Vertical Run (35 page)

Dave asked, “You a vet?”

“Yes, sir. Drafted in ’66. I was CO, a conscientious objector, assigned to the 546 Med. But we took 93 percent casualties in Tet. Wasn’t a CO after that. I re-upped infantry. RA all the way. Retired just two years ago. Should have stayed retired, I guess.”

Dave nodded. “I guess.”

“So, sir, I’d be obliged if you’d consider me a noncombatant.”

“No can do.” Dave fumbled the pill vial out of his pocket.

The man’s sad look showed that he understood, and that he was resigned to whatever fate Dave planned for him.

“Take the cap off this bottle, pour out five or six pills, and dry swallow them.”

The black man lifted the bottle from where Dave had placed it. With infinite sadness, he said, “The man’s gone insane. Cuttin’ heads. Calling in a heavy. Can you believe that? Oh, mister, I was half-ways to running when I heard that. You hadn’t come through that door, I probably would have run. ’Nother thing, sir, there’s another thing. You know the code name he gives me? ‘Crow.’ That’s what he gives me. And me the only black man on this job. Can you believe that?”

There were six yellow tablets in the palm of his hand. He studied them, sighed, and choked them down. “These sleeping pills, aren’t they? How long they going to take?”

“Too long. I’m going to have to speed it up.”

“You want me to turn around?” Resigned and passive.

“Please.”

“Okay, but you just remember that I’m sorry. Mister, I’m sorry and I wished I was out of here a long time ago.” Dave brought his pistol butt down on the back of the man’s skull. “Me too,” he muttered.

Next stop, Sly Lucas’s office. Would Ransome be …

“However, our initial carrier, Mr. Elliot, still won’t know what’s going on. He still won’t feel ill. All he’ll feel is a little odd, and oddly a little more alive. Colors will seem brighter to him, sounds more musical, tastes and smells sharper. He will start dreaming Day-Glo dreams. Depending on his metabolism, he might even see a vision or two.”

 … in there, yammering on the radio? Dave hoped he wasn’t. He wanted Ransome to keep talking, wanted him to tell his men the truth. Because, once they knew the truth, they would start to sweat. One or two might run. All of them would make mistakes.

He kicked through Lucas’s door.

Two men, neither of them Ransome.

One was standing guard at the door, the other gazing out the window. The guard was fast. He was firing before the door was fully open.

He shot too high, overcompensating for his 40 round magazine. The bullets ripped into plaster above Dave’s head. The guard fought the Jati-Matic’s muzzle down. Dave fell to his knees. He released a short burst into the man’s chest. The silenced automatic’s soft thump, thump, thump seemed too gentle a sound for the results it produced. Fired from close range, the slugs lifted the man off his feet and sent him spinning backward over a chair. A backwash of blood spattered into Dave’s eyes. Plaster dust powdered into his nose. He lurched back into the corridor, flattening his back against the wall, out of sight.

The man by the window sent two bursts into the hallway. Dave rubbed his shirtsleeve across his eyes. Another
burst of fire exploded into the wall. The sound of the slugs ripping through plaster was louder than the muffled thump of the Jati-Matic.

Dave slapped a fresh clip into the butt of his pistol. He had to act before the man used his radio. He tugged off his shoe, readied himself, and tossed it through the doorway. A hail of bullets caught it in mid-air. Dave rolled through the door.

His opponent had positioned himself in a corner. He had the Jati-Matic braced against his shoulder. It was aimed left of the door, and above floor level. He started to bring his sights down to where Dave lay.

Dave’s shot clipped his leg. The man grunted. His gun wavered. “You son of a bitch,” he said.

Dave drew a bead on the center of his chest. “Don’t do it.”

The man swung his weapon toward Dave …

“You may ask how we know these things. Well, gentlemen, the answer is yes. Yes, Mr. Elliot is not the first person to have been infected with this bug. Of course, the other cases were all under rather more controlled conditions. That’s how we know, gentlemen, and that’s how we know that there is no cure.”

 … who took him with a single shot.

He hissed through his teeth. He hadn’t wanted this. He only wanted Ransome. There was no need for it, not for the deaths, not for anything else. Ransome’s words were proving that.

And Dave felt so cold.

But he couldn’t stop. Not now. There was one more office, a third office, where Ransome’s goons would be waiting …

“Or rather, there is one single cure. If you kill the carrier, the infected man, before the bug reaches its final stage, then you can stop the spread of the disease. And that, gentlemen, is the only way to stop it. Do you understand me, Mr. Elliot?”

 … Howie Fine’s office. Howie was Senterex’s chief counsel. There was a Thomas Eakins oil hung over his
credenza. It portrayed a famous trial, the judge on his bench, a distraught witness in the box, a starched-collar attorney thundering at a jury. Dave had never liked the painting. He’d never liked anything dealing with courtrooms.

He kicked the door open. The room was empty. No, it wasn’t. It was …

How …? What …?

The strength went out of his legs. He slumped, no longer able to keep upright, to his knees, but so weak that he might fall utterly helpless, prone to the floor. The room was completely empty; no one there but for Marigold Fields, call-me-Marge, Cohen. Nylon rope—it looked like parachute cord—had been used to tie her to Howie Fine’s large leather chair. She was alive, awake, gagged, looking at him, her eyes so wide, as wide as his must be. Which was very wide indeed.

She was trying to say something to him. He couldn’t make it out. Her mouth was taped shut. Her words were unintelligible mumbles.

Dave swallowed. Hard. Twice. This was not possible … she, the others … their heads … Ransome’s theater of brutality … She was dead. He’d seen it with his own eyes.

He breathed through his gaping mouth, taking great gulps of air. Marge’s muffled voice seemed to be begging him to untie her.

Why? What had Ransome … wait a minute. Of course. It was obvious. Ransome …

“Do you understand that this is the only way to stop the disease, Mr. Elliot? And it is critical to stop the disease. Why? Why is because the
real
symptoms won’t begin for a few days after the bug mutates into its third stage. Are you listening to this, Mr. Elliot? A few days of inhaling, a few days of exhaling. A few days of spitting out six million deaths with every breath you take. Then you’ll begin to feel it, Mr. Elliot. First a fever. Then the sweats. Chills, nausea, deep painful aches. In seventy-two hours you’ll die.”

 … was a pro. He’d have a fallback plan. And a fallback to his fallback. That’s why he hadn’t killed Marge. She was useless to him dead. Alive, however, she’d be another weapon, one last weapon, he could use against his prey. He had to keep her alive, ready to bring out if, against all odds, Dave survived the death traps prepared for him. Then and only then—if he knew Dave was escaping—would Ransome have put one of his radios to Marge’s mouth, and hoped that her screams stopped Dave from fleeing.

It probably would have worked.

The same as the sight of her severed head
should
have worked.

That head … a nice piece of craftsmanship. Almost something he could admire. He had to admit, it was masterfully done, just like you’d expect from a virtuoso like Ransome. Was it clay or wax or a rubber cast or a dead woman with enough of a resemblance and enough makeup to make her look like Marge? Dave didn’t know. He didn’t care. All he cared about was that Marge was still alive.

He intended to see that she stayed that way.

Dave stumbled to his feet. “Sorry, Marge. I’ve got to go.”

She shook her head furiously. Louder sounds, shrieks if she could open her mouth, bubbled beneath her gag.

“You’re safer here than you would be if I cut you loose. There’s going to be trouble out in the halls pretty soon now. I don’t want you in the middle of it.”

There was red murder in her eyes. She’d rip his throat out if she was free.

He wheeled her into Howie’s closet, out of sight. “But I’ll be back. I promise you. I promise I’ll come back for you. Marge, don’t look at me like that. Goddamnit, I’m running out of time and I don’t have a choice.”

He left her, knowing that she’d not forgive him, and returning to the hallways to do …

“Seventy-two hours. That’s all you will have. And
then you die. For most of those hours you will wish you were already dead. Twenty or thirty days after that, everyone’s dead. Everyone who’s been close enough to inhale your breath. And everyone who has come in contact with the people you’ve infected, and everyone who has come in contact with them. In other words, everyone in the world, Mr. Elliot, absolutely everyone in the world.”

 … what he had to do. Dragging the two corpses into position took only a moment. Once the bodies were in place, the hallway outside Bernie’s office looked a scene of carnage. Copper-smelling blood pooled on the carpet, acrid cordite smoke hung in the air, dead men sprawled, as dead men always seem to do, in uncomfortable postures, wearing painfully surprised expressions on their faces. Those not dead, but only unconscious, looked less authentic.

Dave was in his stocking feet. One of his shoes had been shredded by gunfire. He’d discarded the other. The black man’s shoes were large, comfortable-looking brogans; they seemed to be his size; Dave looked at them greedily.

Better not. Someone might notice
.

Right.

’Bout time to get the party started, isn’t it?

Right again.

Dave lifted one of the Jati-Matics, checked its clip, and tightened its strap. He slung it …

“Forget about ordinary murderers, and forget about armies and war, and forget about Hitler and Stalin and every mad dog despot who was ever born. However many notches those people had on their guns is nothing to the number our Mr. Elliot is going to rack up on the scoreboard. He’s in a league of his own. There’s no word for what he is, they haven’t coined one.”

 … around his left shoulder. He trotted back down the corridor to the boardroom. He paused at its doorway.

After triggering the alarm he’d have three choices—he
could run for a stairwell, hide in Bernie’s closet, or conceal himself in the boardroom.

The closet, he thought, would be best. He could reach it faster than any of the stairwells. Ransome’s men wouldn’t look in the closet. They’d see the bodies, see the cable hanging by the open window, and conclude he’d escaped to the roof.

Or so you hope
.

Or so I hope.

He wheeled into the conference room, jogged its length, and, for what he hoped would be the last time in his life, entered Bernie Levy’s office.

The scene hadn’t changed. Ransome’s knife work was still on display.

Madness. Sheer lunacy. As unnecessary as it was unspeakable. All they had to do was explain it to him. He would have understood. He would not have been happy, but he would not have run. If they had told him what Ransome was telling him now, he would have cooperated. They could have offered to take him somewhere to a clean room, sterile, isolated from the outside world. Or they could have put him on a deserted island, or some other safe place. All they would have had to do was let him die with a little dignity. He wouldn’t have resisted. How could he have resisted? Knowing the truth, he would have surrendered.

But instead, they decided to treat him like a rabid animal. We’re licensed operatives, Mr. Elliot, highly trained professionals, and we know what’s best. Besides, we don’t trust you enough to tell you the truth. We don’t trust anyone enough to tell them that. We’ll lie to you, and we’ll lie to your friends, and we’ll lie to the people who pay us. That’s our way, Mr. Elliot, and if you aren’t used to it by now, you never will be. So kindly be a good little citizen, and don’t give us any trouble while we clear up our problem in the traditional way.

You still could offer to surrender. Maybe you could talk Ransome into letting Marge go.…

Too late. Things have gone too far. There are debts to be settled …

“All right, you men, all right, Mr. Elliot, here’s the bottom line: once the bug mutates to the third stage, and once it gets out into the general population, it can’t be stopped. The only way to stop it is to stop it before it reaches the third stage. That means stopping the man who’s carrying it. So you kill him before it’s too late. And if you have to kill some other people along the way, it’s a bargain. Maybe even if you have to kill the whole city of New York, it’s still a bargain. That’s a viable alternative, you know that, men. Dropping a heavy is a rational alternative.”

 … and accounts to be closed. Next year a.k.a. John Ransome’s name does
not
appear in the telephone book.

Dave clutched his fingers open and closed. He looked at the tape. It stretched from the alarm box to the shattered window.

Let’s get it over with
.

Dave jerked the tape.

Ransome was still speaking. The words were coming out of his mouth just a little more rapidly than they should. He had said too much, knew that everything he said made it worse, but couldn’t quite stop himself. “You think AIDS is contagious. Well, men, the AIDS infection rate doubles only once a year. But this …” Ransome drew a short, sharp breath. “He’s here! The Jew’s office! Go! Go, go, go!”

Dave flung Bernie’s office door open, spun, and raced for the closet. From the corridor he could hear other doors slamming and the sound of men running.

“Robin, this is Parrot …”

“At ease. Reserve and perimeter teams keep on station.”

Dave was in the closet. He eased the door closed.

They were in the hallway, just on the other side of the wall. Dave heard them moving. Someone stumbled and thudded into the Sheetrock. There was another sound. Dave couldn’t quite identify it. A gurgling, and a splash.
Whoever was nearest the wall whispered loud enough that Dave could hear, “Get that lame bastard out of here until he stops puking.”