The Digital Plague

by Jeff Somers

  There was a quick pattern—head, belly, chest, head, belly, chest—so I took a chance, and after knocking a chest thrust aside I ducked low and barreled forward, butting my head into her belly as hard as I could and putting everything I had into pushing her back, keeping her off-balance.

  She twisted away and I stumbled several steps before getting my balance back. As I ran in a wide circle I caught a glimpse of Belling and Lukens backed into a corner and pouring fire at three leaping figures. It was like a tableau, everyone frozen, muzzle flashes and ragged bloody people suspended in the air, Belling’s face squinted up in concentration, Lukens looking like she was going over her laundry list, bored.

  When the lamp shut off again I decided it was high time I ran away. I wasn’t going to shoot her and I wasn’t going to beat those nano-sharpened reflexes. I oriented on the back of the room and sucked in as deep a breath as I could manage, my chest twitching into convulsions. I ran with a heavy, uneven tread. When the lamp flared up I didn’t need to look to know she was right on me: her slapping feet were thunderous. I threw myself up and around, my back protesting with searing pain, just in time to knock her blade aside once more. My thrust didn’t have any power behind it, though, and she immediately righted herself, diving forward. I knew at once that I didn’t have the traction or strength to get out of her range this time. This time was going to end with my guts spilled on the floor.

  Then I was yanked backward, landing hard on my ass and skidding a few extra feet while Glee belly flopped onto the floor. Hands gripped my shoulders, and for a second I was floating back, staring at Glee’s red hair, my gun pointed at the center of her head out of habit, my finger on the trigger. A tiny bit of pressure and that would be it, but still I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill her again.

  Marko was looming over me, a trickle of blood leaking out of his nose. He looked used up and shiny. “You’re the most wanted Gunner in New York?” he asked, panting. “You’re getting your ass kicked by a kid!”

  “You touch her,” I hissed back, “I’ll kill you.” I pushed him away and climbed to my feet—slow, too fucking slow. I felt like I’d aged a thousand years, my insides cheesed out, my blood poisoned. I saw myself dying, eaten away, and then getting up again a few days later, repaired, my eyes flat, my brain consumed and used as spackle for the rest of me.

  And then Glee was crashing into me again and slicing three times deep across my belly as I stumbled back toward the counter. Entirely on instinct I shoved my gun into her stomach and fired twice, knocking her little body back onto the floor just as the lamp flickered off again.

  I stared into the darkness where she’d been a second before. From my right I could see flashes of light as Belling and Lukens handled their own problems, but I tuned out the gunfire. I’d killed her again. Just like I’d killed everyone. Everyone I’d ever known was dead, or would be soon. Except Dick Marin, the eternal, smiling Richard Marin, Director, SSF Internal Affairs. And, it seemed, Dennis Squalor, the ever-fucking living. Those two roaches were going to kick each other around the dead world when it was all said and done.

  It was always the big shots who started this shit up. I’d been on a fucking rail for the past week, going from point A to point B, a fucking puppet. I get pinched and dragged here, I get plucked into the air by a fucking Spook and dragged there. I’m pushed into a room and there’s Glee, and I have to kill her because that’s what the fucking universe dictates. Then I have to go into another room and kill Ty Kieth—betray Ty Kieth—because that’s the next thing the universe wants. I’m on a rail. I’d been on a rail my whole life.

  The lamp flickered back on. When I saw her there, gasping like a beached fish, dead eyes locked on me, I was almost surprised. She was bleeding heavily and obviously couldn’t breathe, but there was no writhing, no sign of pain—just those eyes, staring at me. I ran my eye over her wound and figured I’d hit an artery, and estimated she’d be dead . . . again . . . in about five minutes. Her chest spasmed, her hands clenched and unclenched, her mouth was working, but she just stared at me. I forced myself to meet her eyes and watch. I felt like I had to watch.

  Dimly, I could hear gunfire. I felt Marko tugging at my coat. I ignored it all and just watched her die, the rhythmic fountains of blood getting weaker and more random, her spasms subsiding. I watched as her hands went still. I watched as her chest shuddered and stopped twitching. Her eyes didn’t change. I knew she had to be dead but her eyes remained open and on me, just as flat and empty as before. Marko’s tugging became insistent, and the gunfire came rushing back into my ears. As I stared at her, she twitched and made a horrible sucking noise. I blinked as she started to breathe again, horrible shuddering gasps as if an invisible fist were pumping her chest up and down.

  The nanos were repairing her again.

  I rushed forward and stood over her, pointing my gun at her head, hand trembling. But it wouldn’t do any good. A head shot wouldn’t kill her, and how many bullets would it take to damage her so much the fucking nanos couldn’t fix her? I stood there trembling—it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair, and I wanted off the rail.

  Then Marko was in my ear, pulling me away.

  “Goddamn it, Mr. Cates, there’s no fucking time!” he shouted, his voice warped.

  I jerked around and then froze. Behind Marko a trio of corpses had opened their eyes and were looking at me. I spun and saw that all over the room bodies were twitching, coming to life. I turned to Marko, opened my mouth, and the lamp died again.

  For a second, there was complete silence. Then, a crash of shattering glass and shouts, crash after crash, light stabbing into the room in weak, watery shafts that outlined Stormers, their tether lines like spidery tails. I closed my eyes and thought it was probably the first time in my life I was happy to see the fucking System Pigs.

  XXXVII

  Day Ten:

  Calm, Serene

  Happiness

  I opened my eyes and looked around. With deadly speed the Stormers, still hanging from their tether lines, scrambled up to stand in the smashed window frames, rifles hooked into belt straps, efficiently leveling their weapons and running a fast check. Painful, flesh-ripping coughs tore through me, my eyes lighting up red with each twitch as I envisioned delicate tissues ripping silently apart, bloody clouds filling the spaces between my organs.

  The bodies around us were moving, slowly, like they were learning to move each muscle individually. I saw Lukens looking almost relaxed as she lay against the far wall staring up at the ceiling, her belly torn open, her intestines leaking out in loose coils. I started to look for Belling when a familiar booming voice filled the cavernous room.

  “Cates, you piece of shit,” Happling shouted from above. Framed in shattered glass, he looked a little rougher than I remembered, with some new scratches bleeding on his face. He held on to a duct for balance with one hand, his other hoisting his ancient gun. “Did you really think you were going to betray us and get away with it? We knew where you were going, you asshole. You’re a walking transmitter. How stupid are you, exactly? Don’t answer.” The big cop stepped into the air and leaped down, crashing into the cracked tile of the floor with a grunt, bending his knees and putting his free hand out to steady himself as if he’d been practicing jumps like that for years. Standing, he cocked his gun and trained it on me as he stalked through the room, ignoring the twitching, stretching bodies piled up haphazardly around him.

  I still had my gun in my hand, but it seemed impossible to lift, as I watched the gorilla come closer.

  “I’ve never had to wait this fucking long to execute a shithead before,” Happling shouted, grinning. “The Spooks have taken back command—a fucking hoverful of the freaks showed up and were kind of irritated to find our Mr. Bendix leashed like a dog—and they’d probably order me to leave you alone, because you’re on the fucking Person of Interest list, but fuck ’em. They’re not here; hanging back like pussies until we clear the area. Looks like we don’t need you anymore, Mr
. Cates.”

  I just watched him, a bubble of reddish mucus expanding and shrinking at the end of my nose, my stomach tightening in expectation. When the big man was just a foot or two away his eyes suddenly flicked over me and he dived, fast, to one side as shots boomed from behind. Right where the cop had been the floor exploded into little plumes of dust. I twisted around to stare back at Belling, who stood pristine and ageless in front of the low counter that separated the waiting area from the offices, his custom Roons in each hand. The familiar smile on his face was like the universe clicking back into shape.

  “Captain Happling,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t they teach you about threat analysis in Pig School?”

  I heard Happling’s snarl and watched as Belling whirled into motion, streaking to his right as gunshots trailed him. The old man launched himself toward the remnants of a dividing wall that had once held a large Vid screen. As he sailed behind it, his body elegantly stretched out for a rolling landing, a whining burst of shredder fire cut into the wall just above him, carving out chunks of heavy stone.

  After a moment, the Stormers all poured it on, shredder fire thumping into the wall, the noise almost palpable in the air, the wall shuddering under the onslaught. I just sat there, twisted around, watching. Happling appeared from behind me, silently padding in a wide arc until he had a view behind the wall. Face red, he turned and made a sharp cutting gesture. The shredder fire stopped immediately.

  I watched as Happling crept toward the wall, holding his gun ready, down low, arms extended. My eyes were locked on the big cop. I wasn’t worried about Belling; the old man was slippery and couldn’t be trusted, and if he’d just saved my life it was for his own reasons. But I didn’t want Belling—or any Gunner, any one of us—to go down to a fucking System Pig. I watched him step lightly over two entwined bodies, a man and a woman who looked like they’d died in each other’s arms, and then they both unfurled like flowers blooming, arms curling up almost lazily and taking hold of Big Red.

  Happling grunted and looked down with an almost comical expression of surprise. He swung his gun down and oriented on one of their heads, putting two shells into its skull. The body twitched from the impact but otherwise didn’t seem to mind, and kept pulling at the big man relentlessly, staring up at him as blood rushed out of the wound and over its face to form a slick mask of red.

  As Happling’s expression took on a more desperate, worried tint, he staggered a little trying to remain upright while the two figures more or less climbed up him. Suddenly Belling streaked from his hiding place, running at full speed and then slowing in astonishment as he took in Happling’s situation. The captain looked up, face reddening, and managed to right himself long enough to throw a quick succession of shots at the old man as he ran. As Belling passed between us, barely ahead of Happling’s awkward fire, he turned his head and looked right at me.

  It was time to move. None of the cops were paying any attention to me. As I watched, Belling faded behind a jumble of ruined chairs and Vid Screens. A second later the junk exploded as the shredders turned them into dust, and with a roar Happling swatted his gun down at his attackers, savagely beating them off his body inch by inch, and then he was on the move again, his shirt more or less one huge sweat stain as he sprinted toward the spot where Belling had disappeared. I knew Belling wouldn’t be there. The old man had mapped out the hiding places and could keep them on the run forever, if need be.

  I started for the desk at the front of the room, my broken leg aching and protesting. I saw movement off to my right and turned my head in time to see Belling appear atop one of the metal ducts that crisscrossed the room. I paused to suck in air as he fired nonstop for a few seconds, pouring shells into the Stormers. Before they could react he’d thrown himself backward, disappearing the same way he’d gotten up there. Like any Gunner who lived beyond his teens, Belling had done the most basic thing: get to know your venue.

  I kept moving, feeling that if I didn’t look at the cops, they wouldn’t look at me—some sort of low-rent psychic invisibility. When I reached the counter, I took two painful breaths and gathered myself, pulling myself up and over it in one clean move and letting myself roll and drop to the floor on the other side, the sound of my landing masked by the cacophony.

  I rolled onto my belly and scanned the area beyond the desk. My only option was a flimsy-looking wood-and-glass door marked service rooms, no more than a fancy divider. I wriggled toward it staying low, sweat streaming into my eyes. Behind me things sounded hairy, and the still-hot shredders began to whine again. I dimly wondered whether even a dozen Stormers could take down Wa Belling, who so far seemed immortal. I kept crawling. I was used to crawling. When I reached the door I flipped over onto my back and reached up to try some standard gestures at the lock, but as I put my weight against it the door leaned inward, spilling me into a hallway.

  I pulled my legs tight against my chest and rolled over, letting the door slide shut and pushing up onto my knees. Recalling the floor plan Marko had displayed for us, I started down a wide white hallway, a green line painted on the wall to my right. I took a moment to straighten up and force a long, painful breath, rubbing a hand over my bristly head and wiping a sleeve over my mouth. Speed was going to be key. I needed to get Gatz into my sights and get my shot off immediately, faster, the moment I entered the room. Any delay and I’d be Pushed, I had no doubt.

  I gripped my gun and launched myself forward, my leg stiff and awkward.

  As I turned a corner, the noise behind me dropped away and I was left with my own ragged breathing and the wet sound of my boots on the floor. After the gore of the waiting room, everything was amazingly clean; the floor looked like it had never been walked on. The air—the little of it I could suck in through my swollen nose and ruined throat—even smelled antiseptic, devoid of life. It was a relief. I’d had my fill of bodies, of their smells, their heat, their touch.

  Around another corner I saw what had to be my door. It was marked only with the number 655, but Marko’s floor plan and Belling’s intel said this had to be it. I raised my gun and forced myself to move faster despite the pain and my body’s calcification. Breathing hard, I threw myself at the door, smacking into it and then swinging my gun up as a shadow slammed into the wall next to me. For a second I stared at Marko’s bearded face without recognition.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I rasped.

  He was on his knees, fishing in his bag. “Door’s locked, Mr. Cates,” he said breathlessly. “I think you saved my life back there.” Without another word he pasted two leads against the door’s electronic keypad while I lay there, sucking in air as best I could, blinking rapidly.

  “You Techies,” I wheezed. “Think we all need you.”

  He nodded as the door lock disengaged with a soft click. “The way things are going, Mr. Cates,” he said, “we’re all going to be Droids with brains. And someone’s gonna have to wind everyone up, right?”

  I nodded, pushing him out of the way and putting a hand on the door. “You ever try to wind me up, kid,” I promised, “I will blow your hands off.” I paused and looked at him. “Stay. Out. Here,” I instructed, and with a strained breath I pulled the door open and rushed inside.

  I tried to put my eyes everywhere. It was incredibly bright inside, and my eyes burned and watered. I saw a Monk standing near an examination table, standard issue white face and dark coat. I put the gun on it, thinking Fast, fast, squeeze the trigger.

  “Stop,” Kev said.

  I drained out of myself. I went numb and stopped in my tracks, my momentum almost pulling me down onto my face. Calm, serene happiness floated into me like gas, and I hovered motionless.

  Ty Kieth was strapped on the examination table, professionally gagged. His nose quivered and his eyes rolled spastically, but I noticed he didn’t struggle against his bonds. He just lay there.

  “Shoot yourself,” Kev said.

  Smiling, I turned the gun and pulled the trigger.r />
  XXXVIII

  Day Ten:

  A Goddamn

  Superhero

  I didn’t even feel the bullet smash into the meaty part of my broken leg. Kev hadn’t specified where to shoot myself, and some primitive instinct inside me that still wanted to live chose my nearly useless limb for sacrifice. The leg buckled immediately and I crashed onto the floor, teeth rattling, but there was no pain—my pain circuits, I guessed, were maxed out. For a moment I was a goddamn superhero, impervious to physical suffering.

  Blood spurting from the wound alarmingly, I wondered if I’d outsmarted myself by nicking an artery, and feebly raised my gun again, squinting through a strange yellowish haze that had inserted itself between me and the rest of the world. As I searched for Kev again, lead seeped into my arms and they became incredibly heavy.

  “Avery, stop.”

  I froze, arm shaking. The familiar feeling of peace sank into me, and I was happy and thoughtless. A Monk resolved out of the haze around me, one I thought I recognized as Kev because it was so new and clean. The Monk crouched down in front of me; my gun was almost thrust into its abdomen. I stared into its expressionless white face without feeling, without thought.