David Gunn - Day of the Damned

‘Sven,’ he says.

I turn back, a scowl still on my face.

‘Thought you could use this . . .’ He unhooks something

from the wall and tosses it in my direction. I catch it from instinct, although it’s so light I can barely see it against the arch beyond. Turns out to be a length of clear monofilament, carefully wound into a loop. You could drag a broken scout car from Wildeside to Farlight with this stuff. It has other uses too . . . My scowl becomes a grin.

‘Rat bike incoming,’ the SIG announces.

Diodes flicker along its side.

‘Make that two. Trash heaps on wheels. And those are just the riders. Can’t begin to describe the machines.’

This is getting interesting.

‘Keep me covered.’

Anton nods.

Reaching behind him, he produces a hunting rifle. Makes me wonder if he always keeps one by the palazzo door, or if he knew something like this might happen.

Racing towards the Wolf’s vehicle, I roll myself over its hood and land on the far side, just as Vijay’s messenger skids to a halt. The man thinks I’m his enemy. Reasonable guess. He’s already reaching for a side arm.

‘Behind you,’ I say.

Contempt shows in his eyes. You expect me to-?

And then he hears the whine of a police bike and turns. He’s too late. As the new bike makes a skid turn, its rider flicks a sling and something shatters the messenger’s helmet.

A steel ball bearing.

Simple, cheap, and, flung from a bike, horribly effective.

The U/Free, those guardians of decency and keepers of the peace between lesser races, like us, have weapons that can turn you to dust. Or cook you from the inside out. Bombs that suck oxygen from the air and leave whole armies choking to death with every breath.

But most people on this edge of the spiral arm get knifed, hit over the head, or shot with a simple projectile. Our glorious leader is determined to win his war against the metalheads.

He’s not keen on it costing a lot.

Look at the state of that gyrobike for a start. What I’m trying to say is, local police and militia come cheap. They exist to give the rest of us bodies to pile up and walk over. And splitting people’s skulls with ball bearings comes cheaper than sucking oxygen out of the atmosphere.

‘Back away,’ the officer tells me.

‘Fuckwit,’ the SIG says. ‘Does he look like-?’

It doesn’t bother to finish. Because, by then, I’ve reached the man.

Kicking out his single wheel, I hear cold cast steel shatter. We’re too close for his sling to be of use and his bike’s already falling. So I make do with punching him. His visor shatters like the wheel.

When I kick him in the gut, someone in the crowd yells in outrage. No one’s told him about Anton’s keep-the-noise-down rule obviously.

The bike’s still whining. Only now it’s on its side. Should have broken the man and kept the bike, I realize. Still, there’s always the next bike or the one after that.

My SIG-37 clears a path through the crowd.

It does this with much whirring, flashing of little lights and a running commentary on the parentage, dress sense and body odour of the people around me. And it rotates clips at least four times just for the hell of it. Telling me loudly what each one contains.

‘Hollow-point, explosive, incendiary, flechette.’

An idiot tries to grab the SIG from my hand. Slamming its handle into one side of his face breaks his jaw, so I smash the other side to keep things even and step over him.

The crowd stays back.

Reaching the entrance to the square, I tie one end of Anton’s monofilament to the window bars of a house and fix the other to a window opposite.

‘Show time,’ the SIG says.

‘Yeah.’

‘You just going to stand there?’

‘Yep.’ Let’s give these bastards something to aim at.

As a bike races up the main street, its rider sees I’m holding a gun. He can’t work out why I don’t raise it. He’s still gunning his accelerator and scrabbling for the shotgun in a holster hung from his tank when he discovers the answer.

Taking him across the throat, the wire hangs him there for a second and then drops him in a bloody heap. Blood pisses into the dirt. A new mouth gapes where his neck used to be.

The rider behind drops his machine rather than hit the wire. It’s a good choice but a bad landing. His spine snaps when the bike flips and comes down on top of him. He’s screaming with fear rather than pain. I doubt he’s got much feeling in his arms or legs.

‘Sven . . .’

Yeah, I know.

Although since when did the SIG get fussy about such things?

Stamping across to the man, I put a bullet through his head. Hollow-point. Seems a pity to waste anything fancier.

That leaves another two bikes.

Time to take this fight outside the square.

At least that’s what I’m thinking as I go back to take Vijay’s message from his dead messenger. Before someone in the crowd has that bright idea for himself. Only Vijay’s messenger isn’t dead.

That complicates things.

Grabbing his collar, I drag him across the dirt towards the palazzo door. Since General Luc shows no signs of moving his vehicle, I toss my burden onto its hood, and vault over it myself, dragging him after me.

Debro stands next to Anton. ‘Help me get him inside,’ she says.

I look at her.

‘Please.’

Give me the Aux and a real battle any day. If there’s ground to take, we’ll take it. If we can, we’ll keep it. If we can’t, we’re happy to die trying.

That’s what we do. In the silence that follows – if silence follows, if we’re lucky enough to be alive to say prayers – we’ll say the soldier’s prayer over our oppos. Sleep well and a better life next time.

Walking away from a fight doesn’t sit easy.

Even if it’s Debro who asks.

I’m in a filthy temper when Aptitude finds me on a balcony, scowling at the smudges of smoke that drift from the distant rift. In front of me is the SIG-37, field-stripped to its chassis, barrel, clips, slide and springs. I’ve got the bloody gun on silent, so it doesn’t bitch about me pulling its chip.

‘Sorry,’ Aptitude says. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt.’

Fifty seconds later the SIG’s reassembled and swearing hard enough to make Aptitude blush. Unless that’s about something else. She’s dressed in a robe that makes her look taller than she is. And it does nothing to hide her hips or the swell of her breasts.

‘Sven,’ she says, ‘you’re staring.’

‘I don’t belong here.’

‘You know-’ She fumbles to catch her sentence. ‘I mean, I know you don’t really feel at home here. So I’m wondering . . .’ This time her words do fade away.

‘Why I’m here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Might as well waste my leave here as anywhere.’

Aptitude turns to hide the hurt in her eyes. And then she swings back and her chin goes up and she opens her mouth . . . And halts, when she sees me grinning.

‘That’s better,’ I say.

Guess my grin gets wider. Because she spins on her heel.

‘Aptitude . . .’

She hesitates in the doorway.

‘Does your mother know that I shot your husband and burnt his house? That I was supposed to kill you?’

‘But you didn’t,’ says Aptitude, ‘did you?’

No, I simply disobeyed a general’s orders, slaughtered half the guests at a wedding party, kidnapped the bride and hid her in a brothel. Paying good money to make sure she worked behind the bar and not on her back. Of course, I stole the money from the guests at the party in the first place.

So it wasn’t that big a deal.

Only I still haven’t got round to telling Anton or Debro.

They think I hunted down their daughter out of the goodness of my heart and hid her away. Sometime or other they’re going to start putting facts together and work out what really happened.