Fear the Darkness (17 page)

There was the sound of a shot from within the apartment. Acting on instinct, Anderson dived for cover - her reflexes saving her life as a bullet blasted through the wall in front of her from inside the apartment and missed her head by a matter of inches. There were more shots. One. Two. Three. Four altogether, drilling a line of holes through the apartment wall as the gunman inside adjusted his aim to track her movement.

"Rapid Fire - Armour Piercing!" Lying prone on the floor where she had landed, Anderson activated her Lawgiver's ammunition selector by vocal command and returned fire. It looked like the entity could sense her, all right!

Firing blind, making a best guess estimate on the shooter's position inside the apartment, Anderson responded with a salvo of shots through the wall. It was instinct, as much an automatic reflex as diving for cover had been earlier. She was a Judge, and when Judges were shot at, they shot back. Remembering why she had come here, Anderson stopped firing. She wanted the perp alive.

Rolling to safety alongside the wall of the nearest apartment down the hallway, Anderson reloaded her Lawgiver and considered her next move. There were no more shots. Next door, the gun of the shooter in Apartment Eighty-Eight-A had fallen silent. Could be he's biding his time and waiting for me to come at him again, Anderson thought. Then again, maybe I hit him and he's bleeding to death, if he isn't dead already. She listened, then crawled slowly toward the apartment and laid her palm against the farthest edge of its wall. Nothing. She could not sense anything from inside Eighty-Eight-A.

Lot of good this does me. Stymied for a moment, she felt frustrated. It might just mean the perp's moved further back from the wall, or the entity's got better at blocking my powers. She reviewed the situation. She had the perp cornered in an apartment on the thirty-eighth floor with no way out. The only problem was, assuming he was still alive, she had to go in there and get him - along the way contending with whatever the hell it was kind of hand-cannon the futsie had used to shoot at her through the wall in the first place. If she had been a Street Judge, there might have been other options. She would have been carrying a couple of stumm gas rounds - designed to incapacitate rioters - in her utility belt, not to mention being equipped with a respirator inside her helmet. But she was a Psi-Judge, and in common with most Psi-Judges, Anderson did not wear a helmet - they tended to interfere with psychic powers. Without a helmet and respirator, carrying Stumm gas rounds had always seemed a waste of time to her.

Until now, she thought wistfully. What I wouldn't give for some Stumm right about now.

"Hey, you in there," she shouted, hoping the futsie was listening. "You are surrounded. Surrender now and you won't be harmed. Throw out your guns, then come out with your hands in the air."

She listened again, but there was no response. Inside, the apartment was silent.

Damn. She shook her head. That always seems to work when Dredd does it. Maybe next time I see Old Stoneface, I'll have to ask him for some pointers.

"Anderson to Control." Taking the radio mike from her belt, she turned down the volume and whispered into it as she pressed the "send" button. "Requesting backup. I have the futsie cornered - he's holed up in Apartment Eighty-Eight-A on the thirty-eighth floor. I could do with some Stumm gas up here. Over."

"Roger that, Anderson." With the radio's volume turned down, it was hard to hear if there was a note of "I told you so" in Control's voice now she had asked for backup. "Have relayed your request to the other Judges at the scene. They are en route to your location. ETA: three minutes. Be advised I have contacted Sector Chief Franklin and you have his authorisation to take full operational control of the situation. Over."

"Acknowledged, Control." So Franklin backed me after all, she thought. Better late than never, I suppose. "Thanks for the update. Anderson out."

Three minutes. Given the situation, it seemed to her then that it might as well be a lifetime. Inside the apartment the perp was wounded and could be dying, assuming he was not dead already. He could be bleeding to death. Right now, the perp might not have three minutes left - never mind the time it would take to get an assault set up, use the Stumm gas, then get him some medical treatment. No, every second counted. She needed the perp taken alive for questioning, and three minutes was just too long to wait.

To hell with the Stumm gas and backup, she thought. Guess I'm going to have to do this one the hard way and hope for the best.

Her decision was made. It looked like she was going to have to go through the door alone.

Jeffrey,
the voice whispered to him, quietly at first.

Jeffrey.
The voice grew louder and more insistent. There was an edge of anger to it now.

Jeffrey!
It screeched at last, the sound in his head unleashing a stabbing pain like ten thousands migraines at once.
Stay awake!

"Please..." Jeffrey whispered back to it in the darkness. "I'm so cold, so tired... Please let me sleep."

No, Jeffrey
. The voice was relentless and brooked no argument.
You will stay awake. The psi-bitch is coming, Jeffrey. You must kill her before you can sleep.

He was huddled in a small space, cold, shivering, cramped, in absolute darkness. The walls of his confinement were so tight around him, Jeffrey found he could hardly breathe. There was a humming in his ears. He had lost the Magnum, and in its place he could feel the weight of another gun in his hand - the metal so chill and frozen he could barely stand to touch it. He wanted to let go. His body hurt so much, he was so weak and tired. He wanted to rest, but the voice in his head was no longer his friend, his guide or his guardian angel. He wanted to sleep, but the voice would not let him.

Stay awake, Jeffrey
. The voice was cruel to him. Heartless. Too late, Jeffrey realised it did not care whether he lived or died.
Stay awake. Kill the psi-bitch. Then you can sleep.

"Please..." His own voice was so hoarse and pathetic he could hardly recognise it any longer. "Please..."

Shut up, Jeffrey.
The voice could not be reasoned with. Its concerns were not his own.
You are talking aloud again. Shut up. The psi-bitch is coming. She will hear you.

Cold. Pain. Discomfort. Darkness. Jeffrey could no longer remember where he was or how he had come to be there. His memories seemed strange to him now: a shifting and indistinct shadowplay obscured through a black veil of incomprehension. He had been sitting in the chair in the apartment, firing the Magnum. But what had happened next? He remembered the sound of gunshots and the holes appearing in his side of the wall as the Psi-Judge fired back at him. He remembered the bullet hitting him in his chest, his legs moving in an uncontrollable reactive spasm that had pitched him out of his chair. He remembered crawling across the apartment floor as the voice in his head whispered something to him about finding a hiding place. After that he drew a blank. His memories failed him. He could not remember how he came to be trapped in darkness, his knees up against his chest, the walls of his prison close around his shoulders, his head bent forward as he felt cold tears running down his face. There was only the present. The discomfort. The pain. The darkness.

The fear.

Stay awake, Jeffrey
, the voice whispered to him. It frightened him now. He was powerless to resist it.
The psi-bitch is coming. Stay awake.

He heard a muffled crash, distantly recognising it as the sound of the apartment door being forced open. There was a long pause, then he heard the sound of footsteps drawing nearer. Closer. The footsteps grew louder. Closer. Someone was headed his way. Closer...

Soon, Jeffrey
, the voice crooned eagerly in his head.
Soon it will all be over. Kill the psi-bitch and then you can sleep.

Anderson kicked in the door and leapt into the apartment. She went into a forward roll, coming to a stop beside the sofa in the living room. Staying low, she used it for cover. So far, so good. No shots. No movement. No reaction. Either the perp was biding his time, he was too badly wounded to fire, or he was dead already.

All right, Cass. Keeping her head down, Anderson listened intently to the sounds of the apartment around her. So you managed the hard part - getting into the apartment without having your head blown off. Time to track down your perp.

She heard the distant hum of a refrigerator and the slow tapping sound of water dripping in the distance - nothing there to help her home in on the futsie. Cautiously, Anderson reached out with her psychic senses, careful to tread the fine line between accessing the psychic world and completely losing track of the more immediate dangers of the physical world around her. But it was no use. Try as she might, she could detect no sign of the futsie. It was the same impasse she had faced earlier: it could either mean the futsie was already dead, or simply that the entity had become more skilled at hiding him from her. If she was going to find him, it seemed like she was going to have to do things the old-fashioned way.

She moved, leaping across the space between the sofa and the nearest available piece of cover - an easy chair. Next, she moved towards a table - checking the living room metre by metre, vantage by vantage, as she tried to draw the perp from hiding. Then, coming to another easy chair that was tipped on its side on the floor, Anderson saw that its back was stained with fresh blood while a blood trail led from the chair towards the kitchen.

"Anderson, Psi Division!" Staying in cover, she shouted toward the kitchen, hoping to attract the perp's attention. "I know you're injured. Surrender now and I'll see to it you get medical attention ASAP. You hear me? Throw your guns out. Let's end this thing now."

So much for that idea, she thought as the seconds passed and it became clear there would be no response from inside the kitchen. I suppose, considering he's been shot three times already, there wasn't much chance I'd be able to scare him into surrendering just by shouting at him. Still, it was worth a try.

Running to take cover by the side of the door leading from the living room into the kitchen, Anderson snapped a glance inside the kitchen to make sure the room was clear before moving through the doorway. The kitchen was a mess. There was water all over the floor and it had washed away the blood trail, obscuring the perp's track-of-movement. Noticing that the water seemed to be seeping from a cupboard underneath the sink, and spotting a bullet hole in the cupboard door, Anderson realised one of her armour-piercers must have shot through the living room wall and hit the apartment's water pipes. She noticed wire shelves and spilled food cartons lying in a jumbled pile in front of the refrigerator. There was blood on the handle of the refrigerator door.

The fridge doesn't look big enough to fit someone inside it, she thought. Could be a decoy - maybe he's hiding somewhere else and wants me to try the fridge to give him a clear shot. Then again, he could have been desperate enough to stuff himself inside the fridge and risk freezing to death. Guess there's only one way I'm ever going to be certain.

She moved closer, hearing the wet sound of her own footfalls echoing around the kitchen. Closer. Her Lawgiver ready in her right hand, she stretched out her left towards the refrigerator's door handle. Closer...

Now!
The voice screamed in sudden urgency, the sound cutting through the fog of Jeffrey's confusion and spurring him to action.
Now! Kill her, Jeffrey, kill her now!

It happened so quickly. She heard a strange voice screaming inside her mind.
Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!
Then, as the voice's insane mantra reached a crescendo, the refrigerator door sprang open as the perp emerged from hiding. Stopping the door with her palm, Anderson put her entire weight against it to force it shut, catching the futsie half out of the refrigerator, his arms caught between his body and the inside of the door as the two of them pushed from either side against it. She saw the futsie's mouth open, his eyes wild, his voice screaming in pain and rage. She heard her own voice ordering him to drop his weapon. She felt the strain as the contest of strengths continued. She saw the futsie work his left arm free. She saw the gun in his hand: an antique semi-automatic pistol, grey and deadly. The gun turned toward her in slow motion, the barrel a yawning black chasm, ready to swallow her life whole. She saw the barrel moving closer. Her own gun was caught underneath her, jammed against the refrigerator door as she fought to stop the futsie from freeing himself. Closer. The futsie fired too soon, the shot going high and wide past her shoulder. Closer. He was getting ready to fire again; another micro-second and the gun would be pointing at her head. Closer. Too close. She did what she had to and pulled the trigger of her Lawgiver. Rapid fire, the sounds of the firing muffled as she pressed the barrel against the refrigerator door and shot through it at the futsie.

Six bullets. Staring death directly in the face she could have fired a thousand.

Six bullets. She saw the face of the futsie: shocked, confused, an expression of understanding slowly dawning as he realised he had been shot. She saw the gun fall from his hand as his fingers went limp. She saw him spit up blood, leaving a red stain on the clean white surface of the refrigerator door. She saw his head loll back, his features going slack. He was dying. She stepped back, releasing the door without thinking. With nothing left to hold him in place, the futsie's body pitched forward, spilling out of the refrigerator to land on his side before rolling onto his back. He looked up at her, eyes glazing over, mouth huffing out ragged and incomplete breaths. Anderson knelt beside him and saw a tight group of six entry wounds in his torso alongside the wounds of his earlier injuries. Six bullets. Six hits. She had hit the target with every shot.

"Please..." A low moan escaped his lips. His breathing became shallow and laboured. Pulling off her glove, Anderson laid a hand across his forehead. It was not a gesture of comfort. She could do nothing to help him now - the futsie was as good as dead - but if she was going to understand what had happened here, she needed to see his memories. She needed to read his mind, preferably while he was still alive. She needed to-