Down and Out

by Matthew Smith

  Dredd eased himself to his feet, drawing his boot knife from its sheath and wincing at the tightness in his side. He felt three times his age, as if he should need support from a cane. Gripping the blade in his teeth for a moment, he unknotted the vacuum hose one-handed and gently eased the door open: all was quiet, vehicles—many evidently abandoned—were ranged in rows, just silhouettes in the darkness. Few of the strip lights in the ceiling were working. Knife back in hand, he considered commandeering the nearest roadster and gunning hell for leather for the exit; but a brief recce of the ramp showed that was a no-go. The creeps had parked a couple of cars across the sked and littered the route with debris. There was no way out on two wheels or four.

  There were shouts from the top of the ramp, torchlight flickering on the walls, and Dredd turned and headed towards the el. He jabbed the call button, eyeing the emergency stairs—attempting to ascend more than half a dozen flights would wipe him out. The voices grew closer. The green arrow above the el doors pinged and they slid open, bringing the Judge face-to-face with three armed perps. They stared at each other for a shocked, frozen second, before the gunmen recovered their senses and brought their blasters to bear.

  Dredd lunged forward through the open doors, skewering the middle meathead in the neck with the blade, then yanking it free and ducking as the guy sprayed the interior of the cab with blood. He immediately shoulder-charged to his left and slammed the second perp against the wall, kicking out his foot at the control panel so the doors slid shut, noting as he did so more figures hurrying towards the el. The lift began to rise. Dredd spun and pushed aside the third man’s rifle—biting down on the pain as a stitch popped—just as the perp pulled the trigger, riddling the ceiling with bullets and shattering the overhead fluorescent tube. The Judge headbutted him once, drove the knife deep under his ribs and into his heart, then swung the weapon low and used the still-firing gun to kneecap his friend, who collapsed with a yell to the cab floor. Dredd crossed over quickly and pulled the blaster from his grip before he could think to use it, and levelled it between his eyes. He nudged his forehead with the barrel and told him to stop howling.

  Dredd glanced at the level indicator; the el had climbed two floors. He jammed the stop button with the rifle butt, bringing it to a juddering halt. An absolute stillness descended, the cramped lift ripe with the smell of spent ammunition and coppery gore.

  Dredd caught his breath, his lungs burning. He could feel blood trickling down his hip and thigh from the ruptured suture, but was determined not to let the creep in front of him pick up on how much pain he was in. He had to maintain his authority. Given the crim was in no little agony himself, trembling with shock as he clutched his ruined legs, Dredd doubted he’d notice, but the image he presented was everything. Let an adversary discern any hint of weakness and they’ll use that against you: it was Academy dogma.

  “Drokkin’ crippled me, man,” the meathead wailed. He wasn’t much older than Dredd. “They tol’ me they tagged you. Tol’ me you was bleeding out...”

  “Just makes me more dangerous,” Dredd replied, poking the rifle barrel at the gang cut on his jacket. “Furies, huh? Thought you were Meyer boys?”

  “We are.” He jutted his chin out at the mention of his block, territorial pride momentarily overriding his wounds. These idiots lived and died by their address; it became their whole world, their neighbours rivals to wage war with. “The Murder Corps are givin’ us a pass, on account...” He winced, his words tailing away. His eyelids flickered—he was passing out.

  Dredd gave him a boot. “On account of what?”

  “’Cos they’re... they’re gettin’ a cut,” he replied sleepily.

  “There a bounty on me?”

  “Kinda. More of a reward. Boss wants you found... real quick...” He was slumping over, the blood pooling beneath him. “You gonna... gonna call a doc, or what?” His voice was a whisper as he faded into unconsciousness.

  “Fat chance of that,” the Judge murmured, glancing around the wrecked interior of the el. He slung one of the rifles over his shoulder, holding on to another and hit the button for the upper levels. The lift rumbled into life. He reasoned if he could make it to a pod park, an H-Wagon would be able to airlift him out, provided he could get word to Control. That not one but two gangs were now hunting for him, however, did nothing for his chances.

  He watched the numbers climb, his muscles throbbing from the sudden exertion. Resolve, he told himself. Dig deep. Think of this as another training exercise, his own personal Hot Dog Run. He’d been dropped into a situation, and his superiors were waiting to see him make it out the other side. Well, it wasn’t over yet: he was still alive, for one. He was rearmed, he thought, tightening his grip on the rifle. It could, theoretically, be worse.

  He needed to sound more convincing, he decided.

  The el ground to a halt somewhere in the early hundreds, and no amount of button-jabbing would force it to continue any further. He wrenched the doors open one-handed and had to pull himself up where it had stopped below the floor. Dredd got to his feet: the corridor was gloomy and under-maintained, as he should’ve expected. The walls were festooned with graffiti. Many of the apartments looked derelict. He stopped at the nearest one that wasn’t boarded over or fire-damaged and rapped on the door, but received no reply. Electing not to announce himself, he tried again half a dozen times, moving down the row, meeting with the same response each time.

  “You won’t get much luck findin’ someone who’ll answer,” a voice called from ahead. Dredd followed it, peering round an entranceway that had lost its door entirely and into a bare room. Curled up in the far corner was a figure shrouded in blankets and encircled by shadow. All Dredd could see was a pair of bright eyes regarding him from beneath a knit cap. “Most no-one there anyways,” the shapeless heap added.

  “You live here?” the Judge enquired, stepping further into the empty apartment. It felt cold and exposed; several windows were broken, he noticed.

  “Well, I made it my home,” the figure said. Dredd suspected it was a woman; the dirt and darkness around the eyes were impenetrable, but he picked up an inflection in her words that he pegged as female. “Wasn’t told that I couldn’t, an’ I ain’t had any complaints.” She paused, then asked, “You’re not here to move me on, are ya?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here for you. I need a vidphone, anything like that, to call out. You know where I can find one?”

  She shifted beneath her bundles, and Dredd caught a waft of damp and sour, unwashed linen. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman. “No, nothin’ like that down here. Lines ain’t worked since I was a juve, far as I remember.”

  “Down here?”

  A grimy finger emerged and pointed upwards. “Topside. Thass’ where the block boss lives. Everythin’ works up there, or so I heard. It’s why the el won’t go any higher; they fixed it to stop us trespassin’.”

  “How do they make it down?”

  “Got their own service express on the other side of the block.”

  “Could you show me?”

  “Aw, I just got comfortable.” She plumped up her blankets, then stared at him. “Whass’ in it for me?”

  Dredd bit down on his instinctive response, which was to suggest a vagrancy charge could be avoided. His patience was wearing thin as exhaustion crept up on him, but he didn’t want to antagonise her. “I can make sure you get into a welfare shelt, you help me out. You want to escape Strickland, don’t you?”

  She looked down. “Dunno. ’Sall I know. Feel weird bein’ anywhere else.”

  “You got a better chance of a future—” Dredd started before being interrupted by the click-clack of a round being chambered behind him. He spun, his rifle raised.

  “Sorry, Judgey,” the lead gangbanger said, brandishing his automatic in the doorway. Three others stood behind him similarly armed. “But you ain’t got no future to speak of.”

  Five

  12.11 pm

  “DROK
K, JAYBIRD,” THE lead meathead drawled as he and the rest of his compatriots filtered into the room. They formed a loose semi-circle around Dredd, rifles trained on him. “What a day you’re havin’! Look at you; it’s a drokkin’ miracle you’re still standing.”

  “Put your weapons down before there’s further trouble,” the Judge responded, his own gun unwavering.

  The creep raised his eyebrows and snorted, looking genuinely taken aback. He looked to the others, laughed and then frowned. “Tell me you’re kidding.” Receiving no answer, he stepped forward, barrel only inches from the lawman’s face. “I’m sure they breed juves like you to think you’re robots, but have some gruddamn sense. You got four guns pointed at you; you ain’t in a position to tell anyone to do shit.”

  After a further moment’s silence, he added in a measured tone, “Lower the killware now ’fore we drop you where you stand, spugwit.”

  “You can try—but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The lead perp smiled again and shook his head. “You’re a tenacious son of a bitch, I gotta admit that. But enough is enough. This ends now.”

  “Just pop him already, Fungal,” the creep next to him said.

  “Not till he tells us where it is,” Fungal snapped. He turned his attention back to Dredd. “How about it? You wanna make it easy on yourself, or we gotta pin you down and take you apart piece by piece?”

  “Whaddya want him for, anyhow?” the woman under the blankets piped up.

  “Ain’t none of your damn business, slitch,” the gang member nearest her barked. “Keep your drokkin’ mouth shut.”

  “Figure I’ve got something they want,” Dredd muttered, his sights never leaving the perp sticking his gun in his face. “Something important enough that the Russ Meyer Furies and the Len McCluskey Murder Corps have joined forces to get it back—and someone’s paying them to find it.”

  “Yeah? Colour me intrigued. What is it?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t know myself,” the Judge replied. “But I’m sure as hell not giving it to them.”

  “All right, enougha this crap,” Fungal spat. “Just as easy to drag your corpse outta here and search it—”

  “That’s if he hasn’t stashed it already,” she chimed in.

  “Drokk it, will someone dispose of this bum—” Fungal called over his shoulder and nodded towards the figure in the corner, just as a single gunshot resounded in the room. Everyone swung their weapons in the direction of the noise, seeing one of the perps stagger back with a gaping chest wound and fall to his knees.

  Dredd took his chance and drilled a slug in the side of Fungal’s head, then snapped efficient, accurate shots into the remaining two before they had a chance to return fire. All four were on the ground in a few seconds. Dredd glanced over at the woman—a circular smouldering hole had appeared in her bedding. She tossed it aside, revealing the compact blaster she held in her right hand.

  “When were you going to tell me you were armed?” Dredd asked.

  “It’s the kind of thing you don’t reveal until you need to,” she said, staggering to her feet and stamping some circulation back into them. She was younger than he first thought, now that he could see more of her; no more than ten years older than he was, her thin frame swallowed by the tatty, ancient greatcoat wrapped around her.

  “You’re aware that you’ve just committed a felony? I’m assuming that weapon is unlicensed, too.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome,” she said, giving a mock curtsey. “Next time the Murder Corps come knocking, I won’t save your sorry ass. A little gratitude goes a long way, you know.”

  “I had the situation under control,” Dredd grumbled, though even as he said it he felt a fresh wave of dizziness sweep over him, and had to take a step back so and prop himself against the wall. He needed painkillers, and probably some form of antibiotics too: the sweats were back, a sure sign he was fighting an infection. His skin prickled, his head throbbed. He felt disappointed in himself, that the battle his body was fighting was out of his hands, and it was losing, failing. If he’d even known he’d had a physical limit, he’d never imagined he would reach it; they’d all thought they were invincible back in the Academy, him and Rico especially. Peak triple-A fitness, mentally agile, sharp reflexes—they were prime Justice Department material. Yet all it took...

  All it took...

  Joe.

  “Brother... I don’t know if I’m going to get out of this one...”You’re becoming weak, Joe.

  “I’m losing blood. Bones are broken—can feel a rib pressing on my lung. Makes it hard to breathe...”

  Weakness is a crime, Joe. A fundamental betrayal. It’s the opposite of everything we are, everything we stand for. Even when I fell, I stayed strong.

  “Rico, you gave in to temptation. You brought the badge and the name into disrepute. You were greedy, venal...”

  I just chose another path, Joe. I had the conviction to do that, the will. The strength. You stayed a—

  “Judge?”

  —a poor excuse for the DNA that flows through you. A weak—

  “Judge!”

  —in the shadow of Fargo—

  A hand shaking his shoulder brought him round, the room swimming back into focus. The woman was standing before him, concern etched on her face, her hand resting on his bicep. He studied it uncomprehending for a second; then his gaze travelled the length of her arm until he looked her directly in the eye. It took another few seconds for the present to return to him.

  “You still with me?” she asked softly. “You were kinda muttering under your breath about somethin’. Somebody called... Rico?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he croaked.

  “You’re in a really bad way, aren’t you? You need med-attention. You’re burning up...” She reached out and put her palm on Dredd’s swollen jaw, but he slung the rifle-strap over his shoulder and grabbed her wrist with his left hand, snatching it away. She wrested it free without much difficulty.

  “Inappropriate contact with an officer—” he started, but she was already stepping back.

  “Whatever. I’m just tryin’ to save your life. You don’t look older’n eighteen to me, you’ve been through the mill—I don’t think you’re goin’ to survive without a doc seein’ you in the next few hours. Plus there’s them.” She indicated the bodies at their feet. “I do not wanna be around when more of the Murder Corps come callin’. Figure you don’t either.”

  Dredd paused then asked, “Can you get me to this service el?”

  “I can show you where it is, but there’s no guarantee Winstanley’s gonna give us access.”

  “Winstanley?”

  “Block daddy. He who rules the roost. He ain’t no fan of you bluejays.”

  “If he knows what’s good for him—”

  “Yeah, look, I hate to break it to you... Dredd, is it?” She leaned close, and tipped up the bottom of his badge with one finger, rolling her eyes. “But you ain’t callin’ the shots no more. You’re on your own, half-dead, with a target on your back—Winstanley’s just gonna laugh in your face if you think you can lay down the law.”

  “While I wear this uniform—”

  “And you’re in Strickland,” she interrupted. “They use Judge helmets as pisspots here. We’ve been left to fend for ourselves for years; don’t go expectin’ much in the way of respect.”

  “I can handle it,” he replied, taking a step forward.

  “You know what? I reckon the only reason you ain’t dead already is that you’re too gruddamn stubborn to acknowledge it.” She held up her hands. “You wanna let Winstanley finish the job, go ahead. No skin off my shin. You lawboys ain’t ever done nothin’ for me, anyhow.”

  Dredd stopped at the doorway, cast an eye over his shoulder. “You want to know what I think the gangs are after?” He reached into one of his belt pouches and retrieved the zipdrive, holding it up. “Figure it’s this.”

  “What’s on it?”

  “No idea. I pulled it f
rom a suspect vehicle an hour or so ago.”

  “Just before you became the local bullet-magnet.”

  “Right. The name Gilpig mean anything to you?”

  The woman shook her head. “You’re thinking it’s pretty important, though, right?”

  “Important enough to kill for. Important enough to maybe use as a bargaining chip with the creep upstairs for an airlift out of here.”

  She thought for a moment, considered the corpses again. She was in deep stomm if the MC traced her involvement in the death of a member. Maybe getting out of McCluskey wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “We do this,” she said finally, “you better let me do the talkin’. I get the feeling you ain’t the negotiating type.” She joined him at the threshold, motioned that he should lean on her. “I’m Maze, by the way.”

  “Maze.” He hissed, winced, a grinding in his chest driving the breath from him. “I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t start goin’ all gooey on me,” she muttered, smirking.

  12.43 pm

  THEY MADE THEIR way through McCluskey steadily but cautiously, sticking to the secluded areas where possible. Maze said she knew a back route that would keep them under the radar. Both knew speed was essential, but Dredd told her not to risk stumbling upon another gaggle of Murder Corps gangbangers on the prowl. The pain came in waves, but he was determined not to let it overwhelm him, even when he felt on the fringes of a blackout. That was when he told Maze to wait for a second, let him grit his teeth and push through, before continuing. It made progress slow but gave them time to listen for the sound of approaching bodies; they heard shouts occasionally, the pounding of feet on the floor above, and only moved when they were sure the coast was clear. The Judge was becoming increasingly concerned that he wouldn’t be able to protect either of them in a firefight; that the shakes and the impaired vision were going to make him a liability. Maze was still armed, of course, but he doubted she’d pulled the trigger before today. If they could avoid any kind of confrontation it would significantly increase their survival prospects.