Marines (6 page)

My mother was in the kitchen, lying on the floor next to the counter.  There was blood all around her, and though I could tell she was dead, I couldn't see exactly where she'd be shot.  I couldn't bring myself to touch her or even look, and I forced myself to turn away.  That was the last glimpse I had of my mother.

I stumbled back out into the main room and saw my father.  I'd missed him when I had first run into the apartment.  He was lying next to an overturned desk, looking straight up at me, lifeless eyes wide open and two bullet holes in his head. 

The whole thing is a blur to me now, and I really don't know how long I was in the apartment.  It could have been just a few minutes, or it could have been much longer.  To this day I really can't remember. 

I frantically looked for my sisters, and I found them in our sleeping room, lying under the remnants of the mattress where they'd been shot at least ten times as they tried to hide.  There were bloody pink bits of foam everywhere.

After 30 seconds, five minutes, an hour - I really don't remember - I stumbled out of the apartment.  I didn't take anything with me; I didn't even look to see if we'd been robbed of our meager possessions.  I just hobbled out into the hall, down the ladder and stairs, and out into the street.  It was a sunny day and I recoiled from the brightness that assaulted my eyes.  In a daze I ran around to the back of the building into the dark comfort of the shade, and I fell roughly to my knees and bent over as my stomach emptied.

I must have wandered around for days - or weeks - stumbling through the streets, scavenging something, anything, to eat, and at night hiding in whatever spot I could find.  I never went back to the apartment, or even near the building. 

At first I was sure I was going to die, and truth be told, I didn't really care.  More than once I thought to myself, just lie down and stay there until it's over.  Or climb up to the roof of one of the buildings and end it in an instant.  But something kept me going, pushing me forward.  It's not like I really had any hope or any real reason to live.

As time went by, though, I became better at living in the streets.  I found relatively secure places to stay...there was an endless labyrinth of abandoned tunnels and chambers under the city.  I learned to steal too, first for survival, but in time I just began victimizing the Cogs for no reason other than I was angry and I could. 

Eventually I hooked up with the Wolfpack, and over the next five years I committed every manner of crime and outrage imaginable.  The less said about those years the better, so we'll just say I was angry at the world and felt I owed it and its inhabitants nothing but retribution.  They were there for me to use and exploit, like a crop in the fields, and that's how I lived for a very long time.

Life in the gang brought with it a crude sort of luxury.  It was nothing like the clean and orderly environment in the MPZ, but we took over the buildings we liked, and stole whatever we wanted to fill them.  If anybody complained, we killed them.  Simple.

I also got back into the MPZ several times, making drug deliveries and, on one occasion, conducting a robbery.  We used the vast underground city to get past security and into Midtown.  The ancient tunnels, power conduits, rail lines, sewers, and other infrastructure, much of it abandoned, weaved a tangled web under the entire city, and we had a number of routes mapped out. 

We owned the underground mazes, but trips into the MPZ were still dangerous missions, and it was on one of these narcotics delivery runs that I was caught.  We made our way through underground rail tunnels to an abandoned station that was situated below a large apartment building.  There was a rough cut passageway from the station to the sub-basement of the building. 

The exit from the passage was hidden behind some machinery, but someone must have found it, because as soon as we squeezed out, the doors opened and cops in riot gear poured into the room.  We opened fire simultaneously, but they had body armor and better guns.  It was over in less than a minute.  There were seven of us, and four were wounded.  The rest of us were hit by stun rods, and by the time we woke up we were shackled and leaning against one of the walls. 

There was a neat row of four bodies along one of the walls, each one with a single hole in the forehead in addition to whatever original wound they had.  Gang members had a zero health care priority, so the police didn't even bother bringing in the wounded.  However, they did try to arrest the occasional live prisoner to dispel the image, largely accurate, that they just went out and shot anyone they felt like.

They dragged me outside and into a waiting transport and shoved me through the rear hatch.  The inside was a large open area with no seating.  There was a long metal pole running along each side, and my wrist shackles were fastened to the one on the right.  My two companions were chained to the pole on the other side.

The transport drove to another location where four more prisoners were loaded and then down to the main detention area.  The detainee processing center was a large building with about 100 floors, located in the Government District on 34th Street.  There were no windows in the transport, so I couldn't see the building, but I'd walked past it once before when I came down to the Government District with my father to renew one of his licenses. 

We were dragged roughly from the transport and down a corridor to the pre-trial waiting area.  The hallway was gleaming white plasti-steel, and ended at a large processing room.  There were ten corridors from the processing area, all leading to blocks of cells.

The holding cells were packed with so many detainees that there wasn't room to even sit on the floor, and the place was so reeking I could barely keep myself from retching.  The cell was filled with all sorts of people.  Some looked like me, gang members or other serious criminals.  But most of them looked like normal citizens who were probably arrested for some petty offense or another.  The hardcore types looked angry and defiant, but the others were in a state of shock.  Some of them were crying; others were almost catatonic.

The regular citizens, the minor offenders, were victimized by the real criminals, of course, and though I'd done my share of horrific things, it really turned me off.  I'd abused my share of the Cogs during my gang days, but in that cell I didn't like watching it, and I certainly didn't want to participate.  There was one woman in particular, who was really being harassed by two of the hardcores.  They'd given her a pretty harsh beating and stripped her down, making her sit in the cell naked while they tormented her.  Finally they both raped her against the wall, and when they were done they offered her to a bunch of the others.  She screamed piteously for the guards, but they ignored it for a while, and finally when one did walk past the cell he just laughed and told her to stop making so much noise.

She looked like a normal MPZ resident to me, probably some type of office worker.  Certainly no one who was likely to have committed any serious crime.  Why the hell did they put people like that in here with animals like us? 

That was a passing thought at the time, driven by my anger, and probably some unrecognized shame for not helping her.  I figured it out much later, though.  Being in that cell was her punishment for whatever she had done, and it was something she would remember with more pain and fear than any administrative penalty the Court might give her. 

The jailers, the Court, everyone in that building - it wasn't about justice; it was about obedience, about maintaining order.  Fear accomplished that with far greater effectiveness than due process and measured punishments.  My memories of daily life in Manhattan were those of a child, but when I thought about it I could recall how tense my parents were whenever they dealt with any government official.  I remembered how people would hurry to get out of the way of police officers and, of course, I remembered the terror in my mother's eyes when the inquisitor visited the apartment. 

I was in that cell for four days with nothing more than a trough along the one wall for voiding bodily wastes and a single faucet that dispensed a trickle of cloudy, stinking water. 

When they finally came to get me they took me to a small tiled room with a drain, stripped me naked, and washed me with a high-powered hose.  I was given a clean set of yellow overalls to wear and escorted to my court appearance.

The courtroom was small and utilitarian, with just a raised platform holding the judge's bench, and a single row of hard plastic chairs.  Two armed guards stood rigidly against the wall on either side of the judge.  I was brought in and seated in the middle chair.  The officer who had brought me in stood directly behind me.

I had no attorney, no witnesses, no time to try to defend myself.  They just sat me down while the prosecutor read the charges.  The one time I tried to speak the court officer hit me in the back of the neck with a rubber club and told me to shut up.

After the prosecutor finished the judge spoke almost immediately.  "Guilty.  Sentence, death by gas.  To be carried out immediately."

I jumped up and started to protest, and then everything went black as I felt the officer's club impact the back of my head.  I don't know how long I was unconscious, but when I started to come to I was strapped to a cold metal chair in a small white chamber.  There was a glass window of sorts, with what looked like a steel door closed over it.  There were large vents on the otherwise featureless steel walls at both the ceiling and floor levels. 

My wrists and legs were held fast by worn fabric straps.  I started to panic and began yelling as loud as I could, but the room looked pretty soundproof.  I pulled as hard as I could against the straps, but I couldn't budge.  I could feel the sweat beading up on my brow and trickling down my face as I wildly struggled.

After a few minutes of that the door made a soft hissing sound and opened.  A tall man dressed in a spotless gray and black uniform stepped through and stood quietly for a few seconds, looking at me intently, as if he was trying to read my mind.

Finally he said, "Hello, Erik.  I'd ask how you were doing, but I think I have a pretty good idea.  My name is Captain John Irving.  You can call me Jack.  I was wondering if you had any interest in discussing an alternative to staying here and choking to death on poison gas."

After five years on the street and in the gang, after sitting in that cell of horrors, after that mockery of a trial...I had just about had it with police and anything with a resemblance to police.

"Go get fucked, scumbag.  Just gas me so I don't need to look at any more pus-sucking cops."

He looked at me with an amused grin for a moment, and then let out a short but hearty laugh.  "I'm not a cop, Erik.  I'm a marine.  And I'd like to make you a marine too."

Chapter Three

Marine Orientation and Deployment Center

Brooklyn, New York, USA

Western Alliance

Training was nothing like I expected.  Actually it started pretty much exactly as I anticipated, but it wasn't long before things veered sharply from the familiar.

I decided I'd call my new friend Captain Jack, which seemed sufficiently disrespectful without being outright provocative.  I'd given Captain Jack a few more minutes of nasty expletives, but I couldn't get a rise out of him.  And going with him seemed like a better option than snorting toxic gas, so of course I accepted his mysterious invitation.  I'd be damned if I would fight for this miserable excuse for a country, but my options were somewhat limited, so I played along.

He called in the guard and told him to un-strap me.  The cop looked like he tasted something bad, but when he paused slightly Captain Jack gave him a quick look, and he scrambled over and unhooked the straps and backed away.  I watched the whole thing with surprised amusement.  These cops were used to being bullies, but this guy was scared shitless of Captain Jack.  I enjoyed watching that more than anything I'd seen in a long time.

I'd been shackled and locked up and generally treated like a grave threat to anyone around me for the last four days, so it surprised me when Captain Jack turned around and just said, "Follow me."

"How do you know I won't just jump you and take off the minute we're out of here?"

He didn't turn, but I could hear the amusement in his voice when he said, "I'll just have to take that chance."

I didn't realize it then, of course, but Captain Jack could have killed me in an instant.  I thought I was pretty tough, but after years of marine training I have a good idea of how many different ways he could have dropped me without working up a sweat. 

We walked through the building, took the elevator down to the lobby, and stepped out onto the street.  Captain Jack had an anti-grav waiting right outside.  It was a sleek gray vehicle with the U.S. Marine Corps logo on the side.  We stepped through the open door and sat down in the spartan, but comfortable, seats.  Captain Jack barked out a quick command to the driver and with a whoosh the door closed and we took off.

I'd never been in an anti-grav copter, and I was plastered to the small window, watching as we climbed high over the Manhattan streets.  We banked right and headed downtown, and in just a minute or two we were passing over the South Wall. 

To the right I could see the rubble-strewn edge of the Crater.  It had been almost 150 years since half a million New Yorkers were killed by history's worst terrorist attack, but you could still get a bad dose of radiation just standing next to the edge.

The semi-abandoned areas south of the Protected Zone were similar to those in the north, except for the old financial district, where the buildings were much taller.  A few of them had collapsed, but the rest still stood defiantly, abandoned relics of a past time.  The whole area still had an unhealthy level of radioactivity, but there were still a few people who eked out an existence among the crumbling cityscape.  There were jagged, water-filled trenches everywhere - apparently there had been more underground train lines down here than in the north.