Un Lun Dun

The UnSun was halfway across the sky, but Za

From the street under the bridge came a faint whistle.

“Did you hear that?” said Deeba. Curdle skipped back and forward.

“Oy,” someone below shouted. The voice was very faintly audible.

“No,” said Za

“Something’s coming,” Za

“What’s happened?” Za

Helped up the slope of the Pons Absconditus was a binja. Its metal was cracked, and bleeding a tarry goo.

“We’re under attack!” a Propheseer said. “The binja were ambushed! Thank goodness they heard something.”

From the empty street where the bridge touched down, several other binja were coming. They walked backwards, weapons up, guarding the end of the bridge.

“They’re watching both ends,” Mortar said. “No one should be able to get past us.”

“I thought no one could get on the bridge,” Za

“Well no one’s supposed to,” he snapped. “But no system’s perfect. That’s what the binja are for. Just in case.”

The binja congregated in front of their injured friend and the cowering Propheseers. They stood with weapons ready. They waited.

And waited.

“So…where are they?” Deeba whispered.

There were tiny whispering noises. The Propheseers and the binja looked frantically around.

“There!” said Za

Meters behind them, in the center of the bridge by the office, grappling hooks were soaring up from below, trailing ropes. They coiled around the girders.

“A trick!” Lectern said.

“They know they can’t get on from either end,” said Mortar, “but now it can’t shake them off…they’ve snared the middle. Quick!”

Tumbling like acrobats, the dozen binja ran to fend off the intruders. But even as they reached the little maze of desks and cupboards, dark and horrifying figures were clambering over the bridge’s side.

The intruders outnumbered the binja. They wore dirty jumpsuits, rubber boots, and gloves. They aimed hoses like guns. What chilled Za

They wore bags of canvas or leather over their entire heads. Their eyes were smoked glass circles. The masks dangled rubber tubes like elephant trunks, stretching to cylinders like divers’ tanks on their backs, covered with oil and dirt, and stenciled with biohazard and danger signs.

“Oh my God!” hissed Za

Lectern had gone pale.

“Lord help us,” she whispered. “Stink-junkies.”

25. The Addicted Enemy

The stink-junkies were people the Smog had caught and, horribly, forced to breathe it. It synthesized powerful mind-altering drugs with its chemicals, shoved them into its captives’ lungs, and took them over. If they were conscious it was in a deep dream. They would do anything the Smog made them do, while they breathed it. The stink-junkies were the Smog’s addict-slaves.

The binja came at them. Perhaps because the stink-junkies were such tragic figures, victims themselves, even the ruthless binja didn’t use their weapons. They attacked with chops, punches, and spi

They were not so restrained. Their hoses sprayed oily fire. The binja dived between jets of flaming Smog.

“Quick!” said Mortar, hustling Za

“You what?” wailed Deeba.

A binja was caught in a blaze. It slammed down its lid to protect its eyes, and retracted its arms and legs. The flame licked harmlessly over its metal body.

“Where are we going?” Lectern shouted.

“Anywhere,” Mortar said. The stink-junkies were getting closer. “Let’s go!”

“Where?” said Za

She turned, her fists clenched; she stamped, looking halfway between petulant and impressive. She grabbed a slat from one of the broken chairs and raised it like a club.

“Just leave me alone!” she shouted, and ran towards the fight.

“Za