Judgment Plague

by James Axler

  He recovered quickly, twisting the knife and trying to regain the upper hand. But Brigid was slippery as an eel now; she wriggled out of the man’s grip, shoving against the arm that held the knife and forcing it away from her like the safety bar on some hideous carnival ride.

  The bandit grunted, then came at her again with the knife, scampering across the sand on his knees from where he had fallen.

  Brigid was on the ground, too, but she moved quicker, seeing the metal blade glint as it caught a fraction of moonlight before driving toward her gut. She sank back, pressing herself down against the sand, and kicked up and out. Her toe struck the bandit’s arm with a satisfying thunk, and she heard the man curse her for a gaudy slut.

  “Such language,” Brigid taunted. “No wonder you became a loser—what else was there to aspire to?”

  “I’ll skin you alive,” the bandit sneered, scrambling up from the ground to a standing position, then barreling across the dirt toward her.

  Brigid was up on one knee now, and she turned her body as the man reached her, snapping her hand out to grab his knife arm before shifting her weight and throwing him over her shoulder. He slammed against the ground on his back, expelling a grunt of breath as he landed.

  Brigid leaped up like a pouncing jungle cat, scrambling on the shifting sands as she ran at her opponent. He was heavier than her and stronger, but she had been trained by both Kane and Grant.

  The bandit was still on the ground, struggling to right himself. He saw her running at him and he lifted his arm, jabbing at her with the knife. She sidestepped, then snagged his forearm, flipping behind him in an instant.

  The bandit yowled in pain as she put pressure on his knife arm, and then came an awful snapping sound as she broke his ulna and radial bones, disabling his attack.

  “You freakin’ bitch,” he sobbed, pawing at his limp forearm. “What did you do to me?”

  “Taught you a lesson in manners,” Brigid said, standing upright once more and taking a few steps away. “It’s rude to point—especially with knives.”

  The man’s head sagged. “Stupid mutant bitch,” he muttered.

  Brigid only just saw it—the momentary glint of metal in the starlight as he snatched something hidden at the small of his back with his left hand. She had only a fraction of a second to react as a bullet cut the air from the hidden pull-out blaster.

  * * *

  KANE WAS SPRINTING for the next man, the last of those who had spread out to find him. The bandit was bent over, rubbing at his eyes where he had caught a glimpse of the dazzling flash-bang, but he still had the wherewithal to get a shot off at Kane.

  Kane heard the whizz of the bullet as it cut the air, missing him by several feet. He kept running, sin eater raised.

  The bandit fired again and Kane rolled, weaving to make himself a more difficult target. As he righted himself, he stroked his trigger, sending a 9 mm bullet toward his foe. The bullet clipped the bandit’s right shoulder, sending his aim wild as he tried to blast Kane again.

  The man howled in pain but kept moving, whipping up his left hand to steady his wounded right arm, firing again.

  The bullet sailed close to Kane’s ear as the ex-mag ducked his head, charging toward his attacker. Then he was on the man, bowling him over.

  The bandit grunted, flying off his feet before crashing down in the dirt. Kane whipped his weapon up and blasted the guy in the chest.

  * * *

  INSTINCTIVELY, BRIGID DROPPED to the ground even as the bullet left the chamber of the Derringer 22. The bullet zipped past overhead, the noise of the shot cutting through the air like a thunderclap.

  The Derringer was a small, stealthy weapon, designed to be hidden. It was intended to surprise opponents, ideally, to fell them with a single shot before they realized what had happened. Because of its size, it was often seen as the kind of blaster a woman might carry in her purse. The silver barrel was tiny, shorter than the bandit’s index finger at full extension. The pistol had a lot of kick, and Brigid moved as the bandit recovered for a second shot. The Derringer had a manually operated hammer, which had to be cocked before the weapon could be fired again. That would take a second or two; Brigid had that long to reach and disarm her opponent.

  She sprang from the ground, running at a slant, head low. Across from her, the bandit was drawing back the hammer, fixing it into place with an audible click. He had the blaster raised, teeth clenched in a grimace as he targeted his charging opponent.

  And then—bang!—the Derringer went off at the same instant that she slammed into him, knocking him back. He landed on his broken arm with a high-pitched shriek of absolute agony, while Brigid rolled and rolled, turning over in the dirt with the force of her momentum.

  A second later, she pushed herself up from the ground, brushing sand from her legs. The bullet had missed by inches, spiraling off into the dark night.

  The bandit fearfully tried to recock the Derringer again, but was in too much pain to work the mechanism now, his right hand quivering with adrenaline and agony. He looked up when two shadows crossed his line of sight. It was Brigid and Kane, his would-be victims, she with her TP-9 semiautomatic in her hands, he holding a sin eater, the magistrate weapon of office.

  “I’d suggest you drop the blaster,” Kane said, his voice little more than a growl.

  “Or we can drop you,” Brigid explained, “so you can never hold it again.”

  The bandit seemed to think this through for a moment before he nodded painfully, wincing as another spear of agony spiked through his broken arm, then dropped the Derringer to the ground. “I didn’t...” he started, shaking his head. Whatever it was he didn’t do or mean to do was lost in a mutter.

  Kane picked up the Derringer and pocketed it before he and Brigid made their way back to the crash site and the waiting jump-board. They had lost eight minutes to this altercation, eight minutes when they could have been closer to Cobaltville and the likely location of the plague outbreak.

  Chapter 23

  Kane and Brigid continued on toward Cobaltville, leaving the scene of carnage behind them. Two of the bandits were still alive, but both were wounded and they had been disarmed. If anything, they would fall victim to their own kind now, in a kind of poetic justice. As Kane had put it earlier, it was a dog-eat-dog world outside the ville walls.

  Thankfully, the jump-board had suffered no damage in the crash. Its air propulsion whirred smoothly, taking the two Cerberus warriors to their destination. They were dusty with sand by the time they arrived.

  Before long, the brightly lit towers of Cobaltville loomed before them. It wasn’t easy to obtain access into the isolated city surrounded by high walls. Papers needed to be checked, and anyone who didn’t belong was immediately turned away by the sharp-eyed magistrates.

  Two hundred yards from the walls, with watchful eyes no doubt already on them, Kane powered down the jump-board and folded it, cinching it to his back on its carry strap. Then he and Brigid strode toward the south gate, where their contact should be waiting.

  Two magistrates operated the sentry post at the gate, with two more on duty in the high tower. All of them were armed, and there were larger swivel guns in the tower that could pick off a transport at a hundred yards.

  As he approached the sentry post, Kane raised his arms in surrender, and Brigid followed his lead.

  “Hey, fellas,” Kane began. “Maybe you can open the gates. We’ve got a little business inside and we’re on a tight schedule.”

  The magistrate on guard duty appeared emotionless behind the intimidating visor and helmet he wore. “A little late to be entering Cobaltville, citizen. Purpose of visit?”

  “Medical,” Kane said. “I’m Dr. Gander, this is my assistant, Lexa. We were called in for research analysis, but our transport gave out just a couple of miles out. You know how
it is.”

  The magistrate studied him with grim indifference. “Do you have papers?” he asked.

  Kane made a show of reaching into one pocket before patting down the others in his jacket and pants. Coming up empty, he turned to Brigid. “Nurse?”

  “Not me,” she said confidently.

  Kane turned back to the guard. “Ah, must have left them on our transport.”

  The mag remained unmoving, standing proudly before the sealed gate into the ville. “Enjoy your walk, citizen. We’ll see you again in two to three hours.”

  Kane made a face. “Aw, c’mon! You seriously don’t expect us to trek all the way back to—”

  “That is exactly what you will do, citizen,” the magistrate stated.

  Kane turned on his heel, somewhat reluctantly, as if set to leave. “Come on, nurse,” he said to Brigid.

  He took two steps and stopped before turning back to the magistrates at the sentry post. “My man inside will have a copy of the paperwork,” he said, as if struck by sudden inspiration. “Maybe you could page him. He’s expecting us—matter of life and death, you know?”

  The mag stared at Kane through the tinted visor of his helmet, weighing the implications of the statement. “Life and death?” he muttered to himself thoughtfully. Then he nodded, reaching a decision. “Who is your contact?”

  “Colin Phillips,” Kane stated. Phillips was a Cobaltville physician who provided health care not only to the privileged, but also went down into the Tartarus Pits to assist the less fortunate. He had had dealings with Kane and his team before, during a mission of mercy to bring much-needed medical supplies to the desperate who lived in the pits. Phillips was the leader of a ragtag group of physicians and remained a staunch ally to Cerberus.

  Kane and Brigid were taken to a holding area located just inside the gate. The room featured thick armaglass windows and metal plate walls, and was by and large impregnable. No one would be released from here without official consent.

  “Well, here we are,” Kane muttered to Brigid. “Belly of the beast.”

  The mag called Phillips arrived in person at the south gate a few minutes later. Cerberus had already contacted the physician and briefed him on what was required. He was a stocky, middle-aged man whose sunken face showed the weight of years and responsibility. His dark hair had thinned to a few wisps over his pate, but his hands were the steady hands of a surgeon.

  “Ah, my colleagues,” Phillips began without a hint of hesitation. “Dr. Gander, so good that you could come so soon.”

  “Doctor,” Kane said, shaking his hand.

  “I understand there was some kind of mix-up with your official papers?” Phillips said, and he turned to the magistrates on duty. “I have my copies here for your examination.” He handed over two sets of official-looking papers and waited. Phillips’s work in the Tartarus Pits meant that he operated at the edge of ville law, and he had contacts enough to procure fake papers for Kane, Brigid and anyone else they cared to smuggle in—for a price.

  While one magistrate guarded the group, the other ran the papers through his computer and confirmed that they were correct, and that the relevant documentation had been filed in the system—once again, the work of the Tartarus underground. An illegal hacker had sown the back-dated files into the magistrates’ system so they would be there when checked.

  Once the papers had been approved, Kane and Brigid were free to enter. They left the holding pen with Phillips, who led them to his transport—a small four-wheeled vehicle that consisted of an engine, two seats and a small luggage area. Being the smallest, Brigid wedged herself into the luggage space behind the seats.

  “Sorry I couldn’t bring anything larger,” Phillips told her as he glided through the streets of Cobaltville. “Short notice, you see?”

  “We appreciate that,” Kane said, speaking for both of them. “It’s good of you to stick your neck out for us like this, Colin.”

  “It’s the least I could do for the people who saved my life,” Phillips responded, switching lanes and taking an off ramp into the heart of the mega city.

  When Kane, Brigid and Grant had last been in Cobaltville, bringing medical supplies to Phillips, they had run into a group of ne’er-do-wells led by a rogue named Lombard. An ex-magistrate, and a bloodthirsty one at that, Lombard had very nearly killed Phillips and his people before being stopped by the Cerberus team.

  Within the walls, Cobaltville was made up of wide-based towers that housed the various people and divisions that operated in the ville. The buildings were linked by pedestrian walkways, and much of life within the city was conducted without ever really leaving those structures. What roads existed were sunk beneath the towers, and used primarily by service vehicles transporting goods and disposing of waste as required. The magistrates had vehicles, of course, but most normal citizens did not, and would never have need of one.

  “So, Lakesh tells me you’ve run into some kind of viral disease you think is loose in my ville,” Phillips said.

  “It’s still speculation,” Brigid explained, “but there’s a significant risk that someone is about to release a weaponized version of the plague here.”

  Phillips was shocked. “Why?” he asked. “Why would someone do that?”

  “Now, that’s where it gets tricky,” Kane answered, and he and Brigid began to outline everything that had happened to lead them to this point.

  The doctor’s vehicle hurried on through the empty streets, making its way to the Tartarus refuge that Phillips volunteered for.

  Chapter 24

  Reba DeFore joined Dr. Kazuko in the Cerberus medical bay as soon as her team returned to the redoubt. “How is he?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I sedated him two hours ago,” Kazuko explained as DeFore peered through the observation window into the room where Grant was recuperating. He lay asleep in the lone bed in the room, with Shizuka sitting by his side, a surgical mask cinched over her mouth and nose. “Life signs are holding steady, breathing’s good, some rattling in his chest from mucus, but otherwise he’s holding in there.”

  DeFore looked relieved. “Thank you,” she said. “I assume Shizuka’s been here the whole time?”

  Kazuko nodded. “She was quite insistent.”

  * * *

  SEDATED, GRANT SLEPT a restless sleep, sweat beading on his brow.

  Shizuka sat with him in the private room, watching him with concern. She was like a mother lioness with cubs, protecting them, ready to pounce on anything that came too close. But this was an enemy that had already come too close—an enemy that could not be driven back with swords or fists or bullets.

  * * *

  DEFORE POPPED INTO a private changing room, washed and pulled on a clean set of scrubs. Then she made her way to Grant’s room, pushing the door gently so as not to wake the patient. Shizuka glanced up as it moved, and her face looked fearsome, eyes narrowing above the surgical mask on her face. Always the warrior, DeFore reminded herself.

  “Reba,” Shizuka said, bowing her head. “When did you return?”

  “Our Deathbird landed not fifteen minutes ago,” the Cerberus medic explained, keeping her voice low. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How is Grant?”

  “Restless,” Shizuka said, “but that’s Grant for you. He’s fighting whatever it is that hit him, I am sure, but Dr. Kazuko feels this is a battle he cannot win alone.”

  DeFore nodded solemnly. “I’ve just got back from the site of the infection,” she said. “I had a chance to analyze what went into Grant’s system, and I think he has a strong chance if we can move quickly.”

  As she spoke, Kazuko joined the pair of them, a surgical mask covering the lower half of his face.

  “What is it, this thing that affects Grant?” Shizuka asked.<
br />
  “It’s a type of artificial virus designated only by a number,” DeFore explained. “It transmits through the sharing of bodily fluids, most especially spittle, and is very fast acting. It was created in the twentieth century as a by-product of an immunity research project, but it’s been mutated and refined since then to make it more virulent.

  “The virus works like a very quick acting cancer, filling the lungs with a poisonous compound so the sufferer cannot process oxygen properly. That’s why the victims have dark saliva—it’s the effect of the poison.”

  “But you said it could be stopped...?” Shizuka asked.

  “If we catch it soon enough, then yes,” DeFore confirmed.

  “He is already on a drip feed to replenish lost protein,” Kazuko stated, “and I pumped his stomach to clear as much of the disease as I could before it took further hold.”

  “Good,” DeFore said. “We’ll need to up that dosage immediately, and get to work tackling the infection with radiation therapy, force it into remission.”

  Shizuka looked back at Grant’s sedated form, her brow furrowed. “Grant-san is already in its grip,” she pointed out. “Are you certain—?”

  DeFore nodded firmly, almost as if she was trying to assure herself. “Grant has been dosed his whole live with the strongest immunization shots around,” she said. “As a mag, it was common practice for him to be immunized against any possible disease floating around in the Outlands beyond the ville walls. Plus, he’s strong—physically, he’s in prime condition, and he’s exceptionally healthy. If anyone has a chance, it’s Grant.”

  Shizuka nodded solemnly, her eyes downcast. “I have fought with Grant through many obstacles,” she said, “but now he fights an enemy whom I must defer to your greater wisdom to defeat. However, if you will allow me the honor, I would choose to remain at Grant’s side, where I can be with him while he fights, providing spiritual, if not physical, support.”

  DeFore looked at the brave samurai woman and nodded. “We would appreciate that,” she said, “and I’m sure he would, too.”