Poison City Read Free Page A

up,’ mutters the dog. ‘You’re making me feel dirty.’
    I blink. My vision swims back into focus. I’m warded now. Protected by an invisible body shield constructed from shinecraft. Kind of like the Holtzman generator shields in Dune . It won’t stop a bullet, but it will absorb most other kinds of attack. A fist, a hammer, a knife, that kind of thing. Up to a point, of course. No need to get cocky about it.
    I’m filled with nervous energy. It feels like my skin is thrumming gently, ultra-sensitive. All my senses strain outward, trying to escape the confines of my body.
    I push the door open. No creak. Odd. Beyond is an open-roofed atrium. Cracked terracotta tiles covered in loose earth and dried mud. No footprints.
    ‘No one’s been here for a while,’ says the dog.
    ‘Thanks, Sherlock.’ I pull the shotgun out of my satchel, then slide the bag around so it’s resting against my kidneys. Easier to reach. ‘Smell anything?’
    The dog pads softly ahead of me and sniffs around. ‘There’s something . . . I can’t identify what it is. Nothing close, though.’
    I walk through the atrium, past pillars covered with tags and stencilled graffiti. There’s an alcove in the wall up ahead, a statue of a child with its arms broken off kneeling on green marble.
    Through more doors into what must have once been the reception area. Paintings on the wall, faded and chipped: Li’l Devil, a cartoon character I remember from when I was a kid. A ghost wearing a top hat. A badly drawn Daffy Duck knock-off.
    A corridor beyond. The afternoon sun smearing through dirty windows, like walking through a hazy dream. The roof panels are mostly gone, gaping holes showing second-storey rooms. The paint is peeling from the walls like sunburned skin, sloughing off in ugly damp patches.
    My heart beats erratically in my chest. I don’t know if it’s the after-effects of the shinecraft, fear, or anticipation. My shirt sticks to my back. Sweat dripping into my eyes. There’s no sound except my breathing and my boots crunching across the detritus of the past.
    We follow the corridor deeper into the ruined building. We turn left and it’s as if the light has been turned off. No windows here. I pause as my eyes adjust. Wooden floors. Badly painted pictures on the yellow walls: a rasta girl with ‘HAIR’ painted beneath her. A little girl in a purple dress and high heels that are too big for her. Strip lights hanging from a high ceiling.
    -Where to ?- says the dog.
    It takes a moment for me to notice he’s talking mind to mind. He only does that when he’s worried. When there’s danger around.
    I shrug. I have no idea. I peer into each room we pass: old, cast-iron cots, a wall chart of a skeleton that someone has drawn a moustache onto, broken sinks, a room filled with patient records in creased brown folders, rotting in the damp.
    We find the stairs and climb to the next floor. The first room is huge, easily double the size of my flat. Somebody has ripped a load of doors from their hinges and piled them up on the floor. There are no paintings in here. Just two words written high up on the wall.
    I thirst.
    -Could do with a drink myself, - says the dog.
    I don’t answer. We move through the room to another corridor. This one is pitch black, all the doors closed. Something feels . . . funky here. Just . . . not right. Hard to explain. It’s something you get taught in Delphic Division, how to pick up on the presence of an orisha, or even just magic in general. It feels like bugs are crawling under your skin, sliding along your nerves trying to get out.
    A moment later the dog drops to the floor, his gums pulled back in a snarl. His ears flatten against his head and he squirms on the ground.
    - Jesus fucking Christ! - he moans. - How are you standing there? Can’t you hear that?-
    I move my head around. I think I might be able to hear something . . . high-pitched, just on the edge of my hearing. But I’m not