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Benny slunk through what remained of the bar crowd. In his hip
pocket were a few credits, and under his arm a couple of pounds of meat and deep
fried potatoes. The potatoes were from Mitch’s aquaponics unit fed by
wastewater stolen from the city sewers. Everything went through worm beds and a
methane digester, so it was sterilized before it got to the plants.
Dolores bemoaned the fact they still had to buy hundreds of pounds
of soy meat and vegetables, but that was the law.
Behind Benny, the shon:gili
stood, stretching and yawning. He slipped along behind to the door.
Carl screamed. He forced the shon:gili
to stop. The demon grabbed Carl, shoving him deep in the pit, and the shon:gili
trembled. He whimpered but obeyed the demon. Tensed, he readied himself to
pounce.
A small glow appeared over the ruins to the east.
The sun, the sun, the
demon cried.
The east was showing a little light. Darting through the
neighborhood, the shon:gili raced
through the streets to a main road that cut broad and arrogant through the city.
Littering the streets were the dead husks of abandoned cars and trucks. The
pavement was cracked, broken under his feet.
He came to a building that was bright with light and reeked of prey.
Pennsylvania Convention Center. Razor wire surrounded it, and every
window was covered with steel bars. Whispers of pain and death came from the
building. Drooling, the shon:gili
slunk away from the lights and the blisters that were guards among guard shacks.
A dog began a hysterical screaming. The other guard dogs began to yap and cry
warnings.
Moving with more care, the shon:gili
ran till he found the courthouse.
Guards surrounded it ten deep. The men were in riot gear and armed
with lasers.
The demon forced the shon:gili
into the alley. He slid away, and Carl collapsed, shuddering and shivering on the
wet pavements.
Carl rolled over to vomit. His guts heaved, but the stomach was
empty.
Four men marched into the alley. Light stung his eyes. Carl leaped
away, stumbling down the alley as the burst of energy dropped away.
“Carl Ivanovitch, halt. We’re to take you to the
courthouse.”
Holding onto the wall, Carl inched away from them. The gloved
hands that took him were gentle. He lashed out, breaking the skin on his
knuckles as he hit at the plastisteel armor.
“Come on," a man said. “It’s cool, Mr. Ivanovitch.
We’re here to help.”
They carried a raving, cursing Carl through the ranks of guards to
the rear of the courthouse. The sun hit the top of the building, and Carl wilted.
As tormenters dragged him kicking and shrieking into the black, scorching fires
of Hell, Carl heard the guard shouting for a medic.
Tommy stood next to the gurney. The corpse was strapped to it, the
blond hair a garish red with drying blood. Carl’s scarred features were
twisted in a look of horror and agony. Thrusting his hands in the wide sleeves
of the robes, Tommy smiled.
“Put it back in the freezer.”
The attendant glanced at Harrison.
“Sir? The Harvesters are waiting.”
Eyes hard on the scarred body, Harrison blinked.
“What?” He didn’t look away from Carl.
“Screw the Harvesters,” Tommy said, his voice dropping to a
cooler level. “This body is evidence in a case. Damn it, this is Sergeant Carl
Ivanovitch, the hero of the Battle of Bienaveinta. Do you have any idea how many
men he saved when he broke out of the concentration camp?”
“Sarge? Really?” Awe in his eyes, the attendant stared at the
corpse. He raised the left arm. Under it was a series of faded numbers and
letter. He glanced at the computer. The screen shuddered, then Carl’s face, a
younger, less harsh features, flashed. “Wow. It really is him.” He grimaced.
“I’m sorry, but the law is the law. All bodies belong to the government.
We’re in an energy crunch, sir, and Sarge,” one hand touched the flaccid
arm, “will be used to help alleviate it.”
Tommy nudged Harrison. The judge cringed, tearing his gaze from
Carl to show wide, frightened eyes.
“I . . . Yes, of course. I mean, he goes back in the cooler. It
will only be till tonight.”
Tommy slid away. The echo of Carl’s torment whispered into his
ears. While still a whore for Leda, Carl served the Owl, however unwilling the
man had been. He frowned, shaking away a spike of doubt. Did it matter? A thin
smile came over his face. He was young, not yet thirty. With modern medicine he
would live to well into the Twenty-Second Century. Eight more decades of life.
Hell, maybe forever, so long as he bowed to the dark.
“Come, Judge.” Tommy motioned for Harrison to move. Blood
drained from Harrison’s face, and he scurried after Tommy. Tones soothing,
smooth, Tommy said, “I believe you have several children you wished us to
personally question?”
The blood rushed back into Harrison’s face so hard he staggered.
The judge nodded, slipping around Tommy to a door.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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