Читать книгу Rules of the Game - Джеймс Фрей, James Frey, Nils Johnson-Shelton - Страница 18

Maccabee runs a straight razor over his bare scalp. He swishes the blade in a copper bowl half-filled with a stew of water and black stubble and soap. Next to the bowl is a pair of scissors covered by a pile of thick hair. He squints at his reflection in a clouded mirror that’s propped against the wall. He’s never shaved his head before and he likes the way it feels. The smoothness, the lightness. Also, with his bruises and his crooked nose and his physique, the baldness makes him look like a real badass.

Which of course he is.

“What do you think, Sky Key?”

The girl sits next to him. She leans into his side. Her body is warm, and he feels comforted by it. He wonders if she is comforted in turn.

Probably not.

Her legs are tucked up and her arms are wrapped over her knees. She doesn’t answer his question. He briefly touches her hair. It’s thick and soft, the hair of a girl who’s been well cared for.

If he’s going to get her to the end, he’ll have to take good care of her too.

He passes her a bowl of rice and lentils, a stiff circle of dal balanced on top. “Here. Have some more food.”

She digs in with her bare hands and eats. Her appetite is strong and, so far, insatiable.

They are in an abandoned roadside hut 130 kilometers west and north of Kolkata. It’s midmorning. The landscape outside is lush and verdant. Jungle surrounds the hut, but fields of jute and potatoes lie less than a kilometer to the north. Sporadic cars and buses pass on the road, but other than that there are no signs of people here.

Which is good. Early that morning he and Sky Key wandered through a shopping center west of Kolkata buying supplies. Rice, soap, candles, batteries, towels, a sewing kit, a small butane camp stove with a liter of fuel. Baby wipes, pull-up diapers for Sky Key to sleep in, a blanket, and three changes of clothing for the girl. He also lucked into finding one of those cloth child carriers that straps over the shoulders and holds the kid tightly on the back. At a pharmacy he bought generic ibuprofen, amoxicillin, Cipro, zolpidem, and a small first aid kit with an extra bottle of iodine. Back at the hotel he packed all of this into a new knapsack as well as into the stolen Suzuki’s touring panniers, one of which blessedly contained a SIG 226 and two magazines.

The same kind of gun An Liu had fired at them back in the cemetery.

It was then that he realized he’d had the good fortune to steal An Liu’s bike.

He checked the SIG’s decocker and stuffed it into the top of his pants.

Throughout the morning he’d dealt with merchants and for the most part they were nice to him. He had to pay a small fortune for everything, though—prices were going through the roof under the threat of Abaddon, even here on the other side of the world where the effects of the asteroid would be less urgent. The fact that he wasn’t Indian didn’t make things any cheaper. Regardless, none of the shopkeepers recognized him as a Player, which was fortunate.

But then they stopped for breakfast at a dosa stall, and as they sat at a plastic picnic table the owner turned up the news on the small television mounted over the counter. He gabbed on in Bengali with one of his workers, no doubt talking about all the craziness happening in the world, while stills from An Liu’s video clicked past one by one on the screen. And that’s when Maccabee saw his own face, clear as day.

He didn’t worry about it at first. He was banged up from all the fights he’d been through and he didn’t think that the shop owner was paying close enough attention to make the connection. But he was. He turned on Maccabee and Sky Key in a flash, pointed a finger, started yelling. Maccabee stood, his mouth half-full of curried potatoes, and hoisted up the girl. The man stepped around the counter with a long kitchen knife. Maccabee backed away, swallowed his food, lifted his shirt to reveal the butt of the pistol, and said, “You don’t need to get hurt, my friend. None of us do.”

Stunned, the man quieted for a few moments as Maccabee and Sky Key left. He resumed yelling as soon as they were out on the street, and people began gawking, but the pair made it onto the bike in front of the hotel and Maccabee got Sky Key into the child carrier and they whisked out of there.

They rode all morning, stopping once to buy some rice and lentils at a food stall. Not long ago he caught sight of this hut flickering through the trees. Sky Key had been squirming for the previous 10 kilometers, and Maccabee had to piss, so he pulled over. He hid the bike in the bush and crept toward the corrugated metal building, the SIG pistol in hand. The hut was empty of people. It contained some basic items like bowls and a mirror and a few bedrolls and a low table. Maccabee figured it was a crash pad for itinerant farmhands, but it didn’t look like it had been used in a while.

They went in and he fed Sky Key some already cooked rice and lentils that came in simple plastic bags. Then he got going with the scissors and the straight razor. And now he is done. It isn’t a perfect disguise, but he doesn’t look anything like he did in the video.

It will do.

“Well, I like it,” Maccabee says of his new look.

Sky Key chews and manages a grunt. One of the first noises she’s made all morning.

Maccabee scoots over so that he’s sitting opposite the girl. A warm breeze pushes through the windows. The leaves outside rustle, a tree trunk creaks.

So young, he thinks.

Too young.

He dips his fingers into the bowl of rice and lentils and takes a handful in the Indian fashion and brings it to his lips. For food purchased from a roadside hawker, it’s surprisingly good.

Sky Key’s face is wind worn and streaked with grime. He reaches across the bowl and uses his thumb to wipe her cheek. She doesn’t move away. Her eyes are locked forward, staring at Maccabee’s chest.

“I’ll steal a car soon. You shouldn’t ride like that. Too exposed.”

She chews. Stares. Swallows.

“Good,” she says, breaking her silence since the day before.

“So you are going to talk?” he says, trying to sound kind.

“I don’t like it. The motorbike.”

“We’ll get rid of it then.”

“Good,” she repeats. She takes another mouthful of food.

“The problem is—once we get a car, where do we go?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, we should probably wait out the impact before we keep going,” he says, thinking out loud more than talking to her. “But where will we be safe? And how will we find Sun Key?”

“We’ll be safe, Uncle,” she announces emphatically.

He frowns.

She takes another bite of food in her fingertips, pushes it into her mouth.

Strange girl, he thinks.

“Please, call me Maccabee. Or Mac.”

“All right, Uncle,” she says, as if she’s agreeing to a different request.

He ignores it. “How do you know we’ll be safe?”

The girl swallows her food before answering. “The Makers won’t destroy me or Earth Key. Mama said. The bad thing will happen far from here. From me. From who is with me. What we need to be afraid of are the others. Like the man from yesterday. That’s what Mama said too.”

“Your mama,” he says slowly.

“Yes. Thank you for killing the bad man, Uncle,” she says in a smaller than usual voice. “Thank you.”

Very strange girl, he thinks as pangs of guilt shudder through him. Baitsakhan was absolutely bad, but that didn’t make Maccabee a saint. Not by a long shot. After all, he nearly killed Shari Chopra too.

But he didn’t. And this girl, she does not need to know otherwise.

“You’re … welcome,” he says. He wonders if she’s always spoken beyond her years. He wonders if touching Earth Key made her this way, or if she was like this before.

He can’t know that she was.

That Little Alice was always precocious, always special.

He says, “All right, let’s assume we are safe from the asteroid. I still don’t know where to go. How do I win? Where is Sun Key?”

She chews. Swallows. Then she sticks out her arm and points a few degrees south of due east. “I know, Uncle.”

Maccabee frowns. “You know?”

“Two two dot two three four. Six eight dot nine six two.”

He gets his smartphone, launches Google Maps, and punches in the coordinates. A pin over water pops up, a short distance from the coast of the western Indian port city of Dwarka. He shows it to Sky Key.

“This? Is this where we’ll find Sun Key?”

The girl nods.

“It’s not that far at all!”

Giddiness wells in his heart and works into his throat.

“Yes, Uncle. Sun Key is there.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

He fumbles with the smartphone and his smile grows. Two thousand four hundred thirty-four kilometers. Thirty-six or 37 hours of driving. Maybe faster if he can find a plane to steal.

He can win Endgame, he can guarantee the survival of the Nabataean line after the cataclysm, he can see the new Earth and live on it until he is old and frail. Maybe he can save this young girl and fulfill the promise he made to her mother.

Maybe he can win and right some wrongs.

He jumps to his feet, intent on going outside and flagging down the next decent-looking car that comes along the road and carjacking it. He can hardly contain himself. “Sky Key, this is amazing!”

“I know, Uncle.” The girl takes another bite. “They call me Little Alice.”

“I could win, Alice! The Nabataeans could win!”

She chews. Swallows. “I know.”