Grue knelt and easily held the pleaser steady. Munk yanked the narcotic turbo patch from her neck then pulled a tranq patch from his pocket and applied it to her skin. Within seconds her struggles weakened, and her flailing limbs collapsed.
“I’ll get her down to the van. You finish up here.” Grue lifted Earless into his arms and carried her out the door.
Munk gathered the scattered weapons and threw them into their cases, locking them securely. As he recovered the missile launcher, he looked out the window.
Virtually nothing remained of Stiltzkin's. Only a few sections of walls still stood, and most of the roof had collapsed. Blazing fires consumed piles of rubble, as well as lumps that had been short neohumans. A flaming dwarf crawled toward the entrance. Burning debris littered the street, raising plumes of smoke into the air. Screams of agony and fear filled the night.
Munk turned away. He toted the weapon cases down the stairs and out to the van where Grue helped throw them into the back. They jumped in and drove down the back alley, away from the glare and misery of the street.
2
Groaning, Noose pushed the toilet seat off his chest and dragged himself across the wet tiled floor. The walls of the restroom crumbled and burned, the shattered toilets and sinks spraying fountains of water. Plastic and porcelain debris littered the floor, as well as globs of fecal muck disgorged from ruptured sewage pipes. He extricated himself from the tangled mass of mutilated toilet stalls and pulled himself to his feet.
Then he pulled his pants up. He looked around for a moment, and noted the absence of his hat. It was nowhere in sight. He stumbled forward through swirling smoke, tripping over fallen bathroom doors, and out into the flaming wreckage of Stiltzkin’s.
Memories of the Djibouti neohuman riots trampled into his mind as he saw the utter devastation wrought by the attack. Fires blazed everywhere, outnumbered only by the bodies that lay crumpled under debris, draped over the bar, scattered in pieces. He saw one young neohuman lying at an impossible angle, back broken, slowly dying, blood bubbling from his mouth. Noose tried to ignore the groans and screams, the cries for help.
Noose started toward the street, then stopped, holding a hand to his bloody head. His eyes scoured the debris and flames, checking the dismembered corpses that lay sprawled about him. He limped to the nearest form and turned it over to reveal half the face of a dwarf. He moved to another body, found another dwarf, and yet another. All around him he could see only dwarven bodies.
Above the crackling of the flames, a faint wail of sirens grew louder, meshing hauntingly with the cries of the dying. Noose scowled in frustration, and paused in his examination of another body. He spun around, scanning the surrounding ruins, not finding what he sought.
Hands clenched, Noose walked hesitantly across the body- and rubble-strewn dance floor. He raised his arms to ward off the heat from the flames across the bar. One barely conscious victim tugged at the hem of his duster, but Noose only grimaced and pulled away from a face he didn’t know. Compassion makes for good priests, not mercenaries.
He stomped through the fallen doorway and out onto the sidewalk. The sirens neared, screaming now, no more than a block away. He looked around the street, his vision blurred, at burning human and genny bodies slumped amidst chunks of concrete, plastic fragments, and an overturned ground vehicle melted almost beyond recognition. His eyes focused on the rundown apartment building across the street, whose inhabitants stared wide-eyed through shattered windows. Except for one apartment on the third floor.
As gawking neighbors gathered around the decimated club, Noose walked stiffly across the debris-ridden street and around the apartment building. He found the rear entrance open and showing signs of forced entry. The short walk had cleared his head somewhat. He bent down to a puddle, splashing rainwater on his face. Reaching under his duster, he pulled out his Colt Stormer 11mm automag. It was bloody. He probed beneath his coat again, and found a tender wound at his side. Gritting his teeth, he walked up the stairs to the third floor, gun held tightly.
After only a few moments he found the open doorway. Walking inside the vacant apartment, his experienced eyes swiftly cataloged the few contents: spent cannon shells, discarded magazines, missile storage tube, crumpled Kokastik pack and butts, and a can of coagulant spray. Blast burns covered the ceiling near the shattered windows.
“Messy,” he muttered, walking over to the window. He looked out just in time to see paramedics running from ambulances into the burning club. Police skycars with flashing lights hovered to the ground and disgorged cops who pushed gawkers away from the fires. The dull whine of a heavy aerodyne grew louder.
Noose turned back to the apartment and walked into the bathroom. He glanced in the mirror and noticed that he looked even worse than he felt. A gash bled above his left eye, and water, blood, and filth soaked his hair. He bent over the sink and splashed his face with water.
Returning to the main room, Noose collected several items. As he retrieved the coagulant spray, he saw the pool of blood by the inner wall. He knelt down beside it and found the shard of bloody plastic. Smiling, he retrieved it, too.
Noose cast one last glance around the room and left. He retraced his steps down the stairs, holstered the Stormer, and walked back out to the street.
A large crowd strained behind the freshly-erected police lines, curious people not satisfied with the death and misery beamed into their apartments from around the world. The citizens of the Regional Atlanta Metroplex wanted more mayhem than the news reported about illegal German urban jousting tournaments, neobeast swarms in the ruins of Djibouti, Sicilian blood riots, and Chinese warlord conflicts. They wanted their gore up close and personal. Tonight, there was more than enough gore to go around. Enough to sate a diehard Kreugermaniac.
Noose frowned, and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Standing just behind the yellow tape line, he watched as paramedics ran to and fro amidst the rubble inside the club. A row of bodies already lined the sidewalk. One paramedic pushed a stretcher holding a bleeding survivor into a medical aerodyne. Its engines whined to life as he slid the door shut.
Two other medical craft hummed softly on the ground nearby and a fourth hovered overhead, sharing the airspace with two news vehicles and an intimidating police gunship. Fire engines sprayed down the dwindling flames, police questioned witnesses. Noose saw one of the onlookers pointing to the apartment building.
The dwarf pushed his way out of the crowd, the missile tube concealed under his duster, and limped off down the street.
3
“As you can see from these images, the devastation is incredible,” the anchorman spoke excitedly, as video revealed an overhead view of smoldering debris and the flashing lights of ambulances and fire engines on the streets below.
“Details are still sketchy,” he continued, “but this blasted ruin used to be Stiltzkin's Dance Club, near the intersection of Dresden Drive and Shallowford Road, just east of the Peachtree Blimport. It looks like the structure has been utterly destroyed. No word on the death toll yet–”
“Hold on a sec,” a voice came in scratchily over the audio. “I think I see some bodies below.”
The image switched back to the anchor, a neat and tidy bodysculpted video biff. He held his hand to his ear. “What’s that? Oh, it’s AeroBob, our pilot. What did you say, Bob?”
“I’m moving in closer, get a shot of the bodies.”
The anchorman barely managed to conceal a grin beneath his affected frown. “Our aerodyne pilot believes he can make out some bodies below, so let’s go back to the live feed for a closer look.”
The screen shot descended, moving closer to the street. Several Regional Police officers in sky blue suits waved off the aerodyne, but the view kept getting closer. The camera panned around then focused on more than a dozen body bags lining the bloody sidewalk.
“Looks like fourteen or fifteen bodies down there so far, Brian,” Bob reported. “Still more being removed from the rubble.
”
“Is there any way you can tell how many more victims there may be, Bob?”
“Impossible at the moment, Brian. Oh, wait – gunship is pushing me away, gotta fly.”
The video switched back to Brian, with a small window on the screen showing the retreating sky view. “That was AeroBob, reporting on the despicable terrorist attack that has plunged our fair metroplex into disgust and outrage! If you have just tuned in, unidentified terrorists have blown up a dance club in the Dekalb District. Emergency crews are still sifting through the bloody ruins, searching for the wounded and dead. At least fifteen bodies have already been removed, many blown apart by the explosions, their limbs and viscera scattered all over the street.”
Brian paused, momentarily glancing away from the camera. “It seems…yes…we have Valerie Flynn-Diaz at the site of the explosion, speaking to witnesses and the police. Valerie, are you there?”
An attractive blonde appeared on the screen, the cut of her designer clothes accentuating obviously augmented curves. The remains of the club were visible behind her. “Yes, I’m here, Brian, at Dresden and Shallowford, trying to find out what exactly happened not thirty minutes ago.”
“What have you discovered?”
“Not much, Brian,” Valerie frowned. “Police are tight-lipped and busy, trying to keep looky-loos, scavengers, and organ grinders away from the rubble as paramedics and firefighters search for any possible survivors.”
“Valerie, we’re getting reports from North BioTechnix Hospital 17 that there are at least seven survivors of the blast in their trauma ward.”
“Yes, Brian, I’ve seen three ambulances depart with the injured. Some survivors are being treated here on site, and…and yes, there’s a paramedic now. Quick, get a shot of that.”
The view swung from Flynn-Diaz to settle on a distant paramedic walking away from the disaster. The camera zoomed in to reveal his yellow jacket splattered with blood, a disembodied leg in his hand.
“Looks like another part of a victim just found, Brian,” Valerie almost chirped. The paramedic placed the leg near the row of body bags, and returned to the rubble. The camera panned back to Valerie. “Who knows who that poor victim was, Brian, but I doubt he or she is still alive. The paramedics will probably be bringing out more pieces of dismembered bodies in a few minutes, and we’ll stay right here to bring it to you live!”
“I know you will, Valerie. Have you been able to speak to any witnesses?”
“I spoke to one man who was in the club mere minutes before it exploded. He told me that there didn’t seem to be anything unusual going on, that everything seemed quite normal.”
“How many people were in the club?”
“In excess of one hundred people, Brian.”
“Tragic! That’s terrible! I’m amazed that the paramedics aren’t using a dump truck to collect the body parts.”
“I agree, Brian. According to neighbors, Stiltzkin’s was frequented mostly by dwarves, but other types of neohumans, as well as humans, were seen inside often enough.”
“Well, I’m sure we will be hearing from local neohuman activists soon about this attack.”
“Too true, Brian, but…hold on, I’ve got an actual witness to the event right here.” Valerie reached beyond the view of the camera and pulled a middle-aged man into the shot.
“Hello, sir,” Valerie began, “I understand you actually witnessed the explosion?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gordon Franks-Potten-Heevey,” the man replied, staring at the camera. He straightened his Braves t-shirt. “Am I on vid?”
“Yes you are, Mr. Franks-Potten-Heevey! Channel 519 wants to hear your story. Tell us what you saw.”
“Well, I was in my apartment up there,” the man said, pointing above the camera while trying to suck in his gut, “when I heard these explosions. I thought some gutterpunk cocktailed another car. Anyhow, I went to take a look when the club explodes! Shattered my windows!”
“Terrible, sir! Did you see anyone who could have done it?”
“Don’t know. But after the big explosion, there were a bunch of smaller ones, and I think somebody was shooting into the club from an apartment below mine. I looked down from my window and saw the barrel of a gun sticking out of a lower window.”
“You’re saying it was some kind of machine gun?”
“I don’t know, don’t think so. It was shooting grenades or something.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, the blasts stop, and the club keeps burning, but there wasn’t much left to burn. Bodies were all over the street. Then this one dwarf staggers out of the smoke and walks away.”
“You say a dwarf walked away from this devastation?” Valerie asked incredulously.
“That’s what I said, ain’t you listening?”
“What did this dwarf look like? Was he all in one piece?”
“I don’t know. Dwarfish, your basic genny. Had a long coat on. Just limped away. Hopefully dead by now. Then the Reggies swarmed in, sirens blaring and lights flashing.”
“Of course. Our fine men and women in blue never hesitate to put themselves in harm’s way. Truly, the efforts of the Regional Police, and the fire department and hospitals, will save many lives today.” The camera zoomed in on Valerie’s face. “Well, Brian, there you heard it. It appears this was some type of missile attack, and that one stout dwarf actually walked out of the flaming building. Not terribly surprising, considering that dwarves are genetically engineered to withstand significant damage. However, he left behind dozens, if not scores, of shredded bodies for the paramedics to sift through.”
Brian reappeared on the screen. “Incredible, Valerie! Thanks for the report. And now for a Channel 519 exclusive! We have managed to get a few moments of Regional Atlanta Metroplex Operations Administrator Elise Chauveau’s time for a response to this most heinous act. Administrator Chauveau, are you there?”
The screen switched to a well-tanned, middle-aged woman with rich black pinned-back hair, dressed in a severe business suit and sitting before a large window that provided a panoramic view of the blinking Atlanta skyline. She gazed at the camera with deep brown eyes. “Yes, Brian, I’m here, and outraged that such a despicable attack on innocent neohumans would be perpetrated here in the Regional Atlanta Metroplex.”
“Yes, I’m sure all law-abiding citizens of RAM are just as disgusted as you,” Brian agreed. “This being your first public response, brought live to a shocked populace by Channel 519, what kind of scum do you think perpetrated the attack?”
Chauveau frowned. “Obviously it was a group of hateful Purists bent on punishing innocent neohumans for their own insecurities. Filled with hate and spite, they have decided to engage in illegal, immoral, and antisocial behavior in an attempt to gain the ear of the United Globe General Assembly. Something they’ve been doing for years. The Djibouti Metroplex, for example.”
“Yes, Administrator Chauveau, I’m sure all our viewers remember that sorrowful event. But what do the Purists think they can accomplish by such deeds?”
“I’m sure we all remember what their spokesmen said during the Djibouti crisis. They want nothing less than the immediate cessation of all genetic engineering and the elimination of all genetically-engineered persons.”
“Apparently,” Brian suggested, “they were not satisfied with the United Globe Genetic Engineering Charter of 2089 which illegalized all non-government-sanctioned gengineering.”
“They will not be satisfied until all gengineering and neohumans are eliminated,” Chauveau stated. “Their leaders have stated so repeatedly.”
“And so, Administrator, how long before these maggot-eating scum are apprehended?”
“Well, as Operations Administrator I have ordered a number of procedures to hasten the capture of the criminals, many of which are already underway. However, Regional Governor Jones-Utu-Rudeholmer-Xin has the most far-reaching powers at his disposal.”
“And what has the governor done so far?”
“Unfortunately,” Chauveau grimaced, “I have been unable to speak with the governor. Apparently, he is too busy with other matters to bother with mass murderers attempting genocide.”
“That is unfortunate, Administrator,” Brian concurred. “In any case, we here at Channel 519 would like to thank you for your time at this moment of crisis. I understand that you are a busy woman, and must get back to work on dealing with the aftermath of this terrorist strike.”
“Yes, Brian, thank you very much.” Chauveau disappeared from the screen and was replaced by the anchor.
“That was RAM Operations Administrator Elise Chauveau sharing her feelings concerning this evening’s atrocity. Again, for those of you who just tuned in, some type of terrorist attack on Stiltzkin’s Dance Club in the Dekalb District has resulted in at least twenty casualties, and the death toll may rise to one hundred or more. Paramedics are walking out with victims’ arms and legs even as we speak. North BioTechnix Hospital is starting to feel the pressure as the wounded pour in. Other survivors are likely to be sent to BioTechnix Regional and Druid Hills Urban Trauma Center. Better check your Dead Pool tickets, but the final numbers will likely be disputed, what with all the body parts lying around. We’ll bring you more updates as the info comes in to our studios, and a complete report at eleven, including close-ups of the survivors and dead.
“For now, we return you to the Championship Bloodball quarterfinal match between our own Atlanta Widowmakers and the Berlin Totmenschen. The ‘Menschen have already suffered two casualties! The game is brought to you by Vatburgers, a Global Foods product. If it ain’t Global, you’ve been screwed!”
4
Cori switched off the vidwall and walked over to the oaken desk near the kitchen. She rummaged around inside one of the drawers, dumped a load of papers on the floor, and kept digging. After a few seconds she whistled and pulled out a Dead Pool ticket. She returned to the sofa and keyed up the details on the ticket card.
Dead Dwarves Don't Dance Page 2
