"OK, stay here. I'll deal with him."
"You're worse off than I am."
"Yeah, but I'm younger than you, old man. I carry it better."
"Shame your instincts weren't sharper. You might've spotted the punk earlier before he nearly plugged me." Dredd winced, his back felt as if it were on fire. He still had feeling below his waist and his legs were doing what he told them, which was a good sign, but he wondered how close the shot had come to his spine. That was all it took; one lucky creep with a half-decent chance and he could be put out of action permanently, spending the rest of his days teaching cadets interrogation techniques from a wheelchair. It wasn't how he had planned to spin out his twilight years. "But be careful," he added. "Creep's gonna be reloaded and waiting for you."
Trager nodded and started to inch through the channel, blasters slippery in each sweaty palm. His breathing seemed to reverberate between the walls in the eerily silent corridor. He came to the edge of the boxes and stopped for a second; the gunman was more than likely on a hair-trigger and the moment he put his head round the corner, the guy was going to blow it off. Trager knew he had to cause enough confusion to get a clear shot at him.
He looked back at Dredd, who had pulled himself to his feet, and signalled to the ceiling of the corridor and made a rebound motion. Dredd nodded, raised his Lawgiver, selected the correct bullet, aimed and fired.
The dum-dum ricocheted off the right angle where the wall met the ceiling and arrowed down behind the boxes, the creep yelling in surprise. Trager took his chance and leaped sideways, pumping both triggers before the man had a chance to recover, ammo hitting him in the chest and neck. The Wally Squad Judge curled and rolled as he crashed into the floor, coming up two-footed, feeling the wounds on his torso scream as they were torn open.
He stumbled, unconsciousness bearing down on him, the agony sending stars pinwheeling before his eyes, and leant heavily against the wall, covering the creep's death throes. The guy was feebly kicking his legs against the floor and holding his hands up against his throat to stem the flow of blood spewing forth, his shotgun lying forgotten beside him. Trager booted the gun away and crouched next to the dying man, waving a blaster barrel in his face.
"Your drokking boss," Trager breathed, swallowing down the nausea that clawed at him. "Where is he?"
The meathead gurgled. The Judge reached forward and grabbed his hand, pulling it away from his neck, the severed artery spritzing a crimson arc into the air.
"Tell me and maybe I'll get a med-wagon here in time to save you."
A glint of hope sparked in his rapidly dulling eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, a raw sound emerging from between his lips. "Th-they're b-burning it all," he gurgled, coughing up strings of bloody matter. "Whole d-drokking studio's gonna go up..."
"Where are they?" Trager demanded. "Where's Ramona?"
The creep was barely conscious enough to answer. He pointed further down the corridor, his head flopping back weakly as if the bones within him were softening.
"Where are they, you drokking piece of shit?" he snarled, but there was no reply. In a fit of anger Trager blew a hole in the guy's skull and let him drop to the floor. He got to his feet, breathing out slowly and trying to control his temper, aware that Dredd had emerged behind him and was hovering at his shoulder.
"What happened?" the lawman asked.
"Drokker wouldn't tell me anything, then tried to make a fight of it. Had to waste him."
Dredd looked at the ground and noted the shotgun lying several feet away. "That right?"
"Creeps never learn," Trager muttered dismissively, then started to continue along the corridor. "Come on, we're losing time."
Dredd looked once again at the gore-spattered remains of the gunman, then at the limping form of Trager disappearing around another corner, and followed without a word.
On Dredd's order, Judges had sealed off all exits around Catalyst studios, plus DuNoye's description had been circulated to every unit in the area. They were instructed to apprehend him on sight in the unlikely event that he should escape their barrier. Helmets were also told to be on the lookout for an eldster and his daughter attempting to flee - Erik and Ramona Rejin were wanted in connection with numerous fatalities.
A squad had already entered the building and were mopping up the destruction that Dredd had left in his wake following the firefight. Med-Judges carried out body bags to waiting meat wagons and Tek-Division were also starting to analyse the evidence, taking away the camera equipment and torture implements for study.
From the periphery, Judge Devenson watched the activity with interest, curious and quietly amazed at what was being discovered within the building. He remembered he'd once worked crowd control when some of the actors in a Catalyst feature had made public appearances and he'd been impressed by the company's attention to detail.
To learn that the outfit was a front for all sorts of nefarious deeds was a shock. He was certain repercussions were going to be felt in the Grand Hall of Justice itself. Catalyst had been approved by Justice Department as a producer of propoganda flicks, and questions were going to be raised about how it could have operated so secretly and automonously within the Judges' protection. By all accounts the man in charge of the studio was madder than a sackful of spanners, but surely somebody must have pulled some strings at a very senior level to keep all this under their hat.
The media too, couldn't believe their luck. Tri-D crews were clamouring behind the Judges' line, trying to get a statement from the helmets on duty, but so far they had been told zip. It was the kind of story that reporters loved; a famous recluse is discovered to be harbouring a terrible secret, there was a substantial bodycount, and enough dirt to throw at the authorities for them to editorialise about.
The stories they were filing at the moment were filled with spurious suppositions and accusations in the absence of any hard facts. The realisation that Dredd was still in the building hunting down the lead perp led many to speculate that the lawman was using the opportunity to cover up Justice Department's involvement in the company by destroying vital records. Some rumours had Dredd actually aiding Rejin to escape so as to not publicly embarrass the Chief Judge. Devenson watched this circus with a certain degree of distaste, feeling they could do with cracking down on the freedom of the press even further.
He turned his head to survey the crime scene, making sure that nobody was attempting to cross the lines, and caught sight of a vehicle parked fairly close to the Catalyst offices. It was an expensive model, and not the sort you expected to see stationed on the slab. A couple of cits were seated inside it, seemingly waiting for something, explicitly ignoring the commotion. Eventually, the driver clambered out and wandered over to a gate set in the wall a few hundred metres away. Devenson recognised it as one of the many bolted entrances to the Undercity. The driver loitered nearby, trying to look innocuous, cocking an ear as if expecting a message to come from the other side.
"You!" Devenson shouted, striding over to the car. The creep jumped and turned, guilt written all over him. He eyed his colleague in the vehicle nervously. "What are you doing here?"
"N-nothing," the guy replied. "Just taking the air, Judge..."
"Don't mess with me, pal," Devenson snarled, pushing him against the wall. "Let's hear the truth." He signalled to the meathead sitting in the passenger seat. "You too, creep, out of the vehicle."
"We're not doing anything wrong, sir," the first gimp said.
"I'll be the judge of that," Devenson muttered as his partner slid from the car. "Come on," he called out. "Over here, now."
There was something about the way this second creep was taking his time that sent alarm bells ringing in Devenson's brain. He looked like he was building up to something, angling for the right moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver fractionally moving his head; a slight nod indicating something to the other guy.
Devenson threw his suspect to the ground where he was out of the way and unhol
stered his Lawgiver, all in one movement. "Hands in the air!" he ordered, pointing his gun at the oncoming creep. "Don't move!"
The guy was either stupid or had a death wish. He must have plainly seen the game was up and yet he still went for it. His right hand delved inside his jacket and pulled out a semi-automatic, just in time to be blown backwards by three shots from Devenson, all catching him in the chest area. He spasmed onto the car bonnet, a bullet passing straight through him and shattering the windscreen. He lay there unmoving like a hood ornament.
The Judge yanked the driver up by the scruff of his neck and growled in his face. "Start talking, creep, or you'll go the same way as your friend. What are you doing here?"
Trager and Dredd had reached the carpeted Catalyst admin area and smoke was drifting in the air, getting thicker the further they went. The orange flicker of flames crawled up the walls, devouring promo posters and files, melting furniture and computer terminals.
"They... They're destroying the evidence," Trager gasped between swallows of thin oxygen, his arm held across his nose and mouth.
Dredd didn't reply and barked instead into his radio mic. "Control, we need a fire-fighting team in here, priority one. Suspects have set fire to offices."
"That's a roj. Any sign of the perps?"
"Negative."
"A street helmet has just picked up a creep hanging around outside, close to an entrance to the Undercity. We're shaking him down now but we think he was going to be the fugitives' means of escape."
"Who does he work for?"
"That's what we're trying to establish, but it seems likely one of Rejin's business associates arranged it. In the meantime, the logical conclusion is that the suspects are using the Undercity to flee the building."
"The Undercity? How the drokk are they accessing the Undercity?"
"We don't know yet. But be aware that that's where they are likely to be heading."
"OK. Dredd out."
"What's happening?" Trager asked, coughing as the smoke began to billow before them in black clouds. A glass panel nearby shattered from the heat.
"Creeps are going underground somehow," Dredd replied, sliding down his respirator which gave his voice an even more menacing, mechanical timbre. "If you want to turn back, go ahead," he added. "No point getting this far and choking to death."
"I'll be all right." The Wally Squad Judge wiped his sooty brow and strode ahead, looking to Dredd like he was increasingly desperate to prove himself.
They ran down the corridor, half crouched, trying to stay low enough to escape the worst of the smoke, passing offices now fully ablaze. Trager recognised Ramona's darkroom and stopped momentarily to watch her works of art turn to ashes. The screaming faces that festooned the walls blackened and crisped, curling up and disappearing before his eyes.
"You know where they could've gone from here?" Dredd demanded.
"Rejin's living quarters are at the end of the hall. That seems the likeliest."
The two of them reached the double doors and shoulder-barged their way through, recoiling instantly at the heat that exploded in their faces as flames crawled all over the viewing room. The big screen at the far end had warped and split apart, the Tri-D set below it a molten mess of plastic and chrome.
"His bedroom!" Trager yelled, pointing to the connecting door.
They barrelled through, just having enough time to mentally note that the fire had not yet spread to this antechamber before the realisation of their surroundings hit home. The grand four-poster bed, the exotic furnishings, the expensive furniture they expected were all there, but what made them pause was what lined the shelves of every wall. Sitting there like a private art collection were hundreds of jars filled with human body parts.
For a second the two Judges were speechless as they gazed up at the sight before them. Hearts and tongues and scalps floated in liquid like pickled specimens. Some specimens were difficult to identify: pink jellyfish wafting lazily in a yellowish brine, brown stumps like wet, chewed cigars. Others stared back, dead eyes impassive.
"Son of a bitch..." Trager murmured.
"Missing Persons are gonna be busy," Dredd said.
"How did the insane drokker get away with all this for so long?"
"You'd be surprised at what we've got away with," a voice behind them said, and both Judges turned as one in time to see Alphonse swinging a massive fist and connecting with Dredd's jaw, sending him flying backwards.
Trager fired and put two bullets through Alphonse's chest, but the creep barely flinched. He walked forward and wrenched the weapons from the undercover officer's hands, then smacked him onto the ground. It felt like a block of concrete landing on his head and Trager struggled to remain conscious. Meathead must be pumped on something; blood was flowing freely from his wounds and he didn't even notice.
Alphonse picked Trager up clean off the ground. "Drokkin' rat," he growled. "We drokkin' trusted you an' you ruined everything." He casually threw Trager away from him, slamming him against a wall, the specimen jars wobbling off their shelves and raining down in a blizzard of moist flesh. Trager felt glass cutting his hands as he rolled out of their way, his own injuries screaming in protest.
There was the sound of several rapid bangs as Dredd shot Alphonse half a dozen more times with his Lawgiver, one even catching him on the side of the head, but they didn't seem to slow him down at all. The perp launched himself at the lawman and the two of them flew onto the bed, Alphonse's mammoth paws fixed around Dredd's windpipe.
The Judge couldn't throw him off, his weight pinning him down, so he tried to improvise by flicking the ammo selector on his gun with one hand to armour piercing, ramming the barrel into the creep's side and pulling the trigger. Alphonse's midriff blossomed with a crimson halo as a substantial chunk of his torso was vaporised. The pressure eased off Dredd's neck for a moment, but incredibly the guy wasn't going to be stopped.
Dredd felt somebody yanking his boot knife from its sheath before Trager appeared behind the goon, pulled his head back and drew the blade savagely across his throat. Alphonse released Dredd and stood, his jugular spraying in all directions. He turned to face Trager and took a couple of steps forward, but the severity of his wounds finally caught up with him. An expression of puzzlement passed across his features before he started to stumble, then careened into the walls. One hand went to his neck in a futile attempt to stem the flow while another pounded the paintwork, a rough gasp emerging from his mouth. As he sank to his knees, he feebly punched the wall nearest to the bed and a portion of it disengaged, swinging open like a door. He shuffled towards the threshold, then collapsed and was at last still.
Trager took a peek beyond the secret doorway and saw stone steps descending into darkness. "Gruddamn."
Dredd joined him, his uniform ripped and drenched in red stains, livid welts on his neck. "Let's just get this finished."
Fear began to grip DuNoye, an emotion that he was unused to. Overseeing the running of Catalyst Productions, he'd always been confident of his abilities to sweet-talk the authorities, and draw on the company's resources and network of allies. But maybe it was overconfidence that had destabilised the operation. They had underestimated the Judges as well, thinking they could get away with their little operation right under Justice Department's nose. DuNoye suspected the Judges had stumbled on it by luck rather than skill, but that hardly mattered anymore. They were undone. Once the Liz Short bodies were discovered, they should've ordered a retreat there and then, escaping out of the city - even off-planet - before the heat came down on them. But DuNoye's arrogance had led him to believe he could deal with Dredd himself, trying to throw him off the investigation. That was a gross error, and all their work building up the outfit came tumbling down as a consequence.
Now, as they attempted to scramble to some kind of refuge, they found that that too was rapidly vanishing. Attempts to contact that idiot Peat had proved useless and he was no doubt at this moment in custody. The help that should have been
present to aid them in their escape was nowhere to be seen, and their exit from the Undercity seemed to have been blocked. The gate was supposed to have been altered so it could be opened from the inside, but it wasn't budging, which left them trapped in this netherworld. They'd known from the beginning that it would be a risky route to take, and now they couldn't get out, and they couldn't go back to the studio either. They'd literally burnt their bridges. All DuNoye could do was keep trying to contact one of Rejin's associates in the hope that they could get to them before the Judges.
The old man was standing with his daughter, looking out at the blasted cityscape of New York. It was difficult to judge how Erik was feeling, or indeed what he was planning to do. He was completely emotionless, his face a blank mask. Ramona had tried to apologise to him for getting too close to the undercover Judge, but he hadn't answered and simply gazed at her as if seeing her for the first time. DuNoye felt uneasy, unsure how this was going to resolve itself.
But it wasn't his only worry. He could feel eyes upon him, shapes moving in the darkness, a whispered grunting echoing between the concrete canyons. DuNoye was aware of the dangers that lurked in the Undercity, and the longer they lingered here the more they became a vulnerable target for attack. He tried his vidphone again, nervousness starting to claw at him, his fingers visibly shaking as he punched in numbers for someone to get them out of this hole. He wished they'd kept back a couple of triggers for situations like this, but the drokking Judges had wasted half his men.
A rising whistle sliced through the air and the lawyer yelped in surprise as a crudely fashioned spear arced out of the gloom and knocked the phone from his grasp. He looked around for the weapon's owner, but heard only the sound of running feet.
"Sir," he said, his voice breaking with panic. "We've got to go."
The Final Cut Page 21