DIRE : BORN

by Andrew Seiple

  Joan shook her head. “Well, they sicced the cops on us, right? Since the cops failed, maybe they won't.”

  “We need guards,” said Sparky. “Gonna have to get people to keep watch. There's always someone up anyway, might as well give'em guns and tell'em trouble's coming.”

  “Do we have any noisemakers?” I mused. “Guards typically have signals or means to make them.”

  “Yeah,” said Martin. “They called guns. We ain't that big, any gunshots gonna wake people up.”

  “Ah. Right.” I rubbed my face. “Obvious in hindsight. Oh, here.” I offered Joan the flare gun that the Militia had given me. “If it looks bad, or if trouble happens when Dire's not around, then point up and pull the trigger. The Midtown Militia might come.”

  “You're not going to be around?” Joan looked worried, and I raised a hand as the group around us muttered.

  “Yes and no. Dire's your most mobile asset. You'll need her attacking, while you defend.”

  They looked at each other, then Sparky sighed.

  “Listen, missy Dire, we ain't exactly got defense. This ain't gonna be like when it was me and Roy holding the showerhouse, a year back. They're gonna come in force, they're gonna come angry, and they're gonna expect to have a fight.”

  “And they're gonna be on that black rage shit,” said Martin.

  “The ones in the church weren't,” I caught his eyes, but he didn't look away.

  “The ones in the church weren't going to war. You saw what Scrapper did when he had it and they didn't.”

  I grimaced at the truth of it.

  Scrapper's armor hadn't been completely bulletproof. They'd tagged him several times. He would have bled out even if he hadn't forced me to kill him. But the drug had made a difference, all right.

  “You need Dire to defend,” I muttered. “Then perhaps a small force, armed with some of the guns...”

  “Yeah, 'bout that,” said Martin, “Guns? We got those. Ammo? Not so much. I didn't find where they were keepin' it, it wasn't with the rest of the shit.”

  Sparky shook his head. “That's bad. I'd say we could start gun drills with our people, get'em practicing, but if we ain't got much ammo we can't do it.”

  It also meant that we couldn't put up much of a fight if they came. We'd fold against any strong opposition.

  I gnawed my lip... “Do they know that?” I asked Martin.

  “Know what?”

  “That we're that short on ammunition?”

  “Shit, I don't know.”

  “So maybe they don't. Let's hold drills, but only load a couple of guns. Make some noise instead of huddling down and acting scared,” I suggested. “If they're out there watching right now, then they'll think we have enough to spare for a serious fight. It'll make them cautious.”

  “For maybe a night or two. Then they hit us with everything.” He shook his head.

  I resisted the urge to throw my bean can at him. “Right, which is why we also fortify up, and Dire uses her armor to go search for more ammunition during the day. Or we trade with the Militia, or something.”

  “Should trade with them anyway,” said Minna. “More useful we are, more they care about us.”

  Martin raised his hands, let them fall onto his knees. “Seriously. Do not make the mistake of thinking they are friends. They ain't.”

  I leaned in close, and fixed my eyes on his, waiting until he was staring back. “Martin. We need ideas. We need information. We need options. You're seriously starting to rain on her parade, here.” Now what was that supposed to mean? Some linguistic artifact? But Martin got the drift of it.

  He took a deep breath. Took another, and let his hands fall. I leaned back across the fire, glanced at the others. Sparky was still grim, Minna was inscrutable as always, and Joan looked like she was almost in tears.

  “We can do this,” I whispered. “We will do this.” My voice crept up a notch, and I stood. “Four of us. Just four of us went into that church, went into the jaws of death to get the food we're eating now. And all of us came out. Sangre didn't. Ten of his best didn't. We are not weak!” I was shouting now. “We have Scrapper's armor! We have guns! And we have a home to fight for! We will stand, and they will not break us!”

  I stalked around the fire like an angry predator, waving my arm at every shout. And every eye was upon me. I stopped before Joan, knelt before her, and took her hand. She swallowed, and looked at me in surprise.

  “So don't cry Momma Joan,” I urged. “We will see this through. And when Roy gets back? We're going to throw him one hell of a party, and we'll pay for it with every bit of stolen loot we raid from those evil fools.”

  Her mouth quirked, and she sniffled a bit, but finally an honest smile emerged. “Punch and pie for all, huh?”

  “The punchiest and the pie-e-est. Nothing but the best!” I stood, and the crowd laughed, the tension fell. I saw people start to slip away, and smiled at Sparky. “Think you can talk a few people into staying watch? Hand out guns?”

  He nodded, looking a touch less grim than before. “Easy to do. Figure it'll get too dark too soon to do any real drills, but I'll have everyone I give'em to fire off a few rounds. That'll make the noise ya want.”

  “Good. Joan, look over the food we've got, work out a ration that will last us for a week. All right?” She nodded, smiled again. I looked to Minna. “Minna, make sure no one gets stupid or goes off alone, alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “Martin. Come with Dire.”

  “Am I in trouble?” He asked. “Gonna give me detention and shit?”

  “No, but you have a thousand word essay on the Black Bloods and every little detail you know about them, due now. What they might have, how they fight, who leads them, everything we haven't discussed yet. Also, might want to tell Tooms to move your tent in some, it's kind of out there alone if trouble comes.”

  He nodded, and actually smiled. “Alright. I think we're still fucked, but what the hell.”

  I smiled back. “Well, if that's the case, then we can make sure that they draw back nothing but a bloody stump after they're done.”

  He winced, but followed me into the darkness.

  “Don't know what to tell you I ain't already told you. There's lots of them, they crazy as shithouse rats, they got a thing for stealing dead bodies. They got rage drugs, and maybe weird curse shit.”

  I frowned. “Who's in charge? A violent, irrational organization like this, there's got to be someone up top strong enough to keep them all in line. There was someone in the church with a mask, Sangre called him Boss...”

  “Coulda been Barbatos. He ain't the big boss, but he's more important than Sangre. There's four captains, and a boss of them, but they the only ones that get to see the boss. Sangre was one of the captains.” He rubbed his nose. “He's the one runs their turf in the Brownstones. Ran it, anyway. Ain't as tough as some of the other ones, but not the weakest, either.”

  Middle of the road. Given his skills, and the way he'd disabled Scrapper with nothing but a sword, that was disturbing.

  “Who's the toughest?”

  “Barbatos.” He glanced away. “Barby might be a costume, it's honestly fucking hard to tell. Coate used to—” He stopped.

  “Used to what?”

  He avoided my eyes. “A guy I knew used to tell about how Barbatos took their turf in the Factories. It was a fucking slaughterfest that made our night at the church look like pattycake. Dude wears like a riot gear and a bulletproof mask, and uses meat cleavers. He just don't fucking stop. And it's not like he's on the rage, he don't scream or yell or nothing, he does it smart. Uses bodyguards, bombs, tactics and shit, and only comes in for the kill personally when you're already wrecked. He ain't had to come out for a long while, not since SCK pulled out of the Rustbelt.”

  I rubbed my chin. “Who's the weakest?”

  “Weak's a bad word for it, but the one who ain't probably gonna try to hand you your liver is Rictus. Fucker handles the business stuff for them.
He's the one to talk to when you need a loan, or want a shipment of their shitty-ass drugs. He's probably the one that sicced the cops on us. Anyway, he's a goth-ass looking motherfucker in a suit. Usually got a gun.”

  “That's three, one dead and accounted for. Who's the last?”

  “Stig. Short for Stigmata.” His face grew grim. “Fucker's a SEAL or something. Ex-special forces dishonorable discharge PTSD poster boy from the last sandbox war. Guy used to run with the Kriegers until he got fed up with their shit, got a better deal up here. He's the one with the connections who gets their gear and shit. Not as good as what the Kriegers got, but good enough to mow our raggedy asses down.”

  I frowned. “Yet Barbatos is the tougher of the two?”

  “There's a reason Stig got a dishonorable discharge. And that reason is meth. Fucker's been frying his brain, dipping his wick, and partying for years now, living the good life. Got him a belly now, and he ain't running too many five-minute-miles. Still put a bullet in you in a heartbeat if you take your eye off the fucker and he crazy enough you might not see it coming.”

  I rubbed my chin again, sat on the edge of the nearest pier. The snow had stopped, and the clouds were peeling away, leaving a moon staring down from above. Good. The visibility would help our people spot trouble, make it harder for them to sneak up on us.

  “Stig first,” I decided. “Take him out, then loot his weapons and ammo stash... he'll probably have things we can use, and we'll deny it to the enemy at the same time. Do you know where to find him?”

  “No,” he said. “I know he ain't around here. But I know who might know.” He grimaced. “Even if I don't fuckin' like it.”

  That expression, I'd seen that look before. “The Militia?” I guessed.

  “Yep.”

  “Mm. Don't want to waste a flare to call them now,” I considered. “Dire will ask the next time they return. If she's not, then you must ask, yes?”

  “Fuuuuuuuck. Yeah, all right.”

  “What's your trouble with them, anyway?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Ah. Maybe another time. Take too long to explain it. Talk to me if we still alive later.”

  “Mm. All right. Dire did have one other idea, but it might not be feasible...”

  We discussed the contingency plan. Martin wasn't happy with it, but he agreed to it.

  I nodded, and as he turned to leave, I stuck out a hand. He looked at it, took it, and shook.

  “Fuck was that for?” He asked.

  “Thank you. This helps.”

  He looked at our hands, looked at my face, looked to our hands again, and shook his head. “Thank my ass if we live through this shit. Somehow.”

  I grinned, and he wandered back to his tent.

  For my own part, I looked at the suit of armor, open and crouching behind the kitchen. It was a good start, it had mobility and defense, but it was lacking in offense. I'd had to shave the hydraulic-enhanced strength of the suit down to get it flight capable. It was strong enough to knock rogue police around like dummies, but against psychos on rage drugs? Couldn't say. And using that strength required getting close in the first place...

  I looked at the remnants of the SUV I'd cannibalized for a few select parts, and thought about the parts remaining.

  Yes. Yes, I could do something with this...

  CHAPTER 11: Rallying the Hopeless, Meeting the Hopeful

  “You have to understand... The Black Bloods had been a problem for years, and the local police were never any help. Both of these groups were unpopular, both oppressed the folks who lived in Brownstones. So when she rose up, and smacked them both down, people got to talking. We were already feeling the pain from the blackout, already freezing in our apartments and homes, already preyed upon by thugs with guns. And here she was, showed up a few days back on the beach and already her people had power, and food, and guns of their own. Is it any wonder that some of us saw a chance to get help? To fight back? If she'd been Satan herself, we wouldn't have cared. There were worse devils already out in the night. And maybe she could help us fight them.”

  --Interview with Tamara Lane, survivor of the Y2K crisis, and the Longlane Mall Massacre.

  I worked well into the night, occasionally taking a break to walk around the camp and check in with the people Sparky had tapped to watch the perimeter. They were glad for the company, and I got to meet a few more people over the course of the five or six hours I was awake. I spent the rest of my time in the laundry room, using the tools to carve up components from the SUV and integrate them as upgrades. I didn't have room for anything fancy, but magnetic acceleration weaponry is actually not hard to do with the right components and enough power.

  From the exhaust pipe and the internal wires and circuits of the dashboard, I crafted a crude coilgun. It wouldn't get enough acceleration to pierce vehicular armor, but it would definitely go through people. Or if I scaled it back, I could use it to batter and knock foes around instead, giving me a non-lethal option. Once done, it took another hour to weld it into the right shoulder of my armor, with a swiveling mount that would allow me to pull it down and aim it. Which was necessary, because without a targeting system or a mechanism to move it independently, I'd have to aim and fire it by hand. I tied it into the armor's power core, did a basic non-firing test, and smiled when none of the circuits blew.

  That done, I slept the sleep of the righteous, curled up and enjoying it for the few hours it lasted.

  A commotion woke me. I pulled my pistol from its place under me and waited, listening. Light shown in from outside. Past dawn, then. No violence, no shouting, no panic I could tell. Wailing kids? Unfamiliar voices? I holstered the gun, stood and pulled my clothes back on, and wandered outside.

  I was met by the sight of people. About a hundred of them, most better dressed than the rest of the camp. It was a mix of men, women, and children of all ages. Most of them were carrying things... luggage, rolled up tents, a few other sundries. One elderly matron even had her arms wrapped around a cat carrier, with an ill-tempered Siamese inside doing its best to disembowel anyone who strayed too near to the bars.

  I blinked.

  One of the camp regulars glanced over, saw me, and turned back to the old man he was talking to. He pointed my direction, and the guy turned, studied me, and said something to another stranger. Gestures, eyes, and whispers, as more and more people snapped their heads around to study me. For my own part, I crossed my arms and glared back. Some of them flinched, but the muttering grew and finally Joan pushed forward, looked around, and pointed. “You and you, with me and Sparky. The rest of you just try and get settled, okay? Plenty of space to go around.”

  She hurried over to me, leading two of the strangers over.

  One was short and brown-skinned, with neatly trimmed mustaches and beard. He wore spectacles, and he had the most cheerful grin on his face of anyone in the crowd.

  The other was an old man who had more wrinkles than face. He was tall but stoop-shouldered. He had an unfamiliar uniform on, that included a truly comfortable looking greatcoat. Eyebrows like knots of frayed rope covered watery but stern eyes, even if he seemed to be making an effort to smile.

  “So you'd be the lady in charge of this camp,” he said as he approached, and his voice was rough. It bespoke damage to his throat at some point, perhaps from contact with hazardous chemicals.

  Yes? No? Kind of? I had sort of taken charge of things, hadn't I? Mainly because we'd needed somebody to, after Roy fell.

  Joan solved my dilemma. “Yeah, she is. This is Dire.”

  “Doctor Dire,” I clarified. We were dealing with unknowns, and a title would provide a slight advantage under certain circumstances.

  “Ah! You too?” The brown-skinned man spoke up. His voice was gentle and smooth. Deeper than I'd expected, given his small stature. He bowed. “I am Doctor Khalid Basaran, a general practitioner with a focus in osteopathy. You?”

  “Well, she's a somewhat focused practitioner with specialties in phys
ics, heavy engineering, and electronics.”

  I stepped around the corner to get a clear line of sight, and pointed at my armor, parked behind the kitchen. “That's her current patient.” I let a slight smile creep onto my face, as they laughed. Joan laughed too, but Sparky was still looking a bit sour.

  Then there was a hand thrusting toward my face, as the uniformed one stuck it out with no particular warning. I took it and shook it. “I'm Phil Guzman. Used to be a Captain when the piers up here were in service. Call me Guzman.”

  I nodded. “Good morning to you both. Why are you here in the camp? Why are...” I gestured at the crowd, which was busy unpacking their luggage. Not everyone had tents, perhaps a third of the arrivals. Still, it made for a chaotic spray of colors across the beach. Children shrieked and laughed, running as they played. It was a cold morning, I couldn't blame them for keeping in motion.

  “Well...” Guzman cleared his throat. I waited, but he didn't follow up on it, perhaps searching for the right words to say. Joan spared him the trouble.

  “Things were worse than we thought, hun. The last few nights? The noises we were hearing from back over that way?” She gestured with a mitten-clad hand. “That was the Black Bloods going door to door, extorting tribute.”

  “Most of the folks who could get out a here already did,” said Guzman. “But a lot of us don't have nowhere to go, or don't have money to leave. And there's barricades up north of here, only get through if you've got papers. Goddamn government.”

  “If you can't pay, then the Bloods hurt you,” said Joan. “They've been taking kids, too. Even... babies... in some cases.” She swallowed, blinked back tears.

  “Right. Okay,” I said. “Still doesn't answer Dire's original question. Why is everyone here?”

  “We are here because you beat them,” said Khalid. “And because you're strong enough to protect the people here. So now we want to be the people here, too.”

  I stared in disbelief. “The people here are homeless. They have nowhere to go.”

  Guzman shrugged. “Power's off in all of these apartments, all of the houses. It's cold as hell anyway, we might as well be homeless already.” I looked at his gut, which probably hadn't missed a meal in years, and refrained from comment. He continued. “Besides, with us here the police probably won't give you as much grief. Ain't like we're freeloading!” He spat the word, settled his watery eyes on me. “We got pride. We brought everything we could with us.”