Dead Mann Running (9781101596494) (29 page)

Time was when knowing Project Birthday’s secret location could be a bargaining chip, but we’d essentially destroyed both Green’s and Maruta’s careers. There wasn’t anyone left to negotiate with, making me think this was probably the last time I’d have a whole body to myself.

It would be like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, or Bonnie and Clyde, only, unlike them, Nell and I would stay conscious during and likely after. I was happy to escape being dumped in acid once, but now I wondered if it would’ve been better than being minced.

I leaned over and kissed her forehead, sort of to say good-bye. When I pulled away, a flake of my dried lip clung to her skin. I stared into her two, angry, dismissive emerald eyes, expecting my field of vision to splinter at any moment. Then it dawned on me, the Formica rain had stopped. The gunfire was fainter.

Whatever they were shooting at, it wasn’t us anymore.

This time when I raised my head, nothing hit me. The dogs were yelping, running for the cover of their sedans. There were staccato flashes against the black studio building. Maruta’s linebackers and their submachine guns had taken positions behind their SUVs and were shooting at Green’s men.

Maybe
she
still wanted the vials? Or was she just crazy angry at Green for trying to steal them?

The sedans were covered with gray welts, but the bulletproofing had yet to be pierced. Nothing’s bulletproof forever, though. While they were busy with each other, I grabbed Nell, planning to run, only to have a stray bullet bore another hole into my shoulder. Nell yanked me down again. She looked like she wanted to slap me even harder than last time.

“My mistake,” I said.

A sickeningly familiar voice piped above the gunfire. “Don’t let them escape!”

Through what was left of the counter, I saw the source. A Kevlar vest was wrapped tight around her yellow lab
coat, and her black gloves were missing, but the demon-woman, Mistress Maruta, hadn’t changed otherwise. She was here to prod her little men by hand.

At her order, half the machine pistols pointed back our way. The counter shrank as we crawled its length. Rebecca either wasn’t interested in the vials anymore either, or she was planning to ask whatever was left of me.

A nearby rack collapsed. As the bowling balls in it bounced and rolled, a metallic squeal snapped my eyes to the street again. A fourth black sedan had pulled up.

I suppose the emergence of what looked like a shaved gorilla in a black suit carrying a rocket launcher should’ve been the big surprise, but it was the fifty-something man with the bandaged head that really grabbed my attention. Colby Green was here, too, his habitually placid face twisted in rage. I had to wonder if the wound had driven him permanently emo.

I knew they’d come for us after the broadcast, but I was thinking it’d be by proxy. Maruta and Green should be on private jets, fleeing the country. Instead, having their schemes revealed had thrown them into some sort of final tantrum. And the public thinks it’s the chakz who’re dangerous.

Green patted the gorilla and pointed at Maruta. Without so much as a hello, a smoky trail from the rocket launcher covered the distance between them. They say gorillas are smarter than dogs, but his aim was off. A white hot sphere erupted as the missile hit the front end of an SUV. The blast shed all sorts of sparkly shit and sent Maruta ten feet through the air and into the studio building’s façade. She landed flat against the fake marble,
hung there an instant, then fell face forward into the sidewalk.

That got everyone’s attention. Green smiled like he’d won with a single shot. I figured that the Marquess de Sade was dead, unconscious at least. But she hopped up with a look of total rapture, gave the world a throaty laugh, and redirected all her firepower at Green and his gorilla.

I pulled Nell to her feet. “Now!”

She snatched her hand back. “That didn’t work so well last time.”

“Staying put won’t work either,” I told her. The counter was only about a foot tall and still smoking. Through the haze, Davis waved us over to his pillar, but that looked worse than the counter.

I was about to try to drag Nell out when the howl of piercing sirens announced that the cavalry, or something like it, had arrived. When I’d told Davis back in the stairwell that this place would be getting crowded, I wasn’t kidding. Two squad cars, lights flashing, pulled up ten yards south. Seconds later, they were joined from the north by another two cars and an armored van. Six policemen, wearing all there was of Fort Hammer’s body armor, piled out of the van.

Better yet, a voice came from the crackly loudspeaker: “This is the fucking police.”

It was Booth, that beautiful son of a bitch, somehow back in charge, and smart enough to box in Maruta and Green. On another planet, where the sky is always blue, that might’ve been the end of the movie. But, this wasn’t that. Not even close.

Nobody moved as the cops fanned out in a semicircle
to tighten the net. Even the Lady Maruta froze, maybe looking forward to getting shot.

But then Green called, “Rebecca?”

She shook off whatever trance she was in to respond in her best cheery business voice, “Yes, Colby?”

“I believe we have them outgunned. Temporary truce?” Green said.

Head wound or not, he’d done the math. Her eyes flashed with admiration. “Done, Colby.”

Bullets flew again. This time, Booth and the police were ready. They gave as good as they got until a second missile from the shaved gorilla headed for the armored van. Seeing its smoky anaconda trail, the police dove. When it hit, the explosion blew them along the street like so many leaves. As far as I could tell no one was seriously hurt until the little men opened up with their machine guns.

We’d blown our chance. With ChemBet security no longer shooting at them, Green’s dogs didn’t have any reason to stay outside the bowling alley. Seven silhouettes appeared at the empty window frames. The shifting shadows told me Nell and Davis were still alive. Knowing I was the main target, I fell flat and dragged myself away from them, along the smooth floor. I braced the gun against a ball dispenser and waited for a shot.

One dog, on his way in, tripped when his foot hit a bowling ball instead of the floor. When the other six turned to look at their fallen pal, I fired in their direction until the clip was empty. One collapsed, his right leg buckling. Another twisted at the waist and dropped. Davis, wherever he was, followed suit, and a third dog went down.

The four still standing aimed at the flashes from my gun. Splinters flew from the floor. Hoping Nell and Davis were better off than I was, I pushed myself backward down one of the lanes.

The dogs advanced. My gun was empty. No further return fire came from Davis. It was time to try negotiating. I inhaled, got a mouth full of wood and plaster dust, then half coughed, half shouted, “Can I surrender? I do still have the fucking vials.”

The shooting stopped. One of the dogs, ugly as a chak, his long fingers and equally long face making him look partially melted, like Droopy Dog, walked toward me, a hand cupped to his ear. I kept expecting him to say something, but he didn’t. He got closer until his black shoes were inches from my face. The barrel of his AK was right above my skull. He stood there for the longest time, hand to ear, listening.

As the seconds stretched, my leg started vibrating. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I looked up at him and said, “Well? I’m right here. What’s it going to be? Your boss still want the precious secret of immortality?”

He nodded, then turned my way. “Mr. Green wants me to cut your head off and bring it to him. We’re just trying to figure out how to do that. I don’t think bullets alone would work, do you?”

“Probably not,” I told him. “Hacksaw? I think there’s a hardware store around the corner. Give me a couple of bucks, wait here, and I’ll go grab one for you.”

He cupped his ear again. “Oh, okay.” He looked back down. “Mr. Green wants to hurry. He says the bullets will be fine.” Droopy Dog aimed the gun. “Stay still, I want to try to make the line as clean as I can.”

“Hey, why not? I like a clean line as much as the next fellow.” I stretched my neck like I was going to cooperate, but I’m a zombie, right? Why not give the people what they want? I yanked his pants cuff up and bit into the meat of his lower calf as hard as I could.

Don’t let anyone tell you human flesh is tender. Maybe when I was alive my teeth could cut through meat, but it felt like I’d snapped off both incisors. My jaws didn’t close, but I did get past the epidermis. Leg skin pressed into my tongue as the dog’s salty blood dribbled into my mouth.

Yowling, he tried to yank his leg free. When I held on with my teeth and both hands, he wound up dragging me along the floor. I wanted to tell him he should’ve let me surrender, but my mouth was full. I clamped down harder, driving my teeth in deeper.

I don’t know what George Romero was on about in those movies. It tasted god-awful.

“Get him off!” Droopy screamed. His three remaining pals aimed our way, but didn’t want to risk hitting him.

Next thing I knew, someone lifted my legs high enough to get my chest off the ground and tugged. I bit and kicked. The three of us danced that way half a minute, me praying I didn’t tear a chunk of Droopy’s leg free. Once he was loose, I’d be a really easy target.

I’d given whoever was behind me a decent kick when an agonized groaning erupted. I thought Droopy Dog was yowling again, but the voice was too dry. A feeling of dread pulsed through. Had Nell gone feral? No, it wasn’t her, and there was more than one set of cords at work, making a sound like a pile of sad autumn leaves
swirling in the wind. My teeth still busy, I twisted my eyes and saw the new arrivals.

Chakz. At least a dozen. I’d forgotten we were smack in the middle of a zombie revolution. I figured they were ferals, drawn by the pretty lights of the explosions, or Droopy Dog’s wet screams. When I heard a few firecracker pops, and realized they weren’t from the dogs’ weapons, I noticed something different about them.

The chakz were carrying guns. And they were using them.

They weren’t very good at it. One shot himself in the leg. When a second pulled the trigger on a shotgun, I winced as the kickback tore his hand off. I don’t know which one fired the shot that hit Droopy, but his head bucked forward and his body crumpled.

More came in from the rear and the sides. Thirty? Those who didn’t have guns held baseball bats or two-by-fours with thick nails. By the time I pried my mouth off the dead dog, chakz were swarming in and the last three dogs running out.

I got to my knees, spitting gory chunks out of my mouth, but thankfully, no teeth. The moaning quieted. I heard an arid chuckle.

“Mann, I gotta ask, does it taste like chicken?”

I got to my feet, still spitting. It was Jonesey. He was the chak who’d lost his hand. He was rubbing the stub against his ear like he was scratching an itch.

“No, not like chicken. Not at all.” I wiped my pants and looked around for his missing appendage. “How the fuck did you get here? And don’t tell me Kyua provides.”

“He did, but, if you prefer, I saw the broadcast. Who else knows about those vials but you, right?”

I spotted the shotgun, but not his hand. “That much I guessed. I mean, how’d you get off the roof at ChemBet?”

“Long story. Give me a sec, Hess,” he said. He pointed his stump at the front of the room. “Everyone! Make a line at the windows, guns up, like we practiced. You’re all doing fantastic!”

They obeyed, sort of.

I motioned toward the stub. “You should find the hand.”

“What for? Can’t repair the nerve endings with Krazy Glue. Kyua will…”

“Shh!” I said.

“I know you don’t believe, but you don’t have to….”

“No. Listen. No one’s shooting….”

I rushed up to the haphazard line of chakz and looked out. The armored van was a cinder. Bodies, the dead kind, littered the street. Green was alive, but nearly alone. His gorilla lay in a heap at his feet and his last three dogs didn’t look like they had any fight left in them. A lot of the police and ChemBet security were standing, but they were all facing the chakz in the bowling alley.

“Tom!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot! Jonesey brought them.”

“You think that’s a good thing? Shit! I want my man out,” Booth said.

I turned back inside. “Davis, you still with us?”

“Yeah,” he said. He limped forward. His face was covered in blood, but I didn’t see the source. He tried to leave, but the chakz stopped him.

I eyed Jonesey. “Let him go, J. Officer Davis saved two
chakz, me and Nell. Booth is on our side for a change, or as close as he can get to it.”

He nodded, the chakz parted. Davis hesitated and looked at me, like he was worried about leaving us behind. I shook my head. “It’s okay, I know him. Thanks.”

Once Davis left, a weepy Green called, “I want Nell out of there, too. Nell, I won’t press charges, I swear. I just want to see you.”

When no one objected, I turned to Nell. “Go.”

“No,” she said.

I pushed her. “Go! I’m safer here than I’ve been in weeks.”

She pushed back. “It’s not about you, dick.” She walked deeper into the building and sat on a ball return. “I’m not going near him again.”

There was something in her expression, but I couldn’t quite tell what it was. “This still about selling you to a killer or did Green come up with a whole new level of awful I don’t know about?”

“You have no idea.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m saving it for my biography,” she said.

“Come out, Nell!” Green called. “Please!” He sounded like he was crying again.

Maruta giggled. “Colby, did you get rough with that poor dead girl?”

“Jesus,” Booth said. “I don’t know what to throw up about first. But I’ll have plenty of time to decide later. There are fifty guardsmen on their way. It’s over for all of you.”

Green sniffled and shook his head. “Not exactly. On
the way here, I spoke with the governor.” He wiped his eyes and turned to Maruta. “Thanks to a number of ChemBet files in my possession, a plea deal has been arranged in exchange for my testimony. I’m afraid our truce is over, Rebecca.”