I had just passed “The Love & Mercy of God Chapel Garden of Prayer” when they made their move. A large group of men began pushing cars across the street behind me, blocking my exit. Seeing them, I mashed the accelerator to the floor, looking for an exit from the street. There were none; the tenements on both sides formed a single structure that ran the length of the block. I’d only covered half the distance when other men started pushing cars across the street in front of me, and people began coming out onto their porches with rifles, pistols, and anything else they could use as weapons.
But I had a weapon they hadn’t counted on—my car. I roared toward the impromptu blockade as a number of men and women stepped in front of it. By now, though, I was an experienced blockade runner, and I accelerated even harder. As I approached, they began firing at me, so I grabbed the handbrake and turned the wheel as hard as I could. When the car had spun almost 180 degrees, I released the brake and threw it into reverse. I stomped on the gas pedal, hoping the motor would hold in its mounts, and roared toward them. The would-be ambushers dove out of the way, except for one man who was braver or more foolish than the others.
My bumper drove through him as we crashed into the barricade, cutting his legs off at the knees. I don’t know what kind of rounds he was using, but he fired twice before his demise, and both rounds went through the rear window. I jumped as one hit the front window and ricocheted onto the dash, but then I slammed into the car behind me and had to concentrate on my driving.
Happily, since they had used burned-out vehicles to block the street, I was able to push it out of the way more easily than I could an undamaged one. I threw the transmission back into drive as I spun the wheel and accelerated away.
I cut back over to Highway 30 and realized that continuing on in the car wasn’t going to work; I wasn’t agile enough—I could easily be trapped like I had just been, and next time I might not be as lucky. I was rapidly approaching the big buildings, and I really didn’t want to drive through downtown Philly; that seemed like a good way to get myself robbed, killed, or—more likely—both. I needed a good place to ditch the car, but there weren’t any. And then there was. A bank of some sort, next to a picnic area with multicolored tile surrounding it. The location was surreal…but at least it was memorable, and locals might be able to direct me to it again if I got lost. And I bribed them. A lot.
I parked next to a couple of cars that hadn’t been torched yet, and I grabbed my gear. I tried to get away from the car as quickly as I could so no one would associate me with it. After I’d gone a block, I adjusted my pack, two pistols, knife, and rifle, then felt somewhat more prepared to proceed. I could see the massive city center ahead of me, so I didn’t need directions, which was good as no one seemed to be in a hurry to talk to me. That was okay; I was happy to pass through without confrontation.
I caught a series of flashes from a high-rise apartment building in front of me and looked over my shoulder—someone in a nearby high-rise was sending signals to the person up there. Perhaps they were commenting on how nice the day was. That could have been it.
But I doubted it.
I thought about shooting one of them—the closer one was an easy target—but decided not to waste the ammo. They’d already signaled; if it was about me, word of my arrival was out, and there was nothing I could do about it.
As I walked, I began to see people again. They went out of their way to avoid me, but they made no effort to hide themselves as they went about whatever errands had them out and about. Apparently, whatever had gone down here had sorted itself out, mostly. I wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. While the area may have been safer to pass through than an active combat zone, the fact that someone had taken control was somewhat worrisome. Someone with that kind of skills could be a potential adversary—a powerful one, at that—who probably had an army of his own.
As I reached a massive steel and glass high-rise, with almost all of its glass windows intact, I came upon someone who didn’t run from me. The man wore biker gear—everything except a helmet—although one sat behind him next to the building. He had to be hot in his leather attire, as the weather was warm, but he didn’t seem particularly worried about it as he leaned against the building smoking a cigarette.
He stared at me as I approached, then took a final drag on his cigarette, threw it down, and stomped on it with a booted foot. “Who’re you?” he asked.
“Someone looking for some Clowns.”
He looked me up and down. “You’re going to need more weapons.”
I nodded. “Maybe. If I decide to take them on.”
He laughed. “You won’t need more weapons if you try to take them on. It’s hard to use weapons when you’re dead.”
“I’ll take my chances. You know where I can find them?”
“Got a death wish?”
“Maybe.”
He stared at me for a few seconds, gauging my sincerity, then pointed to the east. “Cross the bridge, then it’s about ten zones further. Just go until you see and smell the crazy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll know when you get there.”
“Thanks,” I said with a nod.
“You’re welcome. One thing, though.”
I turned back with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“This is Hearne’s zone. He owns Drexel University and everything from here to the river.”
“Congrats. He must be rich.”
“He is.”
“Well, thanks,” I said, turning to go.
“There’s a toll to cross the zone.”
“Oh, what kind of toll?”
“The kind where you give me one of your pistols if you want to cross. Pay the toll, and he’ll ensure your safety.”
“What if I don’t want to pay? What if I think I’m safer holding onto the pistol?”
The man rapped on the glass door behind him, and two men came out. They also wore biker’s leathers and had pistols on their hips. “If you don’t want to pay the toll, you might make these toll collectors,” he jerked a thumb at the two new men, “very angry. I don’t think you want to do that.”
I smiled. “I don’t want to give up my pistol, either.”
Both men went for their pistols, but they didn’t have my reflexes. They went down with bullets in their chests. The spokesman carefully took his hand off his pistol, which still hadn’t cleared its holster, as I stepped forward and shot both of the other men in the head.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he asked.
“Mostly so they don’t come after me later.” I pointed one of my pistols in his general direction. “Is that an issue for you?”
“Nope. Not me. No way. No how.” He shrugged. “Hearne’s going to have issues, though. Big ones.”
“Hopefully, he won’t,” I said. I picked up the pistols the men had dropped and handed one to the man, barrel first. “Here’s my toll. Any issues if I continue?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t…but like I said, Hearne will.”
“That’s possible,” I replied. “If you would, though, let him know I don’t want any problems. They drew first.” I cocked my head. “Tell you what,” I said, taking back the pistol I’d just given him, as well as the one from his holster. “Why don’t I put these somewhere you won’t be tempted to do something stupid with them?”
I walked across the street and set them on the sidewalk. “Feel free to get them after I’m out of sight,” I called. “If you go for them before that…we’ll have issues.”
He nodded once, and I started for the river. I looked over my shoulder, and he hadn’t moved. It was a good life choice.
* * *
I made it to the Schuylkill River without any further problems. Another tough-looking guy waited at the far end of the bridge. “Everything east of the Schuylkill River belongs to Jonesy,” he said as I approached.
“Thanks,” I said.
“For what?”
“
I never would have guessed how to pronounce the river’s name.” He’d pronounced it “SKU-kul.”
“You a funny guy?”
“My girlfriend doesn’t think so; she thinks I’m a smartass.”
“Well, you’d better watch yourself in this zone. Jonesy doesn’t take to smartasses or anyone who breaks the peace.”
“I’m just passing through. If everyone leaves me alone, I won’t start any trouble.”
“Where ya headed?”
“To visit the Clowns. They have something I need.”
“If they have it, you’d better be prepared to pay dearly for it,” the man said, shaking his head. “You said you weren’t going to start any trouble; them Clowns are trouble.”
I nodded east. “Am I heading the right way?”
“Yep,” the man said with a small nod. “Not my place to stop you if you want to go and get yourself killed. Just keep walking through the Canyons of the Damned. You’ll get there in about fifteen blocks or so.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
I continued east through the skyscrapers. Canyons of the Damned, indeed. If you were still here, you were pretty much damned. I had no idea how anyone lived in them. Did they still have power and water? I doubted it. Without power, getting to the upper levels of some of them would be an all-day trip. And how did they get food?
None of them were my problem; I had enough of my own.
I saw some people bartering, as well as a few mini-markets over the next handful of blocks. Although things had to have been bad after the initial fall, some people had regained control—warlords, mostly, I learned as I talked to a few people—and brought back some modicum of safety to the streets, where merchants weren’t afraid to display their wares. I could have bought fruit (with or without maggots; without maggots was cheaper), weapons (mostly knives), or any manner of sexual favors (with people of any size, gender, or age.) That part of society had fallen pretty far; however, once again, that wasn’t my problem to fix. Even if I’d been able to.
* * *
I reached the former city hall, which was now the Blue Zone. The massive building was guarded by several people who looked like former police officers or people who had ‘acquired’ pieces of police uniforms. They had increased their zone of control an additional block in each direction. I’d been warned about the Blue Zone and the way they ‘enforced the law’ within it, so I gave the zone a wide berth, going around it to the north. Everyone in the surrounding zones was afraid of the Blues, as most people who went into the former city hall never came out.
It’s amazing what you learn when you tip someone a quarter or two.
I headed east, past the former convention center, which was many blocks long. If there were three places everyone avoided, they were the Blue Zone, the Freak Show, and the Circus. The convention center was the Freak Show. Unlike the other two zones, no one wanted to talk about the Freak Show—as they said there were always ears listening. That was all I could get out of the people I talked to, which made me curious.
As I walked past the building, staying on the opposite side of the street, I got an idea of what they meant. The “guards” standing near the entrances looked different. Some had pointed, hairy ears; others had webbing between their fingers. All of them had been modified in some way, and while they might not have been full “Geno Freaks,” they had dabbled in gene modification. I suspected the ones who were more heavily modified didn’t come out into the light, and that the inside of the building had been converted into a series of warrens.
A shiver went down my spine as one of the door-watchers looked my way and smiled. It was the smile of a predator, and I could tell, just from the smile, that fighting her would be a challenge, even with my skills and abilities. The talons that replaced her hands ensured I’d be bloodied if I allowed her to get close.
I continued past the convention center as quickly as I could, although I was a little confused as the directions I’d received from Boudreaux didn’t seem accurate. Boudreaux had told me the Obsidian headquarters was diagonally across from Franklin Square, in the building that had been the National Constitution Center. The directions he’d given me said to go two blocks past Franklin Square once I found it. But, I saw as I approached, the Circus now owned everything from Franklin Square south for two blocks. It wasn’t surprising, I guess, but when the world fell, Obsidian had moved across the street and taken over one of the most defensible buildings on the continent—the former U.S. Mint.
I shook my head as I passed Franklin Square. The Clowns had set up a variety of multicolored tents that hid most of the area, and I heard a scream from somewhere inside. Everything in my being wanted to rush in…except the one part of my brain that had the cold clarity of reason. If I went in there, I wasn’t coming out.
Several Clowns roamed the area, and I tried to look as small and unassuming as possible. I definitely did not make eye contact. Rather than walk past a knot of them, I turned south at the former Obsidian headquarters building and kept walking, as if I had no desire to interact with them. It wasn’t hard to maintain that look—I really didn’t want to have anything to do with them. I could see at least ten Clowns within a one block area, and trying to fight ten assassin imprints by myself was not what I wanted to do. Not if I hoped to see Dr. Briggs again…which I most certainly did.
Finally, I saw what I needed—a multi-story building that overlooked the entire area. I giggled to myself as I saw who used to work there. There was something—I don’t know, appropriate?—about spying from the former FBI building. The fire door on the back had been ripped off, and I entered the building through it. The stairwell was one of the most disgusting places I’d ever been, with the scents of urine, feces, and vomit warring for dominance with a variety of drug odors. As the former appeared to be more recent, they were winning, but the combination was something I hoped to never experience again.
The one good thing about the stench was that the homeless apparently refused to live there, and I was able to climb to the top without seeing anyone. I didn’t actually make it to the top—the 10th floor—I got tired at the 9th floor and stopped. What can I say? It’d been a long day.
I eased open the door as the light outside started to fade and found myself in a typical government cube farm; cubicle after cubicle stretched out in front of me, and the offices of branch heads lined the sides. The place was trashed; every piece of glass was broken, desks had been dumped, and most of the private offices weren’t private anymore as their doors had been torn off. It appeared someone had a beef with the FBI…and a lot of time to make their feelings known. Not that any FBI agents would ever see it.
I walked as carefully as I could to the far side of the building, but it was difficult to be quiet with all the glass on the floor, and the dim interior lighting, as the sun went down behind the building, made it hard to see. While I doubted anyone lived this high up, I figured someone might have been there for that very reason—no one was going to climb this high to mess with them. I didn’t see anyone, though, as I made my way to the windows overlooking my target area—all of which had been broken out—but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone there. The smell of mold filled the office, which was marginally better than the aroma in the stairwell.
Although there was still some light at this level, down in the Canyons of the Damned, the shadows reached from one side of the street to the other, and it was difficult to pick out details, so I settled in to wait until the next morning. I had some food with me, and the office was as safe a place as I was likely to find in the city. I did my best to scrape away the glass from an area, so I could lie down.
* * *
The night passed slowly as I was awoken several times by distant screams and gunfire from outside. Eventually, though, the skies lightened enough for me to see what I was doing, so I found a chair that was still intact and brought it over to the window. I had a great view of the mint from my vantage point, and I knew without being told that’s where the imprinter
was. As it had controlled access points and a plethora of closed circuit camera systems for advance warning, getting into the place undetected would be difficult. Extremely difficult. It was the mint, after all.
But I had to try.
Until I saw the shift change. A veritable horde of Clowns—at least 30—assembled in front of the building to be processed in. The building had power. Each of the Clowns submitted to fingerprint and retinal scans. When I saw the fingerprint scan, I had visions of killing a Clown and removing his finger…but the retinal scan would make it too hard. If that’s what it took to get in, there was no way I’d be able to do it on my own.
It was impossible to know if all the Clowns I could see were imprinted, but if they were, it meant they likely had a force of 200 or so in the area. I sighed as it dawned on me; if I couldn’t sneak in, I’d have to deal with all the Clowns that could be brought to bear.
In order to do that, I would need a small army. On second thought, a medium-sized one would probably be better…and it might actually require a large one. That, or a force of about 100 Agents. As I only had one, and an untrained one at that—me—I’d have to put my venture on the back burner until I could put together a big enough force. If that many Agents still existed. And I could get them all in the same place. And I could convince them to help me.
I thought I could do the third one, if I could accomplish the first two…which were admittedly much harder. I scanned the Clowns in front of the mint one last time—the off-going shift heading out of the building—and saw one of them pointing at me. Then a second one pointed, and I realized the sun was highlighting my side of the building, and I was silhouetted in one of the broken windows, staring down at them with a pair of binoculars.
Totally not obvious at all.
From the Ashes Page 2
