“To the hole … in the wall…” Houjin puffed. “Trust me … would you?”

“Ain’t got much choice right now, do I?”

“You could find your way back to Sizemore without me.”

Rector said, “Maybe,” and was almost surprised when he realized it was true, never mind that he’d just threatened to do exactly that. He panted back at Houjin, “But you look like … you need … a hand. And I wanna know … what you want to set on fire.”

“The hole.”

“You want to set … the hole … on fire?”

“Not right now … but later. You’ll see … what I mean…”

They stashed the diesel fuel behind a stack of stones that had been blown off the wall. They hid it with a few extras, and now that they were away from the park and the tower, they rested. Houjin marked the spot with a small pyramid of rocks.

“What’s that for?”

“So we can find it later, or tell other people how to find it. Come on, let’s get back to the Station and hand off this dynamite. I don’t think the Doornails will take too kindly to us stashing it down in their living quarters, but Yaozu has places he can keep it.”

Chapter 25

Twenty-five

Rest didn’t come easy for anyone that night. More than a few people stayed up and worried, or went out to the Station hunting for news. And the men who worked out at the Station—most of them known for violence and a disinclination to be friendly—chatted nervously with the Doornails and Chinamen alike about where they’d found the dynamite and how much damage it might’ve done, had they not unhooked it and stashed it someplace safer.

They replaced everything they found with forgeries made out of pebbles wrapped in paper. These false sticks wouldn’t fool anyone on close inspection, but Yaozu didn’t think the tower men were likely to double-check them. After all, he’d given the order that the lines must be left in place—and the lines were long, some running as much as four or five blocks in length.

Everyone was counting on the fact that the tower men did not intend to come any closer to the Station than necessary.

Rector’s sleep in his new room was as restless as everyone else’s; he tossed and turned, and dreamed badly—of rotters and inexplicable monsters, and of Zeke’s ghost—but Zeke wasn’t dead, and that’s how he knew he was dreaming. He shook himself awake and heard the high-pitched fuss of the fox in the room down the hall … which wasn’t much more pleasant than the dreams of things that wanted to eat him.

But he was awake, and there was nothing to be done about it.

He pulled on his boots and listened to the unhappy creature until it quieted, and its vocalizations were replaced with the soft, muttering syllables of someone speaking gently.