We're low on food. We're low on water. I can count the number of westerners here trying to help out on one hand when I'm missing two fingers. And when you turn on your TV sets, are you seeing this? Are you thinking about it when you order your delivery pizza? Honest to God, people, are the things going on here really less important than the latest challenge on American Hero?
Fuck.
I gotta go. They're coming.
Back now. It's about eight hours later. I forgot to hit the post button, so let me give you a little update. The army flew a helicopter over a bunch of refugees who were walking south at about three this afternoon, when I was writing that last part. The alleged human beings up in the copter dropped a couple dozen grenades on them and strafed the survivors when they ran. We lost twenty. Another ten will probably be dead by morning, and about that many are going to be too injured to travel. Which means leaving them here. Which is pretty much the same thing as dead.
It's still maybe a week before the first of us reach Aswan. Maybe another two days before the stragglers get in. Everyone's looking to it like it's the Promised Land or Oz or something. Me, I keep getting the feeling that the army's herding us there. There was about twenty minutes when I was sure they were going to wait until we were all on Sehel Island and then blow the High Dam and kill us all. Fortune or maybe Sekhmet pointed out that blowing the Aswan High Dam would also kill everyone else in the country and wash Cairo into the sea, so I might be getting a little paranoid.
Any way you cut it though, we're in trouble here. I need to sleep. I'm afraid to sleep.
If anyone out there knows someone in the Egyptian army or if you're one of the folks in Ikhlas al-Din, listen for a minute, okay? This is the part where I beg.
I know someone killed the Caliph, and I know that's a very big, very bad thing. I know that someone attacked you, and you're pissed. But please—please—stop this. Because I'm here on the road with the people you're killing. I've talked to them. I've eaten with them. And here's the thing. Killing the Caliph?
They didn't do it.
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17. The Tin Man's Lament
The Tin Man's Lament
Ian Tregillis
. . . THEY DIDN'T DO IT.
What's worse than being hated for what people think you did?
Wally Gunderson, aka Rustbelt, aka Toolbelt, aka You Stupid Tool, aka Hey You, aka Racist, sat in the darkness of his bedroom in the Discard Pile, scrolling through Bugsy's blog. It chronicled cruel people doing senseless things to others. Harmless and undeserving others who hadn't said or done anything wrong.
The monitor cast a sickly hue across his cast-iron skin, tinting the midnight blue-black with green, like he was a nat mottled with half-healed bruises. It fit the ooky feelings that he'd carried in his gut since he got kicked off American Hero. Sadness. Confusion. Shame. Anger.
The blog didn't help matters any. As confusing as this Egypt thing was—Wally didn't really understand the details—it was depressing, too. Innocent people were dying for no good reason; he got that much.
But reading still beat venturing outside. The place was awful crowded; all but five of the American Hero contestants had joined the Discard Pile. (Twenty-three aces. Four bathrooms.) Of those not living in the overcrowded mansion, two had up and left the show: Bugsy was in Egypt, and Drummer Boy had decided he'd rather be a rock star than a discard. The other three—Curveball, Rosa Lotería, and, of course, Stuntman—were still competing.
Oomp-thump-oomp-thump . . . Somebody cranked up the bass downstairs. Tonight, the others were holding a knock-down, drag-out party to welcome the arrival of Dragon Girl, Jade Blossom, and the Candle, whose team had been eliminated in the most recent challenge.
Wally didn't much care for Joker Plague. Not because of Drummer Boy himself (although he wasn't all that swell) but because their music was so angry. He would have used headphones to drown out the noise, but he'd never found a pair that fit around the massive hinge joints on his steam shovel jaw. Not that he had anything to listen to. His Frankie Yankovic CDs had disappeared when the others sent Joe Twitch to his room to complain about the polka music.
The scent of grilled meat drifted through the open window. When Wally's stomach gurgled, it sounded like somebody squishing up water balloons inside a soup kettle. Earlier that evening the Maharajah's invisible servants had fired up the grill and laid out one heck of a spread on the long, cantilevered deck suspended over the pool and patio. Wally scooted off to his room as soon as he realized the others were preparing for a party. That had been hours ago.
A splash, followed by peals of laughter and a brief rainstorm. Holy Roller must have joined Diver in the pool.
He tried to put food out of his mind and opened a bookmark for the network's American Hero website. Wally had stopped watching the show. At first, he'd tried to watch the dailies in the TV room with the other discards, but he might as well have been ice fishing, it got so cold down there. Even Holy Roller, who seemed like a nice enough guy, had taken to saying things like, "As you have done unto to the least of my brethren," every time he saw Wally. So Wally stuck to himself and got his information about the show off the web.
Huh. The new arrivals had been close to winning the latest challenge until Rosa got a good draw from that magic picture card deck of hers. They had a picture of the winning card on the website. It was called "El Tragafuegos"—whatever that meant—and it showed a fellow with fire coming out of his mouth. Wally didn't know what to make of this, except that it had cleared the way for the final three contestants, Curveball, Rosa, and Stuntman. Mighta been me up there, but for what he said I said.
It didn't matter. Curveball was a shoo-in. Lots of people said as much, too. They said tons of stuff on the message boards. Stuff like:
Why is Rustbelt with the other discards at all? I can't believe they're still letting him participate after—
CLICK.
Stuntman might be an arrogant jerk, but Rustbelt is a racist, plain and simple, and—
CLICK.
Rustbelt-Redneck hick.
CLICK.
The New Face of Racism. This one was just the one line, followed by an image of Wally's publicity head shot from the American Hero press package Photoshopped onto the cover of Time magazine.
CLICK.
The next one started out: You go, Toolbelt! You got friends out here . . .. Finally. Friends were friends, even if they didn't always get the name right. Drummer Boy had a knack for giving people catchy nicknames. Wally kept reading: . . . you done nothing wrong but put that spear-chukkin' jungle bunny in his place—
CLICK.
What's worse than being loved by hateful people?
Tiffani's throaty laugh came through a lull in the music, just as Wally took a long pull on his glass of pop. Something about the Candle trying to light Toad Man's gas. It startled him. The glass shattered in Wally's fist, dousing his face and hands with sugar water.
"Cripes!"
He'd have to scrub his face before going to bed, otherwise he'd break out in new rust spots by morning. This time he'd try to remember to clean the bathroom sink afterward. Nobody got mad at Pop Tart for leaving her makeup stuff all over the bathroom, but they sure got sore when he left his used SOS pads on the sink.
A guy would think they never scrubbed a pot before.
He'd been a pimply kid before his card had turned. Turns out you can have bad skin even when that skin is living iron.
Hunger got the better of him. I wonder if they got any of them Rice Krispies bars downstairs? Maybe he could just slip out long enough to fill up a plate.
K-chank! K-chank! K-chank! K-chank!
It's hard to tiptoe when you're three hundred fifty pounds and wrapped in inch-thick iron. But Wally was getting better at it, skulking around the Discard Pile.
Chank. Chank. Chank. Chank.