In Constant Fear (7 page)

I knew exactly how far that trigger needed to travel, that one more barely perceptible movement would end my life, but ya know something . . . ? It never happened.

Suddenly he got this look about him as if somewhere deep inside he'd just been dealt the most resounding blow. His body somehow contorted and twisted and he fell to his knees, his eyes gaping wider and wider, becoming colored and clouded, and then—
Jesus, what the hell?
—steam started coming out of them! His eyes were
evaporating
, the liquid inside boiling, and sure enough, they began to dry and crack, to smoke and finally burst into flame.

He gave the worst possible scream you could imagine, and you know what? . . . As his mouth gaped wide open, I could see down his throat—there were flames in there, too.

For some reason his companion blamed me, as if he thought I'd used some kinda invisible weapon on him. He came at me with his ax, swinging that big, shiny blade back and forth, intent on chopping me into pieces—but then he suddenly froze too, giving out with a cry of agony as the same thing happened to him: his eyeballs swelling and steaming, his entire body starting to smolder and burn.

I thought about trying to douse their flames, throwing water over them as they screamed and rolled on the ground—as much 'cuz I couldn't bear what I was seeing and hearing as any other reason—but it was too late, already they were starting to shrivel up like bacon in a pan.

At that moment, and thank God I did, I saw we had to get out of there, that the fire was spreading from the two guys and over toward the gasoline store. I tipped over the nearest drum and Gigi and me rolled it outta the door as fast as we could.

The limo was parked some distance from the barn and we didn't quite make it before there was this almighty
kerrumph!
and a rushing wave of hot air scorched the back of my neck as flames, metal and timber flew all around, and Gigi and me threw ourselves down behind our vehicle.

We had to wait there for the fire to die down, 'til I thought it was safe, then we rolled the drum back around to the other side of the limo, where the filler cap was. Jeez, those flames must've been quite something: there were blisters all along the paintwork of the limo like the body of some scaly reptile.

I managed to pour some gas in, but the drum was so unwieldy, and without a funnel, a helluva lot of it was ending up on the ground and starting to run in the direction of the barn. I had to continue pouring, all the while keeping an eye on that building trail of gas, 'til eventually I knew we had to get out of there, and pretty damn quick.

Wouldn't you know it? For the first time ever, that engine didn't start right away. Gigi screamed, her hand going to the door-button, but I pressed start once more and thankfully, this time the engine hummed into life and I stamped on the gas and swept outta that place with the flames chasing after us.

There was another explosion as the drum went up, another huge burst of intense flame, but d'you know what? That fire was nothing, not compared to what we'd seen start it.

What the hell—I always thought “spontaneous human combustion” was an urban myth, one of those things you hear about as a kid, but as you get older you realize couldn't happen. To actually
see
it, people bursting into flames like that—? Jesus!
How
, for chrissake?

I couldn't help myself—maybe I saw it as some kind of sentimental symmetry—when we got to the same lookout where over a year ago we'd said goodbye to the City, I stopped to say hello. Standing there with Gigi, wordlessly gazing down at that dark, intimidating sprawl, my thoughts drawn to the last time I'd stood there, when Lena had told me she'd gone blind again. How panicked I was, but how calm
she
was, almost as if she'd been expecting it.

We hadn't heard a whole lot about what'd been going on in the City since we'd gone over the mountains, and most of what we
had
heard was second- or third-hand. Jimmy spent some time trying to get a signal on his screen (and knowing him, he probably would've managed it eventually) but everyone else was so firmly against it, particularly Lile, who warned him that if he upset her peaceful world she would make his hell, that in the end he reluctantly gave up. Though now, going on some of the things we'd witnessed, what we'd seen back at that barn, maybe we should've kept ourselves better informed.

Spontaneous human combustion! . . .
Come on. There had to be a reason for it—and I wouldn't've minded betting we'd find it in the City.

The thought of returning to that place, all the bad memories it held, made me feel quite sick. As long as I live, I'll never forget those nights they came for us: the mass beating and screaming of the Specials as they cleaned yet another area of undesirables; the Dragonflies thundering overhead, the panic and fear as they drove everyone to that evening's hunting ground to be slaughtered—the old, the poor, the homeless and the sick, all those they regarded as society's waste . . . and of course, I had to deal with the hardest memory of all to shift: the death of little Arturo, the Mickey Mouse Kid.

You probably wouldn't be surprised to know that we'd thought about naming the baby after him. The kids, especially Gordie, were all for it. But, I dunno, Lena and me just felt that everyone should have their
own
name, be an individual, a memory in their own right. Arturo was a really special little guy and we didn't think he should be confused with
anyone
else, no matter how precious they might be.

“Drop me near the Square,” Gigi suddenly announced, gesturing over in that general direction.

I turned to her, momentarily confused. “What?”

“Somewhere around that way.”

“I ain't dropping you off anywhere,” I told her.

“Why not?”

“We gotta stick together.”

She groaned, plainly having a gripe, and it was all too obvious what.

“We don't have a clue what's been going on,” I continued, doing my best to head her off. “We gotta look out for each other—I need your help as much as you need mine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sneered, not hearing a word, only that I didn't trust her.

I turned and made my way back to the limo, a long and heavily exaggerated sigh issuing out from behind me, but at least she'd followed.

“So where we going?” she asked as the doors slid shut beside us.

I pulled away, rejoining the highway, for a few moments saying nothing.

“First there's someone I gotta see,” I told her.

Driving back down those hills and into the suburbs was one helluva barbed education. Unbelievably, there was still the occasional fire around, though why and what could be burning after all that time, I couldn't imagine. Surely all that hydrazine-derivative stuff that'd powered the punishment satellites was long gone?

There were a lot more vehicles around, people trying to go about their daily business, doing their best to keep things moving along, though it was soon obvious that notions of “normality” had taken a helluva disturbing turn.

The first one I saw, I'll tell ya, my stomach took the express elevator to the basement and hit the bottom with a real jolt. The posters weren't so much a surprise—Nora Jagger looking out all stern and steely, dressed in quasi-military uniform—nor the many screens showing videos of her performing various duties. What put the damn fear of God into me were the holograms.

They were everywhere: pedestrian squares, road junctions, cleared blocks where fires had once raged—these huge laser statues of Nora Jagger, probably thirty or forty feet high.

She looked so damn real, so damn menacing, and what I knew of that woman, some of the things I'd witnessed her do—well, to see her towering over us as if she was about to swallow us in one gulp, was something I could've done without.

“The Bitch is everywhere,” Gigi spat, never one to mince her words.

Whoever'd been in charge when we were last there was obviously gone, and I wouldn't want to guess at their fate. In fact, looking back on it, the process of her accession had obviously been well underway even then. We never saw anyone else, just assumed, but whatever Nora Jagger had been then, now she was obviously the very embodiment of Infinity: the public face. And Gigi was right, the Bitch really was all over: open spaces, blank walls, any place where her image
could be projected or hung, there she was, glaring down at us, daring us to do anything wrong.

The City was still surprisingly scarred; the after-effects of the fires, blackened and collapsed buildings, were everywhere. In some places it looked like it could've happened yesterday—nothing had been touched—but in the wealthier suburbs it was clear someone'd been put to work cleaning up. A little further on we got to see who: a large work-gang had been assembled, a motley group of the unwashed and unwanted, busy toiling away while armed Specials lounged about watching over them like guards surveying a chain-gang.

“Jesus,” I muttered, partly 'cuz of what was going on, partly 'cuz I couldn't believe we'd been stupid enough to return. I'd never felt such an overwhelming sense of submission, of a city under siege from within.

I turned to Gigi. No way was she gonna admit it, but she was looking distinctly frightened.

“You okay?” I asked.

“'Course, I am,” she said, as if I'd just insulted her in some way.

I nodded, doing her the favor of taking her at face value, swinging down Union, ignoring all the beggars at the lights.

“Where ya going?” she asked.

“Won't take long.”

“I wanna go to the house!” she protested, but nothing was gonna divert me from what I had in mind.

I hadn't told anyone, especially not Lena, but I had an ulterior motive for returning to the City. I knew there'd be no chance of seeing Doctor Simon at his home surgery, not with all its many layers of security, but I was hoping there might be a way at St. Joseph's, presuming he still did his two days a week there. All I needed was somewhere discreet where the two of us could have a cozy little chat.

Actually, it wasn't that difficult. I wasn't gonna risk going to his office or surgery, but I knew somewhere where I could pretty much guarantee he'd show up at some point. Gigi and me managed to bluff our way into the underground parking garage by pretending she was
my daughter and in excruciating pain, her putting on quite a show, me acting like an over-protective and possibly unstable parent. The guy did give the limo a bit of a look, but in a city where there was so much damage and destruction, it didn't seem to concern him that much, and yet another blood-curdling scream from Gigi finally prompted him to wave us through.

It wasn't hard to pick out the Doc's new auto; there was this big, elegant Bentley, looking all custom-made and optioned to the hilt. You could've lived in that thing for a coupla years and still not known your way around. I found a place almost opposite it, easing his battered old limo into the shadows in the corner, knowing he'd get a horrible shock when he saw it.

“You sure that's his?” Gigi asked, looking at the Bentley.

“Oh yeah,” I said, noticing the pools of water around it, that someone had cleaned and polished it 'til it looked like it was made of mirrors.

We didn't have to wait that long. A little after five, the familiar figure of Doctor Simon appeared from the elevator and walked briskly toward the Bentley, his clothes and his restored immaculate appearance belying that little trick Jimmy'd played on him the last time we saw him, removing his implant and changing his records so he was locked out of his privileged existence for a while.

I waited 'til he was almost at the Bentley, then jumped out and made my way over so I arrived as he was opening the door. The look on his face, the collapse of his jaw, was a real picture. I never said a word, just pushed him inside and immediately followed.

“Long time no see,” I said, closing the door behind me.

For a moment he was apparently too stunned to do anything, then his hand went to his inside pocket, presumably for some kinda security device. I immediately grabbed his forearm.

“Just keep them where I can see them,” I told him.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A history lesson—what the hell's been going on?”

He paused for a moment, still staring at me, then his expression started slowly changing and I could've sworn there was part of him
that was almost relieved to see me. “Lots of things,” he eventually replied.

“Like what?”

“Clancy,” he said, ignoring my question, “why the hell did you come back?”

“Various reasons.”

“You must've seen on your way in—?”

I nodded. “D'you still take care of her?”

“I've got no choice,” he replied. “She's insane.”

“This is gonna come as a helluva shock to ya,” I told him, “but you never needed to be a doctor to know that.”

“That was before . . . Now,” he said, “she's introduced all these emergency powers. She's in total control of every second of our lives. Everyone's
terrified
.”

“I'm not surprised,” I muttered, remembering the beating she gave me, how she'd damn near killed me with those special limbs of hers, the gruesome way she punished all those who disappointed her.

“And she's not the only one,” the Doc informed me. “Not anymore.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“She's got this elite Bodyguard—they've all got prosthetics.” He stared at me as if a little fascinated by the expression slowly appearing on my face.

“You're
kidding
 . . . ?”

“They had to choose between arms or legs; they weren't allowed to have both—just to be sure she'd always be the strongest.”

“They had their limbs removed too? How many—?”

“I don't know how many there are . . . Enough.”

I was damn near speechless: things were even worse than I'd imagined. The way I saw it, they'd only need about twenty or thirty of those damn mutants to take out the whole City. “Is she still searching for us?” I asked.

“Yeah, but she's had other things on her mind. She'll get to you,” he said, like it was nothing if not inevitable.

“Does she know where we are?”

“I don't know—maybe. I did hear you'd gone over the mountains.”

“Shit!” I groaned.

“Why did you come back?” he repeated, as if there was plainly no logical answer to that question.

“There's a lotta weird stuff going on,” I told him. “I wanna know why.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one, people spontaneously combusting.”

I told him what we'd seen earlier, expecting he'd be as shocked as we'd been, but he wasn't.

“Implants, I would guess,” he ventured.

“
Implants?
”

“They're doing a lot of experiments—that's what's been preoccupying her. She wants everyone to have one. At first it was voluntary: people were told it was good for their health, that this thing would sit in their body monitoring them, picking up any early warning signs of disease—”

“How the hell does it do that?”

“It can change form: sometimes it's solid, sometimes liquid, sometimes it seamlessly blends with the host tissue. Of course they launched it with a real fanfare, an Infinity campaign to convince us what a great thing it was—and free, too. Then stories started going around about what was
really
happening, that they weren't so much volunteers as guinea pigs, and suddenly no one wanted to know any more . . . that's when she
really
went crazy. She started sending out these snatch squads, taking people off the streets, kidnapping them from hospitals . . . prisons. They've been working on it day and night, constantly modifying the program, the moment they think they've got something testing it on any number of ‘volunteers.' As a result, there are hundreds of screwed-up experiments wandering around.”

“Right. Hence all the crazies?”

“They only let them go because they're so sure they'll find a way of making them respond later.”

“Respond?”

He glanced at me and I sensed that just at that moment he was completely on my side. “She's working on the removal of all free will.”

“
Jesus!
”

“If she gets her way . . . she'll use these things to control us all.”

“What about those guys who spontaneously combusted?”

“At a guess, some kind of variation of punishment implants.”

“Like the satellites?”

“Similar. From what I've heard they sit inside people and monitor what they do; ready to act, not just as judge and jury, but to hand out retribution the moment the host body breaks the law. Do something minor—petty theft, criminal damage—it'll make you feel sick for a while; do something more serious, it might give you months, even years, of chronic pain or unpleasant illness. Unlike the satellites, it doesn't take away your mobility, but something far more precious: your health. The ultimate deterrent is still the same: when those men were about to kill you, their implants simply executed them from within their own bodies.”