Major Karnage (10 page)

Karnage looked around the room. All three Dabneycops lay
in varying stages of unconsciousness. The duffel bag lying by the
furnace caught Karnage’s eye. He opened it, revealing handcuffs,
chains, ropes, and other means of restraint, including—

“Hot damn.” Karnage held up the straitjacket. He smiled. “Looks
like it’s my size, too.”

He slipped it on. The heavy canvas felt good against his skin.
Like coming home. He cut down the sleeves with the bowie knife
from Tiny’s belt. The cuffs were cut much cleaner this time. It felt
more like a uniform than ever. He was growing to like this.

He cuffed Tiny and Chuckles to the furnace, and gagged their
mouths with the cut sleeves of the straitjacket. Sydney was another
matter. Karnage wrapped her in chains, ropes, and every bit of
restraining material in the bag. He stared at the unconscious form
of the captain. From the neck down she was wrapped in a cocoon of
rope and metal. But he still wasn’t satisfied.

“Frankly, Captain, I think I’d have to encase you in concrete
before I thought you were good and trussed up.” Karnage eyed the
empty duffel bag. “Matter of fact, I think I’d rather keep my eye on
you. . . .”

Karnage slipped the mummified Sydney into the duffel bag. It
was tight, but she just fit. Just as he was about to zip the bag over
Sydney’s face, he was hit with a pang of guilt. She deserved better
than this, a combat fighter like her. Definitely didn’t deserve to
be trussed up like somebody’s badly packed luggage. He gave her a
quick salute. “I hope you understand this ain’t personal, Captain.”

He zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“I want this son of a bitch caught.”

Riggs paced the front of the squad room. His reflection paced
back and forth across the mirrored visors of the men’s helmets.

“He’s a trained killer and he’s going to kill again.”

A voice called out from the back: “This wouldn’t have happened
if Sydney were in charge.”

A slight nodding of heads rippled out from the source. Riggs
tried to pinpoint who it was, but all he saw was his own angry glare
reflected back at him from the sea of mirrored visors. “Nobody’s
happy with how things have gone,” Riggs said. “There are a lot of
unanswered questions here. I’ve got three missing officers and two
missing prisoners. Did they help the prisoners escape? Were they
overpowered? Considering Captain Sydney’s skill as a fighter, that’s
doubtful. What’s her role in all this? We won’t know how much she’s
involved until we find her.”

An angry murmur coursed through the crowd. Riggs spoke over
it. “But our focus here is Karnage. He must be contained at all costs.
I want every available body on this manhunt. From disposal to
dispatch. Deputize them. Terrorize them. Whatever it takes. If they
got a pulse, they’re in on the search. Nobody rests until Karnage is
found. Do I make myself clear?”

A hand shot up in the back. “Shouldn’t we leave a skeleton crew
here, in case—”

Riggs exploded. “I will not have anybody sitting on their asses
and playing pinochle while that bloodthirsty maniac is on the
loose! When I say I want everybody after that sonofabitch, I mean
everybody!
Is that clear?!”

There was a begrudging murmur of assent from the officers.

“Good. Now get the hell out of here, and find me that bastard.
Dismissed!”

The squadron filed out, some of them grumbling under their
breaths. Their Dabby Tabby helmets seemed to mock Riggs with
their mirrored visor grins. A couple of constables glanced up at Riggs
as they left. He was sure they were giving him the evil eye. He tried
to record their badge numbers, but their arms were conveniently
covering them.

As the last of the men left the squad room, Riggs sighed. It was
supposed to have been easier than this. But everything had gone
wrong since he had accepted this assignment. No one had warned
him about Sydney. And then there was Karnage. He was crazier than
anybody had thought.

Riggs walked back to his office, thinking of his former
commanding officer running around the desert, shooting at
anything that moved while shouting about aliens.
The poor bastard.
Riggs felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe he could have done more to help.
Maybe . . .

As he reached the door to his office, Riggs heard voices coming
from down the hall. He ground his teeth. Nobody should have been
left in this part of the building. They should be out on patrol, or
packing their sorry butts into a patrol cruiser.

Riggs marched around the corner. A short, slovenly constable
hunkered over the door to the armoury while a second taller
constable leaned against the wall looking on, his foot resting idly
against a large duffel bag.

“Just what the hell are you two doing?” Riggs barked.

The short constable stumbled back, tripping over the duffel bag.
He fell to the floor. After picking himself up, he brushed off his illfitting uniform. “Uh, I—we, that is, uh . . . ah . . .”

The taller constable stepped forward and saluted Riggs.
“Constable Zuniga, Captain. Don’t mind old Chucky, there. He
always gets like this around Brass. Doesn’t stop him from bein’ the
best mechanic in the motor pool. Ain’t that right, Chucky?”

“I, er, uh . . .” Chucky looked from Zuniga to Riggs and back again.

“Why the
hell
aren’t you two out on patrol?!”

Zuniga pointed to the bag. “Chucky here’s got this hockey game
tonight, and he wasn’t sure if we’d have time to come back to pick up his gear, so we thought—”

“You
thought?!
Who the hell asked you to
think?
If I wanted
thinkers, I’d be commanding a goddamn think tank! I do the
thinking, you do the following. So when I say everybody goes out on
patrol, I mean everybody! No exceptions! Are you listening to me,
mister?!”

The only signs of emotion on Zuniga’s face was Riggs’s angry
reflection scowling back at him. “Heard every word, Captain,”
Zuniga said. He jerked a thumb at the armoury. “But before we go,
sir, you might be interested in knowing someone’s been tampering
with the lock. Sir.”

Riggs took a close look at the door. There was nothing left of
the biometric scanner but a gaping hole and a mass of wires. Riggs
ran his fingers through the tangle of wires. He pulled out a red and
green wire that had been carefully braided together. The hairs on
the back of his neck stood on end. “Stumpton.”

He rounded on Zuniga. “Is there anything gone? Anything
missing?”

Zuniga shook his head. “Haven’t had a chance to look, sir. We
were about to, but then you ordered us to—”

“Well look, dammit! Look!” Riggs kicked open the door and
barged in.

Tasers, goober guns, and goober grenades packed the shelves,
ripe for the plucking, yet entirely unplucked. Riggs let out a sigh of
relief. “Thank god. Nothing’s missing.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Zuniga said.

Riggs turned around. He found himself staring down the barrel
of a goober rifle.

“Just what in the—”

Zuniga fired. Riggs flew across the room. He slammed into a wall
of shelves. Guns and ammo rained down around him as the pink
expanse of goober swelled, pinning him to the shelf. His arms stuck
fast to his sides. He kicked futilely, his feet a good foot off the floor.

Riggs heard a beep from the back of Zuniga’s neck.

“Warning. Sanity Level upgraded to Frosty Pink. Please refrain
from violent behaviour.”

Riggs’s eyes went wide. “Karnage.”

Karnage stood to his full height and removed his helmet. His
voice dropped an octave. “You know, Roach, you’d think after
serving with me for so long, you might be wise to some of my tricks.”

Karnage aimed the goober rifle at Riggs’s head. “Or were you too
busy saving your own skin all the time to notice?”

Riggs swallowed hard. He adopted a calm, forceful tone. “Now,
John, don’t—”

Karnage fired. Riggs’s world filled with dark angry pink. Over
the crackle of the fast hardening goober, Riggs could just make out
the words, “That’s Major to you.”

With the entire force out looking for them, Karnage and Stumpton
marched through the halls of the precinct with impunity, saluting
the occasional security camera along the way.

“Where we going now, Major?” Stumpton asked.

“Camp Bailey,” Karnage said. “You know the Godmaster Array?”

“I do,” Stumpton said.

“Think you can operate it?”

“You’re asking a communications guy if he can operate a communications array?”

“You ever worked it before?”

“No, but I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“Good enough for me,” Karnage said. “Consider yourself drafted, Stumpton.”

“My friends call me Stumpy.”

“Does that mean you are offering me your friendship?”

“That I am, sir.” Stumpy put out his hand.

Karnage shook it. “Then I accept. Now let’s find ourselves some
wheels.”

The only vehicle left in the parking garage was the captain’s
cruiser. Stumpy hotwired it and the two of them took off across the
desert. To avoid roadblocks and patrols, Stumpy steered them out
into the open desert, avoiding the roads altogether.

“With hoverballs you technically don’t need roads at all,” Stumpy
explained, tapped the dash. “Just got to be a bit careful over the
bigger bumps. Don’t want to risk a flat tire.”

“You can get a flat with these things?”

“Kinda. You hit something hard enough, it can crack one of your
hoverballs. Or worse, shatter it.”

“How do they work, anyway?”

“The hoverballs?” Stumpy shrugged. “Nobody knows.”

“You ever crack one open before?”

“Oh yeah. Huge mistake. Nothing inside but nasty yellow gas.
Stinks something awful.”

Karnage pointed to the steering wheel. “Nice to see the cops get
steering wheels.”

“Good thing, too. Those DabneyNet hookups won’t let you leave
the road.”

Karnage looked at the mangled twist of wires that had been the
DabneyNet screen. “You sure they can’t track us?”

“Not without that antenna we ripped off. I’m telling you, Major,
we’re safe. They’ll never find us out here. Nobody even goes near the
old army base anymore. Not even the Dabneycops.”

“Why’s that?”

Stumpy shrugged. “Nobody knows. But that makes our job
easier. We can waltz in there and get that Godmaster Array up and
running without worrying about any Dabneycops breathing down
our necks.”

“Yeah.” Karnage wondered what else might be waiting for them
there. “How long before we get there?”

“Should get there by nightfall. You just relax, Major. I got
everything under control. Shit, you look like hell. When’s the last
time you slept?”

“Does being knocked unconscious count?”

“Nope.”

“Then it’s been a while.”

“Maybe you should try and catch a few zeds while you can. Be all
fresh and prepped for the mission ahead.”

“What about you?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t felt this alive in years. I feel like I’m
just finally waking up, and I’m loving every minute of it.” Stumpy
gave a holler and pumped his stump.

Karnage smiled. He settled back in his seat, and closed his eyes.
It was good to be back out under the sun again. And this time with
purpose. He had a plan. He even had a platoon. Sure, his platoon
consisted of a solitary one-handed rifleman, but it was a start.
Progress was being made. He’d save his troopers yet.

Cookie. Velasquez. Heckler. Koch. Just sit tight. I’m comin’ for
you. I’m comin’ . . . . ”

Riggs blew his nose again. The tissue still came away pink. His body
ached from being pinned against the shelves for so long. It had
been hours before they had finally found him—another couple of
hours before he was finally goober-free and sitting back at his desk,
blowing pink goober into a thousand and one tissues, dreading the
moment when that phone would finally ring. All the promises he’d
made. The reassurances he’d given. How was he going to explain all
this?

There was a knock at the door.

“What is it?”

Murtaugh stuck his head into the office. “Someone from head
office here to see you.”

Riggs’s heart dropped into his stomach. They had skipped the
phone call and gone right for the face-to-face meeting. He smoothed
the wrinkles out of his uniform. “Send him in.”

A man in a chauffeur’s outfit entered the office, his coat buttoned
from knee to collar. The visor of his cap sparkled. His boots shone.
He wore elegant black gloves that came up to his elbows. Giant inkblack driving goggles covered his eyes. His tightly pursed lips carried
the barest hint of a smile, as if he was amused by some private joke
that only he was privy to, and had absolutely no desire to share with
anyone else. He looked like a military officer come to deliver Riggs
to his court martial.

“Captain Riggs?” The chauffeur extended a gloved hand towards
Riggs. “I’m Patrick, Mr. Dabney’s representative.”

Riggs took the outstretched hand. “You’ll pardon me if I ask
which Mr. Dabney you’re here on behalf of?”

The curled lips parted slightly—the movement reminded Riggs
of a straight razor slicing open the soft white belly of a corpse—and
Riggs caught the barest glimpse of teeth.

“Of course,” Patrick said. “There are so many of them running
around that it’s hard to keep track. I’m here on behalf of Mr.
Steve
Dabney. Doubtless you’ve heard of him?”