Dead Mann Running (9781101596494) (28 page)

Nell grabbed the phone and dialed an extension. “I’m back, Nick.”

An over-caffeinated voice answered: “Fan-fucking-tastic!”

Half a second later the door burst open and a slightly balding man with a goatee flew out like he was attacking. He swooped a hairy arm around Nell and pulled her back toward the door.

She pointed back at me. “Nick, this is…”

“I don’t care who he is, I don’t care where he stands. All I care about is having you in front of that camera. I’m trying to cover this decade’s 9/11 and that idiot Morton keeps pronouncing the “z” in chakz like it’s three syllables long. He’s screwing my Pulitzer like a dog in heat,” he said.

Good old Nick pushed her so fast he nearly took her off her feet.

“Easy on the talent!” I snapped. “I don’t care if she is just a chak to you.”

Nell raised an eyebrow. Nick kept pushing but looked back at me. “You’re crazy. I
love
this woman. I live for her. I’d die for her. She pays my mortgage, she’s paying for my kid’s college. We’ve got a once in a lifetime situation—the chakz and the guard are going back and forth, the police are stuck on the sidelines, and…why the fuck am I telling you? Becky!”

At the end of the pencil-thin hall it was bright as day. There were three cameras and a set that looked much smaller than I’d imagined. A liveblood I assumed was Morton sat behind Nell’s desk, looking like he’d swallowed a bottle of sedatives. He was struggling to keep his head straight as he looked into a camera and squinted at a rising series of words on a transparent screen.

I’d already passed beyond the veil, now I was entering
TV-land. Something in my head vibrated between what I was seeing, and a vague sense that it should all be up on a screen, and I should be watching from a distance, with my butt in a broken recliner.

A final “loving” shove sent Nell teetering in the direction of Becky, a bespectacled woman with strong arms. With the intense gaze of an irritated librarian, Becky shoved a transmitter down Nell’s low-backed evening gown and a microphone up along her chest. It would’ve been easier if she’d waited, because the next instant, she and a second woman, who’d either hopped out of Becky’s pocket, or appeared out of thin air, pulled off the gown completely.

Nell was left standing there, dressed only by her panties and the highlights the studio kliegs made on her snowy skin. The camerapersons didn’t blink, and Morton kept reading like nothing was going on. And I thought
I
was dead.

Working on her like she was a life-sized Barbie doll, they threw a blouse over her head and struggled to get her legs into a pair of black slacks. Balanced on one foot, Nell looked at me, more worried about what was coming next than whether I was gawking at her.

She aimed her nose over my shoulder. “First door on the right’s the control booth. That’s where you can, you know, try to control things.” The LBs didn’t even notice her choice of words.

I turned to see Nick disappearing into a shadow behind an open door. Before it swung shut, I slipped into a darker, smaller space, crammed with apparatus and monitor banks. Most of the light came from the wide window looking out on the set.

Nick flopped into a central seat flanked by two thirty-something techies, raised his hand like Captain Kirk, and said, “Gimme street feed three so we can make the switch.”

The image on the biggest monitor changed from Morton, to a reassuring view of the guard standing in formation, their riot shields forming a shiny bulwark against any threats. Morton’s voice came over the speakers.

“Guard spokesman Derek Freeman reports that clear progress is being made in the midtown retail sector, but more chakzzzz…”

Nick groaned. “One syllable! One syllable!”

“…have made their way into the financial district.”

Though the audience didn’t see it, in the middle of his next sentence, Morton was pulled from the seat and Nell shoved into it. It happened so fast, it was pretty funny.

“Cut Morton’s mic. No,
burn
Morton’s mic. Get ready to cue Nell. We still have that Command Sergeant?”

“He’s on five.”

“Nell, with me? You’re going to do a live interview with…” He snapped his fingers repeatedly.

Becky came in and announced, “Command Sergeant Stanton Maldonado.”

“Right. Nell, his group had to pull back from the financial district. CNN reported there were casualties. He’ll say they’re all alive, he’s fine, it was just some scratches. Try to get him to repeat that the chakz are deluded, confused by the fake photo and…”

Before he finished, Nell’s voice came over the speakers.

“This is Nell Parker. The photo circulating among the
chakz depicting a grotesque vivisection at a ChemBet facility has been verified as true.”

Nick pumped his fist into the air. “Yes! She’s on! Wait…what’s she saying?”

“Moreover, the ChemBet facility laboratory where the picture originated has been performing similar experiments on liveblood subjects.”

“Shit!” Nick said.

I pulled the Walther, kept the safety on, but pointed it at the back of his head. “Nick? Can I get your attention for a sec?”

Becky saw me and raised her hands like it was a bank holdup. When the guys at the controls did the same, I waved the gun in their direction. “No. You boys keep doing what you’re doing. Nick, a moment if you don’t mind?”

He was still staring at Nell. “She’s off the prompter.”

“Nick? Nicky? Buddy? Over here. Look at me. Now.”

“Why is she off…?”

I tapped the top of his head with the barrel, not too hard, but hard enough. He spun, angry, maybe thinking I was someone he could fire. The second he saw the Walther all that crazy energy sailed right out of him.

He sighed, spun back, and pressed his forehead down into his fist.

“Shoot me,” he said. “Just shoot me.”

“Relax,” I told him. “Do as I say and you may actually get that Pulitzer.”

N
ell’s two-minute estimate was generous. She’d barely made it to the part about Tom Booth being unjustly accused when all the lights and the equipment croaked. Everyone looked at the dormant ceiling fixtures like they were stars on a cloudless night. If I had a heartbeat, I would’ve heard it. In fact, I think I heard Nick’s heartbeat.

“That broadcast went out live, right?” I asked.

He nodded. “Nationwide. Our first time, ever. Was any of what she said remotely true?”

“Even the stuff we should’ve lied about. Now, get your people out of here.”

“Why? Who’s coming?”

“ChemBet, Colby Green’s men, maybe a short ninja. No idea who’ll get here first, but they’re all killers. Move quick enough and they won’t give a shit about you.” The door open, I called to Nell, “The underground parking will be the first thing they block, so we’re on foot. Back stairs?”

She tore the mic from her body like it was a leech. “This way.”

She grabbed my hand and took me through a rear door. At our backs, the crew rushed and bumped into each other on their way to the front elevators.

I followed the tug on my hand away from what little light was left.

“How was I?” Nell asked.

“I’m prejudiced. How’d it feel, making up for past sins?”

She squeezed my fingers. “Same as before. I’m still running, only now I have less a chance of getting away.”

She took us into a stairwell. After ChemBet, I was sick of stairwells, but what can you do? A dull glow illuminated the rubber padding on the edges of the concrete steps, guiding us down. We’d hardly reached the next landing when I heard someone coming up. Having gotten so many people into so much trouble lately, I tightened my grip on the gun, hoping to prove Nell wrong about her chances.

A blur of movement appeared between the railings. Bracing the gun against my chest, I fired. My wrist hurt, but nothing broke. I heard shoes stumble on the cement steps, the quick rustling of someone diving for cover.

A deep voice called, “Hessius Mann?”

I motioned for Nell to keep quiet. “Who wants to know?”

“Officer Mark Davis, Fort Hammer police.”

“Police? That supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s not doing much for me lately, either, but I got a personal request from Chief Detective Booth, asking me to get you out of this building.”

That was news. “I thought he’d be dead or in jail.”

“I heard both, but I guess not. Officially, I’m not even here, I just owe him. I thought it’d beat directing traffic for the guard, until you shot at me.”

“Sorry about that. Lots of powerful forces arrayed against us. Trust no one, that kind of shit.”

A half flight down we met a helmeted man in a uniform and a Kevlar vest, carrying a riot shield. His raised visor revealed dark skin and a friendly enough face, but there was blood on the shield.

I pointed at it. “Chakz don’t bleed.”

“Things were calming down until about five minutes ago. Then all hell broke loose. Real people, no offense, started coming out, smashing windows and throwing bricks. I don’t even know whose side I should be on anymore.”

Nell’s broadcast, already? A weird sensation took the back of my neck. Maybe there was something to hope for. Not that I thought the revolution would succeed, but maybe we’d get one of those commissions that meet for a year then make recommendations that everyone ignores.

“Any second this place’ll get very crowded. How far is your car?”

He shrugged apologetically. “Haven’t got one. An RDV dropped me off at my designated corner with nothing but what you see and my good looks to protect myself. Booth said he’d try to get here as soon as he could, so we should stay nearby.”

I clicked my tongue against my teeth. “If he’s using words like ‘try’ we’re on our own. Manhole nearby? Hate to ruin your studio clothes, Nell, but we could head into the sewers.”

She raised an eyebrow. “After what I’ve been through, the sewers will feel clean.”

But our new tour guide shook his head. “Sealed since the last riots. Take a blowtorch to open one back up.”

“Shit. How about a safe spot with lots of exits?”

He made a face. “Safe? Not a word I’d use, but there’s a bowling alley across the street with all the windows smashed. It’s big and empty, nothing to take, unless the looters like bowling shoes. From inside we could probably see who was coming.”

“Any port in a storm,” I said.

Opening the door at the bottom of the stairs let in the thick smell of putrefying garbage courtesy of a closed Chinese restaurant next door. Every building over two stories tall still had emergency lights. Only the studio was jet black, putting to rest any crazy thoughts that the blackout was a coincidence.

I didn’t have to inhale, but I couldn’t keep from hearing, and the noise was worse than the smell: screams and sirens on the high end, cracks and crackling from guns and fires in the middle, and desolate moans and dull explosions filling in the bass.

Davis’ arm chopped the air, pointing. Even with the electricity out, you couldn’t miss the huge red and white B
OOBY’S
B
OWL
sign looming four traffic lanes, five guardsmen, and a dozen shambling chakz away from us. The storefront was a wall of windows, an effort to lure customers with the exciting sight of overweight citizens hurling heavy balls into equally pear-shaped pins. Davis hadn’t exaggerated—every pane had been smashed, and Booby, if that was his real name, had never heard of safety glass. The aluminum frames were lined with glass teeth.

“Hurry it up,” Davis said.

I guess Nell and I were moving a little slowly through the alley’s putrid garbage for his taste. I was going to explain how we like to avoid getting rotting meat on our skin when I saw three black SUVs sitting in a familiar formation in front of the studio. ChemBet had arrived. A little rot not being the worst thing in the world, we picked up our pace.

It looked like Maruta’s little men were in the building, so I was hoping we might actually make it. But, by the time we braved the rioters and crossed the street, three sedans were peeling down Centre Street. Green’s men, the reckless, cut-rate dogs, were here, too.

Occupied with their own battle, the guards and the chakz moved on, but a teen liveblood carrying a stolen Xbox ran in the other direction and didn’t see the lead car coming in time. It hit him and he wound up flying halfway across the street, just like an incidental character from a violent video game.

The
trust no one
thing hadn’t registered deeply enough with Davis. Seeing the hurt teen, he waved his hands to stop the speeding car.

“You don’t want to do that!” I shouted.

Too late. The driver saw us and headed for Davis. The cop was alive and well-built, both of which made him heavier than me, but I threw myself into him, got lucky and hit him low. He fell out of the way and I rolled toward him, the sedan’s tires pinching my clothes to the street as it zoomed by.

As I got up, it skidded sideways to a stop. Winded, Davis was still down. Nell and I pulled him up and the three of us dove over the broken glass into the bowling
alley. In all the excitement, I didn’t realize that since we’d been spotted going in, it wasn’t much of a hiding place anymore.

We’d reached a row of pinball machines when the first of Green’s dogs fired. A .38, I guessed, given the delay between bullets. Davis positioned himself behind one of the support pillars in front of the lanes and returned a few shots. Nell and I ducked behind the main counter, where my head was pressed hard against a pile of used bowling shoes.

The other two sedans arrived, and the new dogs didn’t use .38s. Automatic weapon fire sprayed the place, shattering what was left of the windows, tearing fists of plaster from Davis’ support pillar. I covered Nell’s head with my arm and put my forehead to the floor. Bits of Formica counter and wooden frame splattered us.

Moments later, the gunfire paused. Like an idiot, I picked my head up to see what was going on. Something hot and fast sizzled a quarter-inch-deep line into my cheek. Before I could duck, Nell pulled me down.

Twisting, I got a good look at breaking pins and exploding score monitors. A bowling ball cracked in half. The amateurs didn’t know how to aim, but with that many bullets it didn’t matter. Through all the dust and powder vapor I counted six exits, not one free of flying lead. It was one great big dead end.