Vertical City Box Set [Books 1-4]

by George S. Mahaffey Jr.

  In one instant it’s booming, the weight of authority behind it, and in another it’s softer, more reasonable. His is the voice of a holy man, of a seducer, of a salesman fighting to convince people to undertake actions they might never have otherwise considered.

  “They have come amongst us,” Odin says. “A terror to all that are around them, having resolved themselves by weak means to destroy all that we’ve built. But the mischief they’ve plotted and the violence they’ve offered and exercised will be brought down upon their own heads and I will burn them up in and dung the ground with their flesh.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” I say.

  “Us, he’s talking about us, Wyatt,” Naia replies.

  “He’s an asshole and an idiot,” Asian Phil says.

  “No, he’s not,” Brixton says. “You could take a stroll through Odin’s deepest, darkest thoughts and get plenty wet. The man’s a straight-up destroyer of worlds.”

  “Either way he’s lost his mind,” Del Frisco offers.

  “You’re assuming he had one to begin with,” Brixton adds.

  Odin continues to babble like some kind of deranged prophet, frightening those who’ve sought shelter in the chamber even more. Some drops to their hands and begin praying to him while others fight to shout his voice down. And yet his voice continues to rise through the speakers and I hear these final words:

  “When a people have grown to such a height of blood and deceit against the one, true ruler, they shall all be put to the sword and suffer the most terrible of deaths that can be imagined.”

  BOOM!

  The doors to the room explode and a barrage of gunfire rings out.

  Figures swim in and out of focus, but I can see Shooter, holding a machine-gun, backed by a dozen of his men.

  They make no distinction between us and those seeking shelter in the room, opening up on anything that moves.

  People fall where they stand, cut down in a wall of lead. Mad Meg is winged in the arm, the bullet tearing through the soft flesh in the space between her bicep and shoulder. She doesn’t even cry out, sinking to one knee, wrapping her shirt around the wound as we retreat to the far side of the room and tip over a pair of wooden desks for a barricade.

  We return fire and then one of Shooter’s men tosses a grenade at us. The grenade bounces and spins toward us and Brixton displays some his athletic prowess by wearing forward and dropping low to kick away the grenade which explodes and kills one of Shooter’s men.

  Brixton and Donkey snipe from our makeshift blind, wounding or crossing over a few of Shooter’s men, buying Brixton some time to double back.

  I peak over the blind and spot Shooter directing his soldiers, urging them to advance.

  I fire my pistol at him, but it’s as if he anticipated the shot, twisting to the left before the bullet can strike him down. He vanishes in the smoke, bullets eating into our blind, a grenade air-bursting thirty-feet away, bringing a portion of the drop-ceiling down in an ear-splitting crash.

  “There are too many!” Naia says.

  Using the smoke as a screen, we fall back, zigzagging across the chamber only to see more of Odin’s men rushing through the foyer. We slide to the left, hip-firing at them, scuttling over a breezeway that ends in a vestibule jumbled with industrial and commercial equipment, some of the crap the Jumper teams brought back from the outside world.

  Hiding behind a generator, I look back but don’t see Shooter of any of his men pursuing.

  We quickly knock down several of the bulkier items near us: four industrial fans, a cooling machine, two generators and the like, to form a blockade. Then we reload and wait, but nothing stirs at the other end of the breezeway.

  “There’s a reason they didn’t follow us,” Brixton says.

  “They’re scared?”

  Brixton shakes his head.

  “There’s something they’re hunting for on fourteen.”

  He motions down with his eyes and then he peers at each of us.

  “There’s a detonator there.”

  There’s silence for a few seconds.

  “What – are you serious?” I ask.

  “As a fire at an orphanage,” Brixton replies.

  “Jesus, Brixton.”

  “It’s the final solution. Odin gave the order to roll us up.”

  Naia looks over at me, perplexed.

  “What?” Naia asks. “What does that mean?”

  “They want to do it like we did before when you saved me, Naia,” I say. “They want to blow the whole building up with us in it.”

  21

  “They had a meeting,” Brixton says, everyone standing around him. “Odin and upper-management convened a real quick pow-wow on thirty when they found out you and your friend had come back into the building with the Dubs in tow.”

  “They probably had it set up all along,” Del Frisco says, slapping his hands together.

  “Or maybe he’s just playing the cards he’s been dealt,” Asian Phil says.

  “He always was an opportunistic bastard,” Brixton says. “What better way to be remembered that to go out in a blaze of glory? Drain the goddamn sea to kill the fish.”

  I listen to the others talk and wonder whether Odin, the master tactician, did indeed have this planned all along. Maybe he let me and Naia escape knowing we’d probably be forced back into the building again which would provide justification for martyring himself and rolling the entire building up. The notion that it was all planned out is a fluke and hard to fathom, but then I remember Dad always said there are no coincidences, no real ones at least. Soon Brixton and Naia are arguing and I turn back.

  “So let’s get the hell out of this death-trap before they do the deed,” she says.

  “Not enough time, little lady.”

  She glares at him.

  “I’m not climbing down the outside of a goddamn skyscraper again.”

  “I don’t fancy that route either.”

  “Well then quit the hand-wringing and sack up, big man,” Del Frisco says, “‘cause I got us a way out of this mess and it starts with doing a little spidering.”

  Brixton studies Del Frisco and his bruised face and mutilated hands.

  “You take a look in the mirror lately, kid?” Brixton asks Del Frisco.

  “Hell no.”

  “Cause you look like a sack of smashed arseholes.”

  “I feel twice as bad.”

  They trade a long look.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking we beat Shooter and his boys to that detonator.”

  “Sounds dodgy.”

  “We ain’t got time to beat him to the Flatlands. He’d bring the building down on us ‘fore we hit the first floor.”

  “Okay, so we go for the detonator,” Brixton says. “Then what?”

  Del Frisco’s eyes go wide.

  “That’s as far as I got with the plan.”

  Brixton looks to me. “Your mate here seems two sandwiches short of a picnic.”

  “Yeah, but he’s the best damn Jumper I’ve ever seen.”

  Brixton eyes his people who don’t have anything better to offer.

  “Alright, we’ve chosen our madness,” he says. “We make a run for the detonator. Let’s do this.”

  Knowing that we’re going to have to beat Shooter down to fourteen, Brixton leads us on a mad dash across porticos and through entranceways and exit doors, keeping an ear out for any sign of danger.

  We’re forced to confront the Dubs when slashing down a mezzanine, all the while listening to Odin continue to preach hellfire (speaking of himself in the third person now), his voice seeming to echo from every nook and cranny of the building:

  “Come, behold the works of Odin, what desolations he has and will make of this place!” he thunders.

  Asian Phil shoots an overhead speaker, silencing Odin’s voice for the moment.

  “We’re close!” Brixton says, pointing. “Just up ahead!”

  I wat
ch him kick down a white door and then he’s falling forward, his momentum carrying him into the nothingness as Donkey grabs his back and steadies him.

  The room on the other side of the door (and the room above it), have pancaked onto the two floors beneath us. Whether this was done deliberately or caused by an explosion up above I can’t tell, but all that’s left is the metal framework of the drop-ceiling on our floor (extending below the roof all around the room) and a tongue of flooring near our door and another one on the opposite side of the space.

  Maybe thirty-feet below us are four or five-dozen Dubs who were caught in the collapse. They peer up at us and snatch at the air and then Del Frisco whistles and points.

  In the middle of the room, fixed to a section of metal roof framing, is something Del Frisco and I have seen before.

  A collection of explosives and a detonator.

  Brixton was right. Someone, I imagine Odin or a team at his request, planted the materials there in the event that they had to blow the building up. They were exposed when the floor above us collapsed.

  “Can you shoot it down?” I ask Brixton, pointing at the detonator.

  “I could try, but all it takes is one stray shot and then boom! we’re dust.”

  “I’ll go,” Del Frisco says quietly. “I’ll go out and get it.”

  “You do know that you ain’t got all your digits right, ace?” Brixton says.

  “They was just holding me back anyway,” Del Frisco says with a smirk. Then, holding up his three good fingers, “all I need is these three bad boys and I’m solid.”

  The rest of us grab sections of the ceiling frame, steadying the structure as Del Frisco jumps up four feet and grabs the metal … and slips.

  Falls.

  Back onto solid ground, nearly nosediving into the Dubs before Brixton grabs and steadies him.

  “Real talk time, kid,” Brixton says. “You need to stand down.”

  “I was just clearin’ the smoke outta my head,” Del Frisco replies.

  He jumps again, still unsteady, three fingers on his right hand hooked around the metal like a monkey as Brixton calls out:

  “Just cut the plunger’s lifeline from the demo blocks and we’ll be right as rain.”

  Del Frisco nods, his lats fanning out, a rawness in his moves.

  He works his way forward, inch by inch, scaling across the metal.

  I grimace when he’s forced to grip a jagged section of the frame, blood streaming between his fingers. The blood drops down onto the Dubs who go berserk, fighting each other for the droplets.

  It’s at that moment that one of the Dubs points up, then another, then three more begin moaning and pounding on the floor. Another grabs a desk and mounts it and jumps at Del Frisco, missing him by less than two feet. Brixton shoots down the enterprising Dub, but two more take its place.

  “Hurry!” I shout.

  Del Frisco swings himself toward the detonator and explosives, more Dubs jumping and mounting objects to get a swing at him. A female Dub throws a paper-weight at Del Frisco, hitting him in the back.

  One finger slips away, then another, Del Frisco’s body twirling like a leaf in a strong breeze.

  He’s only hanging on by one finger and I close my eyes and when they flap back open he’s miraculously latched his other hand across the metal and continues forward.

  Inch by nerve-wracking inch Del Frisco goes until he works himself into a good rhythm, making excellent time.

  Relief floods through me like a wonderful drug, my unease melting away.

  How could I have doubted him? After all the long-range patrols and miraculous escapes and gravity-defying ledge jumps.

  The most outwardly unremarkable Jumper of us all is the only one who’ll be remembered.

  The long-haired, rock-and-roll-quoting wildman who ventured out on three or four good fingers to save us all from ourselves!

  And then the other man jumps at him.

  The one who was lurking in the shadows on the other side of the room. The one who vaults out and grabs the metal framework with such force that it nearly pulls away from the roof.

  It takes me a second or two to realize it’s the man who trained all of us.

  It’s Shooter.

  He’s bleeding from what might be a bullet wound, scowling, his body yoked to a rucksack and harness of some kind.

  He grunts and pitches himself forward and I cry out, locking eyes with Shooter and three or four of his men who are visible on what’s left of the floor behind him on the other side of the room, rifles raised. We lift our weapons, but Shooter and Del Frisco are so quickly intertwined, it’s impossible to open fire without hitting one of them.

  Shooter howls and rocks back and I can see that he’s hooked to a wire leader that pays out from his rucksack and leads back to his men who hold it for safety. He’s got a definite advantage over Del Frisco as he dives forward and grabs at the explosives.

  Del Frisco swings at him and now the men are throwing punches with their free hands, fighting for the detonator.

  Del Frisco jabs and Shooter ducks and head-butts him, but Del Frisco’s face was so brutalized before it’s difficult to discern what new damage has been done.

  Shooter taunts Del Frisco, twirling, kicking him in the ribs. Once, twice, four times he punts Del Frisco who coughs up a ball of blood.

  “You always thought you were my equal, didn’t you, you little shit!”

  “Nah, Shoot,” Del Frisco says, teeth bared, fighting to maintain his grip. “I never once thought that.”

  Shooter smiles broadly, pulling his legs back and under his torso.

  “Reason was, I always knew I was better than you,” Del Frisco adds.

  Shooter springs at Del Frisco’s midsection, intent on dislodging him when Del Frisco muscles himself up.

  It’s a move I once saw a gymnast do on an Olympic video Gus had. A motion where the gymnast’s weight was positioned almost entirely on the triceps, allowing him to explode into the air.

  Del Frisco does exactly the same thing, setting his body back and propelling himself up a good two-feet into the air. The twenty-four inches is sufficient to allow him to avoid Shooter’s outstretched hands.

  Shooter drops straight down.

  Past the metal framework, his harness eventually snapping him back as Del Frisco manages to snag onto the metal, grabbing the detonator and ripping it free from the explosives which fall along with Shooter.

  Shooter’s men fight to haul back the slack, but Shooter continues to hurtle down and then he levels off, his body swinging back like a pendulum, smacking against a wall on the collapsed floor below us.

  The Dubs, who’ve been watching the whole thing, fight over themselves to get at the fresh meat.

  Shooter, bad back and all, dangles there like a puppet, arms clawing at the barren walls. He shouts at his men to pull back on the harness and they do, but there’s not enough time.

  Brixton takes a bead on Shooter’s back and then I grab the barrel of his gun and ease it down.

  Shooter pushes back and plants his feet and grabs the harness and begins pulling himself up the far wall when the first Dub swipes at him, grabbing his hair, ripping his body back. Panic quickly sets in, Shooter fighting to free himself.

  In seconds, Shooter’s being dragged to the ground, along with two of his men who are ensnared in the harness and pulled down.

  We can’t see exactly what happens next, but the three men are piled on by at least thirty or forty Dubs who each take their turn pulling off bits of flesh and strings of pulpy intestines. Before I can speak a word, all that’s left is a soup of gristle and bones in a bloody wash.

  I look away as the final gurgles stop, then shout for Del Frisco to hurry back.

  The remainder of Shooter’s muscle are so shocked at the sight of their boss becoming a meal that they’ve stopped paying attention to Del Frisco.

  He’s a few feet from us when one of the goons shakes off his surprise and begins firing. Then the others
empty out their guns as Brixton and his people return fire.

  And in the middle of the firefight is Del Frisco, dangling by his lonesome, swinging back across a battlefield as bullets shred the air.

  One nearly takes off his head, another pierces the cuff on his trousers.

  The lead shooter, a female Prowler, takes a bead on Del Frisco. She’s on the verge of planting some lead in his back and I scream for him to jump as—

  The lights go out and it’s suddenly as black as the cover of a Bible and then—

  WHUNK!

  The red lights from the back-up generators kick on, startling everyone, giving Del Frisco just enough time to climb forward.

  It’s no easy maneuver, but Del Frisco is able to scissor his legs and power forward between the bullets, sticking a landing between us.

  He tosses the detonator to Brixton who breaks it in half and flings a portion of it down at what’s left of Shooter as we fall back.

  The corridors are swollen with Dubs and people, the bodies so closely packed together, it’s often impossible to tell them apart.

  I stand there in a daze, realizing for the first time that I’m watching the world unwind a second time.

  I was here for the creation of it and now I’m watching the unmaking of the Vertical City.

  And then real time suckerpunches me, a Dub grabbing a little kid by the scruff of his neck a few feet away from me. The Dub’s about to savor the child’s flesh when I stiff-arm its body and flat-palm its jaw, giving the boy just enough time to rabbit off. The Dub’s ruined mouth twists back in a snarl and I slam my pistol between its teeth and blow its head off in a spray of black blood.

  The beast falls to the ground to reveal the others similarly engaged in close-quarters combat. Brixton throws a nasty uppercut that shatters a Dub’s face while his people kneel and aerate five Dubs who’ve emerged from a stairwell door. And beyond this is Zeus, crouched over the body of a Dub, pulling free the flesh from its ruined neck.

  “This is no good,” Brixton says. “Too many of them, too few of us.”

  “We have to get past the Keep,” Del Frisco says.

  “Only one way to do that, crazy man,” Brixton replies.

  “No,” I say, “no way, Brixton.”