I knew they’d come for us after the broadcast, but I was thinking it’d be by proxy. Maruta and Green should be on private jets, fleeing the country. Instead, having their schemes revealed had thrown them into some sort of final tantrum. And the public thinks it’s the chakz who’re dangerous.
Green patted the gorilla and pointed at Maruta. Without so much as a hello, a smoky trail from the rocket launcher covered the distance between them. They say gorillas are smarter than dogs, but his aim was off. A white hot sphere erupted as the missile hit the front end of an SUV. The blast shed all sorts of sparkly shit and sent Maruta ten feet through the air and into the studio building’s façade. She landed flat against the fake marble, hung there an instant, then fell face forward into the sidewalk.
That got everyone’s attention. Green smiled like he’d won with a single shot. I figured that the Marquess de Sade was dead, unconscious at least. But she hopped up with a look of total rapture, gave the world a throaty laugh, and redirected all her firepower at Green and his gorilla.
I pulled Nell to her feet. “Now!”
She snatched her hand back. “That didn’t work so well last time.”
“Staying put won’t work either,” I told her. The counter was only about a foot tall and still smoking. Through the haze, Davis waved us over to his pillar, but that looked worse than the counter.
I was about to try to drag Nell out when the howl of piercing sirens announced that the cavalry, or something like it, had arrived. When I’d told Davis back in the stairwell that this place would be getting crowded, I wasn’t kidding. Two squad cars, lights flashing, pulled up ten yards south. Seconds later, they were joined from the north by another two cars and an armored van. Six policemen, wearing all there was of Fort Hammer’s body armor, piled out of the van.
Better yet, a voice came from the crackly loudspeaker: “This is the fucking police.”
It was Booth, that beautiful son of a bitch, somehow back in charge, and smart enough to box in Maruta and Green. On another planet, where the sky is always blue, that might’ve been the end of the movie. But, this wasn’t that. Not even close.
Nobody moved as the cops fanned out in a semicircle to tighten the net. Even the Lady Maruta froze, maybe looking forward to getting shot.
But then Green called, “Rebecca?”
She shook off whatever trance she was in to respond in her best cheery business voice, “Yes, Colby?”
“I believe we have them outgunned. Temporary truce?” Green said.
Head wound or not, he’d done the math. Her eyes flashed with admiration. “Done, Colby.”
Bullets flew again. This time, Booth and the police were ready. They gave as good as they got until a second missile from the shaved gorilla headed for the armored van. Seeing its smoky anaconda trail, the police dove. When it hit, the explosion blew them along the street like so many leaves. As far as I could tell no one was seriously hurt until the little men opened up with their machine guns.
We’d blown our chance. With ChemBet security no longer shooting at them, Green’s dogs didn’t have any reason to stay outside the bowling alley. Seven silhouettes appeared at the empty window frames. The shifting shadows told me Nell and Davis were still alive. Knowing I was the main target, I fell flat and dragged myself away from them, along the smooth floor. I braced the gun against a ball dispenser and waited for a shot.
One dog, on his way in, tripped when his foot hit a bowling ball instead of the floor. When the other six turned to look at their fallen pal, I fired in their direction until the clip was empty. One collapsed, his right leg buckling. Another twisted at the waist and dropped. Davis, wherever he was, followed suit, and a third dog went down.
The four still standing aimed at the flashes from my gun. Splinters flew from the floor. Hoping Nell and Davis were better off than I was, I pushed myself backward down one of the lanes.
The dogs advanced. My gun was empty. No further return fire came from Davis. It was time to try negotiating. I inhaled, got a mouth full of wood and plaster dust, then half coughed, half shouted, “Can I surrender? I do still have the fucking vials.”
The shooting stopped. One of the dogs, ugly as a chak, his long fingers and equally long face making him look partially melted, like Droopy Dog, walked toward me, a hand cupped to his ear. I kept expecting him to say something, but he didn’t. He got closer until his black shoes were inches from my face. The barrel of his AK was right above my skull. He stood there for the longest time, hand to ear, listening.
As the seconds stretched, my leg started vibrating. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I looked up at him and said, “Well? I’m right here. What’s it going to be? Your boss still want the precious secret of immortality?”
He nodded, then turned my way. “Mr. Green wants me to cut your head off and bring it to him. We’re just trying to figure out how to do that. I don’t think bullets alone would work, do you?”
“Probably not,” I told him. “Hacksaw? I think there’s a hardware store around the corner. Give me a couple of bucks, wait here, and I’ll go grab one for you.”
He cupped his ear again. “Oh, okay.” He looked back down. “Mr. Green wants to hurry. He says the bullets will be fine.” Droopy Dog aimed the gun. “Stay still, I want to try to make the line as clean as I can.”
“Hey, why not? I like a clean line as much as the next fellow.” I stretched my neck like I was going to cooperate, but I’m a zombie, right? Why not give the people what they want? I yanked his pants cuff up and bit into the meat of his lower calf as hard as I could.
Don’t let anyone tell you human flesh is tender. Maybe when I was alive my teeth could cut through meat, but it felt like I’d snapped off both incisors. My jaws didn’t close, but I did get past the epidermis. Leg skin pressed into my tongue as the dog’s salty blood dribbled into my mouth.
Yowling, he tried to yank his leg free. When I held on with my teeth and both hands, he wound up dragging me along the floor. I wanted to tell him he should’ve let me surrender, but my mouth was full. I clamped down harder, driving my teeth in deeper.
I don’t know what George Romero was on about in those movies. It tasted god-awful.
“Get him off!” Droopy screamed. His three remaining pals aimed our way, but didn’t want to risk hitting him.
Next thing I knew, someone lifted my legs high enough to get my chest off the ground and tugged. I bit and kicked. The three of us danced that way half a minute, me praying I didn’t tear a chunk of Droopy’s leg free. Once he was loose, I’d be a really easy target.
I’d given whoever was behind me a decent kick when an agonized groaning erupted. I thought Droopy Dog was yowling again, but the voice was too dry. A feeling of dread pulsed through. Had Nell gone feral? No, it wasn’t her, and there was more than one set of cords at work, making a sound like a pile of sad autumn leaves swirling in the wind. My teeth still busy, I twisted my eyes and saw the new arrivals.
Chakz. At least a dozen. I’d forgotten we were smack in the middle of a zombie revolution. I figured they were ferals, drawn by the pretty lights of the explosions, or Droopy Dog’s wet screams. When I heard a few firecracker pops, and realized they weren’t from the dogs’ weapons, I noticed something different about them.
The chakz were carrying guns. And they were using them.
They weren’t very good at it. One shot himself in the leg. When a second pulled the trigger on a shotgun, I winced as the kickback tore his hand off. I don’t know which one fired the shot that hit Droopy, but his head bucked forward and his body crumpled.
More came in from the rear and the sides. Thirty? Those who didn’t have guns held baseball bats or two-by-fours with thick nails. By the time I pried my mouth off the dead dog, chakz were swarming in and the last three dogs running out.
I got to my knees, spitting gory chunks out of my mouth, but thankfully, no teeth. The moaning quieted. I heard an arid chuckle.
“Mann, I gotta ask, does it taste like chicken?”
I got to my feet, still spitting. It was Jonesey. He was the chak who’d lost his hand. He was rubbing the stub against his ear like he was scratching an itch.
“No, not like chicken. Not at all.” I wiped my pants and looked around for his missing appendage. “How the fuck did you get here? And don’t tell me Kyua provides.”
“He did, but, if you prefer, I saw the broadcast. Who else knows about those vials but you, right?”
I spotted the shotgun, but not his hand. “That much I guessed. I mean, how’d you get off the roof at ChemBet?”
“Long story. Give me a sec, Hess,” he said. He pointed his stump at the front of the room. “Everyone! Make a line at the windows, guns up, like we practiced. You’re all doing fantastic!”
They obeyed, sort of.
I motioned toward the stub. “You should find the hand.”
“What for? Can’t repair the nerve endings with Krazy Glue. Kyua will…”
“Shh!” I said.
“I know you don’t believe, but you don’t have to….”
“No. Listen. No one’s shooting….”
I rushed up to the haphazard line of chakz and looked out. The armored van was a cinder. Bodies, the dead kind, littered the street. Green was alive, but nearly alone. His gorilla lay in a heap at his feet and his last three dogs didn’t look like they had any fight left in them. A lot of the police and ChemBet security were standing, but they were all facing the chakz in the bowling alley.
“Tom!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot! Jonesey brought them.”
“You think that’s a good thing? Shit! I want my man out,” Booth said.
I turned back inside. “Davis, you still with us?”
“Yeah,” he said. He limped forward. His face was covered in blood, but I didn’t see the source. He tried to leave, but the chakz stopped him.
I eyed Jonesey. “Let him go, J. Officer Davis saved two chakz, me and Nell. Booth is on our side for a change, or as close as he can get to it.”
He nodded, the chakz parted. Davis hesitated and looked at me, like he was worried about leaving us behind. I shook my head. “It’s okay, I know him. Thanks.”
Once Davis left, a weepy Green called, “I want Nell out of there, too. Nell, I won’t press charges, I swear. I just want to see you.”
When no one objected, I turned to Nell. “Go.”
“No,” she said.
I pushed her. “Go! I’m safer here than I’ve been in weeks.”
She pushed back. “It’s not about you, dick.” She walked deeper into the building and sat on a ball return. “I’m not going near him again.”
There was something in her expression, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was. “This still about selling you to a killer or did Green come up with a whole new level of awful I don’t know about?”
“You have no idea.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“I’m saving it for my biography,” she said.
“Come out, Nell!” Green called. “Please!” He sounded like he was crying again.
Maruta giggled. “Colby, did you get rough with that poor dead girl?”
“Jesus,” Booth said. “I don’t know what to throw up about first. But I’ll have plenty of time to decide later. There are fifty guardsmen on their way. It’s over for all of you.”
Green sniffled and shook his head. “Not exactly. On the way here, I spoke with the governor.” He wiped his eyes and turned to Maruta. “Thanks to a number of ChemBet files in my possession, a plea deal has been arranged in exchange for my testimony. I’m afraid our truce is over, Rebecca.”
“That’s all right, Colby,” she answered. “You were always a terrible partner anyway, and an amateur, despite how highly you thought of yourself. You might want to wipe some of that snot from your nose, or order one of your men to do it.”
Looking hurt, Green wiped his nose on his sleeve, then told his surviving dogs to lay down their guns. I wasn’t thrilled that the hand behind O’Donnell’s death and Misty’s kidnapping might get off scot-free, but that made it one armed group down, two to go.
Booth eyed the chakz next. “Mann, tell Fidel Zombie over there that if he has his cadavers stop pointing those guns our way, I’ll arrest Maruta first.”
Having heard him, Jonesey nodded. The chakz didn’t drop their guns, but they lowered them, then stepped so far back into the darkness of the bowling alley, it felt like they weren’t there anymore.
Booth ordered his men to train their sights on Rebecca Maruta’s linebackers, but they did it before the words came out of his mouth. And when Booth said, “Drop the guns,” the little men did.
He stormed up to Maruta, whirled her, and slapped some cuffs on. “You’re the sick fuck I wanted most anyway.”
She giggled girlishly, as if she really, really liked being handcuffed. Booth tightened the cuffs, thinking that’d hurt her, but when she gave off a pleased, trembling sigh, he shivered and stepped back. She knew it would get under his skin, and if there was one thing she did like, it was getting under someone’s skin.
“I appreciate the heat of your desire, Chief Detective, but you really don’t want to arrest me.”
“Really? ’Cause I sure as hell feel like I do,” Booth said.
Her smile got so wide her eyes disappeared. “You won’t when I tell you what’s in those vials.”
All our ears perked up at that. Green stopped sniffling. Jonesey whispered, “Kyua.” Booth kept his distance, but said, “Talk.”
“This very evening, right before that unfortunate broadcast, I discovered a note from my late husband. He had the tiniest handwriting, like an insect! It turns out he was very naughty before he died. He created a mycoplasma, not a virus, not a bacteria, something in between. It loves water, even the moisture in the air. Once released, it will infect anyone who comes in contact with it.” She sniffed excitedly. “It’s also self-replicating, growing all along. It will probably burst the nutrient containers anytime now. And my people are the only ones who know how to destroy it.”
Green’s and Jonesey’s lips moved at the same time. Destroy. Booth caught the significance, too. “You trying to say this myco-crap will kill livebloods?”
She laughed. “No, no, no. It’s much better than that! We’ll be completely fine, so long as we live. It’s afterwards that’s the problem. At death, the mycoplasma will automatically reinvigorate each and every cell. Each and every cell. Do you understand, Chief Detective?”
She watched the furrows form on Booth’s brow and thicken, then waited for realization to sink in. When his eyes went wide, she nodded happily.
“Yes, there it is. That’s it. Everyone comes back…” She tipped her head first at Booth, then at every liveblood in sight. “You, and you, and you, too! Everyone! Everyone will come back as a chak! I told you he was a naughty boy!”
29
Happy fucking birthday.
I stepped from the bowling alley with Nell. All around our gaudy pocket of light, the riots continued, destroying what it could with flames or fists, guns or stubs. It seemed like only the buildings had real shapes, and everything else was tired of pretending. Maybe that’s what a world full of chakz would look like: gray trash, shifting around, forgetting what it used to be.
My foot hit something heavy. A .38 lay a few inches from the openmouthed body of one of Green’s dogs. I picked it up, almost wishing I could use it to blow my own brains out.
“Uncuff me,” Rebecca Maruta said. “Or I’ll let it happen.”
Booth was torn between rejecting what he’d just heard and deciding what to do if it were true. “You can slide further on bullshit than concrete,” he said.
Maruta looked puzzled, so I translated. “He’s calling you a liar.”
She spoke as if we were boring her. “I’ll prove it, then. I’ll give you my system password. My husband’s notes and whatever footnotes my staff has added in the last few hours are on the hard drive. That is, if you have anyone who can read them.
”
“I can,” Green said. “My laptop’s in the car.”
After hearing how the new toy he’d wanted might actually work, he was looking worse for wear, unsteady on his feet. Eyes wet again, he looked around for someone to command, his gaze settling to my right. “Nell, would you please get it for me?”
“Fuck, no,” she told him.
Since this didn’t seem like the best time to sort what etiquette he did or didn’t deserve, I headed toward his sedan. The door, bent and dented from the gun battle, groaned like an elephant. I grabbed the computer off the backseat floor where it’d fallen, flipped it open, and whirled it toward Green.
Unable to keep his emotions hidden, his expression wavered from one to another. I saw an arrogant contempt for Booth, a boyish sadness about Nell, bitter disappointment that Maruta might be telling the truth, and some more I couldn’t name. It was strange, not satisfying, to see him so helpless. He’d spent so much time trying to figure out what chakz were, now whatever he’d known about himself was slipping away.
He coughed, swallowed, and managed a pitiful semblance of his game face. “What am I looking for, Rebecca?”
“The most recent file from R & D Sector 6, Colby. It has a high-alert tag. By now the molecular analysis should be attached.”
Once he found it, we gathered around, but the document had so many big words it may as well have been hieroglyphs. He read, twitching at parts, swallowing sobs at others, and we waited.
Somewhere on the third screen, the prince of perverts lurched. I thought he was going to have a seizure, but what came out was more like a sob. Then there was another and another. Colby Green went to his knees, wailing like a lost child.
“I take it she’s telling the truth?” Booth asked.
Green nodded. Funny he’d be the only one who had it in him to weep for the fate of the world.
Maruta seemed pleased by what she thought of as his weakness. “The extent of the emotions are likely a side effect of his concussion. But I take it you get the point? Tick-tick-tick?”
Dead Mann Running (9781101596494) Page 23
