Streetlethal

by Steven Barnes

  Mira looked at Promise's belly, judging the swell. "No problem running?''

  "Try me."

  "All right. We're getting out of here, and we have to stop as many of the intruders as we can. If we can split them up enough, our security groups should be able to fight back. Everyone has to do their part."

  "What's ours?"

  "Bait. They don't seem to be shooting people on sight. Yet. So we can expose ourselves, then duck out through Alpha-Alpha."

  "I thought that tunnel was dangerous."

  Mira managed a weak smile. "It is—but not to us. Just follow me precisely and everything will be all right."

  Some of the others didn't have gas masks; they wore handkerchiefs wrapped around their mouths . . . and frightened expressions.

  The green mist came boiling up out of the tunnel behind them. They ran.

  A gunshot pinged at their feet. Gasping for breath, Promise heard frustrated yelling behind her. As they passed a cross tunnel there was another shot, and a tendril of gas wafted out to caress the face of one of the unmasked runners, a boy of twelve. He stumbled, but was jerked erect by his mother who supported him until he collapsed. With a scream, she dropped to his side, and tried to drag him with her. The mist caught up with her as well.

  Promise didn't see what became of them, but within sixty seconds she heard another gunshot.

  Spurred on by fear, for her life and for the helpless life within her, she kept up with the others, ignoring the pain in her stomach muscles. One hand held her belly, attempting to quell the terrible sloshing sensation; her breath rasped loudly in the mask.

  More gas poured out of a side tunnel, swallowing them, and now they were running in a fog bank.

  "This way!" Mira gasped, and led them into Alpha-Alpha, tearing aside a couple of warning boards as she did so. The mist cleared out of the tunnel, and the five Scavengers examined each other like survivors of a blitzkrieg.

  "All right. We have to stick to the left side of the tunnel for about fifty feet, then stay in the middle between the tracks, and then the right side from then on. I lead. I need someone to take up the rear."

  Two of the others were children, a pale blond boy and an older girl with hard flat features. Tears fogged their faceplates. The only adult male dragged his leg painfully, and looked weaker than Promise felt. "All right," she said, "what do you w^ant me to do?"

  "Let them see you, then disappear around the bend as quickly as you can. You have to stay ahead of them."

  She nodded. "It'll be easier if they're using that damned fog."

  "They will. This has all been planned too carefully." Mira laid a dirty hand on Promise's shoulder. "Don't be too brave. And move as quickly as you can. Remember, you're running for two."

  Promise tried to smile. "I'll be fine."

  "All right. Let's get going." Mira took the lead again, pulling along the two children, who had ceased crying and had become silent as stone, tiny gargoyles who looked back into the fog with eyes that hated.

  Promise pressed herself into the wall and waited until the fog began to seep into the tunnel—the lovely green fog, with the dim lights flickering inside. It swirled aside to reveal a glimpse of an invader. He wore a clear, wraparound face filter with lines running to a flat rectangle of a backpack. The muzzle of his rifle probed the mist in front of him, and he walked with a carefully measured tread.

  Her mouth curled into a snarl and she bent, searching the ground with one hand until she found a chunk of rock. She stayed against the wall, out of sight, until he was almost up on her, then she heaved the rock, bouncing it squarely off his head.

  He sagged, groaning, and fell to one knee. By the time that the second man had moved up to help him, Promise was gone, moving swiftly along the left wall.

  There were shouts and curses behind her, and the sound of running feet. She bumped into the wall for the third time, and fought an urge to defy her instructions and run pell-mell down the center of the tunnel.

  The glimpse of a trip-wire, anchored two feet from the left wall and slanting upward to join the right, cured her of the urge.

  A bullet ricocheted off the tunnel wall.

  She disappeared around the bend, almost too far away to hear the trip-wire snap and the quick swish of air. There were two groans...

  Grinning, she ran on, almost bumping into the boy. They began to move along the center track.

  There was a small explosion behind them, then the whine of shrapnel slicing through the air. For the first time, Promise felt a trickle of hope. How many other death-tunnels are there? Suddenly, it didn't matter. That was for the other Scavengers to deal with. Right now, her job was here.

  She waved the boy on ahead. "No," he whispered. "I want to fight too." She grabbed his shoulders and spun him around, adding a slap on the behind for emphasis.

  Groans of pain and cursing wafted from behind the green mist that crept towards her. In spite of heir fear, she smiled. "A few morale problems?"

  Footsteps echoed through the fog. She waited until the first booted leg emerged, then ran.

  There was a grinding crash, and an entire section of the tunnel gave way behind her. Stunned, she turned around in time to see flailing arms and legs disappearing into the maw of a crevasse. There was a flash of light and a roar as they hit bottom, followed by plumes of black and brown smoke.

  She ran on until she reached the rest of the group.

  "I heard," Mira said. She tried to put enthusiasm into her words, but her eyes were haunted. "Good work. Now listen— we're close to an escape route, but this is the dangerous part. I want you to take the children on through. I've got to go back and try to find Kevin. Can you do that?"

  "You bet your ass."

  "More to the point"—she tousled the hair of the youngest child—"I'm betting theirs."

  Promise nodded soberly and hugged Mira, turning to continue her journey along the right wall. Mira disappeared into the fog.

  Explosions and gun flashes split the darkness, but she didn't dare turn back. More gas belched out of a cross-tunnel ahead. As the four of them reached it, a man emerged. He turned to face them, and seemed as surprised as she, hesitating a decisive moment before bringing his gun to bear.

  Promise swung her pipe in a shoulder-wrenching arc, hitting him squarely in the head. There was a splintering sound followed by a soft squish as the man collapsed. A blast of light pierced the fog and a muffled scream of "Halt!"

  Promise skidded to a stop just the other side of the cross-tunnel and crouched, waiting until the running feet were almost atop her before swinging the pipe at foot level, catching the man at the ankles. He went down in a tangle. She straddled him and hammered the pipe into his head twice before someone hit her from behind. She went down screaming, tripping across the sprawled body of her victim. The body cushioned her fall, but the other man's hands were at her throat. She fought savagely, kneeing, scratching uselessly against the heavy khaki of his coat.

  Her air suddenly turned sour. God! My gas mask is going dead!

  She had no strength left to stop him, and sobbed in frustration as the stubbled face behind the clear mask snarled in triumph, eyes lit with recognition.

  Those eyes widened further, in shock, then dulled as the grip at her faceplate was released. The man went limp and was rolled off her by the children.

  Promise felt numb, her air quality deteriorating rapidly. She gripped her faceplate with fingers that felt thick and clumsy as the children helped her to her feet.

  The thin man waved them on. "The exit!" he whispered, gesturing at a line of rungs rising up out of the mist to the ceiling. He went up first, dragging a bleeding leg, every rung clear torture. When he got to the top he bumped his head against the sealed grate, and grunted.

  He felt around on the underside of the grate and finally found the latch, pulling it free with a rusty, crackling sound. His fingers slipped and he cursed, for an instant trying to suck the wounds through his faceplate, then rubbing them against his shirt. He
worked his fingers into the grate again and heaved.

  The grate creaked free, and he lifted it out. He climbed up to shoulder level, then called back down, "Clear!" He disappeared as if lifted on a breath of wind.

  The youngest of the children went next. When the oldest boy tried to force Promise to follow, she shook her head no, even though her head was buzzing and the left side of her body seemed dead. He glanced at her in concern, but she gasped, "Get up there!" and gave him a shove.

  There were voices drifting in from the fog, and Promise gritted her teeth, waiting until the boy's feet had passed her head before beginning to climb.

  Her right hand was terribly weak, almost unusable, and her awkward weight made it even worse, but she kept going. She levered herself up a foot, then rested for a second by wedging her elbow in the rung. Then another step; and another. The spinning in her head became worse, and she knew that she was going to be violently ill. Her vision darkened, green mists slowly gathering, and with the last bit of strength she pulled herself up another rung and hung there, gasping, nothing left, feeling her fingers and mind losing their grip.

  And a hand reached down from above, clamping onto her wrist with a strength as implacable as a steel grapnel, hauling her up effortlessly. She almost blacked out with relief. "Aubry...?"

  "I'm afraid not," Diego Mirabal grinned. "But I'm very glad to see that you're alive."

  The grate slammed shut beneath her.

  18. Endgame

  Aubry opened his eyes resentfully. Why did you bring me back? His fingertips ran up his face, smudging dust and sweat, and flicked on his helmet light, the dim illumination wavering like a single candle in the darkness.

  He saw the wall of collapsed rubble break down and the first filthy head poke its way out of the debris. A probing spotlight filled the darkness, blinding him.

  Warrick's eyes were still closed, although his breathing was now close to normal. "Mira?"

  "Thank God!" Mira wiggled the rest of the way through the hole. Aubry could hear others behind her, clearing the tunnel. She checked her brother first, then Aubry. "We're under attack. The basic defense plans are in effect, but we need you, Kevin." She turned to Aubry, who was beginning to uncoil from his lotus. "And you, Aubry. More than anything else, we need you now."

  He nodded, feeling death recede patiently. "Where are they? What are they using?" Warrick asked the questions while his eyes were still closed, although they were just beginning to tremble.

  "Everywhere. Coming in from the surface and from the peripheral tunnels. They're using some kind of paralytic gas. They're killing people."

  Warrick's eyes opened. "Tell our people to fall back to the Multiplex. We'll make our stand there." His entire body shivered as he woke up. "Aubry?"

  "Where's Promise?"

  "I sent her up topside."

  "All right then, let's go." Behind his mask, his eyes were focused and calm.

  On all fours, they crawled out of the enclosure, dragging the still-unconscious Peedja with them.

  The fog was dense enough to mask sound and hide Aubry Knight and Warrick as they crouched in the tunnel.

  "If our people are going to make it to the Mall, we'll have to clear the way for them."

  Aubry nodded, his face impassive except for the faint curve of a smile on his lips. His thoughts seemed distant. Warrick gripped an iron bar two meters long.

  There was a sound in the fog, and four shapes outlined themselves. Aubry flicked his fingers at the two on the right, and Warrick nodded. Moving silently, Aubry slipped away.

  There was a moment in which nothing happened, and then one of the men was swept violently to the floor, back onto his head. The other fell forward. Warrick saw a flash of legs as Aubry caught him in a kind of scissoring sweep, one leg in front and one behind. There was a slithery blur of motion, then Aubry was riding the man's back, his fingers ripping at the facemask.

  Warrick was already charging forward, catching one of the men before he could turn, shattering his shoulder. He shifted grips and swung again, staving in the man's side. He bounced the end off the ribs and flowed into a short jab to the faceplate of the fourth soldier as he swung his rifle up. The man choked, panicking, and clawed at his throat and eyes, sinking to the ground.

  Aubry was already gone.

  Warrick trotted along after him, eyes straining to catch a form in the swirling green mist, and almost stumbled over a body. He caught his balance just in time and bent closer to examine it. There were actually two bodies. The one on top lay twisted with a broken spine. The other's faceplate had been totally shattered, shards of plastiglass driven deep into face and eyes.

  He ran faster now, barely avoiding three more bodies before he caught up with Aubry. Warrick saw a flash of leg as it traveled in an impossibly elongated and fluid arc, then heard the impact as its instep met the side of a jaw neatly. The head jolted sideways as the neck snapped.

  Aubry was a mammoth figure crouching among the fallen. Warrick called to him. Aubry turned so quickly that it seemed magical, as if he had flowed through himself. "We'd be more efficient if we split up. I'll take a branching tunnel and meet you at the Multiplex. Make sure to pass the word."

  "You got it," Aubry said, and then disappeared into the fog.

  There had been no anger in Aubry, Warrick noted approvingly. Nothing except cold purpose and survival. That was the finest beginning he could hope for.

  Aubry wrenched a rifle from the quivering hand of an Ortega soldier and tried to work it. He squeezed off a short burst, then it jammed. He worked the cartridge release and depressed the trigger again, satisfied.

  A man's scream from up ahead electrified him into action. Four soldiers were dragging a Scavenger family out of a hidey-hole. A second scream was cut short by the clubbing descent of a gun butt. The soldier raised his weapon for another stroke, but a burst of explosive slugs from Aubry's rifle sprayed red mist into the green.

  The gun jammed again, and Aubry threw it. It missed the other soldiers but made them move frantically, spoiling their aim. Aubry rolled twice and was among them. He drop-kicked the first one into the second, the two of them going back against the wall in a tangle. The third man reversed his grip on the rifle and swung it, the butt clipping Aubry's shoulder. Aubry went with the momentum like a revolving door, his leg whipping up and around with a spinning heel that smashed the soldier's head into the wall. As he finished the spin he planted his weight and shifted sideways, driving a stiff sidekick into one of the men trying to stand up: bones cracked. The other wiggled out of the way, pulling a knife.

  Aubry set himself, then felt arms pinioning him from behind. The knife man lunged in. Aubry tried to kick, and the man holding his arms bounced him, destroying his balance. Aubry entwined the grappler's legs with his own and whipped his hips to the side as the knife sliced along his stomach. He crashed to the ground, butt landing squarely on the man's bladder. He arched his back and snapped up to his feet.

  The knife man lunged again. Aubry pivoted sideways and caught the arm, then reversed directions, dropping to one knee. The knife man screamed as he flipped backwards, landing on his shoulders. Aubry disarmed him and sliced his throat, dispatching the other soldier a moment later.

  A woman and an older boy watched Aubry rise to his feet, something between shocked horror and relief on their faces. "Warrick said for everyone to head for the Multiplex." They stood frozen for a moment, and Aubry shouted, "Move it!"

  The boy hugged his mother and stepped over to Aubry. "I want to come with you."

  Aubry looked at the boy. He was about seventeen and seemed to be strongly built. "All right—I guess we'd better make this a caravan. Grab one of the guns, if you can operate it." Aubry picked one up and threw it to the boy. "And take point with me. The others stay back."

  The woman snarled and kicked the corpse of one of the soldiers. She pulled the pistol from his belt, handing it to her younger child. She took the belt knife for herself. "This fight belongs to all of us, Kn
ight."

  He examined her soberly. Her face was pale and lined, but her eyes were as cold as ice. "All right, then. Spread out. Stay with the kid. Junior, up here with me."

  They made it another fifty or sixty meters before they saw another group of shadows. The older boy dropped to his knees and prepared to fire. Aubry tapped him on the shoulder. "Wait just a minute—let's make sure that we're not killing friends."

  He waited another second, growing increasingly tense, then recognized the makeshift clothing. "Scavengers!"

  "Is that you, Knight?"

  "You got it. Warrick says to make it to the Multiplex."

  That added three more to the group, including two fighting men, both with guns.

  The next trio of soldiers were outnumbered and neutralized before they could respond effectively.

  When the echoes died down, Aubry examined the bodies and stripped them. As he did he heard the faint buzz of a radio, drew closer and realized that the receiver was mounted on the inside of the dead men's facemasks. He twisted off the built-in microphone, and donned it, careful to hold his breath and shut his eyes during the transfer. When it was in place he flushed it out with a short blast of oxygen and opened his eyes.

  "... bravo team leader, we are encountering resistance in north quarter; request you send backup—"

  Aubry smiled grimly. "Let's get out of here and head for the Multiplex."

  The Multiplex was eerily still, a pall of green fog hanging over everything, wreathing the enormous Christmas tree in lethal holly. Warrick clapped Aubry on the shoulder as he brought his people in. "Good job. We've got places to hide here. If they try to collapse the whole thing on us, we have two dozen ways out. We need to set up some kind of a line of defense, though."

  "I'd like to know what the hell they want."

  "They want you."

  Aubry looked at the rows of the paralyzed and the wounded, and the tired, beaten gas-masked faces of the others who stood, guns and knives and makeshift clubs in hand, waiting for instructions. "It isn't worth it, Warrick. I can't let you do this for me. If all they want is me, then let's just give me to them."