Heart of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  CHAPTER 39

  The Montgomery Farms milk truck hit a pothole, Rakkim's head whipping forward. Third time in the last half hour. Driving too fast, Rikki. He stayed off the brakes anyway, looked over at Moseby curled in the passenger seat. "John?" Dust swirled in through the seams in the doors and floorboards, radioactive dust and probably worse. "John!"

  Moseby lifted his head. "I'm alive."

  "Good," said Rakkim. "Go back to sleep."

  Moseby slumped back down.

  It had taken Rakkim and Moseby all night to find their way out of the safe room in the Vietnam War Memorial depository, most of the exits blocked, the darkness stifling. They had walked for miles, backtracking, lost in a maze of corridors and stairwells. He was grateful to be in the sunlight now, grateful for the toxic breeze that blew around them--better to die outside, better to die anywhere than die underground.

  Rakkim checked the rearview. An actual mirror not a screen. Milk truck must be thirty years old. One of those jury-rigged zombie jobs that offered only transportation, not protection. No wonder the zombies they had stolen it from hadn't chased them far. Figured the truck would kill them anyway.

  Last night, there had been a point when they had found themselves at yet another dead end, a point where Rakkim had almost given up. His light had fallen down a grating, and Moseby had turned his own light off while they rested, wanting to conserve the batteries. Rakkim had felt himself starting to panic, unable to breathe, certain that the ventilation system in his suit was malfunctioning. Moseby must have heard him gasping, because he suddenly reached out, put the flashlight in Rakkim's hand, told him not to turn it on, just know he could if he needed to. The panic attack dissolved. A few minutes later, still in total darkness, Rakkim gave him the flashlight back and they continued.

  It had been Moseby who finally figured out that the way out was counterintuitive--they had to go deeper underground to find the passage that led them up again to the outside. When they finally crawled out the emergency exit, the sun was just coming up, a hot red ball over the marble monuments of the dead capital.

  After Moseby had filmed the two of them, he bowed his head for a moment, then looked up at Rakkim. "You don't pray anymore?"

  "God and I have decided to ignore each other. It's for the best." Rakkim had stopped, his glib relief at being outside dissipating.

  The van was gone.

  "We got...what we came for," said Moseby, coughing up a pale pink mist. "We could try walking out."

  Rakkim held up his machine pistol. "Or we could get the van back."

  Another pothole disturbed his reverie, Rakkim lurching forward as he put one hand out to keep Moseby from hitting the dash. Moseby slept on as Rakkim carefully drove around stalled cars and a motorcycle with melted tires. The van would have rolled right over the obstacles, but they hadn't gotten the van back and the milk truck's transmission slipped in and out of gear.

  Rakkim checked his rad-meter. Might as well roll down the windows for the protection the truck gave. Useless piece of shit, but it was still better than walking. Most of the spare air filters for their suits had been in the van; they wouldn't have survived the hike. As it was...midafternoon and they were almost out of the city. Maybe another five or ten miles before the radiation level dropped appreciably. A couple hours after that and they'd be back at the Colonel's place. Get Moseby into the field hospital the Colonel had set up.

  Moseby groaned in his sleep.

  No way to care for him. Couldn't open up his suit and stitch him up without him getting a fatal dose of radiation. He was just going to have to hang on until Rakkim could get him help. Rakkim accelerated, the truck's engine protesting, revving way too high.

  They had found their van at the site behind the Capitol building, the zombies working on something at the rear of the building, over a dozen of them going at it with jackhammers and laser torches, filling a large flatbed truck with bits of marble...marble heads...presidents, probably, or senators who hadn't gotten caught. They circled around the site, approached from the north where the zombies would least expect it.

  One of the zombies was taking a torch to the rear compartment of their van, trying to fix the seals that they had ruined breaking into it. Guy didn't even have a homemade rad-suit, just a rubbery face mask like painters used. Rakkim closed within twenty yards of the van, Moseby a few steps behind, the two of them leapfrogging closer and closer, until they took cover behind an abandoned taxicab. A briefcase was still in the backseat of the taxi. Looked like alligator.

  As Moseby sprinted to the van, he slipped on some loose rocks, twisted an ankle. He didn't make much noise, but the zombies stopped jackhammering at that moment, and one of them turned, saw Moseby. Everybody had a gun, of course.

  Rakkim shot three of them, then raced to help Moseby, bullets splintering the pavement around them. Moseby got hit just before Rakkim reached him, pitching forward. Rakkim knelt beside Moseby, slowly sweeping the machine pistol across the site.

  Three of the zombies scurried over to protect the van, set up a fire perimeter.

  Rakkim had no choice but to retreat, providing cover fire as Moseby limped ahead of him. Moseby got hit again, spun around but didn't fall. Rakkim carried him to the first zombie vehicle he saw. The milk truck. Montgomery Farms, Home of Contented Cows. Piece of shit truck with useless radiation shielding and no air filters. He drove off, the zombies pocking it with gunshots. He stopped a few blocks later, slapped a couple of pressure bandages on Moseby's wounds, sealing the holes in the suit at the same time.

  Rakkim drove on the shoulder of the road now, bypassing the line of abandoned cars alongside the Marriott Hotel, its ragged front awning flapping like a flag.

  "You're a lousy driver," said Moseby, his voice raspy.

  "Glad you're awake. Time to change your air filter."

  "You take it," wheezed Moseby.

  "I just changed mine." Rakkim fished the last air filter out of his side pocket, replaced the one on Moseby's suit ventilator. He examined the used one, filthy, three stages beyond replace. Tossed it aside. His own was in the same condition.

  "You...you sure?" Moseby breathed deeper with the new one installed. "I thought we only had one filter left."

  "You miscounted. I replaced mine about a mile back."

  "You're not pulling some dumbass stunt, are you?" said Moseby.

  "I look like a hero?" said Rakkim.

  "You look like a guy who should have left me back there," said Moseby.

  "If I did that, who would get me out the next time a building collapses on me?" said Rakkim.

  Moseby breathed easier with the fresh filter, his face mask clearing. His eyes fluttered.

  "Get some rest," said Rakkim. "I'll wake you when we stop for burgers and fries."

  "Milkshake." Moseby yawned. "I want a vanilla milkshake too."

  The melonhead on the front porch thought he was a big man with that assault rifle slung in front of him, covering Gravenholtz as he pushed open the gate.

  "That's far enough," said the zombie, a skinny geezer, his face raw and scaly like a steam burn. "God, mister, you're an ugly son of a bitch."

  "You're not very neighborly," said Gravenholtz, his hand still on the gate.

  "You ain't my neighbor," said the zombie.

  "I don't want trouble." Gravenholtz knew he should smile or something, but he just couldn't be bothered. He'd been knocking on doors in Shitville for two days without success; fucking zombies all had the same suspicious attitude. No faith in their fellow man. Which Gravenholtz fully justified by kicking their brains out, but that wasn't really the point. None of them knew anything, which pissed him off even more. He checked his rad-counter. Good thing he didn't intend having kids. So much for Baby telling him he didn't need a rad-suit, and Where am I supposed to get one on short notice, Lester honey?

  "You don't want trouble," said the zombie. "What do you want?"

  "Just got a few questions to ask you."

  "First the black, an
d now you." The zombie leveled the assault rifle at Gravenholtz's midsection. "I'm getting tired of you outlanders with your questions."

  "Don't blame you," said Gravenholtz, pleased that he had finally found someone that had met Moseby. He walked on through the gate, stopped at the edge of the porch. "All these interruptions must cut into your jacking-off time." The zombie didn't react. For all Gravenholtz knew he had hit it right about the jacking-off time.

  "You got money?" said the zombie. "I take cash or credit chips."

  "Sure, I got plenty of money."

  "The black give me two hundred dollars to tell him if I knew where Eldon was working the city," said the zombie. "I told him a bunch of bullshit and kept the money." He curled his finger around the trigger of the assault rifle. "How about you empty your pockets and we'll see how much bullshit you bought yourself?"

  "Yes, sir," said Gravenholtz, his hands in the air. "Please don't shoot me."

  The zombie jabbed the barrel of the rifle at him. "Hurry up. Price of bullshit is going up every minute."

  Gravenholtz reached into his pocket, pulled out an ivory credit chip with a platinum edge. Saw the zombie's eyes widen. Gravenholtz stepped forward onto the front steps, held out the chip, trembling...dropped it.

  The zombie's eyes dipped toward the falling chip for a second.

  Gravenholtz grabbed the barrel of the assault rifle, swung it and slammed it into the zombie's knee, brought him down, howling. Gravenholtz beat the other knee with the rifle, the zombie screaming, gave him another few whacks for that "ugly son of a bitch" crack. Normally Gravenholtz would use his fists to break somebody up, it was more satisfying, but he didn't like the idea of touching the zombie with his bare hands.

  "Jeez, mister, jeez..." blubbered the zombie as he flopped on the porch. "What did I ever do to you?"

  Gravenholtz sat on the steps. Lit a cigarette. He thought of Karla Jean. He thought about her since she died. Since she tried to kill him. Strange he didn't hold it against her. Made him even sadder that she was gone. Woman like that, holding a grudge against him all that time...that was a woman worth loving. He just wished he had a chance to change her mind. Might have made a difference. He sure as shit wouldn't be sitting here with this toothless fuck.

  "Mister?"

  Gravenholtz blew a smoke ring over the zombie's head. Like a halo. Made him laugh.

  "Mister, please."

  "You said the other fella who came around here...the black...you said he asked about a man named Eldon." Gravenholtz puffed out another smoke ring. "I want you to tell me where this Eldon lives. You can do that, can't you?" He put the cigarette out on the zombie's bare wrist, listened to him shriek. "But no bullshit. You don't even want to think about telling me anything but the gospel truth."

  The front axle snapped on a smooth downhill stretch of mountain road, no reason for it, just gave out, and Rakkim fought the wheel trying to keep from ramming through the flimsy guardrail before bringing the milk truck to a stop.

  Moseby struggled upright, his clothes soaked in sweat. "Are we there yet?"

  "Almost." Rakkim set the emergency brake, helped Moseby out. They had gotten rid of their rad-suits about an hour ago, Rakkim balling them up and burying them so no one would find them and get contaminated. The truck itself was still hot, but the air filters in their suits were blocked, and asphyxiation was a more immediate danger. Blood from Moseby's wounds oozed from under the pressure bandages.

  Moseby leaned against the milk truck, a smiling cow painted on the side. "How far?"

  Rakkim coughed. "A few more miles."

  "How few?"

  "Quit asking so many questions." Rakkim squinted in the late-afternoon sun. "We're almost there. Hop on my back, I'll carry you halfway."

  "Just get me a walking stick and try to keep up," said Moseby.

  By the time Rakkim came back with a suitable stick, Moseby was lying in the road, passed out. Rakkim dragged him into some shade, then got back into the milk truck, put it into neutral and released the brake. He watched as the truck picked up speed, wobbling, then crashed through the guardrail and into the woods below. No one in their right mind would attempt to salvage it, but there were plenty of people not in their right mind. The world was full of them, more produced every minute.

  Moseby opened his eyes, his face veiled with dust. "I'm tired."

  "I'm hot, I'm thirsty," said Rakkim, sitting down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. "And I've got a boo-boo on my hand from driving."

  Moseby laughed, coughed up a bubble of blood. His face turned serious. "I want to see it, Rikki."

  "You already saw--"

  "I want to touch it," said Moseby.

  Rakkim pulled out the rad-proof pouch, slid out the bleached-pine box.

  Moseby opened the box. Stared at the piece of the cross. The flowers swayed in the breeze. He ran his fingers across the rough wood, eyes closed now.

  Rakkim waited for some sudden transformation, but Moseby looked as worn and beaten as before, blood crusted on his shirt.

  Moseby opened his eyes. "Thank you." He closed the box. Rakkim started to put the box into the pouch, but Moseby stopped him. "No need for that. Hardly any radiation to the box at all. None on the cross."

  "I know."

  "Then leave it out," said Moseby. "Accept the miracle."

  Rakkim tossed the pouch away, too tired to argue. He stood up. Offered Moseby his hand.

  "I'm just going to stay here a--"

  Rakkim lifted him up, threw him over his shoulder and started walking. Moseby groaned softly with every step.

  "You just don't listen," said Moseby.

  "I know." Rakkim staggered slightly, kicking up pebbles. "It's a character flaw."

  "If something happens," said Moseby. "You know..."

  "I'm not telling Annabelle your last words or anything," said Rakkim. "You tell her when you show up on her doorstep. That woman scares me."

  CHAPTER 40

  Rakkim floated on his back in a warm sea...buoyant as a jellyfish, drifting on the tide, arms trailing. He thought of Sarah, reached for her, but she wasn't there. He couldn't remember where she was. Misplaced her. Or she had lost him...he forgot which. He tried calling her name, thought somehow she might hear him...come join him. It wasn't far. He was right over...the bridge...the mountain...just around the bend. He called louder now, his throat aching with the effort. If you can't be smart, you might as well be persistent, that's what Redbeard had said, Rakkim barely ten, new to Redbeard's house, trying to understand the rules so he could break them and still survive. Persistence. Never quit, Rikki. No one can beat you if you don't quit. So many lessons from Redbeard, but that was Rakkim's favorite. He called out to Sarah again, his voice weaker now...wondered what lessons she had learned from Redbeard. Her uncle. Blood of his blood, something Redbeard never allowed him to forget.

  The sun was warmer. Closer too. Rakkim reached out, tried to bring it to him, use the sun to boil away the water so he could walk on dry land again. Walk home to Sarah. The sun smiled at him, a face forming slowly...a woman's face...Sarah. He tried saying her name but he didn't recognize the words that came out. She lightly touched his hair, her fingers cool against his skin. Sarah...He said her name again.

  "You better get your eyes checked, darlin'," said Baby, leaning over him, her light hair brushing against the sheets.

  Rakkim flinched.

  "Well...nice seeing you too," said Baby.

  Rakkim looked around. He was in a hospital bed, one of a dozen in the whitewashed room. All of them empty, except for one near the window, the patient's face half hidden by an oxygen mask, tubes in his arms. "M-Moseby?"

  "He's still alive, which is saying something." Baby looked even more beautiful than he remembered, a little tired, maybe, but her skin was smooth, her mouth ripe. She wore tight jeans and a man's dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. Pistol on her hip, one of the slim automatics that Belt gunsmiths specialized in. "Doc, can you come over here?" she called, not t
aking her eyes off him.

  Rakkim saw his Fedayeen knife on the stand beside the bed, a single piece of razored carbon polymer imbued with his own DNA. He picked it up, flipped it end over end. "Where's Gravenholtz?"

  "He's not here, that's all that matters." Baby watched as he pressed the knife against the inside of his right forearm, the knife melding to his flesh. "Doc said he couldn't understand how that knife sticks to you without a scabbard."

  The doctor ambled over, a paunchy man with a clipped mustache and a frayed white jacket. The V between the index and middle fingers of his left hand was yellow from nicotine. "The sleeper awakes. You're a very lucky man, Mr. Epps. If Corporal Hitchens hadn't found you two on the road--"

  "I want to talk with the Colonel," Rakkim said to the doctor.

  "I'd lose that tone of voice." The doctor plucked a bit of tobacco off his lower lip, flicked it onto the floor. "The Colonel and just about everyone else have gone to Atlanta, so you can thank the lady here for tending you night and day. We're shorthanded and Baby bathed you, saw to your medications, changed your IVs, and anything else I asked."

  Rakkim sat up in bed, head spinning. "Why...why are they gone?"

  "Easy." The doctor smoothed his mustache. "You got a touch of D.C. syndrome."

  "Aztlan bombed Graceland last week," said Baby. "Colonel's gone to Atlanta to organize the counterattack."

  "We're attacking Aztlan? How long have we been here?" said Rakkim.

  "Three days," said Baby. "Doc completely changed out your blood, pumped you full of chelating minerals to hoover up the radiation."

  The doctor pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, glanced at Baby. "I'm taking a smoke break. Call me if you need help."

  "How's Moseby doing?" Rakkim called after him.

  "He's progressing," the doctor said, not bothering to turn around as he pushed open the door and stepped out into the twilight, a cigarette already in his mouth.

  "What exactly does 'he's progressing' mean?"