The devils charge at us and we creep-run sideways toward VC1. I notice large sections of glass and ballistic mirrors hanging from streetlamps and signs just up ahead. Reflective surfaces used by VC1’s hawks, the spotters that work alongside the Prowler’s best snipers.
I pray that the Prowlers have spotted us and are taking up positions or coming to our rescue.
A low-throated chanting builds and it’s clear we’ve been outmaneuvered.
Somehow, we’ve been cut off up ahead by a battalion of the infected that have blundered up out of a subway drop.
Our small group skids to a stop, forming a tight circle, assessing the situation. Looks are shared and our meager supply of ammunition is quickly assessed.
“Cover one!” Donkey shouts. “Cover one!”
This apparently has meaning to Brixton who shouts, “LAST CHANCE SALOON TIME!” and drops a few steps behind the others who take up positions before him.
Donkey reaches in his rucksack and removes a set of brass-knuckles, a handcrafted metal molding of a fist studded with jagged knife points and industrial razor-blades.
The others retrieve machine-pistols or thick, shimmering blades that are suited for close-quarters combat.
Then we hold our breath and the Dubs barrel forward like a vast, blank-faced army.
Brixton and Meg open fire, strafing the first lines of Dubs.
Stomachs erupt and ropes of bile and diseased blood spatter the ground. They continue to fire into the attackers, pull spent magazines free, fresh-clip and then fire again.
Handfuls of Dubs dance between the bullets and Donkey rushes to meet them. The air around him sings as his violent punches shatter skulls and mangle bodies.
Heads and limbs clatter to the ground as he looks to be in some kind of combat-driven trance, swaying back, whipsawing the risen dead with hellacious uppercuts and jabs.
Asian Phil stays next to me, a short-barreled rifle with an immense flash-suppressor in hand. He picks off the Dubs that make it past Donkey, whispering to me that he’s doing a little “pruning.”
I stare at my gun, the barrel shiny and oily, as if it’s a living, sweating thing. It comes up in my hand on several occasions, but I don’t have the stones to trigger it. And then…
The others’ guns roll over empty.
There apparently are no more bullets to fire, but the Dubs don’t give a damn.
Meg whips out a blade called a gurkha and swings it like a sword.
She slices the necks of two Dubs and plants the metal in the skull of a third (who doesn’t even blink), when a bearded brute with a gnawed off arm moves to bite her.
My finger jerks back my gun’s trigger and I will a bullet into the Dub’s neck before he can taste Meg’s flesh.
My shot cleaves an artery, loosing arrhythmic spurts of bile before the ghoul topples over and Meg lops off its head in one ragged stroke.
The reverberation from the blast rattles me, forcing the gun from my hand as another Dub, a wafer-thin kid with a thatch of black hair, slaps me with an open palm.
I lose my footing, falling to the ground and he hops onto my chest. A deep hunger glows in the kid’s eyes and I can see a map of veins and arteries through his paper-thin skin. His open mouth wrenches down at the instant that Donkey arrives and literally punches the brains out of the Dub’s head.
The streets fill with more Dubs who are clearly spoiling for a fight. Brixton pumps a fist and everyone closes ranks, backs pressed against backs, guns and knives ready for a final assault. The sinking feeling comes over me that I probably would have been better off staying up on the roof where Naia left me.
“TIGHT QUEUE!” Brixton shouts, his voice hitching with terror, “TIGHT QUEUE! NOW IS THE TIME TO GIVE THE DEAD THE GIFT OF ETERNAL SORROW!”
We hold our breath, out of ammo and out of time. The Dubs run riot toward us and the damndest thing happens.
They begin to fall.
First one, then two, then four more, and then…
Seven brain-suckers in glorious, rapid succession, twitch and crumple to the ground.
Rows of the flesh-eaters keel over in ragged lines, heads blown off, stomachs pulped, limbs shorn from bodies.
Glancing up, I spot nearly imperceptible flashes and glints from various positions.
They’re coming from VC1.
It dawns on me that Matthais and his Prowlers are up there, acting as our overwatch.
They’ve recognized our predicament.
They’re coming to our rescue.
4
Mortar rounds drop in the distance.
I can see the little trails of smoke as they spiral down and thump onto the sidestreets.
Some of the rounds are explosive and others are glorified flash-bang jobbers. They’re tossed or catapulted off the upper reaches of VC1 any time a Sweeper unit comes in, largely to sow confusion and draw off as many Dubs as possible.
The mortar rounds bursting nearby coupled with the fire from the Prowlers creates an opportunity for us.
Sensing an opening in the Dub onslaught, Brixton leads us on a stampede toward VC1.
We run right at and between the remaining Dubs, bullets from the Prowlers hissing and snapping all around.
The ground’s zebra-striped with black blood and incredibly slippery, but we soldier on.
We’re almost there.
I can see the bottom floor of VC1, tucked behind rows of cement blast barriers called dragon’s teeth.
I’ve only seen the base of the building once or twice before, but the heavy steel plate that wreathes the area is a glorious sight, a few slivers of sunlight shining off of it like salvation.
It’s a poorly kept secret in the community that there’s only one spot in the wall of metal that affords a way in. A ruggedized roll-up door that’s so deftly camouflaged I don’t notice it until the thing powers up.
The door grinds up and small pods of Prowlers, mostly men, but a few women, emerge from inside the mother building. I stumble over my own feet and crash to the ground as the Prowlers advance.
Their movements are precise, half forming a firing line, the others pushing forward to offer us aid and comfort.
Out of the chaos strides a long, lean man of indeterminate age.
He’s garbed in a black battle suit fitted with a rigid backpack and holds in his hands the largest sniper rifle I have ever seen.
He whistles and signals to the others with gestures and immediately I know I’m in the presence of the man himself. The grim reaper.
Matthais.
He sweeps by me, his mane of black hair tugged back in a pony-tail, two hollowed-out Dub skulls strapped on either hip to hold ammunition.
He unsheathes a shortened saber and the last thing I see before being pulled back into VC1, is Matthais sliding on a battle-mask. A section of plastic whose exterior has been tagged with painted red fangs and a yellow tongue.
The mask comes down over his face and he and his team wade into the Dubs, shooting and hacking them down.
Hands grab and place me on a medical longboard and I’m lifted and carried through the roll-up door into what was once VC1’s foyer.
Metal sheathing has replaced the foyer’s massive sections of travertine and granite flooring, the guard stations bolstered with machine-guns and canons built from repurposed streetlamps.
The vast majority of VC1 below the tenth floor was overrun by the Dubs years ago, but the foyer was repeatedly cleared and eventually fortified with cement and heavy metal scrap. Aside from a few illegal tunnels and duck-holes, the stairwell that rises up from the foyer is the only officially sanctioned way past the Keep on the tenth floor to the Flatlands.
As the rollup door partially powers down, I’m lowered to the ground, my knees tucked in tight to my chest. I’m alive and back inside the only home I’ve ever really known and almost too terrified to breathe.
Two nurses crouch near me.
One offers a ladle of cool water from a plastic jug, while the other wipes my
forehead with a wet rag and bandages my cut hand before scanning my skin for bites and checking my vitals. The one with the rag carries a small pistol. Just in case.
Satisfied that I won’t be turning, they ask if I need further assistance and I wave them off. I’m too busy watching Zeus rocket past me and jump into the arms of none other than Gus.
Gus hugs the dog and then spots me. “Jesus,” he says. “Jesus.”
“How do I look?”
“Like you were partially digested.”
“I almost was.”
Zeus crouches next to Gus who reinspects my wounds, all of which he quickly deems superficial. He pays particular attention to the numbers Naia wrote on my arm, however.
We share a look and then his eyes narrow and I know he’s making a mental note of the digits.
Then he makes sure that no one is watching and uses the palm of his hand to rub the numbers until they’ve disappeared.
“People are talking about what you did,” he whispers.
“What kind of people?”
His eyes stray toward the ceiling. “The only kind that matter.”
There’s the clatter of weapons and gear being dropped to the ground and Brixton and his team amble into my line of sight. Gus spots them and realizes it’s time to didi.
“I’m really glad you made it back, kid,” Gus whispers, “I was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs while you were out. We can chat later.”
He falls back, Zeus in tow, and my gaze swings over to Brixton who’s huddling with his people, heads down, appearing to share a prayer.
“Can I get in on that?” I ask.
Brixton looks over. He’s got the goggle-eyed look of someone who’s just clawed his way up into the light after an earthquake.
“You earned your keep out there. You can partake.”
I crawl over and bow my head and say a prayer to Mom as a sound builds. Footfalls, garbled voices, the grind of machinery and gears engaging.
Glancing up, I see Matthais and his Prowlers slipping back under the roll-up door. There are less of them coming back than went out and most are streaked in gore.
The roll-up door slams shut and then another few sections of thick steel plate are wheeled into place on motorized lifts. The steel snaps together, tongue-in-groove style, making a barrier that I hope is Dub-proof.
Matthais stomps past me, never saying a word, mask still on, surrounded by a pod of men (his “retinue” Gus would probably say).
They leave a trail of crimson-black bootprints.
I gasp when I spot the hanks of greasy, bloody hair hanging from a loop around Matthais’s waist.
Scalps.
The guy scalped the friggin’ Dubs.
He tosses his sniper rifle to a junior Prowler who commences to oil and wipe it down.
For some unknown reason, I rise up and stick my hand out to thank him. He stares at me like I’m an insect and I can see his eyes, which are not unlike those of the Dubs, burning behind his mask.
He does not shake my hand, spinning instead and disappearing with several of his Prowlers up into the stairwell. I squint sideways at Brixton who watches Matthais exit.
“He saved us,” I say.
“He mopped up,” Brixton grumbles. “Easiest work there is.”
Brixton slumps on his elbows and allows himself a faint smile.
“So now that we made it back in one piece, boss, what’s the plan?” Asian Phil asks.
“Gonna ask for a little overtime first. Then I reckon I’m gonna call out sick tomorrow.”
The others laugh as Brixton bobs his head in my direction and points. “You got eyes on you, Jumper.”
Looking back I notice a teenager with slicked hair and shiny shoes, gesturing at me. I can’t believe it. I’ve just been in the middle of a building implosion and run almost ten friggin’ blocks through a deadzone and now some admin flunky wants to chat?
“You Wyatt?” the flunky asks.
I nod.
“I’ve been sent to fetch you. Mister Shooter would like a word.”
5
“Name’s Josh,” Shooter’s all-too-eager aide says to me as we climb the stairwell. I’m still running on empty after everything I’ve been through and while Josh is nice enough to walk slowly, he never does offer me a helping hand or a kind word.
He’s got a small security badge with a big, green “G” on it dangling around his neck. Gus told me the “G” stands for Gamma and means whoever wears the badge can access areas off limits to the general population.
“How long have you worked with Shooter?” I say, leaning on railing in the stairwell near the first floor, taking a breather, checking on my hand which seems to have stopped bleeding.
“Jeez, going on seven months now. I took over for Kyle Masterson.”
“Think I remember him.”
“Yeah, Masty, that’s what we called him, was good peoples.”
“They transfer him to another section?”
Josh shakes his head and for some reason the way he does it annoys the shit out of me. I can tell deep down he’s soft, but likes to front that he’s a tough guy. I’ve seen it many times before. It’s all in the eyes, you see, and his aren’t hooded, hard, or sunken with exhaustion like mine. I bet the punk’s never gone outside the wire.
“He was shunned a few weeks ago.”
He says this nonchalantly and then reading my looking and probably realizing I didn’t attend the event, manufactures a huge smile and twirls his security badge.
“Oh, man, you didn’t know did you? Well, don’t worry. Masty went on to a better place.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“Seriously. I’ve got friends of friends who told me he made it out. He went to the place beyond the river.”
Inwardly I sigh because the ‘place beyond the river’ is, as others have said many times before, like a ghost. Something that everyone talks about, but few have ever seen.
“I thought it was supposed to be an island in the river.”
“Nope, it’s actually a little slice of heaven on the other side.”
“What’s there?”
“Oh, open space, places where there aren’t any Dubs. Kinda like how it used to be from what I hear.”
“Sounds sweet.”
“It totally is.”
“Makes you wonder why we all haven’t just upped and moved there.”
Whatever levity or warmth was in Josh’s face moments ago slips away. “Hey, we’re running late,” he says.
We continue up the stairwell and a few minutes later, Josh gets waylaid at the edge of a corridor near the fifth floor by an even lower-level admin flunky with a list of grievances.
Hearing shouts and the thunderous roar of an engine, I glide down the corridor and stare at a door with a biometric scanner. The door has no earthly reason being open, but it is.
On the other side of the open door is an assemblage of men and woman inside an oversized bay.
They’re standing aside a number of motorcycles and an immense machine that’s cocked on top of a ramp, facing another roll-up door.
The machine’s painted black and what look like metal baffles hang from the sides near oversized, ruggedized tires. The machine’s hood is up and a man wearing a jumpsuit and goggles tugs on something I can’t see, making the engine snarl.
As if sensing my presence, the others near the machine turn and point as Josh appears and kicks the door closed.
“You trying to get in trouble or something, Wyatt?” he whispers.
“What was that?” I ask, gesturing back at the room.
“Nothing – not a – just a recon vehicle.”
“I’ve never heard about it.”
“That’s because its existence is on a strictly need to know basis. And right now you don’t need to know about it.”
Josh pulls me back and I’m too tired to argue, so we coast silently through secure doors and checkpoints and then back up into the main stairwell.
On one floor we nimble through a room where most of our drinking water comes from. Huge vats and a labyrinth of PVC pipes filled with liquid from catch-basins on the roof and sides of VC1 that are heated and filtered and routed throughout the majority of the building.
On another floor we’re forced by a possible Dub infiltration to detour through the building’s scrap yard where small furnaces are stoked.
Here metal refuse is loaded by machines with rusted arms; traveling cranes creaking and groaning overhead, reaching down iron hands and seizing iron prey.
And aside these things are various machining implements that bend and hammer and spin the molten metal into new objects: tools, armor, weapons, metal plate for barricades. I stand and take it all in, thinking that it’s like being in the center of the earth, where the machinery of time is constantly revolving.
The workers here are black with soot, hollow-eyed and gaunt, manning heavy presses and shaping and cutting appliances. They work with fierce intensity, rushing around, but rarely lift their eyes from their tasks.
We ascend a few more floors.
More people the higher we climb. More traffic.
The heads and faces blur by, hallways lit in some sections, darkened in others by the rolling blackouts sometimes experienced during peak energy usage.
“You hear anything about our operation?” I say to Josh, making small-talk.
He nods without turning back.
“What happened to the others?”
No response from him.
“There was a dude named Strummer with me and there was Del-”
“I know.”
“So what of them?”
He spins and rebukes me with a look. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Because I’m not getting any answers.”
“Does ‘no comment’ qualify?”
“What can’t you comment on?” I ask.
“Look, I’m not allowed to talk about anything that might be contained in an after-action report.”
Vertical City Box Set [Books 1-4] Page 18