Story #272 - Gunshy

Gunshy

There’s something distinct about the sound of a gun cocking, the sound of the hammer being drawn back and the pin locking into place.

It’s not the kind of thing you notice ordinarily, but trust me, you can’t miss it when a barrel’s pointed in your direction and the man with the trigger in his hand looks like he’d rather reach down and use his bare hands to end your life, or at least break a few of your bones.

I hadn’t been looking for a fight, and I certainly wasn’t looking to be on the wrong end of a steel barrel, but unfortunately that came with the territory.

Chasing down Runners was an easy way to make money – if you had the right mindset and you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Usually, I had both in spades but the last few months had been rough; something about dragging kids back to the Housing Projects was starting to leave a foul taste in my mouth. Most of them were snot-nosed little punks who thought a life on the street would be preferable to the handouts the government gave them for free, but lately I’d been coming across dead-eyed boys and girls, tiny things that had no business trying to survive in the Underground. Hell, it was rough on me, and I had a place to go at the end of the night – I had a government-sanctioned contract.

“Don’t move, asshole.” Supposedly, the voice of the man above me belonged to an eighteen year old who’d escaped lawful assistance last week, but from his voice and stature, you’d be forgiven for thinking he was at least thirty. I’d heard rumors about the experiments the government had been running on these kids, but like most of the nutrient-free propaganda the citizens were forced to chow down on, I was sure there was no truth to them

Looking up at the eyes of the beast in front of me, however, I started to question that particular surety.

“No problem,” I said. “How about I stay here and you take my gun and leave – it’ll get a good price on the Underground market, or you can just keep it for protection.”

“Shut up!” A large vein on the kid’s forehead was standing out, pulsing and engorged. He was on the brink – the trouble was, I had no idea what brink that was.

“OK, OK –“ I started, then cut off as a I realized exactly what “shut up” meant. I’d always been more talkative than was good for me.

“Who sent you?” The kid grated. “Wellson?”

I kept my silence, even though I had a powerful urge to ask just who the hell Wellson was and why he’d send me. I was a curious, but not curious enough to take a bullet to the brain. Still…

I raised an eyebrow. That would make my interest clear without giving the kid reason to shoot me. Of course, he might decide to shoot me no matter what I did – something that sent a tremor of fear running through my legs. I’d been kneeling for the better part of half and hour, and damn if it hadn’t started to hurt.

“Wellson!” The man with my gun bellowed, and I tried to keep my eyes wide and innocent. I really didn’t have any idea who this Wellson was, but I didn’t want to give off the impression that I knew more than I was saying.

“Fine!” The gun dropped an inch as the kid’s arm sagged. “Talk!”

“I don’t know who this Wellson is, kid,” I brought my hands up in front of my face as he pulled his lips back in a snarl and straightened his arm. “Really! I’ve got a contract to bring in Runners, that it! The government pays me after I bring you back – I never see a real person!”

“Liar!”

“I’m not! I’m not!” My mind reeled, desperately trying to come up with something definitive, something that would convince the kid I was telling the truth.

The gun lowered an inch; maybe my outright cowardice was having an effect.

“Maybe.” The kid grunted. “Most of Wellson’s guys can handle themselves a little better.”

“Thanks,” I said drily, my sense of humor re-asserting itself as it seemed my life might not actually be in immediate danger, and the kid smiled, a wan thing that drained me of any mirth.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the kid said quietly. “You’re going to Run me in.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about, kid?”

“It’s Eric, and don’t ever call me ‘kid’ again.” I nodded; we were back on familiar territory now, and I was back to being scared as hell.

“Eric, why –“ He cut me off.

“Wellson won’t see me coming this way.” Another thin smile crossed his face. “And he certainly won’t see you. It’s obvious you’re not as weak as you look, or you’d never be able to chase down Runners. Together, we’ll blow this thing wide open.”

Asking what on earth he was talking about was at the top of my priority list, just as soon as he lowered the gun. He did me one better, tossing it at my feet and then turning his back.

I didn’t think; I moved. A shot rang out and Eric stumbled forward, hands clutching at his back. A strangling sound ripped from his mouth as he tried to find his footing, and it took me a moment to realize he was laughing.

“Good!” He bellowed. “I’m glad to see you have the nerve.” Shrugging off the short jacket he wore, I could see my bullet had made it through his white t-shirt, but I didn’t see a drop of blood. Eric smiled over his shoulder as he tugged up the tail end of the shirt, revealing a compressed copper bullet and smooth, unbroken skin.

There’s something distinct about the sound of a pistol round hitting the ground, the clack of metal on asphalt.

It’s not the kind of thing you notice ordinarily, but trust me, you can’t miss it when it’s falling off of the man you just shot in the back.



- D

Story #166 - A Rose By Any

A Rose By Any

Three had left; only two were coming home.

Raz Algar knew that the loss of one had been almost inevitable, but it was always hard to take, always hard to endure the removal of even a single individual from the community. There were so few of them left.

Three mothers and three fathers rushed to the dirt road, each hoping to see their son come out of the swirling dawn mist, each praying that theirs had not been the one that had been chosen by the Runners.

The two forms drew closer, and from his post at the edge of the road, Raz could see they were of roughly the same height. That made it easy; Turr was gone.

It was no surprise. The taller boy had been trim and well-fed, a perfect candidate for the runners. Periodically, the group would choose others who were less ideal, likely to keep the order from becoming to uniform, but those of Turr’s build were the mostly commonly taken.

Raz turned away before the screaming started. He had no interest in listening to the sobs of yet another childless couple.

***

In his small office, Raz recorded the name and date of the loss. One every six months did not seem like much at first glance, but the removal of a healthy male from the population after each half a year had passed meant that the city of Pell was slowly dying, and despite his position at its head, there was precious little Raz could do about it.

He’d been elected mayor of the city six terms in a row, in large part because no one else wanted the job. Along with a fine home and a respectable salary collected from those who made their home in Pell, the mayor’s job came with the unfortunate fringe “benefit” of having to deal with the Elders at least once a year. It was they who specified that a young male must be given to the Runners each six months, and it was they who would ensure that the citizens of the city would be punished if they began to provide specimens that did not meet the standards required.

No one would blame Raz for such punishments, but he would hate to see any in the city suffer needlessly. The last several years had been difficult on both the crops and the men who grew them, and the last thing that any of his friends and fellow citizens needed was interference from the Elders or their tamed league of assassins.

The Elders were not so bad, so long as he kept his head down when he met with them and made no attempt to look any of them in the eyes. Aside from being arrogant and poor etiquette, it was difficult to gaze at any of the bearded men for long thanks to their glowing red eyes, hunched forms, and generally ferocious disposition. They were men, or had been once, but had left the common traits of humanity far behind.

There had been whispers from other mayors in the area that the Elders were to begin demanding more of them in the coming months, but Raz had heard nothing for sure. He did not care to speculate on the motives or possible actions of the Elders – they would tell him what he needed to know, when he needed to know it. Until then, it was best to wait, watch and obey.

Closing his ledger, Raz leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his chest. Turr’s parents would need his comfort – what little his presence would provide – but he would give them a day to mourn alone.

For now, he would rest as best he could.

***

Raz was awakened by a sharp poke to the side. Crying out, he felt himself slip forward and then off the edge of the chair to the ground.

“Don’t move.”

Raz had no intention of doing so; the crackling remnants of a pain-stick across his side told him a Runner had come to see him.

“Sit up.” The voice was that of a young woman; Raz had thought the group only recruited men.

Pushing himself into a sitting position on the floor, he kept his eyes on the ground and his legs straight out in front of him. He posed no threat to the Runner in any case, but wanted to make sure that she had no reason to use her pain-stick again.

“Look at me,” she commanded, and he raised his eyes. It always surprised him how young the Runners were. Even the eldest of their sect were no more than twenty-five years, and he had never seen one over thirty. He had no idea if they were simply taken out of service, or if a more sinister fate awaited them.

The young woman in front of him could not have been more than eighteen years old, and had dark hair tied in a tight bun to the back of her head. She was thin and lithe, and clad in a black sleeveless shirt and flowing trousers. One hand held her pain-stick loosely, and the other was in a fist; the sticks injured whoever touched them, including the bearer.

“You have been chosen, Raz Algar,” she said simply, “and you will come with me.”

“Chosen?” He threw the word back at her. “Runner, I don’t understand – I am far too old to be one of you.”

She laughed, a silvery thing that rang in his small office. “We have no intention of recruiting you, Algar. You will serve a different purpose. Rise, before I decide you are resisting my words.” There was a brash confidence in the young woman, but Raz could detect a hint of youthful fear, a seed of adolescent doubt.

He rose, and spoke as he did so. Perhaps some information could be gleaned before he was forced to leave the city, perhaps forever. “What is your name, Runner?”

“Rose,” she said quietly. “Call me Rose.”


- D

Story #63 - Ghost Runner

Ghost Runner

The thing arced in a soundless scream as Lenny Jacobs jammed down the hammer. They always did, once he caught them, though he’d never quite gotten used to the way they bent double on themselves, incorporeal hands clutching at too-wide mouths and wispy forms wavering for a moment before the Device finally snapped them up.

In twenty years of Ghost Running, Lenny had never watched one destroyed from start to finish; something about it just seemed wrong – too personal to watch.

Most of the other Runners didn’t have his problem; they lived for the thrill of the hunt, the quick kill and the sweet rewards that came afterward. He was more methodical, more paced in his approach and despite young gun after young gun touting their ability to replace him, he’d always come out ahead when the tallies were done at the end of the year.

Fact was that he liked the cases that were less than 90% odds, the ones where homeowners had no real proof they had a spirit or churches weren’t sure if the graves beneath their cellars had been consecrated. Lenny reveled in the challenge, in the game of figuring out what and when and where so he could finally home the Device in, finally bring the thing out of hiding and back into the light.

He had no illusions – the spirits he took weren’t being taken to a higher plane and they certainly weren’t given a new home with harps to play and clouds to perch on. They were being broken down into particulate matter; Ghossitrons, some egghead had named them, and just a cubic centimeter of them at a low density could power a city block of homes for a month. They were big business and the few companies that were licensed to Run stood to make big money, so Lenny just couldn’t say no.

That was the official story, at least; Lenny didn’t care as much for the money as he did for the fact that he couldn’t imagine himself doing anything different. He was a Savant, one of only a few Runners that could actually sense ghosts without the assistance of technology. A century ago he’d have been called a fraud and a liar; someone who claimed to see spooks and haunts at every turn, but now his special skills had a real-world outcome, a practical application that gave him a way to support his family.

That was an official story too; his wife had left him long ago, taking the kids with her when she went. He should have cared more, should have been more upset, but she knew him well – better than he had imagined. The work was his life, and it always would be. He’d always felt like a fragment of a man, and his work was the only place he fit.

There was one more here – he knew that much. Asylums were favorite haunts for the disturbed and the still-remaining, those who couldn’t break free or hadn’t been given the proper death rights their religion demanded. Crazy houses tended to be low on holy men, owing to any number of ethical, moral and plain stupid concerns.

Lenny snorted. He could smell the last one upstairs somewhere, floating around. The things didn’t really have much will left in them, or at least none that he’d ever noticed. Science said that they were remnants, parts of the dead that were broken off somehow, left down on earth while the rest of them went somewhere else. They were a piece of the person they’d been, but they certainly didn’t bear any similar traits – just a mindless need to wander and wail.

Two quick flights of stairs brought him to the cafeteria level and he strode confidently across the slick linoleum floor, not bothering with the light on his Device. Ghosts couldn’t hurt men, not really, and they were about the scariest thing that went roaming around in the dark. Lenny was far less at ease with those things that skulked around in broad daylight than anything he’d find in here. Ghosts were evil without purpose; men were evil by intent.

A movement from the door to the kitchen caught his eye and he stumbled; ghosts weren’t evident to the naked eye without the Device and they had no ability to affect physical the physical world.

He wasn’t alone.

“Come out!” Lenny bellowed as he stalked toward the lunch counter. He’d never been one for subtlety and he wasn’t about to play a game with whoever was hiding. Likely it was a squatter, but he loosened his pistol in its holster just in case.

“Lenny.” The voice came from behind him, and was one he was unfortunately familiar with.

“Patterson,” he said it like a curse. Jim Patterson was one of the new Runners; another hot shot who figured he’d challenge the big dogs. So far, he had an impeccable track record, but this would put him severely off-pace. Interfering with another Runner’s contract was strictly forbidden.

“I figured you’d crack eventually, Patterson, but I’d given you at least four more months.” Lenny spun to face the other man; shorter than he was with spiked blond hair, Patterson was well-built and good-looking, but with a curl to his lip that made most women stay the hell away.

A laugh cracked out of him; Patterson hadn’t bothered to draw his own pistol but instead held his Device, leveled at Lenny’s chest.

“This one is mine, Jim. Put your damn Device away and get the hell out right now. I won’t even report you to the Board.” All things considered, Patterson was getting off light.

“It took me a while to figure it out, Lenny,” Jim said, his voice think with self-congratulation, “I’d always wondered how you were so much better than the rest of us, so much quicker at getting every job done.”

There was a click as the hammer on Patterson’s Device came down, and Lenny could see a dark blue beam spring to life and lance out toward his chest. He smiled.

He smiled all the way to the ground as his back arced and his hands groped soundlessly for his mouth.

He’d always felt like a fragment of a man.

- D