It happens in a flash. He pulls a blur of silver out from his pocket. A nice handgun, powerful enough to blow a hole the size of a window through us.
We’re unarmed.
“However, I know who you are. You’re highly wanted people, and highly wanted people will fetch a pretty price. The District pays quite well; enough to help keep my quaint town afloat for a little longer. And that, my friends, is the name of the game, isn’t it?” Bruce says. He’s smiling again. Flicks the gun back toward the seats. “Now sit down, please. This doesn’t have to get messy.”
“Messy?” I say. “Like you have the balls to let it.”
“No, maybe not. But you saw my soldiers. They’re stone-cold killers. They love when things get messy. And the District is paying for you all, dead or alive. A little more if you’re alive, yes, but the price is still quite good if I bring your head to the Overlord.”
“If you think you’re gonna get our heads, you’re crazier than I thought, old man,” I say. “We’re wanted for a reason.”
Bruce’s smile falters. I sense fear, but he quickly stamps it down. Then he snaps his fingers, and bright lights click on outside, drowning out the dusky complexion of the sky. Through the windows we see more figures. Backlit and holding guns. There’s half a dozen of them, varying in size and posture. Same goes for their guns.
“Should’ve seen this coming,” Abby says to me.
Yeah, we really should’ve.
So I look at Bruce and sit down. Abby and Lilly follow my lead. I lace my fingers together and sigh, like a weary teacher before a conference.
“So, Bruce,” I say, “how did you know about us?”
Bruce takes a seat. He doesn’t let go of his gun, though. Just rests it on the table, still holding it in his hands. Pointed at us.
“Well, you’re not the only visitors I’ve had lately. A few District soldiers came up. No—it was more than a few. Whole darn convoy. You three are hot commodities, that’s for sure. They came up and tore this place apart looking for you. Left behind pictures of you three and even some of what you’d done in Chicago, said it was more than likely that you were traveling this way. Then they said what they were offering as a reward.” Bruce pulls the pictures out of the inside pocket of his suit coat. They’re folded and creased and stained, like they’ve spent a lot of time in the old man’s hands.
“What’s the reward?” Lilly asks.
Now Bruce is smiling wide. It makes him look fifteen years younger. “Oh, the reward. The sweet reward. A decade of supplies, my pick of the litter.” He licks his lips. The gesture is almost nauseating.
“The District lies,” Abby says. “Believe me.”
“No, they don’t. They’re great. They’re going to bring civilization back. Already they are building an army, an air force, a navy,” Bruce says. “A government.”
“Yeah, because that worked out so well the first time,” I say. “The government is the reason the world is like this.”
“Well, Mr. Jupiter, sometimes, when you want to create something better, you have to eradicate the old ways. That’s all they did. Call it an accident. Call it a mistake. Call it whatever the hell you want. But I call it a godsend,” Bruce says. He levels the gun at us. “And I’m not about to let you ruin my godsend. I may be an old man, but I’ve got a lot of life left in me yet. I’ll see this once great nation become greater still.”
“You’re crazy,” Lilly says.
“I knew that when we first met him,” Abby says.
“Call me crazy. Call me whatever you like. But remember, I’m the one with the gun. And the army.” Bruce tilts his head back at the window to the backlit figures.
They’re still standing like statues. Doesn’t even look like they’re breathing. This is about when I look around the back of the clothing store. In a bin off to the right, there is a pile of arms and legs and torsos and heads. Not real, of course—we are in a clothing store. They’re mannequins. Discombobulated mannequins, yes, but it gives me an idea and, hopefully, an answer.
Since we’ve been here, we haven’t come into contact with anyone else. Sure, we’ve seen Bruce’s soldiers at a distance, but that doesn’t mean anything. They don’t seem to move. Not even the slightest twinge or twitch. It’s like they’re…mannequins.
I get Abby’s attention and, with my eyes, I glance over at the box of plastic body parts, then out toward the windows beyond Bruce’s head, to the stock-still soldiers. Abby’s brow furrows. She doesn’t get it.
Then her face relaxes, and she smiles.
“What is so amusing?” Bruce asks. There is anger in his eyes. His finger on the trigger makes me uneasy.
The District is still paying a price for our dead bodies, so it’s not really that big of a loss for Bruce if he pulls the trigger, is it? Sitting here with the gun in my face, I have to make a choice. I have to draw a conclusion. Is Bruce a killer? Is he capable of murder?
I’m leaning toward no. Why would he want to get blood all over his nice suit? Why would he want to be stuck cleaning our brains out of this setup he’s got for himself?
But I also know that, if he’s made it this far, he has to be a killer. You can’t survive without pulling the trigger a few times, without spilling some blood.
“Nothing is amusing,” Abby answers him.
Lilly is looking at us like she’s lost. We haven’t been on the road together long, so our chemistry isn’t as great as it will become. That is, if we live long enough for our chemistry to blossom. Abby and I—well, we are like Batman and Robin when it comes to this stuff. We’ve got that telepathic understanding you only get with your closest friends.
She coughs, and I know this is a signal. I know she’s about to do something.
Her hand up, she asks, “Can I have some more food?”
Bruce is wary, but he nods as if to say ‘Go ahead’.
“The least you could do is make us comfortable before you turn us over to the District, right? Before we die,” Abby says. She reaches for the spoon sitting in the beans. “Because that’s what’s gonna happen. They’re gonna kill us.”
Bruce waves his gun again. He doesn’t care. Not truly.
I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t care, either.
“What they do with you is none of my concern, I’m afraid, my dear,” Bruce says, and then Abby snaps.
She snaps earlier than I’d like her to. I was hoping we could prolong this situation a little further, because there’s a chance that Bruce’s “soldiers” aren’t mannequins at all, that they’re actually cold-blooded killers waiting for a chance to blow our heads off, itching for that chance.
But it’s too late. I can’t do anything about it.
Abby flings a spoonful of beans right at Bruce’s face. She aims for the eyes, and she rarely ever misses—even when it comes to flinging food, apparently.
Brown mush slaps his flesh, and he cries out. Can’t be a cry of pain; I doubt beans to the face hurt, even if they do get in your eyes. Then again, what do I know? I’ve never had beans in my eyes. At least not any time that I can remember.
As the beans hit Bruce, he falls backward in his chair, and thank God for that, because his gun points to the ceiling. Maybe he pulls the trigger on purpose, maybe it’s an accident. All I know is that the sound of the gun being shot in the vast back room of the clothing store is deafening. The acoustics in the place are really great.
Reflexively, I slap my hands to my ears. Another shot goes off, and the ceiling plaster cascades down upon us and our food.
Then Abby throws her left elbow out and knocks Bruce backward even farther. He flips over his chair, this long and gangly old man, and cracks the side of his head against the concrete.
Lilly is quickly on him, kicking the gun out of his reach, though he lies unmoving. Out cold with cold beans on his face.
I flip the table over, create a barrier between us and the windows.
No shots come.
Lilly now has Bruce’s gun. He’s on the oppos
ite side of the table we’re all huddled behind. It’s a thick wood. It may hold up to a few rounds, but if the half dozen or so men and women out there start plugging us with a barrage, we’re pretty much screwed.
But nothing happens. Still.
Abby and I exchange a look. “You’re a genius, Jack,” she says.
I grin. That’s a pretty big compliment coming from Abby.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lilly demands. Her face is pale, and her short hair is tousled. “You just signed our death certificate.”
“Mannequins,” Abby says, and Lilly cocks her head to the side. She looks like she’s just poked a hornet’s nest and is waiting to be stung. “That’s what his ‘soldiers’ are,” Abby continues. “The dude is as alone as anyone.”
I nod. “We would’ve at least heard one of them, wouldn’t we? He came to the house by himself and walked us here by himself. None of his people came to meet him, none came to escort us. None, Lilly.”
“They were watching from the shadows,” she responds.
“Bullshit,” Abby says. “Why are we still alive, then? Go ahead and look up. You’ll see the shadows still in the windows. They haven’t moved. I guarantee it.”
Lilly is not one to back down from a challenge. Despite the fear on her face, she peers over the edge of the flipped table. “Shit,” she says. “You’re right.”
I’m feeling pretty smug, pretty good about myself, when I hear Bruce’s small voice from the other side of the room.
“Yep, you’ve got me,” he says.
I stand up. So do Lilly and Abby. Lilly trains the pistol on Bruce. Her hand shakes slightly, messing with her aim, but at this close of range, she wouldn’t miss.
Bruce knows that. After he wipes his face off, smearing thick, sugary bean sauce away from his eyes, he puts his arms up. His nice suit jacket is splotchy, dripping with brown muck. He doesn’t seem to care much.
I don’t blame him here, either. If I had a gun pointed in my face—which was the case only moments ago—the last thing I’d care about is whether my nice suit is messed up; especially when suits are all over the place these days. Sure, they might be a little musty, have some moth-eaten holes in the armpits, but one has to look good in the apocalypse, right?
“I’m alone. I’m a lonely old man. This town is me. I am the town,” Bruce says. His eyes are watery. “The mannequins are my only company. Not many people pass through here anymore. Not even zombies. It seems everyone avoids Bruce.”
“Spare us,” Abby says.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asks.
Lilly meets my eyes as if it’s up to me to give the order of pulling the trigger. Like this man’s life is in my hands. I don’t say or do anything. Pretty soon Lilly turns back to Bruce.
“Maybe,” she says.
“You should,” he replies.
“Why is that?” Abby asks.
Bruce’s lips curl up into a sickening smile. Almost devious. Though his mouth is smiling, his eyes tell a different story. I see regret in those eyes, or something close to it.
“Because I’ve already notified the District. They’re on their way. I presume they’ll be here in less than an hour.”
15
Lilly’s going to pull the trigger. I make my move, and strike out for the gun, slap her hand away, toward the floor. The first shot whines off the concrete, blowing chunks everywhere. Again, our eardrums are assaulted.
“No!” I shout.
“What the hell, Jack?” Lilly says, scrambling for the weapon.
Bruce quivers. His knees are clattering so rapidly, I can practically hear them knocking together.
“Not yet,” I say.
Lilly looks to Abby. Abby just shrugs. “You wanna shoot the old bastard, I say go ahead. What does he have to offer us but our deaths?”
“No,” I say again.
I’m trying to put myself in this guy’s shoes. His nice, Italian designer dress shoes. I’ve been alone for a long stretch before. I know what it does to your mind, how it eats away at everything, how the loneliness speaks to your soul with a devilish tongue. He was only doing what that loneliness told him to do.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“Oh, great, another Jack Jupiter idea,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. She walks around the table and picks up the chair Bruce fell out of. “Sit down,” she tells him.
He listens dutifully, his hands still up, wrinkled flesh trembling.
“Screw ideas,” Lilly says. “He’s the reason we’re about to die. He doesn’t deserve to live.”
I walk over to Lilly. “Just hear me out,” I say.
Abby is already one step ahead of me. She has fished a few leather belts from a rack behind Bruce, and she straps him to the chair, wrapping a belt around his legs, around his wrists. He’s not a very big man, no muscle mass; not even the ropy, apocalyptic muscle one gets from countless days spent traversing the wasteland. He lives off of old bread and beans and vegetables. Not exactly a fertile diet for muscle growth. The leather belts hold him just fine.
“The District is coming here,” I say.
“Yes, any minute now,” Lilly says urgently. Her hand wavers like she’s about to raise the gun again. Doesn’t. “That’s why we need to get the hell out of here.”
“Run again,” I say. “Run. Always running. I’m sick of it.”
“Jack, they know we’re dangerous,” Abby says. She looks at me with understanding, like she already knows what I want to do. “They’ll come in a group, they’ll send their best killers. After what we did to the gas drilling operation, they’ll bring the big guns.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll be ready.”
Abby turns on Bruce. “Who is it? Who’d you contact?”
His bottom lip trembles, and his eyes go hazy as he tries to remember.
“Give me the gun,” Abby says to Lilly.
Lilly doesn’t.
“Give me the gun now!” Abby shouts, causing us all to jump. Lilly hands it over, and Abby levels it at Bruce’s face. “Now, Jack is a gentle soul—too much of a softy, if you ask me. I’m not. I was with the District for over two years. I’ve seen messed up shit, Bruce. But I’ve done even more messed up shit. You understand me?”
Bruce gulps, the loose flesh on his neck tightening, and then he nods.
“So I have no qualms about putting a bullet in your head,” Abby continues. “See, Jack here will be mad at me for a while, but he’ll get over it. Probably as soon as he sees your brains leaking out of your skull. Once he sees that, he’ll realize he should’ve put a bullet in you himself.”
She glances at me. I remain still.
I used to know when Abby was bluffing. It scares me to say I can’t tell right now. The time she spent with the District has changed her, and not for the better, I’m afraid.
“You reading me?” she demands.
Bruce nods again. The navy blue of his suit pants turns darker as a puddle of urine pools near his left ankle. The poor guy has pissed himself.
“Abby,” I say. “Enough.”
“No,” she says as coolly and calmly as ever. “He knows who he called.”
“I d-don’t,” Bruce says. “I swear.”
“Think harder,” she suggests and shoves the gun against his forehead.
I’m conflicted, I don’t know how I should feel. This man’s not District. He may have called the District, but he’s not one of those bastards… He’s just a lonely old man.
I need to put a stop to this before Abby accidentally pulls the trigger.
“That’s it,” she says. “It’s t—”
“Mason!” Bruce suddenly shouts. His voice cracks with urgency, and it’s almost as loud as the thunderclap of the previous gunshots. “His name was Mason.”
Abby removes the barrel from his forehead, the flesh there now sporting a red circle. A third eye.
“There, was that so hard?” she asks, dismissive
Tears are rol
ling down Bruce’s face, and he’s practically convulsing. I feel bad for the guy.
“Mason,” Lilly echoes. “Is that bad? It seems like it’s bad.”
“Oh, it’s bad. Worse than I thought,” Abby says.
“Who’s Mason?” I ask.
“Mason Storm,” she says. “He’s one of the District’s hunters. One of the best.”
“Hunters?” Lilly says, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah, they’re like bounty hunters. Part of the one-eyed man’s Black Knights. Yes—capitalized. Silly, I know,” Abby says.
“So what do we do?” Lilly asks. “We should run, right? Definitely run?”
Abby looks to me. “We run, we’re only prolonging the inevitable. The Black Knights will find us sooner or later. At least right now, we have the jump on them, if we stand our ground.”
“We can get information from them, too,” I say. “About Norm.”
Abby shrugs. “Mason Storm would die before he talks. Those Black Knights aren’t even brainwashed, I don’t think. They’re just men and women who love death and destruction. Martyrs.”
“Anyone will talk,” I say, “if you torture them enough.”
“Grim, Jack,” Abby says. “Real fuckin’ grim.”
My turn to shrug. I look back toward Bruce. “Those weapons real?” I ask, nodding my head in the direction of the windows. He looks around, doesn’t know what I’m talking about, actually looks like he would rather be in the middle of a pack of zombies than be here with us. I ask again. “The weapons you’ve armed your mannequins with, are they real?”
Realization comes to his eyes. “Y-yeah. I’ve got more weapons than I know what to do with,” he says.
Seems like that’s the case for everyone in this world. Except us.
“Where at?” I ask.
“Across the street,” he says. “In the bank.”
“Take us there,” I say.
Lilly walks up next to me. “So we’re doing this? We’re going to fight them?”
“I’m sick of running,” I say.
“Me, too,” Abby adds.
“They’ll kill us,” Lilly says.
I shrug. “Maybe, but I’m betting we’ll take a few of them down with us.”
Dead Judgment Page 7