James Knapp - State of Decay

“Hands over your heads! Do it!”

Luis’s went up the first time, I think, and I put mine up there too. This guy was tense, one hand on his gun when he came up. The other one was calling in.

“One vehicle, two passengers. Vehicle ID …”

The first one looked Luis over, then me.

“Where’s your ID?”

“In my jacket—”

I went to reach for it, and as soon as I moved my hand the gun went right in my face.

“Hands over your head!”

“Alright! Jesus—”

“Quiet!”

He unzipped the front of my coat and stuck his hand in, right to the lined pocket. He fished in there and pulled out my ID and both sets of knuckles. He checked the ID and scanned it, then looked back at his partner and shook his head.

“Negative,” the other guy said in the radio. “Both passengers were processed earlier today, and were stopped again across town less than an hour ago….”

The goon held out my ID and both pairs of brass knuckles as the black car slammed into reverse and rolled back out of the way. It took a second for me to get that he was giving me my shit back, even the brass. I took it and stuck the lot back in my coat.

“Move along,” he said. Just like that; no fine, no ticket, no speech, just beat it. He stepped back and I went through.

“What was that all about?” Luis asked when they were out of earshot.

“No idea.”

“Something must have happened. They’re looking for someone.”

“Not us.”

He shut up and didn’t talk again until we got to my street. The buildings were mostly dark there, the concrete black from smog and the windows broken or boarded. Rusted chain link leaned around empty lots where new graffiti covered old graffiti. One titty bar-slashwhorehouse had some of the last lit neon, along with some shit-hole martial arts dojo to the left and up. I took us through the concrete pylons holding up the maglev rails that crossed between the housing units, then down between the huge piles of brown ice and snow, mixed with piles of trash bags and dead cars.

“This is where you live?”

“Down here.”

I pulled into my unit and down the ramp to the underground parking area that held two cars that ran, one that didn’t, and my bike. I cut the engine, kicked it, locked it, and armed it.

“Come on,” I said, climbing off and heading up.

The kid looked like he changed his mind, but it was too late for that now. He held up okay in jail, but now he looked twitchy.

“Take it easy,” I told him. “You’re okay.”

He didn’t look sure, but he tagged along after me when I buzzed in the back door and turned the bolt. Another badge at my unit, two more bolts, then the security bar slammed down in its track behind the door and I shoved it open.

“Come on in.”

He made a face when he went in, like he just saw a rat or worse. He stood right inside in front of the couch and stared.

“This is where you live?” he asked again.

“Yeah. Fuck you.”

“No, I know. It’s just—”

“Whatever,” I said. “You want the tour? That’s the kitchen, this is the TV room, the can is through there, and through there is where I sleep.”

“It’s so small,” he said.

I thought of his bathroom and how huge it was. You could see my whole place from the front door. The kitchen had a half fridge, two burners, a sink, and that was it. The TV area had the couch, the TV, a weight bench, and a heavy bag in the corner. The can had a shitter, a shower with industrial plastic sheeting, and a sink with all plain metal and no colored soap.

“Can I use your TV?” he asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

He turned it on and flipped. Not long after, he found what he was looking for.

“…the site of what witnesses describe as a suicide bombing, in broad daylight, right in the center of one of the city’s restaurant districts.”

It was total mayhem. The camera looked over the crowd, where cops were pushing people back. People all up and down the street had blood on their heads and faces, and there was glass everywhere.

“That’s why the patrols are out,” he said. “Shit …”

“If a bomb went off there, why look here?”

“They must be following some kind of lead. Holy shit, look at that,” he said, sitting down on the couch.

It was bad; I had to say that. The place got blown to shit. There were dead bodies all over.

“…took authorities several hours to completely quell the ensuing riot, which resulted in many more injuries, deaths, and damage to local property and businesses. Initial estimates place the damage in the millions. Mayor Ohtomo and his administration have been quick to respond, with plans to deploy the National Guard to prevent looting and other crimes of opportunity until the area can be completely secured. Given the range and impact of this attack, that will be no easy task….”

Luis turned down the sound and got on his phone. He tapped his foot like a junkie.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m trying to reach Dr. Edward Cross, please.”

Someone babbled on the other end, but I couldn’t make it out.

“I know,” he said, “but it’s important. Would it be possible to have someone get him, or patch me through to the lab? I understand. You’re sure he’s there, though? He signed in? You’re sure he’s there? Okay, thanks.”

He hung up.

“Trying to reach your doctor?”

“He’s not that kind of doctor,” he said, eyes on the TV. “Anyway, he’s my uncle. Hey, you mind if I use the data miner?”

“The TV miner? Knock yourself out.” He typed away with his thumbs on the remote.

“You said you’d buy dinner,” I said.

“Sure, whatever you want.”

I watched him work the TV for a minute, until hits and lists popped up on the screen and he started typing in weird shit I’d never seen before and using stuff I didn’t know was in there.

“Don’t get me in trouble,” I said.

“I won’t.”

Promises.

People edged quickly past my desk as I checked for messages, and the normally quiet halls were filled with rapid-fire chatter. There was no word from Faye, Zoe, or any contacts that might provide a lead, just a battery of alerts and notifications marked high priority. A sweep was being set up that covered voice, text, and anything else they could think of. Any circuit that could have a tap shunted in was being monitored as computers sifted through the data, looking for leads. The scope of the effort was huge. So huge that just to get enough bodies on the street, an unprecedented number of revivors had been deployed to supplement foot soldiers at key points through the city. Whoever initiated the attack, they’d stirred up a hornet’s nest.

My ears were still ringing, and I could still smell the burned biochemical stink left behind by the revivor that had detonated the bomb. Nothing useful had survived, but pieces of it had been thrown as far as two blocks away. Fused components were being dug out of vehicles, concrete, and even victims caught in the blast. Initial reports indicated military-grade explosives in a configuration that maximized the blast radius, so whoever wired the revivor knew what he was doing. Despite the relatively small amount of charge, the force was devastating.

Getting out of the restaurant strip had been dicey. We were pinned down until riot control got there, and by then it was a war zone. The explosion had killed at least fifty-three people and wounded almost two hundred others; then another nine died in the riot that followed—five crushed or trampled, three from clashing with other citizens, and one choked with a police baton in the heat of the struggle. Even with escorts, getting Faye to the perimeter was a struggle.