Page 18 of Gunslinger Girl
Pity didn’t answer, not wanting to admit Olivia was right. She would have ascribed such a grotesque act to Cessation or dissidents long before CONA. Even the scrounger her father had caught would never have been displayed so.
Unease filled her. It was more than the hanged men; she was now truly beyond the world she knew, in the company of strangers. And yet…
Max put a hand on her shoulder. Maybe he was only steadying himself, but some of her distress receded. He was also nothing like she had imagined a dissident to be. With no reason to, he’d helped her. And despite her better judgment, she was beginning to trust him.
Don’t be stupid, she reminded herself. Max might be all right, but you don’t know what’s coming.
For a while there was nothing to see except desert, stained orange by the setting sun. Then, as true night descended, a haze of light appeared, bleeding out of the ground. That luminescence resolved itself into colors and silhouettes. As she realized what she was seeing, she gasped, eliciting a chuckle from Max.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “He never gets tired of this part.”
In the windshield, Max’s reflection grinned like a child, his piercings glinting and winking. “Welcome to Cessation, Serendipity Jones,” he said. “The last place on the continent where you can do whatever the hell you want.”
CHAPTER 6
Olivia slowed as they came upon the city. Tents—hundreds of them—were scattered on either side of the road, a drab forest of canvas flickering with the glow of cooking fires. A crowd of people gathered as the vehicle approached, all draped in flowing white robes.
“They never give up,” muttered Olivia.
Pity watched as the robed figures waved signs covered in scripture and called out soundlessly from beyond the thick windshield. Some kneeled at the edge of the asphalt, hands folded in prayer. “Who are they?”
“They call themselves Reformationists,” Max said. “Don’t mind them. They preach on the streets and march through the city sometimes, but otherwise, they don’t do much more than what you see now.”
“They’re masochists,” said Olivia. “Who else would come all this way to squat in the desert, eat out of cans, and try to save souls that don’t need saving?” She slammed a fist against the console. A horn pierced the air. The Reformationists jumped and stumbled back, faces stiff with fright.
“Was that necessary?” said Max.
Olivia chuckled. “No.”
The camp ended and the city began, jutting from the soil like a fairy-tale oasis. For a moment, Pity could see only lights. There were more than she had ever seen in one place, an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of colors. Unlike the eastern cities she’d seen on the broadcasts, there were no proud towers standing in perfect array, no sage gold domes floating above thick columns. The buildings in Cessation were tightly packed and varied, enveloping the streets like a motley cave. Pity shrank in her seat, senses overloaded.
Blinking. Flashing. Twists of shadow. Words and images flickered and disappeared—a snippet of a news broadcast; a beautiful woman with wet, pouting lips. Signs sizzled and drenched doorways in red and purple and green. Laser-writ words appeared on the sides of buildings—advertising drinks, entertainment, and things Pity didn’t comprehend—only to disappear a few seconds later.
And the people…
The street steadily filled until there were so many pedestrians that Olivia had to reduce their speed to a crawl. Folks strolled or walked or ran, paying little attention to the massive conveyance rumbling in their midst. A woman danced in front of their headlights, wearing a gown that shimmered like the ripples in a lake. She nearly collided with a man in rags, who yelled at her, his mouth full of stained teeth.
On one corner, Pity spotted a band of men and women astride motorcycles, brandishing rifles and razor-edged stares. Patches marked them as Ex-Pats—former United Patriot Front fighters and their supporters. Unwilling to accept defeat, even after two decades, they still attacked CONA outposts from time to time. Seeing them stirred an odd sensation in Pity. Had any of them fought alongside her mother? If her mother hadn’t been captured, was this where her life’s path would have led? Pity stared until they were out of sight.
Gilding the chaos, hawkers weaved among the crowd, proffering their goods and services. Booths, erected in every bare spot on the sidewalk, displayed trinkets and food and things Pity didn’t recognize. But she could almost hear the sizzle of the hot fat, smell the roasting meat.
Beyond the booths were alleys, where the lights abruptly ceased. Some folks gave these a wide berth. Others slipped into them, alone or in groups, the shadows swallowing them like dark water.
A series of thumps sounded on the roof.
Olivia slammed on the brakes. “What the hell?”
Two youths slid into view, dressed entirely in crimson. Grinning madly, they clung to the top of the vehicle with one hand. With the other, they banged on the windshield of the cab.
“Goddamn Old Reds,” Olivia said through gritted teeth.
The blond girl dangling in front of Pity waved in a way that was anything but friendly.
“One of the gangs,” Max explained.
The girl pointed a finger at Pity and then put it in her mouth. Pity started as she bit down hard. As blood dribbled from the wound, the girl drew a smiley face on the windshield.
“That’s it,” said Olivia. “I’m gonna shoot those little—”
