Vickers

by Mick Farren

  Lloyd-Ransom may have found religion in the bunker but he hadn't relinquished his grasp of reality. Parkwood nodded.

  "That's true enough."

  "In fact, there may well be a whole lot more for you to do before this crisis is over. That's primarily why I've come down here to talk to you. There may be a time when you come to share the vision but, in the meantime, I expect all five of you to go on doing your jobs. You're my hired guns and I expect you to act accordingly. Does this cause anyone any problems?"

  Nobody said a word. Lloyd-Ransom smiled. "That's good. I've always liked to work with professionals."

  "So what are we supposed to do from here on in?"

  "You will be my enforcers, my troubleshooters. Like it or not, you will become my ultimate goon squad. When the only solution has to be simple but drastic, you will provide it. I'm presuming that this doesn't cause any problems, either."

  Again nobody spoke. Lloyd-Ransom nodded as if fairly satisfied that he had sufficient quantities of their loyalty.

  "Depending on the extent of the crisis, there may be a very pressing need for drastic solutions. Apart from Mossman, it's almost certain that there are other groups and individuals who would like to take over this bunker. They are very likely to have infiltrated agents into the bunker already. As the crisis deepens, they are all going to be looking for the chance to make their moves. Our security here is the best possible, but no system can be perfect. A determined operative can always slip through the net."

  Vickers did his best to keep his face expressionless. He could have sworn that Lloyd-Ransom had looked straight at him as he said the words "determined operative." Did he know or suspect something? If he did, he went on without giving any further sign.

  "If we are forced to seal the bunker we will face a whole new set of problems and many of these have to be quickly, surgically eliminated. We have no idea how the various sections of the population will react when they realize that they are shut in and a nuclear holocaust is raging outside. Again it's the same as with the security system. Our psychological profiling is as comprehensive as it can be but nothing can be perfect. We also don't know what atomic war will mean. It will be a massive trauma but we have no idea as to how massive. There will be those who react antisocially; there will be those who react violently; some will become a danger to the bunker itself. Once again I will expect you to act swiftly and without question."

  "We kill off the freakouts and the misfits?"

  "That's a harsh way of putting it."

  "But accurate?"

  "It's going to be a very harsh world in the near future."

  Lloyd-Ransom stood up. "If there are no questions I'll let you all get back to sleep."

  "I've got one question."

  "What's that?"

  "Earlier, when you asked if any of us had any problems with the way you wanted things done, what would have happened if one of us had piped up that he or she didn't like the setup and wanted out?"

  Lloyd-Ransom made a motion of his head in the direction of the remaining soldiers. His smile was cold.

  "I would have had him or her shot out of hand."

  "Harsh times."

  "Remember that."

  Lloyd-Ransom departed with his soldiers and his dogs. Everyone slumped slightly. Eggy shook his head.

  "He's madder than I am."

  "And he's our new bossman."

  "I think I need a drink."

  * * *

  "You bastards never have to sleep with your fucking targets."

  Debbie was standing, swaying badly. She had a large glass of straight vodka in her hand. After Lloyd-Ransom had left, nobody had bothered to go back to bed. The news had been too overwhelmingly dire. The whole group had started drinking. Uncharacteristically, Debbie had been the first to become emotional. Eggy was almost as drunk, but he was simply glum.

  "I've fucked a target a couple of times. It wasn't no big thing."

  "It was some casual weirdness, that's what it was. You didn't have to. They didn't give you a photograph and tell you 'Hey, get next to this one, flatter him, butter him up, suck his dick, lick his toes and only when the time is right can you turn around and zap him.' You know how that feels? You know how you get over that? You know how you keep it together when you've done it time after time, more times than you can remember?"

  Fenton blearly shook his head. "Don't ask me. I'm just a thief."

  "Nobody gives a damn, do they. Nobody cares a damn about how I feel."

  Vickers looked at her blankly. If he hadn't been drunk he would have been surprised. He knew that there must have been all manner of strange, disturbing shit buried in Debbie's background but he'd never thought much about it. He hadn't expected that she'd start to fall apart after a few drinks. A few drinks, hell, he didn't think she'd fall apart after being told that a nuclear war was about to start. Something more than whiskey grabbed at his gut. He realized that he was refusing to believe it. He wasn't going to accept that it might be happening.

  Debbie, meanwhile, was taking fast angry belts of her drink. She glared around belligerently.

  "And another thing, I'm sick to my stomach of everybody calling me Debbie. 'Hey Debbie, Hi Debbie, How you doing Debbie, Smile Debbie, Show us your tits Debbie.' I've had it. My name is Debbie Rafael! You hear me? Debbie Rafael. That's what I want to be called. Fenton, Vickers, Parkwood and Rafael. No more Debbie."

  "All they call me is Eggy."

  "That's all the name you ever had. You don't have no more name than Eggy. I do. My name is Debbie Rafael and I want you bastards to start using it!" Abruptly she sagged, as though she'd finally run out of steam. She folded into a chair, her face creasing into self-pity. "I don't think I can handle any more of this."

  Fenton tried to be drunkenly consoling.

  "We all know it's going to be rough, but you can get through. We're all going to get through."

  Debbie opened her mouth. At first no sound came but when it did it was a wail of pure, miserable anger.

  "You don't have to survive the fucking end of the world with five women to every man!"

  Debbie had such complete attention that nobody noticed Eggy grin and mutter to himself.

  "Sure we do. Sure we do."

  * * *

  "I want to talk to you."

  "You do?"

  "I think we should take a little walk."

  "Huh?"

  Fenton took Vickers by the arm and steered him toward the door.

  "Smile, make nice, nod your head real casual just in case someone's watching."

  Vickers was beginning to feel the slightest bit alarmed. Fenton wasn't usually this elaborate and it indicated that there might be something major on his mind. Vickers allowed himself to be walked down to the nearest arterial corridor. They continued to walk with golf carts and freightlifts humming past them until they found an empty golf cart parked with its Vacant light on. Fenton slid behind the wheel and indicated that Vickers should get in. Vickers shrugged and did as he was asked. Fenton pulled out into the slow moving traffic.

  "I expect you're wondering what this is all about."

  "I'm curious."

  "I just wanted to make sure that we had a little privacy."

  "So what's wrong?"

  "Not so much wrong, more interesting."

  "So what's interesting?"

  "There was another murder here last night."

  "There was? Nobody tells me. I seem to be the forgotten man of profesional assassination."

  "I did it."

  "An official murder or a piece of your own moonlight?"

  "Oh, it was quite official. A security officer called Hodding. They told me that he was a Red spy and he had to go."

  "Hodding?"

  "That's right."

  Fenton was half grinning at Vickers. Vickers hoped his impassive expression was holding up.

  "And Hodding was a Red spy?"

  "That's what they said."

  "Do the Reds have spies anymore?"

/>   "He didn't look terribly Red. Looked more corporate to me. Also, he said the strangest thing before I shot him."

  "Yeah, what?"

  "When I got there, he was in the shower. A real Psycho job. Real Alfred Hitchcock. I ripped back the shower curtain and straight away he knew what I was at. He couldn't have missed, really, since I was holding this damn great automag in my fist at the time and pointing it straight at him." Fenton seemed to be enjoying himself. "He holds out his hands in front of him and says 'No, no, not me, it's Vickers that you want.'"

  Despite Fenton's deadpan, almost humorous delivery, it was about as bad as it could get. Still, Vickers tried not to react.

  "What did you do then?"

  "I shot him. Then I walked away, pausing only to call the clean-up crew."

  "What did you think he meant by 'it's Vickers you want'?"

  Fenton grinned. "I thought you'd tell me."

  "I spoke to him once."

  "Yeah, I saw you."

  "He seemed to think I was still working for Contec."

  "And are you?"

  "Does it look like it?"

  "It could be hard to tell who you're working for."

  "I'm working for Lloyd-Ransom except that I don't think he trusts me enough to give me anything to do."

  Fenton didn't say anything. He went right on steering the golf cart, staring straight ahead. Vickers knew that he had to ask the question.

  "Do you think anyone heard what he said? Apart from you, that is."

  A slow smile spread over Fenton's face. He waited a few seconds before he answered. It occurred to Vickers that Fenton might be taking him somewhere to kill him. Fenton laughed as though he knew what Vickers was thinking.

  "Worried?"

  "I'm always worried."

  "I don't think anyone heard him. The shower was running hard enough to confuse a microphone."

  There was another pause. Again Fenton laughed.

  "What's the matter? You trying to figure out a diplomatic way to ask me if I've told anyone?"

  "Have you?"

  "Not yet."

  "Do you intend to?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so."

  "Why not? Fingering another Red agent would be automatic brownie points."

  "That's if brownie points are all you're after. The way I see it, there's too much bullshit down here for me to put all of my eggs into one basket. You know what I mean?"

  "I think so, but maybe you'd better go on so there's no room for a misunderstanding."

  Fenton snorted and shook his head.

  "I like you, Vickers, I really like you. None of us know what we're getting into down here and I reckon you'd be a useful man in a tight spot. Even more useful if you owed me a considerable debt of gratitude."

  "And are you going to let me owe that debt of gratitude?"

  "I figure it's my best bet. It's not only that I like you, I also don't trust Lloyd-Ransom."

  "So what am I? Your ace in the hole?"

  "Something like that."

  "I suppose I should thank you."

  "It wouldn't hurt."

  Vickers knew that Fenton had him right in his pocket.

  * * *

  "I thought I had more class than this."

  "Ain't nothing classy about sitting on your own each night, reading a book and swilling scotch until the words all blur. It also ain't classy to be horny and not do nothing about it. All it is, is stressful. You hear me?"

  "He could have a point there."

  The three of them stepped onto the escalator that led down into the bright, smokey, jostling clatter of the handlers' messhall.

  "Jesus, it looks like a prison break. You'd expect them to start banging their tin cups on the tables."

  "Some nights they do."

  "Jesus."

  "Survivors can't be choosers."

  "That's the new saying, right?"

  Eggy had persuaded Vickers and Parkwood to accompany him on one of his now almost nightly visits to the handlers' quarters. According to Eggy, Fenton was already up there. They had taken a little persuading, but after a while a certain boredom with the monotony of the bunker's routine had won out and they'd followed him to the elevators feeling like guilty schoolboys on their way to the wrong side of the tracks. When Debbie learned of the intended venture, she'd first of all come on disgusted and then shut herself in her cubicle. It had increased the feeling that they were acting cheap but, their minds being made up by then, her reaction didn't deter them.

  Vickers wasn't quite ready for the noise, the brightness and the crowding. Although they complained about the smallness of their group quarters on the lower level, they were, in comparison, luxuriously spacious. The handlers' messhall did look like something out of a prison movie. There was the same stark institutional functionality even though, in this instance, the function was fun. The flourescent plates were too hard and bright. They made everyone look pale and tired. The roar of rowdy, alcohol conversation fought with the throb of loud pressure pop and was then thrown back by the flat metal walls and ceiling that added a harsh, unattractive ring. By far the worst, however, was the crowding. There was a claustrophobic desperation to the way that the people crushed in together, laughing and shouting and drinking, teeth and smiles and eyes that kept looking and searching, trying to find a getaway from the knowledge that they were huddled in a hole in the ground while the world above them tried to end itself. And so many women, most of them extremely attractive. Women in uni­forms, women in coveralls, women in bright civilian casuals, women in little more than their underwear. Over on the far side of the hall, three women were dancing on a table, bare breasted, lewd and drunk, encouraged by a chorus of catcalls, whistles and cheers. Vickers spotted Eight-Man shouting and laughing at the dancers but there was no sign of Fenton.

  "You're damn right, survivors can't be choosers."

  Eggy led the way, elbowing through the crowd toward where a line of women dispensed drinks across a stainless steel, cafeteria style counter. Eggy had clearly cut a wide swath up here in the handlers' section. A quite formidable number of women smiled, giggled, greeted, kissed him or made obscene suggestions. Eggy responded to it all as if it were no more than his reasonable due. Vickers and Parkwood also came in for a good deal of attention. The phrase "new meat" seemed to precede them across the hall. There were appraising stares and a few soft touches. Fingers briefly fondled their sleeves or brushed their thighs. Someone stroked Vickers' hair and he even felt a deft exploratory hand slide quickly between his legs. With the odds stacked five to one against them, these women didn't mess around. The crowd generated its own heat and Vickers was starting to sweat. Cramming people in like this was insane. If they ever did seal the bunker there was no way that people could survive years of this and still be anything like intact. Lloyd-Ransom couldn't seriously be thinking he could solve all of his inmate psychological problems by fear and assassination.

  Eventually they reached the bar. Parkwood tried to order Johnny Walker Black but was curtly informed that the best he was going to get up here on Level Two was generic scotch, along with generic bourbon, generic vodka, generic gin and beer. Parkwood sighed and took what he could get. Eggy and Vickers also equipped themselves with drinks then turned and surveyed the crowd. They instantly provoked interest.

  "Hi."

  Half of the first pair was a petite redhead with green eyes, large breasts and a slight lisp.

  "My name's Yvonne and this is Johanna."

  "Hi Yvonne. Hi Johanna."

  Johanna was taller. One of the hundreds of leggy Vegas types that had been corralled in the bunker. Her hair was cropped short in a style that made her look a little like Louise Brooks. She had a very pretty smile that reminded Vickers exactly how long it'd been since he'd had his arms around a woman.

  "Are you more of the hard men from down in security?"

  "That's us."

  "They say a hard man is good to find."

  Johanna gave Yvonne a bleak look.r />
  "Ignore her. She watches too many old movies."

  "She'd be hard to ignore."

  Yvonne grinned. "Charm, even. That's a rarity in these grim days. Most of the men down here think they've only got to crook their little finger and we'll come running."

  "We do, let's face it."

  "Like your friend here. He's never heard of charm."

  She nodded toward Eggy. At that moment he was in deep leering conversation with a trio of blondes who, although obviously not triplets, had taken some pains to look that way. He seemed poised to take all three to some dark place where they could all become better acquainted. Without thinking, Vickers threw back about half his drink. He immediately regretted what he'd done. The stuff burned like only really cheap booze could. It was the kind of stuff they served in Skid Row wino taverns. Usually it took you one of two ways, either maudlin or fighting mad.

  "Christ."

  Both Yvonne and Johanna laughed at his gasping surprise.

  "No brand name booze up here. They don't figure we're worth it. We're just the gene pool."

  There was undisguised malice in their laughter. The two women might be coming on to them but they didn't feel obligated to make a pretense of liking them. When you were confined to the first and second levels it was easy to become bitter about how all the good stuff was reserved for those down below.

  "The deeper you go the better it gets, only we don't get to go deeper."

  "It'd be a nice thought when you boys come up here because you're feeling horny, if you brought some of those down-below goodies with you. We're getting fucking sick of this crankcase gin."

  A big muscular woman with close-cropped hair was reeling through the crowd. Her eyes were rolled back in her head and she was at the far end of drunk and maybe more. Each of her lurches caused its own outbreak of confusion and curses and produced its own jostling ripples in the tightly packed mass of people. Yvonne was elbowed in one of the surges. Her drink spilled down the front of her coverall.

  "Goddamn fucked up dyke. She's like that every night. She doesn't even try to hold her liquor." She handed her empty plastic cup to Parkwood. "Here, sweetie, get me another one."

  "Sometimes I think we'll all be like her inside of six months."

  "Drunks or dykes?"