Dead Boys Read Online Free
Author: Gabriel Squailia
Remington, bursting into the room. “The crow’s got a new place.” Turning his head to one side, he showed Jacob its nest: three squawks sounded from the exit wound, and then the crow poked its head through the jagged bone, clacking its beak in the air, its tail-feathers nestled in his throat.
“That’s how it is,” Ma Kicks said. “You want to know where to find the Living Man, you take him as your ward. He’s too grown to keep himself satisfied on Southheap much longer. And you need someone to rein you in.”
Jacob ground his teeth. The last thing he wanted on his journey was a complicating dependent like Remington, but he hadn’t spent his fortune following rumors through the Parleyfields only to end his quest before it had begun. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll bring him along, and do my best to keep him out of trouble.”
“Good luck on that front. Kid, it’s been real, but you’re heading out with Patches now. He’s going to take you on some damn-fool trip that’ll probably knock that empty head of yours clean off. Sound good?”
“Sounds great!” said Remington. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as she tells us where ,” said Jacob, tucking her twitching finger into the leather pouch where he kept his account-stones, then tying it tightly to his left wrist, where he slipped it under the black cuff of his sleeve. “Where is the Living Man, Ma? Where can I find him?”
The seer was rocking her ruined body like a cradle, singing softly to the child inside. “You got to go deep,” she murmured when her song was done, lifting up the brown paper that had wrapped Jacob’s gift. “Deep down to the middle of the Tunnels.” She’d found a stub of charcoal and was scrawling a map. “Go where there’s no light left, Patches. Find a place called the Bottomless Vat. You’ll find him nearby. Right here.” With two final strokes, she made an X, then pressed her palms against the baby’s unquiet feet. “And keep in mind, brother: time’s got a way of making folks odd. Making them do things. Things they never thought they could. Everybody’s got a way to cope with eternity, what’s passed and what’s still to come. I don’t judge people for how they choose to get by. Not any more.
“Let’s hope, for your sake, that the Living Man’s done the same.”
CHAPTER TWO
City of the Dead
T hey walked through hours that bled into days, illuminated by the desultory, sepia light that fell through the skies, without variation, forever. Jacob’s mind worried ceaselessly at the X on his map—where it was, how he’d find it, whether he had enough time banked to get there—but he was regularly torn from obsession by Remington’s steady patter of questions, which only ceased as the pair came around the curve of Southheap, uncovering a panoramic view of Dead City.
As Remington gave way to wonder, gasping and exclaiming, the crow launched itself from his skull. Wheeling lazily between Remington’s eyes and the cityscape, the bird drew his gaze over the metropolis, a heap in its own right, built of monstrous fragments of buildings from all nations and eras, extending as far as he could see.
“Look!” he cried as the crow’s wings swept over a parking garage ramp spiraling around a sky-blue onion dome; “Look!” as its tailfeathers fluttered over a minaret bursting through the rooftop of a factory; “Jacob, look!” he said, again and again, as the crow flapped over the arches, churches, courtyards, tenements, trailers, shanties, apartments, shacks, bodegas, castles, and mansions that were slumped, mashed, and mangled in a grand confusion around the wide curve of the River Lethe. In the distance, the jagged edge of the mountain range called the Wall of the World cut off the knowable from the unknowable.
Taking it all in, the boy fell into a surprisingly long-lasting reverie. Jacob had been chastising him through the many hours of their descent to take greater care with his motions; now
“That’s how it is,” Ma Kicks said. “You want to know where to find the Living Man, you take him as your ward. He’s too grown to keep himself satisfied on Southheap much longer. And you need someone to rein you in.”
Jacob ground his teeth. The last thing he wanted on his journey was a complicating dependent like Remington, but he hadn’t spent his fortune following rumors through the Parleyfields only to end his quest before it had begun. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll bring him along, and do my best to keep him out of trouble.”
“Good luck on that front. Kid, it’s been real, but you’re heading out with Patches now. He’s going to take you on some damn-fool trip that’ll probably knock that empty head of yours clean off. Sound good?”
“Sounds great!” said Remington. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as she tells us where ,” said Jacob, tucking her twitching finger into the leather pouch where he kept his account-stones, then tying it tightly to his left wrist, where he slipped it under the black cuff of his sleeve. “Where is the Living Man, Ma? Where can I find him?”
The seer was rocking her ruined body like a cradle, singing softly to the child inside. “You got to go deep,” she murmured when her song was done, lifting up the brown paper that had wrapped Jacob’s gift. “Deep down to the middle of the Tunnels.” She’d found a stub of charcoal and was scrawling a map. “Go where there’s no light left, Patches. Find a place called the Bottomless Vat. You’ll find him nearby. Right here.” With two final strokes, she made an X, then pressed her palms against the baby’s unquiet feet. “And keep in mind, brother: time’s got a way of making folks odd. Making them do things. Things they never thought they could. Everybody’s got a way to cope with eternity, what’s passed and what’s still to come. I don’t judge people for how they choose to get by. Not any more.
“Let’s hope, for your sake, that the Living Man’s done the same.”
CHAPTER TWO
City of the Dead
T hey walked through hours that bled into days, illuminated by the desultory, sepia light that fell through the skies, without variation, forever. Jacob’s mind worried ceaselessly at the X on his map—where it was, how he’d find it, whether he had enough time banked to get there—but he was regularly torn from obsession by Remington’s steady patter of questions, which only ceased as the pair came around the curve of Southheap, uncovering a panoramic view of Dead City.
As Remington gave way to wonder, gasping and exclaiming, the crow launched itself from his skull. Wheeling lazily between Remington’s eyes and the cityscape, the bird drew his gaze over the metropolis, a heap in its own right, built of monstrous fragments of buildings from all nations and eras, extending as far as he could see.
“Look!” he cried as the crow’s wings swept over a parking garage ramp spiraling around a sky-blue onion dome; “Look!” as its tailfeathers fluttered over a minaret bursting through the rooftop of a factory; “Jacob, look!” he said, again and again, as the crow flapped over the arches, churches, courtyards, tenements, trailers, shanties, apartments, shacks, bodegas, castles, and mansions that were slumped, mashed, and mangled in a grand confusion around the wide curve of the River Lethe. In the distance, the jagged edge of the mountain range called the Wall of the World cut off the knowable from the unknowable.
Taking it all in, the boy fell into a surprisingly long-lasting reverie. Jacob had been chastising him through the many hours of their descent to take greater care with his motions; now
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