Davy spits out another shell. “You ever gonna talk again?”
“I talk,” I say.
“No, you scream at yer workforce and you grunt at me. That ain’t talking.” He’s spits out another shell, high and long, hitting the nearest Spackle in the head. It just brushes it away and keeps on digging out the last of a trench.
“She left ya,” Davy says. “Get over it.”
My Noise rises. “Shut up.”
“I don’t mean it in a bad way.”
I turn to look at him, eyes wide.
“What?” he says. “I’m just saying, you know? She left, don’t mean she’s dead or nothing.” Spit. “From what I remember, that filly can take plenty care of herself.”
There’s a memory in his Noise of being electrocuted on the river road. It should make me smile, but it don’t, cuz she’s standing right there in his Noise, standing right there and taking him down.
Standing right there and not standing right here.
(where’d she go?)
(where’d she effing go?)
Mayor Ledger told me just after the tower bombs that the army had gone straight for the ocean cuz they’d got a tip-off that that’s where the Answer were hiding–
(was it me? did he hear it in me? I burn at the thought–)
But when Mr. Hammar and his men got there, they didn’t find nothing but long-abandoned buildings and half-sunken boats.
Cuz the informayshun turned out to be false.
And I burn at that, too.
(did she lie to me?)
(did she do it on purpose?)
“Jesus, pigpiss.” Davy spits again. “It’s not like any of the rest of us got girlfriends. They’re all in ruddy jail or setting off bombs every week or walking around in groups so big you can’t even talk to ’em.”
“She ain’t my girlfriend,” I say.
“Not the point,” he says. “All it means is that yer just as alone as the rest of us, so get over it.”
There’s a sudden, ugly strength of feeling in his Noise, which he wipes away in an instant when he sees me watching him. “What’re you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Damn right.” He stands, takes his rifle and stomps back into the field.
Somehow 1017 keeps ending up in my part of the work. I’m mainly in the back part of the fields, finishing up digging the trenches. Davy’s near the front, getting Spackle to snap together the pre-formed guide walls we’ll be using once the concrete gets poured. 1017’s sposed to be doing that, but every time I look up, there he is, nearest me again no matter how many times I send him back.
He’s working, sure, digging up his handfuls of dirt or piling up the sod in even rows, but always looking for me, always trying to catch my eye.
Clicking at me.
I walk towards him, my hand up on the stock of my rifle, grey clouds starting to move in overhead. “I sent you over to Davy,” I bark. “What’re you doing here?”
Davy, hearing his name, calls from far across the field. “What?”
I call back, “Why do you keep letting this one back over here?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Davy yells. “They all look the same!”
“It’s 1017!”
Davy gives an exaggerated shrug. “So?”
I hear a click, a rude and sarcastic one, from behind me.
I turn and I swear 1017 is smiling at me.
“You little piece of–” I start to say, reaching my rifle round my front.
Which is when I see a flash of Noise.
Coming from 1017.
Quick as anything but clear, too, me standing in front of him, reaching for my rifle, nothing more than what he’s seeing with his eyes–
Except a flash as he grabs the rifle from me–
And then it’s gone.
I’ve still got the rifle in my hands, 1017 still knee-deep in the ditch.
No Noise at all.
I look him up and down. He’s skinnier than he used to be, but they all are, they never get quite enough fodder of a day, and I’m wondering if 1017’s been skipping meals altogether.
So he don’t take no cure.
“What’re you playing at?” I ask him.
But he’s back at work, arms and hands digging for more dirt, ribs showing thru the side of his white, white skin.
And he don’t say nothing.
“Why do we keep giving ’em the cure if yer pa’s taking it away from everyone else?”
Me and Davy are lunching the next day. The clouds are heavy in the sky and it’ll probably start raining soon, the first rain in a good long while, and it’ll be cold rain, too, but we’ve got orders to keep working no matter what so we’re spending the day watching the Spackle pour out the first concrete from the mixer.
Ivan brought it in this morning, healed but limping, his Noise raging. I wonder where he thinks the power is now.
“Well, it keeps ’em from plotting, don’t it?” Davy says. “Keeps ’em from passing along ideas to each other.”
“But they can do that with the clicking.” I think for a second. “Can’t they?”
Davy just gives a who cares, pigpiss shrug. “Got any of that sandwich left?”
I hand him my sandwich, keeping an eye out over the Spackle. “Shouldn’t we know what they’re thinking?” I say. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing to know?”
I look out over the field for 1017 who, sure enough, is looking back at me.
Plick. The first drop of rain hits me on the eyelash.
“Aw, crap,” Davy says, looking up.
It don’t let up for three days. The site gets muckier and muckier but the Mayor still wants us to keep on somehow so those three days are spent slipping and sliding thru mud and putting up huge tarpaulins on frames to cover big parts of the field.
Davy’s got the inside work, bossing Spackle around to keep the tarpaulin frames in place. I spend most of my time out in the rain, trying to keep the edges of the tarpaulin pinned to the ground with heavy stones.
It’s ruddy stupid work.
“Hurry up!” I shout to the Spackle helping me get one of the last edges pinned to the ground. My fingers are freezing cuz no one’s given us gloves and there ain’t been no Mayor round to ask. “Ow!” I put a bloodied knuckle up to my lips, having scraped my hand for the millionth time.