by Frank Rich
A hint of impending winter hung in the air, but there was also a sense of springtime, a feeling of renewal and new beginnings. I took out my map and spread it across the hood. I calculated I'd gotten off the superway and onto I-76 sometime last night. To get back on the superway that shot through the Rockies I'd have to cross the row of hills to the west. As I folded up the map, a door opened. Monique climbed out, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
"You're still here?" she asked snidely.
I walked to the rear of the Caddy and began untying the motorcycle. "Give me a minute."
"Tell me how it feels," she said unkindly. "To turn your back on everything and everyone."
"Feels great," I said with consummate honesty.
"Why do you hate life so much?"
I loosened a square knot and pulled the rope through. I smiled grimly and tried to hold on to the feeling of bliss. "I don't hate life. I hate its imagery."
She glared at me then looked away. "You're running now, you'll be running for the rest of your life."
"You're wrong. My end is in sight. Just over those mountains."
"How can you leave when so many people need you?"
"I've done enough for humanity."
"Oh really? Like what?"
"I sacrificed my soul. I've killed and killed again until the act lost meaning." I jerked loose the last knot, and the bike bounced to the gravel. "I've bucked the odds so long, it's only a matter of time before they roll back over me. I'm getting out before that happens."
"Oh, is that it? Is it death that you're afraid of?"
"Not death. What lays after. That's what scares me." I unlocked the trunk and lifted out the rucksack.
"I suppose that's your survival kit."
"That's right. All I'll need to survive from here on out."
"Yeah?" Monique snarled. "Is there compassion and purpose in that bag? Human love?"
I laughed harshly. "I can live without those."
"You sure?"
I finished strapping the kit to the back of the bike and faced her. "Positive."
I slung the AK-47 over my shoulder, slammed the trunk and tossed her the keys. I straddled the bike and pressed the ignition button.
"Go ahead and leave then!" Monique screamed over the roar of the engine. "The world doesn't need you! We don't need you!"
"Listen," I screamed back, "you called me a monster the other day. You were right. I am a monster — a vampire bit me and I became one of them. But I want to stop being one. That's why I'm leaving."
I heard a door close and I looked over at George. He hunched against the car, staring at the ground with his idiot smile. I took a stack of creds out of my pocket and handed them to Monique. "That's what I owe George. Check him into a dynacaine clinic as soon as you get to Denver. Don't give him any money until he's level. Take care of him."
"As if you cared."
"More than you know." I pointed the bike toward the hills.
"Rip out your soul, then," she screamed as I roared away. "Go without the burden of conscience!"
I screwed back the throttle and attacked the hill; I couldn't leave it all behind fast enough. I crested the first rise and roared up the next. When I'd topped the last, I swung the bike into a skidding halt. I wanted one last long look back at the monstrous world I was leaving behind. The Caddy weaved at a slow pace down the highway, heading west. Two miles behind it, closing the distance like a pack of wolves, roared a dozen combat bikes. I could just make out the logos on the backs of their jackets. Allah's Assassins. From my vantage point I could also see a roadblock of vehicles and debris four miles ahead of the Caddy, just around a long bend that skirted the rolling hills.
"Nothing will make me go down there," I told the wind as the bikes hurtled toward my former companions. It was death luring me back. This was the final test, the last sick joke. I knew if I could break this last bond with humanity and conscience, I'd be free forever, free from the ugliness, the incomprehensible horror of a sick race.
The Caddy suddenly lurched forward, doubling its speed. The hunted had scented the hunters.
"I'm not going back!" I raged, and the bike started down the hill.
I descended headlong, fighting for control as I jolted over rocks and slipped through patches of loose dirt. By the time I reached the asphalt, the bikers were a hundred yards ahead of me and fifty yards behind the Caddy. I unslung the AK, twisted back the throttle and leaned into the wind.
The Caddy was going only eighty miles per hour, but the bikers seemed happy to hang back, herding George toward the roadblock.
I powered up beside a straggler.
"How ya doin'?" I said.
"Okay," he yelled back.
"Good," I said, and blew him off the bike with the AK. The rifle's report was muffled by the roar of the big bikes, and no one seemed to notice. I picked off two more strays before I came up behind the main pack. The Caddy was swerving erratically, speeding up and slowing down in fits, no method to its motion. The bikers kept a safe distance behind, patient with the hunt. The Caddy began leaning into the final bend, and I knew I had to make my move.
I thumbed the selector switch of the AK to automatic and emptied the magazine into the rear of the pack. Men and machines disintegrated before me, and I dodged the carnage, dropping the rifle. Gunning the engine, I roared through the shattered formation, drawing my gyrapistol. At the head of the pack I twisted around and sprayed a magazine of gyrajets into the survivors. Ruptured flesh and metal met asphalt. I holstered the gyra and pulled up beside the driver's door. George hunched over the wheel, his eyes red rimmed and wild. He steered with one hand and clawed out wires from beneath the steering column with the other.
"Turn around," I screamed. "There's a roadblock ahead."
He flashed crazy eyes at me and pulled a long, spaghettilike string of wires from under the dash. He twisted his head around and tried to jam them into his skull socket. "I can't get link-up," he bellowed. "The guidance computer's not responding. I'm smoking out."
Monique leaned toward the window. "Jake! What are you doing here?"
"I forgot my goddamn toothbrush. There's a roadblock around this bend. Turn around."
She grabbed the wheel, but George held grimly on. "He won't let go!" Monique screamed. "Look out!"
I instinctively swerved away as a heavy chain crunched the side of the Caddy. Three surviving Assassins filled the road behind me. The grinning hunchback swung his chain in a slow circle above his head, whipping up speed for the next blow. I braked and slid between his bike and the Caddy. He swung off-balance and I caught the chain with my left hand. As the hunchback tugged with all his strength, I leaned to the right and glanced at George a yard away, oblivious to the struggle.
As one, the bikes and Caddy leaned into the last segment of the bend. The roadblock was just around the corner, seconds away.
The hunchback leaned back and jerked on the chain, trying to pull me to the rushing asphalt. When I looked into his goggled eyes, he bared his teeth and laughed.
"Into the breach!" I roared, wrapping the chain around my handle bars and leaping from the bike.
I landed in George's lap and grabbed the wheel. The roadblock rose before us, and I swung the wheel to the right. We clipped the bumper of a pickup and careered off the road into the sand and sagebrush, bullets rattling the frame and starring the rear windshield. I jerked the wheel blindly back to the left, and the machine shuddered with gut-wrenching vertigo. The car surged across a berm, and we came down with a jolt on the road. I straightened the wheel and rolled out of George's lap. George took control and I sat up between him and Monique.
Monique hugged me and cried, "I knew you'd come back, I just knew it. You're going with us to Denver, aren't you?"
"Crap," I said, only then the consequences of my actions catching up with me. "I guess I kind of have to now." I looked behind us. A stark finger of black smoke pointed to the clouds, but there was no sign of pursuit.
"Did you hear that,
George? Jake's going to lead the revolution." She said it as if the revelation would instantly snap George out of his evil spell. Instead, George hunched toward the radio, trying to make sense of the static babble as if nothing had happened.
12
Five miles down the road I persuaded George to pull over. I led him to the back seat, where he promptly curled into a ball. I took over the wheel and we sped through the suburbs of Denver.
"Why'd you come back?" Monique asked casually, her earlier jubilation buried by embarrassment.
I frowned and tried to get a grip on exactly why I'd come down the hill. "I don't know, I guess I failed. I thought I was completely free of all humanity's pulls, but when it came down to the test of conscience, I failed, failed as much as a man can fail." I ran a hand up and down my face, trying not to think of what I had done, what I had sacrificed. "That mean pimp Fate packs a shotgun. When he says go, you gotta go."
She kept her eyes straight ahead. "You really believe in fate and destiny?"
"Oh yes, I'm a man of destiny. Haven't you picked up on that yet? Since I was born, idiot gods have pushed me around, making me do all kinds of stupid things. Who knows, if Remi's as evil as everyone says he is, knocking him off just might earn me a good seat in Heaven." I slid her a look.
She frowned. "I was hoping you came back because you realized it was the just and moral thing to do."
"I don't like either of those words."
"Why not?"
"They're whores."
"What do you mean?"
"Everyone uses them to their own ends."
She thought about that. "Do you have a travel permit?"
"No, why?"
"There's a SPF checkpoint about five miles ahead. If you don't have a permit, they'll arrest you."
"You need a permit to get into the city?" I asked.
"Remi runs a tight ship."
"I think Bruce had them. Check his bag."
She rummaged through Bruce's bag, looking through maps and data sheets. "I can't find it."
"He must have kept it in his wallet." In the distance I could see the line of cars at the checkpoint, a concrete bunker painted red and white. "Is there another way into Denver?"
"I don't know. Whatever you do, take the next exit. If we turn around at the checkpoint, it'll raise suspicion."
I took the exit and stopped at a crossroad.
"Which way?" I asked.
She looked both ways. "South," she decided. "All the roads going into Denver are monitored, but there's usually militia trouble in Commerce City. Maybe we can find a hot area to sneak through."
We cruised south on Quebec Street, windows down, listening.
"There," Monique said, pointing east. "Gunfire."
I braked and listened. From the direction of a brown-stone neighborhood to our right came the angry chatter of machine guns and the bark of rifles. I turned toward the noise.
"The trick," Monique told me, "is to stay far enough from the firefight not to get shot, yet close enough to eliminate the possibility of immigration monitors."
I nodded, driving slowly, listening. The gunfire seemed to have stopped.
Suddenly bullets rattled the nose of the Caddy like a swarm of suicidal hornets. I dropped into reverse and screeched into a narrow alley. Ten yards down the alley I slammed on the brakes.
"What the hell is wrong with this town?" I shouted. "Do they just shoot at anybody who happens to drive by?"
"The militias are very turf sensitive."
"Insecure bastards!"
"If we parlay, they might let us through."
I checked the magazine of my gyra, then slapped it back in place. "Think so?"
"Sure. They've got nothing against us."
"Okay," I said, holstering the gyra. After checking the alley, I slipped out of the car. "Get behind the wheel and lock all the doors. If you get attacked, don't wait for me. If I'm not back in an hour, lock George in the trunk."
"You're not serious."
"I'm very serious." I looked at George who seemed to be asleep. "This is the calm before the storm."
I peered around the corner toward the gunfire. It sounded like a squad-size action. Breathing deeply, I strolled down the street as if going to the corner grocery. I figured if I didn't act like I was expecting to be shot, I wouldn't be.
The streets were deserted. All the shop windows were boarded up and looked to have been that way for a while.
Bullets ricocheted off the sidewalk in front of me, and I fought the powerful urge to dive for shelter. I slowly raised my hands, looking toward the gunfire. On the rooftop of a four-story tenement a twilight silhouette pointed a rifle.
"Who goes there?" the figure shouted.
"A traveler. I seek passage through the lines."
"There's a Party port entry two klicks south."
"We don't have entry permits."
"Refugees, huh?"
"Yep."
"Well, we'll let you through, but I don't know if they will."
"Who's they?"
"The muppies."
"Who?"
"Come up the fire escape and I'll show you."
I did as I was told. All the windows I passed on the way up were empty of life and furnishings. Two youths greeted me at the top. One cradled a Galil 5.56 mm assault rifle, the other a thick book. A half-dozen youths, crouched behind sandbags, fired sporadically into the streets below.
The teenager with the book began reading to me. "In accordance with section 4A, paragraph 3, you must, by law, identify yourself as a combatant, a muppy, if indeed you are a muppy, the laissez-faire title assumed by party A in the hostilities. Failure to do so entitles us to legally execute you or file legal action, as we see fit, as outlined in section 12E, the rules of espionage. Now…" he looked up from the book and adjusted his spectacles "…are you or are you not a muppy?"
I looked at one, then the other, to see if I could get in on the joke. They seemed serious. "If you tell me what a muppy is, I'll tell you if I am one."
The bespectacled youth began flipping through the thick tome, and the other youth spoke up. "You're not from around here, are you? A muppy is a militant urban professional."
"Okay, I'm not a muppy."
The spectacled youth pulled out a form and a pen. "Sign at the bottom."
I looked at the wordy form. "What's this?"
"It's a statement acknowledging that you have been confronted and informed of the laws and that you, in view of this information, swear you are not a muppy, nor an agent in hire of said group."
"I'll take your word for it," I said, and signed the document. The bespectacled youth put the document in a folder and left. "What's the punch line?" I asked the youth with the rifle.
He grinned. "Toby's our legal counsel. Not a real lawyer, but he's well read. You wanna see what a muppy looks like?"
"Why not?"
I followed him to the sandbags. "My name is Apollo Katilos," he said over his shoulder.
"Greek?"
"We all are. This is a Greek neighborhood. Or was."
"I'm Jake."
We crouched and peered over the sandbags. "Cease fire for a minute," Apollo shouted. The shooting stopped, and Apollo pointed at an overturned, bullet-pocked sedan. "Watch that car."
After a moment of silence, a ridiculous figure in bright purple full-body armor popped up from behind the sedan and scuttled toward a steel Dumpster. The youths poured down accurate fire, and I saw the sparks of a dozen hits, but the figure made the Dumpster unharmed. Two similarly attired troops leaped up from behind rubble and raced toward new positions, firing as they went. The sandbags thumped and shook with the impact of bullets.
"They're hard to kill with this old crap," Apollo shouted over the din, slapping his Galil. The covering fire subsided, and he popped up, firing blindly into the street below.
"I advise you to invest in some modern armor-piercing weaponry," I shouted. "Mitsubishi Supershots with titanium-tipped power loads will make sho
rt work of that lot."
"Can't. It's against the law."
"Law? What law?"
"Remi's rules for urban combat."
I laughed. "Rules for combat? This is war. Who's going to stop you from using modern armor-piercing weaponry?"
"You kidding? The moment we started using them, the muppies would file suit. They got lawyers right down there."
"So what?"
"If they won the case, SPF rotors and shock troops would storm in for rules violation punishment. If they didn't wipe us out, we'd be running from poppers for the rest of our short lives."
"What are poppers?"
"You don't know anything, do you?"
"Apparently not."
The muppies popped up and moved again, firing wildly at our position. One of the youths screamed and pitched over backward. Blood poured from his forehead, and Apollo and I dragged him away from the edge.
The wounded youth held his forehead and groaned. "That's it, I'm going home."
"Don't be such a baby, it's just a cut," Apollo said, applying a bandage.
"It could have put my goddamn eye out!" he protested.
"Put your eye out?" I said, incredulous. "You're lucky it didn't blow off the top of your head."
The youth opened one eye. "They're only rubber, pal."
"Huh?"
"They're using rubber bullets," Apollo explained. "They're afraid of damaging the architecture."
"Architecture? Why would they give a damn?"
"Are you kidding?" Apollo said. "Take a look around! These are brownstones! Muppies will do anything to get them."
I squinted at him. "I find this whole thing hard to believe."
"It's all part of Remi's housing initiative for entrepreneurs. If they can take a building and hold it for forty-eight hours, it's legally theirs, with full SPF protection. Remi likes private-initiative deals."
"Why don't you let them have them?"
"What? This is our neighborhood."
"The place is deserted. Where is everyone?"
"Relocated to work towers. Part of Remi's social-improvement scheme. You live in the same building as the factory you work at. We ain't going, though. I ain't working in no factory."