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Staring at the guard, the Harvester swelled, his face reddening.
He choked and motioned at Johnson to go around to the cab.
“Oh, yeah?” the driver said, his face and voice thick with
contempt. “Next time at the cat house, you can stay in the truck, hain’a?
You’re supposed to guard the stiffs, hain’a? So from now on you can sit in
the back and guard them.”
Scowling, Murf spat a string of words but joined him in heaving
at the door.
The second man went through the back of the truck. Crawling over
the pile of bodies, he stumbled of the arm of a corpse. One knee hit an
unresisting pillow of swollen guts. A roar shattered the still quiet as the guts
deflated and a rank stench filled the back of the truck. The man grabbed a mask
and popped it on, but the reek overpowered even the quiet hum of the filter.
“Piece of shit,” he said, frowning. The air was frigid here,
even more so than on the dock with its piles of frozen bodies awaiting the
grinder. Greasy drops fell from his brow and chin. He was sweating in the cold
air. As he stepped away to the door, the fingers of the corpse moved.
At the door he had to pull bodies away from the door. One,
somehow, managed to get an arm jammed through the canvas strap that was used to
close the door. He touched the flesh and stopped from cringing. It was clay,
like his grammy used to preach. All flesh is clay; dust to dust, ashes to ashes.
The body was stiff, and the joint in the elbow cracked as he
twisted the arm around. Then the fingers got caught in the strap, and he stomped
on them to free the strap.
The door rattled up and he was staring at the driver.
The driver frowned.
“You look like shit.” He backed away from the second
Harvester. “Smell like it, too.”
“Screw you.” The second man hopped out of the truck taking a
deep breath. “They’re all swollen and farting. We got to get rid of them and
like now, or we won’t get paid.
“Where the hell are the cons?”
The driver held up a small hand unit and pressed the call on the
computer. No one came running.
Scowling, he shrugged. A noise whispered from the pile of corpses
waiting their turn in the grinder. A tremor shivered up his face.
“What was that?”
The second man glanced at him.
“What?”
“Friggin pinhead.”
“Screw you.” The man stilled. Frowning, he glanced around.
“Where’s the jigs?”
The computer hissed.
Scowling at it, the driver touched a slight bulge in the helmet
over his ear
“They had a riot in the pens. The wolves went nuts, and the jigs
got nutty. We got to unload.”
Groans went up from the other two.
“And go back to the damned courthouse. A couple of kids were
questioned too close.”
“But it’s after dark,” Murf cried. “Shit, no.”
“Orders.” Face grim, the Harvester threw open the doors of the
truck. He grabbed Carl, dragging him by one foot to the pile, and stopped.
“Hey, turn on the grinder first. Move it, will ya? I ain’t
climbing in if the friggin thing jams. Rodham lost a foot that way.”
With a small moue of distaste, the second man switched on the
grinder. A fog of red came from it and a faint miasma of decay. The Harvester
dumped Carl on a lift. It rattled as it moved up, and the body shivered, sliding
off into the chute. He turned to grab the next and scowled.
“What the hell is it? Get busy. We got another run.”
Eyes staring, Murf pointed behind him. Frowning at the terror on
the other’s face, he turned and gaped.
The shon:gili crawled over the steel lip of the grinder. He hopped out
to stand in a crowd of staring corpses and growled a laugh.
Jerking a set of the night vision goggles down on his face, Chong
winced as the scorching burn of phosphorous died, and the goggles adjusted to the
night.
A tall man, well dressed and wearing a musky scent. He was no
doubt one of the hunters that visited the dark zone at the edge of Lord Penn’s
minor kingdom. A meat hunter, or just some creep looking for a good time. He
appeared to be alone.
Chong slid up behind him. He gripped the knife, driving it under
any armor, and was knocked back against the wall.
In a deathly silence, the man spun in a low crouch. Chong launched
himself, but the man ducked away, one foot coming up to crack off of Chong’s
knee. Chong tumbled to the floor. He rolled away from a second kick and under
the bed. The faint stench of death lay here yet, from the old man.
He came out with a Zapper gun, the buckyball ceramic material a
smooth blue.
The other man held a gammagun. The Zapper could fire several
thousand volts, frying the man, but the gammagun would fry Chong’s brain.
Chong smiled.
“Mr. Donnelly. How nice to see you again, sir.”
“Likewise, Baron. How’s you dear wife?”
“In good health, thank Shan Ti, the Lord of Heaven. And you? I
hear you now waste your days playing guard for the Janissary Project.”
Mike grinned. “Oh, it has its bennies. Hey, this place got a
light?”
“Yes,” Chong said but didn’t move. “Can I offer you a
small libation?”
“I was going to ask you to join me at Antone’s.”
“I am honored you think so highly of me.”
“As Dolph is my witness, when I say you’re the best I ever
met, I mean it.”
Chong snorted a laugh.
“And,” Mike said, putting the gammagun back in the holster,
“I would like to know if we can come to a mutual understanding.”
“Oh?”
Chong put the Zapper in the waistband along his spine.
“Yeah.” Mike grinned. “Benny Wya Grey, my
man. I think it would be for the best were he to live somewhere else.”
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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