Free Dream Paris by Tony Ballantyne Page A

fled. There will be people still hiding, though. Scavengers, snipers, people with battle shock, people who simply don’t know where to go.”
    “Snipers?”
    “They…”
    He jerked to a sudden halt, staggered backwards a couple of steps, arms flung forward for balance. I turned and saw a group of monkeys holding onto the wire. They laughed as they saw us and gave the wire another yank before darting towards the closest terrace, scrambling up the vines to safety.
    “How long are you going to wear that pack for?” I asked. “It seems a bit ridiculous, trailing a wire behind you.”
    “I have my orders,” said Francis. “I’m to map out as much territory as possible.”
    “You’re not going to map out much territory with the monkeys tugging you back.”
    “I can deal with the monkeys.”
    As he said that a plum splattered on the pavement, just by his feet. Red juice splashed outwards. Three more plums followed it, the last hitting him square on the face.
    “Excellent monkey handling skills,” I observed.
    “Come on.”
    We continued down the street, the monkeys keeping pace on the rooftops, occasionally sending fruit spattering down onto the pavement near us. And then we heard the voice.
    “ Help me! Please, please help me! ”
    The sound of the monkeys stopped immediately. We stood, listening, in the afternoon stillness. The voice sounded again.
    “ Help me! Please, please help me! ”
    “She sounds terrified,” said Francis.
    “It sounds odd. Could it be a trap?”
    “ Help me! Please, please help me! ”
    Francis nodded. He raised a finger to his lips for silence.
    We crept down the suddenly silent road. My body was still damp from the waist down with canal water, above the waist I was drenched with sweat.
    “ Help me! Please, please help me! ”
    The voice came from a dark doorway yawning in the middle of the never-ending red terrace. Francis gestured to me to help him out of the backpack.
    “If this looks too dangerous, we’re not going in. It’s more important that I get you to Dream Paris.”
    “I get to Dream Paris anyway. Haven’t you read my fortune?”
    Francis entered the doorway. I followed him into the cracked hallway of the abandoned house. Grass grew on the carpet, vines sprouted from the ceiling, choking the light bulb. A picture of a crying girl hung on the wall.
    There was a doorway at the end of the hallway. A creaking noise came from beyond.
    “ Help me! Please, please – ”
    Francis leaped through the door.
    Almost immediately, he flung himself backward, crashing into me. Dark metal jaws snapped shut just inside the room.
    “What the…” I began. It looked like the jaws of a mantrap, but much much bigger.
    “Run!”
    Francis pushed me onwards, the snapping noise of metal close behind. Out from the gloom into the butterscotch daylight. Out across the rubble-strewn road. There was a shriek of scraping metal. Francis and I turned to see something made from dark iron half-emerge from the doorway to the house. A brass speaker horn hanging underneath the shape whistled and then spoke once last time.
    “ Please, please help me! ”
    The shape withdrew back into the shadows of the house. There was a slow clicking as the trap was reset.
    In the desperate silence that followed I found myself longing even for the chatter of the monkeys. Sat in that street, the endless red terrace running by us, I became aware of a tremendous emptiness. This was a dead city.
    Eventually, Francis found his voice.
    “What the hell was that?”
    “I don’t know,” I said, close to tears. “They didn’t have them in Dream London that I remember!”
    “It looked like a crocodile!”
    I don’t think he was quite right. To my eyes, it looked more like a printing press.
    As he spoke we heard a faint call from half way down the street.
    “ Help me! Please, please help me! ”
    “What? Another one?”
    Francis began pulling on his backpack.
    “We can’t stay here,” he said. “We need to get out