Directive 51

by John Barnes

  Around the corner, Heather found a Rite Aid with its doors wide open; a tall, thin man in a store apron was painting on the window.

  NO MORE FOOD, HELP YOURSELF, PLEASE NO FI

  “Is there any disinfectant in there?” Heather asked him.

  “Lady came by and got most of the rubbing alcohol and I think the hydrogen peroxide, another lady got the bleach,” the man said.

  “Got hair-dye kits?”

  He laughed. “Oh, man, now there’s a woman’s vanity. You want to stay a redhead while the world ends? Aisle Four D.”

  Tearing open the hair-dye kits, dropping the soft bottles of peroxide into her pack, she thought, I must be a good person. I could shoot him and no one would ever know or care. Or maybe I just want to save ammunition.

  Still room in the pack. She put a shoulder to the door of the pharmacy section, and grabbed three large jars of pills whose labeled names ended in -cillin.

  She went out the emergency door, wishing that ALARM WILL SOUND had not been a lie, and ran past the row of cars with rotting, stinking tires, and a sour odor that she figured was probably gasoline going to vinegar. Okay, Lenny, now I’d sure appreciate it if it turns out you’ve been having the dullest afternoon of your life. She took the last few blocks at a trot.

  The door of Lenny’s building was propped open. The doorman’s body lay behind his desk. The exit wound in his back was huge—shotgun blast, from the front, high up by the neck.

  Staying drawn and ready, she closed the building door. No sense attracting more scum into the place. Heather ran up the stairs toward Lenny’s apartment, trying not to think about what she might find.

  Loud voices through the fire door, but they didn’t sound close.

  She pushed it gently, opened it far enough to slide into the empty hall. She crept along the wall toward the turn that led to Lenny’s front door.

  Beside her, a broken door gaped; Heather saw a child’s bare, motionless leg sticking from under a sofa. The sight froze her; she had seen violent death, but this was a kid for god’s sake—

  She heard a door open, down the hall, and slipped into the apartment. She reached out to touch the child’s leg, hoping—

  “He’s dead,” a soft voice said beside her. A young woman, perhaps twenty years old. “My boyfriend’s son. They killed him and his dad. I hid in a closet. I feel bad.”

  The voices in the hallway rose to a crescendo, and Heather made a shhh gesture and listened. Somebody named James was loudly welcomed by the group, and the leader, if that was the word, was explaining that “—from a neighbor bitch, she told us so we let her go after we done with her, there’s a cripple guy in there with like a generator and a frigerator and all that good shit, man, we could party the biggest bestest party anybody ever partied.”

  “Burn ’im out.”

  “Then what happens to all that good shit we goin’ in for, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Then just break the door down.”

  “You see that little square in the door, there, just down from that peep-hole? That’s how Michael got shot, trying to take it down with his shoulder, and that cripple guy, he just pop that little square open, bang, shot Michael dead, man. He was our friend and everything and that cripple guy killed him.”

  “See, if it was me, in there I mean, I’d just like spray down the whole hallway, and all y’all’d be dead, you know?”

  “Maybe he’s low on ammo.”

  “He shot back soon as we tried shooting through that door, so he ain’t all that low.”

  I wish they’d all talk, Heather thought, because I’d sure like to know how many of them there are. But things won’t get better for waiting, that’s for sure. She turned to the young woman beside her and handed her a table lamp lying on the floor. “Was it those assholes that killed your friends?”

  “Yeah.” The young woman’s voice was full of tears.

  “ ’Kay. When my butt disappears through that door, start counting. At fifty, throw the lamp into the hall and scream—loud and a lot.”

  “Fifty, throw the lamp, scream.”

  “Right.” Heather scrambled through the door and down the hall to wait about three feet short of the turn that led to Lenny’s apartment, silently counting—

  The lamp crashed into the hallway and the young woman screamed and wailed fit to fetch the dead. Heather held her pistol in both hands, chest high, drew a breath—

  Blur around the corner. She squeezed the trigger, and the body fell sideways. Another man tripped and fell across him, and Heather shot him in the back of the head, then jumped across the hall for a view farther down the corridor. A man stood staring at the bodies of his two friends and Heather shot him in the chest; two more men, yelling “Don’t,” backed up in the hallway.

  There was a brief, stuttering burst from behind them; Heather ducked sideways. It would really upset Lenny if he accidentally shot me. After the burst, Heather peeked, and saw the two men trying to drag themselves forward, their backs a bloody mess. She stepped into the short hall and shot each of the struggling men on the floor in the head; no point in their suffering, but no way to bring in a prisoner. She verified that the other men were also dead.

  “All clear,” she called.

  Lenny’s door opened; he was in his mountain racing wheelchair. She hadn’t realized how neatly the side bracket would hold a machine pistol.

  “Glad you got here when you did,” he said. “They’d brought in the intellectual in the group, and he’d’ve figured something out.”

  “I had some help—let me get her,” Heather said. She went back to the apartment, where the young woman still sat, stroking the leg of the dead boy.

  “We never got along,” she said. “He was jealous about the time his dad spent with me. I wanted us to get along, but . . .” She was watching something a thousand miles away. “I guess we’ll never get along now.”

  “I’ve got to talk my boyfriend into going to a safe place with me,” Heather said. “He’ll argue, but I’ll win. You should come with us. I think they’ll have room for you there too, and even if they don’t, you’ll still be somewhere safer than this building. Please come along?”

  “I’d just be a drag on you.”

  “You were a big help, setting off my diversion.”

  “Because I could tell you were going to kill those guys and I wanted to help.” In the gathering gloom, Heather couldn’t really see the young woman’s face, just the shadow of her shape. “I was in the closet and I heard them kill Stan and Dennis. I heard Stan begging for Dennis’s life. They killed him anyway.”

  “You helped me kill them all.”

  “Didn’t bring Stan back. Or Dennis. Look, you guys just go. Please. I’ll just sit here till I think of something.” She turned and curled away.

  The sun was going down fast. Heather said, “Just let me make the offer one more time—”

  “No.”

  Hope I have more luck with Lenny. She turned to go; Lenny was rolling into the apartment. “Stay with us tonight and see what you think in the morning.”

  The girl looked up. “You’re the guy they were trying to kill.”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry Stan didn’t come over to my place and bring you and Dennis. I asked him to.”

  “I know. He said you can’t live in fear.”

  “So here’s my thought. Heather and I can’t make it to anywhere safe before nightfall, so we’re stuck here for the night. At least do us the favor of not being out here where we might have to hear someone killing you. Come morning, you can come with us or not.”

  “I really don’t like the idea of staying the night here,” Heather said. “I know you’ve got the generator, and your independence, and everything, but—”

  “I hate to leave,” Lenny said. “But I like living. Now—come on—I think Stan said your name was Sherry?”

  “Yeah.” The young woman stood up, kissed her hand, and pressed it to the dead boy’s leg, and led the way out into the hall.

&
nbsp; “I thought you’d argue with me,” Heather said.

  “If it was just me, I might, but I keep noticing more and more people risking their lives to accommodate me. We’ve all got to get through this with whatever we’ve got, and I know that everyone will have to help and be helped, but I don’t want to cost anyone anything more than I have to.” He rolled ahead of her and Heather followed him around to the door; she’d wondered how he’d gotten through a hallway blocked with bodies. The answer turned out to be that a mountain racing wheelchair rolls over a corpse as easily as a log. “We’ll want to wipe your wheels when we’re inside,” she said. “You’ve probably picked up some nanoswarm or biotes.”

  “Now, there’s my practical girlfriend.”

  “I still wish we were moving tonight.”

  “Me too, actually. But realistically, it’s over twenty miles to St. Elizabeth’s. And except for the White House, no one’s got a secure car they can risk at night to come up here, and I wouldn’t bet on Shaunsen deciding to rescue us. So I’m guessing we’ll end up going under our own power tomorrow. Better to go at dawn, when the predators are sleeping off looting the liquor stores; we can be most of the way there before anyone notices us.”

  He unlocked the door and let them in. When he was on the mat with the door closed behind him, he said, “Bleach and rags under the kitchen sink; could you help me clean the blood off my wheels? I know it’s silly, since I’m leaving so soon, but I hate the thought of staining my carpet.”

  ABOUT THE SAME TIME. SAN DIEGO. CALIFORNIA. 3:30 P.M. PST. WEDNESDAY? OCTOBER 30.

  Last night, Carlucci had declared Roth to be a cooperative witness, which meant she could have food, water, and sleep at will. No one had asked her about it; she’d still been passed out from her seizure.

  Roth had seemed all right but subdued that morning, so Carlucci had tried a low-key interrogation at ten A.M.; by noon, when they broke for lunch, Roth had repeated, many times, that she wanted to cooperate but she didn’t know much and it felt like something was wrong with her mind.

  Hoping a younger woman would have better rapport, they’d sent Bambi Castro in from 1:30 to 3:30, but though Roth was less guarded with her, she really hadn’t extracted any more information. Now, it was Larry Mensche’s turn. Maybe his warm and fatherly personal style would work out differently, but Bambi doubted it. She went to treat herself to fresh coffee; she wondered how long it would be before supplies of that ran out.

  In the break room, Carlucci was just filling his cup. “Weird, isn’t it? She keeps saying she wants to help, but did you get anything out of her?”

  “No, and it was time to give up. I needed some coffee, because I’m getting tired, and I promised I’d bring back a cup of herbal tea for Roth, because she’s been cooperative. I tried to kid with her and told her it wasn’t real herbal organic, just a plaztatic copy, and she started to cry and said a lot of people around the world need plaztatic copies of real stuff, and she never understood that before, and she’s so sorry. But then after that for fifteen minutes she was like, aphasic. Like after a stroke. It’s like she’s dying of guilt and I would swear to god she wants to confess and spill her guts, but when she tries she goes into brainlock.” Bambi swallowed a deep, warming slug of coffee. “I’m wondering if Daybreak protects itself by not letting them talk?”

  “I agree. I can’t tell if she’s lying, too out of it to have a clue, or being blocked from talking. Maybe Mensche’ll be—”

  “Trouble!” Bolton yelled from the front door; Bambi and Carlucci ran to see.

  About 150 people, looking a little like a parade, a little like a charity walkathon, and a lot like a mob, in jeans and sweatsuits and T-shirts, were coming up the road toward them. “The light’s behind them, so they probably can’t see us through the windows,” Bolton pointed out. “Good thing, too. I count four rifles and three shotguns being waved around; handguns would be anyone’s guess.” He handed his binoculars to Carlucci.

  “Hunh. KILL THE BITCH NOW. MEXICANS GET FOOD, CITIZENS GET SCREWED. BREAK DAYBREAK. And TERRORISTS SHOULDN’T GET SHOWERS WHEN TAXPAYERS HAVE NO POWER. At least that last one is sort of clever.”

  “Can we stand them off?” Bolton asked.

  “Yeah. Most of those guns they have won’t work—some wouldn’t have even before Daybreak. A lot of people don’t clean or maintain their weapons. And they’re not that well-organized. Figure it that half the crowd thinks it’s going to a school board meeting and the other half thinks they’re going to storm the Bastille. But I’d rather not shoot American citizens for being outspoken and stupid—it’s kind of what the country’s all about, you know?”

  Bolton nodded. “If we run them off, how long before more come back?”

  “Well, these guys must have been brought here by word of mouth, so they’re just the first wave . . . and I’d hate to have to try to hold this place at night . . .”

  “What if we move the prisoner?” Bambi asked.

  “Where and how?”

  “We take the biohazard Hummer out the back garage exit. My father is Harrison Castro, and I—”

  “Wait a sec, the guy they call the Mad Baron is your father? Billionaire, built himself a Castle overlooking the harbor maybe five years ago?”

  “Yep. Survivalist nut like Grandpa and Great-grandpa before him. He could hold that place against an army. He’ll take in anyone I tell him to, no prob. He’s got a protected way down to his private pier, he owns too many sailboats to remember all their names, and I’ve been sailing since I could stand up. We take Roth there, rest up, maybe he’s got radio and if he doesn’t he’s building it, we call in to DC for instructions, and we can either keep Roth in the Mad Baron’s Castle, or I can run her up the coast, or for that matter, Dave, trust me on this, I was raised in boats and I could sail her around the Horn to Washington if I had to.”

  “Oh, I believe it.” Carlucci raised his binoculars again; the crowd was still climbing the long slow slope of the hill, but they would be there in less than ten minutes. “Bolton, you drive. Take the two meanest-looking GAFEs with you. Wedge Roth between them in the back seat; Castro will bring her to you in a second.” Bolton was gone in an instant. Carlucci said, “Castro, get moving. I’m officially remanding the prisoner to the Department of the Future, as of this second.”

  “Thanks. If you need somewhere to be, Dad’s got room for hundreds. Bring your families. Even if I’m gone, he’ll let you in if I tell him to.”

  “I couldn’t—”

  “You sure could. Your family too, ’kay? If you don’t bring them, Dad will make you go get them anyway. Food, a roof, a safe bed, and plenty of people working to keep it that way. You won’t get any better offer, trust me. Now you go stall, and I’ll go get our terrorist, and I’ll see you at Castle Castro.” Bambi raced down the hall to the interrogation room. “Mensche, sorry to interrupt, but we’ve got to relocate the prisoner, mob on the way, and they’re close, get details from Carlucci.” She grabbed Ysabel by the hand, saying, “This way, now.”

  At the Hummer, she pushed the girl into the arms of one GAFE; the second one jumped in immediately, so that they had the prisoner wedged and seated. Bambi hopped into the front seat. She hadn’t had time to grab her bag, but there were probably ten “just in case Bambi comes to visit” closets at Castle Castro.

  Bolton said, “No levante su cabeza, por favor.” Ysabel Roth gulped, nodded, and leaned forward so that she was completely below the level of the windows; one GAFE beside her tossed a couple of blankets and a towel in a disorderly heap on top of her. “All right, I hope you know the fastest way,” Bolton said.

  “I know the best. Just keep this thing on the road and don’t outrun the sprayers on the tires. We have enough antiseptic juice to make it there?”

  “Yep, I filled up when we got back.”

  Mensche burst into the garage, waving his arm in a rapid roll: go, go, go, go, go!

  Bolton started the Hummer, and they rolled forward; Mensche ran ahead of them and y
anked down on the manual chain to raise the door.

  They lurched into the drive behind the office park, away from the main public parking area, and Bolton gunned it, turning away from Aero Drive. “It’s near the Harbor,” Bambi said.

  “Yeah, I know, I’ll turn back by going another way I know, but I’m hoping we won’t be—”

  Something made a clank and a thud; everyone jumped. “That’s a bullet being stopped by the Kevlar curtains under the body panels,” Bolton said. He threw the Hummer in a tight turn around a couple of dead cars and was on a main road, running flat out; another clang-thud! from the rear door announced a second shot.

  “Hang on,” Bolton said, and threw the Hummer hard around another turn, down a ramp into a different office-building parking lot; he circled three-quarters of the way around the building, climbed a ramp on the other side, and shot around a long, arcing road. “We were probably out of range, but why take chances? Now I’m going to double us back onto Aero, a nice safe mile and a half from the office, and with a couple rises in the road between us and them. If the tires and the luck hold, we’ll be down to the Harbor in less than fifteen minutes. Castro, can you explain that to our two soldiers? The only Spanish I know is for making arrests.”

  She snorted. “Dad has pretenses of Old Californianess. He was too proud of his heritage as a descendant of the conquistadors to let his daughter learn Spanish. I don’t suppose either of them knows French, Russian, or German.”

  A muffled voice said, “My Spanish is fine. Can I sit up? It’s hot under here.”

  “Wait till we’re on Aero,” Bambi said, “but please explain now for the soldiers. They must be confused as hell.”

  Ysabel Roth spoke for a short while and answered a couple of questions. Then one GAFE spoke to her for a couple of minutes, and she translated, “Hey, they say that being in the GAFEs means always being as confused as hell.”

  “Our kind of outfit.” Bolton slowed as they approached the Harbor; more and more wrecks and junk lay in the road. “Ms. Roth, get down and stay down; we’re going slow enough to be a good target, and it’s always possible that someone had a working CB or something and we might be ambushed.”