Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

“Everything,” said Nico. “They’re the real evil that needs to be rooted out. This place needs to be leveled, brought down to its foundations. That’s what the Chapeaux Noirs are all about: a clean slate for the Industrial Wastes. Wipe out the oppressors, the wreckers, the looters. Finis.”

“That’s what the Chapeaux Noirs are all about: a clean slate for the Industrial Wastes. Wipe out the oppressors, the wreckers, the looters. Finis.”

“Good for you,” pressed Rachel. “But where are our friends? The blind man and the girl. You didn’t answer that question.”

“Somewhere,” said Nico, sounding unperturbed by Rachel’s impatience. “Somewhere deep in Titan Tower, would be my guess. Seems like Wigman has a keen interest in your friends. That is, if they’re still alive.”

A few kids gasped at this. Michael waved his hands dismissively. “I think you’re just trying to scare us,” he said. “Why would this guy want to kill them?”

“Oh, believe me,” said Nico. “Brad Wigman? He’s done worse things. Much worse things.”

“Say they are alive,” said Rachel, “and they’re in the tower. How do we get to them?”

“Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? The place is impregnable. Ringed by an ever-changing phalanx of guards, an uncrackable security system. Il est impossible.” The man did this, peppered his speech with little French phrases, causing the younger among the Unadoptables to look confusedly at their elders. He didn’t seem remotely French.

“Are you, like, the boss of your—whatever you call it?” asked one of the children.

Nico laughed. “No. The Chapeaux Noirs have no leaders. Like I said, we’re an anarcho-syndicalist collective. Decisions are made by committee.”

“But can you help us get Carol and Martha back?” Rachel said, ignoring the man’s jargon. “I don’t care about your committee, your collective.”

“Rachel,” said Elsie, frowning at her sister. “Don’t be rude.”

“We’re all getting ahead of ourselves here, I think,” said Nico. “You guys look hungry. Are you hungry?”

A few of the younger kids nodded. It was true: They’d been living off grainy mush and table scraps for weeks now. Elsie’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food.

“Why don’t you come with me, back to our place?” said Nico. “Let’s see if we can’t get some food in these bellies. What do you say, champ?” This last question he directed to Michael, who, in the interim, had sat down in the chair where the black-clad man had so recently been restrained. The teenaged boy held his forehead in his hand, as if grappling with some bigger concern, like the weight of adulthood was pushing into him like the squeezing of a vise.

The following morning, once they’d determined that the stevedores were well and truly gone, Nico led a contingent of Unadoptables out of their warehouse and into the light of the graying sun, filtered through the seemingly permanent cloud of haze in this cold, clamorous region. The Forgotten Place had returned to its normal level of quietude, with only the faraway noises of industry coloring the air. Most of the children elected to stay behind, to mind the warehouse against any further intrusions, with t

he promise that the voyaging party would bring back food, preferably sweets too, to nourish their empty stomachs.

The man in the black hat led them through a boxy labyrinth of burned-out structures, areas with which the children were familiar from their scavenging expeditions. Soon, however, they traveled past the pale of their territory and into the heart of the inhabited Wastes themselves. Here they traveled carefully, with Nico scouting the horizon while the children remained behind cover, waiting for the man’s all clear. They arrived after a time at a dip in the ground where a giant concrete pipe belched effluent into a stagnant green pond.

“Let me guess,” said Michael, coming up behind Nico. “We go that way.”

“Intelligent,” said Nico, dipping into French again.

Elsie blanched. She’d joined Rachel on the trip, despite her older sister’s objections. She wanted to see the meeting place of this strange organization, the Chapeaux Noirs, and the comrades of the mysterious man who’d stumbled into their lives. Five other kids, including Cynthia Schmidt, rounded out the party. The youngest Mehlberg watched the brownish-green liquid pouring from the tall pipe and stifled a gag.

“Hold your noses, mes enfants,” said Nico.

One by one, they followed the man into the pipe, straddling the torrent of filth and holding their breath until they’d passed a branch that came in from the right, the source of the fast-flowing stuff. Beyond that point, the going was relatively dry, though the smell remained ever-present. Shafts of light played across the dirty surface, shining down from conduits in the ceiling of the pipe every fifty feet or so. The pipe broke away in many directions, and Elsie felt dizzied by the number of times they’d changed directions in the maze of the sewers. Finally, the channel they were following ended abruptly and the party found themselves high on a wall overlooking a large, subterranean chamber; the room was cold but dry and lit by small, caged electric lights affixed to the brick walls. A few rusted pieces of machinery stood at one end of the room, suggesting some sort of long-abandoned water treatment plant. Nico led the children down a tall ladder to the floor of the room; he stretched mightily after having been forced to walk stooped for so long. He then ambled over to an iron door in the wall and rapped out an elaborate knocking pattern on the surface.

Within moments, a voice sounded from behind the door.

“Qui is it?” asked the voice. “Qu’est-ce que c’est the password?”

“Je t’aime, Brigitte Bardot,” answered Nico.

“Bon,” said the voice. A pause followed, and then the door was pulled noisily open by the person within. He was a skinny soul, dressed identically to Nico in black turtleneck and beret, and he fixed Nico with a look of amazement. “We gave you up for dead!” he exclaimed, sizing up his comrade as if he were a risen spirit. “They said the stevedores had you cornered!”

Nico laughed. “I’m not that easy of a catch, Augustin.” He gestured to the seven children behind him, crowding in to see whom he was talking to. “These are the Unadoptables. Or some of them, at any rate. I’d be dead if it weren’t for them. They’re living in a warehouse in the old Science and Research Division. Living off scraps. They escaped Unthank’s last February. They were the ones who burned the place to the ground. Carbonisé.”

The Unadoptables looked at one another uncertainly, curious as to how this sort of news would be received. They were happy to see a wide smile break across Augustin’s face. “C’est bon,” he said. “Born saboteurs.”

“They saved my life,” continued Nico. “I owe them a decent meal, at the very least.”