Dead Mann Running (9781101596494)

by Petrucha, Stefan

  I’d been thinking of disappearing on her, let her move in with Chester. The only thing stopping me was that I was sure she’d waste a lot of time trying to find me. That was one of the reasons she deserved better.

  Chester showed some intelligence right off. Gently peeling her away, he said, “I want you out of here, now. I sent a car to the office. If they’re not there, they will be soon. We’ll head to the station, sort things out, then you come back to my place for the night. Just for the night, if that’s how you want it.”

  I faked a cough to remind them I was there. Misty looked at me. Chester did not.

  “What about Hess?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, him, too. But definitely just for the night.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t thinking about me.” I lifted the briefcase. “I was thinking about the star of the show. Want a look-see?”

  He glanced at all the caffeine-fueled eyes watching us. “Save it for the station. Let’s go.”

  The crazy-rain had packed it in, but left a bastard child in the form of frigid mist. It was cold enough for me to feel the warmth from the squad car engine as we approached. I sat in the back with the mystery case, where the perps go, separated from the good guys by a metal grate.

  As I settled onto something sticky, two headlights went dark down Masters, a side street. Maybe the driver was parking, or maybe I was on some kind of postmortem detective roll.

  I rapped on the grate. “What time did you call in the shooting?”

  Chester started the car. “Soon as I was off the phone with Misty. Why?”

  “The man who attacked us was in uniform, driving a squad car. Hard not to consider the possibility the police are in on this.”

  I could see Chester’s eyes flare through the rearview. “You’re accusing the police?”

  I put my hands up in surrender. “Some of them…maybe one…just a thought. Where else do you get a police car? It was pretty scratched up. Missing any from the garage?”

  He pulled away from the curb, wordless. Misty eyed me like I’d spit in his mother’s eye. And then I remembered. His uncle used to be a cop until he was brought up on corruption charges. He was found guilty and serving time. I may as well have spit in his mother’s eye.

  Miffed, he kept his eyes on the road. Misty kept pointing at him, mouthing that I should say something to make nice.

  Shit. I wasn’t built for social pleasantries when I was alive. At the light, I shifted in my seat and cleared my throat. I guess I did it a little too hard. It felt like a piece came loose and tumbled into my gullet.

  “Chester, uh…Officer O’Donnell…”

  I hoped he’d stay true to form and not look at me, but with the light red, he turned and eyeballed me. It wasn’t physically uncomfortable, the way a deep emotion was for a chak, but I didn’t like it.

  “I didn’t mean anything. And…I know, I haven’t been exactly talkative around you, mostly because I figure you don’t want to hear from someone like me, but I wanted to say, you know, with Misty and all…thanks.”

  I could practically feel my hands clasped behind my back as I looked down and kicked at the floorboards. What was I, eight?

  Chester surprised me. Looking as uncomfortable as I felt, he said, “Ah, I dunno if I’ve been brainwashed from listening to Misty, but for what it’s worth, given what I know about the court system, I don’t think you killed your wife.”

  You think I’d be pleased to hear it. Instead, I got a quick, vengeful wave of nausea. I tried to come up with a response, but the silence got awkward and thankfully, the light changed. Green. Go.

  When he turned right down Masters, I was almost relieved to be feeling paranoid again. Down the block, a black stretch limo sat at the intersection, the highlights on its finish glowing red from the next traffic light. A limo’s something else you usually don’t see in this neck of the woods. Not a big nightclub area. Could be richies cruising for drugs, already so blotto they didn’t realize how conspicuous they were. But it was strange enough to be strange.

  “Which way you going?” I asked.

  Chester answered quick, eager to change the subject himself. “Through the park, past Collin Hills. Cuts a few minutes off the trip.”

  It’s great when the right choice is obvious, but there was a lot going on that didn’t fit into that category. I was still wondering if I should’ve given the case to Happy Jack. Technically, Chester was right, the park was faster, but it’s also more isolated. The main road, more lights, more people, was safer. I was debating whether to risk hurting his feelings again and say so, when the point became moot.

  He flashed his lights and bleeped the siren.

  “What is it?” Misty asked.

  “Asshole behind us has his headlights off. I should pull him over,” Chester said.

  Out the back window, a big shadow, maybe five yards behind, dogged us.

  “Wait…” I said, but that was moot, too.

  Instead of pulling over, the aforementioned asshole hit the gas and rear-ended us. We all flew forward, me more than the others, since I hadn’t put my seat belt on. It’s not always safer for a chak. Shoulder straps can dislodge bones, crack ribs, or worse.

  Chester found himself hugging the steering wheel. The world in which he lived, the one where people did not ram police cars, had changed.

  “What the fuck?”

  He was looking back when a squeal of rubber snapped my head forward. The limo ahead was making a wildly sharp turn. It stopped, wobbling like a boat on water, its big stretch-ass blocking most of the road.

  Have to hand it to him, Chester was fast. No sooner did I stop leaning forward from the impact, than I was pulled back by the car rushing ahead. It looked like he’d broadside the limo, but with a bump we were on the sidewalk, a clear path ahead.

  At least two steps ahead of me, Chester tossed the radio mic to Misty. I was starting to like him. “Call it in! Give them our location!”

  As Misty fumbled with the controls, the briefcase shuddered and flopped to the floor, reminding me it was there. The thought of having it damaged made Happy Jack nervous, so I wrapped myself around it like I was a dog and it was my master’s leg.

  “Easy on the GTA shit!” I barked. “This could be explosive!”

  Chester jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Tell it to them.”

  Headlights on now, our pursuer zoomed onto the sidewalk to follow. Farther behind, the limo backed up and turned, a whale trying to maneuver in a bathtub.

  A tired voice came over the radio. “Miss, please calm down so I can understand. Is the officer there?”

  Misty, of course, screamed. “You calm down! There are two fucking cars chasing us!”

  Chester grit his teeth and put his eyes on the road ahead. “Tell her we’re heading west on Masters, into Buell Park, and we need backup.”

  A few blocks ahead, I spotted the park entrance. Much as I hate backseat drivers, I said, “Not the park. You’ll crack up in there. Stay on the main road.”

  In response, he said what I was thinking. “Thanks for the advice, but shut the fuck up.”

  It was stupid of me to second-guess him during a chase, an amateur’s mistake. In the half second he’d taken to answer me, we nearly hit a hydrant. Unlike the movies, it wouldn’t have snapped off and sent a geyser into the air. It would’ve shredded the radiator and brought us to a quick halt.

  The bump as we slammed back onto the street set the squad car bouncing. My jaw nearly came unhinged. The corner of the briefcase slammed my upper leg. It would’ve been agony for a liveblood. I could only hope that when the chase was over I’d still be able to walk.

  The car behind us, some sort of notchback sedan, was catching up. The stretch limo was less than half a block behind and picking up speed. Maybe the park was the right move. The limo, at least, would never manage the paths. Which begged another question.

  “Who is stupid enough to use a stretch limo for an ambush? The same geniuses who stole a squad car?”

&n
bsp; This time, Misty said it: “Hess, shut the fuck up!”

  But it wasn’t my trusty assistant that finally put a cork in my mouth, it was physiology. The fast, bumpy ride hit my system like a heavy junk-food meal. All of a sudden, I was dizzy. The sickly yellow streetlights dovetailed with the asphalt blacks and building grays, turning the world into blurred puke. Focusing on our pursuers didn’t help. Their tinted windshield was a mirror, surrounded by the weaving and bobbing dark.

  The next thing I made out was the wrought-iron gates of Buell Park, getting bigger fast. Our front wheels hammered the incline leading up to the entrance. I don’t know how Misty and Chester took it, but my shoulders crunched down toward my chest so hard, I swear I was an inch shorter.

  Past the gate, we swung right onto a narrow paved path. Overgrown bushes and hanging branches scratched the finish like a mob of jilted girlfriends with keys. Nothing was big enough to stop us, though, except what looked like a tall mound of trash about a hundred yards ahead, blocking the path.

  Fort Hammer sanitation isn’t the best, but the park was usually cleaner than that. Then I noticed the trash was moving. Goners. They probably came to the park thinking the trees would shield them from the rain. Even birds and squirrels figure that much out.

  In short order, the headlights revealed limbs and torsos. There were at least three or four of them, but it was hard to tell exactly how many, what with them all huddled together. The tallest had a long, bearded face, kind of like Abe Lincoln. More together than the others, he’d seen us coming and was trying to move the group out of the way, like a momma duck herding her young out of the path of a tractor trailer.

  “Slow down!” I shouted.

  He didn’t. Just chakz, right? A little heavier than say, cornstalks, but like the branches, not enough to stop us.

  But Misty screamed, “Chester!” like she meant it.

  Even then, he didn’t slow down, but he veered. Turning the wheels on the icy path sent us into a skid. For a second, I thought we’d slam the goners. Instead, still spinning, we barreled into an over-full trash can. Making lemonade out of lemons, Chester steered into it, transforming the skid into a sharp left.

  I guess the driver behind us didn’t have anyone like Misty there to remind him of his better angels. He plowed straight into the chakz. Lincoln’s torso flew into the windshield. Arms stretched the width of the car, his head hit the frame above the glass. His legs, and the bodies of those he’d been trying to protect, were bashed by the grill then pulled under. The car went forward and over them.

  “Son of a bitch!” I screamed.

  Like I said, chakz aren’t easily destroyed. We’re kind of like that last piece of dog crap on the bottom of your shoe, that one little bit you just can’t get rid of no matter how hard you scrape the edge of the curb, or scratch with a stick.

  The sedan carried the torso forward, but left behind a pile of pieces that twitched and writhed like a meaty, gray lasagna bubbling in the oven. They were in shock, but as soon as they sorted themselves, they’d realize what’d happened. Then there’d be nothing to do but go feral or wait until a trash collector carted them off.

  As the sedan shrunk in the rearview, I saw it brake, sending the torso flying. Like half a Superman, the arms twisted as it spun and fell.

  There was a loud blast and a flash. I thought they were lobbing grenades until I realized that Chester had decided to turn on the lights and the siren.

  “I want the backup to see us,” he said.

  Yeah, if they were in the area, they’d spot us faster, but I had to wonder how that weighed against the fact that we were now a perfect target. I didn’t have to say it. The bullets made the point for me. The first few lodged in the frame, but one hit the rear windshield in a sweet spot, sending a diamond rain my way. I ducked with the case. Chester took his right hand off the wheel and pushed Misty down.

  Funny, when I held the case up at the office, Happy Jack’s gun went to the ceiling quick. Didn’t these guys know what it was? Were they from another group? How many people were after this damn thing?

  At the park’s center circle, blue and white flickered on the bronze of General Buell’s statue. Chester took the turn a little tight. The car skimmed the stone base, making an awful racket as the metal fender spit sparks. But we made it to the other side. And you know what they say about driving into a park—you can only go halfway, after that, you’re driving out.

  The sedan had less luck, catching the statue’s base. That slowed them down, gave us some distance. There were bumps. We may have run over more chakz, maybe not. I was too busy twisting my head back and forth, trying to figure out if we’d crash or get shot, to tell.

  The exit came into view. Essex, a lovely, wide, well-lit avenue loomed beyond it. Unlike the entrance, there was no incline, just a curb. We hit it so hard, the grill pressed to the street and chewed pavement for half a foot before the suspension remembered what it was for and lifted us back up.

  There were no more bullets, so Chester pulled his hand back from Misty to steer. He rubbed his fingers, made a face, then looked at something red and sticky on his thumb and index finger.

  “Misty?” The fear in his voice didn’t do much for me. “You okay?”

  “There are people shooting at us and you ask if I’m okay?” she screamed.

  Hearing her was reassuring, but she’d been hit and didn’t even know it. With all the shaking and twisting, it’d be easy to confuse a bullet for a hard slam against the inside of the car. It also takes a few seconds for the sensations of pain and burning to reach your brain. Could be a flesh wound, could be serious. No way to tell. Not yet.

  Worse, a new bullet hole in the lid of the trunk told me the sedan was back. With Misty hurt, I decided to do something stupid. I grabbed the case and opened the door.

  “They want the case, I’ll give it to them. You get Misty out of here.”

  Before either of them could express an opinion, I folded myself around the briefcase and tumbled out.

  Having just left the park, we weren’t moving very fast yet, so I thought the fall wouldn’t be too bad. Wrong. Doing about twenty, I went into a sideways roll that ended when my back slammed something hard. I couldn’t see what I’d hit, but given the way I was sprawled on the sidewalk, facing the street, it must be a building.

  I probably had a broken rib. They’re a pain to Krazy Glue. I managed to get to my feet. The case was cracked, but intact.

  I jogged back toward the street. Doing as I asked for a change, Chester floored it. The squad car fishtailed, then squealed forward, the open rear door flying shut.

  The sedan was coming. I waved my arms at it and screamed, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

  They drove right past me. Son of a bitch. I limped into the middle of the street, holding the briefcase over my head.

  “Hey! Assholes! Here!”

  No go. The squad car’s siren and flashing lights won the beauty contest. Trying to sacrifice myself, I’d made the perfect escape. Shit.

  I climbed up on the hood of a parked car. If I was stuck watching helplessly, I may as well have a decent view. Essex was long and flat enough for me to see another set of flashing police lights headed our way. Chester and Misty would reach them in less than a minute.

  But the sedan hadn’t given up. Brief stars appeared along the open windows, the pop-pop-pop of gunfire echoing back my way. Misty had already been hit. Christ, if anything happened to her.

  No longer hampered by the park, the sedan caught up. It was kissing the squad car’s rear fender, the cavalry still blocks away.

  Chester swerved left and right, trying to ruin their aim. It’s hard to drive like that. You have to look back and forward at the same time. You’re bound to miss something.

  And he did.

  A small figure, maybe four feet tall, stood in the road. It was a child, wearing a long coat, looking a little like Madeline from the kids’ books, one of those twelve little girls in two straight lines. She was nowhere
near the center of the street, but Chester’s last swerve left him headed straight toward her.

  A professional race car driver might’ve managed to miss the kid and keep going. But Chester did what I would’ve. He panicked, turned the wheel sharply and slammed on the brakes.

  The squad car flipped.

  The sedan, so close behind, smashed into the right side of its underbelly, making it spin on its side.

  “Misty!”

  I dropped the case on the hood of the car, jumped down and actually ran. My bones didn’t mesh quite the way they should, and I was probably tearing muscle, but it didn’t matter.

  Smoke twirled from the squad car’s engine. The sedan skidded and stopped. The doors flew open and two men in black suits, ties, and white shirts, jumped out. They moved toward the sideways car, but hesitated when the smoke from the engine flared into a small fire.

  I was screaming as I came up. “You sons of bitches! You bastards!”

  The fire bigger every second, the police closer, they jumped back into the sedan and sped off. I never got a decent look at their faces.

  Madeline, the girl Chester had swerved to avoid stood there, the blue siren and yellow flames glowing on her small form. As I rushed past to get to Misty, I got a closer look at her face. Half was bone. Beneath the coat, her left shoulder looked broken or missing.

  She was a chak, a raggedy.

  Child-chakz aren’t as uncommon as some would like to think. When ChemBet’s process was new, parents who’d lost a kid to illness, accident, or worse were allowed to jump to the head of the line. They were happy to have their sweeties back, until they lived with the results a while, the waxlike skin, the sunken eyes, the weakness, the rot, the tendency toward depression, and savagery.

  Most tried to love their postmortem kids, but we’re not all saints. Some dumped them after a month, left them to fend for themselves. Outraged at the growing number of undead waifs, the blogosphere dubbed them “Annies” as in Orphan Annie. Language has a way of changing on its own. Annie begat Andy, leading, as sympathy waned, to raggedy. By then no one was surprised when any chak was abandoned, no matter how old they looked.