Fear the Darkness

by Mitchel Scanlon

  There was something. She felt it almost the moment she let her thoughts fall silent: a dark and menacing presence at the very edge of her perceptions. Something. Somewhere. She could not tell what it was or which direction it was in, but she was abruptly sure it was in the Sector House with her. Somewhere. Some thing. It was so vague and diffuse she found it impossible to home in on. Some thing. A shadow. But she could feel it all around her. A shadow. Waiting. She could dimly sense it, even if trying to find its source was like having a word on the tip of her tongue. Waiting. Watching. It was in there with her, she was sure of it. Watching. Planning.

  Hungry.

  Abruptly, she thought she had it, but just as swiftly it was gone - as though whatever it was had realised she was looking at it and had drawn itself back into hiding in the darkness. But she would not be put off. This was her first absolute confirmation that what she had seen in Brophy's mind had not been a delusion. She had recognised the same psychic entity at work in the shadowy presence she felt in the Sector House and in the whispering voice that had helped drive Brophy to madness. A psychic signature. Granted, it was nothing she could take to Sector Chief Franklin as proof, but it was enough to convince her. And where she had sensed it once, she could sense it again. It was only a matter of continuing her chosen course of action. Wandering the corridors of the Sector House, keeping her mind clear and seeing what sensations came to her. Whatever it was it might have returned to hiding, but she refused to be discouraged. She would continue her search. She would find it again. And after that?

  After that, she could only hope for the best.

  Artie Gruber. Dolores Wilkerson. Greg Petersen. The Kinsey family. The bitchy Brit-Cit drag queen who lived in Apartment Forty-Three-B. By the time Jeffrey Queeg had gone door-to-door, visiting each of his neighbours in the apartments nearest his own in turn, he had been forced to reconsider his initial misgivings. Despite its dumb name, the AK-47 had worked like a charm. A pull on the trigger and it spat lead as good as any spit gun he had ever seen on the Tri-D. Admittedly, with the way the gun jumped and bucked around on full auto, it meant the bullets tended to go everywhere. In a lot of ways though, that only made Jeffrey's life easier; with the gun spraying so many shots about it was not like he could miss the target. Anyway, a few stray rounds here and there hardly mattered; he had plenty of bullets left. Not to mention plenty of his neighbours left who still needed killing.

  I'm going to kill them all, Jeffrey thought, feeling himself gripped by a sudden and dizzying sense of freedom. Every guy who ever jostled me in the hallway; every woman who ever refused to look at me; every kid whose screeching kept me awake all night. Anyone who ever bullied or hurt me. The voice was right. Sinners, that's what they are. Each and every one of them. They need to be punished.

  All the same, with eight bodies behind him already, Jeffrey had been on the receiving end of a few revelations. In all the action shows he had seen on Tri-D, when someone was shot they were always knocked backwards a few metres by the force of the impact. It turned out this was a myth. In real life, things were different. The people he shot tended to crumple to the ground when the bullets struck them, their bodies shaking and flopping around for a while before they died. It was a lot less dramatic than on Tri-D, but as disappointed as he was at the lack of spectacle, Jeffrey decided there was not much he could do about it. What happened when human beings got shot was just what happened. It wasn't like it was within his power to change it.

  What had surprised him even more though was the way some people reacted when they realised he had come to kill them. Artie and the drag queen had begged for their lives and acted largely as he thought they would. Dolores Wilkerson, though, had offered him her body - not that he had accepted it, seeing as she was a skank. Then there was the Kinsey woman. Where Jeffrey had expected her to run when he started firing, instead she had thrown herself in front of the bullets to try to save her kids. Not that it had mattered at all in the end. He had killed them anyway. It had been an eye-opener though, seeing how people responded to opening their front doors and finding a man with a gun waiting on the doorstep. If nothing else, it certainly made things a bit more interesting.

  Guess it just goes to show you, Jeffrey thought as he made his way jauntily down the hallway in search of his next victim. You don't really know what people are like until they are right up against it, staring death in the face. That's when the truth comes out, and by then it's too late.

  The gun, Jeffrey, the voice whispered to him in his head. The assault rifle. It is out of ammunition. You will need to reload it.

  Removing the AK-47's magazine, Jeffrey saw that the voice was right. Abruptly, he remembered he had forgotten to reload the gun after all the excitement of killing the Kinseys. Hurriedly taking another magazine from inside his coat, Jeffrey breathed a sigh of relief. Imagine if he had kicked in the door to the next apartment, only to find his gun was empty? It could have been embarrassing, all right. Killing people sure could be a complicated business. Not for the first time, Jeffrey found himself thanking Grud he had the voice with him to keep an eye out for all the details.

  Ever since twenty-odd minutes ago when Jeffrey's murder spree had first begun in earnest, the voice had been helping him: telling him how many people were inside an apartment before he kicked the door down, giving him thoughtful tips and advice, whispering encouragement. When Greg Peterson had suddenly bolted from his apartment while Jeffrey was killing Dolores Wilkerson next door, the voice had warned him in a nick of time - giving Jeffrey the chance to gun down Peterson before he could reach the lifts and get away. Of course, the voice's help did not come without a price. Every time Jeffrey killed somebody, the voice asked him to leave a message behind, written on a wall in the victim's blood. The voice even told Jeffrey what to write. Mostly it was the same word, over and over, but sometimes the voice added other words and phrases to vary it a little. To be honest, it was kind of gross. It was bad enough to feel warm sticky blood on his hand, never mind the way it congealed and stuck under Jeffrey's fingernails afterwards. If the voice asked him to do something, though, Jeffrey was hardly in a position to refuse. Having the voice with him was like having an extra pair of eyes and ears working on his behalf. The voice was his special friend. His guardian angel. With the voice there to help him, Jeffrey felt like he was immortal.

  The man in Forty-Six-A has a stump gun hidden inside his closet, the voice whispered to him. Be careful of him.

  "You think I should leave him alone?" Jeffrey said. He found he had lost his earlier inhibitions about speaking to the voice aloud. Now that he had a gun in his hand it did not seem to matter anymore what people thought of him. "Go on to the next one instead?"

  He is a sinner, Jeffrey, the voice said. He must be judged. Ring his doorbell, but make sure you stay out of sight. When you hear him come to the door, shoot through the peephole. Use the Magnum, Jeffrey. It has more penetration.

  "Okay," Jeffrey said. "Boy, you sure do think of everything, voice. And you know an awful lot about guns and such."

  Thank you, Jeffrey. From its tone, the voice seemed pleased. But you do not need to call me "voice". I have a name. Uriel. Call me Uriel. In life I was... Abruptly the voice fell silent, as though some fleeting fragment of memory had made it uneasy. Then, its tone grew hard. The man in Apartment Forty-six-A. Kill him. Now.

  Wondering if he had inadvertently offended the voice in some way, Jeffrey did as he was told, staying hidden by the side of the door as he rang the bell of the apartment, the weight of the antique revolver feeling strange and ungainly in his hand as he listened for an answer. Then, as he heard footsteps from inside and waited for them to draw nearer, Jeffrey noticed the plasteen surface of the door beside him was painted a different shade from the others in the block.

  That's not battleship grey, he thought. It looks more like ash grey. Or maybe light gunmetal. When I tried to get them to change the colour of my door, Housing Department told me it was against the rules. The guy must ha
ve got a special dispensation. Bet he doesn't have a permit for that stump gun, either. Guy like that, he deserves all that's about to happen to him, and then some.

  "Leave me alone," he heard a man's voice on the other side of the door, querulous and frightened. "I've got a gun. And I heard the shooting and called the Judges. You hear me? The Judges are on their way. You'd better run."

  Now, Jeffrey, he heard the voice say in his head, calm yet urgent.

  Swiftly pressing the revolver's barrel against the peephole, Jeffrey pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening, while the recoil of the gun pushed back so painfully against his wrist that for an instant he thought he must have sprained it. Rubbing his wrist gingerly, Jeffrey listened with his ear against the door for a moment with bated breath. Everything was quiet, but though there was now a nearly fist-sized hole in the door where the peephole had been, Jeffrey was wary about putting his eye there to look inside it. The voice had said the guy had a stump gun.

  He is dead, Jeffrey, the voice whispered. He told the truth, however. The Judges are coming. They are in the building with us already.

  "Judges?" Jeffrey felt his mouth go dry. "Holy Grud, voice, I didn't think they'd get here so fast-"

  Uriel. My name is Uriel, the voice told him. I am an Angel of the Lord. I bring fire and retribution to this city. You are my proxy. You will not take the Lord Grud's name in vain.

  "Sorry, voi... Uriel," Jeffrey caught himself just in time. "I was just worried, is all. Judges are pretty tough. I don't know if I can take them."

  Calm yourself, Jeffrey, the voice said, patient and reassuring. I am with you. I have a plan. Listen to me. This is what I want you to do...

  "Can't find a pulse." Judge Harlan Reed pressed his fingers to the neck of a man lying sprawled facedown on the floor. "Multiple entry wounds in his back. Looks like he was making a run for it when he got shot."

  "Either that or the perp's got himself a gun that can shoot round corners," Judge Margaret Ebden said sarcastically. Her voice was tense, her Lawgiver in her hand as her eyes warily scanned the hallway before them. "You can leave checking for vitals to the med-teams, Reed - whenever the stomm they get here. We got us a perp to catch."

  Responding to a call of a futsie on the rampage at Charles Whitman Block, Reed had run into Ebden in the block lobby three minutes ago. Now, emerging from the elevator doors on the thirty-ninth floor, they had found the body of a man lying dead directly in front of them, with more corpses and dozens of expended shell casings littered all the way along the hallway.

  "Judge Ross to Control," Ross said. "Responding with Judge Ebden to futsie incident at Charles Whitman. Confirmed at least eight casualties so far on thirty-ninth floor. No ID on perp. Multiple shell casings on the floor indicate he's probably using some kind of spit gun. Requesting additional backup. Over."

  "Acknowledged," his helmet earpiece crackled into life. "Backup on its way. ETA: four minutes. Accessing block surveillance footage now. Will advise if we can ID or locate your perp for you. Sector Control out."

  "Backup?" Ebden's gaze did not waver from the hallway. "There's two of us here, Ross. Sounds to me like you need to grow some."

  "Procedure," he replied. "These block corridors can be a maze. We could end up needing help to find the perp."

  "If you say so." Ebden nodded towards the bodies. "You ask me, we follow the line of corpses and it should lead us right to him. Come on. Let's get hunting futsie."

  Flicking off the safety of his Lawgiver, Ross moved to the right of the hallway while, opposite, Ebden moved smoothly to the left. Advancing cautiously along his side of the corridor, Ross saw half a dozen bodies arranged in a haphazard pile on the floor with the word Judged written in bloody red letters on the wall beside them.

  "Drag marks on the floor," he said, looking down at the blood trails as he walked past the pile of bodies. "Looks like he must have killed them in their apartments and then dragged them out into the hallway. You see the message on the wall? You think the perp's trying to tell us he's some kind of Judge?"

  "I look like a shrink to you, Ross?" Ebden snorted in irritation as they pushed forward, further down the hallway. "This is a futsie we're talking about here, for drokk's sake. Grud knows why these guys do anyth-"

  There was a sound behind them. Recognising it as the soft thud of bodies falling to the ground, Ross whirled, catching sight of a bloodstained figure in an overcoat emerging smiling from his hiding place among the pile of corpses they had just walked past. The futsie! Ross's mind raced. He was hiding. That's why he moved the bodies. Ross tried to bring his Lawgiver to bear as, beside him, Ebden did likewise. But it was too late. Grinning, eyes shining out in crazed jubilation from a face painted in a scarlet mask of blood, the futsie lifted the oversized spit gun in his hands and fired. Ross caught a fleeting glimpse of Ebden from the corner of his eye, her body falling backwards as a bullet took her in the throat. He felt the impact as something struck his chest and helmet. And then...

  Then...

  Then, there was only pain.

  "Code Ninety-Nine Red." The Judge's voice was weak and faltering, his face pale with shock. Advancing on him as the man lay slumped wounded against the wall, for a moment Jeffrey thought the Judge's words were meant for him, until he realised he was talking to someone on his helmet radio. "Judges down at Charles Whitman. I think Ebden's dead. Judges down..."

  Once again, it had worked like a charm. Following the voice's whispered instructions, Jeffrey had stacked a pile of bodies in the hallway and hidden inside it. It had been uncomfortable waiting there, confronted on every side by the staring faces of his victims and feeling their dripping blood oozing over him. But the voice had been right. The Judges had walked right past him, allowing Jeffrey to get the drop on them. He had emptied nearly an entire magazine, but it had been worth it in the end. The woman Judge was dead. And the man? He soon would be.

  "Judges down..." The Judge tried to reach for his fallen Lawgiver, only to see Jeffrey kick it away. "Judges down. Merciful drokking Grud, somebody help me..."

  "You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain," Jeffrey said, standing over him and pointing the AK-47 at his face. "The voice - Uriel - he told me to tell you that." Looking down at the Judge, he saw frightened eyes gazing back at him. It made him feel strong. "You can't intimidate me any more," Jeffrey told him. "'A shape-changing pod person from the planet Dumb-As-Drokk Five'? I bet that doesn't seem so funny to you now, does it?"

  "Please," the Judge coughed, blood spluttering from his mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about. Please..."

  Kill him, Jeffrey, he heard the voice in his head, its tone hungry and eager. He is a sinner. He must be judged.

  "I don't have any argument with that," Jeffrey said. He pulled the trigger.

  "They'll send others, won't they?" he said afterwards. Gazing down at the body of the Judge, Jeffrey felt curiously lightheaded. I've killed Judges, he thought. Two of them. Everything seemed different now, like he had crossed a line somewhere without even knowing it. "They'll send more Judges. Lots of them. They'll try to kill me. They won't leave me alone. Not now."

  Remember I am with you, Jeffrey, the voice told him. Remember I am your shield. Your protector. I walk beside you.

  "But there's only the two of us," Jeffrey said. "And there's hundreds of Judges in this city. Thousands. How are we ever going to be able to take them all on?"

  Silence. The voice said nothing.

  "You know what to do, right?" Jeffrey found himself in need of comfort. "Voice... Uriel? You know what to do about the Judges?"

  Again, silence.

  "Uriel?" Jeffrey was beginning to feel alarmed. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but I mean... You do have a plan, right?"

  Yes, Jeffrey, I have a plan, the voice spoke at last. Jeffrey heard a new sound in his head, a strange sound that seemed to echo around inside his mind. It made him uneasy. It was a sound unlike anything he had heard from his guardian angel before.

  He co
uld have sworn it was laughter.

  TEN

  FREEDOM GOT AN AK

  "Emergency code ninety-nine red. Repeat: code ninety-nine red. Judges down in futsie incident at Charles Whitman Block. Judges down. All available units please respond!"

  "Acknowledged, Control. Psi-Judge Anderson responding. ETA to Whitman: five minutes. Requesting further details. Over."

  "Acknowledged, Anderson. Judges down are Ross and Ebden. No ID on the perp yet, but he's reported as armed with a spit gun. Other Judges and med-teams en route to the scene. Will advise you with further details as they become available. Control out."

  She had been walking the corridors of the Sector House, letting her mind wander freely as she attempted to track the entity, when she heard the call over the Sector House intercom. Code Ninety-Nine Red. The most foreboding phrase in the entire lexicon of the Justice Department. Even with her case unresolved, there was no way Anderson could ignore it. Nor would she want to. Code Ninety-Nine Red. Judges down. Somewhere, fellow Judges were in trouble. If there was one unwritten rule among the Judges of the Big Meg, it was that a code red meant "drop everything and haul ass to the scene as quickly as possible".

  Having retrieved her bike from the Sector House parking bay, Anderson pushed the accelerator as she sped along the meg-ways, skedways and overzooms to her destination. Brando. Nicholson. Hopper. McQueen. The Peter Fonda Memorial Interchange. The names of the streets on the way to Charles Whitman rushed past her while all the time she hoped she was not too late.