The Fall of Deadworld Omnibus Page 23
“Too right,” he said with a thin smile. “The living gotta stick together. If we just abandon each other to fate, then we’re no better than those deadfucks out there. No point fighting for something if we lose it along the way.”
“We ain’t monsters,” Hawkins said, each word a buzzsaw but voiced with quiet conviction.
“Amen to that,” Blake responded.
Hawkins rose and walked back to where Misha stood.
“Okay,” Misha said aloud, catching Blake’s attention. “Can you walk unaided? When we get out of here, are you going to be able to stand on your own two feet?”
“Don’t worry about me.” He shifted his back against the garage wall and pushed himself up, getting his legs beneath him. He did it in bursts, stopping to pant for breath each time, eyes screwed shut, until he was upright. The blankets fell away at his feet. He opened his eyes, teeth gritted in an approximation of a steely grin, and tried to regain some composure. “See?” He took a step forward away from the wall’s support, his left knee buckled, and he slumped back onto his haunches with a groan.
“In the bottom corner. Sure I saw some.”
The teen looked as directed and pulled out one large metal can intended for kerosene, and a couple of bulbous glass bottles with handles and rubber stoppers that could’ve once held moonshine. “Perfect,” she murmured, and headed back towards the outside, the three containers clinking in her right hand.
“Be careful,” Hawkins croaked.
Misha gave her an A-OK sign with her free left hand, patted the gun tucked into her waistband, then cautiously slipped out through the crack in the doors and took off at speed.
HAWKINS STOOD AT the threshold and watched Misha disappear down the alleyway.
“She’s not short of courage, that one,” Blake said behind her.
“She’s as scared as anyone,” Hawkins replied flatly. “She didn’t want us to come near the city, tried to argue against it. I… overruled her.” She paused, wincing at the pain of talking, “Our Lawrider was dying and we need to be able to stay in contact with the outside world. Only a matter of time before we find them.”
“Who, the resistance?”
Hawkins nodded.
Blake sighed. “Don’t want to rain on your parade, Trace, but I’m pretty sure they’re a myth. The new Chief’s forces are too strong, too widespread. I think any surviving uniforms are few and far between.”
“We’ve made it. No reason others haven’t.”
“But they’re scattered, if they’re out there at all. There’s no organised fightback, no rebel cells—just the remnants of the old Justice Department scrabbling amidst the ruins.”
“I think… think you’re wrong,” Hawkins said, holding her throbbing jaw. She wasn’t used to being so vocal—Misha had been her only companion for so long. “Someone’s leading the response. Someone will have taken charge.”
“Maybe. Good luck finding them.”
Hawkins’ head ached. “You got any water?” She headed to the storage units above the workstation. “Or painkillers? What you been living on since you’ve been hold up here, anyway—?”
She tugged open the biggest cabinet door and came face to face with a plastic-wrapped human skull staring back at her through empty sockets. The skin was grey and puckered, and had shrivelled away from the bone. Her mind had a fraction of a millisecond to process what she was looking at before Blake slammed into her from behind and bounced her off the countertop. She lost her balance and tumbled over, thumping her forehead on the edge of the workspace as she went down. Stars danced in her vision.
Despite the black edges of unconsciousness encroaching into her sight, she wasn’t dazed enough not to be aware of hands around her throat. She fought back against the wave of pain and channelled her energy into resisting the figure holding her prone. The more she bucked, the greater her anger became, and she found she had further reserves to draw upon—she grabbed hold of his wrists and attempted to pull them away from her throat, giving herself a moment’s reprieve.
Now that the stars had faded, her vision regained some clarity, and she found herself looking up into Blake’s demented eyes, devoid of compassion or reason. His face was contorted, a rictus fury she’d seen before on the amphetamine-hopped perps that she used to bust back in the old days. But those were lowlife drug fiends, sanity scoured away by a lifetime of substance abuse—this was Harrison Blake, her former colleague with whom she’d served on numerous occasions. They’d stood shoulder to shoulder once upon a time pacifying riots and blitzing tenements, one covering the other like all good uniforms should. He’d earned the helmet, graduated in the top third of his class. He was meant to represent everything she was fighting to preserve. Yet here he was, crazed beyond rational thought, almost unrecognisable in his mania—that he’d been driven to this was unfathomable. Or perhaps once it would’ve been unfathomable, a practical voice inside her declared, commenting objectively; now it was all too believable. Maybe she was naïve for not expecting this.
He brought his head back with the intention of driving his forehead into the bridge of her nose, but the move was telegraphed; she knew what was coming and swiftly craned her own head to one side at the last moment. He missed, connecting with the concrete floor. The impact tore a grunt from him, and Hawkins found the weight shifted as he was momentarily stunned; she pressed home the advantage and drove several sharp jabs to his kidneys, at the same time lifting him off her. He rolled, mewling like an animal caught in a trap, and she was up and out, springing to her feet and not allowing him a chance to recover—she kicked out and caught him on the chin, sending him flying back against the cabinet doors, rattling as he collided with them.
Hawkins’ hand flew to her Lawgiver and brought it to bear on Blake, fully intending to dispense with the warning and drill a bullet in his skull without hesitation, but he came at her with such speed and venom and a lack of fear that he’d knocked aside her gun-arm in a fraction of a second. A cut had opened on his temple where he’d glanced off the floor, and the blood that now seeped down his nose and cheeks, coating his face, gave him a mask of utter madness, making him resemble a creature clothed in human form. They tussled, each trying to gain dominance over the weapon, his right hand clasped around hers clutching the butt of the L
awgiver and forcing the barrel back towards her, intending to use her own finger on the trigger. Crazy as he was, he clearly hadn’t forgotten about the palm-print reader on the gun and wasn’t about to fall victim to it.
They tangoed back and forth, neither releasing the pressure, until she saw an opening and drove her boot directly into his unprotected groin. He buckled, and relaxed his grip on her hand enough for her to wrest the gun free and smash the cold metal body of the Lawgiver into his mouth, leaving him staggering for a handful of brief moments like a boxer catching a knockout blow and teetering on the ropes. Fresh blood drooled over his lips, and he spat shards of broken teeth. Then he promptly fell ass-first onto the ground but remained seated upright, swaying slightly with the inebriated stupor of someone who’d been punched into next week. His head bobbed listlessly.
Hawkins aimed her gun at the figure on the floor, then pulled back and stalked over to the workstation cupboards, yanking them all open to be greeted with the sight of a range of body parts in varying states of putrefaction. All had been diligently swaddled in clear plastic, which accounted for why she hadn’t smelled them when they’d entered. A hand still bore the remnants of the Judge’s gauntlet that had encased it, and a jumble of weapons pouches and badges were piled at the back. Hawkins’ eyes roved over the grim display with a quiet fury, then returned to where the man still sat.
She crouched before him, gun hovering at his head. He contemplated it like a drunk trying to focus on a hovering bluebottle.
“How many?” she asked. “How many have you murdered?”
“Four or five,” he muttered, lisping slightly from his ruined mouth. “One… was already injured when he answered my distress signal, so I count that as a mercy killing. He was never going to survive much longer. I was doing him a favour, in the end. Reckon… reckon he might’ve been the first, now I think about it—the one that gave me the idea.”
Hawkins shook her head. “What have you become, Blake? You were Justice Department. You were uniform.”
“Yeah. When you got nowhere left to run, when you’re starving… that doesn’t count for much.”
“And that?” She nodded at the chest injury he carried. “That all part of the act?”
He smiled and winced, as if suddenly reminded of it. “No, that’s real. One of the last guys managed to get off a shot. Was hoping you’d actually get me out of here and patch me up—or at least, if not you, then your little citizen pal.”
“Regular fucking Sawney Bean, aren’t you?”
Blake laughed and spat blood on the floor between them. “Whatever works.”
Hawkins shot him in the face.
MISHA RETURNED AT a jog, laden, and was surprised to find Hawkins in the process of wheeling the Lawrider out of the garage’s open doors.
“Help me with this,” was all the Judge said when the younger woman finally came level with her. Hawkins barely acknowledged her, nor asked her how successful she’d been. Her eyes were downcast, her mind evidently preoccupied.
“What’s… going on?” Misha asked, placing the jerry cans on the ground and removing a coil of cables from her shoulder.
“Just push.”
The teen did as she was instructed without further enquiry and the two of them guided the bike clear of the building. Once it was some distance away, Hawkins snapped the kickstand into place and walked back, snatching up one of the bottles half filled with gasoline as she passed, then proceeded to toss the contents through the doors, liberally coating the interior. Once it was empty, she dropped it and drew her gun, sighting it on the centre of the garage.
Misha watched from where she stood beside the Lawrider. “Hawkins? Isn’t there stuff we—?”
“Nothing in here of any worth,” she murmured and pulled the trigger, the structure igniting in a ball of orange flame. The fire spread quickly, and soon the garage was engulfed. She stood before it for a few moments, silhouetted against the inferno, then marched back to her companion.
“But Blake…?” Misha prodded.
“Gone,” Hawkins replied. “He’s long gone.” She reached out a hand, attention fixed on the dwellings nearby rather than the other woman.
“Hawkins, what happened?”
“From now on we trust no one,” she answered as if she hadn’t heard her companion, taking hold of the bike’s handlebars and easing it down one of the alleyways. “Understand?”
“Sure,” Misha murmured and, casting one eye at the blaze, picked up what remained of the fuel and followed the Judge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IT WAS RARE for the four of them to be together these days. In the beginning, when the Sisters had first gifted Sidney with his post-mortem transformation, he’d personally selected the lieutenants that would aid him in his great mission: the chosen were those closest to him amongst the ranks, the personnel that had most fervently shared his vision. He’d seen in each of them their commitment, and allowed them to slough off their hateful humanity and adopt the more suitable garbs of office, along with the judicial powers that came with them. The Dead Fluids had changed them into the forms that would go on to define them, and individual names—whatever they’d been in life; they were left behind with all the rest of the mortal trappings—were replaced with archetypes. Fear. Fire. Mortis. Together with De’Ath, they were the architects of the planet’s doom, bringers of annihilation. The Dark Judges.
They had fought together, killed together. They had communed for weeks on end about the best plan for the utter destruction of every single being that breathed around the globe. They were as tight as mummified skin stretched over a boiled skull.
Back then, it was the four of them against the world, but it quickly dawned on Sidney and his henchmen that the logistics of planet-wide obliteration meant they’d require help. For them to slaughter billions themselves would take far too long. Hence they’d distributed the Fluids amongst the men and women of the Hall of Injustice and created their own undead puppet police force to tackle the blunt end of the population purge. With more bodies on the ground to command and control, an element of delegation was required, each of the four taking charge of those areas that best suited their skills. De’Ath remained in the chief’s chair, of course, with the Sisters there to advise him as he oversaw his masterwork, while Mortis disappeared into a rabbit hole of tek research, conjuring up new abominations in his laboratories and proposing ever more efficient methods of increasing the harvest. Fire took to the streets and instigated his flame-squads, igniting pyres throughout the capital, while Fear concentrated on psychological warfare, reasoning that if he could drive entire swathes of the citizenry insane, they would be more likely to take their own lives and speed the whole process up. They were, each of them, busy little bees, united in purpose.
So for Sidney to insist upon a meeting like this was unusual—De’Ath knew that the crusade took precedence, and to call them away from it could only be for the most serious of matters. As they congregated on the Grand Hall, it occurred to Fear, Fire and Mortis that once the work was done, they would be the last entities standing and they would undoubtedly become a unit again—the four masters of their graveyard kingdom. It would be a day to cherish. But until that time, their genocidal efforts consumed them, the scale of what they were achieving so vast in its scope that it demanded all of their attention, and administrative chores such as this were a distraction.
Nonetheless, you ignored a summons from the Chief at your peril.
They arrived virtually simultaneously, as befitted creatures of one mind, and found De’Ath alone and pacing his tenebrous office. He paused when he saw them enter, and walked over to his desk and sat opposite his lieutenants, who remained standing. The three nodded a curt greeting, which wasn’t returned.
“The processs issss taking too long,” Sidney stated, never one to mince his words. “Too many elude ussss.”
“Are we in
danger of missssing a deadline, brother?” Fear asked. “I wassss unaware that there wasss a timeframe in which our undertaking had to be completed.”
De’Ath waved the comment away with a flick of his hand. “Of courssse not,” he replied irritably. “But my desssire for jussstice meansss I want to sssee total devassstation delivered sssooner rather than later. That there are ssssurvivorsss ssstill clinging to life is affront to the rule of law. I want them laid wassste to, reaped like wheat.”
“Asss do we all,” Fire chimed in.
“Then in what waysss can we further expedite the ssslaughter?” Sidney asked. He turned his attention to Mortis. “Your pssi-operativesss were meant to be increassssing their productivity—have you ssseen any posssitive developmentssss?”
“The introduction of the pssi-amplifiers hasss generated sssome interessssting ressultsss,” Mortis answered. “The disssscovery of sssurvivor cellssss hasss increasssed sssignificantly with a boosssted range. But it’sss taking itsss toll on the ussserss. Their mindsss can only take ssso much before they… sssnap.”
Sidney shrugged. “We can find more, sssurely? All grissst to the grand sssscheme.”
“Psisss are not asss common asss you think. We mussst ussse them sssparingly in thisss initial round of winkling the law-breakersss out.”
De’Ath gave the approximation of an exasperated grunt and pushed away from the desk. He stood and resumed his angry pacing. Mortis shared a glance with his colleagues once the Chief’s back was turned.
“While one life remainsss, we are failing,” Sidney murmured.
“To exterminate a world,” Fire offered, “it’ssss not an undertaking done lightly. Or one completed easssily.”
“You musssst have patience, brother,” Fear added.
“Patienccce?” De’Ath roared, rounding on the trio. “Patiencccce?” His raspy voice rose into a screech. “Don’t tell me what I musssst have, brother! I am the architect of thissss genocide, I called it into being! That perpetratorsss are out there, flaunting their lack of ressspect for the law, isss a ssstain upon my leaderssssship. They live, therefore they mussst be punissshed, yet they clearly feel they can essscape jussstice, carrying on committing further illegal actssss. It diminissshesss usss, makessss a mockery of our credo.” He began to stalk the room again, like a caged wolf. “No, that will not do. That will not do at all.”