The man nods resignedly, his voice a low rasp. ‘I deserve it — it’s — this is all my fault.’
Judd checks the dressing on his wounds. ‘What’s your fault?’
‘This.’ He raises a finger skyward. ‘What’s happening to the city.’
Judd glances at Corey, then turns to the man. ‘You’re saying — what are you saying, exactly?’
‘I designed it — the Swarm — it’s my fault.’
Corey studies him like he’s a crazy person. ‘The Swarm? What’s the Swarm?’
‘A nanotech virus. Enters a combustion engine through the air intake, infects the gasoline, turns the exhaust purple, then — boom.’ His eyes turn to the sky. ‘It’s airborne, adheres to particulates in smoke and exhaust, uses carbon monoxide for fuel as it self-replicates. Lives in the smog — has a half-life of fifteen years.’
Corey finds this very hard to believe. ‘It lives in the smog? Are you — is this a joke?’
The man shakes his head, sees the scepticism on his face. ‘I wish. It was designed for military use as a first-strike weapon — to disable the enemy’s war machines before the fighting began. It was never meant for urban deployment. I tried to stop them, but —’ He shifts painfully, his voice barely a whisper. ‘ — that didn’t work out so well.’
Judd leans close. ‘Who did this to you?’
‘Ponytailed mofo — from Louisiana.’ The man’s breathing is laboured now, his face drained of colour. ‘They wanted me dead — so I couldn’t stop it —’
Judd leans closer. ‘How do you stop it?’
‘The counteragent.’ The man’s eyes move between Judd and Corey. ‘It’s like an antidote — the only thing that will work. The only thing. It needs to be synthesised, replicated, added to the gasoline supply — you must take it to the authorities.’ The man drags in a ragged breath. ‘The only samples are at — 1138 — South Carmelina — Apartment 7 — the freezer — the code is 274.’
Judd’s confused. ‘The code? What code?’
The man’s head slumps to the side, his pupils pinned.
‘Oh.’ Corey feels his neck for a pulse, then shakes his head, surprised. ‘He’s gone. Poor bastard.’ They study him for a grave moment, then Corey gently closes his eyes. ‘Jeez, what a story.’
‘You don’t believe it?’ The tone of Judd’s question says he’s not sure himself.
‘An airborne virus? That infects gasoline? And lives in the smog? No.’
‘It explains what’s going on.’
‘Or that he made up a story.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘It’s Los Angeles. The town was built by people who make up stories.’
‘I guess.’
‘I mean, really — and the stuff about the ponytailed mofo from Louisiana? Sounds like a bad movie, mate.’
Spike barks.
‘What?’ Corey turns to Spike, who peers over the retaining wall. Corey looks over it too and suddenly he’s very unhappy. ‘Remember when I said it sounded like a bad movie?’
‘It was five seconds ago.’
‘Well, I think this is the part where the scary music starts playing.’
‘What?’ Judd follows Corey’s line of sight to a ponytailed man who strides across the freeway towards them from a parked silver Toyota Prius. He’s thirty metres away and closes fast.
Judd watches him closely. ‘Is that —?’
‘Looks like a ponytail to me.’
‘The ponytailed mofo from Louisiana.’
Corey nods at the dead man with a hopeful expression. ‘Maybe he’s just coming over to check on his buddy here —’
From inside his jacket the ponytailed man draws a Glock 9mm pistol.
‘— though that seems unlikely.’
Ponytail aims the pistol and fires.
‘Down!’ They both duck behind the retaining wall.
Thud, thud, thud. Bullets slam into the cement.
Spike barks.
Corey nods. ‘Yes, he is a mofo.’ He turns to Judd. ‘We gotta get the flock outta here.’
Judd nods and surveys the immediate area. There are only two options. The freeway in front or the undergrowth behind. He turns to Corey. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’
The Australian nods, and they move fast, stay low.
Weapon raised, finger tight on the trigger, Kilroy peers over the cement retaining wall. Alvy’s body lies on the ground but the two good Samaritans who pulled him from the ambulance are gone.
Kilroy raises his eyes, scans the steep incline. He can’t see them because the vegetation is so thick and he can’t hear them over the distant explosions, but he knows they’re in there. He silently glides into the brush. They have a lead on him but don’t appear to be armed so he doesn’t think they’ll be difficult to deal with. What does concern him is the fact he missed them in the first place. Yes, he’s well over sixty and yes, he’s lost a step this last year, but still, he’s never missed twice in one day. He’s never considered retiring, but, well, maybe this is a sign. He’ll think on it when this is over and done with.
After Alvy crashed into the police cruiser, Kilroy followed the ambulance he was transferred into for a good fifteen minutes, then lost it as Phase Two kicked in and the roads became gridlocked. He picked the ambulance up again as he crossed the freeway’s overpass, then saw it explode and flip over the retaining wall. He was on his way to make sure Alvy was dead when the two men turned up and saved his tubby arse.
Looking at them from a distance he could swear they were two of the guys from the Atlantis 4. If he’s correct, Kilroy would like nothing better than to sit down, have a beer with them and discuss their feats of derring-do. Instead he will have to kill them because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He must presume Alvy told them everything. He may be wrong, of course, they may know nothing, but he needs to be sure there are no comebacks. That’s the reason he’s on Bunsen’s payroll after all, to fix problems like this, though usually the problems are not of his own making.
For many years Kilroy performed the same job for Bunsen’s father. He was enlisted by the old man to, amongst other things, watch over and, if need be, rein in, his idealistic son. Kilroy had indeed watched over the boy, had been his only functional parent once the mother left, but had never reined him in because, well, he approved of everything the boy did. Until today. Today they’d had a difference of opinion, but Kilroy had let himself be persuaded by the boy’s arguments. It wasn’t that difficult to do because he trusted Bunsen implicitly.
Pistol up, Kilroy glides through the undergrowth. It’s difficult terrain, the ground is surprisingly steep and he can’t hear much over the explosions that bang and pop in the distance. He reaches the bottom of the incline and peeks over the steep drop to a sprawling car park below. It looks like it belongs to some kind of church, which burns furiously, watched by a handful of parishioners. He can’t help but wonder where their god is now. There is one fire truck in attendance, but that is also alight. Directly below he can make out Alvy’s ambulance, upside down and still smouldering. There’s no sign of the men or the dog, though he doubts they’re down there anyway. There are no stairs and to jump would be a death wish.
Where’d they go? He turns back to the brush and listens, tries to hear something, anything, over the explosions.