The Price of Freedom

by Chris Kennedy

  “Don’t fucking move,” a man’s voice said as I landed on the second level. I put my hands up and turned to look. There was a man at the corner of the building holding a sniper rifle on me.

  “Oh, hi,” I said. “Don’t mind me; just trying to get away from the Clowns.”

  “I saw,” the man said. “The jump across the street was pretty sweet, although it looked like the roof caved in on the landing.”

  “It did,” I replied, looking down at my leg. “Cost me my pants.”

  “Not many people get to moon a Clown and live to tell about it.”

  “Well, I guess they were more afraid of you Geno…of you people, than of letting me go.”

  “Genos? Us? Naw man, you got that all wrong. Those freaks live in the convention center.” He nodded to the northwest.

  “I thought this was the convention center.”

  “Naw, this is Gallery Mall. It was anyway, until we took it over.”

  I sighed. This city was too damn complicated to figure out. Blues, Clowns, and Geno Freaks, oh, my! And now these people. “And who are you?”

  “We’re the Reds.”

  I heard a noise behind me as a door opened, and five people poured forth from it.

  “Are you going to let me go?” I asked.

  “Depends.” He looked at the people who were jogging over to us.

  “Boss wants him, Bob,” one of the men said. “We’re supposed to bring him down with us.”

  I turned to look at the man who’d spoken. “What does he want me for?”

  “Apparently, you pissed off the Clowns, big time!” the man exclaimed. “The boss is going to give you back to them, as a sort of…what did he call it? Oh, yeah—a good will offering. Things go a lot easier when you don’t have a lot of pissed off Clowns after you.”

  “I’m sure,” I agreed, and I guessed it probably would be. If they were willing to jump off buildings to capture someone, they would probably go to about any end to express their displeasure if you pissed them off. “One question, though. What if I don’t want to go back to the Clowns?”

  “You don’t have a choice,” he said. “If the boss says you go, you go.”

  I shrugged. “Is it worth your lives to give me to them?”

  The man paused to consider. “Yeah, probably. Why?”

  “Do you have more men downstairs?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” he said. “But yeah, we do.”

  “Good, then your boss won’t miss you when you’re gone.”

  I hadn’t regenerated much of my boost yet, but it was enough to kill four of them and end up with my knife to the throat of the fifth. Bob hadn’t been able to shoot me while I was engaged with the other men, and now I had the last one between us.

  “So, Bob, what’s it going to be?”

  He looked at me through his scope, and I could tell he really wanted shoot me.

  “I can’t let you go,” he said. “Not and face the boss afterward.”

  “Is it worth your life and his?” I shook the man I was holding, and he gurgled. I think he was beyond rational thought as he looked down the barrel of a sniper rifle with my knife at his throat. “Drop the rifle, and I’ll let both of you live. If you don’t, it’s going to be painful, especially for you, Bob.”

  He didn’t answer, but my vision was good enough to see the muscles in his finger tighten. I didn’t wait; I tossed the man I was holding at him. Bob flinched when presented with a meat missile and his shot went high. Unfortunately for Bob’s comrade, the round took him in the face. That was the only shot Bob got off. I was on him before he could reload, and I ripped the rifle out of his hands, then grabbed him by the throat.

  Bob struggled as I walked him slowly over to the edge of the building.

  “Got any more ammo for the rifle, Bob?”

  He dug through a cargo pocket and handed me a box of shells.

  “Thanks, Bob,” I said as I released him. Unlike the Clown earlier, he didn’t scream. It was only five stories down; he may have survived it. Still, it was his choice.

  You have to take people up on the opportunities they offer in this Fallen World.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I had a lot to consider as I walked back to where I’d left the truck. Killing the Obsidian heads was going to be impossible by myself. There was no doubt they were in the mint, snuggled in like ticks in a fold of skin. They were going to be tough to come to grips with. I didn’t have long to study it, but the building would be difficult to get into—it was the mint after all.

  And someone had gone crazy with the imprinter. I couldn’t believe all of the people dressed like clowns were Clowns. If they were, more of them would have jumped across the buildings in pursuit of me. It was smart to make them something like a clown; you never knew how many Clowns were in the Circus until you fought them. Even then it would be impossible to tell you were fighting one until it boosted on you.

  Or until it snuck up on you, which the one had almost done to me, before he died screaming like a little girl. As stealthy as they were, the Clowns would likely end most of their targets’ lives before the targets even knew they were there. The Clown wasn’t an imprint we had any information on—it must have been one created just before the Fall. It was obviously based on someone who was a ninja or an assassin—something where stealth was of the essence. It was more than just a new Corporate Thief—the ultimate cat burglar who sneaks in to steal industrial secrets—because a Thief was defensive. The one who had come after me had a garrote and knew how to use it, and he had backup knives in his sleeves. My money was on “Assassin,” but I wouldn’t have been surprised if the imprint was “Ninja.”

  Ninja might be worse, because they would have more offensive combat skills, but neither would be fun to take on in a pack. If they had time to prepare, an Assassin might also have poisons they could use, which would make fighting one…problematic.

  Either way, I wasn’t going to be able to take on a group of Clowns in a force-on-force attack, and sneaking into the mint was something that would probably be beyond my not-inconsiderable skills without someone on the inside. As those positions were probably reserved for Agents, I didn’t think that would be possible either. Now that I knew what I was up against, I would have to come back, better prepared, and reconnoiter the target area again. I suspected this was going to take an army, and the only army I knew of that would be worth a shit was 1,000 miles away in a crappy southern town. And, as much as it sucked, I knew that was where I needed to go.

  Although I was deep in thought as I considered my options, I didn’t lose focus on my surroundings. I stayed on the opposite side of the street from the convention center and nodded pleasantly to the guard who had what looked like a beak where his nose and mouth should have been. I also avoided city hall, as it looked like their people had gone on a higher level of alert. There were more guards outside, and it looked like they’d established a defensive perimeter. A bad feeling came over me as I realized most of the cops seemed to be focused on the direction—west—where I’d left my truck.

  I circled around to come in from the opposite direction, but took my time as I advanced from building to building. I could tell from a block away that something was wrong. Although people were walking on the other streets, no one was on the block where my truck sat. I could see Jefferson leaning on the post where I’d first seen him, but he looked wrong, too. I hunkered down to watch for a bit—you either learn patience in my line of work, or you get dead, fast—and it soon became apparent that he’d been compromised. He didn’t move—he didn’t even twitch—in over five minutes of surveillance. At the end of that time, I could see a stain growing underneath him. Either he’d just wet himself, or he was dead.

  As it was unlikely anyone would stand in a puddle of piss, my money was on dead.

  Which made that block an ambush site, with my truck—and what I hoped was still inside it—as bait. It was a long-ass walk back to Slidell, so I needed
some sort of transportation. While I could steal another car, my truck had a lot of sentimental value, as well as nearly full gas tanks, something I couldn’t count on if I stole a different car. It might take me a long time to look for a car to steal, and I might wander into another bad zone during that time. I needed to rest and eat, but not in that order.

  The truck was my best bet for exiting the city, if I could get to it.

  I surveyed the skyscrapers along the block, and it didn’t take long for me to notice several missing windows. I put the sniper rifle’s scope up to my eye; sure enough, there was movement in them. Not all of them, but at least six. Three of them on each side of the street, probably so the truck wouldn’t block their shots, no matter which side I came in. I imagined they would also have people waiting inside one of the storefronts, who would rush out once the battle was joined. It was a solid plan, and one that would have worked against most people.

  I cautiously crept back from the killing ground and went around into an alley behind one of the buildings that overlooked the street. I pulled the fire door from its hinges and went in. The back storage rooms were mostly empty, and I didn’t see anyone as I moved through them. I finally came to a door, eased it open, and found myself behind what used to be the front desk of a luxury apartment building. A large amount of furniture had been pushed up against the glass wall at the front of the building, and six men and two women were hiding behind it, with weapons drawn.

  All this for little old me? I was impressed, especially since they didn’t know my capabilities. Perhaps they thought I’d be coming back with an army to take over their block? That was the only thing that made sense. Still, they should have brought more people.

  I slipped through the door, staying below the front desk, and set my rifle down quietly.

  “I’ve got to pee,” one of the men said before I could do anything else.

  “Seriously?” another asked. “He’s close, and that’s the time you have to pee? Maybe you’re just planning on sneaking out the back door.”

  “Fuck you, man. I’ll be right back.”

  Of course, the bathroom he chose was the one behind the counter, and I could hear him coming straight toward me. I rose as he turned the corner, and his jaw dropped. I fired once, up and through his open mouth, and he fell backward as I boosted and sprinted around the counter. Only three of the people were looking in my direction—two men and a woman—and they received the next three bullets.

  Unready for my sudden appearance, it took the rest too long to react, and two more went down before the first person could draw their pistol. I shot him, but then one of the glass panes in the front shattered, and I threw myself to the side. One of the snipers on the other side of the street had seen the gunfire and shot into the melee; as I turned to find the last target, I saw she was already down. The sniper had taken off most of her head.

  Not wanting to expose myself to the sniper, I grabbed the closest body and threw him over the furniture, through one of the unbroken panes of glass. It had the hoped-for effect, drawing the attention of the snipers on the other side of the street as I vaulted the counter, grabbed my rifle, and raced through the door.

  I had seen the staircase on my way through the back of the building, and I used it to race up to the eighth floor, where I knew one of the snipers had his nest. I estimated which apartment he was in and kicked in the door. He wasn’t in the main part of the apartment, but I could hear motion in the back bedroom.

  “Come out with your hands up, and I won’t kill you,” I called. “If I have to come in there, you’re a dead man.”

  The motion ceased, which I took to mean he wasn’t coming out. Wishing for a grenade, which would have easily solved the situation, I decided to try one more time. “Come on out with your hands up! This is your last chance!”

  “Fuck you, man!” he yelled back.

  I sighed again, then moved back from the door. I took two steps and threw myself forward on the floor. Amateurs always have their guns up high, waiting for the center of mass shot on the person entering the room; he wasn’t ready for me to come in low. He fell through the window behind him as I shot him in the head and chest.

  I went back to the outer room, grabbed my rifle, and eased my way over to the bed. I didn’t think the people across the street would be able to see into the apartment, but I didn’t want to give them a chance. The first one was on the seventh floor. For some reason, he was focused on the body on the street. He died without looking up. The one on the sixth floor was looking up toward the window, which made shooting her through the head easy.

  The man on the fourth floor, however, had vanished. Whether he’d gone for reinforcements or just run away, I didn’t know, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. Knowing I didn’t have time to waste, I ran out of the room to take care of the two snipers in my building. One of them actually surrendered—and I let him go after I took his rifle—but the other decided he’d rather have me kill him.

  He got his wish.

  I raced back down to the lobby and took a quick look outside.

  While there didn’t appear to be anyone out there, it was impossible to see into the building on the other side of the street. I did a quick pass to pick up all the ammo I could fit into the undamaged side of my pants and all the pistols I could carry. I now had two rifles over my shoulder and six pistols as I lumbered out of the building. I unlocked the semi and was just sitting down on the seat when they hit me. The storefront glass next to me exploded outward as at least six people fired into the truck and me, and the glass of both the front windshield and the passenger’s side window blew in on me like a tornado.

  My right arm lit up like the fires of hell, and I knew I’d been hit. I clamped down on the pain and started the semi, ducking forward to find what little cover I could. The people switched to shooting at the vehicle, and the sounds of tires exploding and metal on metal strikes filled my ears.

  Putting it in gear, I drove off and took the next corner as the men and women poured out of the building, continuing to fire on me. They chased me around the corner, then around the next corner before they fell behind.

  Happily, they hadn’t gotten into the truck yet, and the rest of my chicken was still on the passenger seat. I wiped the glass off as best I could and started shoveling strips of meat into my mouth. I knew they’d shot out at least a couple of my back right tires, but I was still able to steer. This changed as I crossed the bridge. The locals on the far end formed a firing line across it, and though they scattered when I charged them, they got the right front wheel, and as it went down, steering became an issue. First the truck was hard to control over to that side, but as it began to dig in to the asphalt, it went from hard to control to impossible as the rim ate into the pavement. Having a bullet in my shoulder didn’t help the situation at all.

  Finally, I had to stop and jump out of the semi. I grabbed what I could, but I still had to leave a number of pistols and rifles behind. I cut across an open, green area to get back to Highway 30, looking for a car I could claim as my own. A guy in a leather jacket looked like he wanted to stop me at the next corner. I pointed a pistol at him, and he vanished into the café he was standing in front of. Good choice.

  The chicken had recharged me a little, but I knew there was no way I was going to make it out of town on foot. I ran on, probably about half a mile, before I decided to stop. There didn’t appear to be anyone following me, and if they were, they were going slowly and staying in the shadows.

  I finally saw what I wanted, a pickup truck parked on the road that didn’t look like it had been beaten to shit. I tossed most of the guns into the bed, smashed in the driver’s window, and let myself in. They say you can’t hotwire a car these days with just a knife. They’re wrong. You absolutely can hotwire a car with just a knife. The real issue is that you have to be incredibly strong to break the lock on the steering wheel that keeps it from turning after you hotwire it. Happily, I was that strong, and in a few minutes, I was driving a
way.

  Of course, a few minutes was all the owner needed to notice what I was doing and gather a couple of his friends. They came running out of the garage, firing pistols and rifles as I was driving off. I could hear the truck take a number of hits, but I ended up making it out of there, although I took another bullet in my right arm, making it completely unusable.

  Still, I had operable transportation and a big path to drive through—courtesy of my earlier trip in the opposite direction—and I made it out of town and into the countryside as the light fell. Maybe that was just me passing out, though; I’m not sure. I remember a pole in front of me and then nothing.

  Everybody needs a little rest in this Fallen World.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  As I woke up, I realized something was wrong. What I was lying on was soft. Not soft like the seat cushion of the truck I’d stolen, but soft like a bed. I tried to broaden my senses without opening my eyes. The room smelled…clean, somehow, with an almost antiseptic tinge. I hadn’t smelled anything like that in a long time, not since the last time I’d woken up in a hospital.

  This didn’t sound like a hospital, though. The background noise wasn’t there.

  “You can open your eyes,” a female voice said. “I know you’re awake.”

  I didn’t see any sense in faking; she obviously knew I was awake, and she could have done anything she wanted to me while I was out. I opened my eyes and saw a gorgeous brunette looking down at me. Not only gorgeous, but also the cleanest person I’d seen…probably since the Fall. And she smelled…wonderful.

  “I’ll go get Pop and Doc,” she said with a smile.

  She left, and an older man came in a couple of minutes later. I looked behind him.

  “She won’t be coming back,” the man said.

  “Oh?” I asked, unhappy he’d caught my look and figured it out.