Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  Lee started to speak, but Omo raised a hand. “Hear me out . . . There’s more. You’re pretty. A mask will hide that to some extent, but not entirely. And when mutant women compare themselves to you, they will come up short and hate you for it. And the men? The men will want you for all sorts of reasons, many of which aren’t very pretty. So keep your guard up. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.”

  Lee was thinking about that when Omo glanced at the driver’s side rearview mirror. “Uh, oh . . . Man with a gun! Duck!”

  Lee ducked and had her hand on the Glock when she heard the roar of a motorcycle and a series of thumps. White goo covered most of the driver’s side window. A motorcyclist flipped them the bird as he raced away. “What happened?” Lee inquired as she sat up.

  “We took some hits from a paintball gun,” Omo replied calmly. “That’s what happens when you ride around with a huge M on the side of your truck.”

  “Yeah,” Lee said soberly. “That would explain it. I’m sorry.”

  It took awhile for the adrenaline to fade away. But once it did, Lee managed to sit back and relax. It was a sunny day, and there was plenty to see. Some if it was pretty, like the well-watered circles of green cropland and the tidy farmhouses that sat adjacent to them.

  But there were vast glittering tracts of solar panels, too . . . They weren’t very pleasant to look at but were an important source of power for the city of Los Angeles.

  Other areas hadn’t fared so well. Lee could see them from the freeway, ghost towns really, where rank after rank of nearly identical homes had succumbed to a combined assault by the forces of sun, wind, and rain.

  It was just before noon when they arrived in Beaumont. The city had been home to more than 125,000 people back before the plague but was a third that size now. Due to the fact that the community sat astride a main east–west highway, it had been chosen as the location for a so-called Transit Area or TA. Meaning a place where legal transients could pause as they traveled to and from the red zone. Had Omo stayed there on his way to LA? Probably. And that’s why he felt qualified to lecture her on what the facility was like.

  The TA was confined to the area south of the freeway that had once been known as the Sun Lakes Country Club. A spot chosen during the early days of the plague because the golf course could be fenced off for use as an internment camp.

  But “improvements” had been made since then. And as Omo turned off I-10, and onto Highland Springs Avenue, Lee could see the guard towers in the distance. There were four of them, all connected by a twelve-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire. As the truck drew closer, Lee decided that the TA looked more like a prison than a rest stop.

  As Omo turned left onto an access road, the wall was straight ahead. The only way in or out was a massive gate flanked by gun emplacements. “They lock that thing at 6:00 P.M.,” Omo told her. “So we’ll need to exit by then or stay the night.”

  The truck came to a stop behind a line of other vehicles. All were of uncertain lineage and all bore a telltale “M.” As they were cleared, Omo was able to creep forward until he was level with the security shack. The security personnel wore army uniforms and carried automatic weapons. A corporal stepped forward as the truck came to a halt. She had a snub nose, freckles, and a cleft chin. “ID please.”

  Both officers surrendered their badge cases. The corporal scanned them and made eye contact with Lee. “No offense, ma’am. But it’s dangerous in there.”

  “So I hear,” Lee said. “But that’s where I need to go.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you say so. The gate will be locked at 1800 hours—and no one will be allowed to leave until 0600. Any questions? No? Here are your passes. Park in the lot.”

  Omo handed one of the passes to Lee. “Fun place, huh?”

  The parking lot was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence and half-filled with a wild assortment of cars and trucks. The heat fell on Lee like a hammer as she left the air-conditioned truck. It would have felt good to remove the cotton jacket, but she couldn’t do that without revealing her weapons.

  She was busy placing a formfitting, self-adhesive mask over her face as Omo rounded the front of the truck. He was wearing his cowboy hat, Levi’s, and boots. He nodded. “Remember . . . You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb. And we’re cops . . . They can tell, and word of that will spread fast. Okay . . . Let’s do this thing.”

  As they followed a couple dressed in black robes through the gate, Lee heard a keening noise that might have been music, followed by the distant chatter of a power tool and grunting sounds from the animal pens located on the left.

  Now the reality of the situation struck her. She had entered Freak Town. And mutants were all around her, some of whom were carriers. Yes, she was wearing a mask. But B. nosilla was in the air. And B. nosilla could kill her. She struggled to control her fear.

  “There are two classes of people here,” Omo said, as they passed an open-air bar. “Transients and the people who live here full-time. They make their livings by providing services to travelers.”

  The throat-clogging stench of animal feces hung heavy in the air as they passed a pen filled with goats and entered a maze of passageways. The buildings, if they could be dignified as such, were ancient “high-cube” shipping containers. They stood a little over nine feet tall, were forty-eight feet long, and came in a wild selection of sun-faded colors. Light red, blue, and green were the most common. With few exceptions, one end of each container was left open so that hardworking fans could push at least some of the hot air outside.

  A complex network of crisscrossed ropes ran back and forth above the passageways and supported a wild assortment of laundry along with overlapping sheets, faded curtains, and plastic tarps. All of which combined forces to provide the warren of passageways with a modicum of shade.

  As the path narrowed, Lee began to pay more attention to the residents. An elderly woman with an eye at the center of her forehead glared at Lee from a tiny taqueria. A three-armed man shuffled past. He had a dusty suitcase strapped to his back and was staring at his feet. A child with a metal nose appeared out of the shadows. She tugged at Lee’s sleeve. “You’re beautiful,” she said brightly. “Are you real?”

  “She’s real,” Omo said gruffly. “Now run along.” The girl vanished into a side passage.

  “So,” Omo said. “I assume you have a plan.”

  “Yes,” Lee answered. “An informer named Izzi Tubin lives here. He runs a bar called Hyundai 461.”

  “That’s the name and number on the side of his container,” Omo said. “I’ve been there. Follow me. I think I can find it.”

  Lee followed Omo down a long passageway past a shop selling tie-dyed shirts and a small pharmacia to the courtyard beyond. A dry fountain marked the center of the open area. It looked like something left over from the country club.

  Eight containers were pointed at the fountain, and most of them were open. “There,” Omo said, “on the other side of the plaza. That’s what we’re looking for.”

  A dog with two tails lay panting in a patch of shade and could barely muster the energy required to track the visitors with its eyes as they walked past. The sound of Salsa music grew louder as they entered the bar and followed an open pathway back through a maze of small tables. A man with a tumor growing out of the left side of his head was seated at one of them. He was smoking a joint and reading a tattered book. As Lee passed the man, she felt a breeze ruffle her hair. It was driven by the enormous floor fan that whirred loudly as it panned back and forth.

  A long bar ran down the left side of the room, with a line of booths on the right. Omo bellied up to the bar, and Lee did likewise. The bartender was wearing a blue bandana and had a mouthful of crooked teeth. Some of them looked like fangs. His eyes were a beautiful green color, however—and they flicked from Omo to Lee and back. “What’ll it be?”

  “A cou
ple of beers,” Omo said. “Cold beers if you’ve got ’em.”

  The man nodded, turned to the water-filled cooler behind him, and chose two brown bottles. He popped the caps, inserted straws, and pushed them forward. B. nosilla was an airborne disease so they should be safe. Lee sure as hell hoped so.

  “Thanks,” Lee said as she gave the bartender a ten. “Keep the change. Is Mr. Tubin in? I’d like to speak with him.”

  The bartender turned and walked back toward the far end of the container. Lee’s throat was parched. So she stuck the straw in through the drink valve in her mask and sucked some cold beer into her mouth. The liquid felt great going down. The bartender returned. “Mr. Tubin will see you. Go straight back.”

  Lee said, “Thanks,” and followed Omo back to a table covered with rows of playing cards. And there, sitting behind the game of solitaire, was a man with two horns protruding from his forehead. The rest of his face was fleshy but normal. “Two cops,” he said disgustedly as he looked up at them. “One is too many.”

  Lee sat without asking for permission. Omo did likewise but positioned himself to watch the front door. “My, my,” Lee said disapprovingly. “You have a very negative attitude for a man who sells information to the LAPD on a regular basis. Hmm . . . Maybe an award for good citizenship is in order. What would your friends make of that?”

  A pair of very large hands swept the cards into a single pile. “What do you want?” Tubin demanded.

  “That’s better,” Lee said sweetly. “We’re looking for a girl. This girl,” Lee said as she pushed a photo of Amanda Screed across the table. “She was snatched off Rodeo Drive in LA. The kidnappers might try to take her east.”

  Tubin ran a snakelike tongue over blubbery lips as he eyed the picture. “She’s pretty.”

  “Yes,” Omo said. “She is. Have you seen her?”

  “No.”

  “Have you heard about her? Or heard about a snatch?” Lee inquired.

  “No,” Tubin reiterated. “But there is a man who might know . . . A norm who smuggles packages in and out of the red zone.”

  “He lives here?” Omo inquired. “In the TA?”

  “No,” Tubin replied. “But he spends time here. He’s one of the few norms who do.”

  “What’s his name?” Lee wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” Tubin replied. “But they call him Wheels.”

  “Okay,” Omo said. “Where does Wheels live? We’d like to speak with him.”

  Tubin eyed Lee. “That’ll cost a hundred nu.”

  Lee looked at Omo. He nodded. “Okay, but with the following understanding . . . If you warn Wheels, or if we walk into a trap, you’re going to be one dead son of a bitch. Do you read me, freak?”

  Lee was surprised by both the threat and the use of the “F” word, but Tubin wasn’t. He scowled. “You know my rep . . . That’s why you’re here.”

  Lee placed two bills on the table. Tubin chose a pencil from the clutter at his elbow, licked the lead, and wrote something on a napkin. Omo accepted it, and the money disappeared. “You’re bad for business,” Tubin said. “Get out of my bar.”

  So they left, and after asking strangers for directions, wound up in front of a stack. “There it is,” Omo said. “The one on the top is Maersk 213.”

  A set of metal stairs had been welded to the outside surface of the three-container stack. They led up to a catwalk and a series of doors. “It looks like someone divided the container into rooms,” Omo said. “We’re looking for number eight.”

  Their boots made clanging noises as they followed the stairs up to the catwalk. Washing had been hung out to dry along the rail that bordered the catwalk, most of the doors had been left ajar so that fans could blow the hot air out, and Lee could hear the faint tinkle of music coming from one of the compartments. A cat watched them from a doorway, and a man wearing a sombrero sat dozing in the sun. “Here we go,” Omo said, “numero ocho.”

  Lee saw that a huge number eight had been painted on the door with two eyes in the upper circle. But, unlike the rest of them, the door was closed. And that signaled what? That Wheels wasn’t home? Or that he had a penchant for security?

  Omo held a finger up to the point where his lips would be and produced a picklock. Lee frowned, but he ignored her. The pick went into the keyhole, Omo went to work with it, and presto! The door gave slightly. Lee stood to one side as Omo toed it open. Nothing. No shouts of outrage—and no shotgun blast. Illegal as hell—but a clean entry.

  Lee looked around to see if their activities had attracted any attention and was pleased to see that they hadn’t. None she could detect, at any rate. Lee followed Omo inside and was careful to secure the door. It was hotter than hell, but if Wheels returned, she didn’t want to tip him off.

  The room was equipped with a wall-mounted sink, a filthy toilet, and a small refrigerator. The motor was running full out. A bed with rumpled sheets completed the furnishings. The walls were hung with photos of fast cars, naked women, and a fly-specked mirror. “What a dump,” Omo said as he looked around. “So what do you think? Shall we wait for Mr. Wheels to return home?”

  “We shouldn’t be here,” Lee said. “Entering someone’s home without a warrant is against the law.”

  Omo laughed. “Give me a break. You threatened to expose an informer twenty minutes ago, and now you’re Miss Goody Two Shoes. Besides, have you seen any law around here? They lock the gate at night and let the freaks fight it out.”

  Lee knew Omo was right. “Okay, point taken. We’ll stay for a while. If we can hack the heat.”

  Omo opened the refrigerator. “Well! Look what we have here . . . Plenty of cold beer. And a six-pack of Coke. That will help.”

  “I’ll take a Coke,” Lee said.

  “Coming up,” Omo agreed, and brought two cans over to a tiny plastic table. It had been white once—but that was long ago. Now it was gray and covered with stains. Omo took his jacket off and draped it over a chair. That was when Lee saw the guns. One under each arm. What are you carrying?” she inquired. “Colt .45s?”

  “Nope,” Omo replied. “Pythons with six-inch barrels.”

  “Lord . . . How long does it take you to drag one of those hog legs out into the open?”

  “About an hour. So give me plenty of notice if the shit is about to hit the fan.”

  Lee laughed and realized that she was starting to like Omo. Don’t do it, she told herself. Not if you want him to survive. Remember what happened to Conti.

  Time started to slow after that. So as the hours dragged by, they sipped drinks and told each other about their families. Omo’s was huge, and from the sound of things, closely supervised by his mother.

  Lee told Omo about her father without going into his death, her days as a street cop, and the climb to detective. “So you like it,” Omo said. “And you’re good at it.”

  Lee shrugged. “Yes, and no . . . I think what I do makes a difference. But I detest all of the bureaucratic bullshit.” That was when they heard voices, and a key rattled in the lock. Both got up off their chairs, and Omo flipped the wall switch.

  The darkness was only momentary, however, because as the door opened, the lights came back on. That was when Omo grabbed the man and jerked him into the room. A woman stood in the doorway. She was about to run when Lee got a grip on her long black hair. The suspect cried out in pain as the detective pulled her into the metal box and kicked the door closed.

  The man was on tiptoes by then with one of Omo’s pistols up under his chin. He had long, stringy hair, eyes like black marbles, and was sporting a military-style mask with a replaceable filter cartridge on one side. His voice was muffled. “Who are you people?”

  “I’m the guy with the gun,” Omo answered evenly. “Now let’s talk about you. Are you the scumbag they call Wheels?”

  Just then the door opened and a man carrying a c
ase of beer entered. He had a very prominent supraorbital ridge, a barrel-shaped chest, and a gravelly voice. “Wheels? Vicki? What’s going on here?”

  “Stomp ’em!” Wheels shouted. “They’re trying to rip me off!”

  Lee had released Vicki and was reaching for the Glock when the giant threw the case of beer at her. The natural reaction was to catch it, which she did, but the weight knocked her over.

  Omo let go of Wheels in order to confront the new threat, and the norm made a run for it. Vicki was right behind him, and both of them managed to escape. That left the police officers to cope with the giant. He raised an enormous pair of hands as they pointed their weapons at him. “Okay, no problem . . . I’m out of here.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Omo said. “Where will Wheels go?”

  The giant frowned. “Who knows? He might go anywhere.”

  “Okay,” Lee said. “Shoot him in the knee . . . That’ll make him talk.”

  The giant was visibly alarmed. “No! Don’t do that . . . He likes to hang out in the Blue Pig.”

  Omo was holding one of the Pythons in his right hand. He pulled the hammer back to full cock. The clicking sound seemed unnaturally loud. “And if Wheels isn’t at the Blue Pig?”

  “Then he might show up at Pancho’s or the Road Kill.”

  “Sit down,” Lee said, and waved the Glock toward a chair. “Find his cell phone, Ras . . . Then rip some sheets. We’ll tie big boy to the chair.”

  It took the better part of fifteen minutes to secure the mutant to the chair and give him some parting advice. “You’ll work your way free,” Omo predicted. “After you do, go home and get a good night’s sleep. Because if we run into you on the street or in a bar, it’s going to hurt real bad. Do you understand me?”

  The giant looked like a mummy. A strip of cloth covered his mouth. All he could do was grunt and nod. “Good,” Omo said. “Have a nice evening.” And with that they left.

  It was still early, and people were collecting in the bars. Lee heard the distant thump, thump, thump of bass as they arrived on the street. “So what do you think?” Omo inquired. “Should we get while the getting’s good? Or go barhopping?”