Graveyard

by William C. Dietz

  There was no crosswind to speak of, and since the target was no more than two hundred feet away, Lee saw no reason to aim high. But the need to pump a shell into the receiver after each shot could pull the rifle off target.

  Lee put the crosshairs on the target area, took a deep breath, and let it out. Having never fired the weapon before, she was pleased to discover that the rifle had a crisp trigger pull. The report sounded in her ear as the rifle butt thumped her shoulder. Then it was time to pump a second cartridge into the chamber and fire again.

  A rifle fell out of the tower and shattered on the pavement below. “You got him!” Collins exclaimed. “Let’s haul ass!”

  Lee got up and ran. A blood trail began in the middle of the street and led all the way over to the narrow space between two houses. That’s where the surviving members of the team were gathered around the body. “Nice work,” Ferris said.

  Then his eyes surveyed the team. “Strip Worley,” he said harshly. “We could need the stuff he’s carrying. Spread it around. And get his ID.”

  Lee could see the pain in the other officer’s eyes. Ferris had chosen Worley knowing the man couldn’t run—and now the policeman was dead. She wanted to comfort him, to tell Ferris that Worley understood the risks, but she couldn’t. Not in the middle of an operation.

  The team heard an explosion, and all heads turned to the south. They could see the black smoke that was boiling up into the sky, and the sight of it made Lee feel sick to her stomach. Ferris was on the radio by then. “Ground Six to Skyrider-One. We heard an explosion and can see a column of smoke. What happened? Over.”

  The rest of them stared as Ferris nodded, and said, “Roger that.” Then he looked from face to face. “Somebody got close enough to hit our bird with an RPG,” he announced. “All of the crew were killed. The zoomies are going to hose the area down.”

  “And the mission?” Lee inquired.

  “Our job is to extract the mayor,” Ferris replied grimly. “And that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Lee could see a gunship off to the south. She heard the roar of the ship’s minigun as the pilot fired on a target she couldn’t see. Five people had died so far. Was the mayor worth it? Time would tell.

  THREE

  THE SUN WAS up, the power was off, and the air in the third-floor apartment was starting to get warm. It was a large space and open, with the exception of the bathroom. That, plus the high ceilings and good light made for the perfect studio, as well as a place to hold private meetings. A dozen large paintings had been hung on the walls, but none of them was especially good. A fact that was lost on Maxim Belikov—a young man who believed that he’d been Pablo Picasso in a previous life.

  So why did Mayor Melissa Getty continue to give him money? Not to mention access to her upper-crust friends? Some of whom were stupid enough to buy his art? Because he was good in bed, that’s why . . . And a welcome relief from the pressures associated with her job.

  Did her husband know about the relationship? Maybe. But if he did Mark was smart enough to ignore the affair and do what he did best, which was to play golf with the people who funded her campaigns. But now, in the wake of a sneak attack by the Aztecs, the city of Los Angeles was struggling to survive while its mayor was trapped in Hawthorne. Getty had been up and pacing the floor for hours while her lover continued to sleep.

  Now, for the umpteenth time, she made her way over to one of the large windows that fronted the apartment. The blinds were closed, but by lifting one of the slats, she could look out. Where were they? The people who were supposed to rescue her. Damn them! She should be in her office . . . On television . . . Leading the effort to put the city back together again.

  But what if Chief Corso wanted to be seen as the person who saved the city? What if he wanted her to die? She wouldn’t put it past the bastard. No, Getty told herself, he’s ambitious but not that ambitious. Get a grip. Help is on the way.

  Getty’s thoughts were interrupted as a low-slung especiale came into view. Most of Pacifica’s postplague industrial capacity was devoted to reconstruction and defense. That meant new cars were a rarity. The majority of vehicles had been rebuilt more than once, and some, like this car, were rolling works of art.

  The especiale came to a stop. The doors opened, and four men emerged. All of them were armed. And, judging from the identical neon green mesh shirts they wore, they belonged to a gang. Getty held her breath. Did they know she was present? Had they been sent to get her? If so, Maxim would offer no protection whatsoever.

  The answer came seconds later as they sauntered up to her car. The black roadster had been a fiftieth birthday present from Mark. Getty winced as one of the men used a crowbar to smash the driver’s side window. The horn started to beep, but the car thieves knew there was nothing to worry about. The police had been neutralized.

  A second man unlocked the door, knelt next to the car, and went to work. The horn stopped beeping thirty seconds later—and the engine started a minute after that. Then, with the roadster following along behind it, the especiale left. Getty heaved a sigh of relief. The car could be replaced.

  The next half hour passed slowly as Maxim snored, and Getty stood watch at the window. The first hint of additional activity came when a soldier came into view. A rifle was hanging across his chest, and he was riding a bicycle equipped with a pink cargo basket, and matching handlebar tassels.

  That was strange but so was the spiral-shaped horn protruding from his forehead. A mutant! That meant an Aztec army unit was in the area. Getty watched the man remove a radio from the pink basket and say something into it. He was a scout then . . . Giving other soldiers the all clear. Getty nearly jumped out of her skin as her cell phone rang. The professional tone was a matter of habit. “Getty here.”

  “My name’s Ferris,” a male voice told her. “Lieutenant Mick Ferris. I’m in charge of the extraction team that was sent to get you out. We’re about a block away. What, if anything, is happening at your location? Have you seen any enemy activity?”

  Getty’s mind raced. What would happen if she told him the truth? Would he come anyway? Or would he pull back rather than risk a head-on collision with an Aztec army unit? Getty decided to play it safe. “No . . . Some gangbangers stole my car half an hour ago but they’re gone now.”

  “Good,” Ferris replied. “Tell me about the building you’re in. What does it look like? And what floor are you on?”

  Getty told him. “Got it,” Ferris said. “Watch for us and be ready to unlock the front door.” That was followed by a click.

  Getty felt a surge of relief. The police were coming and, with any luck at all, she’d be at her desk later that day. And most of the city’s citizens would assume she’d been on duty the whole time. Getty smiled. It was good to be her.

  • • •

  A pair of fighters left white tracks across the sky as they headed west. To seek out Aztec ships? There was no way to know as Lee followed Quigley up a paved alley. When Ferris turned right, the rest of them followed. That took them through a small parking lot and into the passageway separating the two buildings.

  Lee smelled the mouthwatering odor of freshly baked bread and realized that she was passing the exhaust vent for a bakery. It seemed that at least one business owner was determined to open no matter what.

  A bicycle with a pink basket was leaning against the right-hand wall. Ferris passed it before stopping to examine the area ahead. Collins was facing the other way, guarding the team’s six, but the rest of them could see beyond Ferris. A car passed them, but there was no other traffic. “That’s the building over there,” Ferris said as he pointed across the street. “The white three-story. The mayor will open the front door for us. I’ll go first. The rest of you will cross two at a time.”

  So saying, Ferris looked left and right before sprinting across the two-lane road. Bear and Quigley went next. Once they were safely
on the other side it was time for Lee and Collins to follow. As they crossed the white line, a man with a horn protruding from his forehead stepped out of the bakery. He had a doughnut in one hand and a rifle in the other. He yelled, “Alto!” (stop) before cramming the rest of the doughnut into his mouth and bringing the weapon up to his shoulder.

  Lee saw movement out of the corner of her eye and heard the steady bang, bang, bang of semiauto fire as projectiles buzzed past her. Having failed to lead his targets the way he should have, the soldier was swinging his weapon to the right when Ferris cut him down. Lee turned to look as she arrived in front of a hair salon. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ferris said. “Let’s get the mayor and haul ass before that guy’s friends arrive.” The apartment house was only steps away—and the front door swung open as they approached. Getty was there to motion them into the lobby.

  Lee had seen the politician hundreds of times on TV and been on the receiving end of her directives, but never met her in person. Getty had brown hair, cold blue eyes, and a long face. Rather than one of the mannish suits that she normally favored, Getty was dressed in a crisp white blouse, jeans, and expensive half boots. “I’m sorry about the mutant,” she said. “I don’t know where he came from.”

  “He was in the bakery,” Lee answered factually.

  Getty’s eyes narrowed. “You look familiar . . . Have we met?”

  “Perhaps you’ve seen her on television,” Ferris interjected. “This is Detective Cassandra Lee.”

  “Of course!” Getty said. “I think Detective Lee is the only woman in LA who gets more press than I do.”

  It was said jokingly, but there was an edge to it. Lee was trying to formulate a response when Bear spoke. He was peering out through the vertical window located next to the door. “We’ve got company,” he said. “They’re checking the body.”

  Ferris swore and went to look. “There are nine of them,” he said. “Hopefully they’ll go away. But if they attempt to enter the building, we’ll deal with them. Collins, warn the residents and tell them to shelter in place. Lee, get up on the roof and find a good spot. Bear, find the back door and get ready to defend it.”

  There wasn’t any power, so Lee had to climb four flights of stairs to reach the door labeled, ROOF DECK. It wasn’t locked, which allowed her to walk onto the flat surface. After a quick look around, Lee saw that one building was taller than the apartment house and was only half a block away. That meant a sniper could fire down on her. Something to remember.

  On her way to the front of the building, Lee passed a hot tub, three conversation areas complete with sun-bleached deck furniture, and a pair of stainless-steel barbecues. She made her way past them to the front of the building, where she crawled up to the waist-high wall. It was pierced by regular gaps, one of which allowed Lee to look down into the street.

  Even though the Aztecs knew that one of their friends had been shot—they were standing out in the middle of the road as if they had nothing to worry about. That was fine with Lee. Some of the ’tecs had visible deformities, like the guy with three arms, but Lee knew that most of their mutations would be less obvious.

  One of the soldiers was wearing what looked like SCUBA tanks—and they drew her attention. Lee noticed that he was clutching a wand as well. It was similar to what an exterminator would use, only larger, and equipped with two grips. What the heck? Then it came to her . . . A flamethrower! The bastards were using flamethrowers to what? Fight Pacifica’s troops? And start fires that would level entire neighborhoods? Yes.

  As Lee watched, the soldier pulled the trigger, the igniter sparked, and a gout of flame shot out of the wand. At that point he began to waddle her way. It looked as though the ’tecs were going to flame the buildings adjacent to the spot where their buddy had been killed. Ferris spoke into her ear. “Cap that guy, Lee . . . The one with the flamethrower.”

  Lee shoved the Remington through the hole and put her eye to the scope. She could aim for the top of a tank or the man himself. She chose the tank. The crosshairs drifted onto the target and her finger tightened. There was a loud boom as a ball of flame engulfed the soldier and reduced him to a black stick figure. His helmet bounced and rolled away as the remains of his body crumbled.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the team had been firing as well, and it wasn’t long before all of the ’tecs were down. Ferris spoke again. “Lee, Bear, return to the lobby. We’re out of here.”

  Lee was in the stairwell going down when a man appeared. He was young, unshaven, and half-dressed. His eyes widened when he saw the letters LAPD on her vest. “I heard an explosion and gunfire . . . What’s going on? And where’s Melissa?”

  It took Lee a second to remember that the mayor’s first name was Melissa. “Some Aztecs were going to set the building on fire, so we shot them. The mayor is on the ground floor. And you are?”

  “My name is Maxim . . . I’m Melissa’s, ah, friend.”

  Now Lee understood. Here, standing in front of her, was the reason why Getty was in Hawthorne. “Okay, Max, are you coming with us? If so, you have exactly five minutes to put the rest of your clothes on and report to the lobby. You can bring a knapsack, nothing more, and the five-minute limit is for real. The explosion you mentioned is likely to draw the wrong kind of attention.” Maxim nodded, and she turned away.

  The team was ready to leave when Lee arrived in the lobby. “Here’s the plan,” Ferris said. “We’ll travel north for half a mile—then we’ll follow West Rosecrans Avenue all the way to the beach. A boat will pick us up.”

  Getty was incredulous. “‘Travel north’?” she interjected. “‘Follow Rosecrans’? What the hell are you talking about? I was told that a helicopter would pick me up.”

  If looks could kill, the expression on Ferris’s face would have been sufficient to drop the mayor in her tracks. “There was a helicopter,” he said coldly. “But it was destroyed by an RPG. We lost two pilots as well as the officers who volunteered to serve as door gunners.”

  Getty looked from face to face as if to confirm what she’d heard. And as Getty’s eyes made contact with Lee’s, she nodded. “And that doesn’t include Officer Worley,” she said. “We lost him on the way over here.”

  Lee wanted to shock Getty, wanted to see the comprehension in her eyes, but was doomed to disappointment. The only thing she saw on Getty’s face was fear.

  That was when Maxim arrived. He was dressed in a blue polo, white trousers, and a pair of two-hundred-nu sandals. A man purse was slung over one shoulder, and he looked like a magazine ad. “There you are,” Maxim said as he went over to give Getty a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Why indeed? Lee wondered. Because Getty hoped to hide her extramarital affair? Or were her motives even darker? Had she been hoping to leave Maxim behind? Or was that taking it too far? Whatever the reason, one thing was for sure: Her failure to mention Maxim hadn’t been lost on Ferris. There was a wintry expression on his face. “I wasn’t told there would be two people. That will make our journey more difficult.”

  “Why can’t they send a second helicopter?” Getty wanted to know.

  “I asked for one, and the answer was ‘no,’” Ferris replied. “Everything is in short supply, especially helicopters. We’ll have to hoof it. Okay, put masks on just to be safe. I’ll take the point. Bear, you’re next, followed by Quigley, the mayor, her friend, Lee, and Collins. And remember—don’t bunch up.” And with that, Ferris opened the front door.

  There wasn’t anything Getty could do except fall into line and follow Quigley. As Lee left the building she saw columns of smoke all around. Not a good sign.

  The Aztec bodies lay in a wild sprawl surrounding the black spot where the explosion had occurred. Lee noticed the body of what appeared to be a teenaged boy. An open shopping bag lay next to him, and candy bars were scattered about. Was he a soldier? Or a human sacrifice? The answer seemed
obvious.

  Ferris began to jog. But it quickly became apparent that Getty wouldn’t be able to keep up. So the best the group could do was a ground-eating walk. Rather than follow the arterial north, Ferris took them into the residential area located two blocks west of the business district. Both sides of the street were lined with shabby homes.

  It was only a matter of minutes before they encountered a barricade. It consisted of old cars, a beat-up travel trailer, and piles of junk. Lee thought they were about to confront a gang until a middle-aged man stepped into the gap between a car and the trailer. He was armed with a rifle and a megaphone. “Stop right there,” he told them. “If you can prove that you live in this neighborhood, then send one person forward to present that proof. Otherwise, turn around and go back to where you came from.”

  Ferris held up a hand. That brought the team to a halt. “I’ll go forward and talk to them. Lee, you’re in charge. Put out flankers and be ready to provide covering fire.”

  As Ferris made his way forward, Lee sent Bear and Collins out to watch their flanks. Getty took the opportunity to plop down on a set of concrete stairs. “I’m thirsty,” she complained. Lee was thirsty, too, and suspected that the rest of them were as well. The original plan called for a short hike to and from the apartment, so none of them had canteens.

  But much to Lee’s amazement, Maxim pulled a bottle of springwater out of his man bag and offered it to Getty. “Here you go,” he said kindly. “It’s your favorite.”

  The mayor took two long swigs before screwing the top back on. Lee waited to see if Getty would pass the bottle around and wasn’t surprised when she didn’t.

  Ferris had returned by then and produced a whistle that brought the flankers back onto the street. “They call themselves the Manzanita Militia,” he said. “And they plan to keep both the gangs and the ’tecs at bay until the military arrives.”