City of Night

of oaks.
    When they had descended two thirds of the open slope between the oaks and the Southern pines, they put down the suitcases and faced back the way they had just come.
    “Gotta get the feel of the beast,” Carson said.
    “One pop with each, and then out of here before park security comes looking.”
    The sloping earth before them would both stop the bullets from traveling and prevent ricochets.
    They took two-hand grips on their Eagles and squeezed off shots all but simultaneously. The reports were loud , war-zone loud.
    Gouts of earth and grass marked the impact, as if two invisible and furious golfers had clubbed divots from the turf.
    Carson felt the recoil knock all the way back to her shoulder sockets; but she had kept the muzzle down.
    “Loud enough for you?” Michael asked.
    “You ain’t heard nothing yet,” she said, holstering the Eagle.
    They swung up their shoulder-slung shotguns, and the twin blasts were thunderclaps that shivered the air and seemed even to vibrate in the ground beneath their feet.
    “Feel good?” he asked.
    “Felt sweet.”
    “A slug like that would take off a man’s leg.”
    “Maybe not one of their legs.”
    “Whatever it does to them, it won’t leave them smiling. Better move on.”
    They shouldered the shotguns once more, picked up the suitcases, and walked briskly into the warm shadows among the pines.
     
     
     

Chapter 34
     
    Cindi Lovewell parked the Mountaineer along side the service road, a hundred yards behind the unmarked police sedan, switched off the engine, and put down the windows.
    “They’re not in the car,” Benny said. “Where do you think they’ve gone?”
    “They probably went into the woods to urinate,” Cindi said. “Their kind don’t have our degree of control.”
    “I don’t think that’s it,” Benny said. “As I understand their biology, Old Race men don’t usually have urinary-control problems until they’re old enough to have really enlarged prostates.”
    “Then maybe they, went into the woods to make a baby.”
    Benny counseled himself to be patient. “People don’t make babies in the woods.”
    “Yes, they do. They make babies everywhere. In woods, in fields, on boats, in bedrooms, on kitchen tables, on moonlit beaches, in the bathrooms aboard airliners. They’re making babies everywhere, all the time, millions and millions of new babies every year.”
    “Their method of reproduction is crude and inefficient, when you think about it,” Benny said. “The tanks are a better system, cleaner and more manageable.”
    “The tanks don’t make babies.”
    “They make productive adult citizens,” Benny said. “Everyone is born in a condition to serve society. That’s so much more practical.”
    “I like babies,” Cindi said stubbornly.
    “You shouldn’t,” he warned.
    “But I do. I like their tiny fingers, their cute little toes, their squinchy red faces, their little toothless grins. I like how soft they feel, how they smell, how they—”
    “You’re obsessing again,” he said nervously.
    “Benny, why don’t you want a baby?”
    “It’s a violation of everything we are ,” he said exasperatedly. “For us, it would be unnatural. All I want, really want, is to kill some people.”
    “I want to kill some people, too,” she assured him.
    “I’m not sure you really do.”
    She shook her head and looked disappointed in him. “That’s so unfair, Benny. You know I want to kill people.”
    “I used to think you did.”
    “I can’t wait for the day we can kill all of them. But don’t you also want to create?”
    “Create? No. Why would I? Create? No. I don’t want to be like them , with their babies and their books and their business empires—”
    Benny was interrupted by two almost simultaneous explosions, hard and flat, distant but unmistakable.
    “Gunfire,” Cindi said.
    “Two rounds. From beyond those pines.”
    “Do you think they shot each other?” she asked.
    “Why would they shoot each other?”
    “People do. All the time.”
    “They didn’t shoot each other,” he said, but he was expressing a hope rather than a conviction.
    “I think they shot each other.”
    “If they shot each other,” he said, “I’m going to be pissed.”
    Two more reports, again almost simultaneous, but louder than the others and characterized by a hollow roar rather than a flat bark, echoed out of the pines.
    Relieved, Benny said, “They didn’t shoot each other.”
    “Maybe somebody’s