The Adjudicator didn’t waste much time pondering the concerns of soon-to-be-dead freaks; they would arrive soon enough, and then the real fun could begin. The only question that remained was how long he would take to kill them; such things had to be done with a measure of artistry to really be enjoyed.
***
This was not Fred’s favorite part of Mildred. Even fully wolfed-out, he never came here unless he was forced to.
Sunset City Recreational Park; well, the name was apt if you considered that the place had been “sunsetted” years ago. Another victim of in a long line of budget cuts, it was not situated in a commercially advantageous spot, so Sunset City—a subdivision comprised of mostly low-income high-rises inhabited by low-income renters—had neither sold the land nor bothered to maintain it. The original plan had probably been for a “wilderness-style” park combined with a big, grassy commons and other amenities, along the lines of Central Park in New York City on Old Earth. Now the grassy commons was waist-high in weeds, the trails among the dense trees were the hunting grounds of predators with two, four, and six legs, the ball parks could only be discerned by the remains of chain-link fences full of blown trash, and the entire 80-acre site gave off the aura of something just after an apocalypse, poisoned and abused nature struggling to reclaim the landscape. Fred knew of some packs who hunted here recreationally…they would never say what it was that they hunted, and he never asked. Suffice it to say that anyone here after dark was probably someone who would not be missed.
Jim and Fred had Harry sandwiched in between them as they waded through weeds and garbage to what had been a band shell. Well, it was still a band shell; plascreet was hard to destroy with anything less than a pocket nuke or specialized construction equipment. But it had been stripped of anything that could be sold or just pried off, so the doors on either side where musicians would have entered and exited were open holes like a pair of gouged-out eyes. And it had been graffitied up as far as anyone could reach, and then a little higher. Someone had been ambitious and brought a rope or a ladder…or else the rumors of Were-apes were real, and they liked to tag buildings.
In the half-light of near dusk, the selection of dark-suited men waiting on the plascreet stage looked even more out of place than they might have in full light. In daylight, they could have been mistaken for a group of entrepreneurs examining the area for potential, or even city officials surveying the damage. But now, so close to dark, there was no reason for anyone dressed as they were to be in a place this dangerous.
Unless these wolves-in-sheep’s-clothing happened to be even more dangerous than the killers that called this place their territory.
Dead center in front of the congregation was the apparent leader; he was in a suit just like the rest, though his was plainly more expensive and actually tailored. He could have been anywhere between his late twenties and early fifties; he had a timeless look to him, and by all common aesthetic standards should have been attractive, or at the very least, ordinary. There was something…off about him, however. Maybe it was something about the eyes, or the constant half-smile he always had on his face. It was a strange sort of vibe, unwholesome, like the feeling one would get from being around a convicted but unrepentant child molester.
Harry hung his head, listlessly being led on. Jim and Fred exchanged a look with each other before they continued toward the waiting team, coming up around fifty paces short of the stage before the leader spoke.
“That’ll be far enough, gentlemen.” The sound was carried easily by the acoustics of the stage, and none of them were forced to shout as they talked. The leader kept his hands behind his back as he talked, looking down on the trio, still smirking. “You,” he nodded to Jim, “can remove that helmet, if you like. I don’t believe that there’ll be any need to keep up appearances here.”
Jim let go of Harry’s arm to use both hands, removing his helmet. None of the suited goons on the stage seemed to be surprised to see that he was a Reboot. “You sure seem to know a lot about us.”
“It’s my job to find out such things. And to find people once they’ve been…misplaced.”
Fred took a step forward. “We’ve fulfilled our end of the bargain. We’ve brought Harry to you. In exchange, we get to walk away from this. That’s our deal.”
“That is what was discussed.” The leader raised a hand; the men behind him all produced compact and rather dangerous-looking weapons on command, aiming them directly at the trio.
Fred’s hackles raised, and he started to slowly unsheathe his claws, the beginning stage of him wolfing-out. “What the hell is this?”
“The arrangement that we discussed, whereby you go free in exchange for turning over Harry Somerfield to us, is predicated upon, first, us actually needing to let you go. Most importantly, however, it assumes you actually have Harry Somerfield. Which you clearly do not.”
Fred literally jumped, he was so startled. “What in hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “He’s right here!” And with that, he shoved Harry forward, making him stumble a little.
“Drop the act, please. It’s starting to get pathetic.” The Chief Goon—Fred could only think of him as that—lifted his lip in a sneer. Fred looked back at Harry, distraught. This was all falling apart! This wasn’t in the plan! Now what was he going to do?
***
“It’s okay, Fred.” Harry stood up straighter, looking into the leader’s eyes. “There’s more to this guy than meets the eye.” As he spoke, he walked forward a few paces. His features started to change; his face darkened, he shrank and became more compact and wiry, and short, bristly black hair sprouted on the exposed parts of his body. Once he was done, he was Harry no more. Humph planted his fists on his hips, sizing up the goons. “How’d you know, if I may ask?”
The leader tapped the side of his head with a finger. “Having money affords one all the best toys; even ones that can pierce your glamour.” He started forward a few steps, still smiling. “To be honest, we thought you were dead in the collision. I didn’t know that you were alive until your friends came strolling along with you in tow, instead of Mr. Somerfield.” The leader sounded mildly impressed. “My turn to ask how you managed that. If I may?”
Humph held up his pocket watch. “You have your tricks, I have mine. Slipped this into a jacket that I gave Fred right before he bailed out. Effectively teleported to it right before the collision; that way it looks like I got crushed on all the cameras. Figured it’d give us an edge, you thinking I was dead.” The leader watched Humph replace the pocket watch, still smirking.
“It would have been a good deception, had it worked. But to what end?”
Humph shrugged. “Couldn’t let you have the kid. He’s dumb, and out of his league, but he doesn’t deserve what you bastards were going to do to him. Plus,” Humph leaned forward slightly, “I figured I could twist your head off and shove it up your ass, if I could just get close enough.”
“Very cute, Mr. Boggart.” The leader was allowing a tinge of annoyance to creep into his voice. “None of you are going to leave here alive, you know. If you’d like the small mercy of dying quicker than the others, I do suggest you tell me where Mr. Somerfield is.”
Humph thought for a moment. “First, I’ve got to know something.” The leader waved his hand for Humph to continue. “Why Weres? Why go after them? What the hell did the Fur set ever do to you? Piss on your shrubs?” Keep monologuing, you rat fuck, and I’ll waltz right up and gut you where you stand. Humph continued to slowly walk forward, keeping his hands at his sides and his posture non-threatening.
The leader laughed; it was a sharp, mean sound without any real mirth in it. “You really have no clue how far off the beaten path you’ve stumbled, Mr. Boggart. The Weres are just a small part of things. A side show for the main attraction, the big event. In time—” Floodlights suddenly hit the leader, his men on the stage, and Humph. Everyone looked around, shielding their eyes. Humph saw a flash of panic cross the leader’s face; th
ings were finally not going according to plan for him, instead of not for everyone else.
About damn time.
“This is the MPPF. Throw down your weapons and remain where you are. Anyone that attempts to flee or resist will be engaged immediately with lethal force. This is your only warning.” Then Humph saw them: at least four specialized aircars, huge ones, painted solid black. Ah, the glory of fully stealthed aircars. Nothing to give them away until they were all in place and there was nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide. They didn’t have any markings, and dozens of troops in tactical gear were rappelling out of the open doors. Good move, that; kept the aircars as overhead support while the troops piled onto the ground. Humph approved; this was the first time he was actually happy to see the cops.
“Kill them, kill them all!” The leader of the goons shouted furiously at his men, pulling out his own sidearm. Then the shooting began; the goons, the leader, and the newly arrived troops.
Skinny Jim jammed his helmet back on; at that point, Humph knew, he was the next thing to invulnerable in his robot shell. He might look like a battered old bot, but that chassis was from an industrial model and was hardened against damn near anything. Fred wasted no time, and wolfed out partly; that would take care of ordinary projectiles and even direct energy weapons up to a point, but not silver. Humph was the one who was the most vulnerable.
But he was also the one who was the most angry.
Both of his partners charged forward toward the goons; it was time for payback, time for blood on the ground. Humph looked for the leader; he was still standing out in the open, firing at the aircars. When he stopped to reload, both of them locked eyes. Humph unholstered the old Webley-Fosbery from under Harry’s rumpled suit jacket, and ran toward the leader. The bastard wasn’t smiling anymore. Just as Humph raised his revolver, the leader turned to run, darting between his men with bullets and energy blasts hitting the ground around him.
I am not letting this son of a bitch get away!
The Boggart ran after the leader, his legs pumping hard and driving him forward as fast as they could carry him.
Some of the goons tried to stop him, tried to run interference for their boss. He shot the first one squarely in the face, not even breaking stride. The second one stepped in front of his path; a backhanded pistol strike to his orbital socket sent the man down the ground, maybe dead. Humph vaulted over the body, still following the leader. Off to the side of the fighting, he saw Jim knock down two goons, messily kicking in their heads after they were sent sprawling to the ground. Energy blasts and bullets ricocheted off of his robot shell, with some of the shots getting sent off wildly, one of them striking a goon square in the back. In the back of his mind, he found himself marveling; when he’d first hooked up with these two, he would never have dreamed of seeing the Reboot wade into a fight like this. Fred—well, the guy might be an engineer, but he was also a Fur—a tough Loner at that—and Furs, no matter what they had been before they were Turned, were scrappers. But a Reboot? Normally they won—back when they were still hostile—by sheer overwhelming numbers. And that had been back when they weren’t manual labor, and had to kill for their food. You just didn’t picture them duking it out, Boggart-style.
He emptied the rest of his revolver’s cylinder into the gut of a suited goon who had grabbed hold of his shoulder, costing him precious steps and time. He turned, trying to catch up with the leader; he had to get him. If that bastard got away, this would never be over. He got a glimpse of the leader sprinting down a side path, and took off after him. Just as he was about to reach the beginning of the path, four goons, all with their guns trained on him, closed ranks, blocking him off from his quarry.
Humph raised his revolver, pulling the trigger—click. He hadn’t had time to reload, and he couldn’t cock the mechanism and pull the trigger fast enough to get to the last cylinder again for the cantrip to kick in; at least not enough times to take out all four of the goons. They were about to cut him down when an inhuman howl split the sky, cutting through the noise of the melee. A large auburn blur bathed in silver light slammed into all four of the goons, dragging them screaming to the ground. Fred—he was in full form, centered in the middle of a moonglow-spot trained on him from one of the aircars—had the men pinned down, and was literally tearing them apart before Humph’s eyes. This wasn’t the half-form he could take at will. This was the Monster In The Dark, the fully feral Beast for whom killing was as easy as breathing. Easier. His victims really never had a chance.
They weren’t dying quietly. The werewolf’s head came up, gore dripping from his muzzle. Humph saw a glimmer of intelligence behind those canine eyes, and what he would have sworn was a wink; with that, the Were was back up and looking for more victims. Humph had heard of the spotlights, restricted to law enforcement, but he’d never seen what happened when one hit a Fur until now. The difference between a moonspot and a real full moon was that the Fur in question would keep his human brain rather than going completely mindless and bestial. How they managed that, Humph had no idea. I’m going to owe Fred a case of scotch for that save. Business first, though. Humph ran down the path, doggedly following the leader.
The path was overgrown, with branches hanging down from trees and bushes growing out into the middle from the edges. The leader of the goons would wait at some of the twists and turns, shooting at Humph when he came into view; Humph had had time to reload at this point, and shot back. He took his time, lining up his sights and squeezing the trigger. During the last exchange, he saw his round take the leader in the knee; a spurt of blood and the man’s cry of pain confirmed the wound. The leader kept stumbling down the path, fumbling with his pistol and cursing. Humph slowed down, from a trot to finally walking, as he followed the blood on the ground. The path terminated at a stone arch bridge; it must have been part of a scenic overlook for the river it crossed over, which ended with a gentle waterfall to the left. The leader paused on the bridge, still trying to reload his sidearm. Finally he jammed the magazine home, raising the pistol; Humph did the same, firing once. The bullet caught the leader in his shoulder, causing him to drop his pistol and fall back over the edge of the bridge. He landed with a small splash in the river which wasn’t anything more than ornamental. He came out of the water gasping and floundering toward the waterfall; not dead yet, evidently. Humph followed him, still unhurried; when he reached the bridge, he walked around it and into the river. The water wasn’t very deep even at the center, maybe a foot at most.
The leader reached the waterfall, then struggled to stand up; there wasn’t anywhere else for him to go. The waterfall fell onto a shallow artificial lake, which was thickly overgrown and green with algae from lack of care. There were jagged rocks at the bottom of the waterfall, nearly forty feet down. He turned to face Humph, clutching his shoulder. “You goddamned mongrel!” Spittle leaked down his chin as he shouted. “You think this is the end? You think that killing me is going to change anything, anything at all?” Humph holstered his pistol as he trudged through the water. He walked right up to the leader, staring him in the eyes right up until he plunged his claws into the man’s belly.
“No, I don’t think it’ll bring back all of my friends that you’ve murdered, or change anything else that has happened. But killing you is too damned satisfying to pass up.” He dug the claws in further, twisting to the side and upward, the fabric of the man’s shirt and suit bunching up in between Humph’s knuckles. The leader’s eyes bulged out of his skull, his mouth ringed in a silent “oh” of agony. Humph used his free hand to shove the leader, hard, pulling him off of Humph’s claws and sending him over the edge of the waterfall. There was a loud clap as he impacted with the rocks below.
Humph looked over the edge. The man wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. Still.
The Boggart selected a good-sized rock from the ornamental boulders in the stream. Fortunately, they hadn’t been cemented into place. He picked it up with a grunt, walked carefully to the edge of the waterfall,
aimed, and threw.
It landed with a wet smack on the human’s head.
No sooner had it done so, than there was movement in the underbrush. First one, then a second, then a third and a fourth ghoul crept out from cover on all fours. In a moment there was nothing of the body to be seen beneath the feeding ghouls. Humph didn’t bother to watch any further, opting to wash the blood off of his hands in the river before walking back to the path. “Now there’s no chance of seeing that prick again. Rot in hell, asshole.”
***
“I don’t get it,” said Harry, as he handed Humph a double scotch. “What the hell were they after?”
“Captain Monologue didn’t get to finish,” Humph replied, taking his first sip and savoring it. “And once the fighting started, and he knew the jig was up, well, you wouldn’t have gotten anything out of him with pliers and razor blades. At least, nothing useful.”
He’d seen the type before, and although he wasn’t going to let Harry in on the full deal, he recognized a government goon when he saw one. Even if the Chief Suit hadn’t been conditioned to a fare-thee-well to resist torture and other interrogation techniques—and Humph strongly doubted that he hadn’t been—he’d probably been implanted with a remote device to eliminate him if he was “compromised.” Probably without his knowledge, during something like minor surgery or dental work, long long before he ever reached the position he’d held. The man himself had said it: Someone was playing a long game.
Reboots: Diabolical Streak Page 14