Lesser Gods

by Duncan Long

“I’ve got orders to take you in,” the agent said, taking a gov-issue wound dressing from a jacket pocket and very matter-of-factly wrapping it around the hand that was missing fingers. “Head for the car.” He motioned toward the vehicle, sending a shower of blood careening off his stub fingers as he did so.

  “Look,” I said backing away from him a few steps. “I’m off the search for Huntington. How about just leaving me alone.”

  The thuggite smiled as if he were looking at a fly whose wings he was about to tear off. “You haven’t caught on yet, have you? We’re tying up lose ends.” He took another step closer. “I don’t know what Huntington has. But its something the powers that be want under wraps. Can’t afford to have you around to blab about it. Get into the car without a fight and I’ll make your last ride painless.”

  I took another step backward, glancing upward to the skyline. And there it was. The heavenly vision I had been praying for: The glint of a streetlight off a scope.

  A scope that I hoped was attached to a rifle powerful enough for hunting elephants and other big game — including thuggites.

  Hoping to buy myself some time, I turned and took off running. I got six steps at my fastest speed before the thuggite was on top of me, bad knee or not. He yanked me skyward by the back of my armored jacket the way a child might pick up a rag doll. “Nice try,” he laughed. “I’m always amazed how dummies like you think they can get away from someone with superior strength and reflexes.”

  “Sometimes the little guys get lucky,” I said, deciding to quit struggling and simply enjoy being carried by the scruff of the neck like a kitten.

  We were nearly to the vehicle, traveling in giant steps, when the agent paused to click off the car’s burglar alarm.

  What’s taking Snipe so long? I wondered. Or had I been mistaken? Was someone else on the roof?

  The agent opened the doors, tossing his jacket into the front seat, and then threw me into the back. He bent over to look me in the eye. “Just sit there like a good little toad and don’t give me any more trouble or I’ll break your legs.”

  I smiled meekly.

  Satisfied I was going to be quiet, he straightened and adjusted his tie. Then he stopped in mid-motion, a loud thump emitting from his chest. He looked down in disbelief at the hole oozing blood. Then he drew his gun and fell backward onto the street with a loud thud.

  I slid down onto the floor of the car, in case Snipe decided to try for a twofer, my heart pounding in my ears as I waited.

  The street remained quiet.

  Nothing moved including me.

  I stayed that way for about fifteen minutes, trying to decide when it would be safe to move and what I should do next. I wondered morbidly if the whole fiasco that had unfolded on the street had been caught on a wingcam. The little moth-sized drones were often used by agents, recording what was happening for later use in the courtroom or, more often, to broadcast on government reality TV. There was nothing like watching agents beating the crap out of someone to help ratings while bringing citizenry into line. And if a wingcam had caught the bedlam of the last few minutes, it was likely that a police car or another team of agents would be appearing momentarily.

  Running might save my hide for a while, but eventually the government would find me even if Death didn’t, since a fake ID can only take a criminal so far. If the government wanted me bad enough, my prints, retina, and heat patterns would be fast tracked into ID systems so a master computer somewhere miles underground would instantly spot me the next time I accessed an ATM or other system, excellent-but-bogus ID or not.

  For a moment I toyed with simply putting a muzzle in my mouth and eating lead, then decided I should at least go down fighting. If I had to make a last stand, I wanted to know what the hell I was dying for and maybe take along a few of those so intent on killing me.

  Again I was struck by the grim reality that the only guy that might have the solution to my dilemma was Huntington. Until I knew what was really going on, I remained in the dark about what I might do to throw the government off my trail. And I would also never have a good night’s rest without fear of “winking” to some screwball place.

  My search, days earlier, had suggested where he was hiding. All I had to do was drive there and confront him. My mind made up, I slid along the seat, taking care to avoid falling into Snipe’s rooftop vantage, and leaned out of the car to search the pockets of the bloody agent lying just outside the door.

  Trying not to look at the bloody hole in the agent’s chest, I finally located the keys in his pocket. Since I was already up to my elbows in gore, I went ahead and borrowed the agent’s heavy-duty firearm and three spare magazines of ammunition. And then I discovered his anonymous e-cash card, which I also pocketed.

  I left the blackjack. Somehow I couldn’t see myself using it.

  Staying low, I slid out of the back seat, stepped over the corpse, and got into the front seat. After wiping the blood off my hands with the agent’s mastodon-sized jacket lying in the front seat, I tossed it out to cover his face, closed the door, and started the engine.

  It was time for my trip to find Huntington.

  Next stop, Valley of the Shadow.

  Chapter 19

  Jeff Huntington

  I watched the antique mercury vapor lights dance and roll with the gentle waves of New Sarasota Bay. The cool breeze skipping over the sea brought a welcome relief from the heat radiating from the tar and seashell pavement. I pulled the last puff from my cigarette and tossed it over the edge of the dock, watching it arch toward the water in an orange rainbow that was suddenly snuffed out like the lives of so many people I’d known.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the distant traffic that blended with the ocean, caressing the shores with a low, rolling roar. Tightening my tie without bothering to fasten the top shirt button, I retrieved my jacket from the van and ran the lift that lowered my wheelchair to the pavement.

  Has Florida always been this hot? Sometimes I wondered why they hadn’t changed a few things when they built New Sarasota after the nuke had leveled the old city into a pile of radioactive rubble and powdered coral.

  Then I shook my head at my foolishness. Can’t rebuild the weather. Then again, maybe before long I’ll be able to handle that for them, lowering the temperature by a few degrees during the heat of summer. Being able to control the weather would be nice, but for now, sweat oozed from every pour, making my skin almost iridescent as I guided my wheelchair alongside the Realtor’s car.

  “I think you’ll find this property to your liking,” the realtor said, launching into another sales pitch even as she climbed from the car in a flash of flesh and skirt. I ignored her voice, studying the house at the top of the sidewalk. The grounds had a different feel to them. The squat Florida house didn’t look like much outside — or inside, I discovered a few minutes later. It was probably much as it had been a century before: In need of some serious maintenance. The old pink paint had flaked completely off in spots, exposing the gray cement stucco beneath; what the realtors quaintly call a “fixer upper.”

  But it had real potential and I had tons of money at my disposal. Revamping it and moving in would complete the last step toward dropping out of circulation. That was my real goal.

  A half hour later, the saleswoman patted me on the shoulder in a manner I found to my liking, even though I knew she was only trying to manipulate an old invalid in a wheelchair into buying a home. “What do you think?” she asked, her forced smile looking out of place on her waspish face. “Is this something you could live with?”

  “Well, the residual radiation levels are a little high,” I said, toying with her. I observed her face carefully and was satisfied to see the plastic smile flicker for just a moment before reappearing the same as before.

  I swatted at the mosquito humming next to my ear. “And the little beasties seem a bit bloodthirsty out here.”

  She said nothing.

  I paused, enjoying watching her try not to squirm.
Finally I let her off the hook. “But I don’t think either will be a serious problem.” Especially after I get my last three eternal treatments, I added to myself.

  “Then you want it?”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Alright, let’s get started on the paperwork.”

  Ralph Crocker

  The Valley of the Shadow, where my computer search coordinates had suggested Huntington must be, was the perfect place for someone like him to hide — provided he could stay alive long enough. That was the trick for anyone setting up their abode in the Valley of the Shadow. Staying alive.

  The headlights of my new limo revealed streets that slowly evolved from neat neighborhoods to slums increasingly littered with trash and bodies. I threw the wheel to the side to avoid hitting what appeared to be a staggering drunk, then sped up to hit the three thugs attempting to stop me so they could hijack the limo.

  I heard the satisfying crunch of one of the would-be thief’s legs under the wheel, and for some reason it gave me a warm, satisfied feeling inside.

  The Valley of the Shadow doesn’t look much different from most run-down sections of any city, though it did have a lower level of morality, no doubt reading in the negative range if any psychologist had ever bothered to measure it. But it wasn’t named the Valley of the Shadow for its lack of morality or the danger it presented to those entering the area, or even the sudden death it often rewarded to those who ventured into it.

  Rather, it was so named because of the 20-square-mile solar array high above the area that blocked the sunlight, putting it into eternal night. Originally giant sun lamps had been erected to help counter this problem. But the residents soon destroyed them and eventually Topeka’s city fathers had grown tired of sending in crews to replace the expensive orbs, only to lose the repairmen to knives and bullets.

  So now the Valley of the Shadow dwelt in eternal night.

  I checked the GPS navigator, watching as I neared the coordinates I’d entered into it. Just a few miles farther and I should be near Huntington’s lair. The catch was that until I had a chance to search the neighborhood, I had no way of locating the exact apartment Huntington was operating from. And somehow I suspected most of the tenants wouldn’t take too kindly to a house-to-house search.

  But I had a plan.

  It had a good chance of working provided I could get close to his hideout, which wasn’t a sure-fire thing. I slowed at the barricade of old cars ahead of me, then hit the accelerator. “You are about to impact,” the on-board car computer told me.

  “Override collision avoidance,” I ordered, hoping the gov car permitted this.

  It did.

  The car continued forward at full throttle and I aimed carefully at the lighter tail end of the vehicles blocking my path, putting into practice a technique taught to me by an old drug runner I’d once met in jail.

  I smashed into the cars and metal grated along the side of the limo as the two junkers simultaneously bounced away from my path. I held the pedal down and the grinding of metal continued as two vehicles rotated out of my way.

  Would-be carjackers manning the barricade scurried for cover like cockroaches from a bright light.

  I wasn’t out of the woods yet, however.

  As my car hurtled down a street lit only by the single remaining headlight on the limo, a gang along the road opened fire. Most of the lighter pistol and rifle bullets thumped into the car, trapped in the bullet-proof Kevlar of the body. But that wasn’t true about the .50-caliber projectiles that followed the initial barrage. These cut through the armor of the car, leaving a thought-provoking string of holes in the windshield just to the right of my head. Another salvo hit the engine, causing it to sputter.

  The car skidded along on two wheels as I whipped the wheel into a turn, guiding the vehicle down a side street so I’d be out of the line of fire. Unfortunately I didn’t quite make it out of sight in time; a third burst rattled through the aft section of the limo. A couple of minutes later, the car’s computer piped up, “You are running low on fuel.”

  “We had a full tank just a half hour ago.”

  “The fuel tank appears to be leaking. Head for the nearest Ford repair shop immediately. Be sure to buy genuine Ford parts.”

  Finding a neighborhood Mr. Goodwrench to service my stolen vehicle in the middle of the night in a cutthroat section of town seemed like iffy advice. The engine started to sputter; I checked the navigator. I was only about three blocks from my target area.

  I slowed, easing the car to the curb. Stepping from the car, I eyed the gang of homeless kids across the street. Street children are tough for me to deal with because I always feel too self-conscious to kill them, even if that’s exactly what they have planned for me or anyone else who has the misfortune to run into them.

  The car gave me an out. Before the street rats could ready their attack, I tossed the car keys toward them. “It’s all yours.”

  I then turned and hightailed away from the vehicle, gaining distance as the munchkins fought over the parts they were stripping from the car. By the time I was down the block, they started firing, apparently unaware of the leaking gasoline around them. There were angry shouts, threats, and bullets for a few seconds, then there was an explosion followed by ominous quiet.

  I glanced down the street and saw only blackened corpses where once the juvenile delinquents had slouched. I felt a twinge of guilt, but told myself it wasn’t my fault that the little hellions had blown themselves up. They were old enough to know right from wrong. I’d grown up on the street, and at their age, I never would have shot at an escaping victim who’d left something behind for me to plunder.

  Before I could ponder the morality of the situation any further, a voice purred in the darkness alongside me, “How ‘bout a good time, handsome?”

  I slowed to a stop and peered into the shadows to see a syntha-prost whose beautiful face was briefly lit by a match that brought her cigarette to life. She held the match a moment, its lingering flame causing the snakes grafted into her scalp to thrash around her Medusa face. She blew out the flame in a way that made me remember I was of the male persuasion. “A real good time?”

  I considered her wriggling crown and found my voice. “Thanks but I’m in a hurry.”

  “I’ve got some boyfriends if that’s more to your liking.”

  I realized something wasn’t right. She was too persistent. “Gotta go.” I saw a flicker of movement above me and I leaped backward, barely avoiding the bars that fell downward, nearly trapping me in the room-sized area where I’d been a moment before.

  “Now that wasn’t very nice,” I said, getting to my feet and shaking my finger at the woman. “Not much repeat business, I bet.”

  The syntha-prost leaped forward, throwing herself against the bars, slashing at me with the stiletto she’d had hidden. The sharp blade hissed past my face as I retreated.

  I’d drawn my pistol reflexively, and now had it trained on her. “Two days ago I would have killed you and not thought twice about it,” I said.

  “Not man enough?”

  “Lady, do you want to die?” I asked. Why someone would insult a guy with a gun was beyond me.

  I aimed, she screamed, and I squeezed the trigger.

  However, my target was not her, but the motorized winch above her. “No more victims tonight,” I said. No winch, no wenching.

  Her cursing filled the night. The wrath of a Gorgon scorned. I turned away and clicked the skate wheels out of my boots, wheeling down the street while watching the ground to be sure I didn’t trip over any of the bones that littered my path.

  A city block can make all the difference. Within a few minutes, I was dodging through mobs of laughing people in an area that was better lit. Here and there were knots of vendors, musicians, and drug dealers selling synthetic passion.

  People crowded the sidewalks and spilled into the narrow side streets. Had it not been for the crackle of distant gunfire from time to time, and the occasional
body putrefying on the curb, I might have felt almost at home in this neighborhood.

  I skated around a nearly naked woman wearing a tall headdress composed of tin cans and a g-string comprised of very little, then skirted a Congo line of recombs, dressed like devils, dancing and singing as they entered a building whose sign proclaimed,

  Live Girls, Girls, Girls!!!

  … in flashing LEDs. This was followed by…

  Live Boys, Boys, Boys!!!

  …and finally by…

  Love, Love, Love!!!

  The latter apparently aimed at those romantics who thought they might buy affection at such establishments.

  With the morbid curiosity that one might exhibit in watching a train wreck, I glanced into the open door as I whizzed past — hey, I’m only human — and ogled women, women, women, and found the men, men, men pretty pudgy. All the naked bodies were smeared with oil, writhing snakes in their mouths, as they cavorted on a long mirrored stage that apparently was the closest one could come to the “love” being promised by the sign.

  Turning back from the memorable sight that I wished I’d never seen, I got a good a quick look at a live giant, giant, giant! Blocking my path was a three-hundred pound elephant of a man.

  He perhaps thought I was attacking him.

  Or maybe he just fancied skater shish kabobs. Regardless, I found myself headed straight for a blade more sword than pocketknife, materializing from under his jacket, its point aimed precisely at my left nostril.

  Somehow I managed to weave and dodge and avoid the blade, but in the process I tumbled and then slid along the rough sidewalk on hands, knees, and face in an imperfect five-point landing. My knees were protected by my body armor. But my hands and face weren’t and I got to my feet with serious abrasions that were already smarting.

  “What’re ya tryin’ ta pull, buddy?” the man asked, blade held at his ample belt-buckle level, about even with my eyes.