Black Rain

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  “Don’t move!” an angry voice called from the stairwell.

  Jack sucked in his breath. A barker fired; red-hot pain burrowed into his side. And then he jumped.

  Trajectory angles, wind speed, gravitational pull, lines of vectors drawn out on chalkboards by chute designers . . . everything moved together, and he fell down, the panic in his stomach churned by the flash of Genico metal and glass along his periphery. The chute opened with a whoosh. His body jerked vertically, then swung like a pendulum beneath the fulcrum of his harness. A gust of wind pushed him away from Genico and he sailed between the ravine of skyscrapers that cut channels over concrete rivers.

  A line of parked cars rushed toward him and he hit the algae fin of a livery cab. He felt an incredible jolt in his left leg. His ankle bent inward and something popped deep in the joint. His hand loosened on his weapon and it clattered somewhere off ahead of him. He bounced off the algae fin and landed on his shoulder on the pavement. The chute billowed down around him, momentarily obscuring his vision. He pulled the lightweight material from his face and then disconnected the harness.

  The pain from the gunshot was intense and he pressed his hand against his side. His fingers came away bloody. His legs went weak and he staggered a few steps forward before he collapsed to one knee. The crushers would reach street level in a minute, maybe two. Agony flared in Jack’s ankle like the strike of a hot poker and he sucked his breath, closing his eyes and waiting for it to pass.

  Behind him, tires screeched on pavement and he turned to see a black Audi accelerate toward him. The car braked hard and the passenger door flew open.

  And then he blacked out.

  CHAPTER 40

  The room slowly appeared . . . table . . . dresser . . . closet rising out of a fog. Jack lay on the bed for a moment, looking around, taking in the feel of the place. He was in a hotel room. He was sure of that. But where? His eyes adjusted from the darkness, absorbing the details now. The drawn curtains the color of sandstone. The faded whitewashed walls, cracked with spidery veins. A desk and chair, a pair of sunglasses folded on the desk, a terrycloth bathrobe draped over the chair. A long, black, coffin-size box sat in the corner.

  The scent of aerosol hung in the hair.

  To his left, on the table beside the bed, was a business card, lettered in gold. Times Square Hotel, New York City.

  He was on the edge of the Midtown Synthate Zone. He closed his eyes and the world faded to familiar blackness. From the hall, footsteps and angry voices rushed past the door. Then outside, a deeper sound, a low rumbling. Tanks? A short staccato burst of gunfire rattled, then an explosion. In the darkness, the room trembled.

  Jack opened his eyes again. The world returned.

  Who had done all this? How had he gotten here?

  This was all too real to be a dream, and yet, he felt disconnected.

  The room trembled again; the lamp by the bedside flickered. He looked down at himself and saw black bruises that stretched along his chest, his ribs sore to the touch along the slash. Beside the table sat an antique landline phone. Jack reached for it, lifted the receiver off the cradle. He needed to call for help. There were two clicks on the line, then a long buzzing sound.

  A voice came on the line. Female.

  “Stay off the hotel phone . . .” the voice hissed, startling Jack.

  “Who is this?” Jack asked.

  “Never answer the phone, Jack. They can track through the phone.”

  The line clicked dead. Jack listened to the hiss of static, then the dial tone.

  Never answer the phone, Jack.

  The voice knew his name. Who would find him? The crushers? His brother? Fear spread through Jack, radiating out from his stomach, out along his arms to the tips of his fingers.

  The bedside phone rang again.

  He looked at it. Another ring.

  Never answer the phone, Jack.

  But he had to answer. He was stranded here. He needed to find a way out. Slowly he reached for the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  A dial tone sounded. Nothing. Someone checking to see if he was awake?

  Outside the window, another explosion rocked the room. Across from him, the bathroom door was shut, a seam of darkness running the length of the bottom. In his bare feet, he went to the door, the knob cold against his skin. He had to focus. He had to get oriented. Outside the hotel, machine-gun fire popped again. Jack pushed against the knob and the door swung backward into shadows.

  Without thinking, he stepped into the black, found the faucet, pressed down and in the darkness heard the sound of water sloshing into the bowl. He dipped his hands into the water, splashed it against his face, and wiped away the sweat that had collected. He ran his hands along the wall, pulled a towel down from the rack, and buried his face in the cloth.

  An intense wave of dizziness overtook him. He steadied himself. Since he was a kid he had suffered from these spells. He waited a moment and the feeling passed.

  The last thing he remembered was landing hard on the street beneath the Genico building. There had been a car screeching toward him. And after that a long stretch of nothing.

  Jack took a step back toward the doorway and felt for the light switch. His fingers brushed the hard knob of plastic and he pushed up. Immediately bulbs overhead flickered to life, cool light filling the room, shining over porcelain and tile. He squinted for a moment in the light. Dazed, then focusing.

  What was happening here? Why had he been left alone?

  A mirror on the wall held his image. And above his face, on the mirror itself, words in red had been scratched upon the glass.

  They are coming for you! Leave now!

  Jack spun away from the mirror. Angry voices sounded in the hallway. He opened the room door a crack and peeked out. A long hallway stretched down and, at the far end, crushers, bulky with Kevlar body armor and carrying Galil assault rifles, were systematically knocking down hotel room doors.

  They were looking for him.

  A telephone rang. A high musical pitch. Not the room phone, a sync, the tone muted. Jack turned from the door and focused on the sound. The ringing melody continued, “London Bridge Is Falling Down.” Jack followed it across the room, the sound coming from around the bureau. Jack pulled open the drawers. Inside one was a plain T-shirt, and under the T-shirt he found a handgun. He put the T-shirt on, then inspected the weapon. Beretta, 9mm. He looked at the weapon for a moment before he dropped it on the bed.

  Beneath the gun was a small black bag. Inside the bag was a small sync and a generic hotel key numbered 214. Jack took the sync out gingerly. Still in his hands, the sync rang again, a tinny rendition of “London Bridge” playing out. Jack slid the sync behind his ear.

  “Jack, you’re in danger.” Night Comfort’s voice sounded panicked. “Look outside the window.”

  “Why am I here?” Jack asked.

  “There’s no time. If you want to live, do as I say.”

  Jack moved to the window, threw back the curtain, and looked out. He was on a high floor overlooking the ruins of Times Square. Below him, chaos. Broken glass and twisted metal lined the area. A fire raged inside a rusted acid scrubber. The windows of souvenir shops were blown out, broken glass in the street.

  There was a low groan of metal as an Israeli-made Merkava tank turned the corner at the edge of the hotel, two lines of crushers following behind in full riot gear. A helisquall swept over the street, side door open, machine gun pivoting over the terrain.

  This was a full-scale incursion. The crushers were moving into the Synthate Zones. War in the streets had arrived.

  “This morning the crushers raided each of the zones. We can’t get to you.”

  Static crackled on the line and the sync went dead. In the hallway, soldiers quickly approached, the sound of their boots kicking down room doors getting louder.

  They are coming for you.

  A second explosion sounded off just outside his window and the entire room shook. The a
ntique television set flickered to life in a flash of color and sound. Through the window, Merkava tanks gunned at something down the street. Synthate snipers had taken position atop the old ESPN building. A brief answering round of machine-gun fire rattled in short staccato bursts.

  His sync rang again.

  “We have a tracker on you. I can get you a way out but you have to listen to everything I say. Go to the door,” Night Comfort said.

  Jack swept up the black bag and held it against his side. He took a last look around the hotel room. His fingerprints were everywhere, but there was no time for a cleanup. He had to remain focused. That was the key. That was how he survived. Stay calm. Look for opportunities.

  If he stayed in the room, the crushers would break the door down. There was no other choice. He listened to Night Comfort’s voice.

  Clutching the bag, he moved to the room’s door. He turned the knob and stepped out into the hall. At the opposite end, crushers were still kicking down doors, breaching each room as they pulled out Synthate occupants and laid them facedown on the carpeted hallway.

  “Walk to the end of the hall. There’s a fire exit there.”

  Jack turned quickly away from the scene, walking as calmly as he could toward the end of the hall where he could see an illuminated fire door. Behind him, a voice called out sharply. “Stop!” Jack kept walking, raised his hands and placed them palms down on the top of his head. The command came again.

  “Stop. Now!”

  He continued to move, keeping his back to the crushers. He prayed they wouldn’t open fire.

  “Stop now, or I shoot!”

  Almost there, five steps. He heard the sharp metal click of the Galil assault rifle as it chambered a round. Booted footsteps fast approached, three sets of them. Jack broke right suddenly and hit the emergency release bar on the fire escape door. The door swung backward into the stairwell, accompanied by the piercing shriek of the fire alarm.

  Gunfire sounded, partially muffled as the door closed behind him.

  “Move down the stairs, move quickly!”

  Jack ran down concrete steps. Behind him, the door banged open as soldiers followed him into the stairwell. He moved quickly down the flights and pushed open a door into the hotel lobby.

  The lobby was in disarray.

  The front windows were shattered. Broken glass lined the inside marble foyer. A potted plant lay on its side, dirt spilled out in brownish clumps while large red and purple flowers were strewn across the floor. The concierge, a natural with no bioprint, stood behind the front desk, keeping his head low, watching through the glass doorways as outside on the street the giant Merkava tank dieseled by.

  “Past the elevators is a service door. Go through the door now.”

  Jack looked, seeing a metal door next to a row of elevators. He moved toward that, pushing through the doorway. Beyond was a narrow corridor, tightly packed with empty fabric laundry dumpsters and a small security room. The security office was vacant, sectioned off from the rest of the room by glass windows laced with chicken wire. Through the windows, a desk sat beneath a wall of security camera screens. One of the screens offered a view of crushers moving out into the lobby.

  “You’re in the security office. To your left is the service elevator. Push the call button.”

  Jack did as he was told, and immediately one of the doors opened.

  “Reach in and push the button for the tenth floor.” He reached in, pressed the button, and stepped back as the doors slid shut.

  “Behind you, you’ll see a rack of suit jackets. Take one. Put it on.”

  Jack turned. Next to the security office, a rack was lined with dark blue suit coats bearing the hotel insignia. Jack pulled one of the suit coats off the rack, throwing it over his T-shirt and buttoning it up the front.

  “Move into the security office.”

  Jack reached for the office door, but the knob wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s locked,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “It’s locked. The door won’t open.”

  “Try again.”

  Jack tried, the knob still not giving. “I’m telling you, it’s locked.”

  Outside, he could hear the squelch of radios as crushers moved through the hotel lobby. A heavy fire extinguisher hung from the wall, next to the office window. Jack tore the extinguisher from the wall. Then, wielding the end like a battering ram, he slammed the metal edge down onto the doorknob. After two hits, the knob snapped, and, working his fingers into the opening, Jack pulled back the latch.

  There was a click as the simple lock opened and the door swung open.

  “Okay, it’s open,” Jack said.

  “Go into the office and sit behind the desk. Pretend you’re the hotel guard.”

  Jack moved into the security office, shut the door behind him, and slid into a chair beneath the main desk. Through the glass were the two service elevators and the laundry area. He took two deep breaths and steadied himself. A moment later the service door ahead of him swung open and four crushers pushed their way into the service corridor. Their guns trained toward him, they called out as they cleared the room.

  “Don’t speak,” the voice in his ear warned. “They’ll have voice stress detectors. They’ll know you’re lying.”

  The troopers loomed up in front of Jack. He pushed himself forward, trying to get his lower body beneath the desk. His feet were bare and he wore sweatpants.

  One of the soldiers banged on the glass with the barrel of his Galil. Jack’s fist clenched, but he said nothing.

  “Point toward the elevator,” the voice in the earpiece said.

  Jack pointed to the elevator and the crushers turned to watch the illuminated dial rise up toward the tenth floor. Jack’s eyes left the soldiers for a moment and floated back to the bank of security screens. There, next to him, in sight of the entire room, was the camera view of the elevator’s interior, the same one he’d just pointed to.

  The car was empty.

  More crushers found their way into the room, the squelching of their radios filling the small space. The crushers had turned back toward the security desk and faced Jack again.

  “Don’t move. Just sit,” the female voice commanded. “You don’t have a bioprint. Security here are naturals.”

  One of the crushers spoke quickly into his radio, then pressed the elevator call button. As the elevator doors opened, four crushers stepped inside the service car. A moment later, the doors shut, and the soldiers disappeared from view.

  Jack was alone.

  Breathe.

  “When you think you’re ready,” Night Comfort said, “move through the rear door.”

  Jack continued to sit for a moment, collecting himself. The crushers hadn’t recognized his face. They’d walked right by him. That was good. For now. There was a metal service door in the rear of the security office.

  “I’m going out,” Jack said, pushing the door open.

  Outside, behind the hotel, the night air was warm and dry. The faint scent of rotting garbage and concrete dust hung in the air. The hotel was backed by a block of modern honeycomb apartments. They reached up twenty stories above him, each with a metal, gate-lined porch. Synthates leaned over their railings, watching the crusher incursion deeper in the zone.

  “What now?” Jack asked.

  “Step into the doorway, don’t move.”

  Jack stepped back as a helisquall swept low overhead, its searchlight running the length of the apartment building. The shadowy figures along the railings disappeared back into the darkness as the massive searchlight swung over them. Jack kept his head down, moving along the length of the hotel. From overhead the retort of a pistol sounded as a gunman hidden inside one of the honeycombs fired at the helisquall.

  The helisquall swung in a low arc around the side of the hotel, then the 30mm chain gun open fired into the apartment complex. Shattered glass cascaded down to the street below. Someone screamed and the building went dark. The helisqu
all swooped, hung for a moment in front of the silent apartment building, then swung toward one of the Broadway theaters.

  “To your left, at the far end of the street is a car,” Night Comfort said.

  Jack turned to look, seeing a car flash its lights at him.

  Jack cut across the vacant street and headed behind crowded Synthate housing developments. The neighborhood was empty, voices and 3Dees faintly audible through closed metal doors. A dog buried its nose in overturned garbage on the street outside a restaurant.

  A Synthate restaurant owner with a thick mustache, his front covered by a large apron, stood in an open doorway surrounded by barrels, arms folded across his chest as he watched the helisqualls in the distance.

  More gunfire erupted in the distance.

  The car was an old Mercedes, dusty, with a bullet hole in the driver’s side panel. Two Synthates with beards stood on either side of the car, antique pistols hanging from their belts. Jack approached slowly. One of the men tossed away a smoke stick and waved his hand for Jack to come closer.

  “Who are these two?” Jack asked.

  “Synthates from Genico’s Qatar plant. They’ll take you where you need to go.”

  The Synthate waved his hand again at Jack. They both looked Guard class.

  “Come,” he said as he stepped back and opened the front passenger door for Jack. With an industrial factory bioprint, the first Synthate was bigger, thick around the waist and chest, his black hair long and curly. The other one was thinner, with a scraggly beard, dressed in a dirty brown-and-white checkered sweater with elbow pads.

  Jack slowly advanced toward the Mercedes, bent down, and looked through the open door. The inside was worn, the leather on the seats torn, deep scuff marks appearing along the base of the console. There were empty bullet casings on the floor.

  “Come,” the bigger man said, and smiled, waving again for Jack to get in the car.