by Mick Farren
"Shouldn't we do something about this? If there's anyone left alive in that mess they're going to be slaughtered. This is a lynch mob."
Parkwood nodded.
"That's what it is."
"And you're going to do nothing?"
"If you want to save those bastards with your own people, feel free. Frankly, I don't give a damn."
Vickers had found himself a breathing mask.
"I'm going in there. I want to get to Lloyd-Ransom and Lutesinger before the mob does."
Parkwood looked around for a mask of his own.
"I'm coming with you."
Eggy and Yabu were still standing nearby. Parkwood beckoned to them.
"We're going inside, you want to come with us?"
Both indicated grim agreement. The outside major was still agitating.
"Something has to be done."
"Then do it!"
As they spoke, there was an eruption of yelling and howling from the other side of the piazza. A number of dazed and blackened figures had stumbled out of the ruins. The mob immediately set upon them. The major was gathering up his troops. He led them toward the center of the disturbance. Vickers, Parkwood, Yabu and Eggy followed behind, letting them clear a path through the angry mob. There was ugliness in the shattered tunnels and there were fires burning deep in the complex. Figures reeled from the smoke, but no sooner did they come into sight than they were seized by the crowd that was pouring in from the elevators. There were very few gunshots; the first people into the tunnels were mainly handlers and facers armed with clubs, knives or razors. The lack of gunfire was more than compensated for by a non-stop chorus of truly horrible screams. It was a scene from hell that the outside major and his men only served to confuse with their largely ineffectual efforts to save the lives of Lloyd-Ransom's surrendering followers. There was a frenzy about the attackers that went beyond even the most deep-rooted anger. It was like they were, at the same time, working out their own guilt for all that had happened in the bunker and all the bizarre dreams that had been dreamed there.
Vickers and his companions eased their way through the carnage, side-stepping the sudden knots of violence as best they could and trying hard to blot out the worst of the bloody vignettes. And then they were past the violence. Four armed intruders moving quickly up the tunnel with their flashlights and breathing masks. The dazed offenders shied away from them. They reached the end of the tunnel and realized they had to decide on a new direction. Vickers looked to Parkwood.
"Do you have that map?"
"Right here."
While Parkwood studied the map, Vickers turned his flash on the interior of the complex. The Marriot had literally torn it apart. Walls were missing and ceilings sagged. Smoke was everywhere and there was no guarantee that more of the structure would not collapse any minute. Vickers found it hard to equate this ruin with the luxury inner sanctum that had been the scene of such decadence and excess.
"Both Lloyd-Ransom's and Lutesinger's quarters are on the same radial corridor. They're about as far in as you can go and three stories up within the complex. We'll have to hope that there are some stairs left intact, there's no chance of a lift."
"I'd sure hate for that bastard to escape."
Parkwood led the way and the others followed in single file, heading deeper into the ruins. They were moving along a corridor that led past what had once been a row of luxury suites. Now the mirrors were smashed and the drapes were burning. A woman in ripped, charred purple silk and an advanced state of hysteria suddenly staggered through one of the broken doorways. She tried to grab hold of Eggy.
"Help me! For God's sake help me!"
Eggy recoiled.
"Get the fuck away from me!"
The woman spun off him at a tangent and then lurched away frantically, looking for someone else to save her. The four watched her go and then moved on in the other direction.
* * *
By a miracle, one stairwell was intact. The four climbed cautiously, watching the streams of plaster dust that poured down with each step and listening to the ominous creaks. Finally they were in the last corridor. The area had hardly been touched by the explosion. Even the doors along the corridor hadn't been blown open. It was quite possible that, behind them, there were people who were alive and maybe armed. A new kind of caution gripped the four of them. With weapons raised they moved slowly and silently down the final stretch. Parkwood signalled to Vickers by tapping the map. When he had his attention, he pulled off his breathing mask and whispered urgently.
"The two suites, Lloyd-Ransom's and Lutesinger's, are side by side." He pointed with his gun. "Those two at the end there."
Eggy and Yabu were also listening attentively as Parkwood went on.
"Two of us will go one way and two the other. Vickers, you and Yabu take the lefthand door. That's Lloyd-Ransom's; I'll give you that. Eggy and I will take the other. That's Lutesinger's."
For a moment, Eggy looked as though he was going to protest, then he changed his mind and grinned.
"Save a piece of him for me."
They positioned themselves beside the doors. Vickers and Parkwood hung back with machine pistols clutched at high port. Yabu and Eggy were poised to kick in the doors.
"Go!"
The two doors crashed in at the same time. Vickers and Parkwood went through first, Yabu and Eggy followed.
"Sweet Jesus."
Lloyd-Ransom's outer reception room was deserted. It had come through the explosion completely unscathed. There was even a dim light burning, enough to show that it had been decorated in a strange, funereal Art Deco, all smoked mirrors and black glass. Only one of the mirrors had smashed.
"It's like Dracula's living room."
"You think he's escaped?"
Vickers put a finger to his lips. A brighter light was shining from the half-open door of the master bedroom. Again the guns were leveled. Again they moved with a tense, trained stealth. This time they went through the door together. The room wasn't exactly deserted but everyone in there was stone dead. The Dobermans were stretched out on the thick pile of the carpet. They'd been poisoned. They lay at the foot of the bed like the dogs on a medieval tomb. Thane Ride, the one-time TV idol, had also taken poison; the flecks of blood on her lips indicated something old fashioned like cyanide. She lay flat on her back on the huge circular bed, staring with dead eyes at her reflection in the mirrored ceiling. She had dressed and arranged herself for death. She wore a black nightgown, her hair was combed out and her makeup was perfect. In the final moments, she'd crossed her feet at the ankles, folded her arms across her chest and prepared to die. Lloyd-Ransom had also tried to make a beautiful corpse but it had gone wrong for him. As far as Vickers could reconstruct, he must have dressed up in his best dress uniform, sat down beside the already deceased woman and placed the barrel of his revolver in his mouth. He probably expected that he'd sprawl back romantically. Unfortunately, the blast that blew away the back of his head had also knocked him clear off the bed and into an ungainly heap on the floor.
Yabu nudged the body with his toe. "You notice that he did it exactly like Adolf Hitler?"
"He'd have to, wouldn't he?"
"I don't understand why Thane Ride felt it necessary to play the Eva Braun part. Such an absolute gesture would hardly seem in character."
"Maybe she felt she wouldn't have much of a career left when she got out of here."
"I've never known even the most extreme notoriety to hurt anyone's TV career. Where I come from an actress hoped to make millions by fucking a gorilla."
"Tomoyo Nakamora, how could I ever forget her?"
"Even in a place like this."
"Did she ever do it in the end?"
"I don't know. The last I heard was that the gorilla was trying to back out of the deal."
The two men made a slow inspection of the bedroom.
"It's an appropriate place in which to die."
The somber color scheme of the reception ro
om was carried through, only instead of Art Deco, the bedroom was dark chinoise. A red dragon chased its coiling tail around all four of the black walls. An ornate but obviously well used opium pipe was at hand on an antique bedside table. Vickers and Yabu were about to start going through drawers and cupboards when they heard Parkwood's voice from outside in the corridor.
"Are you all secure in there?"
"Yeah, all secure."
Parkwood came through the reception room and into the bedroom.
"Jesus Christ!"
"I guess it's the end of the story."
"Not quite. You'd better come and look in the other suite."
There was no way of telling how long Lutesinger had been dead. The shrunken, mummified figure was still hanging from the ceiling of the austere, sparsely furnished room.
"He could have been like this for months."
"I checked the environment controls. He set the suite for complete dehumidity before he hung himself or, at least, somebody did. It's like he wanted to turn into a mummy."
"They must have known down here that something was wrong. Why didn't anyone break in and find out?"
"I don't want to think about what went on down here."
Vickers looked away from the wrinkled, dehydrated face. He felt a little sick. The only mercy was that the eyes were closed. He hitched the Yasha over his shoulder.
"I've had enough of this."
Eggy, with a sudden demonstration of unexpected friendship, put a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm with you, bro. Let's get the fuck out of here and let someone else clean up the mess."
Behind them the body slowly started to turn. The break-in had disturbed the previously still air. Coming hard on the heels of the exploding rocket, the motion was too much for the dried-out neck tendons. They parted. The head jerked back and the body fell to the floor with a leathery clatter. The head bounced. Out in the corridor Vickers really fought not to throw up. He managed it but only with great difficulty.
TEN
There were steaks and beer at the Desert Inn. On the way out of the inner sanctum, Vickers had sworn that he'd never eat again but when he actually smelled frying from the motel coffee shop that served as the officers' mess, he realized that he was starving. He'd been living on coffee, pills and scotch for close to three days. By the time he'd loaded a mess tray with two sizable steaks, a double order of fries, two eggs and four slices of wheat toast, his mouth was actually watering. The only snag was that he didn't get to eat the meal in peace. Halfway through, Victoria Morgenstern sat down at his table.
"So you're out."
"I didn't know it was going to be so difficult. I thought once things were squared away you'd start evacuating those people."
"You can't hurry these things. Those people have a lot of adjusting to do."
"Hurry things? It took four hours of screaming bloody murder before they'd let me out."
"That was a mistake. You were absolutely exempted from the containment order."
Although both Contec and the army had refused to enter the bunker in a combat role, neither snowed any hesitation in taking control and acting as virtual jailers once the situation was under control. Suddenly Victoria was making up the rules and Getz was enforcing them. Specially flown in admin teams set up shop on the first level and, backed up by armed troops, they started opening files and handing out ID cards. It had suddenly been decided that the evacuation of the bunker would take place on an individual basis and only after each individual had been thoroughly screened. The key points were "stability, adaptability and attitude" and the process threatened to take months.
"What is this containment order shit, Victoria?"
"What are you complaining about? You and your friends are all out and free, aren't you?"
Indeed, when Vickers had talked his way out he'd managed to bring Parkwood, Yabu and Eggy out with him. They were at another table eating without interruption. Vickers jabbed angrily at his steak.
"That's not the point."
"Isn't it? That's strange coming from you. I thought all you cared about was number one."
"I spent a long time in that place. For most of the people in there it's been a nightmare. They've been through enough. The last thing they need is being hung up in a whole lot of bullshit bureaucracy."
"I have every compassion for the people in the bunker but . . ."
"That's a lot of crap. You never had compassion for anyone. You don't do compassion."
"We can't just let those people loose. A lot of them are crazy. They need all the help they can get."
"Sure, and you're going to keep them penned up in the bunker while you help them."
"You're not thinking. I'm telling you we can't just turn them loose. The problem of who actually employs them and who owes them back pay is almost insurmountable."
"I knew it would all come down to money in the end."
"You've been taken care of. Contec's picking up your tab without question."
"They damn well better."
Victoria did her best to look placating. It hardly suited her.
"Try and look at it from our point of view. There's no way we can just dump nearly four thousand badly fucked up individuals back into the world without credit lines, jobs or anything. The first stop would be Las Vegas. Can you imagine how the Vegas authorities would react if we did that?"
Vickers very carefully put down his fork.
"And who are the Las Vegas authorities these days?"
Victoria looked at him sharply.
"What?"
"I was wondering who was minding the shop now that Herbie Mossman's dead."
For a moment she avoided his eyes.
"As a matter of fact, we are."
"Contec?"
"Without Mossman and the personal loyalty he commanded from his staff, Global Leisure started to come unglued. There was a merger."
"How convenient."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I was never too happy about the Mossman assassination. I was also struck by the fact that when I came out the first time, nobody was particularly interested in what had happened."
Victoria's answer came a little too quickly and neatly.
"It was old news by then."
"I got the impression that everyone knew about it. When I asked about it, the army told me to go see Contec and Contec just got close-mouthed."
Victoria Morgenstern looked as though she was sucking on a lemon.
"You know the story. Herbie Mossman got into the bunker at the start of the crisis. You know what he was like. He was so pathological about preserving himself that he wouldn't even breathe the air. Lloyd-Ransom thought that he'd try and take over and had him killed."
"That's what Lloyd-Ransom told me. I didn't believe him, either."
Morgenstern's face became properly impassive.
"So what outrageous theory do you have, Mort?"
"I figure Lloyd-Ransom was doing his last job for the old firm. It's my guess that Contec, probably you, either stampeded or lured Herbie into the bunker and Lloyd-Ransom had instructions to kill him, thus opening the way for the takeover. Of course, Lloyd-Ransom had his own plans but that's history. Nobody knew what he had in mind when the original orders were given. Even as things turned out, it must have worked quite well. Sure you lost a bunker for eighteen months, but you got Global."
Victoria's mouth curled into a tight little smile.
"That's quite fantastic."
"Isn't it just?"
"And complete nonsense."
"Maybe."
"You don't have any bright ideas of circulating this wild tale, do you? Like giving it to the media or anything?"
Vicker grinned.
"Who? Me? You know I wouldn't do a thing like that. I'm a good Contec corpse; I know how to keep my mouth shut."
"I'm very glad of that." Victoria stood up. "I'll leave you to finish your meal in peace."
Vickers looked down at his plate. His appetite w
asn't what it had been when he'd started. "Yeah."
"You're taking some time off?"
"I figure I deserve it."
"You'll find that your credit's been taken care of."
"That's nice of you."
"It's the least I could do."
"Right."
"I'll expect you back in New York in a month. I hope you can manage not to get into trouble."
* * *
Vickers sat in the cocktail bar in the Las Vegas airport. He was working on his fourth large scotch. For the first time in as long as he could remember he had absolutely nothing to do. He felt lost. He was very aware that he was pouring booze into himself to fill a yawning psychological emptiness. He couldn't quite grasp the fact that it was all over. The idea of time off was meaningless. He had homed in on the airport almost by instinct, but beyond that he didn't have a clue where he wanted to go. His only solid idea was, after all that had happened, he absolutely didn't want to stay in Las Vegas. There was something horrifying about the moving crowd in the Hawaiian shirts and leisure clothes. They were so dumbly, obliviously alive.
Not that he'd made any real effort to get out of town. He hadn't booked a ticket, he hadn't even looked at schedules. His first impulse had been to head back to New York. New York, however, meant work, maybe another contract, the possibility of more deaths. For the moment that was out of the question. He'd considered staying with Joe Stalin, except that Joe Stalin probably thought that he was dead. He couldn't face the prospect of explaining all that had happened since they'd last seen each other. At the same time, the idea of a holiday was totally absurd. A week earlier, he firmly believed that the world had been burned to a nuclear crisp. It was nearly impossible to accept the idea of laying on a beach somewhere sipping some misbegotten drink that came with a baby umbrella in it while looking at women in tans and bikinis. He felt hollow and the only available solution seemed to be to fill the hollowness with whiskey.
"Give me another, will you?"
The bartender looked doubtful.
"Are you sure about that, pilgrim?"
Vickers' eyes became don't-mess-with-me slits.