Digital Plague

XXXI Day Ten: Rich Boys Who’d Actually Survived

Reeling, I pushed myself up, scrubbing my chin clean and placing my foot over the bloody glob. I didn’t know what had changed Kev’s mind about keeping me going, but I knew without a doubt how long I’d be allowed to live once the cops realized I was no longer necessary-or even beneficial-for their own survival, deal with Hense or not. I squinted through the sunlight, my cheeks hurting, as she walked forward with her handgun to toe the four newly dropped citizens and make sure they were dead, her face blank. I didn’t think she would actively betray our deal; she might even make some effort to uphold it. I didn’t know why, but I felt I could almost trust her. But Happling, her huge red gorilla, he wouldn’t hesitate, and without her captain’s support it wouldn’t be long before an unfortunate accident occurred.

Hense nodded to herself and then at Happling, retreating back into the loose crowd of Stormers. Next to me, Happling started booming out his orders, and the troopers scrambled back into line. As we started moving down Fifth again, stepping over the bodies we’d left in our wake, I struggled to contain the twitching irritation in my chest that wanted to explode into a fresh coughing fit while I moved my eyes over the block, trying to gain some advantage.

I knew where we were, of course, and I was pretty sure I’d been in the building on our left that the unfortunate citizen had indicated. None of the other options raised any sort of memory, so I stole a long glance at the building on the corner. I remembered that it had an open lot or something in the back, a patch of dead earth with a huge sewage drain in the middle of it, rusting and fucking dangerous. I was burning through my memories of the place, trying to remember if the drain hooked into the main sewage system, trying to remember how you got from the front of the building to the back. If I could get into the sewers, I could get anywhere in Manhattan, including Bellevue. When a single shot churned up a divot of asphalt right in front of Happling, the cops stopped as a body.

Without hesitation I kept moving, slowly, edging my way toward the side of the street.

“Far enough, Chief,” a voice called from somewhere within the building. “Now turn and go around.”

I scanned the facade as I moved. The sun hit it on an angle, giving each worn, dusty brick a deep shadow. The windows had been boarded up sloppily with gray, rotten wood that looked ready to disintegrate and stared blindly back at us. There were a million gaps and cracks where a sniper could be holed up. I saw the Stormers drop their cowls back into place, instantly becoming one faceless blob of cop, scanning the place, switching between heat and infrared scanners, trying to isolate the voice.

Hense stepped forward, and a second report tore through the air. The Stormer Bendix was tethered to suddenly did a whole-body shake and crumpled to the street in silence. I blinked in shock as Bendix reached down and smoothly unclipped himself, taking off in a blindfolded, handcuffed run down the street. Hense looked back at Bendix as if committing him to memory while I wondered why they’d chosen that trooper, of all the targets on the street. Before I could linger on the subject or even examine the body, another shot cracked out, echoing off the steel valleys of Manhattan, making us all hunch down in instinctive, useless ducking motions.

“I said, go around,” the voice called out. It was a pleasant male voice, deep and gravelly. He managed to make it sound polite. I was about ten feet from the wall, moving carefully. The front door was shut tight and probably barred on the inside, but I knew another way in. Midtown wasn’t like downtown Manhattan; there weren’t countless Safe Rooms and hidden tunnels-but there were a few secrets.

Hense peered up at the building. “Did you just fire on System Security Force officers?” she asked in disbelief. “Twice?”

“We’re not sick in here,” the voice responded, sounding not at all impressed. “It’s proximity that does it. We’re not taking any chances. Now, all I’m saying is, go around. Go one block west, cut down south, and then turn back east. You do that, we don’t need to have any goddamn trouble.”

I forgot about Bendix; this was my chance. As I slowly sidestepped my way to the wall, keeping my eyes on cops, my chest flexing with another spasm, I saw one Stormer suddenly straighten up and put a hand to his ear. My eyes flicked to Happling, who cocked his head a fraction and then nodded. They’d gotten a fix on the sniper, and I figured he was about to find out how well the SSF-even defrocked SSF like Happling and Hense-liked being shot at.

Hense looked at her captain for a moment and then nodded, turning back to the building. “I don’t know who you are-”

“Who I am?” the voice interrupted. “Shit, five days ago I was a stockbroker who hovered upstate once a week to hunt,” he said.

“-but we are police, and we don’t fucking go around.”

Without a command, five Stormers swung their shredders around in unison and opened up on the windows, the roar pushing all other sound out of the way, forming a wall of earsplitting noise. This was my cue, and I took off, pulling my gun from my pocket and throwing myself against the building, flattening my body as much as I could. I took a moment to let my coughs rack me, an explosion that sent more bloody phlegm jetting onto the pavement, and then I pushed off and sprinted for the corner. At the base of the building, the snipers above couldn’t even see me, and the Stormers’ attention was directed upward. I was at the corner, skidding into a sharp turn to my left, when some bright thing noticed me and belatedly tried to cut me down, shredder shells slicing into the facade next to me as I disappeared behind it.

I didn’t stop. At ground level sat a long, narrow window that five or so years ago I’d been just able to shimmy through. It had been boarded up from the inside with the same gray wood. Running, I leveled my gun and shattered the window with two careful shots and then dived for it, wincing in anticipation of a dozen deep gashes from the jagged glass. I wasn’t disappointed. The wood gave like cardboard, tearing from the inner wall with a high-pitched squeak, and I managed to get my head and neck through without tearing open something vital, wriggling through more easily than I remembered, cutting myself deeply on my arms and thighs. It seemed to take forever to pull myself through as I envisioned being shot in the ass-a perfect way for me to go, I thought: Avery Cates, world’s greatest Gunner, shot in the ass while running away from his enemies.

Dropping farther than I remembered to the cold concrete floor, I lay there panting, a gurgling chuckle that mutated into more coughing. Something damp slowly soaked into my pants.

Shit, I thought, I’m fucking dying.

It didn’t matter-the real question wasn’t how long I had to live, but how long I had before I was too sick to do anything. I rolled over and pushed myself up onto my feet. It was dark, and I felt gritty as concrete dust stuck to my bloody wounds. Outside I could hear a firefight-shredders mixed with the sound of high-powered hunting rifles owned by rich boys. Rich boys who’d actually survived and gotten ruthless. And here I was inside their perimeter, about to shove these nanobots right up their collective asses.

There wasn’t time to look the place over, to recollect floor plans and memorize exits. I saw stairs in the gloom and I ran for them, every breath painful, like razors inside my lungs. Moving as quietly as I could, I took the steps two at a time, the old wood groaning under my weight. At the top I didn’t even have time to ponder the soft-looking wooden door before it was torn open and I brought up my gun in an automatic response. A fat, puffing bald man appeared in the door frame, dressed in some ridiculous outfit that approximated combat armor: a dark, heavy vest; tough, thick pants tucked into heavy-duty boots; an ammo belt slung jauntily across his shoulders. He stared at me in red-faced shock for a second, his rifle-a nice, expensive item, but semiauto and too slow on the refire for practical use in my world-pointed lazily at his feet.

I gave him a second to make a choice. It had been a long time since I’d been a free agent, and to celebrate not having any dead friends to Push me or angry cops to compel me, I waited until his hand twitched the gun up at me. Then I squeezed the trigger and shot him in the face, knocking him backward into the opposite wall.

I ducked my head into the hall for a quick look, but there was no one else. Stepping over his legs, I moved quickly, gun held low and away from me. It was a long hall, stretching from the back to the front of the building. A frozen escalator led upward to my left as I coasted forward in the gloom-all the windows had been diligently boarded up-the dust drifting around me making everything hazy and making my chest heave with the urge to tear itself up again. I sorted my dim memories of the place and knew I needed back access, second or third floor, although I had to assume all windows had been blocked.

I heard feet on the upper floors, pounding down toward me. Amateurs, I thought as I glided around to the base of the escalator, crouching and peering upward. I didn’t take any joy in it. Killing assholes who thought picking up a gun made them tough guys was an occupational hazard and always had been, and besides, I was killing them just by being there, and in my opinion a bullet to the head was a lot more humane.

Waiting patiently, gun poised but held down a little to make me take a second before unloading, I contemplated the dusty gloom above and wondered what their plan had been. Just survive for as long as possible, see if their luck changed? Maybe the plague would burn itself out, maybe the government would find a cure, come flying in on rainbow-colored hovers, calling its children home. Rich folks usually thought the System would take care of them, but a funny thing happened when all that yen became worth approximately zero: you became dead weight.

Dust undisturbed since the start of time crowded the air around me, giving it texture and choking me. Two men, beefy and sweating in their cobbled-up combat uniforms, swung obliviously around the handrail onto the dead escalator. I shot the first in the chest, taking my time, and as he tumbled down toward me I sighted on the second guy, who’d stopped cold on the fourth step, looking almost comically shocked. He moved to turn back as I squeezed the trigger again, and my shot must have split some hairs on his neck as it missed, forcing me to come halfway out of my crouch and squint up at him, nailing him in the back as he reached the top of the escalator just as his buddy crashed into me, knocking me back, stumbling to keep my balance.

The second man thumped down the steps and onto his buddy with a soft moan. I put another shell into the top of his head, ending it. I thought about adding him to my list and then wondered how I’d account for the people who’d died from this so far. Did it matter anymore? I’d killed the world. Individuals didn’t make any difference.

Chest burning, sweat dripping down my back, I crouched between the bodies and peered up again, listening. I could hear a lot of noise above, but it was muffled by flooring and drywall. Trying to control my breathing, I took the escalator steps two at a time. Outside, the firefight was still going on, but in bursts as the Stormers patiently waited for the snipers to reveal their positions.

At the top of the escalator, I ducked down behind the low railing and chanced a quick look around. No one was on the other side, and I heard nothing on the next flight of steps. I allowed myself one mighty cough, a powerful spasm that brought another glob of rusty-tasting snot up through my throat with a searing jolt of pain, like I was dragging chunks of my lungs up into my mouth. I looked toward the back of the building, where two widely spaced windows had been boarded over pretty solidly, no light creeping in through gaps or cracks, the wood in pretty good condition. Three doors faced the escalator on the opposite wall, none particularly forbidding, all tightly shut.

I crept around the low divider and backed slowly down the hall until I had a good view of the next escalator, which had a rise about twice that of the first and disappeared into a worrying gloom. While I stood there contemplating my situation, the middle door to my left groaned open, comically loud, and I brought my piece to bear on it just as a short, bearded man poked his head out, looking away from me with such exaggerated care that some leftover sense of honor prevented me from nailing him in the back of his head. Seconds ticked by, the distant gunfire a comforting background noise while I stared at his bald spot, a wide circle of pale flesh in the midst of his thick black hair. I just wanted him to look at me. Shooting an idiot in the back when he didn’t even know you were there wasn’t right, even if you knew he’d happily kill you if given the chance.

The other two doors opened almost simultaneously. I blinked and made myself wait an extra two ragged heartbeats for both doors to be mostly open, and then I put a bullet into that bald spot, thinking I’d done what I could to satisfy useless honor. I spun into the nearest door and put another shell into some old man’s neck, forty if he was a day, who stumbled backward into shadows clutching at his bloodied throat, rifle clattering to the floor. I leaped across the hallway into the room behind him, following him as he spluttered backward, stumbling over his own feet and dropping to the floor.

Two more were kneeling by the front windows, pretty impressive sniper rifles mounted on the sills, the barrels moving through narrow slits they’d cut into the boards. The wood didn’t give them any armor protection, but by kneeling on the floor they had a decent field of vision, weren’t very exposed, and could rake the street below with their careful, sissy shots. Seeing me, they both flopped around squawking. With their rifles bolted to the fucking windows and without any backup weapons, they were a couple of chumps. I knew it was a sloppy move, but I dropped my arm and ignored them. They weren’t a threat. Throwing myself back against the wall just inside the door, with a tearing pain in my splinted leg, I waited a moment, forcing myself to listen, my breathing loud and raspy.

Three breaths, and I ducked out into the hall. A shot sizzled over my head and thunked into the wall above me. I put a quick shell into the kneecap directly across from me, dropping the figure into a ball that squirmed and screamed. The hall was clear, so I tossed my clip and fished out a fresh one just as a boot edged out of the far doorway. I pushed off and rolled back into the front room, slammed my clip home and racked a shell into the chamber, then rolled back out. This one was a big round guy, a fucking blueberry in a tight black bodysuit-the latest fashion, I supposed, for facing Armageddon with the best people. I was afraid a bullet in the gut would just be absorbed and processed, so I ticked upward. The blueberry had his rifle slung over his shoulder, and the pistol in his hand shook terribly. As I moved my arm up he fired, the gun jerking in his hand, sending another shell about a foot above me. I held my breath, chest heaving, and showed him the right way to do it.

I opened my mouth and sucked in air, my chest heaving, and as I struggled to my feet, face feeling tight with blood, I coughed uncontrollably, spittle drooling from my mouth as I stumbled forward, pushing myself into the middle room long enough to see five empty cots and a lot of trash. I whirled and stumbled back out, turning around to sweep the hallway as I stepped into the final room. The spasm passed, and I gulped in mouthfuls of hot, stuffy air.

The room was empty. In the back were two more windows covered by thick boards, one with a sniper rifle bolted into place, the other hinged, a large padlock holding it shut.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered. I shot the lock off and staggered for it, pulling the boards up and staring out into the back garden, the huge storm drain exactly as I remembered it, open, yawning.

Pushing my gun into a pocket, I climbed out onto the rusted fire escape and slid down the steep ladder, dropping the last few feet and landing on my ass to spare my splinted leg, teeth rattling in my head. Behind me everything had gone ominously quiet, so I kept moving, pushing up onto my stiff leg and hobbling over to the drain. The silence behind me was worrying, and pushed me along like a sour wind, urging me along. At the edge of the drain I sat down and slid my legs over, easing myself down until I was hanging from the lip. Bracing myself, I dropped the last few feet into a familiar damp sludge, pain shooting up from my fractured leg.

Everything was starting to make sense again: I was back in the sewers.