by Andy Remic
“Rappo. Rappo.” Keenan smiled, holding out the flats of his hands. “Is there a human there I can speak with?”
“No. Rappo in charge of EPF.”
“EPF?”
“Exterior Perimeter Fence. No clever spuke getting past this cheery cherry Slab! Oh no! Rappo not have cheese for brain just cheese in his belly!”
“Listen, Rappo. My name is Keenan. I’m a soldier, look, with a gun. I’m a friend. I’ve served with many Slabs in my time; after all, would a zombie really know that you were born in Vats, that you feed in Troughs, and that a spuke is another name for bastard? Well?”
“Suppose not,” rumbled the Slab. “Who that with you? In the darkness? You being clever cherry and trying get old Rappo to let you zombie motherfuckers in?” He growled a string of expletives in a language Keenan could not vocally replicate.
“No. No. Listen, just let us inside...”
Suddenly, Mel charged, leapt the high concrete barrier and Rappo let out a screech like nothing Keenan had ever heard. Flames roared, billowing into the sky but Mel was past, down in the trench, and there came a single solitary thwack. Something slapped hard against the ground. Keenan put his head in his hands, then with a mumbling Franco in tow, climbed the barrier of concrete, scaffolding and barrels, and jumped down into the trench. Rappo was laid out cold. Mel held the flamethrower like an interesting toy, staring down into the glowing nozzle.
Gently, Keenan prized the large weapon from her talons. “Better let me have that, love. Don’t want you burning your own head off, do we?” Keenan prodded the Slab with the toe of his boot.
Franco was beaming. “A single punch! What a gal! Never seen a Slab laid out with a single punch before! Who’s a good girl, yes, jubba jubba jubba, who’s a pretty little girl then.”
Mel rolled on her back, and Franco rubbed her belly.
“Franco!” snapped Keenan. “Mission. Biomods. SinScript. Knuckles. Remember, fuckwit?”
“Aye, Keenan, aye. Just giving praise where it’s warranted.”
“You stay here. I’ll go and find whoever’s in charge. Cam?”
“Yes Keenan?”
“Keep an eye on these lovebirds, will you?”
“Yes Keenan, although I fear the surges and pulses which rearranged the planetary weather and night cycles have damaged my scanners. I only see enemies a couple of seconds before you see them yourselves.”
“Sometimes, that’s all we need,” said Keenan quietly. “Just do your best lad.”
Keenan stalked ahead, down the narrow trench between barrels, H-section girders and plinths of shattered concrete. He soon heard voices, and keeping low, silent, he approached. The barricade had been melded to the front of an office block, the foyer changed into a CoP—a Centre of Operations. Keenan could see around thirty men and women, all heavily armed, and several Slabs, clustered around a heavyset man pointing at a digital map which glittered.
So, they’ve got power, thought Keenan.
And a leader.
Then Keenan’s mouth dropped as recognition bit him. The man by the digital map was...
“Keenan!” roared the bald, black-bearded, short stocky warrior, and pushed past the gathered soldiers and Slabs, a beam hijacking his face. “I don’t believe it!”
“The surprise is all mine,” said Keenan, stepping forward. All eyes were locked on him. The stocky man approached, and gave Keenan a powerful bear-hug.
“Lads! Lads! This is Keenan, the one I was telling you about.”
“From your Adventures With Leviathan That You’re Not Supposed To Discuss, sir?”
“Aye lad, from my Adventures With Leviathan That I’m Not Supposed To Discuss.”
Keenan laughed, then, releasing some of his tension. He eyed the savage Frankenstein-scars on Betezh’s face, the small dark eyes, the predatory look of the shark. It was easy to underestimate the man. However, Betezh had proved himself in many a fire-fight.
“It’s good to see you,” said Keenan, at last.
“And you! Man, this city has gone insane! It’s nice to get another gun on the parapet! We’re fighting a losing battle here. Every single body helps, so to speak. Every gun another bullet in the eye of fascist zombie oppression. You dig?”
“You’ve organised all this?”
“Well, I did my best.”
Keenan slapped Betezh on the back. “You did well, mate.”
Betezh was former Combat K turned Internal Affairs—and several years previous had been set up by his employer, the politician Kotinevitch, to monitor Franco Haggis when the ginger-bearded soldier had been incarcerated in Mount Pleasant—a mental institution for the seriously unstable—after the military mission of Terminus5 had gone horribly wrong. Keenan, Franco and Pippa now knew the Terminus5 debacle had been a set-up, but it hadn’t stopped their subsequent imprisonment, and Franco’s incarceration in a lunatic asylum. After a daring escape, Franco had gone on the run—closely pursued by Betezh who wanted nothing more than Franco’s blood. Via a bizarre series of twists, and the comedy of fate, Franco had first stapled Betezh’s face with an industrial bone-stapler, then was in turn rescued by Betezh from an organic lake on the bleak desolate planet of Teller’s World. Betezh had, in the end, proved himself to be Combat K—proved himself true to his roots. And, whilst they could not really ever consider themselves friends, Keenan, Franco and Betezh could be considered brothers in adversity.
Now, here, Betezh had boosted these nostalgic memories until he believed, believed, they had been the best of buddies. Which went in some way to answer Keenan’s confusion at this unexpected and over-friendly reunion.
“Listen,” said Keenan, keeping his voice low. “You remember Franco?”
“Franco! Salt of the earth, a bosom buddy, what a guy!”
“Well he’s having a few, shall we say, pre-marital problems.”
“He’s getting married?” Betezh cackled. “Is she a babe? A sex-monster? A lithe and buxom lap-dancer type? Is she? Is she?”
“That would be one way of describing her, yes. The thing is, we need to locate a lad who used to work the markets around here. Went by the name of Knuckles.”
Betezh turned to his soldiers. He preened, for here, and now, he was able to publicly aid his old war buddy—the one about which he’d regaled his platoon in over-exaggerated tales highlighting his own over-exaggerated bravado. “Listen up! Good buddy of mine is in the shit, needs some help.”
“Is he Combat K?” asked one rangy looking woman, her face unhealthy, hair like strings of barbed wire. And yet her eyes shone with adoration for Betezh, her charismatic leader.
“He is. He is,” rumbled Betezh. “We are all Combat K!” Betezh beamed foolishly.
Keenan coughed. “I, um, wouldn’t be shouting that out too loud, if I was you.”
“Why not? I am proud of our military heritage!”
Keenan looked into eyes twisted from the path of sanity. “It’s a clandestine unit,” said Keenan, carefully. “Totally covert. A secret organisation within a secret organisation. Combat K is supposed to be a myth to the general population of Quad-Gal... so we can continue to carry out covert infiltrations, assassinations, detonations, that sort of thing. Yes?”
“Ahh, poppycock! We should be proud of our Combat K missions! We are the elite of the elite! Eh lads?”
The crowd of armed men and women gave a cheer, waving their weapons in the air, grateful to be led by such a wonderful military wartime hero, and given temporary honorary status in such a secret organisation to boot. The Slabs grunted and groaned in appreciation, like a bad aural rendition of horse sex. Keenan covered his face with his hands and groaned. What’s happened to the world? Am I truly surrounded by idiots?
“I’ve heard of Knuckles,” said one man, raising his hand.
“Good lad! Spill the beans, what do you know?” Betezh’s shark eyes gleamed.
“He’s a bad lad, a spaceship-thief, drugsmoke entrepreneur, wheeler and dealer and ducker and diver. He’ll buy, sell and
rob anything that isn’t nailed down. The market-traders normally chase him with snap-sticks if they see the little terrier.”
“And where might we find him now?”
The man shrugged bony shoulders. “I think he’s part of a gang, one of the teeny bastards who infest this part of The City. They call themselves The City Liberators, I assume because they try to liberate cash from people.” He gave a bleak smile, looking at Keenan. “If you find him, put a bullet in his head. He’s a maggot in need of a thrashing.”
“So, a nice guy,” said Keenan, lighting a cigarette. “Anybody know where I can find these City Liberators?”
A woman pointed, across the raging fires and burning cars, to a dark narrowing of city streets. “Over there, Dregside, gangland. I think they eke out an existence on the edges of the financial district; lots of rich people to mug down that way.”
Keenan nodded, staring out at distant streets that looked completely impassable, thanks to collapsed buildings, rubble, raging fires and plentiful zombies. “Shit.” He took a deep toke on his Widow Maker. His PAD rattled and it clicked to his private frequency. It was Cam. “Yeah?”
“Have you made contact with the leader?”
“Yeah. Franco’s gonna get the surprise of his life.”
“Well, whoever is in charge, tell him we got trouble.”
“That Rappo Slab wake up?”
“Worse than that. The zombies are coming.”
“Set Mel on them, she seems to be adept at cutting heads from deviant bodies.”
“No, Keenan. Tell the Big Man he needs to bring his troops. And fast. The zombies are coming. They’re armed. Armoured. And dangerous.”
“How many?”
But his words were drowned by a sudden deafening roar from across the barricades. Keenan and Betezh, followed by the rag-tag band of makeshift soldiers, sprinted along the narrow trench to where Franco was peering over a concrete balustrade. Betezh eyed Mel warily, eyes following the collar and chain to Franco’s fist. Mel growled, but Franco patted her disjointed muzzle affectionately and her growl switched instantly to a purr.
Beyond the barricade, the roaring continued and Keenan leapt up, taking hold of rusted wire and hauling himself to peer over the edge. The zombies had spread out into what could only be described a phalanx. There were hundreds of them—thousands of them. They stood in ranks, sagging grey flesh illuminated by fires. Many carried machine guns and shotguns. The front ranks had...
Keenan blinked.
“They’ve got shields,’” he snapped, and glanced over at Franco.
“I never said they were stupid,” said Franco.
“Yeah, stupid is one thing, but the bastards have organised themselves into a military unit. A battalion. An army.”
“We’ve faced worse odds than this,” grinned Franco.
“When?” snapped Keenan. “Tell me, when the hell have we faced worse odds than a three-thousand strong military-tooled zombie-army?”
“Ach, plenny of times Keenan, we’ll be just fine. You’ll see. Or they don’t call me Franco ‘Jammy Bastard’ Haggis for nothing, so they don’t!”
“They don’t call you Franco ‘Jammy Bastard’ Haggis at all! Come on, Big Guy, what’s the plan?” Keenan eyed the horde. It sent up another wailing roar, and the zombies started banging axes and lengths of pipe against their makeshift shields.
“Did you find out where Knuckles is?”
“A rough approximation.”
“Then it’s easy,” grinned Franco. He waggled his eyebrows. “We’re going to run away.”
Franco wasn’t the only one with the idea of fleeing, and as Betezh clapped Franco on the back with a booming laugh and a cry of, “Well met, Franco, you old dog!”—much to Franco’s frowning consternation—Betezh looked around at his small band of fellow troops. “Listen up!” he bellowed. Below, the zombies had started a lumbering, staggered charge. Their rotten feet thundered sloppily across the plaza, leaving many a toe behind. “We can hold these walls, die, and become heroes! Or, as I now propose, we can squeeze out the back way and hot-tail it away in order to fight another day! That way, we will certainly come to face ever bigger odds on a more glamorous battlefield! And become even bigger heroes! Hurrah!”
The vote was instant and unanimous. As the zombies, screaming and frothing, clambered up the barricade in search of fresh brains, Betezh led the group—nervous now that Mel was in their midst— down through makeshift trenches and through the once opulent foyer of the office building. They sprinted down dank concrete steps into a half-flooded basement. Water and oil swirled about their legs, and with zombie screams echoing behind, Betezh led the group past concrete support pillars to a wide, low room, at the end of which squatted seven narrow tunnels guarded by heavy mesh grilles of TitaniumIII.
“We’ll have to blast our way inside,” said Betezh.
“I’m the man for that job,” said Franco, puffing out his chest.
“This is just like the old days!” beamed Betezh, slapping Franco on the back.
Franco eyed the crazy scarring on Betezh’s face. “Not the old days I remember,” he muttered, and dragging his pack from his back, started to rummage for hardcore explosives.
“No need,” said Keenan.
“Why’s that?”
Keenan gestured to where Mel approached the grilles and attached her talons to metalwork. With a grunt, she heaved, muscles writhing across her powerful, mottled body. There came a long moment of locked tension, then a squeal as the grille gave way. Mel hurled it aside, where it buckled against the wall and clattered into swirling flood-water.
“Jesus,” said Betezh. “I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to kill these bastards. Never thought I’d be running away with one!” He glanced over at Franco. “What a beast, hey? And ugly? Hell, you could crack bottles open on that face!”
“Shut up,” muttered Franco.
“But why?” Betezh frowned. “It’s not like she’s your bird or anything.” He roared with laughter at his own joke, and slapped Franco heartily on the back
Groans and roars came echoing down into the skyscraper basement. “Looks like they breached the walls,” said Franco. Keenan simply nodded, wincing. “You OK?”
“Headache.”
“Hangover?”
“No, Franco. It’s not a bloody hangover.”
“OK. OK. Don’t get so tetchy.”
Keenan clicked the narrow Mag-torch attached to his MPK, attempting to ignore the tiny, intrusive pain at the back of his skull. Bright light leapt in a steady beam. And, with Betezh and Franco close by his side, weapons at the ready, they waded into the flooded service tunnel—into the darkness—and into the unknown.
~ * ~
They crept through nigritude, with only a few torches to light their way. The tunnel roof was circular, smooth, and gleamed with damp under pencil-thin beams. Water sloshed around their knees, invading boots and making life uncomfortable.
Keenan and Franco were up near the front, beside Betezh who led the way. It seemed he knew the tunnels well, and when Keenan asked him why, he just gave a broad wink—which, on his scarred and disfigured face, and in the light of the torches, looked quite horrific. Certainly demonic.
“My God, what kind of monster did I create?” mumbled Franco.
Keenan gave him a friendly slap on the back.
Mel followed, in the midst of the soldiers, who continually didn’t-quite-point their guns at her. Occasionally she growled, and snapped at anybody who got too close. A lot of makeshift squaddies came close to ND.
Far behind, the howls and groans and screams followed them through the haunted tunnels. It would seem the zombies, the mutants, the deviants, had not been fooled. And this new darkness, and sense of enclosure, did nothing but heighten primal fears.
Franco was reliving many of his own private nightmares. Not only was his woman a mutated monstrosity, but he hated enclosed spaces almost as much as he hated a quarantined brothel. He muttered in rhythm as he wa
lked, words spilling out like a depraved marching song.
“Bloody dark. Bloody zombies. Bloody creepy gloom.”
“Bloody water. Bloody sloshing. Bloody creepy shadows.”
“Wish I had a rainbow pill.”
“Wish I had a rainbow pill.”
This last mumbled sentence referred to the days spent incarcerated at The Mount Pleasant Hilltop Institution, the “nice and caring and friendly home for the mentally challenged”. Franco had certainly been mentally challenged; now, he was merely mental.