Biohell (32 page)

“Thanks, mate,” panted Franco.

“Where’s the third?” snapped
Keenan. Both men stood, and stared over the group of shocked, silent children.
The wounded female deviant stood to one side, swaying, a smile on its lips; it
held Little Megan to its chest as if the girl was a protective ward. Her claws
hovered over Megan’s head, stroking her forehead, backwards and forwards, a
gentle and threatening sawing motion.

“Put her down,” growled Franco.

“No, you drop your weapons!”
hissed the zombie, and both Franco and Keenan stood, stunned, astonishment
plain on their faces. “Or I’ll peel open her head like a can of beans and scoop
out her brain in front of her little friends.”

“It can talk!” stuttered Franco.

“Better do as it says,” soothed
Keenan.

“Throw down our weapons? Never! I’d
rather die!”

“The little
girl
will die,
dickhead,” snapped Keenan, and kicked Franco on the ankle. He yelped, and both
men threw down their weapons which clattered against the roof.

“What do you want?” said Keenan,
eyes locked to the female zombie.

“I want to feed!” it hissed.

“No you don’t,” said Keenan, head
tilting slightly. “You want something else. Something more. What were you doing
up here?” He glanced around, then up. “Are you waiting for somebody?”

The female zombie smiled then,
baring unnaturally long teeth. Pieces of dark flesh were caught between
incisors, and flapped against her battered lips when she spoke.

“You would never understand.”

“Try me.”

“Move away from your weapons.”

Franco and Keenan took several
steps back, and Keenan glanced right. He saw the look of pain in the children
who stood, frozen like rabbits in a spotlight, and it bit him. Terror was
acid-etched onto every young face. Horror shone like a dark light in
prematurely adult eyes. Keenan’s eyes settled on a young girl; she had long
brown hair, just like his Rachel. Just like his
dead
Rachel.

There came a sudden roar from
behind the zombie as Mel reared, claws lifted high. The zombie dropped Little
Megan, and in an instant the Kekra was in Keenan’s hand and a
blam
roared
across the space; the heavy calibre round took the female zombie between the
eyes, punching her back towards Mel, who caught the body and stumbled as the
female zombie twisted, claws raking Mel’s eyes. Mel screamed in pain,
temporarily blinded, her own talons slashing out ineffectively as Keenan
sprinted forward, and the zombie snarled, hammering five blows into Mel’s
crumpling form as Mel shook her head, neck crackling, and grabbed the zombie in
a powerful embrace. Mel threw the zombie, which flew, bounced, rolled and
slammed into a cubic extractor with a crunch of compressing steel. Keenan
tracked the zombie, fired off three shots. Two hummed overhead, but one caught
the body and sent a
whump
of diseased flesh splattering over concrete.
Mel landed, as the female zombie pushed itself to its feet
and—amazingly—attacked. A barrage of blows forced Mel back, head bobbing, until
she slammed a punch which again sent the female zombie spinning and rolling,
slapping harshly against the roof. She hit a slope of corrugated steel, and
slid down the V to the bottom of the trough. Keenan ran, leapt onto a ridge and
sighted down his Kekra.

The zombie had already gained its
feet, and it ran up the slippery steel as Keenan fired off five shots and
bullets danced past the zombie’s head. By God, he thought, it’s fast! It
reached the top—and the edge of the building—and turned, a smile on its
distended, flesh-hanging face. Keenan’s finger hovered on the trigger.

The zombie’s eyes met Keenan’s.
Understanding passed between them.

The zombie jumped.

Franco sprinted down the steel
slope, then slithered and slid his way up the opposite bank. He stood,
teetering on the edge of the skyblock, and watched the zombie fall. Distantly,
it hit the ground, and separated out into splattered component limbs.

“Ugh,” said Franco. Then glanced
at Keenan, who had picked up Little Megan. “What happened then? You shoot it?”

“No,” said Keenan. “She jumped.”

“You mean,” Franco frowned,
“she
committed suicide?”

Keenan barked a laugh. “Yeah.
She. It. What the hell. And that screams something more than a dumb lust for
brains. These bastards were up to something, up here on the roof. Only now, we
don’t know what.”

“Boy, they were hard to kill,”
said Franco, running back across the V of alloy. He patted Little Megan on the
head, and cooed at her. Tears had streaked the dirt on her face, but she forced
a beautiful smile.

“Thank you.” Keenan and Franco
turned, and stared down at the little boy who spoke. He had battered red gloss
shoes.

“Our pleasure, lad,” beamed
Franco. He reached out to pat the boy’s head, but the lad moved fast, dodging
and grabbing Franco’s hand and twisting it back against the joint. “Ow! Ouch!
That bloody hurts, you little bugger!”

“Sorry,” grinned the boy
sheepishly, releasing his grip. “Just reflex. I’m a bit jumpy at the moment.”

“You don’t say,” rumbled Franco,
rubbing at his wrist. “Clever move that. You’ll have to show me sometime. But
whilst we’re here, maybe you can help. We’re looking for a gang member. A lad.
Goes by the name of Knuckles. Can you help?”

Keenan saw the shutdown on the
lad’s face as internal barriers slammed into place. It was a revelation to
Keenan: what was an innocent young lad one moment became a suddenly shifty,
devious creature, and Keenan picked out tiny details which suddenly had him
checking his wallet. This was no simple boy; this was a wise and street-savvy
gang member.

“What do you want him for?” The
question was innocent, but Keenan saw the lie in his eyes.

Keenan glanced down at the little
girl in his arms. She yawned, snuggling against his chest. “If I put you down,
will Knuckles look after you?”

“Mmmnn, yeah,” nodded the girl,
almost asleep.

Keenan glanced back to the boy.
He smiled, but there was no humour there.

“Clever,” Knuckles said. “What
the hell do you want?”

Franco glanced between Keenan and
Knuckles, frowning. “Hey, what happened then? Because, like, I’m good at
following stuff normally but that was a bit weird that thing that went on and
old Franco he say to himself, just listen and be patient Franco and everything
will be revealed but I’m not quite sure it
is
so I’m going to ask all
the same.”

“Eloquent,” said Keenan.

“So?”

“Meet Knuckles,” said Keenan.

Franco stared at the lad. “I
thought you’d be bigger. And
older.”

“And I thought you’d be slimmer.”

“But you don’t
know
me!”

“I might do.”

“Now I’m confused.”

Keenan slapped Franco on the
back. “He’s messing with your head, Franco mate.” Keenan squatted down, Little
Megan now asleep in his arms. “Listen, Knuckles—we’re not here for trouble. We’ve
just got a very simple question for you.”

Knuckles gazed at Little Megan’s
sleeping figure. He seemed to soften, and he released a breath. His face changed
from a hard mask to soft, boyish features. He looked young again. “I’m sorry,”
he said, slowly, as if it hurt him to apologise. “You saved my life. You saved
all our lives. You have a question for me? Sure, go ahead.” He grinned
sheepishly. “You killed the zombies. What have I got to lose, right?”

At the door leading to the roof,
there came a sudden
boom.
Then another. Beyond, a two-stroke engine
fired and revved high and long, shrieking. Chainsaws!

“More zombies?” sighed Keenan.

Knuckles nodded. “They’ve been
chasing us through the building. We ran, up here, but they followed, cutting
their way through the barricades we erected. And just when we thought we’d won,
it seems they had some grenades.” He eyed the door, which was now vibrating and
squealing under chain-blade impact. “Looks like they ran out of bombs.”

With a growl, Mel moved towards
the door scattering kids out of her way. She threw back the bolts, and threw
open the door—in which the chainsaw was embedded, jiggling. It tugged the
zombie from its feet, and the deviant stared up at Mel with a look of stupidity
and confusion. Mel planted a solid punch in the zombie’s face, and it slammed
backwards into darkness, the chainsaw finally stuttering to a halt. Mel pulled
the machine from the twisted door with a squealing wrench of steal, stared at
it for a moment, then pulled the cord. Fumes spat from exhaust. The chainsaw
rumbled in her talons. She glanced back at Franco, a strange look on her face
which may, with a lot of imagination, and even more hallucinatory drugs, have
been a smile. Then she was gone. Below, growls turned to screams. Gurgles and
splatters followed, fading into the distance.

“I’ve never seen
that
before,”
said Knuckles. “Lucky you brought your own.”

“Our own what?” said Franco.

“Your own zombie. It must be
awesome, having one fight for you, on your side. It’d make a great movie
though, wouldn’t it? Zombie chases other zombies with a chainsaw! Wow! Think of
the gore-effects you could implement!”

“She’s not a zombie,” said Franco,
woodenly. His eyes were a touch glazed.

“Hell, she looked like a zombie,”
said Knuckles. He sat down beside Keenan, and stroked the hair of Little Megan,
who sighed in her sleep. At peace, at last.

“Actually,” said Keenan, “that’s
why we’re here. And that’s what we wanted to ask you about.”

“What have I done wrong this
time?” said Knuckles, and part of the internal barrier came back.

“That zombie,” said Franco, with
tears in his eyes. “Well. She’s my bird.”

“Your
what?”

“My girlfriend. My woman. My
wife-to-be. She used to be normal, but she bought a biomod—from you—and
apparently, it turned her into
that.
”

Knuckles was silent, for a very
long time.

“Oh,” he said, finally.

“You remember?” said Keenan.

“I remember.”

“Where did you get it?” said Keenan.
His voice was soft, but his eyes were keen. They glinted in the glow of the few
stars which managed to shine through the break in towering storm-clouds
overhead.

“I stole it.”

“Where from?”

“A woman in the street. I steal a
lot of things. I’ve sold a lot of biomods before. But none of them ever turned
their users into... whatever it is she is.” He looked sympathetically at
Franco. “That must be hard for you, Captain GingerBeard.”

“It is,” snuffled Franco. “And
you should see her fanny!”

“Franco!” hissed Keenan. “He’s
only ten!”

“It’s OK,” grinned Knuckles. “I’ve
heard worse. Much worse, believe me.”

“How do I change her back?” said
Franco mournfully. “How do I get my Melanie back?” He rubbed a streamer of snot
from his nose, and Knuckles crossed to him, patting the broad and rotund
pugilist on the back.

“There, there,” he said, in a
curious reversal.

“So,” sighed Keenan, “it was a
simple theft. You’re not a hardcore biomod dealer, hacker or pirate. So—shit—we
can’t track your source.”