The Fall of Deadworld Omnibus Page 2

  I punched in the number and got the message: gimp staying at the RestEazy motel on Rothman, near the airport. He’d booked himself onto the 7.30 flight to Hugersfield, way up north. I was to stop him getting on that plane and gently remind him that he owed fifty kay in unpaid debts, a commitment he was freely welching on. Don’t cripple him, they said, just make him piss blood for a week. They gave me a brief description, and I could picture him instantly, since he was virtually identical to every other sadsack that I’d put the frightners on—tubby middle-management drone drowning in a wretched coke habit, and not even embezzlement to the tune of a quarter of a mil could keep him supplied in snow and ensure his girlfriend was happy and sufficiently far enough away from his wife. Dabney Krinkle was his name, like it mattered—I whale on one of them, I’ve whaled on them all.

  I had to book if I was to make it to the RestEazy before he checked out, so I ran and slid back into the car, burning rubber towards the freeway. The news broadcasts weren’t kidding about the traffic; the filter lanes were rammed nose to tail, and several of the drivers had given up entirely, abandoning their vehicles and fleeing along the hard shoulder. I still didn’t have a clear idea what had put a bug up so many people’s asses, and the pundits on the radio weren’t clarifying anything—I heard the word ‘coup’ several times, and listening between the lines, it sounded like some kind of military takeover at the heart of Justice Department. A damn quiet one if it was, since there hadn’t been any suggestion of small arms’ fire from what I’d seen... but who knew what was going on in the Grand Hall? Something was certainly scaring the locals, unless it was mass hysteria: I’d seen pack mentality in action before. If I’d had the time, I could’ve stopped someone and asked if they knew what the hell they were running from, but I suspected I would’ve got little sense in reply.

  Madness, I thought. I assumed it’d blow itself out by morning.

  I got off the freeway first chance I could and tore down the back roads instead. The newsreader was now listing areas of the city that were either off-limits or impassable, and it seemed like they were radiating out from the centre, sectors being shut down systematically. No wonder so many cits were bolting; they were being forced out towards the edges. Static crackled from the speakers, and before I could retune the radio, it went dead. Nothing was audible on any station other than a low hiss. That was disconcerting. Even the twenty-four-hour evangelist guy had been silenced, and not even the revelations about him and the fifteen-year-old had managed that. The car felt uncomfortably quiet and empty, and darkness was falling fast beyond the glass.

  I was driving parallel to the airport, I realised, but on the other side of the chainlink fence, nothing was stirring. No planes taking off or landing, no lights, no signs of life. It occurred to me that maybe all flights had been cancelled—grounding the aircraft sounded like the first sort of thing the military would do in the event of a governmental overthrow—and that I wouldn’t have to worry about catching the mark before he departed. The counter-argument in my head reasoned that Dabney possibly wouldn’t know that, and could still try to scurry away. I spotted the RestEazy and swung in to the kerb opposite the entrance, turned off the engine and leaned forward in my seat, arms on the wheel, confident I had a decent enough view.

  A family were throwing their suitcases in the back of a taxi while the dad was shouting at the harassed-looking driver. They eventually drove off in a cloud of exhaust fumes, destination who-knew-where. Beyond the doors, I could see further consternation in the lobby as arm-waving dweebs berated the receptionist, luggage piled around them. It seemed like everyone was getting the shit out of Dodge; or at least they wanted to and were being frustrated by the lack of transport options. I looked up at the motel façade and saw a few lights on in the windows, indicating some residents at least were staying put, then thumbed the number for the place into my cell, gleaned from the buzzing neon sign hanging off the corner. It took several unanswered calls and a couple of redials before a female voice finally responded with a barked expletive.

  I asked to be connected to Dabney’s room and the line hummed, then rang. I remained optimistic: she hadn’t said he’d checked out. The receiver was picked up after the sixth ring, though no one offered a greeting other than short, quiet breathing. I listened for a moment, waiting.

  “Dabney Krinkle?” I asked.

  No confirmation or denial, other than the breaths hitching up a notch. Then the line went dead. I scanned the front of the building again, watching the few illuminated squares that were the occupied rooms, and sure enough one blinked out seconds later. The spooked Mr Krinkle was on the move. I pocketed the cell and resumed my study of the main entrance, running his distinguishing characteristics through my head as I awaited his appearance.

  People were threading out now into the street, bags gripped tightly in fists, glancing around, wondering where the hell they were going to go. A trickle became a crowd and I sat up, worried I was going to miss him. My eyes roved over the sweaty, concerned faces, trying to zero in on my target. Seconds later I spotted him—tubby, white balding dweeb, glasses perched on his conk, snap!—and I wrenched open the car door, tracking him as he stumble-tripped along the sidewalk, away from the bulk of the others, briefcase clutched to chest, head turning left and right as if hoping to catch sight of another cab. I followed discreetly, the others paying me no heed, more important things evidently playing on their minds.

  I picked my moment just as he was well separated from the throng and crossing the shadowy junction with the RestEazy’s underground car park. I closed the distance in a matter of seconds, wrapped my arm around his neck, and pulled him further into the gloom; he was surprisingly light, and shock meant he offered little resistance. I pushed him up against a wall, satisfied we were alone, and hit him hard on the bridge of the nose, just enough to make the stars dance before his eyes. I always lead with a good pop to the face, gets them disorientated. He gasped, glasses went flying, and his legs buckled. I caught him and propped him back up. He didn’t let go of his briefcase though, I noticed. I gave him a couple of quick slaps to get him to focus.

  Now I had his attention, I could go to work.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SLACK SUBSERVIENCE I kinda expected; nine times out of ten they lose all bravado the moment that first punch connects. The weeping… yeah, it goes with the territory. You always get your snot-noses, who think an attack of contrition is going to make you go soft on them. Usually the opposite in my case—I tend to get less sympathetic the more they blub. But this Krinkle dweeb, man, it was like he was on another planet; like he was barely there. I figured it for drugs at first, and wondered if anything I did was going to pierce whatever chemical haze he was hiding behind. Couldn’t have been coke—maybe he’d graduated to smack.

  “Do you know who sent me?” I said, his collar bunched in my right fist. He was looking at his feet, still clutching that damn briefcase, trembling slightly. I slammed him against the wall, gave him a backhand with the left. “You know why I’m here?”

  He was eerily quiet. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t make a sound. It was starting to creep me out a little bit, and today had been weird enough as it was. I gave him a couple of solid hits to the stomach that left him doubled over and retching, then a flathand to the ear that I knew would sting.

  “Answer me!” I snarled, losing my temper a tad, and got no response. I didn’t want to prolong this—like I say, I get no pleasure from strongarm work, and I wanted him to acknowledge that his actions were the reason why I was doing what I was doing. I glanced at the case and grabbed the handle, pulling it away from him. That got a reaction: he grunted in panic and tried to yank it back, an unsettling squeal issuing from his throat. I tugged harder, wrenching it free, then swung it upwards so the corner cracked against his temple. He staggered, then planted himself on the ground ass-first. Blood trickled from a cut below his eyebrow, which he made no attempt to stem.

  “Please… give that back
…” he breathed. “You don’t… understand…”

  “I understand that the Bushman wants his money, Dabney,” I replied, throwing the case down to one side. It was one of those sturdy plastic-shell jobs, but weighed next to nothing. It couldn’t have contained all of the several thou that he was owing. “You spent it all, is that it?”

  “What…?” Krinkle murmured, and met my gaze for the first time. There was confusion in his red-rimmed eyes, the first genuine hint of emotion that wasn’t passive compliance.

  “The Bushman—the gent that bankrolled your snort habit. He ain’t happy that you seem reluctant to repay your debt, and sent me as a reminder. What, you were hoping you could skip town and he wouldn’t notice?”

  He shook his head timidly and reached out towards the case, started crawling towards it. I tutted and put my foot on it, sweeping it along the ground out of his reach. He gave another wheedling cry of exasperation and screwed his eyes up tight, face turned towards the cold concrete. He was starting to do my head in, so I gently placed my boot on his still-outstretched hand and pressed down; he hissed in pain and started to struggle. I applied a little more pressure, and his cries rose in volume.

  “Listen to me,” I said evenly, making sure I had his attention. “Are you listening to me?” I ground my heel into his palm for a second to punctuate the question, then I leaned forward. “Pay the Bushman back. Pay him what you owe, you get me? ’Cause he’ll find you if you don’t, and he’ll send others that will make sure you never walk again—or worse, throw you off Ankrelli Point and leave you to the gulls.” I removed my foot and he snatched his hand back, cradling it in the other. I swiftly toed him in the ribs. “Pay him.”

  He was whimpering and shaking his head repeatedly, as if trying to deny that I existed. His lips moved slightly, but no recognisable words could be discerned. I had to admit it was a hell of a performance to get out of paying your due. Normally, they gabbled how sorry they were the moment you even threatened violence, and were all but reaching for their chequebooks before you’d so much as bloodied their noses. Not this fruitloop.

  “Dabney,” I sighed, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t do this to yourself. It’ll only get worse from here.”

  He continued to mewl like an animal caught in a trap. Nothing was getting through to him, and his decidedly odd behaviour was starting to piss me off. I stomped over to where the case lay and picked it up, shaking it as if it was an enticing Christmas box. He got more agitated when he saw me holding it, so I persisted. Something was inside—it rattled loosely—but the thing was combination-locked and wasn’t going to be opened easily. He shook his head harder as I turned the case over in my hands.

  “What is this, buddy?” I asked. “Huh? All that’s left of your stash?” The guy didn’t take his eyes off it as I tossed it from left to right. “Christ, how much of a habit do you have? You think maybe it’s time to quit?” For emphasis, I smashed it against the corner of the wall behind me. He shrieked so I did it again, and again. Noticing the catch buckling, I bounced it for a fourth time off the concrete, and the lid twisted up. A blister pack of vials came flying out onto the dirt. He scrambled for them, and I had to tear them from his grip to get a better look; they appeared lab-issue.

  An oh shit light blinked on at the back of my skull as I sucked hard on the cigarette, peering at them. The tip glowed in the darkness, illuminating a series of ten-digit product numbers stamped on the otherwise blank packaging. Krinkle was meant to be some no-mark furniture-store manager—where the fuck had these come from, and what was he doing with them? No way had he picked these up from a chemist.

  Trying to get an answer out of him was pointless, so I flicked the cigarette away and reached into the jerk’s jacket, fumbling for the inside pocket. He didn’t resist. I found his wallet and yanked it out, stepping away. I had a bad feeling about the situation. I kept half an eye on the guy still lying prone on the sidewalk—though he was making no attempt to move now; instead, he was simply watching me—and flipped it open. Inside was a modest amount of cash, and tucked near the front was his ID: a goofy photobooth pic glared back, next to which was the name Martin Stender.

  Crapsticks.

  I felt a bit woozy myself. I dropped the wallet, brain whirring. I’d got the wrong dude. Where the hell was Krinkle? Still back at the motel? Or had he vamoosed in the opposite direction while I’d been following this poor innocent sucker? I couldn’t understand how Stender matched the description I was given… but then I thought about how all these dingleberries look alike after a time, how they’re a certain type. This guy unfortunately fell into that certain physiological bracket, and was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The stars aligned briefly, and put me on collision course with him.

  Shit. Shit. I felt like I was losing it. Sickness churned in my guts like gravel. I’d never needed a drink quite as badly as I wanted one then. Never mind that I’d just violently assaulted a blameless bystander, the Bushman was also going to want to know whether Krinkle got his message, and right then I had no idea where he was—which was going to put me in the firing line. I’d screwed this up royally.

  “Ah. Look, man, I’m… I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve really fucked up. I thought you were… well, it doesn’t matter who I thought you were. I was mistaken.” I moved towards him. “Let me help you up.”

  Stender made no attempt to clasp the hand that I’d proffered, so I had to get my forearms under his pits to haul him upright. He jittered, uneasy on his feet, and I laid a palm on the small of his back to steady him. I saw his specs lying in the dirt, so picked them up, gave them a rub-down and handed them back. He was making a babyish breathing noise, so I passed him back the vials too, which he snatched out of my fingers and clutched to his chest.

  “I feel truly awful about this, I really do,” I said. “I got the wrong guy. It was dark, you kinda matched the description I was given… I probably should’ve made sure beforehand.” I glanced at him to see whether he was taking any of this in, and he looked as spaced out as ever. Any further apologies were going to be falling on deaf ears. “Can I… Can I get you home? Least I can do in the circumstances. You wanna go back to the motel, or I can drive you somewhere? All sortsa crazy out here right now, dunno if you noticed. Getting indoors might be the best place to be.”

  I genuinely felt bad for the sap. Poor ding-dong was clearly not all there, and I’d come along and beaten the tar out of him. This foul-up was on me, and now I felt responsible for keeping him safe. I doubted he was badly hurt—any bruising was going to be superficial—but nevertheless he’d feel better if he was off the streets.

  I asked him again where he was going when he left the motel, but he simply staggered forward, mouth opening and closing a fraction but nothing issuing forth. He fondled the vial pack like it was rosary beads. I went back to the battered briefcase, and shook out was left inside—another half dozen of the packs tumbled out, identical to the first, which I stuffed in my waistband and covered with my shirt before kicking the case into the shadows. Figured they were important to him, if no one else.

  I put my arm around his shoulders and had started to guide him forward when the whoop of a siren caught both our attention and we froze. I squinted at the headlights that were pinning us, their beams harsh in the dark. Two Justice Department Lawriders rolled up beside us, the Judges astride them for the moment just silhouettes etched out of the blackness.

  Fuck. Tonight just got better and better. I patted my jacket pocket, made sure my piece was hidden away from view, and stepped sideways from Stender. I had no intention of tangoing with the law.

  “Help you, officers?” I called out, exuding non-confrontational co-operation. It didn’t pay, in my experience, to antagonise the jays—they had a taste for brutality that they weren’t slow to indulge in. Litterers could find themselves with broken legs, thieves a crushed skull. They maintained order through fear and the ever-present threat of applied violence. Needless to say, the ranks were ro
tten to the core, and corruption was rife. I knew for a fact that the Bushman had several in his pocket, and were routinely employed to exterminate rival dealers and loan sharks.

  The Judges swung themselves off their bikes and approached. Something struck me as off even before they got close enough for me to see them clearly: they moved stiffly, and a little jerkily, like they were relearning how to walk. A pungent stench preceded them. I felt my throat go dry and my balls constrict as unease rippled through me. I immediately wished I was holding the gun.

  They came into view and queasy details coalesced. They were both helmeted but the skin that was visible between the collar of the uniform and visor looked rancid; open sores stippled their necks and lips, and the nose of one had been shorn off entirely, in its place a pair of black holes oozing mucus. When their mouths creased into sneers, their teeth and tongue were furred with green mould. An involuntary gasp caught in my chest, and I heard Stender whimper beside me. For a moment I was paralysed, rooted under the eyeless gaze of the two figures. I remember thinking I hoped to Christ they didn’t remove their helmets; I didn’t want to see what lay beneath.

  “That’s a look,” I said before I could stop myself. “Halloween come early this year, officers?”

  The smiles grew wider, cheeks splitting in unison, red rawness gleaming beneath grey, papery flesh. “Change,” the first replied, his voice thin and scratchy like the soft flutter of moth wings. “We accepted change. Ssoon the world will too.”

  “From one sstate to another we asscend,” the other whispered. “We drank the Fluidss to purify uss of our ssinss.”

  “Drank the Kool-Aid, more like,” I murmured. “Is that what all this madness is about? Some cult thing?” I’d heard of religious mania sweeping through tinpot dictatorships in foreign lands, of shamanistic leaders encouraging people to rise up in the name of some bogus cause. Doomsday freaks, mainly, believing the End Times were here. Mass suicides encouraging the Rapture to pluck them all up to heaven. Rational thought poisoned by rabid fanaticism. But this was the capital—where had this sprung from? How had it taken hold so quickly?