followed it to the shop door. Then he paused and fingered the paw.
It’s dirty. Filthy,Cole thought.You’ll need to wash before you eat now. Just get rid of it.
Murray shoved the paw into his pocket and walked inside.
Inthe old days, this place wouldn’t have been considered a shop at all, much less a restaurant. Cole remembered restaurants. Fast food ones mostly. Sometimes, now, he’d wake thinking he smelled fries and it would set him in a lousy mood all day. Tyler would tease that, of all the things you could miss, fried potatoes should rank near the bottom. But they both knew it wasn’t really the fries—it was the idea that you could walk into a big, gleaming restaurant, scrub your hands with free soap and water, and order hot, safe food for less than half the twenty bucks your dad gave your brother when he decided to take you to the park that morning.
This soup shop would have fit in one of those fast food restrooms. Hell, it probablyhadbeen the restroom for this place, once a big department store, the top two floors now destroyed in the bombings, the remainder divvied up into a score of tiny, dark “shops.” There were certainly no tables or chairs. You pushed your way up to the counter, got your soup and pushed your way to a spot to eat it, standing. You could take it outside, but with November winds blowing through thread-bare clothes, Cole suspected most patrons didn’t even really want the soup—it just gave them a chance to squeeze in someplace warm.
Murray would take his soup and go. Cole could tell by the contemptuous gazes the man shot around him. He even seemed to be reconsidering whether he wanted to remain long enough to get a meal. Cole had to act fast. He slid up behind Murray and got into position. Then, when a man left the counter, jostling and elbowing through the crowd, Cole knocked into Murray.
Murray spun on him, scowling.
