Dead Mann Running (9781101596494)

by Petrucha, Stefan

  I didn’t feel like moaning myself, but I’ve never been much of a joiner. It looked like the raggedy was also keeping her act together. She stared at the others as if they were nuts, and backed even farther away.

  Chakz going feral en masse wasn’t a topic they covered on Nell’s show, but I’d heard about it. Until now, I’d chalked it up to one of the many urban myths surrounding the life-challenged, but I’ve been wrong before.

  For instance, before the Fort Hammer riot, I thought ferals were incapable of acting in an organized way. But when hundreds massed on the city plaza, it sure as hell looked like they were moving in patterns. Mass suicides had been known to occur in the living, so why not mass savagery in the dead? You couldn’t find a nicer spot for it.

  The flamer was on the ground, freaking out as Fixit nuzzled his pink cheek with his maggot-filled face. If that wasn’t ugly enough, the fuel tank, dented in the fall, had sprung a leak.

  “Get him off! Get him off.” His screams sounded more like sobs.

  With a pop, a round tear appeared in Fixit’s shoulder. A bullet hole. If they thought anything less than an exploding bullet was going to make a difference, they were idiots. Then again I never got the sense that even the paid guardsmen earned more than minimum wage—and you get what you pay for.

  The gate squealed open again, revealing two more flamers, both baby-faced. The crowd’s caterwauling grew, like a game show audience really disappointed by the prizes. The newcomers took it slow, trying to size things up, but not the downed flamer’s hakker buddy. That pinhead pointed his nozzle at Mr. Fixit, like he thought he could aim the foot-thick fire accurately enough to pick the chak off without hurting his pal.

  I imagined him saying, “Hold still, Lennie, I’ll light that cigarette for you!”

  I’d sat for a lot since I’d been here, but there was only just so much sheer stupidity I could stand. I ran up, waving my hands, screaming.

  “Asshole! Squeeze that trigger and his fuel pack will blow!”

  It wasn’t polite, but I’d made the point. The second flamer’s eyes widened like he’d suddenly remembered how fire worked.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. Once I was close enough, I gave Fixit a hard kick, sending him rolling. Unfortunately, the jackass figured I’d given him the distance he needed, and opened up. The heat barreling through the air alongside the flame was enough to throw me off my feet. I landed on my back, my clothes smoking. I crawled away, like a caterpillar on speed, nearly hitting the prone flamer on my way.

  He looked at me, absolutely terrified. A single maggot squirmed below one eye.

  “Easy! I’m not feral!” I said.

  I don’t think he believed me because he started screaming, “Feral! Feral!”

  That’s when I noticed that the weeping fuel along the dent in his fuel pack had caught fire.

  “Fuck!” I said.

  I could’ve run, left him to blow. He was the enemy, so to speak, but he wasn’t a sick fuck like Flat-face, and I hated seeing anything burn. I clawed at the straps, trying to get them off. Screaming in frustration at my stupid, useless fingers only helped convince him I’d gone Romero.

  Somehow, I managed to release the straps. I yanked the tank off, got to my knees and swung the whole mess toward the storage shed Fixit and I had been building.

  And what did I get for my troubles? There was a sudden pressure in my lower back, followed by a little explosion below my rib. A sniper bullet had sailed through me. No good deed goes unpunished.

  Out of reflex, I grabbed at the hole with one hand and dragged the downed guardsman away from the shed with the other. I don’t doubt the sniper would’ve fired again if the fuel pack hadn’t exploded. The concussive blast took every chak in sight off their feet. The shock even stopped the fucking moaning. Nothing like a good slap in the face to get your attention. Sometimes it works.

  Seeing the blast, the other flamers yanked off their own throwers like they were, I don’t know, a chak riddled with maggots. I was only half standing to begin with, so I had less of a trip back to the ground. The heat seared my fake hair and it felt like the Halloween scar-glop I’d used to cover my eye had melted into my skin.

  Afraid to even touch my eye, I looked down at my gut. The wound was oozing, but I wouldn’t call it blood. Best guess was that the bullet had missed my internal organs. Then again, I didn’t need them anyway. Lungs, maybe, so I could talk, but otherwise, not so much.

  “You saved my life,” a voice said.

  The guardsman was looking at me, no longer quite so terrified.

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  He got up, and then put his hand out to help me to my feet. I figured that was going to be it in terms of returning the favor, but he said, “I’ll get you some bleach, needle, and thread for that. You need anything else, let me know.”

  I didn’t have to think about it.

  “A transfer, if you can manage it,” I said. “One for the girl, too.”

  14

  They had me sign some paperwork. I think it was because they wanted to see if I could write my name, so I tried not to misspell Seabrook. According to the form, I’d shown “unusual proactive behavior”—unusual, as the flamer explained, being what they were looking for at the Chambers Observation Center. We were being watched more than I thought. The raggedy? Well, that was a gimme. On her form it only said, “unusual.”

  It was bright and cold the day we were transferred. When the last bus of the day rolled in, fifty new chakz tumbled off. The incoming were increasing. When the bus left, it was only me, the raggedy, and the driver.

  She sat across the aisle from me in the middle of the bus, close but not too close. Outside, a group of curious campers gathered to watch us go. She watched through the window, giving back the same dull expression they gave us.

  Not looking at me, she asked, “Feel guilty leaving them behind?”

  “I did get them some bleach and a few folding chairs,” I told her.

  “Some favor. Two went feral when they couldn’t unfold the chairs,” she said.

  I shifted in my seat and tried to look the other way. “Even if I overpowered the guards and got the gates open, they’re all too far gone to know which way to run.”

  The bus rolled downhill. The camp finally vanished from sight. Can’t say that relaxed me, but my sense of doom was less impending, until my travelling companion twisted my way, put her elbows to her knees, and asked, “How long have you been wearing that lame-ass disguise? You’re that detective chak, right? Hessius Mann, the one the cops want?”

  I guess I looked surprised, because she rolled her eyes. “Please. Maybe the LBs don’t like looking, but half the camp knew, and like you said, they don’t know much.”

  I raised the eyebrow that wasn’t covered by scar putty. “And no one turned me in?”

  “Most didn’t care. The rest thought it’d be wrong to help the livebloods.”

  “And when did you spot me?”

  What there was of her lips curled into a smile. “First time I saw you at the test center. I remembered you from the accident and the motel. You cost me some money, but you were the first person who’s tried to help me out in a long time. Not easy to forget that.”

  “I hope that question I helped you with wasn’t the one that got you in there.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not like they go over the answers before they drag you off.” Her expression grew puzzled. “I thought you were getting me out because you were afraid I’d tell. You thought you had me fooled?”

  “Guess I’m as good a detective as I am a disguise artist.”

  Her perplexed expression deepened. “But, if you didn’t think I’d spotted you, why’d you get me out? Have a kid or something that looked like me?”

  Funny, Nell Parker had trouble figuring out why I’d tried to help her, too. For that matter, I had trouble with it. Out of habit, I blew some air between my dried lips.

  “No. No kids, no nephews, no nieces. I figured I ow
ed you for kicking out your john, and pulling me away from those guards. Plus, you keep turning up, like a bad penny. A friend of mine would say there must be a reason for that. If you are going to keep turning up, at least this way I have the illusion of control.”

  She stared at me like I was crazy. “That is one crappy reason.”

  “You got a better one for anything you do?”

  She shook her head, no.

  I leaned across and nudged her shoulder. “You know my name. You got one?”

  Her head listed, as if a muscle was missing. “I like Bad Penny.”

  “Bad Penny it is. You believe in Kyua, Penny?”

  She sneered. “The only difference between Kyua and Santa Claus is that I used to believe in Santa.”

  On the way north, we made a few stops at registration centers, picking up one chak here, another there. The seats filled, but slowly. Only one caught my attention. At the Chambers test center, a tall chak got on, and when I say tall, I mean he could have played Lurch in The Addams Family. He wore a pressed suit and clean clothes, like he’d walked out of his own funeral. But it wasn’t the clothes that made me stare. There was something about the way he carried himself that seemed, well, self-possessed.

  Instead of numbly filing to the rear of the bus like the others, he stopped to help a one-legged man into a seat. Chakz helping chakz isn’t unheard of, but there was another little detail. Before he sat, he unbuttoned his jacket, like he wanted to avoid creasing the fabric. He looked intelligent.

  Once we were moving, I tried to get his attention, but he was too far away. I made a note about him with my recorder, then spent the rest of the trip wondering how Misty was, if she was climbing those twelve steps, or looking for a down escalator.

  Unlike the overflow camp, the Chambers Observation Center was exactly the sort of thing I’d seen on Nell Parker’s show. Instead of some fences and gates thrown up, there were buildings, created for the purpose of housing chakz. Not that they were built to last, but there were rows of them, with corrugated steel walls, composite doors, and actual windows that you could open and close. There were even a few brick-and-mortar structures, no doubt for the livebloods managing the place.

  The outer fence was electrified, but there was a sign, and no charred limbs. Inside the fence? More fences, not electrified, but forming a dirt-floored maze. Within its confines, chakz ambled about. Some leaned against posts, some sat on benches. One was even reading a book. It was upside down, but still.

  At first glance, the COC was nicer than most of the hovels free chakz inhabited, on par with the larger shantytowns, minus the danger of weekly hakker raids.

  Everyone on the bus was plastered to the windows as we stopped in front of one of the brick-and-mortar jobs. Exposed to the elements for I don’t know how many days, I was eager to get inside. But, I was in the middle and had to wait forever for the others to shuffle out. When it was finally my turn, I nearly barreled into the tall chak with the suit.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said.

  He motioned me ahead. In a deep voice, he said. “No problem.”

  It almost made me feel human.

  Soon as we were off, two women in bright orange worker’s overalls took Bad Penny by the arms. I started, and the kid was suspicious, but they weren’t guards. They were gentle, and explained to her that they had separate facilities for raggedies.

  The rest of us were divided by sex, then into groups of four. I kept near Lurch, hoping we’d wind up in the same area. Along with a bone-thin gleet with more tics than an infected dog, and some sort of ooze coming out from a hole in his face that wasn’t his nose, we were the last three.

  A male worker marched us out into the fence maze. The building walls held another sign of civilization; regularly spaced bulletin boards. Most of the posts were schedules prepared by the livebloods, regular exams and so on. A few requests for volunteers caught my eye, as did some of the “social events” in the main hall—art therapy, disco dancing, a clothing swap.

  These were all laser printed except one. Handwritten, if you can call a Jack the Ripper–style scrawl handwriting, it said: “Kyua Prayer Group Every Night 8 P.M. Take part in your salvation.”

  Noticing I was eyeballing the sign, the worker recited, “Residents are free to enter the hall nine to twelve and three to nine.”

  “You got Ping-Pong?” I asked.

  I was joking, and he laughed, but he also said, “Yes, we do.”

  I doubted there was much of a line.

  He took us to our room and left us there. There was a slop sink, cots, chairs, and a couch facing a wall-mounted TV. With static on every channel, it looked like I wouldn’t be watching Nell anytime soon, but at least I was where I’d planned on being for a change.

  Not that I wanted to go snooping around right off. Bad Penny had rattled any confidence I had in the disguise. If anything, the LBs here were paying closer attention. Besides, after sitting in the dirt for days, I liked the idea of being comfortable for a few hours before getting into more trouble, so I chatted with my roomies.

  Lurch was Franklin Gilmore, a family guy who’d once had a penchant for fast food and heart attacks. A misreading of his Do Not Resuscitate order led to him being immediately ripped. The twitchy guy was Palmer Hudson, former stockbroker.

  Gilmore found a corner to lean against, I sprawled in one of the chairs. With the television off, Hudson’s erratic pacing was the only entertainment. His constant twitching aside, one of his eyes was swollen, not like someone with a thyroid condition, really swollen, like an egg next to a marble.

  The Hudson show went on. Pacing not enough, he rapped his fingers on the coffee table in a way that completely defied rhythm. Then he kicked over a wastebasket and started slapping his hand against a wall.

  “Nervous?” I asked.

  Gilmore wobbled, like he’d chuckled.

  I didn’t think there could be anything more irritating than Hudson’s jerky movements until I heard his nasal, whiny voice. He shook his head, six or seven times, then came out with a rapid-fire stream of words. “Nah, nah, nah. I’m calm, perfectly calm. I’m a fucking Buddha. I always get calm in a place where they cut you up in tiny pieces and then experiment on the pieces.”

  “Cut? What makes you say that? Place looks pretty nice to me.”

  He practically screamed. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re lab rats!” The end table had a pen and pad on it. He grabbed the pen and stabbed the pad. “Lab rats they want to kill. Only they can’t, so they try again.” He stabbed the pad over and over, faster and faster, boring ink-stained holes into the paper. “And again and again and again!”

  When the tip finally cracked, he stopped.

  “Oh,” I said.

  Even if he knew something, he was too damaged to be much help. I hoped he didn’t get ahold of another pen, or a knife.

  Gilmore rose and shook his gentle giant head. “That’s not what I hear, friend.”

  Hudson whirled. “Yeah, friend? What do you hear, friend? Crap about them looking for a way to cure us, friend? This is a fucking Nazi death camp, friend. The only difference is they haven’t figured out how to kill us yet.”

  Gilmore frowned, but stayed calm. “They already know how to kill us. D-cap.”

  Hudson made a noise like a woodchuck throwing up. “Cheh-cheh-cheh. Right. Ever see a chak with a hole in his chest, major organs missing? He’s still moving, ain’t he?” He brought his hands together and squeezed them tight. “Can’t just cut the head off, you gotta crush it. Even then, the pieces move. They’re like legless bugs. That’s us, fucking godless abominations.”

  I wondered what “special” attribute got him chosen for Camp Kyua. I was guessing it wasn’t his social skills.

  “He’s right about the head,” I said. “I’ve seen a few.”

  I hoped some validation would slow him down, but Hudson was shocked, like he hadn’t said it himself first. “I’m right? Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  His right leg started dancing. Gilm
ore and I watched in silence for a while, hoping he’d run out of steam. This was worse than college. Fucking roommates.

  I stood and tried to make eye contact. “Hey, maybe I’m wrong.”

  Hudson leapt up on the couch. “Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!”

  At last, he stopped. His body, anyway. His skull was moving like a bobble head in a windstorm. Finally, he bounced out to find more room to pace.

  Gilmore nodded at the door. “There’s something wrong with him.”

  “I noticed.”

  “It’s not just the spasms and the talking. He’s different.”

  Gilmore settled on the couch. I was standing now, but his head still came up to my shoulders. “I think I know what you mean,” I said.

  He turned his head toward me slowly. “If you ever decide to twist his head off, I’ll sit on him for you.”

  I laughed, but had to ask, “You serious?”

  “Were you serious about seeing those heads?”

  “Sorry to say it, but yeah. Guess that gives them lots of reasons to experiment on us. Unless you think they’re really looking for a cure?”

  He pursed his lips. “I don’t know, but what I like to believe, is that Kyua found the answer before he died.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Wait. Are you talking about the boffin, Travis Maruta, or the god? He’s Kyua, this is Kyua, the cure is Kyua.”

  “The boffin.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “My daughter is a big fan of conspiracies, UFOs, that sort of thing. She’d read it somewhere. I always thought that stuff was ridiculous. But don’t make fun. She visited me sometimes, before I failed the test.”

  “You must’ve been a good father, better than mine, anyway,” I said. “She read anything else?”

  He shrugged. “That they’re hiding the cure to keep us down.”