Metrophage

EPILOGUE

The city was inside him, its windblown streets and alleys as much a part of him as the air he breathed, the blood in his veins.

What roots he had were sunk deep in its hard soil. It formed the walls and foundation of his soul, a thing of which he possessed little knowledge, but which he had lately begun to consider.

He would never leave the city behind.

Los Angeles lay white and still beneath the sun. The winds that had carried in the sand were now blowing smoke from the smoldering buildings out to sea, leaving the sky a nearly unblemished dome of aquamarine. In the distance, Watts and Silver Lake seemed to still be burning. However, since dawn a crystalline calmness had invaded the city. It happened as the sun rose, shimmering off the centimeters of desert sand that covered every flat surface. The light gave Los Angeles the pure, hard look of a newly minted coin or surgical instrument.

Jonny spotted the first refugees just before daybreak. A small group of them were making their way over the nearby hills, heading for the Ventura Freeway and parts north. Later, he spotted hundreds of people following the highways out of Hollywood. At first, he had wondered where they were all going, but as he asked the question, the answer seemed obvious.

Anywhere else.

The revolution was done. From what a young Zombie Analytic girl told him, the Croakers had won. In a sense. "They're not in control of the city, but neither's the Committee, so I guess they won," she said. "They won or they lost in such a way that the Committee can't win; take your pick."

By noon, the hills were full of refugees, winding in ragged lines around the observatory and the HOLLYWOOD sign, moving Jonny as he sat on the keyboard of the piano, and on over the hills. Many people were still wearing their costumes from the night before. In the bright sun, newsrag skeletons were hardly more menacing that the flat-footed Meat Boys, hookers and merchants that followed.

No more fighting, Jonny thought. Let them have it. Let them try to rule an empty city.

"What's so funny, Jonny?"

He had not realized that he was laughing out loud. Easy Money stood a few meters away within the ring of circular shrines, pale and filthy, shielding his eyes from the sun. The arm he had injured at the Forest of Incandescent Bliss was wrapped in tangled layers of dirty gauze.

"That's going to get infected," Jonny said.

"I tanked up on ampecillin in Little Tokyo," Easy replied. There was a subtle irregularity in skin color of the arm he was using to shield his eyes, a burning or mottling. It could be anything, Jonny thought. He looked for other signs of the virus, but under all that dirt, there was no way to be sure.

"So, like I said, 'What's so funny?' "

"Everything," Jonny said. "It's over, man. They killed us. We're dead and they can't hurt us anymore."

"You know the Committee's still holding parts of the city? They've sent for the Army."

"Let them. You can't shoot ghosts and that's all that's left down there."

Easy Money lowered his hand and Jonny saw heavy bruising across the man's forehead where one of his horns had broken off.

"You going back?"

Jonny shook his head. "Let the rats have it," he said. "You?"

"Where would I go?"

"There's lots of places."

Easy looked over his shoulder at the smoke and the sand. "No."

A dozen Mexican teenagers walked by, nylon athletic bags emblazoned with colorful corporate decals and backpacks full of clothes and food hanging from their shoulders. They were singing together, an ancient melody, low and steady like a hymn, wholly unselfconscious. They were moving against the general flow of traffic, heading south and, Jonny knew, home. When they moved out of ear-shot, he found himself missing their song.

Easy was pointing at something. "You planning to use that or what?"

Jonny looked down at his hand and found Conover's Futukoro there. He had a vague memory of having sneaked back into the observatory during the night and taking the thing, though he could not remember why. Jonny looked at Easy. "It's gone a little beyond that, don't you think?" He shrugged. "Besides, I miss your head and hit something important."

Easy smiled. "You are a classic asshole, you know that? I'd have blown you away on sight."

"Maybe that's the difference between us. I don't have to kill you; you're doing that just fine by yourself. "

"But I won't die an asshole."

"I don't know if either of us has much choice in that matter."

Jonny laughed. "You know what I can't stop thinking about? Those poor ignorant idiots on the moon. Sitting up there thinking how safe they are from this little war they've dreamed up for us, not knowing about the little green men that are coming to see them. I mean, it's enough to make you think that maybe there is a god and that maybe the fucker has a sense of humor."

"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about, but that's okay," said Easy. "Seeing as how you're in such a good moodyou wouldn't happen to be holding, would you?"

"Got a lot of pain?"

"Think I cracked some ribs when I fell."

"That's rough." Jonny pulled one of his pockets inside out. "I seem to be all tapped out. Easy just nodded. "You might check Conover's place. His security's down for good and there's a room there stacked eyeball-high with Mad Love."

Easy shaded his eyes again, frowned at Jonny from under his arm. "Why you telling me about this?"

" 'Cause I'm a right guy," said Jonny. " 'Cause I'm Dragon head-Snake body, and I know that all thought is illusion, that any event in our lives, the worst and the best, can lead us toward enlightenment. Also, I don't really give a fuck."

"You're lost in space, man." Easy shook his head. "They're gonna come after you with nets and needles."

"Goodbye Easy."

"Adios, asshole."

Easy made his way awkwardly up the hill, limping on his clubfoot in the direction of Conover's place. Jonny watched him as the man followed the same squatter's trail Conover had lead him down last night. It seemed a long time ago. The sun flashed off Easy's one remaining horn, then he was gone behind a stand of withered oaks.

Jonny stepped off the piano, weighing the Futukoro in his hand, marveling that at any other time in recent memory he would have given anything to have Easy Money and a loaded gun at the same time. The feeling was gone, all echoes now. He had moved on. To where, he was not sure. Jonny took off his jacket and wrapped the gun inside. Just before he dropped the bundle into the piano, something fell from one of the pockets.

He picked it up and rang it gently, remembering that the Groucho had given him the small bell for luck in the deserted club.

Jonny considered the notion of enlightenment.

Everybody he cared about was gone. Ice and Sumi, Random, Groucho, all dead. Yet he felt their presence strong within him. It was a corny sentiment, something you would read on a greeting card, and he would have dismissed it entirely if the feeling had not been so powerful, so genuine.

Enlightenment.

Jonny still did not know what it really meant, was certain it was not what he was feeling now. All he knew for certain was that although he did not feel good, in some odd way, he felt a hell of a lot better.

He held the bell in his left hand, letting it ring as he walked.

The way to Ensenada would be a long one, so he sang himself through the city.

As I passed Saint James Infirmary

I saw my sweetheart there,

All stretched out on a table, so pale, so cold, so fair

As I passed Saint James Infirmary.