Charlie Huston - My Dead Body

– So this is a mercy mission.

He slides his arms into the jacket.

– No. This is a tactical operation that will eliminate a threat to the Coalition.

I’m looking at some guns that look big and useful.

– Always thought this kind of action on your turf was verboten.

– Events progress. We must adapt.

I point at the guns.

– Can I have one of those?

He squints.

– One moment while I think. No, you may not.

I point at the ramp.

– Whatever’s going on in that place, it’s gonna be hairy. I know you won’t be shedding tears at my funeral, but the point is for me to save the girl and the baby, yeah? Get them out before you come in with the goon squad. I may need to be armed to make that happen.

He shakes his head.

– No. You are far too spontaneous in how you choose to distribute bullets.

He looks up at a flickering light fixture.

– But yes, you should have something. The knife and the garrote you were carrying.

– I’d rather not have to get so intimate if Sela has a beef with me.

He looks down from the light.

– Truly, Pitt, if Sela is no longer amused by your monkey tricks, do you believe a gun or any number of bullets will keep her at bay?

I think about Sela, six foot plus of weightlifter muscle grafted onto a Vampyre and combined with the particular hormonal imbalance of a pre-op tranny. She is unique and dangerous and I don’t understand a thing about her. Except that she’s one of the six most dangerous people I’ve ever met. And she once took on two of the others at the same time and came out on top.

– No, I don’t think it would help much. But I do like to have a gun.

An enforcer approaches with my wire saw and amputation blade. He hands them to Predo.

Predo slips a few inches of the blade from its rubber sheath.

– Have you ever seen one employed by a surgeon?

– Can’t say I have.

He pulls it the rest of the way free.

– To amputate a leg above the knee, one must wrap their arm around the limb, from underneath, bringing the blade toward oneself, angling the tip downward. The goal is to cut into the flesh deeply, to the bone, while whipping one’s arm away, unwinding it from around the leg. When perfected, the maneuver leaves a single incision that circles the femur. A moment’s work with a bone saw and the leg is off.

He studies the edge of the knife, slips it back in its sheath, and hands it to me.

– Please do not lose it, Pitt. Should you survive without the girl and the baby I may want to put it to use.

I sling the blade under my arm.

– Sure thing. And thanks for the tip. I’m thinking the same move would work on someone’s neck.

He considers me, giving a look like he’s trying to figure if an abstract painting has been hung upside down.

– Was that a threat of some kind?

I drop the saw in my pocket.

– Hell no. Just, I like to see the utility in things.

We’re walking to the stairwell at the corner of the garage.

– We are alike in that, if nothing else.

He stops.

– Do you have a watch?

– No.

He looks at the phone again.

– No matter. Synchronization is unnecessary. We will begin our operation sometime after midnight. That gives you as little as three hours, but perhaps more.

I’m trying to roll another smoke.

– So this is a precision op then.

He lifts a hand.

– It is quite precise.

He drops the hand to his side.

– I simply have no interest giving you the precise details.

I nod.

– Wise.

– Yes.

He brushes his hair from his forehead again.

– Indeed, we might simply be using you to open the door. You may find us at your heels. Perhaps we have no intention of executing a raid at all. The Coalition owns this garage. This could all be a drill. My only interest may be in sending you to your death inside the Cure house. There might be several tiny listening devices tucked into your clothing. Placed while you were blacked out. I could, at the end of this sentence, break into maniacal laughter and have you dragged back to the floor so that I may complete whittling you to a trunk. But, for the sake of argument, you may as well assume that you have as little as three hours to lead the pregnant girl out. Or secure her within the building.

The new smoke is a little better than the last couple, giving me hope for the future. I light it.

– As long as we have a clear framework for how we’re handling this, I’m cool.

He opens the door to the stairs.

– On your way then.

I tilt my head to him.

– The way we always work something out, Predo, you’d never guess how much we’re looking forward to killing each other.

I step past him and he puts his hand in the middle of my back.

– Then let us put an end to any misconceptions.

He pushes and I go down a half flight, those two ribs that didn’t mend right snapping for the second time in a couple hours.

He waves two enforcers into the stairwell.

– I think someone should be chasing you. Combined with your general state of disarray and mutilation, it will make whatever tale of woe you tell that much more convincing.

I’m still on my ass, holding my ribs.

He brushes his hand at me.

– Best to scamper, Pitt. For the sake of absolute verisimilitude, I’ve instructed them to kill you if they do in fact catch you.

I get up.

The enforcers start moving their lips, silently.

Predo points down.

– Do hurry, they will only count to fifteen before they begin their pursuit.

Footsteps on the stairs above me.

I save whatever I have left to say and get moving.

The sidewalks outside the parking garage have that same abandoned feel as the ones around Morningside Park. The vibe is clearly in the air. People who don’t live here take a look and figure they can walk a little farther and cross east or west a block away. The people who have to get to their front doors do little more than that. Walk quickly from the corner to the stoop, key in hand. Dog owners pull their mutts down the street, dragging them at the ends of their leashes if they pause to piss at the base of a dying tree.

But there are a few people about, heads down, minding their own, marching home or quickly to the corner where the air doesn’t feel as threatening, and those few people, they slow the enforcers to a trot when they follow me onto the street. Another time they might just barrel after me, but with the action ready to go down, they’re trying to play it cool.

Not me.

I don’t know if they’ll really kill me if they get their hands on me, but I don’t want to find out. So I run as fast as my bad knee, my gimped toe and my broken ribs will let me, right up the steps to the front door of the Cure house where I start by pressing the buzzer and, with the enforcers closing ground, graduate to pounding the door with my fist. The complete one. Because I figure it will be louder.

– Fuck off!

Said through a suddenly opened peep door just big enough for me to see the mouth behind it.

The enforcers are three stoops up the street.

I lean close to the peep.

– You guys got trouble coming.

The peep snaps shut.

I kick the door.

The enforcers are two stoops away.

The peep opens and the barrel of a shotgun pokes out.

– Fuck! Off!

The amputation blade drops from its sheath into my hand and I slip it into the barrel of the gun.

– Pull the trigger, fuckface.

Enforcers are one stoop away.

The guy inside tries to pull the shotgun back and I grab the barrel with what’s left of my left hand. Not the best grip, two fingers and a palm, but I put my back into it.

– Let me the fuck in or there’s gonna be blood on your doorstep and cops in your ass.