Poetry's Price

Nib retains possession for a mere thirty-two days. In the dark hours between midnight and false dawn on the thirty-third day, two black vans roll east across the Burnside Bridge. Their intrusion does not go unmarked.

Runners spread the alarm. Soon, every crew working the streets knows that the goons are on the prowl. But not everyone is on the streets. Some are asleep in their beds, dreaming of other cities and other times.

The vans roll to a silent halt outside a certain abandoned building. Eight men wearing black uniforms swarm from the vehicles. All are heavily armed. Two men carry between them a steel battering ram.

A pair of watchers fades back into the shadows. They can do no good here. It’s already too late for any poor bastards trapped inside.

The GovCorp agents move as a team, silent and efficient. The street door halts them for no more than a minute. One man kneels and inserts tools into the lock. The door opens. Black uniforms flow through the doorway and up the stairs, battering ram leading the way.

Less than ten minutes later, the eight men reappear. Two agents drag a ninth man, Alan Seager, AKA Nib. Seager slumps between them, his wrists shackled behind his back.

A hood conceals his bleeding face. Black hood, pale flesh, once-white underwear. He is barefoot. Concrete abrades the flesh of his toes, and they begin to bleed.

The men hurl Seager into the back of a van. Four men climb in after. Doors slam. The rest of the agents pile into the second van. The drivers accelerate into the darkness, heading for the Burnside Bridge.

Nib battles the panic knotting his guts. He’s suffocating under this goddamn hood. The van lurches around a corner, rolling Nib across cold steel. A hard boot shoves his body away. Handcuffs cut into his wrists and his fingers are already numb. Nausea rises into his throat. He gathers the last shreds of willpower and forces himself to breathe.

Jangled thoughts argue in his aching skull.

You vomit in this hood, you die. So what? The goons found the book. I’m as good as dead right now. Yeah, but you don’t want to die choking on your own puke. What went wrong? Like it matters. Too many links in the chain. Someone got greedy, or careless, or stupid. That’s all it takes, one slip, a wrong word. Water under the fucking bridge. Better think about the time you have left, pal.

Nib curses aloud inside the stinking hood and gets another kick for his trouble. Then a sharp jab in the flesh of his arm. He sinks into a sea of nightmares.

Darkness and cold, then a horrible light, stark and burning. Demons clutch at his flesh, drag him through black caves, then more white light. The dark was better. Nib tries to hide, but the demons won’t let him go. They taunt and torture him, poking their claws into his tender flesh.

Then his tormentors vanish, and Nib is alone, sailing upward into a soft glow. He is dying, this must be dying, but he is beyond caring.

The soft glow wavers, swirling in and out of focus. Nib is alone in a room bathed in warm light. Dark carpets on the floor and bookshelves on every wall. And books, thousands of books stacked floor to ceiling. Heaven is a library! He smiles, closes his eyes, and the room disappears.