by Nick Randall
Sam allowed himself a stony smile: he'd come to the right place.
Three more men came out of the front door of the bar just then, arguing about something. Sam strained his ears to listen.
“...ain't nothing up that way...”
“...haven't hit Thurgood Street...”
“...Jace and that new kid are doing Thurgood...”
“...mean we gotta go all the way out to Briarcliffe again? God damn I'm tired a walkin'...”
“Nah, not tonight, Skeez. We just breezin' up to the Lakes for a second look. Boss knows that asshole Jenkins always be leaving good stuff behind.”
Sam felt a thrill of electricity shoot through him. Briarcliffe was a sprawling suburban zone somewhat close to his own house. If these guys were ranging out that far, it wasn't unreasonable to think that the gang that had hit his house had come from here, too. Sam let his fingers slide across the rough steel head of the hatchet. Jackpot.
He slipped out of the doorway and backtracked the way he'd come, going two blocks down 7th before turning right. Nightfall had made it easy to stay hidden, and Sam felt a refreshing lightness in his step as he slipped through the shadows. He turned right again and now began to move more slowly, paying more attention to the debris-strewn streets ahead of him. His path had taken him in a wide semi-circle so that he could approach the Helios Tavern from the opposite direction, but that's not where he was going.
When he was still a couple blocks away from Mission Street, Sam slipped behind a stinking green dumpster and waited. He'd been crouching there for ten minutes, fighting not to let the fetid stench of rotting garbage get the best of his empty stomach, and was beginning to think he'd picked the wrong street when he finally heard the same three voices coming up the road. The men were ambling slowly up the center of the avenue, joking and bragging as they walked.
All the time in the world, thought Sam bitterly.
The three men passed by barely twenty feet away from Sam, and once they'd worked their way farther up the street he slipped out from behind the dumpster and began tailing them, sticking to the shadows.
Back on Mission Street, where he'd first spotted them, one of them had mentioned going to the Lakes. His old partner's parents had lived at a retirement home about seven blocks from here called Shady Lakes. Sam had visited the place once. It had been easy enough to swing around and wait along the most likely route between Mission Street and the retirement home. Sure, he could have gone directly to Shady Lakes and waited, but he also didn't want to have to take on all three of them at once.
No – he'd watched them pass a bottle around between themselves as they exited the tavern. Sam had seen enough winos locked up in the drunk tank to know that once the floodgates opened, they flowed often and regularly. Very soon, one of these guys would have to take a piss.
As if on cue, barely a block from where Sam had started tailing them, one of the men slowed down and angled toward the curb.
“Ay, keep up Skeez.”
“Gotta take a leak,” the guy who'd fallen back called out. “I'll...” he belched, “...I'll be right there.”
The other two grumbled, shrugged, and kept walking.
Like they're following a script, Sam thought. People could be so easy to predict. He slipped through the shadows, doorway to doorway, watching his step so that he didn't accidentally step on a piece of glass or kick something and give his approach away.
The man was using one hand to lean against a dark storefront, other hand at his fly, humming tunelessly as he relieved himself.
Like a ghost, Sam came out of the darkness behind him, wrapped one arm around the guy's neck, and locked his wrist in the crook of his other elbow. He pressed hard against the man's throat to cut off his air supply and keep him from shouting, then tugged the man off his feet and dragged him into an alley directly beside them.
It was all over in a second. Sam dropped the guy bodily to the hard ground and kneeled on his chest, pressing the knife attachment of the multitool against the man's throat.
The guy sputtered and thrashed, but Sam pressed hard enough with the knife to draw a thin line of blood from the man's neck.
“Try to shout and I'll cut out your vocal cords. Make a move and I'll put a slice in your carotid artery,” Sam hissed. “Either way, you'll bleed out like a pig. Now who are you?”
“Who am I?” the man's eyes shot wide. “Who the hell are you? Oh man, you in for a world of hurt.”
Sam kept the knife pressed to the man's throat and used his other hand to search the guy's pockets while he talked.
“What does that tattoo mean? The one on your neck?”
“You really don't know shit, do ya?” The man barked a short laugh, and Sam dug his knee into the guy's groin. “Jesus! Okay, you wanna die, that's on you. No secret anyway. Sundogs never forget. People around here are smart enough to know it.”
“What are the sundogs?” Sam found a revolver wedged into the back of the man's belt. He used his thumb to release the cylinder, saw that it had six rounds, and knocked the cylinder back into place with a flick of his wrist. He thumbed the hammer back and pressed the barrel to the man's forehead, slipping the multitool back into his pocket.
With each motion, the man talked a little faster.
“This is the Sundogs, man.” He sort of thrust his neck toward Sam, indicating the sun-shaped tattoo on his neck, the same one Sam had seen on the killers at his house. “This is all the Sundogs. This whole hood. We own these streets.”
“You operate out of the Helios Tavern?”
“The hell, you some kind of cop? No, you ain't – even the cops follow orders 'round here. What's left of 'em, anyway.” He cackled, and a wave of liquor stench washed over Sam.
Sam whipped the gun down and cracked the barrel against the man's forehead, drawing blood.
“Tell me about Helios,” he hissed.
“That's just one spot, man. Just one. You stupid? I told you. Sundogs are everywhere.”
“Skags and Jackie,” Sam said. “Tell me about them.”
The guy made a weird expression, somewhere between shock, horror, and glee.
“They dead, man. Ha! Ricky told us all about it while he patched up. They offed some prepper jerk and his skank bit–” The man's head seemed to explode under Sam, accompanied by the roar of a gunshot. One moment it was there, the next it was splattered across the alley floor. Sam jerked away on reflex, then froze as a deep, calm voice said, “Drop the gun and stand up slowly.”
He stood, turning around slowly, arms out. Two members of the National Guard had their assault rifles trained on his chest, fingers on the triggers.
“I said drop it, buddy,” one of them barked.
Sam let the revolver fall. It thumped onto the headless body beside him.
“It's not what it looks like,” Sam said. “Listen, there are two more of them up the street. Probably on their way back. We don't have much time.”
“What are you talking about?” the second Guardsman asked carefully.
“This man is part of a criminal gang. They killed my family. I need your help. I know where their base of operations is.”
“Oh yeah? Where's that?”
“Helios Tavern. Over on Mission Street. Listen, I'm on your side. Ex-police. We need to work together.”
The first Guardsman eyed the corpse on the ground with disdain.
“Jeez, Skeez never did know when to shut up, did he?”
Sam's eyes widened. No. It couldn't be.
Around the corner, footsteps slapped on the concrete and the other two men appeared at the mouth of the alley.
“What the hell is going on here, Thomas?” one of them demanded.
The Guardsman turned to the newcomers. “Skeez was running his mouth, so I put a gag in it. Told this guy everything about you.”
“Huh. So who the hell is this guy?” the same guy asked. He was burly, with shoulders the size of two hams and a thick blond beard.
The Guardsman turned bac
k to Sam, raising his rifle to his shoulder. The other two stepped forward and pulled handguns from their belts.
“That's what we're about to find out,” the Guardsman said.
Chapter 7
Sam stared down the barrels of four loaded guns, wondering how he could have been stupid enough to get trapped like this. Behind him, the alley was narrow and straight, with nothing to use for cover. Even the darkness wouldn't help him here. If he tried to run and all four of them opened fire, he'd be cut to ribbons, whether they could see him or not.
“Well, let's hear it buddy,” said Thomas, the Guardsman. “Who are you?”
“How much are they paying you?” Sam asked.
The Guardsman burst out laughing. “Why? You gonna double it, officer?” The last word came out as a sarcastic sneer, and the rest of them laughed too. All except the second Guardsman, Sam noticed. He was African-American, younger than the one who was clearly taking charge, and even though his mouth laughed, his eyes were nervous, darting back and forth between Sam and his cohorts.
“Cop, huh?” the blond man said. “Is that what you are?”
“I used to be,” said Sam.
“Once a pig, always a pig,” the man sneered. “Well, we got a special treatment for you. But we'll get there. First, you talk. What did you want with Skeez?”
“I won't tell you,” Sam said.
“Well if this guy don't have a pair of jewels on him...” the blond man started saying.
“...but I'll tell Ricky.” Sam finished, cutting him off.
“The hell you just say?”
“I said I'll tell Ricky. Everything. What I'm doing here, where all my weapons are, and where my cache of food is,” Sam said. “But only Ricky.”
It was a risky bluff, but Sam didn't see any way his situation could get any worse. And maybe, just maybe, he could still get a shot at his wife's killer.
The other looter had been silent until that point. He was shorter than the other guy, and scrawnier. He suddenly spoke up: “What kind of food?”
“Shut up, Tim,” snarled the blond man.
“ A refrigerated locker,” Sam said quickly. “Underground, so it wasn't affected by the pulse. I've got a generator running. Cheese, meat, cold beer, ice. You name it. You're getting pretty tired of this canned stuff, aren't you Tim? How does a steak sound?”
“Hey, you shut your mouth,” roared the blond man, stepping forward with his handgun out. “He's lyin', Tim. He don't have anything. Look at 'im. He can barely stand.”
“That's why I want to talk to Ricky. I got waylaid, and I want protection. In exchange, your crew gets a refrigerated bunker. Electricity. Think about it.”
At the word electricity, Tim licked his lips hungrily, like he was imagining a hot meal.
“Well, what's that got to do with Ricky?” the blond guy asked. “Ricky ain't nobody.”
“No, he ain't,” Sam said, lapsing into their rhythmic speech pattern. His arms were getting tired, but he had them talking, had them thinking. Had them not shooting. That was the important part. “But I know Ricky. He can vouch for me.”
The men seemed to consider this. They looked at each other, and Tim whispered something to the big blonde-haired guy. Sam's heart raised a few inches from the pit of his stomach, where it'd been resting for this whole exchange. They might believe him. The blond man nodded at Tim, then turned back to Sam.
“Alright, we'll get you–”
“What's he look like?” Thomas cut in, steely eyes drilling into Sam's.
“Huh?” Sam was legitimately confused.
“Ricky,” Thomas said. “What's he look like?”
Shit. If Sam's heart had raised a notch, now it fell back even deeper into his gut than before. All he had was the name, gleaned from the lips of the man now lying headless directly behind him. One name, and three killers – one of whom he hadn't even seen.
Sam closed his eyes. The only one he could remember clearly was the skinny guy who'd leaned over him, the one who'd knocked him out with the crowbar. The guy with the Mohawk and the neck tattoo. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. All four men were staring at him intently.
“He don't know,” Thomas said. “He's full of sh–”
“Shortish,” Sam blurted. “But thick. All muscle, no brain. He got shot in the arm last night.” The words came out in a rush of wind. Ricky told us about it while he was patching himself up, the dead guy, Skeez, had said. Patching himself up. It had to be the one he'd shot in the arm.
Sam waited breathlessly, all semblance of calm gone. He was beginning to panic. If he was wrong, he was dead. The men looked at him. Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the blond man, who in turn looked over at Tim. The younger National Guardsman watched all of them, still nervous.
“All muscle, no brain...” the blond man said, then burst into a raucus laugh. “That's Ricky alright!” Tim joined him with a series of short, wheezy cackles. Thomas lowered his rifle's muzzle several inches.
Sam felt like he might faint with relief, but he forced himself to laugh along with them. Dear God, that had been close.
“Okay, officer,” the blond man said. It still came out as an insult, but there was no threat in his tone any more. “Ricky might still be with the crew at the Marriott, but we'll just go back and wait for him, whaddya say? No, no, keep those hands up, bub. I ain't askin'. If Ricky don't know you, I'll put a bullet in your head myself, after I knock every one of those white teeth out of it. Tim, run back and tell the boss we're bringing company. Larry, frisk the guy..”
The young African-American Guardsman stepped forward, while the blond man turned back to the street and lit a cigarette.
“How you doing, Larry?” Sam asked softly as the young man approached.
“Been better,” he replied. Thomas looked at him with disgust and said, “Don't talk to him, Larr,” then turned and bummed a cigarette off blond-beard.
“Place your hands against the wall there and spread your legs,” Larry said. He still looked nervous, almost ashamed. He would only meet Sam's eyes briefly before his own flicked away. Sam did what he said, but made sure to take a few steps deeper into the alley as he stepped up to the wall. Tim was gone, and the other two were smoking on the sidewalk at the mouth of the alley, guns hanging loosely at their sides.
“You don't have to do this,” Sam whispered.
“Not doing anything I don't want to do,” Larry said stiffly. He found Sam's hatchet and pulled it free of its duct tape loop.
“I don't believe that,” Sam answered softly. “This is illegal. You'll be court martialed. You think when all this blows over, Thomas is going to have your back? He'll turn you in to save his own skin. You're a good kid, Larry. I can tell just by looking at you.”
“You don't know anything about me,” the young man said with a twinge of bitterness.
Sam glanced toward the street. Thomas and the blond man were laughing about something, their backs to the alley. Sam sighed.
“Well then I'm sorry for this,” he said. In one fluid movement, Sam spun, knocked the rifle barrel away from his torso, and smashed an elbow into Larry's throat. The young man's eyes bulged. He gasped for breath wordlessly. Sam drove his elbow into his temple, and his bulging eyes slacked and rolled up into his head.
Sam caught him before he could fall and slipped the rifle's sling over his neck, then laid him gently on the ground. The other two hadn't heard a thing. Sam eyeballed the revolver he'd dropped earlier, still resting on the dead man's stomach, but resisted the urge to grab it. He'd gotten greedy twice today already, and both times had almost gotten him killed.
Instead, he slipped backward, into the dark alley, watching the two men until he was fully covered by shadow, then turned and ran with silent footsteps into the darkness. He was nearly at the other end before he heard their shouts ring out after him, and he was completely out of the alley before the first gunshot boomed.
Chapter 8
He was getting weaker. He could tell that bey
ond a shadow of a doubt. One of his stiches had come loose when he'd attacked Larry, and the side of his gray t-shirt was now spotted with blood. He hadn't had a sip of water in nearly twenty-four hours, let alone food.
The two men, Thomas and the blond gang member, had tried to chase him, but he'd easily slipped away. All in all, it hadn't been a bad exchange. In trade for his rusty hatchet, he'd gotten an M16A1 assault rifle with 30 rounds in the magazine. And a name and location: Ricky, who the blond guy said was at the Marriott.
Sam didn't need his police experience to know where the Marriott was. Everybody knew the high-rise hotel at the center of the city. It was another long shot, but so far Sam's luck had been good. Almost too good, he knew. It was time to start acting a little smarter. Linda would expact that from him, at least.
He angled toward the hotel, but as he moved, he dug periodically into the public trashcans at every street corner. Most had already been scavenged of anything edible, but in one of them, he found an old cheeseburger. It had been eaten halfway and then balled up in the wrapper and tossed. Sam grimaced as he peeled back the paper. The cheeseburger was smushed into a ball, with mold already forming on the bun. He poked at the beef patty in the center, and in the moonlight saw a small white grub wriggle away from his finger. He would have gagged, but nothing in his stomach was working the way it should. All he knew now was hunger, thirst, and survival. This represented two of those things. Sam brought the burger to his lips, knowing at least not to sniff it, and bit down on it. Something wiggled on his tongue, and Sam forcibly shoved the rest of the cheeseburger into his mouth, chewing furiously to kill anything that might want to move, and swallowed.
For a few moments, he did think he would gag and retch it all back up, but he eventually managed to keep it down. He was sweating. The small morsel of food sat like a lump of lead in his belly, and he was even thirstier than before. He kept moving.
Three blocks down, another trashcan held a bottle of water with about two ounces still sloshing around inside. Sam drained it in a gulp, and stashed the bottle in the laundry sack still looped over his neck and shoulder. A block down from there, and he had to cut through an alley to avoid a fairly large mob with torches – torches! – trashing a designer clothes store. In another three blocks, he spied the Marriott rising over the surrounding buildings, its black shape outlined against the dark blue, moon-lit sky.
