Vertical City (Book 2)

by George S. Mahaffey Jr.

  Exiting the stairwell two floors up, I listen to the sound of music pulsing. There’s only one person who likes to rage this early in the morning.

  I enter a wide multipurpose floor that functions as sleeping quarters. The room’s been sectioned off by plastic cubicles which Gus says were designed in the past to quash individuality. I wade through them, treading quietly as most are still sleeping in spite of the noise. Del Frisco’s visible, lounging in a cubicle near the back, Strummer and Darcy slumped next to him.

  Strummer has a mane of copper-colored hair that’s long in the front and cut closely in the back. He’s tall and muscular with dark circles under intelligent eyes that always seem to be rotating in different directions like a goldfish with a bad attitude. I’ve known him for a little under a year, the two of us having been forced together on a dozen or so ops.

  If Del Frisco’s the soul of our Jumper group, I guess Strummer’s the brains. He’s a bit of a ball-buster, but excels at scoping out routes and discerning traps and hot spots before they’re stumbled on. He’s also exceedingly even-keeled and a true believer in Odin and all that VC1 stands for (whatever that might be), which is why he and Darcy often get the plumb assignments from Shooter.

  Darcy on the other hand, she of the black hair that looks styled with a switchblade, is all sinew and bone. She has the kind of looks that probably could’ve been used to sell stuff in the past, but now whatever beauty she still possesses has been polluted by the permanent scowl that she wields like a meat cleaver. Aside from the omnipresent grimace, she appears delicate, but don’t let her looks fool you. There’s incredible power in her matchstick arms and I’ve seen her pin two Dubs into a brick wall, head-to-head, using a rusted crutch from a rehab facility.

  Brushing aside a carpet of beads, I move past wall dividers shingled with items Del Frisco’s found on various ops: movie posters, images of long-dead musical stars, even some glossy advertising for products that no longer exist. I stare at a poster of a wild-eyed black man playing a guitar left-handed as Strummer tosses me a hand-rolled smoke. I defer, handing it back to Strummer as he runs a hand through his matted hair while flaring the smoke.

  “Jesus, Wyatt, you ever on time?” he asks.

  “I’m five minutes early.”

  “Which means you’re ten minutes late.”

  Darcy casts Strummer a bored look. She fiddles with a small backpack filled with a handful of rats that she feeds with scraps of food. Some of them are pets, others she uses on ops as bait to lure out lurking Dubs.

  “If the weather was clement you’d be super early,” she says. “You happen to look outside?”

  “It’s raining.”

  “Which means?”

  “We’re probably headed back out.”

  Strummer shoots me with a finger gun and then makes the sound of a buzzer ringing, muttering, “Give this man a goddamn prize.”

  I sit in silence as they pass the smoke back and forth.

  “What happened to you last night?” Del Frisco asks, air-guitaring to a rock song that’s just come on.

  For an instant I’m worried that they may have seen me make my way back from Roger Parker’s building.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were supposed to meet up, ace,” Del Frisco says.

  “Yep, yep, sorry, I was dead tired, man.”

  Strummer takes a long pull from his smoke.

  “I think you were down there mingling with the under-people. That’s what I think.”

  Del Frisco looks sideways at Strummer.

  “Oh, you didn’t know?”

  Del Frisco shakes his head.

  “Our little Wyatt here has a hankering to spend his off-hours with the mutts down on ten.”

  “They’re not mutts.”

  “Anyone under seventeen’s a stray,” Darcy says.

  “Especially that loser you hang with. The hell’s his name?” Strummer says, “Russ?”

  “It’s Gus.”

  “What’s his deal?” Darcy asks with a sly smile. “Is he your confidant, Wyatt? Your closest friend that you share everything with if you know what I mean.”

  Darcy snickers at this. Anger flushes my face and I have the sudden impulse to whack her in the nose.

  “He’s a good guy. He raised me for God’s sakes.”

  “He’s pushing the limit,” Strummer says, off-handedly.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Strummer’s eyes meet mine.

  “You know exactly what it means. He’s in the pool this year, soldier boy. The lottery. Old-timer’s gonna be cast out sooner or later.”

  My brow knits in worry as Del Frisco looks over at Strummer.

  “The lottery’s bullshit, dude.”

  “It maintains the herd.”

  Del Frisco grins.

  “One of these days folks are gonna get tired of those suckers up in their ivory towers. The ones pulling all the strings. Yes, indeed, one day there will be a reckoning.”

  “That’s dangerous talk,” Darcy whispers.

  “Dangerous talk is entirely appropriate for dangerous times, sister,” Del Frisco replies.

  Strummer glances at me.

  “What do you have to say, Wyatt? When the revolution starts, which side are you taking?”

  “Why do I have to take a side?”

  “Why the hell are you answering questions with questions?”

  I smile and look away, but all eyes remain on me.

  “I choose not to take one, okay? You happy? I don’t give a damn about anything but making it to tomorrow.”

  Strummer leans over and plants a finger on my leg, pressing in hard.

  “You can’t be a fence sitter forever. Sooner or later you’re gonna have to make a choice.”

  I push his digit aside, readying to respond when a sharp siren echoes. We hesitate, sharing nervous looks. We grab our rucks and sprint toward a nearby hallway.

  The sound signifies that the morning crew, the Sweepers, are coming in early. The fact that the sirens are wailing this loud, this early, generally means they’ve taken casualties.

  As we move down the hallway Del Frisco stops me. His smile’s gone so I know it’s one of the few times he means business.

  “Violent change is the essence of human history. Sometimes it’s got a way of making an appearance regardless of whether you’re ready or not. Remember that.”

  I nod and hustle after him as we move toward a bullpen on thirty-five that allows us to see a whole sweep of the city.

  We move through a glass corridor and there’s a crush of people up ahead. Ed Brixton is visible and he looks like a drowned rat: outer gear drenched, sodden plateau of hair dampening his face.

  Brixton’s the leader of the Sweepers, a big strapping black man from England with monstrous arms. His compression shirt has been hacked off at the shoulders, his triceps hanging loose. The horseshoe-shaped muscles flex, the bare flesh decaled with hundreds of red dots that purportedly signify all the Dubs he’s crossed over.

  Brixton was apparently a professional athlete back in the day. He played a sport called soccer and was marooned at an airport with his team when the final collapse occurred. He was the only one that made it out alive.

  Brixton’s not warm and fuzzy, but he’s always been cordial to me. Some of the others can’t stand the guy. Strummer, for instance, says he can’t “flow” with Brixton, says there’s something elusive about him.

  I figure if Brixton’s got a lip and a ‘tude it’s because of his occupation. As a Sweeper, he and his team carry out rescue and search and destroy missions on an almost daily basis. They take down the Dubs on the Flatlands around VC1 as well as those who sneak into the building on the floors below ten.

  Not every Dub is put down. Brixton and his team engage in surgical strikes, snuffing out only the fittest Dubs, i.e., those that might actually find a way around the Keep. “Weeding” and “Pruning” upper management calls it, but it’s a stressful, brutal job. One made in
finitely more difficult by the need to report to those on the floors below and above. I guess if I was like Brixton, figuratively trapped between those two worlds, I’d be a bit of a malcontent too.

  Anyway, Brixton’s barking, held back by the rest of his team, a motley assortment of thumpers, both male and female. He’s jabbing a finger in the direction of some Prowler who’s trying to get at one of Brixton’s men, a sad sack with a pasty complexion who’s fighting to staunch the flow of blood from an arm laceration.

  We draw closer and I note the tell-tale mark made by a human mouth around the man’s puckered wound. The guy was apparently snacked on while out on an op.

  People appear in Hazmat suits and then a buzz builds, the crowd of people murmuring. Brixton shoves one of the Prowlers and grabs another by the throat as guns and voices are raised. I realize now that he’s protecting his man, the one who was bitten, from Odin’s sterilization teams.

  A dozen steps later, we’re close, maybe twenty feet away from the action. I’m wondering whose side, if any, we take if things get out of control. Del Frisco catches my look and I know, unlike Darcy and Strummer, he’s gonna throw in with Brixton. Things quickly escalate, a powder-keg quality to the situation. I sense that anything could potentially happen and then it does.

  The wounded man breaks free and runs across the top of the roof, arms tucked at his side as he makes for The Dream Catcher. His head drops down and he leans into a dead run.

  Some of those watching begin to cheer.

  We press ourselves to the window as the man gets to within a few feet of the roof and I know he’s gonna make it. I don’t know where the hell the guy’s going to go to, but he’s almost in the clear when—

  A muted gunshot rings out.

  A hole punches through the man’s back and sprays the ground red. He teeters near the edge of the building, stumbling like a drunk.

  The wounded man does a pirouette and looks back – seems to look right through each and every one of us – and then another round blows out his neck as he topples over the edge of the roof.

  I listen for the sound of the gunshot to place it, but there’s barely any echo and I know that Matthais must have fired the kill shots.

  I imagine him perched like a crow up on a rampart, soda-can-sized sound and flash suppressor fitted onto the barrel of his giant ass gun. At the sight of his man blasted into oblivion, Brixton howls like a wounded beast and rains blows down on the nearest Prowler, pounding the guy about the head and neck before jump-kicking another.

  Two of Odin’s bouncers grab and pin Brixton’s arms behind his back as he shoves them aside.

  Del Frisco hops up and down at the sight of this, smacking one of his fists into an open palm. More Prowlers appear, more guns are aimed and Brixton has no option but to back down.

  Brixton shrieks a final time and looses a volley of expletives at the Prowlers and then marches past us with his team in tow. My eyes meet his and even though I shouldn’t say anything, the words slip out:

  “I’m really sorry for your loss,” I say.

  Brixton turns, the water from his hair splashing me.

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, prole,” he snarls.

  Strummer’s nearby and opens his mouth when Brixton silences him with a look. Strummer considers himself quite the bad-ass, but he shrinks at the sight of Brixton whose visage, frame, and affect make him seem like the pure embodiment of man’s physical nature. Certainly not the kind of person to be trifled with.

  “Bloody tool,” Brixton hisses at Strummer before violently bumping him as he trudges past.

  We watch them go and then Del Frisco cranes his neck and looks back to the spot where the bitten man was blasted off the roof.

  “They let Brixton walk,” I say to Del Frisco. “He brought one of his boys in, infected, and they didn’t do anything to him.”

  “Because the honchos are scared of him, man,” Del Frisco replies. “People respect Brixton. He walks the walk and talks the talk and besides, Odin don’t wanna create saints out of a coolie. He knows martyrs are the building blocks of a revolution.”

  Standing alone, I contemplate the meaning of this as Del Frisco pads along after the others. It dawns on me, as it has many times before, that the Vertical City isn’t easy street or some kind of paradise. It’s a hard place to live and from where I’m standing, the roof, cracked from the elements and still semi-glossy from the wounded man’s gore, resembles a great, untreated wound.

  Chapter 5

  Still shocked by the death of one of our own, we enter a room hemmed on all sides by glass which is where our debriefings are held.

  Normally, the debriefs are rote and run by an old salt name Vic Black, but Shooter’s here today along with other representatives of officialdom, including a whack-job who believes he can communicate with the Dubs. Whack-job’s given name is Lonny Hackerman a/k/a the “Dub Whisperer,” a beetle-browed hulk who possesses the mute and patient look of a farm animal.

  The elect up on the upper floors call Hackerman in to interrogate any Dubs Brixton’s people round up. This is why he’s up on a dais holding a chain wrapped around the neck of some raggedy Dub chick.

  The female Dub paws at the air, her stringy, matted hair mercifully obscuring the fact that her teeth have been pried out to prevent biting. I look over at Del Frisco’s who’s grinning.

  “Me likey,” he says, bobbing his head at the toothless Dub.

  Shooter whistles and calls for order. There are some whispers and a few titters before he clears his throat.

  “It’s always unfortunate when what happened earlier occurs,” Shooter says, waving a hand toward where Brixton’s man was gunned down outside.

  “It’s unfortunate for two reasons: one, it sows confusion among those of us who remain and two, one of our brothers lost his life to better the community. You may not believe it now, but that man out there did not die in vain.”

  Shooter motions to Hackerman who flashes a crooked grin as he jerks the chain taut, snapping the toothless Dub’s head up. I don’t know Hackerman, but I’ve heard he used to work for law enforcement, the police, back before the Awakening.

  He was some kind of informant or consultant who specialized in “reading” people. Apparently he had the power to analyze the smallest of things, micro-expressions and whatnot, to tell if people were lying or telling true and could discern meaning from non-verbalized looks and gestures. Sounds like bullshit, but Gus has assured me that there were indeed people like that in the days before.

  “It’s no secret they move in packs,” Hackerman begins, holding the Dub’s head up, “we’ve known that for months and it’s our theory that they migrate like animals.”

  Del Frisco chuckles and Shooter raises an eyebrow, silencing him.

  “I’ve talked to my little friend here,” Hackerman continues, pointing at the Dub, “and she’s let me know that her kind are moving on because of the cold snap that’s coming. They’re going lower, burrowing, taking refuge down in the tunnels and sewers.”

  “She said all that?” Strummer asks.

  “You’re goddamn right she did,” Hackerman says.

  “So what’s the takeaway?” asks Darcy.

  “The takeaway, little lady, is that we’ve been given an opportunity to move laterally.”

  “Away from our block?” Strummer asks.

  Shooter slides over on the dais and nods as the Dub shrieks and Hackerman punches her in the jaw. The Dub moans and Hackerman licks his lips and caresses the back of the Dub’s head.

  Gus has talked about Hackerman before, mentioning how he was Jewish at the time of the Awakening but converted to Catholicism after taking shelter in a church. Gus said Hackerman’s embraced his new faith with the zeal common in all converts and I guess that’s true. The guy really gets off on doing the Lord’s work which seems to always involve much laying on of hands.

  “You’re going out, all of you,” Shooter says as I look up.

  “Whe
re to, sir?”

  “A blind forage and recon below ten with a report back to me by eighteen-hundred hours.”

  Del Frisco raises his hand.

  “What about the new gear, sir? The jackets, the compression outfits. What of it?”

  It’s well-known that the Administrators acquired what Strummer said are nano-tube compression suits from an R&D building a few months back. While I don’t understand the technology, it’s been explained to me that the suits allow the user to harness their own movements as energy, to essentially become self-powering (at least for a few hours).

  What this means is that when you wear the damn things, you don’t have to plug in or rely on gas or pull cords or any of the noisy stuff that draws the Dubs in. So, if you’ve got a listening device or a handheld tracker you can tap into the suit for power which is awfully convenient on long-range patrols.

  “The new suits haven’t been issued to you people yet,” Shooter responds. The four of us bristle at this and his use of the phrase ‘you people.’

  “Well, I seen the Prowlers sporting it,” Del Frisco says.

  “And?”

  “And they sit up here all warm and snugged up while we risk our asses down below,” Del Frisco says. “Us and Brixton’s folks should be wearing ‘em.”

  Shooter drops to his haunches and apprises Del Frisco.

  “You have a problem with your situation, Del Frisco?”

  “Would it matter if I did, sir?”

  “You agitating?”

  “Merely inquiring.”

  “Know what the problem with asking questions is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sometimes you get answers.”

  Del Frisco doesn’t move and then Shooter waves a hand dismissively.

  “Get going. Now. All of you.”

  Mumbles and groans from Strummer and Darcy as the debrief ends and we rise and shuttle toward the roof. I look back to see the female Dub watching me. Her eyes are moist and a very human light seems to beacon from them. She looks like one of us for a heartbeat and then Hackerman drags her like a sack of garbage toward a faraway door. He disappears with her through the door and I hear the sound of flesh being pummeled. I close my eyes and hope he goes easy on the Dub and then I steel myself as the four of us move onto the roof.