Wait, is this… yes! It’s Beverly’s!
I’d seen the clutch a few times before, specifically on those rare nights when she got all dolled up. Popping it open, I checked its contents. I saw her mints and that little perfume bottle she liked to carry around. Plus, lipstick, gloss, and a thin wallet. I opened the wallet and saw her driver’s license photo.
Seeing her like that, beautiful and utterly annoyed, brought a smile to my face. I closed the wallet, returned it to the clutch. As I snapped the bag shut, I noticed drops of splattered blood adorning its otherwise-pristine surface.
My memories returned. My smile faded and my gaze grew hard as steel. I recalled where I was, what I’d been doing. And most importantly…
Who I’d been doing it for.
Chapter 11
Energy welled up inside me and I felt like I could carry an entire army on my back. Rising to my feet, I grabbed Graham’s belt. I was like a mighty king of old, ready to pick him up, toss him over my shoulder with ease. Digging deep, I heaved with all my strength and…
Nothing.
He barely budged. A king of old? Who was I kidding? After all we’d been through, I was more like a broken-down knight. No, make that a lowly squire.
Exhaling, I bent at the knees and grabbed his armpits. Then I rose up, wobbling like I was Dutch-Drunk. I’d gotten my second wind, but the air was still blistering and my breaths came in short, wheezy gasps.
Directed-energy weapons worked a little like microwaves. They stirred up water and fat molecules and then scorched them. Under certain conditions, they could incapacitate people in mere seconds. The fact that I was still going indicated I was some distance from the origin point or perhaps, that the operator had set the heat ray to a low level.
I glanced at Graham. His skin was ruddy and his lips were dry. But at least he was breathing.
Scanning the area, I saw a long stairway to the east. It led up to an old, rundown building. Dragging Graham, I walked backward, weaving through groups of Berserkers along the way. As soon as I passed behind the stairs, my skin cooled and I was able to refill my lungs.
I set Graham on the sidewalk and chanced a look over the steps. Numerous armored cars blocked access to E. 75th Street. Large eight-sided objects — the heat rays — were mounted on top of each car. NYPD officers surrounded the cars, defending them from a relentless onslaught.
Graham stirred, shook his head. “I feel like burnt toast,” he muttered. “What happened?”
“The NYPD gave us a tan, free of charge.”
“How generous of them.” Wincing, he stood up. “Thanks. But this doesn’t make us even, you know.”
“How could it?” I cracked a grin. “I’m still way ahead of you.”
A casual observer might’ve arched an eyebrow at our banter, viewing it as inappropriate. Maybe even disrespectful to Beverly’s predicament. But I found it kept us loose and allowed us to maintain cool heads even when things were at their worst.
Graham stared over the steps, taking in the armored cars, the NYPD, and the Berserkers. “How are they fighting in that heat?”
Above the general din, I heard distant flames and blaring sirens. “They must be wearing shielding,” I replied.
“The Berserkers are like Boy Scouts. Evil, drunk Boy Scouts.”
Unshielded Berserkers began to rise in the streets as the heat rays broke down. Some of them ran into battle. The others looked around for places to hide, to recover.
Rioters, sporting burnt skin and sweaty hands, gathered around us. Fights broke out and Graham and I retreated into the street. A powerful surge of heat, not overwhelming but still enough to sap strength, crashed into us. Casting about, I looked for another place to hole up while the Berserkers took down the remaining heat rays.
A swarthy fellow with sunglasses ran up to one of the armored cars and dumped liquid all over it. Another man, a near-albino with a baseball cap, lit a Molotov cocktail and tossed it at the liquid.
This should be interesting.
Flames crackled. A resounding boom rang out. The ground quaked and the car exploded upward, rising a few inches off of the pavement. Shards of glass and bits of metal hurtled through the air, striking walls and cutting deep into Berserker flesh.
The armored car slammed back to the street. Giant flames stabbed out of the shattered windows, licking ferociously at the air. More police officers, armed with batons and riot shields, poured into the area.
“No way we’re getting through there anytime soon.” Graham wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “We should backtrack to 76th and circle around.”
“And chance running into more of the NYPD’s torture devices? No thanks.” I glanced up the staircase and saw two doors, constructed out of safety glass. The left door was cracked, spider web-style. The right door was undamaged.
I sprinted up the steps, ignoring the ever-present heat. I tried both doors, but they were locked tight. Taking a deep breath, I rammed my shoulder into the left one. The spider web grew larger. I rammed the door again. Again, the spider web spread across the glass surface.
Third time’s the charm.
I took a few steps back and then lurched forward. My body slammed into the door and a section of safety glass broke loose from its right side. It swung inward, still in one piece, revealing a darkened lobby.
I crawled through the gap and pulled the safety glass back a few more inches for Graham. Then I did my best to fit the section back into the doorframe.
“We’ve got a body,” Graham said. “Pretty fresh from the looks of it.”
I finished replacing the glass and glanced backward. A middle-aged man, skinny and shaved bald, lay on a soiled, plastic tarp. His guard uniform, along with his chest, was covered with blood.
“What are the chances his killer is still in the building?” I asked.
“With our luck? I’d say it’s a foregone conclusion.”
I pulled out my satphone. It was 8:54 p.m. “Twenty-six minutes left,” I replied.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked. “Wait here until the fighting dies down?”
“We could do that.” I rooted through the guard’s pockets and found a ring of shiny keys. “Or we could take door number two.”
He eyed me like I’d lost my mind. “What’s door number two?”
I pocketed the keyring. “The one that leads to the roof.”
Chapter 12
“Someone must’ve pounded on the door,” Graham said, his gaze locked upon the body. “This guy opened it, trying to be helpful. Got shot for his troubles. Real nice. What kind of rat bastard does something like this?”
“The kind that wears heels.” Using my satphone’s flashlight function, I studied a set of footprints on the blood-soaked floor. “Actually, make that ankle boots.”
Shifting my gaze, I looked around the room. Although clearly a work-in-progress, the unfinished lobby felt old and reeked of mildew. Much of the floor was roughly-hewn and covered with plastic tarps. Large white buckets, filled with tools, lined the far wall.
To my left, I saw an open stairwell along with an elevator. Or rather, the elevator shaft sans car. To my right, I noticed a rickety card table and metal chair, both splattered with cream-colored paint. A computer tablet sat in its casing, laptop-style, on top of the table.
I hiked across the floor, my tuxedo shoes scraping against the plastic tarp. Picking up the tablet, I swept my finger across the screen. It instantly came to life and I saw the ATG News website. There were various headlines about the riot along with plenty others that revealed much about the Berserker mentality.
Is Depression On Its Way? No. It’s Already Here.