Crysis: Escalation (23 page)

‘I’ve bound your wounds. You’re messed up, but you’ll live.’

‘What happened? Where were you, man?’

Dane looked at him as if making a decision.

‘I saw the sky catch fire,’ he finally told Chino.

More crazy Lazy Dane shit
, Chino thought.

‘The fucking Brits sold us out,’ Chino said, pained. Dane was shaking his head.

‘No, they were true, righteous. The sun fell to Earth. They walk with me now.’

Chino tried to make sense of this.

‘Shit,’ he finally said. ‘It’s over then.’

Dane shrugged.

‘Nothing’s ever over man, we just change state.’

Chino closed his eyes. It had all been for nothing, the fighting, the pain, all the dead. CELL would win. The world was theirs now. It probably had been for a while.

‘You know what this place is?’

‘A graveyard?’ Chino suggested, giving into his pain and the despair.

‘It’s a necropolis. All of them. Our guys, CELL , the victims of the disease and everyone back to when this was a swamp and it belonged to the first people. They’re all still
here. Ceph too, human and alien living together, it’s beautiful man. It’s dead and it’s beautiful.’

Chino said nothing. There wasn’t much he could say to a crazy person’s ramblings.

‘Thank you,’ Dane said.

‘For what, man? You saved me.’

‘For being my goat.’

Chino stared at him. ‘Your what?’

‘When a
shikari
hunts a tiger he . . .’

‘Tethers a goat to a tree and bleeds it a little to get the tiger’s attention.’

Dane nodded. Chino stared at him.
He doesn’t think he’s one of us anymore. He thinks we’re playthings, mere mortals.

Chino spat in his face.

Maybe if the nanosuit hadn’t been so badly damaged Dane would have heard their comms. If Chino hadn’t been so badly hurt, if both of them had been alert, then maybe
they would have heard them moving around beneath them.

They had been pinpointed by thermographics. The fire hadn’t helped.

The floor of the open plan office exploded in a circle around Dane and Chino. They fell through to the floor below them. The impact made Chino scream as multiple wounds were
badly jarred and he started to piss blood again. The campfire exploded in a shower of sparks.

Dane was moving. Disappearing, becoming transparent, fading into the background. Then he was wreathed in lighting. Electrostatically charged pellets fired from K-Volt weapons stuck to Lazy
Dane’s suit. The pellets dropped the cloak, making him visible. More and more of the pellets stuck to him. The voltage he was receiving grew and grew. The damaged suit’s systems were
overloaded. They started shutting down. The pellets were electrocuting Dane as he tried to move. There were four members of the CELL spec ops armed with K-volts. They continued laying on the
fire.

Dane looked like he was made of electricity as he stood up. Members of the spec ops team took a step back.

Chino saw his Majestic. He was reaching for his big revolver when someone stood on his hand and then kicked him in the face, hard. He saw lights and felt sick. He felt darkness swimming up to
claim him.

‘Reloading,’ the first K-Volt gunner said as he ran out of pellets. There was only a hint of panic in the man’s voice. He swapped out the magazine as the next, and then the
next gunner, ran out of pellets as well. Dane took a step forwards.

Reloaded, they started firing again. Dane took another step forwards through the electricity crackling all around him and then toppled over.

‘Don’t stop firing, the Commander ordered.’ They didn’t.

Chino came to again. He glanced over and saw Dane being dragged out. A VTOL was circling the building, using its spotlight to provide light for the spec ops team. Chino
wasn’t sure he’d ever seen someone so singularly bound with restraints as Lazy Dane.

‘Commander, he’s awake,’ a CELL commando standing over Chino said. The Commander of the Spec Ops team turned to look at her subordinate. She shrugged.

‘He’s surplus to requirement.’

Chino looked up at the gun barrel. He saw the finger tightening around the trigger.

He felt calm.

A Foreign Country

Screaming. Agony. Then nothingness.

London, 2016

Jab, jab, hook, cross, move your fucking feet.
Mike reflected that the less he had trained, the more out of shape he’d gotten, the more he hit the drink, the
food, certain recreational pharmaceuticals, the more he’d been fighting.
I said move your fucking feet, not mince around like a fairy!
Mike bobbed left and right, weaving rapidly,
and threw another combination of punches at the heavy bag.

When he’d thought of himself as a fighter, in the streets – stupid shit – as a nipper, or in pubs, clubs, he’d been lying to himself. There had been no discipline to it,
no real effort, just the excitement but it wasn’t the rush he felt in the ring. There certainly wasn’t the feeling of satisfaction that there was in winning a match.

Speedball next, then pullups and then skipping to warm down. No showers in this gym, just the smell of leather and the stench of more than a hundred years of sweat. Then back to walking the
streets looking for work.

It had been another morning with nothing to show for it but sore feet. He glanced at the sandwich board outside the newsagent as he made for the
Blind Beggar
. It was a
headline from a newspaper he liked to think of as the
Daily Fail
, trumpeting the passing of the controversial Offenders Conscription Act. Mike just shook his head as he pushed the door
open to the
Beggar
and the welcoming smell of his local.

He took another sip of his pint. He found it easy to waste away the afternoon in the pub, but Sarah had said he should only have one during the day, when he was trying to find
work. He wanted to savour it. He stared at the sparse list of jobs in the local paper, willing himself to be qualified for one of them.
As what?
He remembered Sarah telling him
you
can’t think like that
. He thought about how his world had changed. He used to be all about wanting a life like he saw on telly, a rich easy life. Now he’d settle for a job in a
warehouse. The news was talking about another dip, a triple dip. Mike was of the opinion that this was just the way things were going to be for the foreseeable future. People needed to get used to
it.

‘Hello, Psycho.’ The voice was so gravelly it sounded a cigarette away from full-blown throat cancer.
Don’t call me that
, but you didn’t tell Jack Hamilton
anything. Mike looked up and pretended to be pleased to see Hamilton. In truth he liked the man, and always had done. He had been a good friend to Mike’s dad. Mike had looked up to him, and
Jack had done right by his mother after his dad had died over some stupid shit in a pub.

Hamilton was tall and still had a thick, full head of hair for a man in his late sixties, though it was white now. Jack had never been a pretty man. He had a flat face and a nose that had been
repeatedly broken in his youth. He did, however, have an undeniable charisma.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t Jack Hamilton, last of the great white gangsters,’ Mike said, smiling.

‘You always were a cheeky cunt, weren’t you?’ Hamilton said, smiling indulgently. ‘How’s your mum?’

Mike shrugged.

‘She’s keeping alright. Needs to get out a bit more.’

‘Real looker in her day, your mum.’

‘Jack . . .’ Mike started. Hamilton hit him on the shoulder.

‘You know I don’t mean nothing by it.’ Hamilton sat down at the stool next to Mike and lit up a cigarette.

‘Jack, you’re going to get my licence taken away,’ Jean screeched at Hamilton. Some of the pub’s punters were of the opinion that the sharp-tongued undisputed matriarch
of the
Beggar
had been here before the pub, just waiting for it to be built around her. She’d always reminded Mike of the harpies that Zeus had sent to torment Phineus, but in a good
way.

‘I think we both know that’ll never happen, darlin’. Two triple brandies, love, it’s lunch time after all.’ Mike started to protest. He started to protest because
it sounded really, really good. Jack let him know that to refuse would insult him. Mike sighed, nodded and thanked the older man.

‘What’s this shit?’ Hamilton said tapping the paper open at the wanted ads.
Here we go
, Mike thought.

‘Looking for work, ain’t I,’ Mike said.

‘Mikey, all you have to do is . . .’

‘Please, Jack . . .’ Mike said. He didn’t want to offend the older man and it wasn’t because he was a dangerous individual. He just didn’t want to hurt the
gangster’s feelings.

‘Sarah?’

‘Yeah, no. Sort of. I need to get away from all of that. She . . . we want a family and I just remember when I was a kid, my dad . . .’

‘Your dad was a good man,’ Hamilton said seriously.

‘He was. Could have been a better dad.’

Hamilton thought about this. It looked to Mike like his dad’s old friend was about to stand up for his dad.

‘I can see that,’ Hamilton finally said. ‘One of the reasons I never had kids.’

‘That and you’re still shagging twenty-one year old lap-dancers, if what I hear is right.’

Hamilton’s growling laughter made Mike think of a dog drowning.

‘Rank has its privileges, son,’ Hamilton told him. ‘Some of the work what I’ve got is legit,’ he said changing subject.

‘Jack, I appreciate it, I really do but . . .’

‘S’alright, I understand, I get it. I know you need some distance, but I don’t want to lose contact. Why don’t you and Sarah join me and . . .’ Hamilton stopped, a
look of concentration spreading over his face.

‘You can’t remember your girlfriend’s name, can you?’ Mike said, grinning. Hamilton was shaking his head.

‘I’m getting fucking old. I can picture her. Great tits, fucks like a wolverine sewn into a sack.’

‘Nice,’ Mike said nodding.

‘You watch your mouth, Jack Hamilton!’ Jean howled at Hamilton. ‘I don’t care who you are out there!’

‘I’m sorry Jeanie, you know I’ve only got eyes for you, but you should see this girl’s tits.’

Mike was laughing now as he took another sip of brandy.

‘I will fucking bar you, you cheeky little bastard!’

Hamilton was laughing as well. Winding up Jean was a time-honoured tradition of the punters in the
Beggar
.

‘Seriously though, one Sunday, the four of us can go out to Epping Forest, have a walk, spot of Sunday lunch. My treat.’

Mike nodded, grateful. He did like Hamilton’s company, but he could never shake the picture of the number of times he’d seen the older man with blood on his hands. That was why
Hamilton still ran this manor. That was why all the little fresh-faced, gun-toting gangster-wannabes left him alone. He wasn’t greedy, he just wanted his patch, but if you fucked around then
he took care of business. Personally.

‘Now let’s have another drink.’

‘Jack, seriously . . .’

Sarah’s going to fucking kill me
, Mike thought,
I am well hammered.

‘. . . so he comes back in, looks in the quilt cover and then back at me and says: “Jack, why’s there a dead dog in my quilt cover?” Now Richardson was a hard fucker and
you had to respect him, but I couldn’t help myself, I got all aggrieved and said: “Where did you want me to put it?” Oh, he gave me such a kicking. He was proper
furious.’

Mike had heard the story before but he was still laughing. Jack’s face became serious again.

‘You picked a shitty time to become a civilian, Mikey, even the fucking yuppies are moving out. You hear about the body of that girl they found?’

Mike shrugged. ‘It’s the Jack the Ripper theme park, isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Every nutjob in the fucking country wants to pay tribute.’

Jack was looking at him thoughtfully, nodding.

‘I like that. That’s, what-cha-call-it . . .?’

‘Profound?’ Mike asked, his heart sinking. He saw where this was going.

‘Yeah, profound. Good word. Where is it, Mikey?’

‘Jack, don’t do this,’ Mike said shaking his head. Hamilton had his hand out.

Mike sighed, reached into the pocket of his battered leather jacket and handed Hamilton the book. Hamilton looked at the cover, frowned and then reached into the breast pocket of his suit and
took out a pair of reading glasses and held them in front of his face.
Those are new
, Mike thought.

‘Who’s Descartes then? Sounds like a frog.’ Hamilton put the book down on the bar.
Here it comes
, Mike thought.

‘Wish I’d read more,’ Hamilton said quietly. ‘Particularly history, I love that stuff. You know I heard once that down here, in Victorian times, everyone was a criminal.
I mean they all had legit jobs but everyone, and I mean everyone, had something on the side. Had to, if they wanted to feed their family. Know what a dollymop is?’ Mike did, but he shook his
head. ‘A part-time prostitute. You think on that. Imagine you’re a wife and a mother but sometimes you have to go out and sell yourself just to make ends meet. It’s going to get
like that again, I reckon. You keep your Sarah close and you look after her. She’s a good one, son. You needed sorting out. You were breaking your mother’s heart. I almost had to step
in, know what I mean?’ Mike swallowed hard. Thinking about his mum. The guilt. ‘You’re lucky Sarah saw something in you. Took the time. She may not like me or what I am . .
.’ Mike started to protest. ‘Quiet. Sometimes I don’t like what I am. But you need anything, either of you, you just have to ask.’

Mike nodded.

‘Thanks Jack, that means a lot.’

‘And don’t you worry. I’ve texted her to let her know you’ll be late and that you’re with me.’ Then Jack started laughing. Mike felt his heart sink.
I am
so dead.

‘Hello Psycho, what’s this faggot shit?’ Mike bristled at the sound of the voice. He looked up as Davey Falconer picked up his book. Falconer was whip thin, with amphetamine
eyes that looked yellow to Mike and a constantly moving jaw. His hair was slicked down with too much gel and, presumably aping Hamilton, he wore an expensive tailored suit.
Saville Row
can’t hide what a vicious little prick Davey Falconer is,
Mike thought.