Free Vurt 2 - Pollen by Jeff Noon Page B

pointing to a lonely pin stuck into the map, into the Limbo out beyond Littleborough, north-east of the city, where the map went fuzzy with bad knowledge. Blackstone Edge. Just beneath the pin, written in a doggy hand, yesterday’s date, May 1, and a time, 4.00 a.m. Below that, a featherphone number.
    “I think you should call that number, Clegg,” I said.
    Clegg breathed in loudly, and then sneezed, sending the jar of nano-fleas flying. “Jesus-Dung! Look what you made me do now.” Already he was scratching at his fur.
    “I’m not saying this Boda killed him,” I said. “I’m just saying that she might have. Are we good cops, or not?”
    “You think we’re good cops?” Zero was itching from the flea-bites.
    “Can you get Columbus to download a picture of Boda for me? If Boda didn’t kill Coyote, she just might know who did. We can at least try.”
    “Kracker says no, Kracker says close it down. That’s it.”
    I couldn’t believe that Kracker and Zero Clegg were so mightily against searching for Boda. Surely that was the major route? Was something secret going on, some hidden cop-story? Or else was I just full of bad Shadows? Whatever, I was sure that I didn’t want Zero to see the taxi-dog’s diary.
    “Kracker’s the master,” Zero was saying. “He’s the boss. And there’s more important things on his files. Xcabs are complaining about Gumbo YaYa again, about how he keeps breaking into the map-data. Kracker wants me on that trail.”
    “You think I’m worried about some old hippy, Zero?”
    “Who just happens to be breaking the law.”
    “I’ve got some strong feelings about this case, Zero.”
    “Keep them to yourself, and stop calling me Zero.” He couldn’t stop scratching at the jumping nano-fleas.
    “Give me one run at it, please. Let’s track down that map number. Are you going to help me?”
    “I came here with you, didn’t I? Shit. It’s a good job nobody fancies you, Smokey. They’d have a hell of a time keeping up.”
    I didn’t answer.
     
    Later that day, Zero drove out with me, North, to the dead places. There were flowers growing from the tarmac as we travelled through the city of Manchester, and tribes of dogs gathering at our heels. The air was heavy with pollen messages. Zero was sneezing and scratching as he stuffed a blue phone-feather into his jaws. He called up the number listed on Coyote’s wall-map, and then told me that only static cracklings were answering him. And then he sneezed once again, and cursed the hayfever. This journey had caused some arguments, especially when I asked for a three-car patrol: one in front, one behind. And a heavy gun presence. All of which had met with refusal. Zero was playing it strong, saying that no Zombie fucker was going to mess with him. But I could see the fear in his eyes, especially as we moved through the mutant tribes of North Manchester. “Jesus-Dog!” he said to me. “What’s up with the world these days? Nobody’s just themselves anymore. Jesus, will you look at that! You see that creature there, Smokey? What the hell is that? Fucking mutant!” This last shouted through the window.
    “You know what, Zero?” I answered. “They say that some of them have even got Dog inside them.”
    “Yeah, well… that’s a cheap shot, Smokey. Dog-Christ! It makes you wonder just how bad Zombies are.”
    Then we came to the northern gate of the city, outgoing, a giant shell of a building where sparks flew from lightning rods, and the monster trucks were washed down for Zombie travellers. We nudged the car into a waiting line behind an International Vaz transporter. Its back wheels loomed larger than the Fiery Comet, and City Guardsmen shone lasers under the truck’s carriage for illegal goods. Behind a wire fence I could see over to the incoming door, where tankers were being sprayed with anti-Zombie juice.
    The truck in front of us moved forward, and whilst Zero was feeding his cop-code to the guardian, a snarling came