Skin Game

by Max Allan Collins

  But how to get back?

  It was miles away and would take them hours, even if they did use the sewers to avoid being seen.

  He needed someone on the outside, and neither Original Cindy nor Sketchy had wheels; still, they were the only two people he knew that he could trust, so he started dialing.

  Original Cindy’s cell went unanswered; Alec didn’t know what to make of that. He had no time to spare to ponder it, though, and he dialed Sketch.

  “A car?” Sketchy asked when the greetings were out of the way. “I guess I could borrow a car.”

  “We need you to pick us up at Joshua’s house,” Alec told him.

  “What are you doin’ on this side of the fence?”

  “Not now, Sketch. Just get the car and haul ass over here. I’ll explain everything on the way back to Terminal City.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Sketchy said. “Half hour, tops.”

  Forty-five minutes later, they were still watching out the window when a beat-up van pulled to a stop in front of the house.

  “I gotta get myself a better support system,” Alec said.

  “Yeah,” Joshua added. “We gotta blaze.”

  They climbed in the old van and Sketchy hit the gas. But soon they were lumbering through heavy traffic, and Alec explained what had happened, and who the killer was.

  “Bobby Kawasaki?” Sketch said, suddenly very white. “From Jam Pony, you mean?”

  “Yeah—he’s a transgenic, passing. . . . You okay, Sketch?”

  But Sketchy’s eyes were wide and woeful. “Christ! I think I saw him this morning, with Original Cindy. I’m pretty sure they left together. Then I didn’t see either one of them the rest of the day. Never reported back from their first deliveries—Normal was really pissed.”

  Alec looked at Sketch and the van went dead quiet.

  “Sketch—you better step on it.”

  Bobby Kawasaki sat in the worn wing chair and watched the crappy signal on a TV produced in some third-world shithole back before Pulse. The cheap motel room was dusty and dingy and had seen few customers on more than an hourly basis for most of the last ten years; but the desk clerk, a tiny Asian man with thick glasses and thinning hair, asked only one question: “You got cash?”

  Bobby’s project hung safe in the closet on a hanger—he’d had to leave the mannequin behind—and Original Cindy lay on the sagging bed with a compress on the nasty bump on her head. He had meant to scare her, but when she’d taken that tumble off her bike, the woman took a much nastier spill than he’d anticipated. Glancing over at her now, he wondered if she would ever wake up.

  After her crash, he’d left her bike lying in the street, loaded her onto his own bike and pedaled straight back to the motel, with her riding in his lap, her legs tossed up over the handle bars. From a distance she would have looked like she was having a joy ride, her face pressed into the cheek of her boyfriend. It wasn’t the greatest ruse, but people minded their own business in Seattle, and it had gotten them back here to safety and seclusion.

  Taking her to a hospital was out of the question. He’d lose control of her there, and be right back where he started. That was also the risk of keeping her here. If she died, she would be of no help to him, which would be a pity, after all the trouble he’d gone to. The trap he’d laid for her this morning—letting her see him take the Tryptophan—had worked like a charm.

  Well, at first it did, anyway. Bobby had gotten the woman talking, and she seemed about to help him of her own volition, when something he’d said seemed to make her wary. Though he’d run the conversation over and over in his head, he still didn’t know where he’d made the mistake.

  It didn’t matter now anyway. If she died, he’d dump her—her skin was the wrong shade and size to be of use to his project, after all. If she awakened, she would help him. If she didn’t help him, he would kill her.

  Bobby watched her ample chest as it rose and fell in shallow breaths. She was still with the living—the question was, for how much longer? Turning back to the television, he watched the Satellite News Network, looking for stories about Terminal City.

  Though the national news still covered it, the siege seemed relegated to the back burner as earthquakes and other catastrophes started shoving at each other for space on the little screen. The local news still seemed largely focused on the siege, however; interestingly, a few protransgenics protesters had also shown up—FREAKS ARE PEOPLE TOO, one sign said, and BAN TRANSGENIC TESTING, said another.

  Original Cindy moaned, and Bobby went to check on her. Slowly, as if every centimeter of movement caused excruciating pain, she moved a hand up to the washrag on her forehead. She touched it gingerly and her eyes fluttered, then opened wide.

  Looking up at him, she managed to say, “You—Bobby.”

  He smiled a little. “You remembered my name. I’m flattered.”

  “What . . . what happened?”

  “Your bike took a tumble. I picked you up and brought you here.” He could tell by her eyes that she didn’t remember clearly, yet, and what he was saying made little sense to her.

  “Where’s . . . here?”

  “Just a motel.”

  She tried to sit up, but the pain obviously forced her back, her hand again going to the lump. “This bitch hurts.”

  “Probably a concussion,” Bobby said.

  “Why did you bring me to the No Tell Motel? If you think you’re gettin’ some, you ain’t been payin’ attention to Original Cindy’s predilections—short form: you ain’t gettin’ none. Concussion or not, I’ll kick your scrawny ass.”

  He smiled. “That’s not what I want from you.”

  Confusion tightened her eyes.

  He went on: “I just want to join the others.”

  She still didn’t get it.

  “At Terminal City, I mean.”

  “That’s right,” she said slowly, her voice thick with discomfort. “You’re a transgenic.”

  He watched her wrestling with that. If she remembered what had freaked her out this morning, they’d have to do it the hard way. If she didn’t remember, then she might still help him on her own. Her eyes cleared slowly; from the look of her, she didn’t remember a thing.

  “I should probably get my beautiful booty over to the ER,” she said. She tried to sit up again, but had no more success than the first time.

  Helping her lean forward, he propped up the pillows behind her. “Aren’t there doctors in Terminal City?”

  Her eyes tightened again, this time mockingly. “You shittin’ me, right? They make doctors out of any of you Manticore men? You killin’ machines, not healin’.”

  “I don’t know—a lot of the X5s and X6s have medical training.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t know if I can make it over there—can I rest for a while first?”

  He didn’t like that, but she’d been cooperative enough, so he said, “A while longer, Cindy—then we’ve got to go. Or do we need to wait till dark?”

  She studied him. He knew what she was thinking: if she trusted him, and Bobby turned out to be a spy for the feds or something, she might be endangering everybody inside those fences.

  Finally, she said, “No—I can get us in, during the day. No problem.”

  “Great—but you better be quiet and rest, because I’m really anxious to join my brothers and sisters.”

  Lying back, she closed her eyes.

  Original Cindy was tired, and still woozy from the probable concussion. But as she began to drift off to sleep, she suddenly remembered why she’d crashed. . . .

  It had been him—Bobby Kawasaki—he’d scared her.

  So tired, so tired, but she thought something about his wanting into Terminal City so badly was . . . whack. She didn’t know what that was, exactly—it was her gut, and Original Cindy listened to her gut, it was a goddamn eloquent instrument, and she knew this nondescript little brother was wrong . . . and she had to buy as much time as she could until she figured out a way to warn Max.
>
  In what seemed like seconds—which was a little over an hour later—she felt hands on her, as he shook her awake.

  “Come on, Cindy—rise and shine! Time to go.”

  Groggy, she managed to sit up; but the pain filled the whole side of her head, ran into her neck, down her shoulder and into her arm. It might only be a concussion but, damn, girl! Everything hurt.

  “I’ve got to call them,” she told him, “to tell them we’re coming.”

  “No—no calls. Come on. Get up. You need my help?”

  “They . . . they won’t let us in.”

  He shook his head. “If they’re not maintaining radio silence, they should be, and I’m not going to be the one to break it. We’ll worry about getting in when we’re there. Come on.”

  “How . . . how are we going to get there?” she asked. Her legs were rubbery. “My head’s poundin’ like a bitch. I can’t walk.”

  “We’ll flag down a cab.”

  He let her lie there while he pulled out a large suitcase and laid it open on top of the dresser. She watched as he pulled something big and tan out of the closet and gently folded it inside the case. The object looked like leather, a patchwork garment, very amateurish, even primitive; but she couldn’t be sure what she was seeing, exactly. Between her fuzzy vision and the duskiness of the room, it could have been almost anything. . . .

  Bobby put a small flashlight in one pocket, tucked a long knife and scabbard into his boot, and carried a stun rod under one arm.

  She noted this, the knife and the stun rod reasonable precautions for a transgenic . . . but that intelligent stomach of hers was sending warning signals. . . .

  Once Bobby had packed up, he none too gently led her outside. She recognized the neighborhood, once they exited the motel. The only good thing was that in a slum this dumpy, it would take them forever to get a cab, even in the middle of the day.

  Unfortunately, he’d been kidding about the cab. The first car they came to, he broke into, tossed her inside in the front, put the suitcase in the back, and hot-wired the car.

  As they drove, she focused all her energy on trying to think of a way to warn her sister.

  Max was worried, and wishing she could trade this leadership gig in on kicking the crap out of some bad guy, any bad guy.

  Alec and Joshua were still missing, Logan had been gone for some time now and she hadn’t heard so much as a peep from him, and when she tried to call Original Cindy, her Boo’s cell phone had this odd buzz to it, and no dial tone. Stomping into the media center, she tossed the phone on a table.

  “Any ideas?” she asked Dix.

  His half smile was only technically a smile. “Cell phone ain’t working, is it?”

  She shook her head angrily.

  “None of ’em are,” he said. “Looks like the feds are taking the gloves off. Instead of just monitoring our transmissions, they’re jamming them now. They cut off the power into the area, a couple of hours ago. By now they’ve figured out we have our own generator.”

  Luke walked in, an empty glass in his hand. “They just cut the water.”

  “Is our system up?” she asked.

  Dix shook his head. “But we’re close—fifteen, maybe twenty-four hours, we’ll be up and runnin’.”

  “Hope we’ve got that long,” she said.

  Those who were the closest to her—the inner circle of Logan, Joshua, and Alec—were now all outside the perimeter, and she could no longer contact any of them. Well, at least she could talk to Clemente. Who woulda thunk that cop would be her new best friend?

  She said, “I’ll be back,” and strode out of the media center.

  Max bounced down to the fence line and found the Guardsmen and police officers huddled behind the cars in tense silence. “Hey, guys! Where’s Clemente?”

  Several of them shrugged, and a couple said, “Don’t know.”

  Across the way, Colonel Nickerson came out of the restaurant where she’d met Clemente. She watched as he marched over, ramrod straight.

  “Colonel, I need to talk to Clemente.”

  He shook his head. “Detective Clemente’s on assignment and can’t be reached.”

  “Well, reach him anyway.”

  “No.” He frowned in such a way that it encompassed his whole body. “Detective Clemente’s off the front lines. You may have noticed, we’ve turned off the power and water and jammed communications in and out. This is going to end, 452. It’s going to end soon.”

  She thought about leaping the fence, kicking his ass, then jumping back over. Can’t do it, she told herself. Gotta be mature. . . . Damn leadership, anyway.

  “Thanks ever so,” she said, and turned back toward the compound.

  Time to call a meeting.

  Half an hour later, the whole mess of them had gathered again in the garage.

  “There’s no water!” someone yelled.

  Dix stepped forward. “We’re working on it. One more day at the most.”

  The crowd grumbled at that.

  “We’ve got bigger things to talk about,” Max said, taking over again.

  “Is the Army really coming in?” one of them called, and several others more or less echoed the question—literally, in the cavernous garage.

  “That,” she said, “is the threat.”

  Contradictory shouts erupted everywhere:

  “We’ve got to go!”

  “Fight ’em!”

  “Fight with what?”

  Max held up her hands but it did no good. The crowd—this outcast mix of the beautiful and the grotesque—was only a heartbeat away from chaos.

  Stepping forward, Mole raised his shotgun, aiming it up the ramp into the next level. He glanced at her for permission—and Max nodded her go-ahead: the cops couldn’t possibly think they were being fired upon, neither could the crowd, and cement dust wouldn’t come raining down on them if he fired it straight up into the roof.

  Mole fired once and, when the roaring echo had died, the place went eerily silent. He had gained their undivided—if somewhat momentarily hearing-impaired—attention.

  “A week ago,” the lizard man yelled, circling as he spoke, “I wanted to run!”

  A voice shouted, “You were right!”

  Mole looked in the direction of the voice as he pumped another round into the chamber—the pumping of the shotgun was a small sound that seemed very loud. “Shut the fuck up. It’s my turn to talk.”

  No one argued.

  “I wanted to run,” Mole said, “and Max made her speech about not living in fear anymore . . . and it was a goddamn good speech, that all of us heard, and took to heart . . . and yet here you all are, a buncha candy-asses ready to run as soon as the goin’ gets a little tough.”

  They were all listening attentively.

  “Well, not me!” He chewed on his cigar, wheeling around, seeking any face that might disagree. “This place is a shithole—and some of us have been here a hell of a lot longer than a week—but it’s our shithole . . . and I think that no matter what comes, it looks like this is our home.”

  Some of them nodded.

  “Every pioneer carves his home out of the wilderness. . . . Well, this is our wilderness, and this is our home. And I’m ready to fight to protect my home, if it comes to that. If there’s a peaceful solution, fine. If not,” he raised the shotgun over his head, “they can bring it on.”

  Scattered cheers erupted, and began to grow. Applause followed, and built into an echoing simulation of machine-gun fire, over which could be heard chanting: “Term-i-nal City . . . Term-i-nal City . . . Term-i-nal City!”

  Max waited, enjoying the enthusiasm, the esprit de corps; finally she stepped forward and raised a fist.

  The room fell silent; and fists were thrust high.

  Max said, “We will do everything we can to end this peacefully! . . . But Mole is right. Terminal City may be nothing to brag about, but it’s our home . . . and we’re not running anymore.”

  Luke came in carrying the fl
ag Joshua had made. He handed it to Max and she waved it overhead as the crowd cheered.

  Like their surroundings, it wasn’t much, but it was theirs, and if they had to defend it, they would do so to the death.

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  DYING TO MEET YOU

  ARMBRUSTER HOTEL, 1:45 P.M.

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 12, 2021

  After what seemed like hours in snarled Seattle traffic, Logan Cale finally pulled up to the well-worn seven-story brick structure that was the Armbruster Hotel—at one time, the place to stay in the Emerald City . . . of course, those days had ended not long after the Gold Rush of 1896. The canvas awning over the front door, once forest green, had long since faded into a limp pastel pup tent, while the grand entrance—wide smoked glass that had at one time been clear—was attended by winos, not liveried doormen.

  Logan punched numbers into his cell phone.

  Asha picked up immediately. “Yes?”

  “It’s me. I’m finally here—with the price of gas, you wouldn’t think traffic jams would be a problem. How’s our guest?”

  “He’s been a very good boy.”

  “I wonder if he’s for real,” Logan said.

  “If he isn’t . . .”

  “Asha will spank. Okay, start the clock. If you haven’t heard from me within half an hour, you know what to do.”

  “Roger that,” she answered, and the line went dead.

  Entering the lobby, Logan was greeted by an aroma that was a cross between one of Mole’s cigars and a YMCA men’s locker room. Ratty carpeting and shabby furniture were overseen by an elaborate cut-glass chandelier that loomed like a reminder of better days; and, off to the right, the front desk remained impressive, too: it looked like an oak bar from a western movie. When this place was torn down someday, the chandelier and that oak piece would be about all that anyone would bother to salvage.

  Behind the counter, seated on a high stool, was a lumpy-faced sixtyish guy so white that Logan would have mistaken him for an albino Manticore experiment, if the man’s eyes hadn’t been so dark, like a couple of raisins adorning a dish of ice cream. The desk clerk was hunkered over a magazine—Barely Legal Teen—which, Logan realized as he drew close enough to get a look at the cover, was neither about the law nor aimed at a teenage audience.