|
Mike held a sagging Creel and waited for their cab. It would be
easier to bring a car or their own vehicle, but the city herr-mayor put his foot
down. No car could be driven through a Dead Zone.
The cab whispered over them and settled to the street. Mike threw
Creel in and climbed into the seat. He strapped the skinny man fast, then pulled
the nets around himself.
“Juvenile Court.”
The cabby grinned. “He looks a little old for that, you ask me,
bud, but it’s your cred.”
The cab shot away with resistors whining in the seat, trying to
keep the pressure from killing them all.
Mike closed his eyes. What a night. What a wasted piece of
scheisse, hanging around waiting on a girl that never showed.
The gurney slid back into the freezer and both doors slammed shut.
Wearing the scarlet coat-of-arms of the Harvesters, a man in black body armor
stalked in.
The attendant shook his head.
The black face shield slid up showing bared teeth and quiet fury.
“Screw that, creep,” the Harvester said. “Even a judge
ain’t above the law. The meat goes to the chop-shop.” He pulled a hand unit
computer and shoved it at the attendant. “Sing to me.”
With a grimace, the attendant leaned forward.
“Morgue Attendant Corporal Jarvis, reporting. One male,
Caucasian, age appearing to be thirty. ID: Ivanovitch, Carl Ignatius, Sergeant.
Record states honorable discharge from the Marine Corp of the United States of
North American Directorate and the United Nations. Deceased and body released to
the Harvester Unit Three-Oh-Three, City of Philadelphia, State of Pennsylvania,
North American Directorate under the UN Charter.”
Face sour and his eyes glancing in the direction Harrison took,
the attendant shrugged.
The Harvester clapped him on the shoulder.
“Ain’t a prob, man. That pinhead can’t screw with us.”
“Yeah, but what about me?”
Laughing, the Harvester opened the door. Cold air drifted down to
curl around the booted feet.
“Gurney, out. Go to the rear for pick up.”
The gurney slid from the freezer and rolled to the doors, pushed
through and the Harvester followed.
With a sigh, the corporal sat at his desk, staring at the
statistics that made up Carl’s life.
Under his breath, he muttered, “Pinhead grave robbers.”
Over a thousand men were dying in that camp. Ivanovitch somehow
escaped. Instead of making good his freedom, he joined up with independent
guerilla forces and returned to save the men. Congressional Medal of Honor.
Purple Hearts, Medal of Valor, and more. A lot more. The guy deserved to be
cloned, not turn into methane or feed for the Party bosses’ pets in the
municipal zoo.
The attendant started to rise to stop the Harvesters and too hell
with their regulation.
The bottom scrolled up and he stilled, his jaws sagging.
It was a death certificate, and the date was a lot of months ago.
“Harvester Unit 3-0-3.”
A green light flashed on the gurney. It rolled over the dock to
the truck and moved in. The unit dumped the corpse on a pile of other bodies and
backed out, returning to the morgue.
Jumping from the dock, the Harvester floated to the ground. The
second the boots touched the pavement, the suit shuddered, and he was frozen,
cursing the unit.
There was a small hiss, and it relaxed. Jumping to the door, he
bounced in and in the driver’s seat, startling the two men with him.
“This is the last. Let’s go find some hoes, yo.”
Shrill whistles rent the cab’s interior, and the truck bounced
over the broken cobbles and past the outer guard shack. A new window was being
installed, and two men stood at stiff attention with the face shields down and
rifles held at-arms.
They rolled down the street, wandering between broken concert
pylons and stripped carcasses of vehicles. Groups of men in day-glow orange
uniforms and black collars were heaving the vehicles from the road. One group
was collecting bodies from the night’s entertainment, and burning the
skeletons of plague victims. More were stumbling along under the whips of city
police.
As they passed a glaring red house, the one on the passenger seat
whistled. The truck slowed, and the driver pulled over. He showed an ID to a
guard.
Frowning, the guard said, “Who croaked?”
“Huh? Nah.” The Harvesters laughed. “Pleasure, not
business.” The driver leaned out of the cab to whisper, “I just ripped off a
judge. His boy-toy is room temperature, and he wanted to hang onto the pee-pee
for a while.”
Grinning, the guard motioned them into the building. The truck
roared down through the doors into the gloom of the garage. The Harvester found
a parking place near the exit door, but it was occupied. Tapping the unit code,
the driver scowled. The cars eased out of his way. He rammed the truck into the
space. In an automatic response to the signal, cars slid out from around them,
giving the truck more space.
In the rear of the truck the demon settled in to wait through the
day. One of the Harvesters, the guard with them, shivered, glancing at the
truck. He clambered out and stumbled but the resistors in the suit saved him
from sprawling on the floor.
“Shit,” the driver said. “Cold down here, ain’t it?”
“Not as cold as the morgue.”
Grinning, the men hurried away from the truck to crowd the guards
standing at the inner door.
In the recesses of the garage, rats crept away from the rich odors
of decaying flesh to hide and stare at the truck.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
|
