Grimm and Grimmer Volume Two
Page 6
He stepped up to a protein vendor, 'Insecturger please, with fried wings'
Whilst he waited for the vendor to cook his food, he took the time to look in to a secretariat office window, looking for his tail. It took less than five seconds to spot it. A woman, dressed as a drone, but her hair was slightly too clean, her shoulders too straight, her eye contact too focused. Anyone not looking for anything out of the usual would have easily missed her.
He took the food, passed the vendor a ration ticket and re-entered the crowd. Moving in a slow circle around the plaza, he loosened his tazeol, shrugging his shoulders to loosen up, rolling his neck. He took slow, deep breaths, ignoring the weakness in his legs that came with an adrenalin dump, trying to overcome the need to breathe quickly and slowing his heart rate.
'Stay calm, don’t make a move for the tazeol. I’m not here to harm you.' It was her, his tail had finally decided to make her presence known.
'What do youwant?'
'A friend sent me. This is your first warning. That is all.'
He turned, looking her straight in the eyes, 'Tell our friend I’m ready. I’m not the man I used to be.'
She nodded. 'I’ll be sure to let him know.'
***
Lieutenant York ducked back as tracer screamed past his face, ripping through the air and blowing chucks out of the wall at the end of the corridor. He leant against the wall of the corner and popped a shoulder cam out, the arm jutting just far out enough for the lens.
Staring at his helmet’s HUD, he counted the number of rebels behind the make shift barricade.
'Five rebels, one HMG, four riflemen. Prepare to move.' Clicks in his ear confirmed the rest of his team were ready to move. Slowly he poked the muzzle of his assault rifle round the corner edge, placing the reticule over the face of the machine gunner.
'Three, two, one. Mark!' His round blew chunks of bone and brains over the machine gunner’s comrades, making them pause for a split second. That was all the opening his men needed, they surged around the corner and cut the rebels down with a mixture of bullets and 10mm grenade rounds.
'Clear! Moving up.'
He followed his men, happy to provide cover as they searched the dead rebels. Movement behind them brought him spinning around, dropping to his knee and taking aim.
'Message for Lieutenant York.' The messenger was young, little more than a boy, but since the revolution that was hardly surprising, the age of conscription being lowered to fourteen.
He took the scrumpled piece of paper and clumsily flattened it out, the gloves of his armour making a hash of things, ‘Warning 2.’ He looked up to speak to the boy and saw that he was already gone.
Shouts came from his men, balling up the paper he threw it to the floor and moved on.
***
The Major stood as stiff as a ramrod as he saluted the recently passed-out recruits marching past him. His shoulder ached slightly from the wound he had received back in the third war of secession, and his knee grumbled slightly in the background.
He could not resist smiling as he watched Privates Kira and Ragan York march past, pride evident in every step they took, looking resplendent in their black and gold dress uniforms. Finally, the platoon was past and he snapped his arm down to his side.
There was a trilling noise, and an aide stepped forward, 'Sir, call for you.'
He took the comms unit with a nod, dismissing the man and others around him as surely as if he had spoken.
'Major York speaking. Who is this?'
'This is warning number three.' His blood ran cold in his veins as surely as if they had been replaced with iced water. It was him. That same clipped way of speaking, hardly an inflection as if to add emotion to his words was a waste of effort that could be used elsewhere.
He cleared his throat, wishing he had a drink so that he could wet his sand-dry mouth.
'You’ve taken your bloody time with this one.' He was proud at how he managed to keep his tone light, not a hint of a quaver or a warble. He turned slowly, scanning the crowd that was now spread all over the parade ground, heaping praise and congratulations on their loved ones. No-one stood out.
'I owed you my life, so I let you have a life. Congratulations on your daughters, they’ll make fine soldiers I’m sure. I’m coming for you my friend. Not today, I won’t mar such an important day for your daughters, but soon.'
The line went dead, and he turned at shouts of ‘Daddy!’ as his ecstatic daughters threw sloppy salutes then ran to hug him.
***
Every shadow, every corner, every glance from someone he did not know, was now a threat. He kept a snooper on him constantly, sampling the air, water and food for poisons or contaminants. His holster was constantly unsnapped, no matter how many looks or muttered asides it drew. The constant tension was unbearable, far worse than waiting for the signal to attack. At least when that came you knew where the enemy was, how many there were and – more importantly – you had bucket-load of brothers and sisters-in-arms to watch your back.
He was completely on his own. Ever since he and the rest of the families in their corridor had hidden the Death of the giant, cut him up to supplement their rations rather than handing the body over the proteinfactor as required by law, he had been on his own. That crime alone could have seen his protein being added to the rations. Food hoarding was a capital offence.
Not reporting the presence of an enemy assassin who had murdered a fellow bunkee was also a capital offence. If he told anyone he was dead, if he didn’t tell anyone, he was dead. All he could do was wait for Death to come and find him, and deal with the situation as it presented itself.
***
Death moved through the shadows. His target no longer lived in the cramped upper corridors, but in the larger and more open Depths, deep underground where even the most powerful bunker busters could not reach.
His fingers tingled with anticipation at finally seeing his target again. His contractors had not been happy at the delay, but since they had never set a date, they could not press the matter. Nor, once the contract had been agreed, could they withdraw from the contract and find another to replace him.
A guard coughed, stamping his feet to return the feeling and Death passed him over, walking so close that he could have plucked a hair from his head should he so wished. The living quarters here overlooked communal gardens and allotments, and most had at least four rooms in them. Such space to someone in the Uppers would seem almost unbearable, used as they were to cramped living conditions and even more cramped working conditions down in the hot and dim Subs.
Not many apartment lights were on, and he could see his target clearly. Less than ten yards away was apartment 101, and Death paused to consider whether this was a deliberate act by his target, or just a delightful coincidence. No matter. Whether his target lived in apartment 101 or 100 did not matter so long as he died.
Death had decided long ago that he would kill his target face-to-face, staring into his eyes as he did so. No knife in the dark, sniper’s bullet or indiscriminate bomb. No, he would look him in the eye as he pulled the trigger. A quick, painless death worthy of a man who had risen from being a mere drone, to a Major, a war hero, veteran of three wars and countless bush-contacts. Decorated for bravery, wounds received and long service.
Death felt a sense of pride in his target, as if he were his own son. That thought brought a wry smile to his face. He was barely a few years older than the target, but the difference between them when they met had been incredible. His target was a mere youth who had never been outside of his bunker, never met someone or even seen someone from another bunker, whose entire life consisted of getting up, going to work, coming home and going to bed. Now, they were not equals, but the target was a far more worthy and therefore valuable target than before.
He finally reached the apartment door and started to snake a cable out of his wrist unit. He paused, then put it back and knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Thrice. He knew that the Major’s fa
mily were all out. This was to be an intimate, not indiscriminate, killing and he did not want to tarnish it with collateral casualties.
The door opened and there stood the Major, a comms unit in hand as if he had been interrupted about to make a call. No matter. Death knew that the Major would not call for help, not put the lives of others on the line just to prolong the inevitable.
'’bout time you bloody got here. I’ve been going out of mind waiting.' The target smiled, a flash of the young man he had once been surfacing, 'Come on in. I won’t be killed on my doorstep.'
Death stepped through the heavy blast-proof door, pausing as the target closed and sealed it, turning the large metal wheel on the back to engage manual locks, enhancing the electrical locks that were already in place.
'Had this installed as soon as I managed to bag the apartment, blast-proof windows as well. I decided that I would totally bombproof the place. Just in case that was your method of choice.'
He led the way into the apartment’s social room, gesturing for Death to take a seat on a luxurious non-issue sofa whilst he sat in an armchair opposite.
'I’d like to thank you for the life you gave me. I won’t say that I’m ready to go, I’ll never be ready to go, but I have lived a life I would never have even considered before we first met. I consider myself to be a worthy target,' he laughed, 'maybe even a worthy opponent.'
Death smiled, 'I was rather hoping that I could do this without a struggle. An explosive round through the forehead. No pain whatsoever. I’ve even brought cleaning materials to make it as least distressing to your family as possible.'
'Painless certainly sounds good to me. However, I don’t think it would be befitting if an officer of my reputation and calibre was to go down without a fight.' Death tensed, bunching his muscles in case he had to move fast.
The target held up both hands in a calming motion, the comms unit still in his hand.
'Don’t fret old friend. We’re both far too old and decrepit to resort to fisticuffs, especially as I’ve seen just how handy you are. No, I thought I would take the civilised route, and just press this button.'
Death lunged for the hand holding the comms unit, his enhanced reflexes sending him across the room almost faster than the eye could see. Time slowed as the target’s thumb pressed on the ‘call’ button, and ringers sounded all around them. Looking into the target’s eye he smiled as the explosives in the chairs detonated, incinerating them and blowing both men to flinders, the bomb proofing containing the blast and making it many times more powerful than it would have been.
And so it was that the target yielded to his fate, and went away with Death.
The End
###
And this time, it really is The End.
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