Judge Dredd: Year Two

by Michael Carroll

  Here.

  Now.

  The gun barrel was centimetres from his carotid artery. It was game over if he didn’t act now. Dredd twisted the knife still sticking out from Calhoun’s thigh until his attacker roared, then, using his foot, flicked towards him the perp’s detached right hand, lying nearby. He snatched it up in his left fist, and slammed it onto the Lawgiver’s grip, relaxing his own as much as could even as he pushed up and squeezed the trigger. It was enough. The palm-reader detected an unauthorised user at the exact same moment that Calhoun realised what Dredd had done.

  The bullet seared past his throat and the gun exploded between them, the perp taking the brunt of the blast. Calhoun was blown backwards, his left arm now a smouldering stump, his face shredded. Still, he was attempting to lever himself up. Dredd, vision swimming, barely conscious, crawled the couple of feet between them, retrieved the knife with a hard tug, and without a word drove it into the punk’s neck. Calhoun let loose a gasp, and was then silent.

  Dredd knelt for a moment, swaying; then he collapsed onto his side and closed his eyes.

  Three

  11.02 am

  JOE.

  11.03 am

  WHEN THEY’D HEARD the explosion, Dax couldn’t not check it out. It wasn’t, of course, the first time their walls had been rattled—something went off on Strickland, with varying degrees of seriousness, at least every month or so—but a good solid boom like that one had a magnetic attraction to her. Mohawked head would tilt upwards, brow furrowed, you could damn near see her ears twitch—she’d been known to pick up on a fireball blossoming three blocks away. She claimed she wasn’t a pyro—she certainly wasn’t any more likely to set something alight than the rest of them—but it had special fascination for her, definitely. She’d sit and watch the flames lick the sky until the jays arrived to put it out.

  The rest of them had followed her lead as soon as she’d leapt up and crossed to the window; Dax was kind of their leader without anyone ever saying so. She just had the spark, spoke the loudest, probably was the smartest. The others—Bonedog, Sheema and Juice—stopped divvying out the tobacco they’d scored from the Monk and watched her press her face to the glass, before scrambling to their feet themselves.

  “Badge down there,” she muttered as they joined her at her shoulder. “Looks like his gun blew.”

  “Jeez,” Sheema breathed. “He dead?”

  “He ain’t standin’, that’s for sure.”

  “Bike’s still in one piece,” Bonedog said, eyes gleaming. “Furies are gonna be all over that in a micro-second.”

  “C’mon.” Dax turned and headed for the door. “I wanna go see.”

  “Could be it’s called in,” Sheema protested. “Helmets could be just around the corner.”

  “Then we gotta be quick,” she replied from the other side of the doorway. They could already hear her boots slapping down the corridor toward the els. The three exchanged a glance, shrugged, and went after her, like they had a choice in the matter.

  They caught up with her at ground level, spying on the scene from the corner of their block. Smoke rose from a second blackened figure splayed near the Judge, who looked very dead. The bluejay himself was lying in a spreading pool of blood, twisted over on his side, his helmet dented as if someone had taken a crowbar to his skull.

  “What do you reckon?” Juice whispered.

  “I reckon we strip the wheels fast as we can,” Bonedog answered. “Engine parts, ammo—all worth top cred.”

  “Ain’t those things protected?” Sheema murmured. “Y’know... self-defence?”

  Bonedog started to respond but Dax was already edging forward. Sheema grabbed her shoulder to pull her back, but she shrugged it off. She took another few steps, then seemed to stumble over something. She looked down, crouched, and picked up a handgun that had been obscured by the building’s shadow. Turning, she showed it to the rest of the gang.

  “Holy drokk,” Juice exclaimed. “It loaded?”

  Dax shrugged, flipped open the chamber, squinted inside then nodded.

  “Holy drokk,” Juice said again, grinning. “Fun we can have with that.”

  “Time’s wastin’,” Bonedog complained, motioning to move. “We wanna take what we can off that bike, we gotta do it now.” He started to follow Dax, but she’d turned back towards the Judge, sort of bending slightly to study him, waving one hand at Bonedog to stop him coming any closer. He paused.

  Dax took another couple of steps, the snubnose still held her hand, now only half a dozen feet from where the prone jay was curled. She shuffled a little nearer then stopped dead when she saw movement: the Judge was breathing shallowly, the heel of one boot scraping on the rockcrete. She glanced back at her friends, redoubled her grip on the weapon, and just as she peered down once more the lawman rolled suddenly onto his back with a pained sound. Dax visibly jumped but stood her ground.

  The Judge arched his back, and appeared to look straight at her; she couldn’t tell for sure because his eyes were hidden behind that shattered visor, but his head was now facing her, and in that moment she felt frozen, held within his gaze. His blood-flecked lower face scowled as if he was trying to say something, or he might simply have been struggling for breath. He was about the same age as they were, she realised. Still he regarded her, his left hand clutching a knife and flexing around the handle. Dax retreated slowly, then turned to usher the other three back towards the block entrance.

  “What the hell...?” Bonedog enquired testily, casting an eye over his shoulder at the scene, the jay now attempting to rise. All that primo scrap was there for the plucking, and the badge didn’t look like he’d put up much of a fight; Resyk fodder, most likely. He chose not to resist, though; he knew well enough not to argue with Dax.

  “We wanna be somewhere else,” was all she’d say, tucking the gun into the waistband of her pants and pushing him through the door.

  11.04 am

  CONTROL OPERATIVE OAKLAND called her supervisor over, swivelling in her chair to watch as he threaded his way unsteadily through the banks of monitors. The hubbub was ever-present, rank upon rank of her colleagues on either side stretching from wall to wall of the vast room, all dealing with thousands of street officers’ requests for info, pleas for assistance, and detailing perps’ sentences before pick-up, so when he stood at her side she had to raise her voice to make sure she heard him. The white-haired Davidson—a contemporary of Fargo’s, now frankly showing his age—bent a little, turning his head so she spoke directly into his ear, a sanctimonious affectation that never failed to irritate.

  “Had an interrupted communication logged at eleven ayem, sir. Been trying to return hails for the last two minutes, but no response.”

  “The badge?”

  “Joseph Dredd, sir. The system shows he’s red-flagged—any unusual circumstances to be reported, Chief Judge’s orders.”

  “I’m aware of policy, Oakland,” Davidson replied testily. “What was his situation?”

  “Radioed that he was investigating a suspect vehicle on the Strickland estate, Sector 9, at”—she scrolled down her screen—“ten forty-six. Then thirteen minutes later, a one-second burst of traffic. Fifty-seven seconds after that, another. He called in both times using his unique transponder; since then he hasn’t answered.”

  “Hm.”

  “I was going to send in a nearby unit to assist, as per. Given the flag, I thought you should be informed.”

  Davidson straightened and nodded. “I’ll direct it up the chain of command. Get a helmet out to his location and keep me updated of his status.”

  “Sir.” Oakland tapped her headset, regarding the old man as he hobbled off slowly down one of the aisles. The name Dredd meant nothing to her; she had no idea why the powers-that-be were so interested in his whereabouts or tracking his communications. But she did hear—surprisingly clearly, given the background chatter—Davidson mutter “Damn clones” before he disappeared from sight, though the significance was lost
on her. She shook her head.

  “All units in the vicinity of Sector 9, we have a possible Code 99 Red, Strickland estate,” she stated into her mic. “Back-up required, please acknowledge...”

  11.05 am

  THE PAIN BROUGHT him round, the fringes of it gnawing at him until it forced him to surface into consciousness. It took several seconds to orientate himself, vestiges of dream-figures dissipating; he was aware he’d heard voices, that someone had even spoken directly to him, but the details were hazy, and it was now all becoming mixed up in one big ball of hurt. The more his senses returned, the louder his nerve-endings screamed: every second seemed to bring a fresh report from some corner of his body demanding attention. He’d flopped onto his back, but as he tried to galvanise his legs to get him at least halfway upright, his strength deserted him. His head felt woozy, and he heard his heart thrumming in his chest, veins pulsing weakly: he’d lost a lot of blood, he knew that.

  Recall dawned in pieces—Calhoun, his Lawgiver. He glanced over at the charred remnants of his attacker, then realised he was still holding his boot knife in his left hand. He studied it, the blade dark and slick, then slotted it, trembling, back into its sheath, put an elbow under himself and manoeuvred into a sitting position. The air rushed out of him, and he thought for a second he was going to black out.

  Control, he told himself. Control the pain. Don’t submit to it. It’s secondary to my duty. It’s just another obstacle to overcome, an enemy to neutralise.

  He took stock: his right hand was unresponsive, the bones evidently fractured; the skin of his torso was scorched from his gun exploding, and the pain in his side told him at least one broken rib; his head pounded and his jaw was swollen, most likely a shattered cheekbone too (an injury from last year that hadn’t set properly; he wasn’t surprised to find that the bone there had splintered again). He needed med-assistance, and quickly. He tried to speak, and an ache spread across his face, the muscles frozen; he gave up on it, remembering that Calhoun had destroyed his helmet-comm anyway.

  He couldn’t physically call for help, but he could signal Justice Central from his bike. The Lawmaster was undamaged—he just had to get to it.

  Wavering, he planted a foot firmly beneath him and, through force of will, levered himself upright and began to hobble towards his vehicle, his right ankle protesting every time he put weight on it. There didn’t seem to be any part of him that wasn’t aching, and nausea was starting to claw at his throat. The head injuries he’d sustained interfered with his vision, the bike blurring as he got closer. He began to feel vulnerable, too, a sensation he wasn’t at all familiar with. Isolated.

  He considered programming the bike computer to take him back to Grand Hall—even if he requested help, he was in no fit shape to fend off any attacks should the locals try their luck in the interim. Better to pass out over the handlebars and be ferried to safety. He crossed the last couple of feet and fell against his Lawmaster, steadying himself by gripping the seat with his one good hand; letting it prop him up, he reached across and pressed the emergency button. Nothing. It had powered down to protect itself from misuse, wouldn’t boot up without the correct voice-activation. He tried to speak again, a viscous growl emerging in place of any identifiable words.

  “This unit has been coded only to be operated by its designated user,” the bike’s onboard comp warned. “Step away or necessary force will be applied.”

  “Bike,” he muttered, the effort exhausting. “Respond.”

  “Judge Dredd? Please verify identification.”

  “I... need help.”

  It didn’t answer for a second, then said, “Judge Dredd, this unit has detected a weapons-lock signal within close range.”

  “...What?” He looked up, scanning the buildings.

  The missile streaked out of a fifth floor window of Meyer; Dredd just had time to see the stream of its wake twist in the air before it struck the front of the Lawmaster. The bike flipped as it detonated, throwing the lawman back—he grunted in pain, landing on his already lacerated side. It exploded a second time as the fuel tanks caught, and Dredd was forced to roll to escape the heat of the blazing vehicle. His lungs sucked in dry, hot air and he coughed until he vomited, specks of blood visible in the thin gruel that hung from his lips. He spat, clearing his mouth.

  Then came the rattle of gunfire; he looked over his shoulder and saw a line of impacts splintering the sked and closing on him. He scrambled to his feet and dived behind the limo just as the shooter found his aim. Bullets rattled against the bodywork and blew out the windows. Keeping low, he tugged open the passenger door and hurled himself across the seats, relieved to see the key still in the ignition where Calhoun had left it; he twisted it and the engine rumbled into life. Twisting himself around, grimacing as shards of glass dug into his flesh, he stomped on the accelerator, thrust the gearstick into drive and the car lurched forward. Shells continued to spang off the hood, and the windscreen cobwebbed; he slid down as low as possible in the seat, one hand on the wheel, the limo picking up speed as he drove blind. He knew he wasn’t going to make it very far, but at least it could offer some cover as he fled the line of fire.

  Inevitably, a round burst a rear tyre and the car lurched, Dredd struggling to keep it steady. The air was filled with the shriek of grinding metal as the wheel rim screeched on the sked, slowing the limo’s progress. Another tyre exploded and it started to swerve; the Judge took his foot off the gas to control it, but the shredded rubber snagged on the kerb and it tipped as it fishtailed. Dredd braced himself as best he could as the vehicle rolled onto its roof, spinning once on the spot before coming to a standstill. Pushing aside the dizziness, he scrambled through an open window, shots continuing to pockmark the bodywork and chassis; when he saw one ricochet off the exposed fuel line, he knew he had to make some distance. He steeled himself, then pushed away from the shelter of the limo and limped quickly towards the shadowy entrance of a subterranean car park. Bullets whined over his head and clipped the walls either side of him, one passing through his side, just under the ribcage; he grunted, stumbled and fell, sliding the last few metres down the shallow incline into the underground space.

  He was swallowed up by the darkness and oppressive stillness, the rattle of gunfire sounding far away. Eventually, the shooting ceased. Here, in this cool, tenebrous enclosure, Dredd’s last, pain-wracked thought was that this was must be how it felt to be buried alive.

  11.10 am

  “WELL?”

  “Nothing. It’s gone.”

  “Jovus drokk. You looked everywhere?”

  “We looked where you told us it was. We had a nose round inside, too, but the car’s a mess, ain’t nothing still in one piece.”

  “Yeah, and whose fault is that? Your men had carried on shooting, the whole thing would’ve gone up.”

  “Wouldn’t have made no difference. Data-stick was gone anyway.”

  “But we didn’t know that. For all we knew the badge hadn’t found it. If the fuel tank had blew and it was still in the trunk, all this would have been for nothing.”

  “Well. You wanted the bluejay dead.”

  “Something else, I might add, that you have significantly failed to deliver on. You’re telling me there’s no sign?”

  “Think he made it into the McCluskey car pool. It’s a warren down there, all sortsa crawlspaces and hidey-holes he could lose himself in. Dark, too. We found some blood traces, reckon he took a bullet, but didn’t lead nowhere. Gonna need a good search, an’ plenty of feet on the ground. Plus there’s the, y’know, the Murder Corps to contend with.”

  “Will they play ball?”

  “If’n they get a cut, sure. Ain’t no fans of us Furies, but throw ’em a percentage an’ they’ll let us on their turf.”

  “Jovus... Look, the Judge obviously has the zipdrive. Find him and get it back. Spread the word—first musclehead that gets me my property back is on a bonus. Call it a five-kay finder’s fee; that’s how important this is to m
e.”

  “That’ll motivate the troops, certainly.”

  “It better. Christ, what a drokk-up. I haven’t got a ride back now, either. I don’t want to be stuck here while you deal with the cop—can one of your boys give me a lift back up-sector?”

  “Don’t know if that’s a good idea right now, Mr Gilpig. We’ve got company.”

  “What? What can you see? Rawlings, you there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, keep it down. Badge on the approach—probably checking out our buddy’s last known whereabouts.”

  “Oh, stomm. The estate will be crawling in no time—”

  “Cool your boots, boss-man. I got an idea that might buy us some time.”

  “Rawlings?”

  “Gotta go. Stay outta sight, we’ll handle this. It’ll mean double on the advance, though.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  11.25 am

  OAKLAND TOOK THE call. “This is Control, go ahead.”

  “Collins on Strickland, responding to that possible Code 99 Red. That’s, uh, a negative. Made contact with Dredd—he’s having comm problems, is all. Kept cutting out on him.”

  “Understood.” She checked the transponder signal on her screen; it matched Collins, all right. “Tell him to return to Central—that’ll need to be rectified immediately.”