Chapter 3
“...you can see from these images, the devastation is incredible.” The anchorman spoke excitedly as the video revealed an overhead view of the smoldering debris and numerous ambulances and fire engines flashing on the streets below.
“Details are still sketchy,” the anchor continued, “but we believe that this is Stiltzkin's Dance Club, or at least the blasted ruin that used to be the Dance Club, near the intersection of Dresden Drive and Shallowford Road, just east of the Peachtree Blimport. It looks like the entire structure has been utterly decimated. No word on the death toll yet-”
“Hold on a sec,” a voice came in scratchy over the audio. “I think I see some bodies below.”
The image switched back to the anchor, a neat and tidy bodysculpted video biff. He held his hand to his ear. “What’s that? Oh, it’s AeroBob, our pilot. What did you say, Bob?”
“I’m moving in closer, get a shot of the bodies.”
The anchorman barely managed to conceal his grin beneath an affected frown. “Our aerodyne pilot believes he can make out some bodies below, let’s go back to the live feed from the newscar for a closer look.”
The screen shot descended, moving closer to the street. Several sky blue-suited Regional Police officers waved the aerodyne off, but the view kept getting closer. The camera panned around, and focused on the sidewalk, where more than a dozen body bags lined the bloody durocrete.
“Looks like fourteen or fifteen bodies down there so far, Brian,” Bob reported. “Still more being removed from the rubble.”
“Is there any way you can tell how many more victims there may be, Bob?”
“Impossible at the moment, Brian. Oh, wait - gunship is pushing me away, gotta fly.”
The video switched back to Brian, with a small window showing the retreating sky view. “That was AeroBob, reporting on the despicable terrorist attack that has plunged our fair metroplex into fits of disgust and outrage! If you have just tuned in, unidentified terrorists have blown up a dance club in the Dekalb District. Emergency crews are still sifting through the bloody ruins, searching for the dead and wounded. At least fifteen victims have already been removed, many blown apart by the force of the explosion, their limbs and viscera scattered all over the street.”
Brian paused, momentarily glancing away from the camera. “It seems, yes. We have Valerie Flynn-Diaz down at the site of the explosion, speaking to witnesses and the police. Valerie, are you there?”
An attractive blonde appeared on the screen, the cut of her designer clothes accentuating her obviously augmented curves, the collapsed remains of the club visible behind her. “Yes, I’m here, Brian. At Dresden and Shallowford, trying to find out what exactly happened here, not thirty minutes ago.”
“What have you discovered?”
“Not much, Brian,” Valerie frowned. “Police are tight-lipped and busy, trying to keep looky-loos, scavengers, and organ grinders away from the rubble as paramedics and firemen search for any possible survivors.”
“Valerie, we’re getting reports from North BioTechnix Hospital 17 that there are at least seven survivors of the blast in the trauma ward right now.”
“Yes, Brian, I’ve seen three ambulances depart with the injured. Some survivors are being treated here on site, and- and yes, there’s a paramedic now. Quick, get shot of that.”
The view swung around from Flynn-Diaz and settled on a distant paramedic walking away from the disaster. The camera zoomed in to reveal his yellow jacket splattered with blood, a disembodied leg in his hand.
“Looks like another part of a victim just found, Brian,” Valerie almost chirped. The paramedic placed the leg near the row of body bags, and returned to the rubble. The camera panned back to Valerie. “Who knows who that poor victim was, Brian, but I doubt he -or she- is still alive. The paramedic will probably be bringing out more pieces of the dismembered body in a few minutes, and we’ll stay right here to bring it to you live!”
“I know you will, Valerie. Have you been able to speak to any witnesses yet?”
“I’ve spoken to one man who was in the club mere minutes before it exploded. He told me that there didn’t seem to be anything unusual going on, and everything seemed quite normal.”
“How many people were in the club?”
“In excess of one hundred people, Brian.”
“Tragic! That’s terrible! I’m amazed that the paramedics aren’t using a dump truck to bring out the body parts.”
“I agree, Brian. According to neighbors, Stiltzkin’s was frequented mostly by dwarves, but other types of neohumans, as well as humans, were seen inside often enough.”
“Well, I’m sure we will be hearing from local neohuman activists soon about this attack.”
“Too true, Brian, but... hold on, I’ve got an actual witness to the event right here.” Valerie reached beyond the view of the camera and pulled a middle-aged man in jeans and a Braves t-shirt into the shot.
“Hello, sir,” Valerie began, “I understand you actually witnessed the explosion?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gordon Franks-Potten-Heevey,” the man replied, staring at the camera. “Am I on vid?”
“Yes you are, Mr. Franks-Potten-Heevey! Station 519 wants to hear your story! Tell us what you saw.”
“Well, I was in my apartment up there,” the man pointed above the camera while trying to suck in his gut, “when I heard these explosions. I thought some gutterpunk cocktailed another car. Anyhow, I went to take a look when the club explodes! Shattered my windows!”
“Terrible, sir! Did you see anyone that could have done it?”
“Don’t know. But after the big explosion, there were a bunch of smaller ones, and I think somebody was shooting into the club from an apartment below mine. You see, I looked down from my window and saw the barrel of a gun sticking out of a lower window!”
“You’re saying it was some kind of machine gun?”
“I don’t know, don’t think so. It was shooting grenades or something.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, the blasts stop, and the club keeps burning, but there wasn’t much left to burn. Bodies were all over the street. Then this one dwarf staggers out of the smoke and walks away.”
“You say a dwarf walked away from this devastation?” Valerie asked incredulously.
“That’s what I said, ain’t you listening?”
“What did this dwarf look like? Was he all in one piece?”
“I don’t know. Dwarfish, your basic genny. Had a long coat on. Just limped away. Hopefully dead by now. Then the Reggies swarmed in, sirens blaring and flashing.”
“Of course. Our fine men and women in blue always put themselves in harm’s way. Truly, the efforts of the Regional Police and their brothers in the fire department and hospitals will save many lives today,” Valerie said as the camera zoomed in on her face. “Well, Brian, there you heard it. It appears this was some type of missile attack, and that one stout young dwarf actually walked out of the flaming building. Not terribly surprising, considering that dwarfs are genetically engineered to withstand significant damage. However, he left behind dozens, if not scores, of shredded bodies for the paramedics to sift through.”
Brian reappeared on the screen. “Incredible, Valerie! Thanks for the report. And now for a Station 519 exclusive! We have managed to get a few moments of Regional Atlanta Metroplex Operations Administrator Elise Chauveau’s time for a response to this most heinous act. Administrator Chauveau, are you there?”
The screen switched to a shot of a well-tanned, middle-aged woman in a severe business suit, sitting before a large window that provided a panoramic view of the blinking Atlanta skyline. Her deep brown eyes faintly glossy, her rich black hair pinned back, she gazed at the camera. “Yes, Brian, I’m here and outraged that such a despicable attack on innocent neohumans would be perpetrated here in the Regional Atlanta Metroplex.”
“Yes, I’m sure all law-abi
ding citizens of RAM are just as disgusted as you,” Brian agreed. “This being your first public response to the attack, brought live to the shocked populace by Station 519, what kind of scum do you think perpetrated the attack?”
Chauveau frowned. “Obviously it was a group of hateful Purists bent on punishing innocent neohumans for their own insecurities. Filled with hate and spite, and lacking even the most vestigial remnants of human decency, they have decided to engage in illegal, immoral, and antisocial behavior in an attempt to gain the ear of the United Globe General Assembly. Something they’ve been doing for years. The Djibouti Metroplex, for example.”
“Yes, Administrator Chauveau, I’m sure all of our viewers remember that sorrowful event. But, what do the Purists think they can accomplish by such deeds?”
“Extrapolating the intentions of radical Purists from their insane actions is problematic at best,” Chauveau said, “but I’m sure we all remember what their spokesmen said during the Djibouti crisis. They want nothing less than the immediate cessation of all genetic engineering and the elimination of all genetically-engineered persons.”
“Apparently,” Brian suggested, “they were not satisfied with the United Globe Genetic Engineering Charter of 2089 which illegalized all non-government-sanctioned gengineering.”
“They will not be satisfied until all gengineering and neohumans are eliminated,” Chauveau stated. “They’re leaders have stated so repeatedly.”
“And so, Administrator, how long before these maggot-eating scum are apprehended?”
“Well, as Operations Administrator I can initiate a number of procedures to hasten the capture of the criminals, many of which are already in progress. However, Regional Governor Weldy-Utu-Hedayat-Pratt has the most far-reaching powers at his disposal.”
“And what has the Governor done so far?”
“Unfortunately,” Chauveau grimaced, “I have been unable to speak with the Governor, who is too busy with other matters to bother with homicidal mass murderers engaging in attempted genocide.”
“That is unfortunate, Administrator,” Brian concurred. “In any case, we here at Station 519 would like to thank you for your time at this moment of crisis. I understand that you are a busy woman, and must now get to work on dealing with the aftermath of this terrorist strike.”
“Yes, Brian, thank you very much.” Chauveau disappeared from the screen, replaced by the anchor.
“That was RAM Operations Administrator Elise Chauveau sharing her feelings concerning the atrocity of the evening. Again, for those of you who just tuned in, some type of terrorist attack on Stiltzkin’s Dance Club in the Dekalb District has resulted in at least twenty casualties, and the death toll may rise to one hundred or more. Paramedics are walking out with the victims’ arms and legs even as we speak. North BioTechnix Hospital is starting to feel the pressure as the wounded pour in. Other hospitals, such as BioTechnix Regional and Druid Hills Urban Trauma Center, will likely start receiving the surviving victims. Better check your Dead Pool tickets, but the final numbers will likely be disputed what with all the body parts scattered around everywhere. We’ll bring you more updates as the info comes in to our studios, and a complete report at eleven, including close-ups of the survivors and dead.
“For now, we return you to the Championship Bloodball quarterfinal match between our own Atlanta Widowmakers and the Berlin Totmenschen. The Menschen have already suffered two casualties! The game is brought to you by Vatburgers, a Global Foods product. If it ain’t Global, you’ve been screwed!”
Dead Dwarves, Dirty Deeds Page 14