The dead among us book 1.., p.2
The Dead Among Us (Book 1): Dead Eye Hunt, page 2
part #1 of The Dead Among Us Series
Cole hunched broad shoulders against the rain and watched his prey as he finally left the Mandarin joint off 6th. Cole had never been to one of these joints where lunch wasn’t a ten minute, eat-while-you-stand affair. If he lingered any longer than that he always had some tiny, wrinkled raisin give him the stink-eye and tell him, “Go way. You order more food or go way.”
But the sick bastard Cole was after had been in the joint for three hours. Cole absolutely hated waiting like that. It made him antsy. Standing around doing nothing made his muscles stiff. He liked to be loose and ready for anything. In New York you had to be ready, or you could very well end up as just another bloated corpse, stripped bare-ass, maggots doing the funky jive in your hair, and rats tunneling into your bowels.
In this case, the waiting was meaningful.
There was no way a Mandarin was going to let some slick hang out in his shop all afternoon unless a deal was being made. Cole just hoped it was his kind of deal. He wouldn’t have blinked an eye if the slick was trying to move uptown ice, or mule that had been spun-up in a Rican’s toilet. People threw away their lives all the livelong day and that was on them.
But if ‘ol Santino was buying up large amounts of syn-ope, well that would be quite telling. Dead-eyes needed to be on downers twenty-four-seven or they’d go monster. Near-lethal doses of opioids kept their rage in check and dulled the hunger for blood.
As always, the question was whether Santino Grimmett was a Dead-eye at all. There was a depressingly good chance that he was just a run-of-the-mill murdering psychopath. Cole hoped to God he wasn’t. There was no money in it. Putting down a Dead-eye would net him ten-large. Killing an un-convicted psycho could very well lead to a prison sentence. Cole’s predecessor was turning dusty in some black hole in the ground because he had offed a human.
Cole had to run a fine line. If he was too quick on the trigger, he faced prison, if he wasn’t quick enough, he would end up like so many hunters: recycled out of a rat’s ass.
The career of a hunter was generally short and violent. Still, the money was good. It kept the lights on and the booze flowing…barely. Things had been tight for Cole, and he was probably the only person in the world who wanted Santino to be a Dead-eye.
As the slick moved into the crowd, Cole trailed after, watching him closely as he trudged north. In this light, Cole’s hazel eyes were as grey as the rain, though it was hard to tell as they were at squints as he looked for the smallest clues. Santino moved slowly, almost aimlessly, while all around him the faceless crowds hurried to get home and dry. Was the syn-ope kicking in? Were his neurons black with the virus and his brains drowned in a sick goo?
Or was he depressed because he had stabbed his wife of twenty years, butchered her remains and stuffed her different parts in his freezer? Of course, it could have been that he was tripping balls. It was hard to tell. Judging a person from behind by the way he held his shoulders was far from an exact science. Still, something was wrong with him. Something made him stand out.
Unlike the hundreds of people pushing along with him, he didn’t duck his head as he passed through a grey curtain of water falling from a second-level catwalk. And he didn’t seem to care when he angled off the sidewalk and his foot came down in the ghastly muck that everyone else avoided. He was also the only person who didn’t glance nervously around as he crossed the unmarked boundary into Red Dog territory.
Even Cole let his eyes slip off his mark. A half dozen young morons with poorly concealed handguns lounged on an awning-covered stoop. They thought they were tough. Cole thought they looked like targets.
The pedestrians went stiff as they passed, holding their heads straight, while canting their eyes far to the right. All except for Santino. He moved like a sleepwalker and passed by without a challenge.
Cole was a different story. As much as he tried, sometimes he didn’t blend in. He not only had a certain air of danger about him, but he also stood a head taller than most of the people in the crowd. The poly-leather black coat that hung to mid-thigh might have been expensive; and maybe the narrow tie, a black stripe down his white shirt made him look like an office worker, and everyone knew they had money.
At the same time, his black boots were worn and he had the partially inked face of a man who was slowly becoming a slag.
Two of the braver toughs came off the stoop and strode into his way, wanting a closer look. “We got a sidewalk fee here,” the taller of the two said, giving a what-can-you-do shrug. The Red Dogs claimed they were pure breed Irish but in reality, they let in any pasty-faced wanker as long as he had a freckle or two. This one had a spray of them across a girly little nose. “I’m afraid we’re gon’ hafta charge you ten.”
They also affected an annoying Irish brogue. They weren’t alone in this habit. The Rastas acted like they were from Jamaica instead of from Jamaica, Queens, the Ricans called everyone “Ese,” and Cole couldn’t go to an Italian restaurant with a slick without wanting to punch him in the face. Rigatoni became ri-gahTONEY. And the damned Mandarins acted like they were fresh off the boat but there wasn’t a one of them whose family hadn’t been here for six generations.
Normally, Cole had little patience for this sort of thing. Just then he had even less. “Ten?”
“Each. In cash, o’ course.” The bigger one cast a quick glance at his companion, who wasn’t going to be a Red Dog much longer. Cole was tall enough to see the slag building up in his thinning, greased hair and behind his ear. His eyes were already a bit dull.
“I could do fifteen,” Cole said, pulling back his coat, showing off the 10mm Crown on his belt. The aluminum alloy winked silver in the low light. The gun was literally worth any three of the Red Dogs, and they stared as if they were looking at a diamond of the same size. They blinked back into the moment when Cole dropped his big hand down on the grip.
The leader started to draw in a long breath, which would end with him going for his gun. Judging by the bulge beneath his brown corduroy jacket, Cole figured it was one of the ludicrous .44 caliber Eagle knock-offs that were all the rage. Because of its size, it wasn’t a weapon designed for a quick draw.
“Maybe you should rethink this,” Cole advised. “I’d hate to waste a bullet killing you.”
“There’s six of us,” the Dog answered, losing his accent in his attempt to sound tough.
They were teens who probably hadn’t ever fired more than five rounds with their over-sized guns. The damned things were made of composite plastic and had a habit of cracking after a few shots. After thirty they could explode. To make matters worse, their eight-inch barrels were overly-light and with the rounds in the grip, the guns were completely unbalanced.
Cole wondered if any of them could hit the broadside of a barn. “I’m not too worried,” he said. And he wasn’t. The kid’s right hand was frozen about a foot away from his body. When he tried to reach for his gun, it would be mechanically stiff and slow. His friend had been so cock-sure that he had walked up with his hands behind his back. He might as well be handcuffed.
“You and your little puppy friend are the only ones I need to kill. Once you’re stretched out, the others’ll run inside crying for daddy.”
“Maybe,” the Dog said, trying to sound tough. “Or maybe there are a whole mess of us and one of us will get you.”
Cole glanced up at the building. Like so much of New York, its windows were bricked over in an attempt to keep out the acid fog, the fallout, and what the previous governor had called “heavy particulate airflows.” It was the PC way of saying industrial contamination that made the southern wind smell like metaled rot. When it came in thick, it turned the sky the color of an old bruise and had been known to asphyxiate infants in their cribs.
“But you’ll still be dead,” Cole said, flicking his eyes back at the Dog. He was about to go on when they heard a sharp whistle from up the street. Two stoops up, a gaggle of money-honeys pulled their skirts lower as they scurried inside.
“Taxmen,” one of the Red Dogs warned in a hissing whisper.
The lead Dog pulled his coat tight around his meager chest, doing little to hide his gun as a patrol of four police officers came strolling up the block. Like all taxmen they were tall and strapping to begin with, but looked even bigger decked out in their body armor. Beneath the plates of grey metal, they wore urban camo, and in their hands, they carried the scaled-down Forino version of the old Colt M4. They looked more like soldiers than policemen.
“We already paid our taxes, officer,” the lead Dog said, raising his hands. “We pay Manua every month, rain or shine.”
“That’s Lieutenant Manua to you,” one of the officers shot back. “And those taxes only cover everyday activities. This doesn’t seem all that conventional. It looks to me like you boys were about to throw down right in the middle of the street. You know the governor frowns on a dozen people getting gunned down in broad daylight. And when he frowns on it, I frown…holy shit.”
Cole grimaced at being recognized. He knew this officer all too well. “Bruce, it’s good to see you,” he lied.
Sergeant Bruce Hamilton laughed. “Look fellas, it’s the White Knight himself, Cole Younger. How’s the back? Not bothering you too much, I hope.” Four years earlier, they had been on the same squad right up until Hamilton had “accidentally” shot him in the back.
“Better than new. Look, I’d love to reminisce about old times…”
Hamilton spoke over him, “You turning slag on me?” He pointed with his rifle at Cole’s tattoos. They were a cheap blue-green. The four on the left were stylized hammers; on the right were six skulls suggesting he was part of the “Sledge” gang. “If so, I can put you out of your misery. That last bullet was just a warning. We both know I could’ve killed you.”
Cole didn’t have time for Hamilton and his hooked nose and thin greasy blond hair. With every minute Santino was plodding further out of reach. And yet this was the first time Cole had seen Hamilton in those four years. “You act like shooting a friend in the back is some kind of accomplishment. If you had taken me on, face to face, I could understand that cocky smile of yours, taxman.”
At the word, Hamilton sneered. “Keep telling yourself that, Cole. I warned you. I told you it was going to happen if you didn’t play ball. It’s something I never understood about you. All you needed to do was take a little here and a little there, and maybe turn a blind eye every once in a while. If you had you probably would’ve made lieutenant by now. Instead, you’re one of the little people.”
He laughed aloud, but then something caught his eye. Stepping closer, he used his rifle to push back Cole’s trench coat. “And what’s this? I thought you knew that packing heat out on the street is illegal. Got a license?”
There was no need to answer. One of the other police officers snatched the Crown while a third took his wallet. “Says here he’s a bounty hunter. His license is up to date.” The officer sounded disappointed. Bounty hunters held an odd position within society: not quite cop, not quite one of the little people that made up the masses. They couldn’t be “taxed” while on the job.
“Ain’t no bounty going to cover this,” the other officer said, sighting down the length of the Crown, carelessly pointing it at a young woman who was hurrying by holding her child’s hand in a crushing grip.
No normal bounty would ever cover the cost of the gun. So far, Cole’s highest bounty had been fifty dollars for bringing in a serial rapist. The Dead-eyes were another story altogether, one that he couldn’t ever mention.
The fact that they were in the city at all was deemed classified. If he mentioned them even in a drunken ramble, he would be liquidated. His body would be dissolved in a vat of acid and his name expunged from every record in the city. Each new recruit was given the same speech, the same warning, and had to watch the same video of some idiot who had talked. He had been lowered into the vat slowly, toes first. The grainy video ran for twenty-nine excruciating minutes.
“Some bounties pay better than others,” Cole said, holding his hand out for the gun. “I doubt I’ll get rich, but it’s honest work, unlike what I used to do.” The officer had been about to hand over the pistol, but stopped at the jab.
Hamilton laughed and slapped Cole on the back with stinging force. “As always, Cole, you’re a damn hoot. That mouth of yours is going to get you killed some day, and hell, that day might just be today.” He nodded to the other officers to give him back his belongings. As Cole holstered the Crown, Hamilton pointed up at the tenement. “Is your bounty up there? If so, have at it. You know I’d love to help you out but whoa, look at the time. Me and the boys are on our mandated break.”
The gang of Red Dogs backed up a few steps suddenly looking uncomfortable and confused, not knowing whether they were about to be attacked or they were expected to attack a man with an entire squad of policemen watching.
Cole solved the problem for them. “Boys,” he said with a nod to them, and then took off at a loping run. Behind him, Hamilton and his men shouted a few insults. Cole didn’t care what they said. They were criminals themselves. It’s what happened when no one policed the police.
Snagging Dead-eyes was far more important and far more honest—just as long as he didn’t kill a human in the process.
After two blocks, the rain began to come down harder than before. It was a cold rain and tasted like dirty pennies. That was usually a bad sign. It meant it was coming in from the west. Cole slid his hood from the back of his coat and pulled it down in what was almost a useless gesture. A hood wasn’t going to do jack if he was showering in radioactive water. “The sirens aren’t going off,” he told himself, and kept going, slowing down at every side street and alley he came to. If Santino took any one of them, he could disappear forever.
It was only after another couple of blocks that Cole realized where Santino was going. He was going home. For the last week, Santino had been hiding out in a flophouse in the village, but like so many criminals before him, he was drawn to the scene of his crime.
Santino’s apartment was seven blocks away and Cole figured he could be there in minutes, only just then the klaxons started to sound.
“Shit!” he hissed. The klaxons were far worse than the sirens. It meant a Cat-2 radioactive cloud was coming in. “Or it’s already here.” The sensors set up on the Jersey side of the Hudson were always breaking down; the smart thing to do was to get inside as fast as he could. “But when am I ever smart,” he muttered, pulling out a small emergency mask. He slapped it on and kept running straight down the street, which had gone from annoyingly crowded to deserted in seconds. Even the few taxi cabs that sometimes still prowled the streets were nowhere in sight.
It was like he was the last person left in the city. It was unnerving, but at least the empty streets made sprinting easier, and he ran like his life depended on it. By the time he made it to the building he was reeling from the run and from trying to suck air in through the mask.
Yanking it off, he laid it over the rail of the stairs, and then stood half-bent, gasping and staring around. The interior of the building was cleaner than most and as dim as all of them. Only the vamps could afford to properly light a stairwell or to run an elevator.
Santino lived on the seventh floor; a long climb after the run. Cole sucked in a deep breath and started up. His eyes had yet to get used to the dark and he kicked something after only the fourth step; and at eye level was another small lump. Although his mind immediately thought: trash, he hesitated. Trash was usually kicked to the side and these two objects were in the center of the staircase.
The first was a single high-heeled shoe, a spray of white plastic beads gleamed dully up at him from the toe. The other item was a purse. It hadn’t been discarded, it had been dropped. He was just fishing the wallet from it, when he heard a thud, a scraping noise and a muffled shout. All of this came from below him.
Like practically every building, its foundation extended deep into the earth. There would be basements and subbasements. Sometimes there were proper tunnels that led to the subways. Other times there were hand-dug warrens and dens where squatting slags lived and died like roaches. They were dangerous places and frequently slumlords chose to brick off a shaft rather than trying to evict the poor creatures. It was efficient, but the smell of their rotting bodies would linger for months.
Cole did not relish the idea of going down to look and tried to tell himself that the thud and the dropped purse weren’t necessarily connected. Only he knew better. Dead-eyes were vermin. They liked the dark, and they especially liked to feed in the dark.
Santino had probably surprised the woman who owned the purse. Caught alone, she would have been easy prey and maybe the temptation had been too much for him.
“Son of a bitch,” Cole whispered, easing the Crown from its holster, and slipping down the stairwell, hurrying as fast as he dared. Syn-ope wasn’t the only thing Santino might have picked up at the Mandarin Joint. Mandarins would sell a person anything as long as the price was right. Santino might be armed to the teeth.
The level below the street was made up of more apartments. Sub-gardens they were called, and Cole couldn’t stand them. It was like living in a prison. The air in them never moved.
The next level down was where the darkness took on a physical quality. It sucked in around him. Cole carried a slide-light for the Crown and clicked it in place beneath the barrel. It gave off a timid light which the darkness greedily ate up after only a few yards. Still, it was enough to show him that the level had been designed for storage and at one time it had been filled with metal cages. The metal had been sold for scrap decades before and all that remained were rectangular rust outlines on the dusty floor.
