Lesser Gods (24 page)

The agent dropped his empty weapon and the heated exchange of guided muscles began, quickly degenerating into a biting, punching, cursing, gouging match during which Death’s goons bit off several thuggite fingers, ran Mohawk spikes into his groin, and severed an ear before they finally succumbed to the severe hemorrhaging of their bullet wounds.

I rose to my feet thinking the snarl of bloody limbs twitching on the street marked the end of my worries. But what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the remaining agent who slowly extracted himself from the tangled mess lying in the growing pool of blood.

As he labored, I thought about drawing one of my stolen guns to see if I could finish the job Death’s men had started. In the end I decided against injuring the agent further without being sure of a clean kill. Wounded thuggites are not the most gentle of folks, especially toward those doing the wounding.

Nor are they noted for their forgiving spirits.

Besides that, the peashooters I had taken from the punks were only 22s; they wouldn’t guarantee a clean kill even on a normal person, let along a thuggite. When dealing with thuggites a guy needed an ample caliber, the ability to make a quick-kill shot, and a whole lot of luck even then.

I had neither luck nor caliber right now. So I stood like a model citizen and waited for the thuggite to rise.

“You still here?” he asked, staggering toward me.

“Like I could outrun you, right?”

“You might have. I think I broke my kneecap.”

“Now you tell me.”

“You know these guys?” he asked motioning to the pile of limbs on the street.

“Yeah, they were some of Death’s henchmen. He’s not going to be too happy with you when he learns they’re dead. Good help like that is hard to find.”

“I’d like to meet Death some day. I have a score to settle now.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“My partner,” he explained, taking a limping step my direction. “He was a pretty good egg.”

I remained silent, unsure how serious he was about his partner. Thuggites generally were pretty emotionless, but they might be different about a partner and I didn’t want to tell a joke that would cost me parts South of my border.

“I’ve got orders to take you in,” the agent said, taking a gov-issue wound dressing from a jacket pocket and very matter-of-factly wrapping it around the hand that was missing fingers. “Head for the car.” He motioned toward the vehicle, sending a shower of blood careening off his stub fingers as he did so.

“Look,” I said backing away from him a few steps. “I’m off the search for Huntington. How about just leaving me alone.”

The thuggite smiled as if he were looking at a fly whose wings he was about to tear off. “You haven’t caught on yet, have you? We’re tying up lose ends.” He took another step closer. “I don’t know what Huntington has. But its something the powers that be want under wraps. Can’t afford to have you around to blab about it. Get into the car without a fight and I’ll make your last ride painless.”

I took another step backward, glancing upward to the skyline. And there it was. The heavenly vision I had been praying for: The glint of a streetlight off a scope.

A scope that I hoped was attached to a rifle powerful enough for hunting elephants and other big game — including thuggites.

Hoping to buy myself some time, I turned and took off running. I got six steps at my fastest speed before the thuggite was on top of me, bad knee or not. He yanked me skyward by the back of my armored jacket the way a child might pick up a rag doll. “Nice try,” he laughed. “I’m always amazed how dummies like you think they can get away from someone with superior strength and reflexes.”

“Sometimes the little guys get lucky,” I said, deciding to quit struggling and simply enjoy being carried by the scruff of the neck like a kitten.

We were nearly to the vehicle, traveling in giant steps, when the agent paused to click off the car’s burglar alarm.

What’s taking Snipe so long? I wondered. Or had I been mistaken? Was someone else on the roof?

The agent opened the doors, tossing his jacket into the front seat, and then threw me into the back. He bent over to look me in the eye. “Just sit there like a good little toad and don’t give me any more trouble or I’ll break your legs.”

I smiled meekly.

Satisfied I was going to be quiet, he straightened and adjusted his tie. Then he stopped in mid-motion, a loud thump emitting from his chest. He looked down in disbelief at the hole oozing blood. Then he drew his gun and fell backward onto the street with a loud thud.

I slid down onto the floor of the car, in case Snipe decided to try for a twofer, my heart pounding in my ears as I waited.

The street remained quiet.

Nothing moved including me.

I stayed that way for about fifteen minutes, trying to decide when it would be safe to move and what I should do next. I wondered morbidly if the whole fiasco that had unfolded on the street had been caught on a wingcam. The little moth-sized drones were often used by agents, recording what was happening for later use in the courtroom or, more often, to broadcast on government reality TV. There was nothing like watching agents beating the crap out of someone to help ratings while bringing citizenry into line. And if a wingcam had caught the bedlam of the last few minutes, it was likely that a police car or another team of agents would be appearing momentarily.

Running might save my hide for a while, but eventually the government would find me even if Death didn’t, since a fake ID can only take a criminal so far. If the government wanted me bad enough, my prints, retina, and heat patterns would be fast tracked into ID systems so a master computer somewhere miles underground would instantly spot me the next time I accessed an ATM or other system, excellent-but-bogus ID or not.

For a moment I toyed with simply putting a muzzle in my mouth and eating lead, then decided I should at least go down fighting. If I had to make a last stand, I wanted to know what the hell I was dying for and maybe take along a few of those so intent on killing me.

Again I was struck by the grim reality that the only guy that might have the solution to my dilemma was Huntington. Until I knew what was really going on, I remained in the dark about what I might do to throw the government off my trail. And I would also never have a good night’s rest without fear of “winking” to some screwball place.

My search, days earlier, had suggested where he was hiding. All I had to do was drive there and confront him. My mind made up, I slid along the seat, taking care to avoid falling into Snipe’s rooftop vantage, and leaned out of the car to search the pockets of the bloody agent lying just outside the door.

Trying not to look at the bloody hole in the agent’s chest, I finally located the keys in his pocket. Since I was already up to my elbows in gore, I went ahead and borrowed the agent’s heavy-duty firearm and three spare magazines of ammunition. And then I discovered his anonymous e-cash card, which I also pocketed.

I left the blackjack. Somehow I couldn’t see myself using it.

Staying low, I slid out of the back seat, stepped over the corpse, and got into the front seat. After wiping the blood off my hands with the agent’s mastodon-sized jacket lying in the front seat, I tossed it out to cover his face, closed the door, and started the engine.

It was time for my trip to find Huntington.

Next stop, Valley of the Shadow.

Jeff Huntington

I watched the antique mercury vapor lights dance and roll with the gentle waves of New Sarasota Bay. The cool breeze skipping over the sea brought a welcome relief from the heat radiating from the tar and seashell pavement. I pulled the last puff from my cigarette and tossed it over the edge of the dock, watching it arch toward the water in an orange rainbow that was suddenly snuffed out like the lives of so many people I’d known.

I closed my eyes and listened to the distant traffic that blended with the ocean, caressing the shores with a low, rolling roar. Tightening my tie without bothering to fasten the top shirt button, I retrieved my jacket from the van and ran the lift that lowered my wheelchair to the pavement.

Has Florida always been this hot?
Sometimes I wondered why they hadn’t changed a few things when they built New Sarasota after the nuke had leveled the old city into a pile of radioactive rubble and powdered coral.

Then I shook my head at my foolishness. Can’t rebuild the weather.
Then again, maybe before long I’ll be able to handle that for them, lowering the temperature by a few degrees during the heat of summer.
Being able to control the weather would be nice, but for now, sweat oozed from every pour, making my skin almost iridescent as I guided my wheelchair alongside the Realtor’s car.

“I think you’ll find this property to your liking,” the realtor said, launching into another sales pitch even as she climbed from the car in a flash of flesh and skirt. I ignored her voice, studying the house at the top of the sidewalk. The grounds had a different feel to them. The squat Florida house didn’t look like much outside — or inside, I discovered a few minutes later. It was probably much as it had been a century before: In need of some serious maintenance. The old pink paint had flaked completely off in spots, exposing the gray cement stucco beneath; what the realtors quaintly call a “fixer upper.”

But it had real potential and I had tons of money at my disposal. Revamping it and moving in would complete the last step toward dropping out of circulation. That was my real goal.

A half hour later, the saleswoman patted me on the shoulder in a manner I found to my liking, even though I knew she was only trying to manipulate an old invalid in a wheelchair into buying a home. “What do you think?” she asked, her forced smile looking out of place on her waspish face. “Is this something you could live with?”

“Well, the residual radiation levels are a little high,” I said, toying with her. I observed her face carefully and was satisfied to see the plastic smile flicker for just a moment before reappearing the same as before.

I swatted at the mosquito humming next to my ear. “And the little beasties seem a bit bloodthirsty out here.”

She said nothing.

I paused, enjoying watching her try not to squirm. Finally I let her off the hook. “But I don’t think either will be a serious problem.”
Especially after I get my last three eternal treatments
, I added to myself.

“Then you want it?”

“I’ll take it.”

“Alright, let’s get started on the paperwork.”

Ralph Crocker

The Valley of the Shadow, where my computer search coordinates had suggested Huntington must be, was the perfect place for someone like him to hide — provided he could stay alive long enough. That was the trick for anyone setting up their abode in the Valley of the Shadow. Staying alive.

The headlights of my new limo revealed streets that slowly evolved from neat neighborhoods to slums increasingly littered with trash and bodies. I threw the wheel to the side to avoid hitting what appeared to be a staggering drunk, then sped up to hit the three thugs attempting to stop me so they could hijack the limo.

I heard the satisfying crunch of one of the would-be thief’s legs under the wheel, and for some reason it gave me a warm, satisfied feeling inside.

The Valley of the Shadow doesn’t look much different from most run-down sections of any city, though it did have a lower level of morality, no doubt reading in the negative range if any psychologist had ever bothered to measure it. But it wasn’t named the Valley of the Shadow for its lack of morality or the danger it presented to those entering the area, or even the sudden death it often rewarded to those who ventured into it.

Rather, it was so named because of the 20-square-mile solar array high above the area that blocked the sunlight, putting it into eternal night. Originally giant sun lamps had been erected to help counter this problem. But the residents soon destroyed them and eventually Topeka’s city fathers had grown tired of sending in crews to replace the expensive orbs, only to lose the repairmen to knives and bullets.

So now the Valley of the Shadow dwelt in eternal night.