The Doomsday Vault by Steven Harper

Some days he didn’t earn the two pennies it cost him to get to the theater district and back. Some days it rained, preventing him from playing at all. The dampness in the cellar finally forced him to buy a blanket, which ate up several days’ money. He had to buy food, of course. And sleeping in the cellar seemed to stop his back from healing completely. Every afternoon he jerked awake, stiff and sore, every muscle on fire. He never woke slowly or peacefully anymore, not since his encounter with Madoc Blue and the first mate’s lash. One day he spent nine pence at an apothecary’s, and the medicine helped with the pain, but only for a time, and then he was right back where he started. Gavin was beginning to feel desperate. Eventually, spring and summer would end, bringing the chill winds of winter. He would be in deep trouble then.
    One soft afternoon in Hyde Park, he had managed to wash up a bit in one of the ponds and was feeling a little better. Gavin’s skin itched terribly under his clothes—he hadn’t even rinsed them since the Juniper. Maybe today he would catch sight of the Red Velvet Lady. She had shown up twice more with her automaton to listen to him, and both times he had found a shilling in his case, though she never said a word. If she came today, maybe he’d use the money to visit a bathhouse and have his clothes laundered to boot.
    A fog rolled in from the Thames and mixed with the ever-present coal smoke from the chimneys and streetlamps, creating a thick yellow mist that covered the park in a sulfurous cloak. Gavin sighed as he walked. So much for optimism. Fewer people would be out in weather like this—the chill kept people indoors and lack of sunlight let the plague zombies roam. The damp also worsened his back. Clip-clop hooves and quiet voices mingled with the mist, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. Men in coats and women in wide dresses ghosted in and out of view. The itching under Gavin’s coat was growing worse, and he pulled his jacket off to scratch vigorously once he arrived at his usual corner.
    At that moment, a commotion broke out somewhere in the distance. A woman squawked in fear or outrage. Voices shouted, and a pistol shot rang out. Gavin froze. Footsteps pounded down the walkway toward him, and out of the yellow mist emerged a boy a year younger than Gavin. With a start, Gavin realized he was Oriental and dressed in a red silk jacket and wide trousers. He tore down the footpath with angry voices coming behind him, their owners still hidden by fog. The boy skidded to a halt in front of Gavin and grabbed his elbow.
    â€œHelp me!” the boy begged in a light Chinese accent. “Please!”
    Gavin didn’t pause to think. He pushed the boy to the ground in a crouch and flung his filthy jacket over him. Then he sat down on the boy’s covered back and opened his fiddle case just as half a dozen angry-looking men came into view, sliding out of the mist like sharks from murky water.
    â€œWhere’d the little Chink go, boy?” one of them snarled. He brandished a pistol.
    Gavin could feel the boy shaking beneath him. “That way, sir,” he said, pointing down a random path.
    The man flipped Gavin a small coin as the others tore off. Gavin caught the coin and pulled his fiddle from its case as if nothing interesting had happened. The boy didn’t move. Once the noises of pursuit died away, the boy shifted a bit.
    â€œDon’t,” Gavin murmured. He set bow to strings and played as if he were simply perched on a rock covered by his jacket. Not much later, the men materialized out of the mist again.
    â€œDid the little bastard come back here?” the man with the pistol demanded.
    Gavin shook his head and continued playing a bright, happy tune, though his fingers felt shaky. The men conferred a moment, then rushed off in another direction. When their footsteps and voices had faded completely, Gavin whipped