Robert Ferrigno - Heart of the Assassin

Gravenholtz stood up, his ears burning.

John Moseby slipped back into the truck, shut the door. Sweat ran down his forehead, the faceplate of his radiation suit fogged over. He could see the Washington Monument through the windshield, the white limestone gleaming in the sunshine, but dangerously canted. Still standing, though. They built things strong back then.

He had tried talking with the zombies living on the outskirts of D.C. when he first arrived, tried to bribe them for maps that charted the hot spots, but they were wary, seeing him for what he was, an outsider looking for treasure they viewed as their own. Being black didn't help either; those who talked with him didn't shake his hand or invite him into their homes. Instead, they took his money and gave him bad information and bad maps. After only three days of stumbling into unmarked hot spots, he had exceeded his recommended roentgen count, was well into the danger zone. Every minute he stayed here now risked further radiation poisoning.

He wished he could talk to Annabelle. Just hear her voice…her laugh.

Moseby cleared his throat, tasted metal. He plugged his suit into the truck's electrical system, turned up the air-conditioning. The suit was fine, but the truck he had borrowed from the Colonel wasn't up to the job, its shielding stopgap and the air-filtration system inadequate. His own fault for cutting corners out of haste. Sarah had pleaded with him to wait to begin his search, but Moseby had been fired up when she told him what he would be looking for.

The cross…a piece of the cross where Jesus had been crucified, a piece of the cross upon which he had shed his blood. Moseby had been a devout Muslim once…he had become an even more devout Christian since falling in love with Annabelle. The chance to actually find a piece of the true cross in the dead city, to bring it forth into the sunlight…Sarah didn't have to convince him.

Moseby leaned back in his seat as the truck's electrical system boosted his suit's air-conditioning. A breeze blew scraps of paper down the street, tumbling end over end like ghosts. He was never going to get this place out of his mind.

Exploring the sunken city of New Orleans should have prepared him for anything. He had dived among the dead in the French Quarter and the surrounding districts for years, sometimes pushing them aside to gain entrance to a hotel or storefront, dead fingers waving…but this place…D.C. spooked him. The waters that had covered New Orleans on one dark night provided a screen for the emotions somehow; the soft green light, the brightly colored fish and sprouting sea grass gave a certain continuity. The dead of New Orleans rested among living things. Here…the grand buildings lay unchanged, frozen at the moment of destruction. There was no life in D.C. The dead were alone.

Last night Moseby had sat in his truck, exhausted, breathing in the stink of his self-contained suit. He had dozed off for a few minutes, awoke disoriented, the monuments gleaming in the moonlight, perfect as a tourist snapshot, and Moseby had wanted to tear off his suit and wander the empty boulevard, go wading in the Tidal Basin and wash himself clean. He had actually reached for the toggle switches on his suit before he caught himself, and the recognition of what he had almost done shook him, made him put the truck in gear and peel off down the street. He raced along for a dozen blocks, knocking smaller vehicles aside, before he regained control of himself.

Moseby sat up. Checked his gauges. Started the engine, the noise and vibration reassuring somehow. He needed to get out of here now. Get out of this suit. He'd have to contact Sarah, risky or not, and tell her he had rushed things. Maybe she could find some way to get him a better vehicle, fully shielded, maybe get him some better maps too. Knowing her, she was probably already working on it. The cross was worth dying for, definitely, but Moseby had to stay alive long enough to find it first.

"Thanks for parking down the street," whispered Karla Jean as they stood on the doorstep of her small house. "I've got nosy neighbors."

Gravenholtz glanced around. Hardly any lights on in the surrounding houses. No one on the street. The grass in the yards was overgrown, bikes rusting in the weeds.

Karla Jean unlocked the door, hand trembling. "I…I feel like such a whore."

Gravenholtz stepped inside after her, closed the door. It smelled clean…like she did. Just a single light on in the tiny kitchen. One room, a cast-iron bed in the corner. Wildflowers stuck in a cut-down Coke bottle on the nightstand. Photo-holo display facing the bed, switched off now.

"Do you think this is wrong, Lester? I don't want to ruin things between us."

"No…what we're doing is right. We don't gain nothing by waiting."

"That's…that's what I told myself." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Her lips were soft against him, and Gravenholtz felt like he was twelve years old again, inexperienced, uncertain and scared at the wonder of it all. He put his arms around her, surprised at how slender she was, her body taut against him.

"We…we don't have to hurry," he gasped. "Been a while for me."

"I can't believe that. A man like you…"

"No, been a long while since I was with anyone like you. Maybe even never."

"You're just flattering me, Lester Gravenholtz, and you don't have to-"

"I mean it."

Karla Jean stared at him in the dim light. "I believe you." She touched his face with her small, slender hands, felt him flinch. "What is it?"

"I don't like you eyeballing me…I'm ugly."

She slapped his chest. "You most certainly are not."

Gravenholtz shook his head. "I got a face like a pig's ass."

"You're strong-looking. Determined. Not like the weaklings and pretty boys I see every day. You're a man who knows what he wants and is not about to let anyone stop him. What woman wouldn't be attracted to that?"

Gravenholtz nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"You want a drink?" said Karla Jean. "I got beer…bourbon-"

"Do you need a drink?"

"No." Her eyes were certain. "No, Lester, I don't."

"Me neither."

She kissed him again, lightly brushed her lips against his, and there was nothing else in the world but her at this moment, no one but the two of them in this little house on the edge of town, no past, no future…just now.

Karla Jean stepped away from him, trailing a hand across him as she moved away, as though she couldn't bear to part. "Take off your clothes," she said softly.

Gravenholtz blinked.

She unbuttoned the top button of her dress. "Please?"

Gravenholtz tried to speak. It was easier with a hooker. You paid them and did what you wanted and then you left. Even easier when you raped a random woman…not because you didn't have to pay-Gravenholtz didn't care about money-but the passion of the act…their rage and disgust made it better. This, though…when you cared about the woman, when she cared about you…there was so much to lose.

"Please, Lester." Her fingers toyed with the next button. "I have to see you. Really see you." Her lower lip trembled. "My parts…my female parts are tiny as the rest of me. I got to make sure you don't hurt me."

"I told you…I'd die before I hurt you."

Karla Jean sat on the bed. "I won't ask you again."

Gravenholtz kicked off his boots. Peeled off his pants and underwear, left them in a heap. He pulled off his shirt without unbuttoning it, stood there before her naked. He was breathing so hard you would have thought he had run a race.

Karla Jean stared at him from the bed.

"What? You look surprised."

"I am a little." Karla Jean pulled a pistol out from under her pillow. Centered it on his chest. "I thought you'd have on some bulletproof vest or something. I heard you been shot a hundred times and never died. Everyone said you had some kind of…special protection." She pulled back the hammer of the gun. "I guess you left it at home tonight."