Free Dead Americans by Ben Peek Page A

ride for the masses.”
    Twain’s gaze ran from man to woman that he passed, each of them unaware of his presence. Listening with half an ear, he said, “We’ve places like this back home, and they never hurt no one.”
    Cadi stopped, and gazed intently at him.
    Twain shrugged. “It’s true.”
    “So naïve, Mark Twain.” Cadi swept his hand along the storefronts beside them, and pointed down the street, where buildings ran in an endless line. “Why is it that nobody asks what fuels the city? Where is its heart, and what marked it? In Sydney, Kings Cross feeds off an act of violence that took place in 1788, shortly after the First Fleet arrived. Six convicts raped five Eora women in the swamp that was once here. It was here that what the English delivered in its fleet sunk into the ground, into the fabric of the land, and connected with the rotten umbilical cord that wormed out from its mother country. It killed the land. I saw this, and I could do nothing in response to it, until I learned to . . .”
    He held up his bony hands, and his skull opened in an attempt of an expression, smile or frown he did not know.
    Twain said, “It’s not a good thing, and it shouldn’t happen to anyone, but it doesn’t have to be like this.”
    “But it is.”
    “Are you—”
    Without warning, Twain was thrown to the ground, and a boot cracked into his temple, sending him reeling.
    Struggling, Twain felt his feet grabbed, and he was dragged to the side of the street. Legs passed him, people walking, uncaring, while the dark, bony legs of Cadi were just at the edge of his consciousness. He struggled, crying out, and in response, he was slung around, his head smacking loudly into the brick wall.
    A rough, white, young face shot into his view, and snarled, “Money!”
    Twain shook his head. How to explain that this wasn’t real, that he wasn’t here, and that he was
Mark Twain!
    “Fucker!”
    Twain’s head exploded in pain, and he felt a second punch plunge wetly into his face. He sagged, and once again the boot caught him in the temple. He should have lost consciousness, should have faded into nothing, or perhaps another scene, but he didn’t; instead he saw the young man furiously search his pockets, ripping the wallet and money out, and then, glancing down at his boots, tore them off too.
    Without a backward glance, the boy turned, and ran down the street, the flow of people continuing past the fallen Twain.
    “This is real,” Cadi said from above him. “It is happening right now. It happens every day in Sydney. The dark amusement ride that is the beat of the city spreads itself out in acts like daylight robbery, sold drugs that kill, underage prostitution, and worse. You could not imagine what is worse. And it is kept alive not by the people, but by the scarred heart that beats here, in Kings Cross.”
    Cadi’s bony arms reached down, and helped Twain to his feet. Glancing behind him, he saw a young, dark haired Asian man lying on the ground, blood pouring from his face, his skull split open.
    “He will die,” Cadi said flatly.
    Twain did not respond. He felt sick and wanted to vomit, but knew that he would not, knew that there was more to be shown to him. In response to his silent acceptance of continuing, Cadi led him to a green door in the side of a building.
1802.
    Pemulwy had begun, after the battle of Burramatta, to think of the land around the Harbour as Sydney Cove.
    It pained him to think of the Eora land in such as manner, but as he made his way through the darkness, he realized that it was not incorrect of him to think that way. The land no longer resembled anything from his youth: the stingrays were dwindling, the bush had been cut away, trees were replaced with crude buildings of wood and other, more sturdy buildings made from yellow sandstone. Nothing about the land he made his way through resembled the Eora land, with the exception of the Harbour itself, somehow retaining its purity, its strength