by David Meyer
A glint of light stung my pupils. The glint faded and then reappeared. Squinting, I noticed a small bag lying in the street, pressed tightly against the curb. I’d seen it before, but where?
I crawled off of Graham and grabbed the bag. It was a woman’s clutch purse, black and adorned with a handful of colorful jewels. My tired brain sought about, trying to place it.
Wait, is this … yes! It’s Beverly’s!
I’d seen the clutch a few times before, specifically on those rare nights when she got all dolled up. Popping it open, I checked its contents. I saw her mints and that little perfume bottle she liked to carry around. Plus, lipstick, gloss, and a thin wallet. I opened the wallet and saw her driver’s license photo.
Seeing her like that, beautiful and utterly annoyed, brought a smile to my face. I closed the wallet, returned it to the clutch. As I snapped the bag shut, I noticed drops of splattered blood adorning its otherwise-pristine surface.
My memories returned. My smile faded and my gaze grew hard as steel. I recalled where I was, what I’d been doing. And most importantly …
Who I’d been doing it for.
CHAPTER 11
Energy welled up inside me and I felt like I could carry an entire army on my back. Rising to my feet, I grabbed Graham’s belt. I was like a mighty king of old, ready to pick him up, toss him over my shoulder with ease. Digging deep, I heaved with all my strength and …
Nothing.
He barely budged. A king of old? Who was I kidding? After all we’d been through, I was more like a broken-down knight. No, make that a lowly squire.
Exhaling, I bent at the knees and grabbed his armpits. Then I rose up, wobbling like I was Dutch-Drunk. I’d gotten my second wind, but the air was still blistering and my breaths came in short, wheezy gasps.
Directed-energy weapons worked a little like microwaves. They stirred up water and fat molecules and then scorched them. Under certain conditions, they could incapacitate people in mere seconds. The fact that I was still going indicated I was some distance from the origin point or perhaps, that the operator had set the heat ray to a low level.
I glanced at Graham. His skin was ruddy and his lips were dry. But at least he was breathing.
Scanning the area, I saw a long stairway to the east. It led up to an old, rundown building. Dragging Graham, I walked backward, weaving through groups of Berserkers along the way. As soon as I passed behind the stairs, my skin cooled and I was able to refill my lungs.
I set Graham on the sidewalk and chanced a look over the steps. Numerous armored cars blocked access to E. 75th Street. Large eight-sided objects—the heat rays—were mounted on top of each car. NYPD officers surrounded the cars, defending them from a relentless onslaught.
Graham stirred, shook his head. “I feel like burnt toast,” he muttered. “What happened?”
“The NYPD gave us a tan, free of charge.”
“How generous of them.” Wincing, he stood up. “Thanks. But this doesn’t make us even, you know.”
“How could it?” I cracked a grin. “I’m still way ahead of you.”
A casual observer might’ve arched an eyebrow at our banter, viewing it as inappropriate. Maybe even disrespectful to Beverly’s predicament. But I found it kept us loose and allowed us to maintain cool heads even when things were at their worst.
Graham stared over the steps, taking in the armored cars, the NYPD, and the Berserkers. “How are they fighting in that heat?”
Above the general din, I heard distant flames and blaring sirens. “They must be wearing shielding,” I replied.
“The Berserkers are like Boy Scouts. Evil, drunk Boy Scouts.”
Unshielded Berserkers began to rise in the streets as the heat rays broke down. Some of them ran into battle. The others looked around for places to hide, to recover.
Rioters, sporting burnt skin and sweaty hands, gathered around us. Fights broke out and Graham and I retreated into the street. A powerful surge of heat, not overwhelming but still enough to sap strength, crashed into us. Casting about, I looked for another place to hole up while the Berserkers took down the remaining heat rays.
A swarthy fellow with sunglasses ran up to one of the armored cars and dumped liquid all over it. Another man, a near-albino with a baseball cap, lit a Molotov cocktail and tossed it at the liquid.
This should be interesting.
Flames crackled. A resounding boom rang out. The ground quaked and the car exploded upward, rising a few inches off of the pavement. Shards of glass and bits of metal hurtled through the air, striking walls and cutting deep into Berserker flesh.
The armored car slammed back to the street. Giant flames stabbed out of the shattered windows, licking ferociously at the air. More police officers, armed with batons and riot shields, poured into the area.
“No way we’re getting through there anytime soon.” Graham wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “We should backtrack to 76th and circle around.”
“And chance running into more of the NYPD’s torture devices? No thanks.” I glanced up the staircase and saw two doors, constructed out of safety glass. The left door was cracked, spider web-style. The right door was undamaged.
I sprinted up the steps, ignoring the ever-present heat. I tried both doors, but they were locked tight. Taking a deep breath, I rammed my shoulder into the left one. The spider web grew larger. I rammed the door again. Again, the spider web spread across the glass surface.
Third time’s the charm.
I took a few steps back and then lurched forward. My body slammed into the door and a section of safety glass broke loose from its right side. It swung inward, still in one piece, revealing a darkened lobby.
I crawled through the gap and pulled the safety glass back a few more inches for Graham. Then I did my best to fit the section back into the doorframe.
“We’ve got a body,” Graham said. “Pretty fresh from the looks of it.”
I finished replacing the glass and glanced backward. A middle-aged man, skinny and shaved bald, lay on a soiled, plastic tarp. His guard uniform, along with his chest, was covered with blood.
“What are the chances his killer is still in the building?” I asked.
“With our luck? I’d say it’s a foregone conclusion.”
I pulled out my satphone. It was 8:54 p.m. “Twenty-six minutes left,” I replied.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked. “Wait here until the fighting dies down?”
“We could do that.” I rooted through the guard’s pockets and found a ring of shiny keys. “Or we could take door number two.”
He eyed me like I’d lost my mind. “What’s door number two?”
I pocketed the keyring. “The one that leads to the roof.”
CHAPTER 12
“Someone must’ve pounded on the door,” Graham said, his gaze locked upon the body. “This guy opened it, trying to be helpful. Got shot for his troubles. Real nice. What kind of rat bastard does something like this?”
“The kind that wears heels.” Using my satphone’s flashlight function, I studied a set of footprints on the blood-soaked floor. “Actually, make that ankle boots.”
Shifting my gaze, I looked around the room. Although clearly a work-in-progress, the unfinished lobby felt old and reeked of mildew. Much of the floor was roughly-hewn and covered with plastic tarps. Large white buckets, filled with tools, lined the far wall.
To my left, I saw an open stairwell along with an elevator. Or rather, the elevator shaft sans car. To my right, I noticed a rickety card table and metal chair, both splattered with cream-colored paint. A computer tablet sat in its casing, laptop-style, on top of the table.
I hiked across the floor, my tuxedo shoes scraping against the plastic tarp. Picking up the tablet, I swept my finger across the screen. It instantly came to life and I saw the ATG News website. There were various headlines about the riot along with plenty others that revealed much about the Berserker mentality.
Is Depression On Its Way?
No. It’s Already Here.
Youth Unemployment Climbs to 44%.
White House Defends President Walters’ Vacation Amidst Growing Crisis.
Divided We Fall: How the Haves Robbed the Have-Nots.
I’d seen a couple of recessions in my time. But this one seemed worse than all the others put together. The pundits, by and large, laid the blame on the shoulders of President Wade Walters. They wanted an FDR-style New Deal of domestic programs to invigorate the economy. A vocal minority called for the exact opposite solution. They wanted Walters to do less, much less. Fewer regulations, less taxes.
Graham hiked into the stairwell. Craning his neck, he studied the second floor landing. “Looks clear.”
As I returned the tablet to the desk, I noticed a thick layer of dust. It covered the tarps, the walls, the buckets, everything. Everything but the desk and the area around the doors. Ahh, that explained why the lobby looked and smelled old. The renovation was on hold, probably due to the poor economy. Most likely, it had sat this way for weeks. Maybe even months.
Long-forgotten childhood memories popped into my brain. Memories of when I still had a family. Memories of visiting Dad, memories of watching construction at his various properties. Back then, he was one of New York’s premiere developers. That was before he’d lost his mind. Before he’d waged an epic war on Manhattan’s skyline.
Before his untimely death.
I hiked into the stairwell. Two sets of bloody footprints, both going up, were etched into the dusty steps. One set had come from the ankle boots. The other set was a good deal larger and had been made by a pair of thick shoes or boots.
“No return footprints,” Graham remarked. “They must still be up there.”
I thought about the dead guard. “Think we’ve got time to bash a few skulls?”
“There’s always time for that.”
Stepping quietly, we climbed the staircase. Up and up we went, passing multiple landings in the process. I kept waiting for the other footprints to break off, to drift out onto one of the many unfinished floors. But no. They just kept going and going.
After sixteen floors, the stairwell came to an abrupt halt. A metal access door, closed, lay before me. The footprints appeared to continue through it.
Beams of artificial light blinded me as I opened the door. A full moon shone brightly in the sky, a solitary orb of natural light. A hot breeze struck my skin. Although stifling, it was nothing compared to the heat rays.
Dousing my satphone beam, I walked onto the gravel-covered roof. Sounds flooded my ears. Sirens blared repeatedly, endlessly. Flames roared. Distant jets of water slammed into metal and brick. Glass shattered, plastic squeaked, and metal clanged. And through it all, I heard screaming. Soft screams, punctuated by sobs. Loud, high-pitched screams. Long screams, short screams, all sorts of screams.
“See anything?” Graham whispered from inside the stairwell.
My eyes traced the rooftop. “Gravel and wire. Lots of wire. No people though.” A soft metallic ding filled my eardrums. “Hang on.”
A small concrete structure enclosed the stairwell. Sidling up to it, I heard dull muttering along with crunching gravel and metallic dings.
“I told you,” a woman crowed. “You wouldn’t listen. But I told you.”
A man grunted. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t yeah me.” Her voice turned furious. “This is your fault. You lost your job. You wasted our savings. If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead in a gutter by now.”
“I know.” A brief pause. “Sorry.”
“That’s better.” The woman’s tone took an authoritative turn. “Now, get back to work.”
A new sound, like snipping scissors, filled my ears. I peeked around the side of the concrete structure. About twenty feet away, a man knelt next to an open vent. He wore a New York Mets hoodie and was equipped with a pair of long wire cutters. A short woman stood nearby, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently. She wore a matching hoodie with the hood lowered to her shoulders and a pair of ankle boots. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and she watched the man work with pursed lips. Sheer disdain emanated from every pore of her body.
“Well?” Graham hissed. “What do you see?”
“Looks like we’ve got a couple of copper thieves on our hands,” I replied.
“Oh, goodie. The lowest of the low.”
“It’s lower than you think.” I studied the man, studied his shaking hands and trembling shoulders. “I’m pretty sure one of them is a meth addict.”
Due to supply shortages, copper prices had jumped to eight bucks a pound. Many abandoned buildings were stocked with the stuff, making them prime targets for the truly desperate. When all was said and done, the couple could probably make off with a couple of thousand dollars. Not a bad haul actually, although the meth addict would almost certainly piss it away in short order.
I focused my gaze on the woman’s tight pants. A small pistol was tucked into her waistband. Immediately, my mind flashed back to the dead security guard in the lobby.
Graham slid through the open door and joined me on the roof. Peering around the other edge of the concrete structure, he studied the thieves. “Please tell me we’re taking these jerks out.”
The man and woman stood on the north side of the roof, blocking the route to 1199 Madison Avenue. A confrontation was unavoidable.
Not that I minded.
“Can you handle the woman?” I asked.
“I just need a weapon.” Stooping down, he hefted a handful of gravel. “This ought to do the trick.”
Silently, we edged around either side of the concrete structure. But in one of those strange twists of fate, the man chose that exact moment to stretch his neck. His head swiveled toward us and his eyes opened wide.
Roaring with anger, I sprinted toward him. The man jumped to his feet and reared back, only to trip on some copper wiring. He toppled over, striking his head against the gravel.
The woman spun toward me. Maintaining near-perfect poise, she went for her gun.
And that’s when Graham unleashed the gravel.
It whipped through the air, banging into the woman’s chest and shoulders. She staggered backward and crashed onto her rear. The pistol squirted out of her hands and slid across the roof.
She reached out, but Graham beat her to it. With a smooth motion, he picked up the gun and smacked it against her forehead. Her eyes rolled backward and she slumped to the gravel.
The man’s face darkened. With a soft grunt, he started to get up. But I was already on him and a vicious blow to the face sent him flopping back to the ground.
“Ahh.” I wrung my sore, aching hand. “Why do the worst people always have the hardest heads?”
“So they can take more punishment.” Graham knelt over the woman for a second, making sure she was unconscious. “What should we do with them?”
Still wringing my hand, I glanced at a roll of copper wire. Any other time I would’ve tied them up and left them for the authorities to find. But Beverly’s life was on the line and every second counted.
“Nothing.” I ran to the raised edge of the roof. It closely abutted the next building. I shot Graham a knowing look as I backed up a few feet.
He looked confused for a second. Then he groaned. “Don’t tell me …”
I never heard the end of that sentence. Instead, I ran forward, my tuxedo shoes scraping against gravel. Upon reaching the raised edge, I leapt into the air.
My body hurtled through space, arms spinning like windmills. I wondered what people below would think if they saw me, this tuxedo-laden man, leaping buildings. And just like that, my mind flashed back to several decades earlier. To that moment. To the ice cream dripping down my arm. To my stopped heart. To the sight of that other man attempting to defy gravity.
My shoes struck gravel and I jolted. Tucking my head, I rolled across the hard surface. Then I jumped up and waved at Graham. He jumped the gap as well and rolled awkwardly to his feet.
“Not bad,” I remarked.
He grinned. “Just call me the bionic man.”
He wasn’t kidding. Graham had destroyed his previous prosthetic leg during the Columbus Project incident. Afterward, he’d hunkered down and built himself a new one, aided by a couple of brilliant bionics experts. The result, a powerful, thought-controlled device, had reinvigorated his declining physical condition.
We made our way across two more rooftops and eventually reached the last building on the block.
“We made it,” Graham said. “Madison and 75th.”
I nodded. “Now, we just have to figure out which building is 1199. Hopefully, we’re standing on it.”
My shoes crunched against white gravel as I hiked to the edge of the roof. Far below, I saw burning cars, broken glass, and spilt garbage. Lots of spilt garbage. North of E. 75th, NYPD officers continued to hold off the rioters with the aid of those heat rays. The officers to the south were gathered in clumps up and down the street. They wore riot helmets and carried thick shields.
I watched as solo Berserkers threw objects at those officers, trying to draw them out, to separate them from their peers. Other Berserkers, working in tandem, adopted a more systematic approach. They attacked the various officer groups one at a time. Emboldened, solo Berserkers would join in and before long, the officers were lying on the pavement, stripped of their gear. A few rioters would stay behind, viciously beating the fallen officers. The others moved on to the next group.
“It’s like whack-a-mole,” Graham said. “Only with, you know, cops.”
Shifting my gaze, I studied the buildings surrounding the intersection. “See the numbers?” I pointed at an ornate building, twenty stories tall, on the diagonal corner. A colorful awning over the entranceway read, The Falcon. “That’s 1199 Madison Avenue.”
