Read Finch by Jeff VanderMeer for Free Online Page A

Hoegbotton courier. Not as a detective.
When he worked for Wyte, not with him.
    Am I dead? he thought sometimes, walking down that green carpet
he remembered from a different city, a different time. Am I a ghost?
    Six in the afternoon. Time to leave. He packed Heretic's list in
a satchel and holstered his miserable gun. Watched Blakely and
Gustat put on spore gas masks "just in case." Just in case of what? Just in case there's one fungus in the whole damn city you haven't been
exposed to yet?

    A nod. A handshake or two. Muttered goodbyes to Wyte. Then they
dispersed. The night shift would arrive soon. Partial patrols outside
started in only two hours. Curfew. Gray caps lurking. You rarely saw
more than one, but that was one too many. A detective's badge might
help or it might not.
    The others headed north, up Albumuth. Wyte was a hulking shadow
hanging back at the rear. Finch went south, but not home. Not yet.
First, he had to pick up the memory bulbs from the crime scene. But
he also had decided not to trust the Partial. Wanted to interview some
of the residents of 239 Manzikert Avenue himself.
    A different route than that morning. Late-afternoon sun like
dark gold against brick walls. The street sloped on an incline before
following a gentle curve downward. Tight high walls of shovedtogether tenements and lofts. Hoegbotton territory, before the Rising.
Finch brushed by a man or woman covered up in robes. Another
person ducked into a doorway, face made a question mark by an old
gas mask that might or might not keep spores out. Stain of blue-green
lichen in the gutter. A rancid quality to the air.
    Faintest hint of the bay from the cross street. Mostly obscured by
mansards and rubble. Glimpse of the two towers. Did the sky match?
Or was it darker between the towers? Had a bet going with the other
detectives about the purpose of the towers. To dull the fear.
    A hint of shadow moved behind him as he rounded a tight
corner. It made him cautious. It made him paranoid. He stopped a
minute later. Pretended to tie his shoe. Managed a backward glance.
Nothing.
    Imagined it?
    Wouldn't put it past Heretic to have him followed. Or maybe it was
just some ragged kid hoping to mug a passerby. As he rose, Finch made
sure to pull his jacket back. To show his gun. Such as it was.
    239 Manzikert Avenue was a dark vertical slab of stone and wood
with blackened filigree balcony railings crawling up the front. Trees left black leaves and rotting yellow berries on the steps. If the berries
had been edible, the steps would've been clean.

    Ornate double doors stripped of the metal that had once served as
inlay. Steps guarded by a three-legged cat that hissed. Then hopped
away. Beyond the doors, a hallway studded with lights so dim it would've
been hard to read by them. Finch stepped inside. The feeling of being
followed shut off. Like it'd been attached to a timer inside of him.
    The floor squeaked. Freshly waxed. It hadn't been waxed in the morning.
Finch smiled. Old Hoegbotton trick. Cheap security. Bell the cat. He went
squeaking to the stairwell. Already knew the elevator didn't work.
    The outside light couldn't seem to push through the tiny windows
set into the walls. The stairwell got darker the further up he went.
But, gradually, more evidence of people. A dog howling. The flushing
of a shared toilet. A screaming child. A mother's raised voice. The
smell of something spicy being cooked for dinner. Filtered through
the exhausted, stale funk of a place in which too many had lived in
close quarters for too many years.
    Finch knew not to start on the first couple of floors. No one liked to
live that low if they had a choice. Ambergris Rules. Better to live next to a
corpse than one floor above the gray caps' underground realm. His father
had taught him that.
    Stopped at the fourth floor. Just to be safe. Fourth or sixth. Anyone
on the fifth was long gone. Either after the corpse arrived and before the