by G. W. Thomas
We walked for a block. We stopped at a strange sight. A vehicle that wasn't under a yard of snow. The thing was a snow cab, with cat-treads and armor-plating. A defaced sign on the door said US ARMY. Someone had spray-painted SUCK MY NAVY DICK across it. A small artillery piece stuck out of the roof.
"Get in," growled Psycho.
"Going for a ride? Great. Christ knows I'm tired of walking." I tried to sound flip but nobody laughed.
"Shut up or I'll plug you anyway."
Jack stepped in then. "That's not orders."
"I don't care. What does Hart want with this piece of shit anyway?"
"I'm not allowed to tell you." Jack looked away from my eyes. I guess it was only dawning on me now. She was one of Hart's flunkies. A spy. Her interest in me suddenly made sense. Her evasions, too. And now, she had me. And then what?
"Where are we going?" I demanded.
Pyscho told me to do something physically impossible.
Jack answered the question. "To see Mr. Hart. On the other side of the City."
"Yah," sneered Psycho. "You'll enjoy this ride."
I didn't ask what he meant. Instead I stepped into the cab slowly. I no longer had the gun or my knife or the pistol I took from Red.
Thinking of the three men who had attacked me I realized Psycho's game plan. With a big bounty on my head, all kinds of scumbags might have been looking for me. Psycho trusted the bastards to flush me out. Then with Jack's help the trap was set. I fell for it like a dope.
Sitting down, Jack pulled out a pair of handcuffs and locked one of my hands to the roll bars running down the walls of the cab. This wasn't terribly uncomfortable so I didn't make a stink. For now, I was alive. And besides, wasn't it about time I met this Mr. Hart anyway?
Psycho fired up the machine. The sound made me jump. It had been so long since I had heard an engine that it startled me. The hum of the motor bothered me too. At first I didn't know why, but eventually I got it. It was an old sound, a noise from before The Change. I tried to ignore it and all the feelings it brought up. I went to sleep.
It was a perfect dream. Sheryl was sitting in the car with me. It was
a day
in Summer. She was driving our new mini-van. I just sat and watched
her. We
were so much in love then. This was before Timmy. Before that night in
the
barn. Before everything went to shit.
Sheryl smiled at me. She was so beautiful. I admired her dark hair and
her
lean, athletic body. Her nipples were popping through her light cotton
shirt. She was bra-less and the window was open. I just wanted to reach
over...
But we were driving to Montreal. I remembered we went to see the
Circe du
Soleil. (For a second a clown came into my memory but faded. No
harlequins
belonged here.) We had stayed in a hotel the night before and made love
until 3AM.
It was a good dream.
Sheryl leaned over to say, "I love you," or to invite me to play with
her
nipples. Only the words came out like a scream, a smashing horrible
scream--
I was awake. Fire was burning on the outside of the snow-cat. Bricks and other junk bounced off the covered windows. I wanted to ask what the fuck was going on, but Jack was busy pumping slugs out the windows with my confiscated pistol. When it was empty she threw it under the seat and fired with her rifle.
The noise was terrific. I don't know if you've ever been close to a gun when it fires, but when it happens inside a car, it's worse. The sound can't escape so it echoes around in your head.
I screamed, holding my ears. I ducked down to avoid the rocks and bottles thrown against my window.
"Fucking hell!" I bellowed. Psycho only laughed his agreement. The Snow-cat lurched for a second then continued on its way.
"Got one!" he cheered.
"Keep it on the road," scolded Jack.
A few more bricks behind us and then it was over. We drove on in silence for a short time.
"What was that?" I asked though I could only partly hear my own voice.
"Southies," Jack explained without explaining.
"Who are they?"
"They're the tribe that lives in the South part of town."
"And there are Northies and Easties and Westies, too, I presume?" I asked sarcastically.
"No, just West and East. Hart hold the North - and the Mainland."
"I had no idea."
Jack laughed unkindly. "Of course, you didn't. You never went ten blocks from Gino's. What did you expect? That the City was empty?"
"Honestly, yes. There used to be nine million people here. More if you went off the island. And now, who knows?"
"Hart does. He figured it out mathematically. He's brilliant that way. So much food+so much time + so much heat = a number."
"Which is?"
"Approximately a hundred thousand."
"In one of the largest cities in the world. No wonder I didn't meet too many people." Jack let it go at that. Psycho wasn't so kind.
"You're such a dip-shit, Teacher. And you killed Bully."
I thought about that for a second. Only a hundred thousand and I ran into Bully in the first day. What were the odds? "When Hart's done with you, we're going to have this out."
"That's where I'm ahead of you, Dylan. I'll kill you as soon as I can."
Psycho stopped the Snow-cat. He turned in his seat, stabbing a big .44 into my cheek. "Call me that again and you die now. Hart or no Hart. Got it?"
I nodded. I got it, but I grinned when he turned away. The cat started up again, its lights cutting through the blinding snow.
Jack looked at me with a devious smile of her own. To use someone's original name was in very bad taste. When the world had been re-invented so had every person who survived. Original names were reserved for lovers, long-term intimate lovers. No one else.
It had galled Psycho that I knew him as Dylan Carpenter. That he had known me by another name, too. He didn't like to be reminded of many things, but especially what we had seen that night in the barn back home. I shut up for a while. I fingered the orange peel in my pocket and thought about asking Jack about it, but not with Psycho there. I waited. Nobody said much. This made the first cocktail bomb sound louder than it was. Bricks and pieces of wood followed.
"More Southies?" I asked.
"No, we've crossed twenty-fifth. These'll be Westies." Jack said, cocking her rifle.
The barrage continued for five minutes. When it stopped so did the Snow-cat. Psycho looked through the bullet-proof windshield. "There's something up ahead." He laughed. "It's a barricade. Good, I haven't had a chance to use this lately." He stood, brought the gunnery mechanism down. With a built-in scope, he surveyed the wood and metal wall ahead. "Fire!" he said unnecessarily as he pulled the trigger.
A loud thud shook the vehicle's roof then the flimsy barricade exploded in a shower of splinters.
"Ain't nothing but scrap wood," Psycho decided. "Let's go."
We continued up the strip, heading for the tunnel that would take us to the Mainland at the North end of the City. Five minutes later we came to another plywood wall. I was going to ask Psycho what he planned but didn't have to.
He gunned the engine. The armoured Snow-cat plowed through the hastily erected barrier. Planks fell to either side and the cat didn't miss a beat.
A weak attempt at rocks and bottles quickly followed and then stopped. "I've driven up and down this road for a month - Tribal morons never learn," Psycho whined. I wanted to laugh. He had always been like this - at least from High School on. So full of himself, so belittling to others.
Another three blocks and another barricade. Psycho took that one out the same way. Two more blocks, again a barrier. One more block - I had a bad feeling now. Psycho cursed and laughed at the Westies, cursed them for fools.
The next barricade was only a half block. The one after that only fifty feet. To this last, Psycho sped up the Snow-cat, ready to smash it to splinters.
I heard Jack's voice go up along with mine: "Look out!"
The collision was strangely anti-climactic. The Westies had known Psycho better than he did himself. They knew he liked to knock things down. They knew he was a shit-head even if he didn't. So they simply made one you couldn't knock down. They filled it with cinder blocks and rubber tires, covered it with the same wooden screen.
The cat hit the outer shell but was repelled by the stationary rubber of the tires. We were brought to a sudden halt but remained unharmed. They wanted the Snow-cat. But did they want us?
Jack was the first to react. She unlocked my hand from the rail, leaving the cuffs attached to one wrist. She pushed a shotgun into my hands. "We're all going to have to fight," was all she said.
I saw her point. We were surrounded on three sides by newly formed figures. Westies. They waited patiently. We had to come out. So they waited. Psycho regained his wits too late. He put the Cat into reverse but the Westies had dropped a pile of loose cinder blocks behind us. We were stuck.
"Let me talk to them," said Jack. "It's Jack," she yelled out a window.
The surrounding forms spoke, then one shadow detached itself and moved closer, but maintained cover behind the edge of the barricade.
"We want the vehicle, Jack. Just walk away," said a deep masculine voice.
"Fuck you, you lying bastards!" Psycho screamed, raising his pistol.
The shadow disappeared.
"Stop that, Psycho. Let me negotiate." Jack pinned him with a cold eye.
Psycho cursed but dropped the pistol's barrel.
"You can have the Snow-cat-and the gas cans in the back. But what guarantee do we have you'll let us go?"
There were laughs. My rising hopes quickly dropped.
"I promise you'll walk away," came the negotiator.
"I want something more-a hostage." Jack returned. "We have enough fire power to make it ugly."
More laughs but they died quickly.
"All right. Give me a minute. I'll see what I can do."
The negotiator disappeared again. We waited for more than twenty minutes.
Jack used the time to run over three or four possible attack plans. They all sounded like suicide to me. She was about to initiate one of the grimmer ones when the negotiator returned.
"Here he is. He's coming in now."
"Who is he?" demanded Jack.
"He's a chief's son. He'll keep you safe."
The swaddled figure of the hostage appeared. His hands were up. He didn't appear to be carrying a weapon. He stumbled up to the cat's side door and waited. Jack was in command - always had been. She opened her door, pulled me out after her. She had the hostage by the head, her gun jammed into his spine.
"Come on."
Psycho crawled over the seat to our door, then suddenly went back. I figured he'd taken the keys for extra leverage. The four of us shuffled slowly away from the Snow-cat, ready for treachery. When we reached the relative safety behind the barricade, Psycho said, "Faster!"
We stepped up the speed, though our hostage did a great job of slowing us down. We were less than a block away when a loud explosion filled our street with rubble. Psycho laughed. "I hope I got lots of them bastards."
Psycho had left a present. A grenade with a long fuse-in the glove box. I should have condoned the trick but he simply enjoyed it too much for me to want to share any part of it with him.
We took a side street. Jack was leading. I hoped she knew this area, perhaps a good place to hide? We took more turns without seeing a single Westie. It was only as we came to the bridge that we were in trouble. There was a hundred open feet to the beginning of the structure. Then there was a mile of suspension bridge to cross. In the cat it was around a half hour's work. The alternative was to cross the frozen river and be exposed for over two or three hours. Forget that. It was the bridge. Once over we'd be safer. We'd be in the North part of the City. And Hart held the North.
I think back now. What difference to me? Perhaps Hart would have me killed just as soon as I arrived? But at the time I figured my chances were better with Jack than with the Westies.
"We'll walk with one ahead, two backwards. Hostage will cover our rear. Teacher, you'll be point."
I could have refused. I realized I was going first because I was expendable. Not quite what hostage-boy was but not much more. Were there Westies on the bridge covering us? I couldn't see any but- We went about half way before we heard a shot from behind. A high-powered rifle drilled our hostage. He fell to his knees as we hit the snow. There wasn't any cover but old habits die hard. I looked at the tall buildings behind us, looked for a gun muzzle but didn't see anyone. I heard Psycho curse. He was checking our hostage. He'd pulled the toque from his face. "He's a fucking retard!"
I looked. He was right. Down syndrome. Reminded me of a boy I had taught named Robbie. He was as dead as Robbie was now.
"Some hostage. It was a trap," Jack said. "I think we'd best run. And now--"
We got to our feet, started to run for the bridge. Any blind gunman could have leveled us. We were almost to the metal bridge support when we heard the engine. The Snow-cat pulled out from the buildings and seconds later we were surrounded by gun barrels. We raised our hands. Caught.
They took our guns. Five men started to kick the crap out of Psycho and me. Resistance was pointless so I concentrated on reducing the damage of their booted feet, protecting my broken arm mostly.
When they stopped, a tall, thin black man with a Hispanic cast to his handsome face--our negotiator-- came closer. "Who put the grenade in the glove-box?"
I didn't say anything. Psycho was toe-jam but I wasn't going to snitch.
"He did," Jack said, pointing to Psycho.
"What about him?" the man asked, indicating me.
"He's our prisoner."
"Was your prisoner. Now, he's bat-shit. Take them to the bridge."
We were dragged to the bridge, deposited in the snow. One of our captors raised his shotgun to the ceiling of the bridge far above us and shot a round. At first I thought they were going to plug us but they didn't even look at us. Only nervously skyward. Besides there were cheaper ways to kill a man. No, something strange was going on.
They left us, returned to the Snow-cat where Jack was being placed inside. We had traded spots. She was the prisoner now. I still had an empty handcuff hanging off my wrist. It didn't seem fair.
"I don't get it," I said to Psycho.
"We're free to go?"
"Anyways but back to the Westies. See two guys with guns, waiting to see if we come back."
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," Psycho argued, already heading down the bridge. I followed warily. It couldn't be that easy. The Westie leader had said I was bat-shit. I looked up. Black shapes. Man-bats! If we'd snuck onto the bridge, we might have made it. We just might have. But now, no chance. The bats would see us and swoop down. Without a gun, we'd be powerless to stop them.
"Run!" I yelled, heading North.
Psycho laughed at me, then noticed a shadow on the snow. He stopped laughing and ran. I was faster, even with the broken arm.
It didn't matter. The bats were faster still. Much faster.
I heard a scream behind me. Then I saw Psycho's kicking legs as he rose up into the air. Something fell from his panicking hands. A knife. Not mine but it was something. A knife had saved me before. My fingers wrapped around the handle when something like a steam roller hit me.
I stumbled, then felt the ground vanish. I was airborne. The knife slipped from my grasp but I caught it with my knees. I quickly stuffed it into my coat. Then I reached up both hands to feel the massive claws that held me painfully. Rock-hard, bony, the man-bat's hands (or were they feet?) clasped onto my shoulders like two vices.
I couldn't hope to pry myself loose. And as the air between me and the ground grew I wasn't so sure I wanted to. I had survived such a fall once, but twice seemed like tempting fate.
I explored the thorny talons of the bat, the handcuff banging against my arm. This gave me an idea-a wild, dangerous idea. Without further thought, I wrapped the other bracelet around the bat's wrist and sealed my doom. He wasn't going to drop me. But I didn't have the key either. One of us was not going to be around when the cuffs came off.
The ride up was as fascinating as it was frightening. As we got higher, other bats came, trying to steal me away from my captor. I got a long gash in one leg from another bat's claws. After that I learned to raise my legs and kick. I had the satisfaction of crushing the wing of one bat, watching it fall to the bridge below. I would have cheered except it reminded me we were hundreds of feet high now.
What I saw next would make this morning look like a picnic...
Next Issue: You guessed it: More snow... And More Man-Bats!
| G. W. Thomas lives in Central British Columbia. He has appeared in over 100 different books and magazines including: PULP & DAGGER ("PennyEyes" serial), WRITER'S DIGEST, GOTHIC.NET, IMELOD, TWILIGHT TIMES and ELDRITCH TALES. He published the action-adventure zine RAGE MACHINE for 2 years. He currently has 7 ebooks at www.NoSpine.com |
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