“So you squeeze them as much as possible, huh? Not a good way to win someone over.”
“What the hell are you gonna use to plug in anyway?” the candy man asked. “If you want road reports or if you need a few pieces of mail passed along, we can set you up for a lot cheaper than any geek will charge.”
The biker reached into his grocery bag and found a bag of M&Ms. He tossed it to the guy with the sweet tooth who examined the little package closely. Fortunately, the local seemed to be a fan of almonds.
“There’s a place on Fifteenth and Salisbury Avenue,” the local said. “Little gray building with a wood awning out front. Double garage on either side. If anyone can get you connected, it’s the dude who lives there.”
“You need directions?” the one in the middle asked.
Squaring away his saddlebag and gas can, the biker replied, “I can find it on my own. I’ve had about all the hospitality I can afford.” He climbed onto his bike, tensed and ready for a confrontation that didn’t come. That was surprising since he’d shown himself to be a source of good silver. Then again, he doubted the local boys would do much with any coins apart from handing them off to someone who could melt them down and really put them to use.
It was a gray afternoon accented by a biting chill of rain storms that had been following the biker during most of his ride from Utah. The streets were slick, and the air stank of ammonia and antifreeze; a mixture used as Half Breed repellant. There was no telling if the stuff made werewolves think that another pack had pissed all over the place to mark their territory or if it just made them sick, but it did a fairly good job of keeping pack intrusions down to a manageable level. As he drove further into town and the stench got stronger, the biker reached for the bandanna tied around his neck and pulled it up to cover his nose and mouth.
The gas station guy’s description of the place had been brief but on the money. It would have taken a blind man to miss the wide, low building with the wooden awning and multiple garages. As promised, there were two garage doors on either side of the awning. All four were shuttered. Now that he was taking a closer look, he could see a sign painted onto one of the doors that read, “Meyer’s Auto Body & Repair”. There was a phone number as well, but those didn’t mean much anymore.
The rider parked his bike in front of the large square door directly to the left of the awning. After climbing off, he went to the small case strapped behind his seat where his more valuable possessions were stored. It was unlocked by a four digit combination which the rider dialed in so he could reach inside for a laptop computer. By techie standards, it was a dinosaur: wider than a placemat and lacking the power to run any of the games that had come out before the big fall. Its operating system was near obsolete but built to last. The fact that it didn’t have all the bells and whistles meant there was less to break. He grabbed a bundle of cords and turned toward the door to find a man already watching him.
“Shit,” the rider said. “How long you been standing there?”
The man stood just over six feet tall and had a thick mat of bristly hair that had been unattended for a while. The .40 caliber rifle in his hands was almost as outdated as the rider’s laptop. When the man spoke, his words were muffled by a surgical mask placed over his nose and mouth. “What do you want?” he asked.
Approaching the door beneath the awning, the biker stopped when he noticed the rifle in the other man’s hand come up. “I was told you can help me log this baby in.”
Sharp blue eyes narrowed into slits above the surgical mask. “That thing still works?”
“Good enough.”
“Who told you I was here?”
“Some dudes at a gas station on the outskirts of town. There were three of them.”
Slowly, the man nodded. He lowered his rifle. “You looking for information? I may be able to help you with that for cheaper than getting you online.”
“Not unless you can tell me, word for word, what’s written in the emails I’ve been sent.”
“Everything sucks here. Somebody died. The wolves won’t stop coming. Hope you’re well.” The man pulled down his mask to reveal a full beard that was parted in several spots by thick scars crossing his face. “That’s about the gist of every email anyone gets anymore. That do it for you?”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to read them for myself. I can pay.”
“Fine, then. Come on in.”
The room just past the front door had been a lobby of some sort. There was a counter and a spot where a few chairs were still bolted to the floor. On a rack in one corner near the ceiling was a television with so much dust caked onto it that it looked more like a penthouse owned by the richest dust bunny in the known universe. The man with the rifle led the way behind the counter through to a door which opened into a wide garage. Both garage doors were locked down and fortified. One corner of the room was lit by electrical bulbs, and the rest was left in dusty shadow. Heat was provided by a crackling fire set in a bathtub that had been dragged in and left near the workspace in the well lit corner.
“What’s your name?” the bearded man asked as he walked over to the desk and pulled away a blanket to reveal an extensive collection of monitors and computer towers.
“Dressel,” the biker replied.
The other man looked up from the monitors which were glowing brightly enough to cast a light upon his scarred face. “That sounds familiar. Oh yeah. I know where I heard it.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. Who’s sending you emails? Pretty expensive nowadays.”
“Usually I pay for access and I get access,” Dressel said. “Do I have to tell you everything I’m doing?”
“Just making conversation. Takes a bit of time to hack into the systems. You want something to eat?”
“No. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Now you want to talk?” the bearded man grunted.
“Hey, I’m not trying to start anything. I just thought I could refer to you as something other than The Geek.” When he saw the other man’s eyes lock onto him, Dressel shrugged and added, “That was what those boneheads at the gas station called you.”
A wry grin appeared beneath the other man’s beard, and his gloved hands tapped furiously at his keyboard. “They are a bunch of charmers around here. Most everyone calls me Meyer.”
“As in Meyer’s Auto Body and Repair?”
“You got it.”
“Did you own this place before the fall?” Dressel asked.
“Nope.”
“Family business?”
“I’m in,” Meyer said.
“You mean logged in?”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Yeah,” Dressel said as he stood up. “Just thought it might take longer.”
“Usually does. If everything lines up just right, it’s a whole lot easier. Guess your timing was pretty good. Now, about my payment. You have any silver?”
Dressel reached beneath his jacket, which caused Meyer to reach for the rifle propped against his desk. Carefully opening his jacket to reveal the guns holstered there, Dressel diverted his hand to a pocket to fish out a few of the commemorative coins. “These are pure,” the biker said. “Want a look?”
“Toss one over.”
Meyer caught the coin, turned it over a few times and then set it on his desk. “One more like that and you got yourself a deal.”
Sighing, Dressel asked, “How about something else for a trade?”
Meyer nodded. “We can work something out,” he said. “You want me to get you to any site in particular?”
“No, I can take it from here.”
Getting up from his chair, Meyer made a sweeping gesture toward the spot he’d just abandoned and headed for one of the dimmer corners of the chilly garage. “It’s all yours. I’ll be working on some things over here. Just let me know if you need anything or if the connection crashes.”
“Will do.”
For the next
couple of minutes, the only sounds in the garage were the tapping of fingers on a keyboard and the clang of a hammer against metal. Dressel positioned himself at the desk so he could see the monitor as well as the corner of the room where Meyer was working. By the time Dressel had gotten to the correct website and put in his password to read his mail, Meyer had gotten up and carried what looked like a short length of pipe covered in a brown blanket to a different corner. The guy seemed engrossed in whatever he was doing, so Dressel went to his email account and quickly found the messages he’d been waiting for.
Looking up one more time, he saw Meyer hunched over with a dirty rag in his hand. He flipped open the blanket, but was too far away for Dressel to see what he was working on. It was probably another rifle or shotgun. If the bearded man wanted to rob him, Dressel was ready to defend himself. Until then, he continued typing as if he didn’t have a clue about what the other man may be doing.
The connection was a good one. Dressel would know because he’d been using plenty of them over the last several months. Some stars truly must have aligned because there were no interruptions in service and very little lag. The emails he’d been sent were encrypted, and when he entered the proper code sequence, they eventually linked him to another site. Knowing that link was secured beyond all reproach, Dressel clicked on it and prepared to input his next key code.
There was a flicker on the screen, and the cursor stopped blinking. In one corner, a circle started to spin to tell him that something somewhere was loading. After a couple seconds, it became clear that something was frozen. “Shit,” he grumbled.
“What’s wrong?” Meyer asked.
“Computer’s locked up. Probably just some connection thing.”
“Let me take a look.”
When Meyer started to get up, Dressel waved him back. “Don’t bother. It’s already cleared up.”
“Oh. Cool.”
The circle was still spinning, but Dressel didn’t want the bearded man to have a reason to hover over him with the shotgun or rifle he’d been hiding. More than likely, the issue with the computer really would clear up on its own. Ever since the werewolves had started running wild across the face of the earth, the internet had been spottier than usual. The fact that it was still running at all was either a small miracle or testament to the fortitude of porn and cat videos.
Meyer was soon back in his corner, checking on a dimly glowing display. He soon switched that off and got back to the work he’d been doing before.
Slowly, the next screen began to load. It came through in drips and drabs, but at least it was coming through. Dressel sat hunched over the screen so Meyer wouldn’t be able to see what eventually came up. If the bearded guy decided to make a move, Dressel had no doubt he’d hear it coming.
When the screen was just under halfway loaded, something caught Dressel’s eye. As the loading bar slowly filled along the bottom of the display, a set of four triangles lit up in the opposite corner and then disappeared in a pattern that made it look like another circle was spinning on the screen.
The loading ground to a halt and the screen was completely frozen again. Even worse, what had come through was now breaking apart into a pixilated mess. When he tapped on a few keys to see if he could get a response, Dressel was shown a message box that told him the signal was being repaired. More than likely, the computer was scanning for something or receiving a large file.
“Hey man,” Dressel said as he shifted around to look at Meyer. “You expecting anything to come in?”
But Meyer wasn’t in his corner. Dressel was barely quick enough to pivot in his chair to find the bearded man standing several paces behind him as if he’d materialized there. With the layers of shirts he wore over his bulky frame, Meyer looked less like a man and more like one of the beasts hunting mankind. “Yeah,” he said. “I was expecting you.”
Dressel wheeled around while plucking one of the pistols from his shoulder holster. As soon as Meyer came at him, Dressel squeezed his trigger and put a round into the bearded man’s chest. Meyer staggered back and a second round put him down.
Keeping his aim on the other man, Dressel moved forward to have a look. Meyer’s chest was still rising and falling, and the portion of his shirts that had been hit were ripped open to reveal coarse layers of matted hair. Either this guy was a shapeshifter or he’d bought some Half Breed skins from the gas station to use them as body armor. It was a trick passed along by some of the military Specialists fighting with the IRD, and those vests sold for a hell of a lot more than a pocket full of silver.
“I know you’re still alive, asshole,” Dressel said. “Get up.”
Meyer groaned and started flopping onto his side.
Glaring down at the bearded man, Dressel reached down to roughly grab his arm and pull him off the floor. “I told you to get up!”
Before a full inch of space could be created between Meyer and the cement floor, the bearded man snapped his upper body around to slap aside Dressel’s gun hand. There was a good amount of force in the blow which would have been enough to disarm almost anyone. Dressel maintained his grip, however, and had the presence of mind to slam a foot against Meyer’s ribs.
Despite the padding provided by his shirts and the hides he wore beneath them, Meyer grunted in pain as his breath escaped him in a wheeze. That didn’t stop him from wrapping an arm around Dressel’s ankle and twisting his entire body around to pull the biker down to his level. As soon as Dressel hit the floor, Meyer let go of his ankle, rolled up over his legs and dropped a fist onto his face like a sledgehammer. The swing was more of a shock than anything else, and Dressel responded by shoving Meyer away so he could scramble free and get to his feet.
“What?” Dressel growled. “You and those gas station guys have a deal going where they send suckers your way and you split the haul?”
Meyer was also on his feet by now and had taken a low fighting stance.
“You do have some computer skills, so that might be enough reason for me to let you live,” Dressel continued. “That is, if you can show me how to hack into the network anytime I want.”
Through the conversation and the way he circled the other man, Dressel did his best to gauge his opponent. Meyer was having none of it. He kept quiet and moved in smooth, conservative steps so he was always in front of him.
Dressel raised his gun and sighted along the top of its barrel. Before he could do anything else, his target had stepped forward and to one side with enough speed to close the distance between them.
Instead of trying to turn and shoot, Dressel brought a leg up to snap out a side kick. Meyer slapped it aside with one hand, bringing his other hand up and forward to flick a quick fist into his jaw. Dressel rolled with the jab and swung his pistol around like a club to pound against Meyer’s raised arm. He followed up with a knee that caught Meyer in the gut. Padding or not, the impact took some of the wind from the bearded man’s sails.
Meyer doubled over and then drove his shoulder into Dressel’s chest to push him back. Along the way, Dressel pounded the pistol’s handle against the other man’s shoulder while thumping another knee into Meyer’s chest. The bearded man straightened up to find himself staring down the barrel of Dressel’s pistol. Before the trigger could be pulled, however, Meyer clamped both hands around Dressel’s wrist to crank that arm viciously against the joint. Fighting to keep hold of his gun, Dressel swept one leg straight out and around to take Meyer’s feet out from under him. The bearded man fell forward, reflexively stretching out his arms to land on all fours. He barely kept himself from busting his chin against the cement.
Pulling his trigger, Dressel sent a round into Meyer’s back. The bullet thumped against his shirts without drawing blood, so Dressel shifted his aim for the back of the other man’s head. At the last second, Meyer twisted away so the bullet clipped the side of his neck. It wasn’t the definitive shot Dressel had been after, but blood was jetting out from a severed artery which meant the other man was still as good as
dead.
Meyer pulled in a haggard breath. The spray of blood from his neck had already stopped and the flaps of torn skin melted back together again as he lifted the cuff of his jeans to reveal a leather holster strapped to that ankle. In one smooth motion, he pulled out a short club which came around to pound against the nerve on the side of Dressel’s leg. Spitting out a snarling obscenity, Dressel wobbled and was close to falling down thanks to the intense pain that quickly numbed his leg at the point of impact. He took quick aim and fired, but wasn’t fast enough to shoot before Meyer’s club caught him on the wrist. Still, he refused to relinquish his weapon.
Some of the dim light from the computer desk caught the side of the club in Meyer’s hand, glinting off a strip of metal embedded in the wood. Dressel would not allow himself to be distracted before adjusting his aim to put his target down with one last shot. The bullet caught Meyer in the hip. Well below where he was aiming, but considering how rushed Dressel had been when pulling the trigger, he was grateful to have caught him at all. Meyer dropped and took a stronger hold of his club.
Dressel’s breaths rolled through his body. Chilly air in the garage combined with the lingering stench of homebrew Half Breed repellant to make recovering that much tougher. Somehow, the freshest bullet wound in Meyer’s hip closed up and was no longer bleeding. In the next second, Meyer snapped that same leg around to knock Dressel off his balance.
“Son of a bitch!” Dressel grunted as he fought to keep from going down.
Meyer hopped up with the agility of someone half his age and rushed forward to disarm him by cracking the metallic edge of the club against Dressel’s wrist. Before the pistol hit the floor, Meyer was behind him, and the metal portion of the club had snapped out to form a short, curved blade extending from the tip. A flicker of reflected light glinted off that blade before its cool edge pressed against Dressel’s throat.
“Who were you contacting on my computer?” Meyer snarled into Dressel’s ear.
“Go look for yourself.”
The blade cut just deep enough into Dressel’s neck to draw blood. “It’s a scrambled message. I want to know who sent it to you.”
Forged From Ash - Book #7 of the Skinners Series Page 9
