“It’s a trap, that way of thinking. I thought you wanted out.”
“So did I, what with...” She waved at the bloodstained door. “But when it came down to it, I couldn’t. I can’t.”
“It could all end up being razed to the ground.”
“Then I’ll go with it.” Maze reached down and picked one of the musty-looking blankets heaped at her feet and tossed it to him. “Wrap yourself in that, cover up the uniform. You’re a sittin’ duck otherwise.” Dredd did so hesitantly, hooding his helmet, and she smiled approvingly. “Now you’re one of us. Go on, go.”
She turned back to the window as Saunders yanked open the door and impatiently pulled him through, back into the mêlée.
13.33 pm
DREDD DIDN’T CARE for hiding beneath a disguise—the Academy had always taught him that the man and the uniform were indivisible, and it was a tenet that he stood by—but he had to admit it was working. With his Wally Squad companion leading him, the Judge kept his head down and sought to avoid confrontation, and they looked like any other McCluskey tenants fleeing the fighting.
Some Justice Department personnel found plainclothes work a lot more natural than others. Maybe it was a mindset; certainly it required courage and unshakeable self-belief. Dredd simply felt uncomfortable with any kind of pretence, ungainly. He could intimidate, exaggerate and insinuate, but he couldn’t lie. Saunders was clearly very adept at it, to have been embedded within Winstanley’s outfit for so long without arousing suspicion, but lengthy periods came with attendant psychological problems. The lack of discipline, the total immersion in the criminal culture, meant some deprogramming was necessary once they were brought back into the fold. For Dredd, that bending of the law was unconscionable.
For the moment, though, he was doing a very realistic impersonation of someone on the edge of unconsciousness. The blood loss was taking its toll: his limbs were growing ever heavier, his vision blurring. His clumsy tumble through the crowds was becoming a nightmarish plunge into a sea of grotesques, faces swimming past. He would catch a fleeting glimpse of a gang member stalking past, spitgun hoisted on their shoulder, and had to actively suppress himself from drawing his blaster from under the blanket. If he was to survive, he had to go below the radar, concentrate on breathing, and allow this lawlessness—for the moment—to go unpunished. It was a wrench, as painful as any he’d sustained over the course of this testing day.
As they neared the ground floor, the mass of bodies grew thicker, a logjam caused by McCluskey residents scurrying for the main entrance to escape the MC’s rampage, and those reluctant to venture outside, where gunfire was still rattling. Adding to the obstruction was one of the Special Tactics officers standing at the doors, trying to instil some kind of order while at the same time casting an eye over the faces present. When Saunders caught sight of him, she redoubled their efforts to push through the throng.
“There’s our way out,” she muttered over her shoulder.
The crowd was solid and panicking, and the Judges met with more than a little resistance and no shortage of anger. A meathead squared up to Saunders as she elbowed her way past, and she punched him hard in the face without hesitation or warning, leaving him on his backside and cupping a broken nose. The sea of citizens parted a touch after that, but still the press separated them. Dredd’s breathing devolved into halting rasp—it felt like the oxygen was being sucked from the block—and he stumbled, his head hot and dizzy. Unable to prevent himself, he collided with a figure in front of him, and the blanket was knocked from his shoulders.
Blearily, he looked at who he’d walked into, and she looked vaguely familiar—a young adult with a Mohawk and face tatts. He was sure he’d seen her before, but couldn’t place it; she was staring at him with both fear and recognition in her eyes, as were the three juves standing behind her. Sandwiched in the scrum, Dredd and the girl held each other’s gaze for a long uncomprehending second before she silently pulled a snubnose from beneath her vest-top and proffered it to him.
The cry went up. “Gun! Everyone on the floor! Now!” The Tac-Judge brought his Lawrod to bear, and the crowd scattered. Dredd still had the wherewithal to snatch the weapon from the fem and strongarm her to the ground, while Saunders yelled her Wally Squad I.D., holding up her hands non-threateningly.
“Dredd? Good to see you’re still alive,” the Tac-Judge called, edging towards him, rifle trained on the woman in the lawman’s grip, who wasn’t offering any resistance. The name on his badge was Pearce. “We’re here to pull you out.”
“Yeah. Textbook... operation, from what I’ve seen,” he murmured in reply, wincing and glancing around at the chaos. Saunders smiled thinly.
“C’mon, we need to get you to a med-facility asap,” Pearce said, and talked quickly into his comm for back-up. He unhooked a pair of cuffs from his belt and bound the punk girl, who appeared shellshocked.
As they were making for the doors, a low rumble filled the air, which made everyone, cit and Judge alike, look up quizzically. It was coming from beyond the block and slowly growing louder; Dredd saw a shadow passing over the thoroughfare outside. He turned to Saunders.
“What time is it?”
Nine
13.37 pm
THE CARGO VESSEL loomed large above the peaks of the blocks, a black brick-shaped slab filling the world like the flawless blue sky had simply been taken away, leaving only an impenetrable absence. Only the red blinking lights lining its undercarriage broke the illusion. An automated carrier transport had no need of decals or cockpit, or indeed to be especially streamlined—it wasn’t much more than a flying crate in both looks and function, programmed with a single flight path, held aloft by the twin anti-grav engines positioned towards its rear. Normally the sky-barges cruised at an altitude that ensured they didn’t interfere with Mega-City traffic; it was rare to see one so low and close-up.
At this height—and clearly still descending—the roar of the craft’s engines was deafening, making the teeth and bones feel like they were rattling loose. When Dredd and Saunders exited McCluskey and stepped into the dim light, escorted by Pearce, the fighting had all but dribbled to a halt, everyone’s eyes drawn to the immense ship.
“Jovus drokk,” the Wally Squad Judge whispered. “Is that...?”
“The thirteen-thirty-seven treemunce special,” Dredd intoned. “Looks like the Furies decided to upload the hack program.”
“But they won’t have control without—”
“I don’t think they’re going for control—”
Any further words were drowned out by the ear-spitting cacophony of the turbines as the vessel bore down on Strickland. It sounded like the end of the world; the blare of trumpets signalling the last day of judgement, if you believed in that sort of thing. The backwash of the anti-grav lifters was sending a squall through the estate, winds whipping around every corner of the rockcrete canyons, smoke plumes twisting and dust and debris spiralling in the air. The Special Tactics officers motioned a retreat towards the pat-wagon, but Dredd didn’t believe that there was going to be enough time to pull out of the impact zone. The ship was coming in hot and heavy.
“Get down!” Dredd yelled at Saunders, raising his voice as much as he was able above the din. “Find cover! You try to take your chances in the open, you’re not going to make it!”
The plainclothes cop nodded and made to do as Dredd suggested before he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Wait. The zipdrive.”
“Dredd, no. You’re not going into Meyer?”
“Not going to stop it otherwise.”
“It’s suicidal. That thing’s going to take out every block in its path.”
“If you’ve got another solution let’s hear it.”
“I’ll come with you. I’ll have a better chance of accessing the data anyway.”
Against his better judgement, Dredd found himself shaking his head. “No. No point us both taking the risk.”
“Don’t patro
nise me. I’m a Judge too. It’s my duty—”
“You don’t understand. Figure this is a one-way ticket, and there’s not much left of me still to break.”
“Exactly. You’re in no fit state—”
“No point getting yourself killed holding my hand. I can do that well enough on my own.”
“What, hold your hand?”
“Get killed.”
She sighed. “This isn’t heroic, you know.”
“Just trying to save lives rather than put them in danger.” He held out his palm, his expression grim, implacable. She knew he would not be swayed, and reluctantly passed the memory stick over. “Now go,” he shouted.
She backed away, scowling, and dashed for a nearby narrow alley. Dredd turned and saw Pearce push his Mohawk Girl prisoner back towards the entrance of McCluskey, the direction many of the other residents were taking. The panic was almost tangible as bodies collided at the doors. Dredd tried to shout orders, to try to stop the stampeding, but no-one was in the mood to listen; sheer animal instinct had taken over. When the transporter clipped the top of the first building—Arthur Mullard Con-Apts—and brought several hundred tons of masonry crashing down onto the sked below, the chaos intensified. Dredd could do nothing to quell it; he could only watch—for a moment, uncharacteristically paralysed by the enormity of what he was witnessing—as the ship continued its trajectory and carved off half of Sarah Jessica Parker, an explosion of glass and rubble raining down in a wide arc. He hobble-ran as best he could, throwing himself to the side to avoid a plummeting timber beam embedding itself in the ground. He glanced at the rapidly reversing pat-wagon just in time to see a plate of glass the size of a door go somersaulting through the air and smash into the driver, who disappeared in a red mist. The vehicle careened wildly and tipped, the Tac-officers tumbling out in a flurry of limbs. So much for his exit.
Dredd picked himself up and continued to stumble towards the entrance to Meyer, his boots crunching on crystal shards, casting an eye up at the cargo ship falling inexorably towards them. Its shadow spilled over the estate like ink. The front of the block was free of people now, the last combatants having fled, and he had little trouble getting to the building. The foyer was littered with corpses where the heavy-weapons unit had engaged the Furies, and he had to pick his way carefully. He heard a groan rising from a heap at his foot, and stopped to pull aside a couple of cadavers, revealing a semi-conscious creep in gang colours holding his stomach, his face a sweaty grimace. Dredd prised apart the guy’s fingers and saw an entry wound too severe to be treated; the entire front of his shirt was dyed crimson.
“Help me,” he rasped, blood speckling his lips.
“Where’s Rawlings?”
The creep didn’t answer, just struggled around a string of sharp sucking breaths that suggested he wasn’t long for this world. Dredd put his hand over the Fury’s and leant down on the wound, causing a hiss of pain to issue forth. “Keep the pressure on that,” the lawman said. “You’re going to bleed out otherwise.”
“Need a... gruddamn... ambulance,” the meathead spat out.
There was an almighty crash from outside, and more rubble came plummeting to earth. Screams could be discerned beneath the throbbing, ever-present whine of the transporter’s engines, and it was growing darker, like the onset of a storm. Dredd’s nerve-endings had been fried by the day’s events, but even he could feel the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickling with the electricity building in the air.
“You hear that?” the Judge asked. The Fury’s expression suggested that he did. “Right now we’re at ground zero—in a few minutes there’s going to be nothing left of Russ Meyer, Len McCluskey or much of Strickland itself. All any ambulances are going to do is pick up the remains. You want to be around to see tomorrow, you tell me where I can find Rawlings.”
“What’s... happening...?”
“Your glorious leader saying goodbye to the neighbourhood, is what. Quickly, tell me—where did he run operations from?”
The crim coughed and closed his eyes tightly as a fresh wave of pain wracked his body. “On third,” he croaked finally. “Four-two-seven-seven.” He squeezed one eyelid open and fixed Dredd with a bloodshot stare. “You... call in the docs, get me... inta a hospital.”
But the Judge was already striding quickly away, deaf to the cries for medical assistance. The el was obliterated, so he began to stumble up the stairs, blaster raised. He reckoned he could make it three floors.
Dredd met minimal resistance. He’d kept the blanket and now had it wrapped around his uniform again, the helmet buried beneath the hood. He passed for any of the Meyer lowlife, some of whom were cowered in the corridors, eyes raised to the heavens as the sound of the descending ship grew louder and louder; they had more pressing concerns than molesting one more down-and-out, who staggered a little as he went on his way. Those that did challenge him—mainly Furies, the closer he got to the third floor—were summarily dispatched with single shots, the retorts easily lost in the roar of destruction outside. He had not much more than a couple of minutes left, he knew, and couldn’t afford any delay—the fate of thousands was at stake. Justice, in this case, had to be swift and ruthless.
He hit the third at a run, muscles screaming, lights pulsing behind his eyes, but by now adrenaline was his sole fuel, overriding any physical limitations. Failure was not an option, he would not allow it. Equally, time would grant him no mercy, and he was aware that the two were about to collide.
Was it a symptom of his addled mind that he thought he caught flashes at his peripheral vision? A ghost figure, with him in spirit. The harder he pushed himself, the more it tracked his steps. By now he suspected he couldn’t trust his shocked, fatigued brain, and refused to acknowledge it was there, even though he had the unaccountable feeling that it was looking at him as they moved together, smiling grimly, urging him to go further.
Thundering down the corridor, he fired without pause or warning, dropping Furies where they stood before they had a chance to delay him. He threw off the blanket, no longer needing to hide who and what he was; indeed, he wanted the gang to witness the law descending upon them in these final moments, as powerful and unstoppable a force as the cargo vessel heading their way.
He found apartment 4277 and shoulder-charged the door without hesitation, urgency lending him strength, drawing down on the expected occupants. But there was only one man facing him, arms folded, in front of a large picture window in an otherwise Spartan living space. Beside him on a rickety table sat a battered laptop, code streaming across its screen.
“On your knees, Rawlings. Hands behind your head.” Dredd edged forward, blaster sighted on the chief Fury. He couldn’t have much more than sixty seconds left.
Rawlings snorted. “What’s arresting me going to achieve? Huh? You’ve left it too late, bluejay. None of us are getting out of here.”
“On your knees,” Dredd repeated, circling round to the laptop. “Now.”
“If it’s all the same to you, Judge, I’d rather die on my feet. Considering what’s coming down on us, you’re in no position to order me to do anything.”
Dredd crouched by the computer and plugged the zipdrive into one of the available ports, gun still trained on the gang leader. There was a sullen beep, and a new window popped up on the screen. “Get. Down. On. Your. Knees. Do it quickly.”
“You deaf, Judge? I ain’t movin’.”
There’d been worse last words. A fraction of a second later the picture window shattered and the wall around it crumpled like paper as the nose of the container craft came smashing through the block, bisecting Rawlings at the base of the ribcage, carrying away his upper half like a gruesome hood ornament.
“Your choice, creep,” Dredd muttered, grabbing the laptop and hugging it to his chest, shielding it from the destruction as part of the ceiling and many of the apartments above came tumbling down in a shower of debris. The noise was intense, like the heart of a hurricane. Dredd remained c
rouched, feeling the wind tear at him and chunks of plaster patter his body, grey dust silting his skin.
The floor shifted under his booted feet, and he cast a grime-encrusted eye down to see the entire floor tipping beneath him. He started to slip, his heels sliding and failing to find purchase; he threw away the gun, reached out, and the fingers of his left hand hooked around a door frame. Keeping the computer tucked under his right arm, he pulled himself up, away from the new cliff face, pieces of floor splintering and disappearing from sight. The cargo vessel continued on its trajectory with a bone-shaking rumble, and he watched it pass with his breath caught in his throat, so close to it he could see every rivet and bolt on its surface. The deafening racket of grinding rockcrete blended with the awesome drone of the turbines.
Dredd looked around. The ship had taken out a corner of Meyer, leaving him clinging to a half-demolished supporting wall, the remains of the apartment ending just a few feet from where he was curled. Exposed girders creaked ominously, accompanied by fresh splintering sounds. It didn’t take a genius to realise that Meyer was unstable, and what was still standing above him could collapse in on itself at any moment. Either that or the floor beneath him would fall; it would be race between the two to see which gave up the ghost first.
He pushed open the lid of the laptop with his elbow. The new directive was asking him if he wanted to talk to the craft’s A.I. pilot: the failsafe. His damaged right hand mashed the keypad, linking him in—typing proved impossible, so he activated voice command.
“Mega-City cargo vessel”—he squinted at the filthy screen—“AR370, this is Judge Joseph Dredd. You are ordered to terminate your current flight path and revert to standby. Do you copy?”
“Your order is noted, Judge Dredd,” came a metallic reply. “However, my programming states that I am to follow this terminal route. Unless I—”
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