by Andy Remic
“I’ve never seen that before,” said Knuckles. “Lucky you brought your own.”
“Our own what?” said Franco.
“Your own zombie. It must be awesome, having one fight for you, on your side. It’d make a great movie though, wouldn’t it? Zombie chases other zombies with a chainsaw! Wow! Think of the gore-effects you could implement!”
“She’s not a zombie,” said Franco, woodenly. His eyes were a touch glazed.
“Hell, she looked like a zombie,” said Knuckles. He sat down beside Keenan, and stroked the hair of Little Megan, who sighed in her sleep. At peace, at last.
“Actually,” said Keenan, “that’s why we’re here. And that’s what we wanted to ask you about.”
“What have I done wrong this time?” said Knuckles, and part of the internal barrier came back.
“That zombie,” said Franco, with tears in his eyes. “Well. She’s my bird.”
“Your what?”
“My girlfriend. My woman. My wife-to-be. She used to be normal, but she bought a biomod—from you—and apparently, it turned her into that.”
Knuckles was silent, for a very long time.
“Oh,” he said, finally.
“You remember?” said Keenan.
“I remember.”
“Where did you get it?” said Keenan. His voice was soft, but his eyes were keen. They glinted in the glow of the few stars which managed to shine through the break in towering storm-clouds overhead.
“I stole it.”
“Where from?”
“A woman in the street. I steal a lot of things. I’ve sold a lot of biomods before. But none of them ever turned their users into... whatever it is she is.” He looked sympathetically at Franco. “That must be hard for you, Captain GingerBeard.”
“It is,” snuffled Franco. “And you should see her fanny!”
“Franco!” hissed Keenan. “He’s only ten!”
“It’s OK,” grinned Knuckles. “I’ve heard worse. Much worse, believe me.”
“How do I change her back?” said Franco mournfully. “How do I get my Melanie back?” He rubbed a streamer of snot from his nose, and Knuckles crossed to him, patting the broad and rotund pugilist on the back.
“There, there,” he said, in a curious reversal.
“So,” sighed Keenan, “it was a simple theft. You’re not a hardcore biomod dealer, hacker or pirate. So—shit—we can’t track your source.”
“A dead end,” nodded Franco.
“Did you steal anything else from the woman?”
“I got her cards.” He stared at his red gloss boots, trying to remember. “I sold them on, as well. What was her name?” He frowned, squinting, then his face lit up in a smile. “Christiane Solomonsson. That’s right. A proper weird name; even against the craziness of The City.”
“Never heard of her,” said Keenan.
“I have,” said Franco. Keenan looked at him inquisitively. “You have?”
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing at his temples. His eyes were closed. “She works for NanoTek. She’s a top-dog military biomod engineer. A weapons designer. Shit.”
~ * ~
CHAPTER 9
INFERNAL AFFAIRS
“Those zombies, they were deadly, dangerous, vicious... not like the ones we met before!” Franco’s eyes were wide as he set up the burner and sat a big pan atop thin TitaniumII legs. He fished through his rations, tipping dried noodles, tinned CubeSausage, and salt into the pan. Knuckles arrived with a jerry can and Franco poured water into the soon-to-be-Franco-stew.
“They were different,” agreed Knuckles. “But you... you fought well, Big Man. You were fast, fearless. A hero! You saved us all.”
“A hero?” Franco scratched his beard. “I wouldn’t go that far, lad, but yeah, you little, helpless children, you needed my support. Hey, hey what’s that?”
Sammy, one of the young girls, was playing with a Scope.
Franco’s eyes narrowed. “That’s mine, you thieving little scumbag!”
Keenan slapped him on the back. “Kids giving you a hard time, mate?”
Franco grinned sheepishly. “Nah, boys will be boys an’ all that. Listen, we was talking, about them damned dangerous zombies. It was like they were super-zombies, über-zombies...” his lips quivered, eyes widening yet further, “even... wonder-zombies!”
“Wonder-zombies? Franco, are you still on your medication?”
“No, I am not!” Indignant.
“Well maybe you should be.”
The PAD rattled, and when Franco managed to wrestle it from the iron-grip of Little Megan, who just would not bloody let go, he activated the machine and glanced up at Keenan.
“Hey Kee, it’s Steinhauer—that stinking old flabby bitch of a donkey’s bitch. He wants you.”
Keenan nodded, lit his Widow Maker cigarette, and took the PAD from Franco. The wind howled across the high vantage roof top, and Franco went back to his pan and the promise of food for the orphans, the kid-thieves, the gang. Keenan walked to the edge of The Happy Friendly Sunshine Assurance Company’s corrugated roof and leapt onto the low parapet, gazing down into the blackness of streets far, far below. Like a deep concrete ocean. A graveyard chasm. The wind rocked him, and he felt suddenly invigorated—a few hours earlier, he had been close to death, to a watery grave. Now he stood, a saviour. Yes, it was only a small victory; but sometimes a small victory was all that was needed between survival... and extinction.
“Yeah, Steinhauer?”
“We have located the Professor.”
“What’s he called?”
“Xakus. An expert in codecs and all things bio-mechanical. He’s currently holed up with an academic mob at The Great Malkovitch Library, about eighty klicks due south of your current location. He’s an ex-NanoTek biomod engineer. And let’s just say he owes Quad-Gal Military a few favours.”
“We’ve lost our transport.”
“Well, we’d fast-drop you a ship,” said Steinhauer, “but it would seem the, ah, deformations have taken over a variety of military installations across the entire planet. They’re shooting down aircraft like there’s no tomorrow. The City has become a no-fly zone.”
“You mean they’re controlling SAM sites?”
“Yes, Keenan. They are showing far more intelligence and resilience than we initially gave them credit.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” said Keenan. “Considered them a backward race, did you? Easy targets? A lot less technically advanced than QGM? Steinhauer, mate, after all the shite we’ve been through, you should have fucking known better.”
“When you know the full facts of the situation, Keenan, then you may judge,” said Steinhauer, voice icy. “But for now, just do your job. Did you link up with Franco and Pippa?”
“Franco, yeah.”
“Not the girl?”
Keenan smiled at that. “If Pippa heard that, she’d cut your throat.”
“Which is what makes her a perfect field operative. Do I need to reiterate co-ordinates...”
“No.” Keenan’s voice was hard. Too hard. He watched below as a fire blossomed, raging down the street to ignite a distant fuel tanker. Flames roared into the sky, billowing orange and purple. Even a hundred storeys up Keenan could feel the heat.
“You OK Keenan?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“You be careful. Every report we receive, well, our intel speaks of insanity, atrocity, murder and mayhem.”
“And that’s just the Quad-Gal infantry.”
“You taking the piss, Keenan?”
“I don’t need to, Steinhauer. You’re giving it away—labelled in glass bottles for all to savour and enjoy. Did you sort out the mess on Galhari? After all, it’s the place I call home.”
“Get me that decoded SinScript information, Keenan. Then we’ll talk about the junks.”
The PAD died, fluttering with an EXTERMINATION command in Keenan’s hand. He finished his cigarette, smoke whipped away by the promise of
another storm; he flicked the butt into the raging inferno far below.
Franco approached, warily.
“You OK, bro?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what to say about Mel.”
Franco shrugged. “There will be a way to cure her. I will find it. Even if I have to waltz up to NanoTek’s major HQ and bang on the doors and demand to see their chief bio-engineer!” He laughed. His eyes glinted. “Now there’s a thought.”
“I need to leave,” said Keenan. He lit another cigarette, and Franco tutted. He didn’t approve of Keenan smoking. “I have the co-ordinates for the man who can decode this.” He placed a hand against his ribs, where the SinScript sat in its protective case within his WarSuit; a tiny, inoffensive black coin. So small. Vulnerable. Yet holding the secrets to an extinct invading race.
“We will come with you.”
“No.” Keenan shook his head. “You see to Melanie. After all, at the moment her bite is worse than her bark.”
“Funny, Keenan. You’re getting better. We’ll book you a spot at The Frog and Bucket soon enough. But, seriously, you helped us get this far; it’s the least we can do to repay you.”
“Perhaps. Listen, these people may be able to help Mel. They are professors, academics; the man I need to see is ex-NanoTek.”
“Interesting.” Franco rubbed at his beard, which made scritchy scratchy sounds.
“He’s also an ex-biomod engineer.”
“Well then!” roared Franco, “that’s definitely our next port of call!”
“Can you get us transport?”
“You want a chopper?”
Keenan shook his head. “Steinhauer says the zombies have taken over the SAM sites.”
“What, across the entire damn and bloody planet?”
“It would seem that way.” Keenan gave a tight smile. “Mighty advanced, our little drooling, undead friends, aren’t they? A bit more intelligent than fried chicken.”
“Yeah. Just a bit. Well, give me thirty minutes. I’ll knock us some transport together.”
“And Franco?”
“Yeah mate?”
“Make sure it works this time. I remember the T5 Jeep you got us on Jeptune.”
“Hey, that exploding engine wasn’t my fault!”
“It sure looked that way at the time. It took me weeks to get engine oil out of my hair.”
“This time, it’ll be right mate. Or my name’s not Grease Monkey Mick.”
“But...”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing,” sighed Keenan.
~ * ~
Mel, armed with a chainsaw and her talons, had successfully chased the zombies from the building— exterminating most en route. A few had escaped, mainly by jumping out of windows under Mel’s furious violent whirlwind onslaught. Several had ended up in pieces, scattered liberally about the office locations. Thankfully, she did not come up against any more wonder zombies.
Securing doors, Mel had padded around the building with glowering eyes, like some futuristic Grendel. She activated security shutters, managed to get the lifts back online, and seemed happy (grunting and growling) that she was finally on a mission; doing something of good, of worth.
Returning to the roof, she squatted next to Keenan who sat, hands on his knees, head back against a wall, eyes closed, cigarette dangling from battered lips. He opened one eye.
“What can I do for you, love?”
“Grwwll. Ilding ecure.”
“Is it? You sure?” Mel nodded, tiny eyes watching Keenan. “Listen,” he said, “I appreciate you saving my life. I don’t know what the hell has happened to you, but we’ll do our best to help. We are going to see a biomod engineer... he should know how to revert you back to your feminine form.”
Mel nodded, armoured neck crackling.
Why doesn’t she look like the other zombies? Keenan thought idly, watching as she moved away, across to the group of children. They had grown used to her now, and even Little Megan—who had screamed the building down when she awoke to see Mel’s distorted face looming over her, drooling pus—was happy playing between the transformed woman’s thick, muscle-trunk legs.
Keenan shook his head, wearily, painfully. “What a weird world we live in.”
“Talking to yourself?”
“Shit. Lad, you move quietly.”
“Practice,” said Knuckles, sitting cross-legged before Keenan. “Franco’s downstairs. Got us some transport. Wait till you see it!”
“You are not coming,” said Keenan, eyeing the young thief.
“Yes I am. I know this part of The City better than anybody. I know all the back-routes to The Great Malkovitch Library; I know the best places for ambush, for robbery, and I know the best escape routes if the shit goes down. I’m a wheeler, a dealer, a ducker and a diver. You see only a ten year old boy in front of you; but I am experienced far beyond my years. You saved my life, Keenan.” Knuckles’s eyes were filled with tears, but his face was a defiant snarl. “Let me do this for you. Let me help you.”
“And who will look after your... gang?” said Keenan. His voice was soft, an understanding of sorts registering in his mind. Knuckles was proud, defiant, an adult in all but physical age. Keenan had been the same when he was young, and he felt a bond grow between him and this skinny little orphan with red gloss boots.
“Mel is staying here. She’ll protect them. Can you think of anybody better?”
“She has agreed to this?”
“She suggested it,” said Knuckles. “I think she wants to play at being mommy. And Franco said we’d move faster without her—find her help, and bring it back.”
Keenan nodded, grabbed his pack and stood, stretching his back. The recent bullet score from the junks in the quarry nagged at his flank, like a bite of internal acid, and the more recent knocks and bruises had left their mark across his flesh despite the protection of the Permatex WarSuit. “Well, we can’t leave your group unprotected; one of us would have to stay until we can arrange transport out of this biohell. It may as well be Melanie.” He smiled. “She does draw a lot of attention to us out on the road.” He slapped Knuckles on the back. “Come on lad. Let’s see what new toy Franco’s found.”
~ * ~
“What, the fuck,” said Keenan, “is that?”
“It’s a Corvette Scrambler,” said Franco proudly.
Keenan’s eyes roved over the flared arches, the huge knobbled tyres, the thick triple exhaust pipes poking from the roof. It was like a steel-girder cage mounted on an engine and H-section chassis. It was, without doubt, a serious off-road tool. Or may have been, once, perhaps sixty years previous. Rust had eaten long jagged holes in the metal flanks, which had once born a proud paint-job of roaring, searing flames.
“Flames?” inquired Keenan.
“I thought it added a touch of panache,” said Franco, face straight.
“The panache of the pimp?”
“Look Keenan, it’s the best I could do at short notice. I’d like to see you rustle up some serious off road shit, so stop moaning and get in. It takes a while to start.”
Grumbling, Keenan turned and gave Mel a small wave. He watched Knuckles leap into the stocky vehicle, then climbed in himself. The suspension dipped only a little, springs squeaking.
Franco moved to Mel, stared into her tiny black eyes. “I won’t be long, love,” he said.
“‘e ‘areful.”
“I will.”
There was a moment of uneasiness, and Mel stooped closer, distended, slime-covered lips puckering. Franco gave her a peck, wiped a handful of slime from his mouth, which slithered, pooling in a long stream to the rubble-strewn ground, then he leapt into the Corvette’s driving seat and fired the starter.
The engine turned, making a noise like a bucket of bolts in a tumble drier. Franco gave an apologised grimace. “Sorry. Sorry! Soreee. It just needs the right bit of love and attention.” He slammed his fist into the console, muttered, “Start, you bastard bugger,” and the engine roared into stunn
ed life. Black fumes poured from the roof exhaust, and Keenan groaned.