Avenging Angel Page 9

  Sergeant Booker caught a bullet with his head as we sprinted across a Kmart parking lot. Garcia and I left him dead and twitching on the asphalt and dodged from building to building until dawn. We holed up in a bombed-out and looted hardware store and waited out the day. Party jets and helicopters pounded the city as streams of refugees choked the streets, heading for the countryside. I redressed Garcia's wound with cotton and tape I found in the store, but it wouldn't stop bleeding.

  When night fell, I crept out. With an empty rifle I commandeered a pickup truck stacked with stereos and televisions from drunk looters. I drove back and loaded Garcia into the passenger seat. We drove through the dying city into the suburbs. Two hours later we ran into an advancing column of Party tanks who directed us to a Party fire base near the town of Waller, thirty miles northwest of Houston.

  Garcia died on the way. He just ran out of blood. I spent three months in an army hospital at Fort Hood, Texas. They told me that as far as they knew I was the only Ranger who made it out. They never explained what happened exactly. Top secret.

  During my stay the Party disbanded all four branches of the military and replaced it with the SPF. When I got out, more or less healed, they gave me sergeant stripes, a Purple Heart and an early discharge. I was happy to go.

  12

  I stopped at a Party food store on the way home, picked up a box of vitabeer, then walked next door to the Istanbul Kabob Shop and, after standing in line for twenty minutes, bought two kabobs. Turkish kabob shops had a reputation for using a fair percentage of real meat so they enjoyed enormous popularity. They also had the reputation of running dog — and cat-kidnapping rings, which answered the question as to where they got their meat. There were also stories of basement rat farms, but I tried not to think about that.

  I swung by the Happy Hillbilly Pawnshop and picked up my TV, VCP and music system. Not happy with the twenty-five percent pawn fee, the happy hillbilly behind the counter tried to tack on a twenty-five percent "protection fee" to compensate for the extra security hired to protect the shop from a recent rash of lootings. I beat him on the quick draw, so I was excluded from the fee.

  I parked in front of my apartment building and decided I'd take the brew and kabobs up first. Since I hadn't run in a week, guilt demanded I bypass the elevator and jog the stairs.

  As I cleared the third landing, an explosion boomed down the stairwell. The acoustics of the stairwell weren't good enough to do a decent mariachi band justice, but they were good enough for me to be certain the explosion came from the fourth floor. In fact, the explosion had a distinctly personal sound to it. I set the vitabeer and kabobs down on the steps, drew my pistol and listened. The door of the fourth-floor landing banged open, followed by a jumble of footsteps on the concrete. Because of the switchback midway up the final flight, I couldn't see the landing, so I crouched low and waited.

  Initially all I could hear was heavy breathing. Then whispers began floating down in short bursts, like the rustling of tines in a gusty wind. I couldn't quite make out what was being said.

  I began moving up the steps, one at a time, pausing and listening between each. I reached the switchback and peered up the stairs.

  They crouched on the landing deck with their backs to me. They were taking turns peeking through the cracked door that connected to the hallway. There were two of them.

  "I don't know what the fuck happened," a Rastafarian with long dreadlocks spilling down the back of a faded field jacket said in an exasperated whisper. "Toby was jimmying the door and it exploded — he just exploded. Got his blood all over my jacket."

  "Somebody must have heard it, they had to of," worried a tong with a crew cut. He wore a black nylon jacket with a stylized red tiger on the back. He sounded panicky and held a revolver up beside his head. "Someone'll call the spifs."

  "Not in this part of the City they won't. Even if someone did call, they wouldn't come. This is a motherfuckin' no-go area." The Rasta sounded as if he was half trying to convince himself, but everything he said was true. "We just got to sit tight. When he comes out of the elevator, we'll get the keys to the door and vault and get the plastic. Ain't nothin' but a thing."

  "Toby's dead, isn't he?" the tong asked.

  "He sure as hell ain't takin' no nap, Georgie."

  "When he sees Toby lying there he's going to get suspicious," the tong worried. He didn't sound motivated for the task at hand. Seeing a friend explode seemed to have snapped his nerve.

  "Damn it, Georgie," the Rasta snapped, "the girl said I was the leader of this here team and we ain't gonna go till we get the stash. He won't have time to be suspicious anyway. The second that evil bastard steps off the elevator I'm gonna let him meet up with my little honey here." He hefted something I couldn't see.

  I was willing to bet creds to croissants that the evil bastard in question was me and the little honey he was holding out of view wasn't his pet gerbil. It seemed certain they wanted to do me grave harm.

  I crept around the switchback and pointed my pistol up at them. All my instincts begged me to shoot them in the back, but I was fearful of the amount of drinking that plan of action would entail.

  "Hey, guys," I said. "Looking for me?"

  The jumpy tong spun around first, his almond eyes bright with an awakened sense of mortality. His hands jerked over his head, the revolver in his hand forgotten.

  I was willing to take prisoners, but the Rasta had other ideas. He shoved his pal Georgie down the stairs and hauled up a big archaic-looking, double-barreled .12-gauge shotgun. The sentimental guy was using his pal Georgie as a distraction so as to give himself enough time to let me have it with the lovely old antique.

  Georgie hurtled toward me, arms flailing, blocking my shot. We seemed destined to collide unless I did something clever. I did the obvious instead, shooting Georgie twice in the chest. The impact of the gyrajets suspended his body for a split second between me and the Rasta.

  A deafening double boom, and the nostalgic smell of cordite crammed every inch of the stairwell. Georgie was propelled down the stairs like the Superman of old, trailing a cape of blood and gore. I ducked the body but got caught in the ensuing downpour. I wiped the blood out of my eyes and aimed.

  The landing was empty. I pumped up the stairs, nearly slipping on the messy steps. The door was swinging shut, and I fired three jets at it to make me feel good. The fractured door collapsed under the impact of my shoulder, and I did a roll into the hall, wondering how fast the Rasta could load his shotgun on the run.

  He was halfway down the hall to the elevator, moving at a dead run, cursing and dropping shells as he went. It was too far for a good shot, so I rolled to my feet and sprinted after him, firing as I went.

  I made the midway point and I still hadn't hit him. He was leaning with his back against the elevator doors, the call button lit. He clawed at the shotgun and jabbered insanely at me, his words jumbling together in his excitement.

  Logic told me one or a combination of three things was about to happen. One, the elevator would arrive and he'd make good his escape. Two, he would load his gun and I would die because in the narrow hallway there was no way I could beat the spread of pellets. Or three, my favorite, I would get lucky and hit him with a wild shot. As it turned out, everything happened at once.

  The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The Rasta closed the shotgun with a triumphant clack as he backed into the elevator, shouting happy gibberish at me, bringing up the dual barrels of the shotgun. I dived onto my belly and bet all my chips on an all-or-nothing snap shot. I squeezed the trigger and my muscles reflexively tensed to receive the hail of shotgun pellets.

  Half the Rasta's neck disappeared in a spray of blood and arteries, and his hands flew into the hair. The shotgun went off into the elevator ceiling, sending pellets whining up the shaft and bringing down a rain of ceiling tile. He stood for a moment, his arms held above him in the stance of somebody who had just scored a touchdown. I shot him again because it seemed li
ke the right thing to do. His right rib cage exploded open, exposing lung and bone. He did a little twirl like a drunk ballerina and tumbled to the floor.

  The elevator doors tried to slide shut, as if to signify the show was over, but one of the Rasta's legs was sticking out into the hall. The doors closed on the leg then retreated apologetically. It repeated at five-second intervals, and I lay on the floor and watched, mesmerized.

  I shook off the spell and got up, legs wobbly and stomach full of angry snakes. What an odd moment it had been, I thought, that split second caught at the crossroads. When the Rasta was framed in the elevator, laughing, bringing up the shotgun, something had clicked in my head. A sense of déjà vu had jolted me, a flash of memory I couldn't quite get a grip on.

  My pulse rate plateaued and began its headlong descent. I holstered my pistol and walked over to the Rasta. Taking him by the protruding leg, I dragged him out of the elevator. The neck wound had emptied most of his blood inside the car, saturating the carpet, and the mauve walls were redone in splashes of lumpy red. The doors slid closed and the elevator went merrily about its business, ready to lay a very heavy scene on its next customers.

  I rolled the Rasta onto his back and stared at his face. I'd seen him before. Then it clicked. He was one of the Rastas who had gotten off the elevator at the Close Court Apartments the day I'd terminated Crawley.

  I tugged the shotgun from dead fingers and examined it. I thought it a shame people still relied on ancient big bores for stopping power, what with modern exploding ammunition and all. I searched the body, trying to ignore the gaping wounds. I found extra shotgun shells, a big spliff, a plastic lighter, a set of keycards and a slip of paper with the combination of my vault written on it. I stuck the spliff in his mouth and lit it. Gathering the rest of his effects, I walked over to the body in front of my door.

  I'd nearly tripped over Toby during my glorious charge down the hall. He sported a black leather jacket decorated with chains and spikes, with Phuque U written on the back in red paint. The rest of his getup was also pretty typical for the punk set: torn jeans, a band shirt and Doc Martens steel-toed boots, good for kicking someone when they're down. It was all topped off with a fiery red mohawk. He was lying on his back and nearly cut in half.

  "Fell for the old exploding-doorknob trick, eh, Toby?" I murmured to him. He packed a 9 mm Beretta automatic, army issue from twenty years before, a folded-up red bandanna, condoms, a flickblade, three balls of squeeze, a keycard and about three creds in change. Beneath him lay a crowbar.

  I heard a door creak open behind me. I'd been waiting for it.

  "Trouble, Mr. Strait?" a voice squeaked.

  I looked over my shoulder. The door across the hall was cracked open an inch, and a fearful eyeball peeked out.

  "Naw, just roughhousing around with a couple of the guys, Mr. Finley," I said, shrugging. "You know how it is."

  "You sure play rough." The door opened another inch. "How many were there?"

  "Oh, about thirty or so."

  "Really?" Total belief lit his eyes. "Were you scared, Mr. Strait?"

  "Scared? You're goddamn right I was scared!" I said. "Scared some would get away."

  "Wow!"

  "Yeah. Most of them did, though." I feigned disappointment.

  "Sure you don't want that policy, Mr. Strait?" Finley really was a life-insurance salesman.

  "Well, Mr. Finley, I would, but I think the premiums would kill me." I examined my door. The explosive-packed doorknob had done a number on Toby, but the steel door still looked viable. I unlocked the locks and put the Rasta's and Toby's belongings on the bookcase beside the door. I dragged Toby's body down the hall five meters. I'd found that having bodies hanging around outside your door was a good way to get uninvited to a lot of building parties.

  "What did they want, Mr. Strait?" Finley asked, poking his whole chubby head out like a brave turtle.

  "They're encyclopedia salesmen," I said. "You know, the real pushy kind. They just wouldn't take no for an answer, so…" I shrugged"…I had to let them have it."

  "Really?" His tone said he wasn't buying that one.

  "Naw, I was just funning you." I smiled at him. "Actually I think they were looking for you."

  He pulled his head back with a comical jerk and squeaked with fright from inside.

  "Yeah, I heard one of them say, 'We're gonna fix that evil policy-peddlin' bastard but good!' "

  The door nearly closed, and only half an eyeball peeked out. I could tell he wanted to believe I was just funning him some more, but in Finley's dark and savage world there just might be a gang of subversives lying in wait for him with shotguns.

  "You're just funning me, Mr. Strait," he said, but the raven of paranoia was firmly perched on his shoulder.

  "If you say so." I started toward the stairwell.

  "Are you going to call reclamation?" Finley called after me.

  "Tell you what, Mr. Finley. You call them and we'll split the reward."

  "Really?"

  "Well, sure. After all, it was you they were looking for." I smiled over my shoulder, and Finley closed his door.

  On or near Georgie's body I found a pack of Fungum, a quarter gram of whack, a gravity knife, a handful of change, a spread of keycards and a .32-caliber Saturday night special, one of those brandless hunks of cheap iron turned out by the thousands in basement shops. They could be bought for less than the price of an apple at stalls on Hayward on Sunday. This one looked new and would probably self-destruct after the third round. I put everything in my coat pockets and went down to the third landing. The vitabeer, pretzels and kabobs were still there, restoring part of my flagging faith in human nature. I picked them up and walked back upstairs.

  I lingered in front of Finley's door, debating if I should put my face close to the door and shout, "Come out of there, you evil bastard! We're gonna fix you but good!" I went inside my apartment. Nobody's that mean.

  I put the vitabeer and kabobs on the kitchen table then added Georgie's effects to the pile on the bookcase. I went to the bathroom and stripped, stuffing my clothes into the overloaded hamper. I knew I should soak them in cold water to help remove the bloodstains, but I wasn't in the mood to follow any helpful household hints. I turned on the shower and stared at my blood-spattered face in the mirror over the sink while the water warmed up.

  Revulsion swept over me, and my stomach heaved. I vomited into the toilet, then got the shakes for fifteen minutes, experiencing total loss of body control. I'm changing, I thought as I flapped around on the floor, alternatively shivering cold and sweating feverishly. I'm changing into something else. Something evil.

  I crawled into the shower like a lizard with a broken back and lay under the water until the fit passed. I scrubbed myself until the hot water ran out and my hands, neck and face were raw. After toweling off, I still felt slimy, as if the blood had sunk beneath my skin all the way to the marrow.

  I found out I was ravenous. The thought of eating the real meat kabobs made me want to vomit some more, so I put them in the fridge and fried three fat soy burgers. I ate them with a vitabeer, trying not to think about the dead men outside and what I was turning into. I tried to focus on my immediate future. I keyed into a ruthless sense of survival, thought about what I would have to do to allow me to live through the next day. Things were moving in a tight, vicious circle, and I instinctively understood it was time to get utterly ruthless or die like the men in the hall.

  I finished the last burger and walked a vitabeer into the living room. The coffee table was home to an army of crumpled beer cans and half-finished drinks. The rims of some of the glasses wore black lipstick. Sweet reminders of dearest Britt, I reflected and cleared the table with a sweep of my arm. I put my fresh vitabeer on the table.

  I gathered the dead men's effects in a heap and carried them to the coffee table. I laid them out and divided them into three separate piles according to which body they'd come from.

  As I slowly examined each i
tem, I asked myself a question: why were a punk, a tong and a Rasta working together? It was an unlikely combination, given that the factions were usually more interested in warring with each other than forming cooperative hit squads. It said a lot for the growing harmony between the races, but left me with a reason for apprehension. There had to be a common denominator that united them toward their common goal of robbing and killing me.

  I compared their possessions. They'd all carried guns and drugs, but I didn't think it was their vices that brought them together. They seemed to have poverty in common — between them they couldn't afford a case of cheap beer. They all carried key-cards. I examined each of them and found my big fat clue.

  Most of their cards were the new magnetic-strip type, but each carried an old-fashioned punched-plastic keycard. I held the three cards to the light, and the light fell through the same holes. Perfect copies. There weren't any words or numbers stamped on the gray plastic, but I had an idea which lobby door they fit.

  I sat disquietly for a moment, trying to sum it all up. I wanted to go on a long slow run to organize the gang of questions running amok in my head. The problem was, in my neighborhood running for whatever purpose was a good reason for somebody to shoot at you. My only alternative was to deal with Dr. Abuso.

  Dr. Abuso was huge; it sprawled across a full quarter of my living room. Bars and cables and hydraulics poked from the main structure, which resembled a more sinister version of Mobley's Infernal Machine. A state-of-the-art monstrosity built during the high-tech heyday of the corporate era, it was capable of punishing every muscle of my body while its onboard computer kept track of my effort and provided encouragement during workouts. The machine came with the apartment, and I understood perfectly why the previous owner had left it behind. Wanda, the SPF secretary I'd dated, had been deathly afraid of it. Every time I'd exercise, she'd lock herself in the bedroom and turn the clock radio up full blast.

  I keyed on the power and changed into sweats while it warmed up. When I returned from the bedroom, Dr. Abuso was ready for me.