Chromed- Rogue

by Richard Parry

  It’s not really a body anymore, is it?

  The remains of the secretary slumped against the wall, a dark red stain soaking into the plush wool of the carpet beneath him.

  “Everyone ready?” Julian felt his smile stretched taught, teeth barred. He moved to the door, twisting the handle. It opened with a soft click, the bottom whispering over the carpet as he pulled it open.

  The man who walked in was dressed in an immaculate black suit, a red pocket square standing out. He paused in the doorway, looked at the body against the wall, then at Julian. “Good. You have given me their fear.”

  “Yes, Master.” It still feels weird saying that.

  “Weird?” Prophet smiled at him. “You’ll learn to like it soon enough.” He turned to the table, opening his arms. “Gentlemen. It’s come to my attention that new leadership is needed.”

  “Are you … responsible for this?” Julian’s overlay identified the man who’d spoken as Mercel Strider, head of Marketing and Analytics.

  “For what?” Prophet leaned forward, the movement almost imperceptible. “Oh. I see. You want to know if I’m behind the death of your previous master.”

  “He was just the secretary.” Strider frowned.

  “As I said.” Prophet shrugged. “As it happens, I think you’re responsible. You were given a choice, were you not?”

  “Of course not,” said Strider. “This thug came in here and—”

  “I know,” said Prophet. “I was outside.”

  “You were outside?”

  “Yes. I commanded him to do it.” Prophet inspected his fingernails. “So, I know you had a choice. You had to pick someone. Your choice, and your consequence.”

  “There wasn’t another choice!” Strider stood up, his chair sliding back.

  Prophet raised an eyebrow in Julian’s direction. “You know this man?”

  “I know of him.” Julian shrugged. “Different division.”

  “Division.” The Master turned the word over in his mouth. “You have such strange constructs here. How did this imbecile come to be the Master of his team?”

  “Like most of them, Master. He bought, killed, bribed, or blackmailed his way to the top.”

  “That’s a lie,” snarled Strider. “All of us here are leaders in our fields.”

  Prophet smiled again, but like a shark, all humor gone from his face. “Mercel Strider, you must never lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying. Wait. How do you know my name?” Strider glared at Julian. “We have strict policy against divulging information about the board to outside parties, Mr. Oldham. You realize this will go against your record.”

  Julian laughed. “If it makes you feel better.” Julian held a hand out, palm up, toward Prophet. “I’d check with him first though.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Strider smiled, the expression broad. “This situation ends now.”

  Julian knew security were coming. His overlay tracked their path through the building. Julian turned when the team arrived outside the room. As Strider finished speaking, the door slammed open, expensive hinges tearing away, as a black-clad crew swarmed through.

  He felt overtime slip around him, light bleaching from the room, and he stood between the Master and the strike team.

  Who’d stopped moving.

  Julian turned to Prophet, who was in turn looking at Strider. Prophet’s words stretched through the overtime. “Mercel Strider, you should be asking yourself how I came to be here, in your sanctum, the heart of your world. I carry no weapon. Your agent has gone against your wishes and his own to achieve my ends. And yet you try and send your paper soldiers against me.”

  Julian could see the eyes of a strike team member only a few paces distant. Sweat beaded on his forehead, the man’s hand shaking with strain, the movement slow and large through overtime.

  “Your approach is all wrong. You’ve been seeking to dominate and control through old mechanisms. You lie. You steal. You have no respect.” Prophet spared a glance for the strike team. “You sent five men and one woman. Six people stand against me, and not one of them has used their weapon. Have you thought to ask why that is?”

  Strider glared at the strike team. “Shoot him!”

  A man at the back guarding the door groaned, falling to one knee. Julian could feel himself getting edgy in the overtime, the lack of action making the lattice bunch and twist inside him. “Master?”

  “Yes, Julian? Oh, I see. You can relax. I’m in no danger.” Prophet turned to Strider as Julian let the overtime fall away. He tasted cloves and juniper berries. He hadn’t tasted the down of overtime in weeks. He felt naked, standing here clothed in his own skin, the remotes locked downstairs in the crypt.

  Prophet had been specific about that. Very specific.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Strider stared at the other members of the board. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  “They’re not saying anything, Mercel Strider, because it’s not my wish they should do so.” Prophet walked up behind one of the board members, placing a hand on his chair back. “You alone here can move and speak. You will be judged by your actions, and a lesson will be taught from the ashes of your fall.” Prophet pulled the chair over, the man in it sprawling to the ground. His face pressed against the carpet, eyes open and unblinking.

  “What?”

  “Their thoughts are … wild. Untrained. It’s almost easy.” Prophet glanced at the strike team. “Mercel Strider, I’ve saved the best for you. Watch closely.”

  One of the strike team swiveled, pointing his weapon at another, firing. Blood sprayed. The man flipped the weapon up and under his own chin, pulling the trigger. The rearguard at the door shot one of his comrades in the back, then dropped his rifle and pulled a knife from his boot. Eyes wild, he stabbed himself in the stomach, the movements getting weaker before he fell to the carpet.

  “There.” Prophet examined his nails. “Four gone in less than a minute, dead by their own hands. Two left. What do you think should happen?”

  “I…” Strider’s eyes were wide.

  “I agree, the woman should be last. It seems only fair, since she abuses her child at night.”

  “What?” Strider looked at the two remaining strike team. “What?”

  “She abuses her own child,” explained Prophet. “Sometimes with the end of a cigarette, sometimes with a knife. When he cries out, she cuts him more. It’s quite the organization you run here. Nothing but the cream of the crop.”

  Julian watched the woman, her body shaking, walk to the last man. She pressed her thumbs into his eye sockets. He made a low sound, anguish leaking out around the edges of Prophet’s control, blood running down his face. The woman drew her sidearm, placed it against his forehead, and pulled the trigger. Red sprayed again, the body falling to the carpet.

  “I’m not sure if her child will be happy or sad she’s not coming home tonight,” admitted Prophet. “Mercel Strider, it is time for you to learn the meaning of respect.”

  The woman walked to Strider, her steps dragging. Prophet frowned. The woman stumbled once before her movements became clean and smooth. Strider backed away, stopping as he hit the window. She pointed her sidearm, shooting him through the leg.

  Strider screamed, dropping to the carpet. The woman hauled him upright, then fired her sidearm into the window. The glass splintered, falling into flakes, the wind and rain from outside pushing into the room.

  The woman hefted Strider into a fireman’s carry. She ran at the cracked window, bursting into the cold air, falling into the dark below. Julian could hear Strider’s scream fading away, lost against the rain as he fell.

  Prophet walked to the head of the table, examining the gathered board members. Most of them were pale, unexpected fear in their eyes.

  Prophet opened his arms wide again. “I believe an introduction is in order. You may call me Prophet.” He smiled, then chuckled. The chuckle grew into a great belly laugh, full of mirth. “Oh, this world is so gentle.
So easy. It will let us do wondrous things. I will make believers of you all.”

  Chapter Seven

  Without the whisky, things felt rougher. A part of Sadie wanted more relaxed mellow warmth from the bottle, but most of her itched to get out of this apocalyptic death city. Back to where she could get cold beer from a crowd who wanted nothing more than to hear her play.

  The street still held the remnants of the rain, brown muddy rivulets struggling to run away through broken drains. The bodies were all gone. She didn’t know where, or who had taken them.

  “Look, company man, I want to know why you dragged me out here.” Sadie kicked her boot through the muck on the street, casting a glance at Mason. “No, that’s a lie.”

  “You don’t want to know?” The marks on Mason’s neck were already fading away. More syndicate bullshit. If there wasn’t a cost to anything, you would always think you could get away with everything. “I thought you had a bit more natural—”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Curiosity, is all.” He turned away. His armor glinted in the sun like he was a knight of old.

  Sadie frowned. He’s not an angel, and he sure as hell isn’t a knight. The bag she carried was loose and light. There’s no damn food in this town. “I want to know more than that.”

  “I figured.”

  “It’s like this.” Sadie ticked items off on her fingers. “First, why the hell did you drag me here? Second, you’ve got a mad scientist and a fourteen-year-old girl with you. What’s with that? Third, I want to know why you’re not hung over.”

  “I can get you a guitar.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a musician, right?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “The Hole. I went there.” Mason stared into the sunlight, hand up as an improvised visor. Maybe he wants out of shitsville too. “You must remember. Before I saw you the second time and shot your asshole boyfriend in the leg.”

  “He’s not…” Sadie touched the side of her face where Aldo hit her. Not anymore. Never again. The bruising would remind her for a while. She hoped she’d be able to remember longer. “How do you know I play guitar?”

  “You sat in the bar like you owned it. Not staff.” He smiled. “Definitely not hired help. Strong shoulders. Good voice. Not a drummer. Leaves guitar. Goes with the calluses on your fingers. And the nails.”

  “I didn’t pick you for the musical type.”

  Mason laughed. “I’ve got the musical talent of the deaf. Do a mean kazoo, that’s about it.”

  “What?”

  “Kazoo.” He walked forward. Sadie watched him pick his way through the broken street. “It’s a little instrument about so big—”

  “I know what it is. I want to know how you picked all that out if you can’t play.” Sadie rubbed her palms against her pants, the itch of wanting to touch strings a yearning inside her, like hunger, or lust.

  “I listen to a lot of music. Hold up.” Mason pressed himself against the wall of a building, hand raised. He peered around the corner, then stepped from view.

  Well, shit. Sadie couldn’t hear anything except the low sigh of the wind and the scratch of dead leaves shuffling. She threw a glance back the way they’d come, the street empty of monsters. Faded signs stood like tired soldiers, weary of a war they never signed up for. How do you make a town disappear?

  Following the thought came a second. How do you make the people disappear?

  A hiss snapped her around, eyes going to a first-floor window. One of the creatures — they’re not people, they can’t be people — stared at her, its clawed hands holding the broken lintel. She stumbled back, mouth dry, pulse hammering. I need a weapon. Sadie risked a look away from the monster, saw a hunk of rock, and picked it up.

  “Mason?” Sadie tried to keep her voice low, feeling immediately foolish despite her fear. “Mason!” Nothing. The creature hissed again, lips pulling wide to show crooked, sharp teeth.

  Sadie hefted her rock. “Okay, motherfucker. You want a piece?” She squared her shoulders. “I got a piece for you right here.” It snarled, ducking from view. Sadie looked at the window a few moments, then looking around the street. Last time they’d come, there’d been dozens.

  She heard a roar from the window cut short. She spun in time to see the creature sail through the opening. Sadie readied her rock, lowering it after the monster hit the ground, bounced, and didn’t get back up. Its neck was twisted at a crazy angle.

  “You okay?” Mason leaned from the window. “And why are you holding a rock?”

  “Fuck you, Mason Floyd.”

  He threw a grin in her direction. “It’s just that it looks like—”

  “No, really. Not a good time.” Sadie lowered her rock, running her other hand through her hair. “I didn’t know where you were.”

  His smile faded away, just another ghost in this town. “Sorry.” He vaulted out the window, landing with a crunch, wincing as he favored a leg.

  “Seriously. We’ve just been attacked by a horde of, fuck, I don’t know, fucking mutants or whatever the fuck they are, and you go walking off. I was scared shitless.” Sadie shook, the adrenaline wearing off, leaving her with purposeless anger. “Fuck you. You know what the worst thing is?”

  “No.”

  “I’m starting to use ‘fuck’ like a comma.” She sighed. “I normally only do that after the fourth drink.”

  Mason glanced further up the street. “Do you want that guitar?”

  “At least tell me why you did it. Fucking asshole.”

  He looked at his feet for a second. The non-company emotion of shame darted across his face. It might have been shaded by embarrassment. “I thought I’d get it before it showed itself. Maybe take it out before you knew it was there.”

  “Why not just tell me?”

  Mason shrugged. “You weren’t a part of the plan. When we put you in the van, it just seemed the best idea at the time. Things snowballed from there. I figure something from home might help. I can get you a guitar. I don’t know if it’s a good one.”

  “Snowballed?” Sadie’s voice rose dangerously close to a shriek. She tightened the screws on it. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Would he be satisfied, Sadie? He’s looking as out of place as a fish climbing a tree. No clinics or percentages out here in the world time forgot. “That’s what you call it?”

  “The way I figure it, this stuff’s not really in your bag, right? So, I was trying to…” Mason wound down, just another piece of equipment without power. “Hell with it. I’ll get you the guitar.”

  “Wait.” Sadie searched his face. “You didn’t want me to see that thing?”

  “That’s right. I dropped the ball.”

  “Because you didn’t want me involved?”

  “Because it’s not your problem.” Mason frowned. “This is company business, Sadie. Like you keep saying, I’m a company man. It’s not your deal. I’ll make sure you’re compensated.”

  “Compensated?” A laugh slipped free. “For what?”

  He waved, arm taking in the street, the city, or maybe the world. “For this.”

  “What about the kid, Mason?” Sadie stepped closer. “Who makes sure she’s compensated?”

  “The syndicate—”

  “Your company can’t compensate that child for the last two days. For last night, and what she did for you.”

  Mason stared, looking lost. The moment stretched like an over-tensioned guitar string. “She’ll be looked after, Sadie.”

  “By who?” Sadie heard her voice rise and didn’t care this time. “By the mad scientist?”

  “No—”

  “Then who? You? Don’t make me laugh.” Sadie pointed the way they’d come. “You can’t even stop a bunch of savages from tearing off her face in an empty town. When you get back in the world? The company’s going to eat her alive. You people don’t understand. This is why we go ‘illegal,’ Mason. We don’t want to put up with your shit.”
<
br />   He looked at her, something dark in his eyes. Not angry. Hunted. “You finished?”

  “No.”

  “The company won’t have her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’t count the kid out. She’s tough. Been through some shit, I figure.”

  “It’s not enough,” insisted Sadie. “You know that.”

  Mason raised his hands. “What do you want from me, Sadie? What do you need me to say?” His voice cracked on the last word.

  “I don’t need you to say anything, company man. I’m just telling you how it is.”

  “No one will touch her.” Mason’s eyes were bright. “I owe her. That good enough for you?”

  Sadie looked at the set of his shoulders. Determination. A little anger. More fear than anger. “Okay, Floyd. That’s a start.”

  “A start? What else—”

  “Get me that fucking guitar.”

  The shop was old, like everything else, but felt older. Age and time seemed to seep out onto the street, pooling around Sadie’s ankles. She stared through tall bars coated with rust and grime, their vigil of protecting the cracked glass window not finished. Ancient fabrics, mostly moldered, rotted remains, clothed ancient mannequins bleached by the passing of uncounted days.

  “You sure know how to show a lady a good time, Floyd. This place is pure class.”

  “The guitar’s inside.” Mason grabbed the door handle. It tore off in his hand. “This whole place is…” He fell quiet, watching crumbling remains of the handle weep rust to the sidewalk.

  “Yeah, it is. How’d you know there’s a guitar in here? I can’t see a thing.”

  He tapped his temple. “Optics. Did a deep scan using thermal. Got it mapped out.” He tried a smile. “I don’t want any more surprises.”

  Sadie snorted. “You and me both. How’re we getting in?”

  Mason leaned against the door, rear foot scraping before it found purchase. The door’s hinges popped, the door falling inside like an axed tree. Dust walked into the light on legs of gray gossamer. He held a hand out. “After you.”

  “Hell, no. Last time there was a dark room, something tried to eat my face.”