Halfhead

by Stuart B. MacBride

  Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Some very well-paid people with expensive leather couches and degrees in psychology had told him the same thing. If you don’t confront your fear it will always haunt you. He hadn’t believed them either.

  ‘ETA one minute, people. Smooth and clean. In and out. No drama. No problems.’

  It was too late for Will to back out now and he knew it. It would make Lieutenant Brand look bad in front of her troops and it would make him look even worse.

  Shit. Shitty…fucking…shit.

  Thanks, Emily, thanks a heap.

  He pulled his Zapper out from its shoulder holster and checked it was still fully charged. The small, pebbled disk sat in the palm of his hand, the dial on the top turned to a conservative ‘HEAVY STUN’.

  Just because he was going back to Sherman House it didn’t mean history would repeat itself. And besides, this time he had a heavily armed assault team for backup. There was nothing to worry about. No one in their right mind would pick a fight with half a dozen of the Network’s finest. It would be suicide. Madness.

  He shifted uncomfortably against his harness; the residents of Sherman House weren’t exactly known for their good mental health.

  Sod it. Will grabbed a Whomper from the recharging rack. The assault rifle’s plastic casing was cool beneath his fingers as he ran a thumb over the power indicator. Telltales sparkled into life, indicating a full battery and the weapon’s readiness to blow a dirty big hole in anything it was pointed at. At least this way he could take a few of the bastards with him.

  ‘Heads up, people, we have visual.’

  Monstrosity Square filled the small screen in front of him. Four massive connurb blocks with more than sixty thousand people shoehorned into each. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there were another eleven identical squares on this side of the river: half of them rebuilt in the aftermath of the riots.

  God help Glasgow if their residents decided to go on the warpath.

  Again.

  Static crackled across the picture as the Dragonfly pitched into its final approach, dropping like a cannonball.

  Lieutenant Brand stalked back into the drop bay, bracing herself as the gunship started twisting and turning—making itself a difficult target. She walked the length of the bay, checking everyone was chitined up before barking orders at them. ‘Nairn, Dickson, Wright, you’re on point. Floyd: rearguard. Beaton, you and Stein are on SOC. The rest of you form a defensive perimeter around the ship.’ There was a pause as Will’s escorts unbuckled themselves. ‘Stay focused, people, we’re not in Kansas any more.’

  The engines slammed into full reverse. This was it: Sherman House, they’d arrived.

  Oh God…

  Before the landing legs had even touched the tarmac the rear ramp was open, letting in the harsh morning sun.

  Emily nodded: game time.

  ‘Move it, people!’

  The four-man defensive perimeter sprinted into place, bodywires spooling out behind them like armoured spiders. Sunlight glistened off their chitin as they scanned the crowded square, heavy weapons searching for possible targets. The blocks’ residents froze in place like waxworks: silent, staring. Hostile.

  Then the advance team charged down the ramp; running for the nearest monolith, the crowds parting like a Red Sea of the unwashed and unwanted.

  Will tightened his grip on the Whomper as the three Network troopers disappeared into Sherman House. The entrance had been grand and imposing once: a wall of plexi glass and chrome the size of a football pitch, moulded marble plinths and the most fashionable sculpture public money could buy. But the glass had lost its sparkle long ago.

  There was no sign of the dancing figures in bronze, or the mottled-steel animals, or even the full-sized granite sperm whale. They’d all gone during the riots: blown apart by Shrikes, or Thrummed out of existence. Only ash-black shadows remained.

  When the all-clear crackled in his earpiece, Will realized he’d been holding his breath.

  This was a very bad idea.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, keeping his voice low so no one else could hear, ‘this is for your own good.’ He took the first step onto the ramp and stopped. His pulse thudded in his ears, chest tightening, stomach churning, mouth suddenly dry, the Whomper shaking in his hands.

  Beaton and Stein stood behind him, wrestling with the ungainly scanning gear: a canister that looked disturbingly like Private Worrall’s coffin. They were expecting Will to take the lead.

  Lieutenant Emily Brand’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘You waiting for an engraved invitation?’

  He crossed the threshold into the harsh sunlight. It was like walking into an oven with a two-ton weight tied to his bowels. Sherman House…

  Sweat pricked across his forehead.

  The forecourt was crowded with angry, silent faces, staring at the armoured troopers. Most of the locals were dressed in the colourful eclectic rags that were all the rage the year before last; some wore the tight, formal clothes that had been in vogue the year before that. On this side of the river they only followed fashion from a distance.

  There’d be more of them, glowering down from the floors above. Watching. Waiting for the blood and the darkness to start all over again.

  Will tightened his grip on the Whomper and marched across the sun-bleached tarmac, eyes fixed dead ahead. The building getting bigger with every step, until it blocked out everything.

  The crowd just stood there, gaily-coloured tatters fluttering in the downdraft from the Dragonfly’s engines.

  Only ten feet to go. Eight. Six. Four…Will pushed through the cracked and grimy doors into the shrouded atrium.

  The huge, glass front wall was now almost opaque, a jigsaw of splintered panes and cloudy plasticboard. Green mould coated the glazed panels, throwing the huge room into shadow.

  It should have been cooler in here out of the sun, but it wasn’t.

  All around him, hundreds of people stood in silence, just like the crowd outside. Staring.

  Beaton and Stein burst through the door behind him, dragging their Scene of Crime equipment, Private Floyd bringing up the rear. Will keyed his throat-mike.

  ‘We’re in.’

  ‘Roger that. Perimeter defence: prepare for dust-off in five, four, three…’ Outside, the ship’s engines built to a muffled roar as the Dragonfly leapt free of the ground, fading as it acceler ated away to safety.

  Now they were on their own.

  Will nodded at the six heavily armed men and women surrounding him.

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  Sergeant Nairn led them deeper into the building, heading for the toilets. As the pickup team moved the crowd moved around them. No one came within six feet, as if beyond that distance they would be safe from the Whompers and Thrummers.

  By the time they reached the stairs to the mezzanine level sweat was trickling down Will’s back. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat or being back in Sherman House that did it, but he felt terrible. He’d been right to stay away.

  At the top of the steps the main lobby stretched away on both sides, circling the building’s central well. The space it surrounded was supposed to be a ‘landscaped oasis in the urban jungle’. From what little Will could see it looked more like an open landfill site.

  They found the toilets next to the elevators.

  ‘Sergeant Nairn,’ Will pointed at the cracked blue door, ‘I want you, Floyd and Wright to guard the entrance. No one in or out without my say so.’

  ‘Understood.’ Nairn and his troopers took up their positions, weapons pointing at the crowd. The nearest inhabitants shifted uncomfortably, but the six foot bubble stayed exactly the same.

  ‘Dickson, you’re with us.’ Will eased the door open and stepped inside, blinking at the sharp, eye-nipping reek of ammonia. Bloody hell—it stunk in here: rancid piss, laced with bile and sweat. Will stopped short and gasped. God, you could even taste it…

  Behind him Dickson swore.

  Three separ
ate toilets—male, female and differently-abled— took up a wall each. Beaton and Stein humped the SOC kit into the corridor. ‘Jesus, Dickson, smells worse than your house.’

  ‘Fuck you Stein.’ She shifted her grip on the massive Bull Thrummer, its spinners crackling, the tines trembling in the reeking air.

  The door to the male toilets was slightly ajar. Covering his mouth and nose, Will pushed it all the way.

  ‘What th’ hell?’ A large woman wearing the distinctive navy jacket and brass buttons of a beat cop went for the Field Zapper strapped to her hip. Will had just enough time to duck before a sheath of blue lightning arced over his head and into Private Dickson.

  There was a muffled squeal as all the muscles in Dickson’s body contracted at once, sending her flying. As she hit the far wall her Bull Thrummer bellowed, tearing the concrete floor into a thick mist of crackling dust.

  The outside door battered against the wall as what looked like Sergeant Nairn burst in, the lightsight on his Thrummer making a solid bar of green in the cloud of concrete particles. ‘ON THE FLOOR NOW!’

  ‘DON’T SHOOT!’ Will stepped forward, then froze, arms pinwheeling, one foot hovering over the edge of a huge hole, straight through to some sort of maintenance room on the floor below. ‘Shit…’ He staggered backwards. ‘We’re on the same side!’

  The woman with the oversized Zapper stayed where she was, the snub barrel pointing straight at Will’s face.

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘OK. I—’ He coughed up a lungful of concrete dust. ‘I’m reaching into my inside pocket to get my ID card. Are we all happy with that?’

  She didn’t object, so Will slipped the small plastic rectangle out of his wallet and showed it to her. The hologram on the front looked like someone had startled a chimpanzee, but it seemed to do the trick.

  ‘Well, well, well: an Assistant Section Director as I live and breathe. What’s th’ matter, Network?’ she asked, ‘You think us poor wee Bluecoats would screw it up without you here to hold our little handies?’

  ‘You asked for SOC support, OK? Urgh…’ He grimaced and spat: gritty saliva. ‘And for the record, I think it’s bloody ridiculous they cut your budget, again. How are you supposed to—’

  ‘Save it for someone that cares, Mr Assistant Section Director, cos I’ve had my share o’patronizin’ bullshit this month.’ She stepped aside and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘In there.’

  Will bit his tongue—fighting with her wasn’t going to get them anywhere.

  On the floor behind him Private Dickson was groaning her way back to consciousness. He made sure she knew what day it was and how many fingers he was holding up before ushering the SOC team into the gents’ toilet.

  It was a filthy room, the metallic smell of fresh blood adding to the oppressive urine reek. The tiles had been white once, now they were stained a dark cherry red. Bloated flies filled the air, drifting in fat, lazy circles. A couple of younger Bluecoats stood in the corner, keeping as far out of the way as possible. One of them was pale grey, shivering, and as Beaton and Stein started assembling the scanning booms, Will found out why. The smell was bad, but the sight was worse.

  ‘Was the body like this when you found it?’

  A voice sounded behind him: ‘No, it was all in one piece. We hacked it up for a bit of a laugh.’

  You know what? Screw this: if the Bluecoats wanted a fight, they could have one.

  ‘Right,’ he said, slowly turning around. ‘I have had enough of your lousy attitude. We’re here because we have to be, not because we want to be. You…’ Will drifted to a halt.

  He’d been prepared for another blue uniform carrying a grudge the size of Peebles, but instead he was confronted with the most violently green suit he’d ever seen in his life. Its occupant was female, slightly taller than average, with skin the colour of milky coffee. Her hair was gathered up on top of her head in an asymmetrical bun—very fashionable. The frown she was wearing was almost as unpleasant as the suit.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She crossed her arms. ‘What a shame you’ve been dragged all the way down here to play with the lower classes. What’s the matter, Network? Termite lives don’t count? This not white collar enough for you?’ Somehow she’d managed to clench her entire face.

  Will’s voice never rose above a low growl. ‘We don’t want to be here because one of our team got blown apart yesterday. We don’t want to be here because right now we’re supposed to be placing him in the long walk, and I’m supposed to be telling his wife and his daughter what a great man he was.’ Will stepped forward, staring Ms Green Suit straight in the eye. ‘We don’t want to be here because this is not a Network job. But some bean-counting mincehead decided to slash your budget and give all the extra work to us, so here we are. And I do not have the time, or the inclination, to fight with you about it: I have a funeral to go to.’

  She tilted her head to one side and studied him for a moment. The scowl slid from her face. ‘I see.’ She pointed at the cubicle done out like an abattoir. ‘Victim’s an I-C-one male. Roughly five foot eight, hundred and ninety pounds.’

  Will opened the cubicle door all the way. The remains were slumped back on the toilet, chunks of meat and innards lying in sticky clumps on the blood-soaked floor, smears of scarlet and black all up the walls. The head was almost unrecognizable. ‘Wow…’

  ‘Chest cavity was split with a knife, at least eight inches long, probably serrated. No sign of the murder weapon on scene. Internal organs have been removed and slashed. The same chevron pattern is evident on both thighs.’

  Will squatted down in front of the tattered body, peering into the emptied chest cavity. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Teeth and jawbones were shattered by some sort of blunt instrument. There’s something in his mouth: think it’s his genitals, but I can’t tell for sure till your Scene of Crime bods are finished with the scanning. No idea what happened to his eyes.’

  Hard light flickered through the low, stinking room as Stein and Beaton finally got the scanning booms set up. Any minute now it was going to get very noisy in here.

  Will levered himself back to his feet.

  ‘You’ll agree,’ Ms Green Suit said, as he stepped gingerly over the cables snaking across the sticky floor tiles, ‘that the attack pattern looks frenzied, disorganized. Furious. I’d say our killer was white, male, aged between twenty-four and thirty-two. Slovenly appearance. Lives alone or with his mother. She’s got no idea what he’s up to.’ She didn’t need to say unemployed, on this side of the river that was a given.

  Will smiled—it was the classic serial killer profile, straight out of the field manual. ‘I know this isn’t my case, but are you sure your killer’s disorganized?’

  ‘Course he is. Attack’s too messy for him to be anything else.’

  Will pointed at the remains. ‘Look at the hands.’

  She frowned. ‘What about them?’

  ‘The fingertips are pulped, so we can’t take any prints. The jaws have been demolished, so we can’t use the dental database. The eyes have gone so we can’t take a retinal scan. The only way we’re going to get an ID is if our victim’s got a record and his DNA’s still on file. If not: chances are we’ll never know who he was.’

  Her lips moved soundlessly for a moment. Then, ‘So the killer must be organized enough to cover his tracks.’

  ‘At the very least.’

  The scanning array gave a low rumble and a clank, then fell silent. Stein treated it to a brief bout of swearing and a good hard kick. The machinery started up again, the sonics grumbling and buzzing like a catarrh-filled geriatric full of wasps.

  ‘OK, people,’ Beaton flipped a switch on the side of the casing, ‘time to vacate the premises if you don’t want to be immortalized in glorious, invasive scanovision.’

  They all shuffled out into the corridor, avoiding the hole in the floor, and waited for the scanners to do their thing. The low phlegmy rumble turned into a deafening whine—the closed door
cut the noise a little, but not much.

  The concrete particles were settling, coating everything and everyone in a thin layer of gritty grey dust. Private Dickson stood at the far end of the group, cradling her Bull Thrummer and nursing what looked like a pretty big grudge; glowering at the Bluecoat who’d treated her to that bout of electroconvulsive therapy.

  Ms Green Suit leant over and said something Will couldn’t really hear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL?’ She had to shout directly into his ear before Will could hear her over the scanners.

  ‘WHAT? CALL WHEN?’

  ‘WHEN YOU CAME BARGING INTO THE TOILETS. WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL AND LET US KNOW YOU WERE OUT HERE? IF YOU HAD, YOUR LASS WOULDN’T HAVE GOT HERSELF ZAPPED.’

  Will swore under his breath. ‘I…’ He couldn’t come up with a good excuse, so he kept his mouth shut and waited in silence like the rest of them.

  The floor beneath their feet trembled as the subsonics kicked in and Will shut his eyes, leaning back against the wall. That way he didn’t have to look at the large hole in the floor, or Dickson’s angry face. Good job Bluecoats weren’t allowed to carry anything stronger than a Zapper, or Will would have another funeral to speak at. And this one really would have been his fault. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

  At last the scanners gurgled and pinged to a halt.

  ‘Right, that’s your lot.’ Stein stuck a finger in his ear and wriggled it. ‘Give us two minutes to pack up and we can all go home.’

  They filed back into the blood-smeared toilet, doing their best to stay out of the way as Beaton and Stein battered and cursed the equipment into its casing, then chucked it out into the corridor for Private Dickson to look after. Beaton produced a body-bag, squatting to pick up chunks of red and purple meat from the sticky tiles.

  Now that the scanning gear was out of the way there was nothing obscuring Will’s view of the dirty room. Broken sinks. Walls covered with graffiti. Cracked mirror. The floor was peppered with dead flies, their little shiny bodies not robust enough to stand up to the scanners. Blood everywhere. Will didn’t envy the poor sod who’d have to sanitize the scene when they’d gone…