"What’s gotten into you?" he asked.
"Nothing, it’s just ... is there something wrong with wanting to know more?"
He mad-dogged her, buying time, rummaging for some trenchant point or simply the right words. Finding neither, he simply growled, "Okay, alright. You want to know why? You really do? You’re not gonna like it, but things are the way they are because I say so. Because that’s the way they have to be right now, that’s goddamn why."
Marisol scowled and took a look to the ground and pushed past him. He knew she was pissed and he almost called after her, but then he let her go. For all he cared about her, she wasn’t blood. True, she reminded him of his daughter, but she wasn’t really his. At the end of the day, she was just another Ape. Marisol slipped down a hallway and mustered forbidden thoughts of music and dancing.
At the same that Marisol was thinking of a life beyond Absolution and New Chicago, Longman’s familiar, a man known simply as Mister Hendrix was busily at work. Hendrix was what might have been deemed a bureaucrat in the old days. He was perpetually unshaven, junkyard filthy, and resembled a greyhound, with long, crooked pins that looked built for speed. He sported tweed trousers and iron-tipped boots and carried a metal attaché case purloined from some oily hedge-fund guy he’d shot in the back under a subway trestle two days after it all went bad.
Like many in Longman’s unholy entourage, Hendrix embraced his dark side in the days shortly after the Unraveling. Unlike some of the others, however, his was corruption by choice, driven principally by a latent talent for hunting and killing that announced itself as soon as the world broke.
Most of those he’d put down in the days after "The Great Shat," as he called it, deserved it, but the first few he’d dropped with blade and bullet just to see if he could do it. He’d had terrifying visions and dreams of running amok in the days before, but was unable to act on any of his more demonic impulses because of the law and societal pressures and the legion of pills he took from various mental health practitioners to keep his demons in check.
The Unraveling had been the opportunity of a lifetime for Hendrix, and he’d fully embraced it, immediately going off his meds, and gathering up weapons and blackening his face and setting off at night to kill and take trophies from his targets. In the quiet times when he reflected, Hendrix remembered the Chinese maxim of "original sin." That is, there was no one of any measure who had not gotten to where they were without committing some dark act. He was like this, he felt — someone truly coming into his own, though it was indisputable that he’d done more evil than most.
His days of killing were mostly over now, and he functioned in his current capacity as an Absolution investigator for Longman and the other elites. Inside the attaché case were the tools of his trade. A half-broken digital camera wrapped in duct tape, a magnifying glass, a set of steel tweezers, a foldable knife, parchment, a small bottle of baby powder (for testing prints) and a writing utensil to scrawl and sketch the death scene.
Hendrix bent beside the boy shot dead by Cozzard and Lout and tossed his pockets and catalogued every object and piece of pocket litter found inside. He flipped the boy’s wrist over and gazed at the tattooed numbers that all of the citizens of New Chicago now bore. He matched the numbers up to those on a paper list and mused that the deceased was the ne’er-do-well son of a fairly well-respected member of an upper Guild.
Caleb was his name and his father controlled trade on the river and owed all that he had to Longman. Caleb’s father had no other sons, but a bevy of fine-looking daughters borne by several women. He wouldn’t miss Caleb. Not really. Hendrix smiled, for he knew that the death of the Boy would not be connected to Longman. It would be pinned on some unlucky Mudder or other fodder, some poor soul who scraped by on the leftovers jettisoned down by the upper caste. In order to obscure the facts underlying the death and obstruct any true investigation, Longman would pay the blood money (what Hendrix personally liked to call a "Death Gratuity") and O’Shea would ante up the Runner and then the Apes would gun the Runner down and the money would be paid to Caleb’s family and all would then be right with the world. That’s all the other members of the Guild wanted. To make sure that if they lost a life, another would be offered up in sacrifice for it. That’s how people were placated now. Flesh for flesh. Blood for blood. Take a life give a life.
Hendrix recorded all the relevant information and placed it inside his case and then turned to two broad-shouldered workers who placed dowels under Caleb’s body and hoisted the boy up into a long burlap sack. He would be shown to his father and then incinerated and his ashes spread, like those of everyone else, over the source of "The White": poppies at what was once called Soldier Field.
Hendrix was partially responsible for "White" or "The White," as it was called (even though, amusingly enough, it was light brown in color). He’d been a soldier and a part-time chemist, a promising drummer in a punk band called "Failure To Thrive" and a lover of drugs and violence and vice back when the world was real. An addict since the time when he was half of forty, he sobered up in the years after his murderous rampage and the Unraveling when the supply of drugs and other goodies slowed to a trickle. He carried seeds with him, however. Poppy seeds he’d gathered in a nameless war fought overseas and then secured in a rucksack that he carried in his bag when he set out after the initial riots began.
He spent many years in the wilderness, half-mad, living off of what he could grow or source or steal from anyone unlucky enough to make his acquaintance. One of Longman’s sycophants shot him in the ass when he tried to steal a jug of lamp oil from a truck and the only thing that had saved his life was when he showed Longman those seeds. Longman knew what they were, what they meant (and what they could mean), and Hendrix lied and told Longman that he knew how to plant and grow the seeds. The lie saved Hendrix’s hide and quickly after Longman’s forces took over New Chicago, Hendrix was made to grow those seeds in the fertile soil of Soldier Field. The weather was unforgiving, but modifications were made and soon the crop took hold and blossomed into a beautiful batch that was cured and pressed and used as currency to buy and sell and snort and inject and generally partake of.
Various Guilds controlled trade in New Chicago, some overseeing it on the river, others in the outer boroughs where much of the vegetables and fruit, herds of lower animals, and valuable timber was grown and cultivated. The Birken, Kratzos, Millios, and Occidio Guilds controlled the more rural areas.
In the city, the Hammurabi, Sagan, and Locksley Guilds controlled smithing and mongering and the foundries where fires were stoked and metal bent, and brick manufactured from the river sludge to use in buildings. These various goods would be brought to market and paid in kind with other goods or ounces of the powder, which was disbursed to workers and the lower castes to keep them numb. The population of New Chicago was perhaps forty thousand, and more than half of those were addicted to the narcotic. Longman controlled all of it — all of the trade in drugs.
Funny thing was, Hendrix rarely used an ounce of the stuff. Same with Longman. They were too busy making plans and getting rid of those who stood in their way. After several years, the crop was self-sustaining and Longman moved Hendrix into a position as lead investigator as he resurrected Absolution to deal with the growing problem of crime, lawlessness, and inter- and intra-Guild disputes. Hendrix knew most of the hunts were rigged and utter bullshit, but it gave Longman’s system a veneer of legitimacy, and sometimes that was all that mattered. He snapped closed his case and thought, "What the hell," so he snorted a bump of The White, and made his way to a waiting car to deliver the news to Longman and begin preparations for Absolution.
CHAPTER 14
This is how the hunt always began.
Hendrix would arrive back at the Guild offices and move briskly up fourteen flights of stairs (elevators were, like morality and soap in the days after, an indulgence). He drifted down guarded corridors and entered a bullpen brimming with men and women who formed the small te
ams who functioned solely as cogs in the Absolution machine. Hendrix sat at his desk and filled out forms detailing all of the pertinent facts from the death scene as his assistant, Michael, hefted thick folders on prior hunts, along with photos of potential Apes to use.
Michael showed Hendrix how much blood money had been paid in prior sessions and Hendrix did quick calculations, taking into consideration the dead boy’s family, the Guild, in order to ascertain how much he was worth. He reached a number. The boy was worth at least ten thousand dollars in old money, or several kilos of White. An impressive sum. One of the largest amounts of diyya in recent memory. Longman would not be pleased. Hendrix circled the number as Michael held up the photos of the Apes and Hendrix smiled broadly as he was immediately drawn to a photo of Marisol. He’d never really noticed her before and pointed.
"You friggin’ kidding me? Some… girl?" He tittered at Marisol’s photo. "Goddamn chicklet doesn’t look old enough to sell me cookies."
Michael did not return Hendrix’s smile. "She’s the best there is. A tracker. She leads the older ones now."
"That so?" Michael nodded as Hendrix squinted, attracted to the girl certainly, but also cognizant of the impressive list of kills and half-kills attributed to her.
"She’s never been on a hunt that didn’t end successfully, Mister Hendrix."
Hendrix nodded. Just what he wanted to hear. He signed off on the paperwork, and neatly folded it three times, then pulled a mighty iron stamp with Longman’s seal from his desk. He used a lighter to fire up a wedge of red wax and then he pressed the seal in the wax and stamped the Absolution papers and handed them to Michael for processing.
Michael took a step and Hendrix lashed out and grabbed his wrist. "Who’s gonna run?"
Michael shook his head. "I don’t — I mean, you know that the decision on who—" he said before Hendrix snapped, "You tell that bastard O’Shea that I want someone green, okay? I don’t want anyone to know, but I want a first-timer on this one. One of the young runners. Some wet-behind-the-ears punk. Some sweet-pea."
Michael nodded uneasily and then hustled off through the bullpen as Hendrix leaned back and smirked. The game was afoot and he wanted to make damn certain that blood was spilled.
CHAPTER 15
Elias furiously pumped his arms as he crawled up a faux hillside, a climbing board forty-feet high that was secured to tall wooden poles on the east side of the Pits. Sweat riveted his brow and muscles as he climbed all the way to the top, secured in place with nylon ropes that hung like entrails from the poles, protecting him in the event of a fall.
"You got some serious skills," a voice echoed.
Elias peered down over a shoulder to see Moses standing and watching him, arms folded across his thick chest.
"Thing is, it’s easy to make that climb with a safety net."
"What do you mean?" Elias asked and Moses grinned, "Oh, I think you know."
Elias looked to the ropes that were fastened with rusty clips to the harness pack he wore. He sucked in a gulp of air and knotted his brow and then he undid those clips and spidered down the face of the climbing board freestyle, dropping the final ten feet and coming down low and rising on his haunches at the feet of Moses, who clapped.
"I wanted to let you know personally that you’re on deck," Moses said. Elias froze; a pulse of energy, equal parts fear and excitement, snaked up through his body.
"Me?"
"You, kiddo. They damn near specifically asked for you. I mean, don’t tell anyone, ’cause people think there’s this deep, dark lottery, but the Brahmin, the mighty men on the council who’re in charge know who they want, and they asked me for you. You’re running and gunning for me in the next hunt. The next session of Absolution. ‘The Harrowing.’"
Elias nodded, "When?"
"One day from today," Moses said. "Time enough to get your stuff squared, m’man. You feel me? Y’know what I’m saying?" Elias had absolutely no idea what Moses was saying, but he rarely was slapped or verbally abused for nodding, and so he nodded as Moses clapped his shoulders. "You’re going to do just fine."
Moses spun to exit as Elias called after him.
"Elias."
Moses stopped and turned and replied, "Come again?" and Elias said, "I told you before, but…my name’s Elias."
Moses grinned and tipped his head. "Elias it is," he said, and then he paused, and for some strange reason asked, "You got kin, Elias?"
"I did. Before. You?"
Moses nodded and Elias noticed his knuckles for some reason. They weren’t ridged like normal knuckles, rather, they had all been flattened. Elias knew from this that Moses was not a man to cross, but wondered what he must have done to wear them down that much. He had a guess, but held his tongue.
"Your family," Elias asked. “Where are they?"
"Gone."
"Long gone?"
Moses nodded again, a quiver of misty red in his eye. "So far away I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to find them."
Elias chewed on his lip.
"You afraid you won’t ever see them again?" he asked.
"I’d be lying if I said anything other than ‘yes.’"
Moses dipped his head for an instant, then looked back, searching Elias’s face for hints of fear.
"Are you afraid of running tomorrow?"
Of course Elias was, but he didn’t want Moses to know that even as the black man’s face puckered up into a half smile in recognition.
"I read somewhere, Elias, where a man much smarter than me wrote, ‘So long as we love life for itself, we seldom will dread the losing of it. It’s only when we desire life for the attainment of an object or something else, we recognize the frailty of its texture.’ I always felt like that kinda summed the whole thing up."
"I guess we just need to focus on the now and live for what we’ve got," Elias replied.
"I think you just nailed it, kid.”
They shared a moment, and then Moses whispered, "It’s kinda weird, but in the old days I think you and me might’ve actually been friends. I just got that feeling ‘cause of what we would’ve had in common, y’know? But now the only thing we share is harsh times and an enemy. Sucks, don’t it, Elias?"
Elias didn’t know how to unravel what Moses had just said, and so he nodded yet again as the black man whispered, "Good boy" and pivoted and moved back inside the outer ring of the Pits, smiling as he went. The kid most definitely had stones, Moses thought. God knows he would need them.
CHAPTER 16
Marisol moved deftly between the obstacles in the Kill House, the shell of a building that had been retrofitted as a training ground for the Apes. It was three stories tall, chopped up into various rooms where targets and traps were laid, with closed-circuit cameras capturing all the action and beaming it back to the Commandants, who scored the performance of each of the Apes as they made their way through.
Marisol’s assault rifle nosed through a door, bright orange mag of "sim-ammo" — simulated ammunition — clipped in place. She spirited up a staircase and sharked down a corridor, nose to the air, waiting for any sign. She felt it, that electricity the others couldn’t feel, and then she planted a foot and dove to her right as — WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! — sim-ammo and tracer fire raked the spot where she just stood. One of the other Apes was hunting her. She shouldered her way through a limp barrier of engineered sheathing and came up on her knees, sighting her rifle down. She could sense movement through another wall as the lights went out and everything was plunged into outer-space darkness.
She counted to herself, heard the nearly imperceptible creak of a floorboard, and then she took off, barreling forward — BOOM! — jackhammering through the particle board wall to surprise Harrigan, the Ape who’d been stalking her. Marisol double-tapped Harrigan with the simulated ammo, orange paint splotches etched across Harrigan’s chest. For purposes of the training op, Harrigan was dead. He was also half-pickled from the cheap swill he rifled down that was made of equal parts sodium water
and paint thinner — "agua verde," he called it — and it affected his mind and made him hotter than hell at high noon. At that moment in the Kill House, he was in no mood to be upstaged by a pencil-necked girl.
Marisol lowered her gun, and in a flash he torched her with a glare and said, "You think you’ve got the best trigger in the Windy, girl? Huh?"
She didn’t respond and this only seemed to increase Harrigan’s fury.
"We gonna keep cuttin’ bait, girl, or we gonna fish?" he said, cracking his knuckles, bunching and unbunching his fists.
"I don’t think it has to be like this," she said, hard gripping her gun.
"And I don’t think it can be any other way."
"You’re sure you want to do this?" she asked, taking a step back.
Harrigan couldn’t believe what he was hearing as he breathed loudly through bared teeth, his body coiled like a serpent, ready to strike.
"You know how this is gonna end, don’t you, bitch?"
She nodded.
"Me on my two feet. Looking down at you."
Harrigan roared in anger and charged and swung his rifle at her head. The aft of the gun clipped her hair, Marisol barely avoiding it. She swept a foot that stoned Harrigan’s ankle, bringing the thug down on his ass. In a blur of movement, Harrigan threw a punch that Marisol blocked and then Harrigan was back on his feet, coming at Marisol, punch, kick, chop, repeated over and over. He was inebriated, but his bulk sustained his momentum as he kept coming at her.
She parried everything he threw at her and then replied in kind, torqueing a toned leg back and bringing it across Harrigan’s chest, right below the ceramic plate he kept fastened across his vitals. The kick loosed the air from Harrigan, who gulped like a drowning man as Marisol jumped and planted an elbow against his neck, and then Harrigan was falling through space and tasting his own coppery blood before he hit the floor and blacked out.
Blood Runners Page 6
