Biohell (20 page)

Dr Oz coughed. He wasn’t used to
pollutants. “Take a seat. You want a brandy?”

Ranger moved hugely to the boardroom
desk opposite Oz and eased himself into a chair, which buzzed, moulding to his
large frame. He removed his hat, allowing light to spill over his middle-aged,
unshaven face. His features were rugged, hair brown shot through with grey,
storm-cloud eyebrows shaggy, eyes a piercing blue. Mr Ranger smiled—but it was
a smile without humour. The smile of a predator; the smile of an unnatural born
killer.

“I only drink the whisky
nowadays. Good for the stomach, you understand.”

Dr Oz ordered a decanter of whisky
over the kube and Uma tottered in, long pink hair swishing behind her. She
placed a digital jade decanter on the table before Ranger. She giggled,
wiggling and looking coyly back over her shoulder as she exited the plush suite
in a cloud of Minx Jinx perfume.

Ranger poured a slug of whisky
and downed it. His piercing eyes fixed Dr Oz, who smiled, elbows on the table,
fingers steepled before him, face set in a mask of concentration.

“You have, of course, heard of
our recent explosion of biomod technology. And you must also have heard,
newswide, of the massive hacking, cracking and piracy racket surrounding our
premium organic upgrade device. A week ago, a Juggernaut Supply Train was hit
by a
very
specialist outfit. Stole two million chassis units.
Two
million!
If those sort of numbers were to flood the market...” Oz shook his
head, sighing. But his eyes were hard.

“You want me to find out who
robbed your components?”

“No.”

“What then?” Ranger looked
intrigued, sitting forward a little. He clamped his cigar between his teeth and
squinted at Dr Oz through a cloud of cancer.

“I have a...
special...
job
for you.”

Oz pulled a large black case from
under his desk, stood, and planted it firmly on the lacquer. There were twin
clicks, and Ranger stood and moved to peer inside.

“Do you know what these are?”
said Oz, as Mr Ranger’s eyes were lit by a strange and subtle green light.
Ranger leant forward, his hand bathed in green as he delicately touched the
three tiny, intricate, black machines.

“They’re controllers,” said
Ranger. “Latest military specification. Prototypes, in fact.” He eyed Oz
carefully, his lined face showing concern. “They control the new GKs—the most
advanced AI systems ever built by NanoTek... or any other micro
software-butcher. I didn’t realise they were finished.”

“You keep your ear to the ground,”
said Oz, neatly.

“I know my business,” said
Ranger.

“Officially, the GKs are far from
complete.” Oz smiled. “However, let us just say we are ahead of schedule. Now,
the friend who recommended you... she claims you will know how to operate these
machines? You can set them on a path to—kill. Yes?”

Ranger nodded, and closed the
case. The green curled around his fingers, like mist, then gradually
dissipated, evaporating. “I am
au fait
with all manner of mechanical and
digital killing machines. They are, what you could call, my,” he smiled with
cigar-stained teeth, “my
speciality.
But first, I need to discuss
money...”

Oz waved his hand, as if batting
away an insect. “I will triple your fee.” He sipped his brandy, which glittered
against ruby teeth. Ranger’s eyes widened, although his face showed no change
of expression. “Do we have a deal?”

Ranger shook Oz’s hand. Ranger’s
skin was rough and calloused; the hand of a
mechanic,
the hand of a
labourer,
somebody who labours to kill. It was a harsh contrast to the soft, supple,
ladylike touch of NanoTek’s
numero uno.

“Dr Oz. You’ve bought yourself a
killer.”

~ * ~

Ranger
had gone, leaving only the stale odour of cigar smoke. Tiny machines flitted
from the ceiling and darted about, purifying the air. Oz reclined, placing his
feet on the desk and forcing himself not to turn, not to stare, into that
darkened corner.

He did not hear her approach, but
his
other
senses, his intuition, told him she was behind. He shuddered a
little, and when her hand touched his throat he gave a shiver of delight.

“You liked him?”

“Yes,” said Dr Oz. “A fine
addition to our army.”

“So we are at war?” Her voice was
deliciously dangerous.

“All business is war,” said Oz.

“Indeed, as is all life.”

Oz nodded, and gently the woman
massaged his shoulders. He rolled his neck, savouring the iron-powerful grip,
and the skill with which she released tension from his over-stressed muscles.

“Do you think he’ll find them?”

She spun Oz around on his chair,
a sudden, violent movement. Wheels squealed against the floor. He gazed up into
the cold, grey eyes of his Chief Security Officer.

Pippa smiled, although there was
no evidence of humour, just a cruel upturning of her lips. “He’ll find Combat
K,” she said. “Keenan and Franco are dead men.”

~ * ~

Knuckles,
spaceship-thief, drugsmoke entrepreneur, wheeler and dealer and ducker and
diver, rough and tough, wiser than a prophet, harder than hardcore, bitter and
decadent and cynical before his time... well, he wasn’t having a good day. He’d
woken to an astonishing silence, a deep and foreboding silence above and
beyond
the clash and clatter of water-streams. He crawled from his slumberpit in
downtown Dregside, in the subterranean vault which nestled like cancer beneath
The Happy Friendly Sunshine Assurance Company, and heaved his lithe form from
the mouldy mattress, dodged streamers of leaking water and toxic effluvium,
eased his way beyond crumbling concrete pillars to the child-sentries who
guarded this, their secret underground domain. He approached Skull and Glass
warily; they didn’t respond, even when he gave a low warning whistle.

“Glass? Skudders? What goes down
dudes?” he whispered.

Slowly, Glass turned and through
the gloom, where white light painted shadows on the young boy’s face, Knuckles
could see...
terror.
Knuckles strode forward; he may only have been ten
years old, but this was
his
damn outfit, his den, his gang, his
world.
He grasped Glass’s shoulders. “What is it, bro’?”

“They... they, they...”

Knuckles stared at Skull. The lad
hadn’t moved. “Tell me!” he snapped.

“Outside! It’s the people. They’ve
been on a... a rampage. They’ve
changed,
Nuck. They’ve changed
bad.”
He
grabbed hold of Knuckles’ arm, his grip so hard it made Knuckles’ face compress
in pain.

Knuckles moved to the Plexiglass
sheet, stared up through an array of mirrors to the street a few feet above and
beyond. It sat, deserted. A hundred groundcars lay abandoned. Five or six still
had water-lithium engines running, fumes pouring from sub-tox exhausts. Many
sported open doors. The scene froze across the lake of Knuckle’s mind. It made
him shiver, ripples cascading the shores of his imagination.

“What’s going on? Where is
everybody?”

Skull faced Knuckles. “They
changed into zombies,” he said. “We got a Black and White News Clip.”

Knuckles barked a laugh. “Get to
hell. What a load of shit.”

“Seriously.”

Knuckles searched their faces. “This
is a wind-up, right?”

“Zombies,” repeated Skull. “I was
watching. There was a woman, in the street. She started twitching, squealing,
then she ripped off her clothes and people gathered round, clapping and
cheering and thinking it was a free peepshow! Then there was a
crunch
and
her face exploded on strings of tendon.” He shuddered. “It was horrible. Then
other people started to twist and change and blood and stuff came out of their
mouths.” He fell silent, tears running down his cheeks.

“What happened then?” said
Knuckles, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“They started to fight, and eat
each other, they jumped on the ones who weren’t changing and ripped out their
throats and brains. They used anything for weapons. Many had claws.”

Knuckles stared up at the
deserted street level. Squinting, he realised the scene was bathed in blood.
Puddles of crimson glittered under dull grey light. Smears adorned the hoods
and flanks of groundcars. Several limbs poked cheekily from behind tyres.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” said
Knuckles.

“We were frightened to move,” said
Glass.

“More importantly, now, where
have these
zombies
gone?” Knuckles looked from Skull to Glass, and back
again. Both boys shook their heads.

“We don’t know!”

“What do we do, Nuck?”

“Hmm.” Knuckles was frowning,
hand dropping to a velvet bag attached at his belt. He reached inside, where
ten small, smooth objects rolled over his hand with the tiniest of
clacking
sounds.
He rubbed them thoughtfully, brow creased in concentration.

“This place isn’t safe,” he said,
finally, with a nod. “We’ve got to get the gang and move them. Little Megan is
still ill, but we can carry her between us.”

“You think they might come here?”
said Skull, wide-eyed.

Knuckles nodded, glancing around
at the derelict cubescraper basement they inhabited. “It’s an open freeway,
mate. We have guards for early warning of other gangs and SIMs, but if what you
say is true—”

“Don’t you believe me, Nuck?”
Glass’s voice was tiny.

Knuckles patted him. “I believe
you. Come on, I know a way to the roof. Zombies are dumb, right? We’ve all seen
the movies. What was that latest one? Shaun of the Dead 29? The Remake
Remastered Director’s Final Cut v3.7? Ace film. Super. That scene with the
undead zombie dog and the lamppost outside the Winchester. Genius! But... these
zombies, hey, they’ll never find their way up to the roof, right? We’ll be safe
there. You’ll see.”

A scream, high-pitched and
chilling, echoed through the subterranean basement. It was inhuman, but quite
clearly produced by a human voice. A girl ran into view between the grotty
crates and grime-smeared cardboard containers; her hair was long and blonde and
curled, bouncing down her back. Her arms and legs were smeared in grime. Her
face was a mask of terror, eyes desolation.

“Sammy! What’s wrong?” cried
Knuckles, starting forward. And...

Something
leapt from the darkness, it was
long and sleek and naked, its body mottled brown flesh, eyes the yellow of
cancer pus. It had once been a man, but there was very little human about this
grime- and shit-smeared creature that landed lightly in front of the fleeing
girl, its body curling and swaying.

Sammy stopped, terror rippling
through her.

“Hey!” bellowed Knuckles, waving
his arms and starting forward.

The zombie’s head smashed left,
focusing on him with dead decaying eyes. A flap of skin was open on his cheek
showing yellow, broken teeth within the cavern of his mouth. Only then did
Knuckles realise the zombie carried a vicious curved blade, maybe two feet
long, serrated and black and stained with blood.

“Nuck?” wailed Sammy, pleading
across the darkened vault.

“Urh,” said the zombie, grinning
with two mouths, and slashed the blade at the little girl who stumbled back,
wailing. Knuckles stooped, hand closing over an old brick with brittle sharp
edges and he threw himself at the creature which turned, faced him, and leapt
to meet the challenge. The blade slashed past his face, and Knuckles dodged,
rammed the brick into the zombie’s face, knocking out several teeth which
clattered across the concrete like dice. The zombie was flung backwards, where
it rolled with a crack of splintering bones but came up fast and leapt again,
immediately, with a savage screaming snarl which sprayed blood over Knuckle’s
face and for a moment froze him in terror. There was intelligence there, in
that decrepit face, in those diseased eyes and the blade whistled a millimetre
from his throat and he smashed the brick again, but this time the zombie ducked
fast and kicked out, sweeping Knuckle’s legs from under him.