You wouldn't think being a bank manager would be much help in a survival situation, and in most cases you'd be right, not this time though. The bank is the perfect hide out. Who wants money now? It's just useless electronic digits and paper notes only good for getting a fire going. I take the back alley to the car park and pass the dumpster I filled with $100 bills and punch the access code. Lower staffers had their own pin but I erased that on day one. I put the kid on his feet and he blinks at the gloom, after the bright light of the afternoon it takes some getting used to, but at least it's not the relentless dark of the subway. It's clean too, spacious. No heating of course, but I stock-piled clothing and tinned goods in the vault. He reaches out for my hand and I offer him my fingers to grip. How odd that I'm all he has now, inept me, never so much as babysat before. We're an unlikely pair too, me albino and him so African-American.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
...The underground sky-train station springs to mind, Waterfront. Months ago it was a high status hide out for an early gang. They had everyone in an iron grip until the Running Blades bombed the place. All that neoclassical architecture now an unusable shell. The roof more porous than the arsoned church. The rain pours in unfettered and the wind howls around what’s left of the structure. But the stairs to the lower platform are still there. It’s dark and the old trains offer a wealth of hiding opportunities. But best of all it’s just a stone’s throw from the market. It’s there I head now, better by far to be safely hidden before the traders begin to set up for the day...
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
The rest of the world sees a bush of no importance, but years ago it was the headquarters of the most desirable gang in town - or at least in the local elementary school. The five of us took a pair of shears and trimmed away the lower branches, the higher ones cascade to the ground anyway like some imitation weeping willow. The ground under there was so muddy we put down one of Jimmy's mom's blankets, he says she still mentions that from time to time. She said his grandmother made it and apparently "So it was free?" was the wrong answer. Jimmy never was the brightest.
We'd never fit in there now, but I can still remember us huddled in there discussing vitally important things - none of which I can remember now. I've told my old folks they can do what they want with the yard, but apparently that shrub is sacred. Moms says sometimes she swears she can hear us still giggling in there. I give her the "raised-eyebrow-look" and she clips me round the ear if she can reach. I told my son it was our hide-out and he gave me a look of comedic pity, apparently hiding in the shrubbery isn't cool anymore.