Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 18
I think perhaps, though, I was most knocked out by the outro they concocted. It started with a still of me propped up there in a doorway, looking all stoic like I was Indiana Jones or something—then they applied a filter to the shot and transformed it into a minimalist watercolour portrait. Floyd Maquina: Deviant Hunter was ghost written in a nice script along the bottom and then the whole package faded to black.
Horse feathers that it was, I had to admit the show made for some riveting entertainment.
the fluff that dreams are made of
“Oi,” I heard a male voice rumble beyond the brightness. Were the CPs here to bust me now?
“Floyd, for fuck’s sake wake up.”
I came to exactly where I’d fallen asleep, with Hank’s pudgy face peering at me. He was uncomfortably close and I could smell the coffee on his breath.
“You.”
“Me.”
“Christ.”
“Not quite. But I can live with that.”
“Hey, a question. Am I wearing both my shoes?”
“Course you are.”
“Just checking. I was having the strangest dream.”
“Don’t care. Pull yourself together—it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to move and groove.”
“Oh, that. Really?”
“Yup.”
“Damn. I thought these Activities were over.”
“You were doing a lot of mumbling in your sleep, that’s for sure.”
“So, the Devs showed their faces, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s the wire on them?”
“Take a look. Down there, the west doorway” He pointed at the old department store across the road and handed me the infrareds.
“West—? How the hell am I supposed to know which way is west?”
“Alright, alright. The doorway on the left.”
“Ease off. I’m still asleep.”
“Don’t you know which bloody way’s left? Over there. I saw somebody. I’m sure of it. Waiting, I think.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Godot? How the hell would I know? Don’t ask me.”
“Fair enough.” After a bit of searching I was able to make out the outline of an arm, followed by a leg just below. Somebody definitely was standing there, just out of proper view. “A local?”
“Does it matter? We’ve still got to check it out.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. We need to get a move on.”
“At last!” I heard that maddening reporter declare from behind us.
We descended the rusted-up fire escape to the ground. My eyes were wrecked but the more I rubbed them the more they hurt. I followed Hank’s lead as he waddled down the alleyway and stopped at the corner, where I eased up behind him.
“What’s the score?”
“Dunno, why’re you asking me?”
“You want me to take point?”
“What is this, ‘Nam? Nah, I’ll go first. You look terrible, laddie.”
“Ta for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, anytime. Besides, if I’m heading up shop it gives me distance from the bozos on our tail.”
“Oh yeah—them.” I looked back to see the kid with the camera was stuck on the remains of a fallen wall, so I fell back to give him a good, swift tug, then dragged him along. He never once looked away from his eyepiece. We eventually managed to escort the dynamic duo across the road, down another alleyway, and to the rear entrance of the department store without making too much racket.
Once we sheltered there, the reporter manoeuvred himself in front of the camera, giving it his best angle. He was speaking conspiratorially into his microphone. “There’s a good chance that the Deviants are inside this very building—so, what happens now, Floyd?” He then turned the gadget to me.
“Now? Now you clam up.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me plain and simple.”
“And after that?”
“Then we go in and see.”
“And then, after that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“I see. How do you feel right now?”
“I don’t know. Shit-scared comes to mind.”
“Look,” Hank barked, “can we just get this over and done with? Why don’t you just keep your gobs shut from here on in, until we’ve got something news-worthy for you?”
“Of course,” Berman said. “Lead the way.”
Hank went to the door and pushed until it gave with a loud, grating sound.
“Shhhh!” cried Berman, the idiot.
Hank swung the door inward, very slowly, until there was enough room to squeeze through. I took my gun from its holster and cautiously followed him in. It was a bit dark in there so I hooked on an infrared. We were surrounded by boxes, overturned counters, and broken mannequins. The linoleum and carpets that once covered the floors had been uprooted and left in haphazard piles.
“What are your impressions, Floyd?” Berman just wouldn’t shut up.
“Listen—and this is important—I can hear you. Which means they might be able to, too. And they have guns and want to kill you even more than I do.”
Berman held his hands up in an exaggerated expression that indicated he understood. The room widened and Hank and I spread out, separated by a small pool of stagnant water in the centre of the room. As I brushed past a mildewed curtain, a big fucking rat scuttled away. Hank went over to where it had been and picked something up. He held up a gnawed condensed milk tube that looked newer than anything else around there.
We found the Controller in a corner of the building. He’d been crucified and disemboweled. The entire scene was gore central, staged for maximum shock value. None of this made any sense—Devs don’t usually grandstand. Berman and the camera kid were aglow as if they’d just won the lottery.
We proceeded to the middle of the massive room, where there was a grand old fountain that’d graced the once grand old department store. The beautiful marble was chipped and cracked now. It’s a wonder nobody thought to dismantle the whole thing—marble wasn’t exactly common nowadays and could probably fetch a fair dime as salvage.
After a search we found a staircase tucked behind a door that read ‘Employees Only’ through the grime. The occasional broken step indicated it had seen some use since the department store’s downfall. Hank headed up the stairs and I followed him. The kid stood at the bottom of the stairs, filming our ascent, and I would’ve preferred to leave him there, but it was safer to keep him within reach—thereby to throttle him, if need be—so I beckoned for him to follow.
It was immediately evident this floor was used for administration and storage. The Third Man came to mind—specifically, its visuals of Vienna’s claustrophobic underground sewers. The ceiling was a virtual irrigation system with rain pouring through everywhere, and the floor felt like it could give out under our weight. I was surprised the building hadn’t collapsed yet.
I heard a loud crunching behind me. I spun about, zeroing in on our camera boy. He’d put his bloody foot through the floor and was standing there, stuck fast, with a stupid grin plastered on his face. My gun was trembling in spite of my two-fisted grip—this place was getting to me. It’s okay, I told myself. Stay calm. Stay cool. Relax. Chill, Floyd, chill.
Then I heard Hank yell “Christ!” as he splashed over towards us. He didn’t make it. A muzzle flash erupted from my left and Hank’s bulk was lifted up out of the water at least a metre before he crashed back into a wall. He dropped to the floor and lay there thrashing about in a pool of filth.
Shit. Shit. I looked over to see Berman had thrust his hands high in the air in some kind of ludicrous gesture of surrender as he hopped about and shrieked. The camera kid, his foot now free, was spinning in circles, still filming.
Jesus god, my brain hammered. It’s a mad house. Move, Floyd. Move!
I broke towards the kid, grabbed him by the throat, thrust him towards some overturned desks, and held him down. I violently motioned at the reporter with my gun. He quieted down, but his arms were still in the air. I released my grip on the boy. He sunk to his knees beside me and rubbed his neck.
I could hear Hank moaning. Shut up, I thought, shut the fuck up, and then instantly regretted it. It could’ve been me. I wanted to rush over to Hank but there was no way I’d make it, there was too much area to cross. What the hell could I do? I remained where I was, crouching stock-still, as rain from above washed across my forehead and ran down my face. Damn. I heard someone talking over the rain and looked out from cover to see Berman was still standing where he had been but was now stammering a running commentary into his mic. He was close enough to get to Hank.
“Hey, you fucking arsehole! Help him! Get him the hell outta here—now!” He stared at me, then finally moved to grab Hank’s shoulders and started to pull him through the filth and debris into cover when another burst of gunfire cut Hank’s struggle short. Berman fell backwards and scrambled away. The camera kid filmed the whole thing.
Concentrate! At least one armed Dev was close by, probably more, so let’s call it five. That’s it, Floyd—breathe steadily. I took a quick peek from cover but saw nothing. Whatever. Concentrate. Breathe slowly. Take it easy. Breathe. That’s it.
Okay? Okay.
They definitely had Controller weaponry. Hank was wearing a flak jacket, yet their shots tore through it like paper and—fuck—never mind, shut it.
At least one had been to my left before, but they could be anywhere at this point. What now?
“Floyd! Are you all right? Floyd!” I spun about. It was the reporter, Berman, yelping from over near the top of the staircase. “Floyd! Answer me!” I didn’t answer. Breathe, I ordered myself. You’re hyperventilating again. Deal with this.
I heard footsteps splashing near us. The camera kid must have too, because he jumped up from cover and switched his camera’s high-powered spotlight on, illuminating everything.
What the fuck—?
Half blinded by the light, I saw a man standing only a metre or so away from me. The light had caught him too, he was covering his eyes with one hand while a bulky weapon—it looked like a Controller pistol—sagged towards the ground. I swung my gun under his rib cage and pulled the trigger.
The man’s entire midriff exploded behind him and he fell back into the water. He didn’t even scream. I grabbed his pistol and lobbed it into a pile of refuse, then surveyed the area as the kid’s spotlight panned back and forth. I tore off towards where the initial shots came from, catching some new cover against a corner and peered down a long hallway. The camera kid must have followed me, because artificial light filled the corridor and I saw a metallic glint in a doorway about five metres away.
I opened fire, three tight shots, then charged the door and caught sight of someone reeling backwards, apparently hit. He (or she) crashed through the planks covering a window and tumbled out. Another Dev darted from the shadows and leapt though the open window, chased by one of my rounds.
I started to head towards the window when someone hit me from behind, knocking the sense out of me. Then he was on me, hitting me. I was breathing in rancid water, gasping and gagging, but somehow managed to turn my wrist a fraction and fire the gun.
The bludgeoning stopped and his weight fell off me. Lucky fucking shot. I staggered to my feet, gasping for air. There was a big body at my feet, writhing in agony. I put him to rest and gave the corpse a swift kick for Hank. That settled, I wiped his blood from my face then raced back down the corridor, reloading as I went. I flew past the camera kid and heard what sounded like a howl of victory as he took after me down the staircase. I made it back to the ground floor, hurdling every obstacle in my path, and scrambled out onto the open street.
The Dev I’d shot, the one that’d fallen through the window, lay sprawled out across the gutter. He was as dead as a doornail, his back apparently broken for good measure, and the rain splashed across dully staring, washed-out eyes. Then I spotted the other Dev, the one who’d jumped, hobbling off about twenty-five metres distant. She was clearly a she. I aimed my gun at her back.
“Stop where you are!” The Dev quickened her pace.
I felt a presence beside me. The kid. He was filming me, then slowly panned down the street towards the Dev. “Shoot, man! I’ve got a brill long-shot, but you’ve gotta do it now! Shoot! Blow her away! Do it!”
“Fuck you.” I slowly lowered my gun.
“Huh—?” He looked up from the camera’s eyepiece. “What’d you say—?”
“Fuck you.”
“Are you kidding?”
“You heard me. I’m finished.”
“You’re shitting me. You can’t do this, man—the cunt is getting further away and we’ll miss the shot altogether! Go after that Dev! Kill her!”
The woman turned back to look for a second, then hit a corner and disappeared.
“The last one got away. Outta range. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“That bitch shot up your fucking partner!”
“No. No, I nailed that one.” I holstered my gun.
“Indeed.” The kid’s voice suddenly changed, taking on a sophisticated inflection. “Seeker Two-Seven-Two-Seven, this Test is over.”
Man oh man. Had it really been three months since the last one?
the salt of the turf
I hear the crackly announcement for my stop and pry out onto the platform just as the doors swing shut behind me. I work my way through the station and emerge in the crowded street. I get myself to Ziggy’s bar and manage to produce a thumb’s up before I head into the bathroom.
I often feel as if there’s a great black bird perched on my shoulders, casting its pall over everything I see. It’s there now. I splash cold water on my face in an attempt to push back some sense of reality. The bird is still there in the mirror, mocking me. I hate myself more than ever.
I collapse into one of the stalls, pull my shooter out, and level it at my temple. I toy with the trigger, testing the tension. I conjure up images of Dorothy and Hank and Colman and Ant. Then the girl I killed on Activities replaces them and a crowd forms behind her, all the people I’ve helped to Relocate. Laurel and Veronica are with them.
Someone else enters the bathroom and it sounds like they stop just outside my door. Then there is movement, I hear a click, followed by footsteps, the use of a tap, then more footfall and a door slamming. I drop the gun down to my side and press up against the wall for support. I haven’t even got the guts to top myself off.
I go out to the bar where I can drink myself stupid and forget everything.
I awoke naked on my couch with the telly blaring, and briefly debated getting up to make some coffee before settling on changing the channel. I stopped on a melodramatic voice-over declaring a Special News Bulletin. I yawned, trying to remember where I’d inadvertently hidden the painkillers.
The screen cut to a female anchor reporting that there’d been an explosion in the Dome, killing and injuring “dozens of people.” She then spent about five minutes reiterating that, really, they didn’t know a damn thing yet, but were more than happy to make up possibilities. The skirt rambled on for a bit longer, then disappeared into a sorry-looking ad for Hylax plastic brollies.
Within the hour it’s pretty clear that all of the TV stations have subscribed to a no-holds-barred feeding frenzy. Devs were now officially responsible for everything wrong in the world, even the queue at the shopping mart. They slip in a claim that a full ten percent of the population is Deviant, making for an estimated two million. A phone number runs along the bottom of every channel giving audiences the city over a chance to report their neighbour, their brother, their spouse.
When I was first conscripted into Seeker Branch the Dev rate was officially four percent but since then it’d almost tripled—and, meanwhile, the unemployment rate conveniently reduced by half. Correlating the two makes sense when you consider that people out of work and on the dole in excess of eighteen months are automatically reclassified as Economic Devs and promptly Relocated to become part of the other rate.
Every con has a mark, and the fatter the mark, the bigger the score. In this case, the mark seemed to be the entire population, which was about as fat as it got. So the burning question of the hour—what exactly was the con and what exactly was the score? I didn’t have all the pieces yet, but I had a twitchy feeling that somehow I’d ended up with a front row seat.
scone with the wind
“Those monsters did this!”
My mother, Iva, was soapboxing as per normal, this time over tea and scones. I’d accidentally got her started by pronouncing ‘scone’ like ‘con’, while she rhymed the word with ‘moan’. That dovetailed into some misbehaving I did when I was seven or so, which then led to the Deviant issue.
Dorothy glanced over at me, staying in the background as she silently sipped at her drink. She looked superb—her hair, lips, and nails were a shade of lime-green and her irises a darker moss-coloured hue. She seemed much improved.
Dot and I were over at the old crone’s place for Devonshire tea, which we fortunately all pronounced the same way. We were seated around a white table in her sun-room behind her massive apartment. It was filled with dozens of varieties of flowers and an expensive array of lighting that was much more effective than the sun, nowadays.
“I heard it on the news just before you arrived,” Iva continued. “They said a terrorist group claimed responsibility. What did they say they were called? The DLA? The Deviant Liberation Underground, I think—”
“That’d make them the DLU, then.”
“What?”
“They’d be the DLU—not the DLA—underground starts with a U.”
“Well—whatever the case—it’s an exceptionally terrifying situation. You work for the government, Floyd! Oh my god, don’t you know anything more about it?”
