Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (39 page)

“It ain’t gonna do you any good if the soldiers shoot you.” Asshole. What was the world coming to if a contemptible bastard like Lump held sway over
him
? But he did. Shelter dining hadn’t made the list of places to eat before he died. He was hungry and couldn’t go home. Trent kicked a rock off the street. It skittered into the bushes and was answered by a rustling.

“They ain’t gonna shoot
me
.” Lump placed his hand against his thin chest as he wheezed. Black dirt outlined the cracked nails. “Now, you...” He shrugged and ambled toward the intersection.

Gritting his teeth, Trent followed. If he didn’t need information, he’d punt the arrogant bum straight to Hell. “So you think if they shoot me, you can just pick the lighter off my body?”

“Shame for it to go to waste.” Lump ran his fingers along the chain link fence, which walled off a metal warehouse on the west side of the street. Weeds and trash trimmed the bottom of the barrier. Rats scurried in and out of the garbage “Course if they hit the lighter, you’re liable to catch fire. Human’s aren’t pine-scented.”

“Tell me about it.” A breeze stirred the debris and re-introduced Lump’s stench into Trent’s nose. He covered his mouth. How could the man stand his own stink?

“I’ll be glad to hold the lighter for you.”

“No way. A deal’s a deal.” Trent trusted the man about as far as he could piss. Not that he couldn’t find him if he welshed on taking him to this mission place. He’d just have to follow his nose. No one else could smell that bad. “Besides, I’m beginning to think this place with its free meals and clean clothes is just a myth.”

As he walked, Lump plucked at the fence, transmitting the rattle along its length.

Trent stuck his fists into this pockets to keep from bitch-slapping the idiot. The fool was deliberately trying to draw attention. Not that he would show fear. As far as the dumb jarheads were concerned, he’d done nothing wrong.

As far as Trent was concerned, his actions were justifiable.

“You’ve got trust issues, dude.” Lump hunched into his layers of clothes as they reached an opening in the fence. “Fortunately for you, I’m an honest man.”

Trent rolled his eyes. And politicians had “the good of the people” in mind, when they legislated their Pork-Barrel projects.

Lump sauntered through the open gates and headed for the metal warehouse a hundred feet away. “Welcome to the mission.”

Trent glared at the building. One of the side doors was propped open with a cinder block, the portal looked like a black scab on the flaking metal surface. A beat-up Oldsmobile was parked along the side of the building.

“What trick is this?” Missions were adobe structures with arches, bells and monks in brown robes running around. This place looked like it had been abandoned. And for good reason. While the structure seemed solid enough, the pink letters painted on the facade were so faded as to be illegible. Yellow posts picketed the sidewalk trimming the building’s front. A few had been knocked at angles like rotten teeth waiting for the extraction. “No one’s here.”

“That’s cuz the sermon has started.” Lump hitched up his pants and trotted toward the building. “If we don’t hear half the preacher’s preaching, then we don’t eat.”

Great. Just what he needed to hear. Some moron droning on and on about brotherly love. His stomach overrode his brain. Food and information awaited in that building. He needed both. Besides, he could always plan his revenge while the good reverend babbled on and on. Increasing his pace, Trent reached the building’s entrance right behind Lump.

***

Trent leaned against the wall, felt the heat sinking into his back, as the preacher finished his sermon. Unbelievable. These fools actually enjoyed being told the Redaction was punishment for their sins, and that they had to do penance for their transgressions. Enjoyed it. Hell, they lapped it up.

If only he could bottle such stupidity, he could use it to sell millions of dollars of insurance policies. Not that the social rejects, packing what had once been a five truck loading dock, had enough coins to buy toilet paper to wipe their asses.

Still, he deserved this kind of worship. He was smart, handsome, and erudite. Learned in the cultural arts and refined, in short, everything civilized man should aspire to. Closing his eyes, he imaged the adoration—clapping and choruses of amens were for him.

He deserved it.

A pointy elbow dug into his side. “Now we eat, so pay up.”

Trent glared at Lump but dug the cheap lighter out of his pocket and slapped it into the dirty palm. “Enjoy.”

Lump flicked it a couple of times until the flame burned bright. “I will.” Still playing with the lighter, he disappeared into the crowd inching toward a set of double doors behind the beat-up table that served as both pulpit and altar.

Rolling his shoulders, Trent pushed off the wall and scanned the cortege of bums making its way to the doors. A few talked to each other. Most kept their heads down, buried like turtles in their shells of rags. Tough sell. He’d had tougher. Pasting a smile on his face, he waited until someone made eye contact.

A second later, a creature in a blue beanie caught his eye. Dirt added color to her pale skin.

He cranked up the wattage of his smile. Women often melted at it, bent to his will. “Good afternoon.”

Beanie ducked her head, shoved the two men in front of her aside and scrambled from view.

What the hell? Sure, he was too good looking for the femi-loser, but that shouldn’t have sent her scurrying as if she’d seen the devil. He shrugged and toned down his smile. A man would probably be a better bet anyway. Women tended to be stupid creatures. He waited for a burly, black man to approach. Tattoos mottled his skin. Some looked homemade.

Probably an ex-con. Damn, he really had come down in life. A temporary setback only. And who knew, he might be able to use some of these contacts. Lowlifes had their place, too. Especially, in some businesses. “Afternoon.”

Tattoo nodded as he passed but didn’t say a word.

Son of a bitch! An ache spread up Trent’s jaw. What were these losers a bunch of deaf-mutes?

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” A woman spoke softly from behind him.

Trent whirled about.

The speaker stared up at him from beneath coal black bangs. Ebony eye-liner ringed her blue eyes. Red roots showed through her black hair. She raised her pointed chin, flashing the spikes on her dog collar. She looked about twenty and had the know-it-all-seen-it-all attitude to match.

His hands itched to tame her, to teach her what he knew about obedience. He’d use the torn fishnet stockings to tie her up, then he’d cut off the short miniskirt and the skull tee shirt with a sharp knife that left red trails on her pale skin. He’d let her keep the platform shoes... His groin tightened, sending twinges of pain through his body. If he couldn’t find the gang skanks, she might be a good substitute.

He blinked. How much time had gone by since she’d spoken? “Sorry. I thought it was ‘shun the new comer’ day.”

Her black lips curved up. “That was yesterday.”

He bowed slightly. At least someone was normal around here. For a moment, he’d thought he’d lost his charm. “Yes, I am new here.” He felt his features shift as he donned a new mask, one that would exploit her weakness. “I don’t suppose you could show me around.” He set his hand on his stomach. “I don’t remember the last time I ate.”

“Sure.” She gestured to the double doors across the nearly empty room. “It’s this way.”

After one last glance at her skinny legs, he fell into step beside her. Maybe he’d come back after he recovered his Jag. She was bound to be impressed by the car. All women were. Then he could drive someplace private and do what he wanted.

But first he had to gain her trust.

That shouldn’t be too hard. She suffered from a bad case of arrogance. He cleared his throat, switching to a confused mask. “So, uh, what should I expect?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Do you remember the cafeteria when you were in grade school?”

His stomach clenched and his jaw tightened before he forced it to relax. Did she think he was eighty? He was forty-six, not in a fucking walker. He shook his hands, releasing the tension in his body. Remember, this is an act. All an act. She had to think she was saving him. “It was so long ago...”

Compressing her lips, she shook her head. The silver sword earrings dangling from her lobes brushed her shoulders. “You definitely haven’t been on the streets very long to still be prideful over such a trifle as your age.”

Trifle, prideful. Obviously Goth Lolita was also playing a part. His heart raced. Victory would be that much sweeter, if his prey provided a worthy hunt. They skirted the benches lined-up in front of the makeshift pulpit. “I don’t know that I’m on the streets.”

He stopped speaking. A great salesmen always knew when to stop his pitch. She’d bite. They always did.

She stopped near the entrance. The scent of powdered eggs and toast wafted out the door. “Just stand in line. Take a tray when you reach the stack and get your food. It’s not much, but it will fill your belly for a while.”

Then she turned on her heel and left.

Well, shit. Turning to the right, Trent strode to the end of the line. Tattoo stood in front of him. There was something definitely wrong with these people. It’s like they minded their own business or something. That wouldn’t do. Not at all. He needed information.

At this rate, he might need to ask the Marines about his car. At least, they were capable of speech. And who wouldn’t remember the Jag? But, if he remembered the Jag then he could hardly pretend to have amnesia.

He’d have to chance it.

He needed that bag disposed of or his perfect murder wouldn’t be perfect.

Tattoo shifted on his feet before rising on his toes.

Christ. Why did the man need to be taller? Trent unbuttoned his suit jacket. He must be nearly seven feet tall, a good six inches over Trent, and almost as wide. At least the man didn’t smell nor was he coughing like the majority of losers in the building.

Why were they coughing?

Were they contagious? Should he be covering his mouth? Trent cleared his throat. Not sore or scratchy.

Tattoo glanced over his wide shoulder. “You haven’t been on the street long enough to have caught the Ash Pneumonia.”

The big man’s voice rumbled like a bass guitar string that had been struck too hard.

“Ash Pneumonia?” Trent touched the dried blood on his forehead. Let the man take the bait. Don’t let all the inhabitants of bum town be abnormal.

Tattoo’s black eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms over his chest, looking down his flat mushroom-shaped nose.

He threw his attention to the floor. This mother-fucker had trust issues. And having done time, he’d probably see through Trent’s act. “That’s something I should remember, isn’t it?”

“It’s a coughing sickness that comes from the ash kicked up by those fires in China.” Tattoo widened his stance, digging in even though the line had moved forward. “They say that it’s only affected the soldiers, but they lie.”

“They being the government?” Trent glanced up. His skin seemed to shrink over his bones.

“Yeah.” Tattoo studied him, one predator to another.

A man next to him clutched his blanket tight as he bent over coughing.

Trent danced away from him. Shit! That rattle sounded exactly like the Redaction. “Is it contagious?”

“Nah.” Tattoo spread his massive hands wide and grinned. “Of course, they say it isn’t fatal. Yet, there’s not as many free spirits as there used to be.”

Free spirits. Trent swallowed his snort. What a pleasant way to say throw away people.

“How’d you get the grazing?”

No sense in playing dumb. The man probably picked out the weakest of the lot for a good ass fucking later. Trent straightened. He wasn’t on anyone’s sex party tonight. Besides, what did a few inches matter? He had a body trail of his own.

“Don’t know.” He snared Tattoo’s gaze and refused to let it go. “I woke up on the riverbed, rats crawling over me and a bum picking my pockets.”

“Yeah, you don’t exactly belong here.” Tattoo broke their optical stalemate to scan his Armani suit. “My guess is the Aspero got you. They had to hightail it out of the ‘hood’ real fast after their bout of stupidity.”

Trent’s muscles twitched and he resisted the impulse to shout. Finally, he was getting somewhere. Still, if he was too interested the man might shut his trap or demand payment of some kind. He was done paying. “Can we chat over breakfast? I don’t remember when I last ate, but my stomach tells me it’s been a while.”

Tattoo grunted but turned about and walked to the end of the line.

A small table with a stack of wet trays stood next to the steel bars running along the length of the serving line. Steam wafted from holes devoid of serving dishes. Plates clattered as they were loaded with a blob of yellow, a blob of cream and a square of dry toast. A mug of brown liquid was the only beverage.

Trent tipped his red tray so the water ran into his waiting palm. After setting it on the holder, he scrubbed his hands together then wiped them on his pants. It would have to do until he could clean up. If he could clean up. Lump had said there were clothes available at the mission, but Trent had yet to see any that weren’t being worn.

Most had their entire wardrobe on their backs.

Keeping his tray a respectful distance from Tattoo’s, Trent inched along the line. He smiled at the sour-faced woman behind the counter. Scars crisscrossed her face, distorting her features. Damn. Had she come into this world through a birth canal or a grate? “Hello.”

Ignoring his overtures, she scraped the crusts of yellow from the serving dish and plopped it on his plate. Her eyes narrowed and she sucked her lips inside her mouth, before scooting his food down the line.

“Sandy doesn’t talk to men,” Tattoo whispered loud enough for everyone within ten feet to hear, “but at least she’s stopped spitting in our food.”

Trent blinked. Was the man kidding or serious? “Uh, thanks.”

Sandy grunted, leaned forward and pulled the tray out of the serving line. Without a word, she stalked away.