Scarcity

by Robert Calbeck

  Thaddeus shook his head. “People will do some serious shit for food. And the Dog Pound knows it. They sell it cheaper than regular food, so people can afford it, but there is more to it than that. They require favors.”

  Tanya wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what sort of favors they were talking about, but Thaddeus explained anyway.

  “Some are pretty simple. Bartering for valuable items, sexual favors, free repair work for electronics. But sometimes it gets real polluted,” he winced, “sorry. It gets really bad. They ask you to steal for them, sometimes even kill for them—rival gang members, or people who owed too much money. If you don’t do what they ask, then they quit selling food to you, which puts lots of poor bastards on the street.”

  “That’s what they asked you to do? Kill people for dog food?”

  Luthor gave her a sharp stare, which stung as much as a slap. I really don’t know what this world is like, she thought. Everyone here seems to have gone through worse than me. I just can’t imagine being so desperate that I would kill for a dog biscuit. Apparently Luthor can.

  “Yeah, I almost did it too. Lots of people would rather kill than die. I got recruited after I lost my Mark. Said they wouldn't give me any food if I didn’t help them. After a year, they sent me on my first mission—that’s what they called it—assassination is more like it. But, DeShawn convinced me not to go—said murder would only just kill me on the inside. Then he introduced me to Father Roc.”

  “I daresay that I am glad to have you both. You have good souls,” Roc said.

  “That’s why he keeps that old gun around. Helps remind us not to ever go back.”

  “We aren’t buying food from them, so are we in the clear?” asked Michael.

  “You never know. The high-ups in the Pound are rich as gold-plated shit after selling food for this long without having any overhead, they have their own motives. But I won’t feel safe until I get back to where I see some good old-fashioned suburban refugees again. These Dogs on the outskirts make me nervous. Never know when one is gonna pop up and bite you in the ass.”

  Tanya heard a click. It echoed like a gunshot in the abandoned street. A man aimed a pistol against Thadd’s head. “Like this?” he said.

  Half a dozen other Dog Pounders appeared from the shadows in all directions, indeed resembling their namesake. Each had a gun, mismatched clothes, and lips peeled back in a snarl. Everyone froze; Tanya put her hands up, eager to show them she had no intention of fighting back.

  “Welcome to the Pound, bitches,” barked one juvenile, wagging his gun.

  “What do you want?” said Luthor. Sounding annoyed rather than frightened. But gang bangers probably don’t seem all that intimidating to a man who had survived the bloodiest parts of World War III, killed Sabers, and recently blown up a helicopter.

  “We want everything,” said another, “but from you, just that signal inverter.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Luthor.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, you smoggin’ moron. We watched you buy it from Jose and now he wants it back.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Vika yelled. Tanya had never seen her so angry.

  Two men surrounded Vika, pistols erect.

  “Show us your tits,” one of them said. Tanya could smell the man’s breath from two meters away. It was not pleasant.

  Vika spat contemptuously. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Why would we do that with you around?”

  Vika gave him a look that would have killed a small animal. “Then go fuck Ostafal, you bastard.”

  A particularly grimy male approached Vika with his gun drawn. “Ooh, a feisty one. Me first!”

  Tanya would not have believed what happened next had she not witnessed it. Something about the man’s face and intentions snapped Vika’s control. It was like watching a dam that held back a mountain of rage break or maybe more like a volcano erupting.

  In a blur she reached out, tore the man’s pistol from him and shot him in the groin. He crumpled, a bloody splotch replacing the spot where his bulge ought to have been. In the same movement she turned and shot the one behind her, also in the groin. Spinning and crouching to the ground she somehow ended up with both weapons. She discharged them several more times into the stupefied chests of the other men who had surrounded them. She whirled and fired bullets in a tempest of lead. It was as if her fury at Captain Jacques and Colonel Dimarin itself was propelling the projectiles.

  Tanya flinched as blood splattered on her face when the Dog Pounder next to her swallowed a slug. He slumped, his gun clattered away on the gravel-esque pavement toward Michael’s feet. Michael reached down and grabbed it. He held onto it like a life preserver. Not that he needed it, Vika had already taken care of all of them.

  Not a single man managed to get a shot back in return at the force of nature ending their lives. They never expected someone—least of all a beautiful woman—to stand up to them when they all had guns. In mere seconds the stunned soldiers of the Dog Pound lay bloodied or dead on the ground, their weapons lay impotent in their cooling hands. For the first time, Tanya really saw how deadly her companion was. She did not doubt for a moment that she had the ability to kill anyone who tried to corner her in a shower—Black Saber or not.

  Thaddeus whistled. “Smogging son-of-a-polluter… remind me never to mess with her.” Vika stood over the two men who had taunted her. She didn’t say a word but fired two more rounds into the place where their manhood had been moments before. The men doubled up in agony.

  “Just to make sure neither of you ever reproduce,” she said coldly, “never forget this day. The last day you ever disrespect a woman,” she spat derisively.

  No one spoke. Vika stalked between the bodies back toward Ostafal. No one had any doubt of her intentions. She exchanged her pistols for fully loaded ones and continued walking.

  A murmur bubbled up from the ground. “You goddamn bitch.” One of the men had not yet died. He held up a shaky pistol at Vika’s back.

  Tanya ducked as another gun-shot ripped through the street, echoing in the silence of death. Vika whipped around, but the man was already slumping back down. Michael held a trembling gun, a wisp of smoke issuing up from the barrel. He grasped it with both hands and quavered from head to toe. Shock filled his face.

  Vika’s face softened. She approached and placed a hand on his cheek. “Thank you. You just saved my life,” she actually smiled. Her kind demeanor disappeared as quickly as a muzzle flash and she returned to her march back to Ostafal.

  #

  Michael followed a safe distance behind the hurricane of death marching in front of him. Vika –in all truth—frightened him. She bulls-eyed eight men in fewer seconds. Eight! She really didn’t miss. Ever. And all that death didn’t seem to bother her at all. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t right! He had only shot one half-dead guy and it bothered him. A lot. The heaviness of the pistol in his clammy hands, the resistance as he depressed the trigger, and the power of the explosion of Cordite that sent the ordinance flying, all played again and again in his mind. But the worst—damn was it awful—was the man’s face as the bullet hit him. A light—or whatever it was in a person that made the difference between a dead-body and person—had flickered out in his eyes. Michael had actually seen it turn off. And he was the one who had flipped the switch.

  There hadn’t even been time for the poor bastard to contemplate his death. Vika had already messed him up, so Michael’s own bullet had killed him almost instantly.

  How does she do it? How does she kill without feeling this… this awfulness. Hell—how does Luthor do it? They’re all certifiably, bat-shit crazy.

  Sweat ran down his back despite the cold. Too many emotions. On top of everything else, Vika had thanked him. Never had she been so sincere since he had known her. That haunted him too. Her hand touching his face, he could still feel it, and that smile. Thank you, Michael, you just saved my life… Damn, I thought I was past this! Here I am repla
ying a girl’s touch like a middle school pubescent. But try as he might, Michael could not stop thinking about any of it, the dead man or Vika.

  Vika strode ahead, backside swaying alluringly. Not that he would ever say that—he liked having a face too much. He had trouble not watching though. Only a moron would waste a chance to appreciate the sexiness of a woman like Vika, combined with a pair of pistols she knew how to use. Michael was not a moron, so he watched during the entirety of the short trip back to Ostafal.

  Roc called after her, “Are you sure you need to do this?”

  Without turning around, she answered. “Ostafal tried to kill us, he lied to us, he betrayed us. How does he not deserve to die?”

  “Vengeance is the Lord’s. Do not do something you will regret.”

  She raised an eyebrow at the old man, “who’s to say I am not the agent of God’s wrath?”

  Michael couldn’t tell, but Roc might have nodded subtly at the remark.

  Everyone followed at a safe distance, afraid of what Vika might do. She disappeared around the corner into the open cargo bay of Ostafal’s shop. A shot rang out, echoing violently off the concrete walls. Michael froze, having no desire to go back in. Another gunshot rent the air, equally as piercing as the first. Michael peaked around the edge, still clinging to his gun. One of the two guards lay on the ground behind the table, not moving. Vika stood over the other who cradled his arm protectively. Blood leaked through his fingers. The assault rifle, sub machine gun, whatever-gun he had held sat innocently on the floor. Evidently, Vika had chosen to keep this one alive for questioning.

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know,” blubbered the man.

  She jammed the business end of the gun into his frontal lobe. “Tell me.”

  “I swear, I swear! I don’t know! He got a phone call right after you guys left. Then he walked out. He doesn’t tell us where his going. God! Please don’t shoot me!”

  Vika picked up his discarded weapon, pointedly flipped off the safety, and trained it on the pathetic excuse of a man before her.

  “Last chance. Where is Ostafal?”

  “Oh shit, please God, please don’t kill me,” he began weeping. “Please don’t shoot me again. He just walked out that door. He didn’t say anything. Oh no. Please!”

  “Where is his computer?”

  “Over there,” the man pointed a bloody finger and looked suddenly hopeful. “He also has a server rack behind those crates.”

  Vika leveled the automatic weapon in the direction of the computer and pulled the trigger. A burst of bullets reduced the enclosed semiconductors to a smoking silicon colander. Vika yelled something in another language, then turned and emptied the remainder of the rather significant magazine into the aluminum enclosure that housed the servers. There had to be at least 50 more bullets she poured into the poor thing. It sparked and smoked and eventually sagged into the housing.

  “Let Ostafal try to take our money now,” she let off another string of foreign profanity directed at no one in particular.

  Satisfied, she picked up a plastic bag from the table and shoved it in her pocket. It contained her CPI chip. She then searched the dead body, taking several full magazines of bullets for her pistol and what looked like a silencer. Once she relieved the other man of ammunition as well, she walked out without a word.

  Michael realized far too late that he was still watching her. He had been the only one looking. The rest of them had crouched behind an ancient dumpster. Vika locked eyes with him, but said nothing. More importantly, she didn’t hit him. Instead, she slapped a manila folder against his chest. “Make sure everyone gets one of these.”

  “What are they?”

  “Too stupid to read? Look.” He did look. The folder contained a pile of subway tickets.

  “Subway tickets? But we need to get to Chicago,” Michael said.

  “Ostafal knows where we are going. We need a new approach.” Apparently not finished with her gifts she threw the newly acquired weapon to Luthor. “Ever used one of these?”

  Luthor’s eyes widened. “This is an MX-5. This is my old gun.”

  “Based off the HK-436. The best assault rifle ever produced. Thought you might want it.”

  Michael couldn’t tell if Luthor was pleased or petrified. He held the gun as if it were a poisonous snake, like it might bite him.

  “Thank you Vika, but I can’t. It isn’t… good for me to hold this.” Luthor gave no more explanation than that for his refusal of weapon.

  Maybe he doesn’t kill without any negative effect. Michael thought.

  Vika shrugged and tossed the weapon aside. She grabbed two more pistols from the wall display then strapped her own MX-5 to her back.

  “We’ll have to get rid of these before we get on the subway,” Luthor said.

  “Don’t remind me,” she said.

  Chapter 19:

  Aurora, IL, United States of the West

  “Help!” a woman cried. She hung from the edge of a rooftop by her wrists. Her long skirt fluttered in the high city breeze.

  Justice coursed in his veins like blood, and the compulsion to save her banged in his chest like a gong. “Hang on!” Vanguard yelled back at her. His inhumanly strong muscles allowed him to leap the void between buildings with ease. His cape echoed his movement behind him. He landed in a crouch near the hanging woman.

  “Fool. You will never save her,” a man in jet black armor leveled a gun at him. It was Bastion. The most sinister man Vanguard had ever faced. Even in a world as fallen as theirs, he truly was a stronghold of evil.

  “Bastion. Of course it would be you. Why? What do you have to gain from this?”

  “What do you have to gain from trying to save her? The same thing as me. A purpose. You save people. I hurt them. Without duality, what would this world be?”

  Without warning Bastion pulled the trigger. Lethal bits of metal sprayed at Vanguard. He dove to the side, ducking behind a solar battery array. Slugs impaled his custom fitted gelvar body armor, reducing each impact to a harmless pinching sensation. A hot sting from his calf alerted him that he had not successfully avoided all the bullets. Pain wasn’t important. Stopping Bastion was.

  A persistent beep came from underneath him. Did Bastion plant a bomb? The beep grew louder until it seemed to be emanating from the entire city at once.

  Qwiz sat up. He had been dreaming. The eternal battle between Bastion and Vanguard raged on, perhaps he would return to them later. Desperate to stop the infernal beep, he slapped the snooze button on his alarm clock. The beeping continued. The clock read 2:47. His alarm wasn’t set to go off for another four hours. He scrambled out of bed and rushed to his computer.

  He muted the beep and expanded a browser window running in the background. He had written an extension to track the communications of the Stalker. He had been so silent in the last week that Qwiz had coded an alarm mechanism to alert him if any communications were taking place. It beeped loudly and automatically recorded the message or conversation.

  He would listen to the message in its entirety later, but he was wide awake by now and needed to hear what was going on.

  He clicked an icon and the message poured out of his speakers.

  It was clearly the Southerner speaking “…from the most influential dealer in the area.”

  “At least you are capable of some semi-competent work.” Stalker’s voice was as icy as ever, but it was angrier than Qwiz had heard it before.

  “Semi-smogging-competent? You’re the one who let him get away when we still had the element of surprise!”

  “And you lost most of your team and a fully loaded Cherokee. Not to mention you let the two escape in Chicago—”

  “But I was given the Omega abort code! I had them at gunpoint when I received the order.”

  “You should have known better.”

  “Known better than to obey my smogging orders? Don’t give me that shit. Face it, Tenrel is good, and there’s someon
e on the inside helping him.”

  Qwiz still didn’t know who had saved his life that night by calling the Texan off, but he hoped that whoever had helped was still looking out for him—for all of them.

  “I don’t want any more excuses. Allow me to be perfectly clear. I have the Lancing Protocol in place for you on this mission. If you fail this time… Well, you won’t have to worry about failing again.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Admittedly. If you wanted someone sensitive, you should have found a job with a military therapist.”

  Qwiz wondered what the Lancing Protocol entailed. But whatever it was, Texas didn’t like it.

  “I do hope you feel strongly about your plan,” Stalker said.

  “It’s solid. Their copy of the research was destroyed in the carp car. They won’t have a pot to piss in without it.”

  “Good. So that means the two men who escaped in Chicago have the only copy we haven’t already secured.”

  “Yeah. Tenrel will have to try to meet up with those smoggers to retrieve it. That means he’ll try to get to Chicago.”

  “Go on.”

  “They won’t risk a 3 month walk through the suburbs with these post-war winters, and they just bought four Acela train tickets and a signal inverter from my contact. I know their likely departure point and have men stationed there. It won’t be long before one of their chips pops up on a scanner or they try to sneak on that train.”

  “I hope for your sake it works. I would hate to have to kill you because you can’t handle his gravity tricks again.”

  So, the Lancing Protocol means he’s going to kill you if you fail. Qwiz realized. Like lancing an infectious boil.

  “Ah, but that’s the thing. Tenrel isn’t the only one with gravity tricks anymore.”

  “Good. You will need every advantage possible, because no one is coming to reinforce you.”

  “Throw me a smogging bone here, I’ve only got 4 men left. And I have to have two of them at other Acela stations!”