The Culled Part 36

"Yes, holiness." Cy said, voice flat, not even looking down. "Get out now, sir. I'll deal with it."

And so the Abbot John-Paul Rohare Baptiste, spiritual head of the Apostolic Church of the Rediscovered Dawn, turned his back on the arch-Satan and wobbled away on his hands and knees, trailing blood. The door swung closed behind him.

And then it was just me, and Nate, and Cy. And a gun.

And Bella saying: Not your problem.

"Well, now," said the Cardinal.

Nate was a wreck. Sweat poured off him. The effort of dangling there off the cell bars, then thinking straight long enough to hook me up to the whitewashed aide, must have finished him. He could barely stand, snot and tears and vomit decorating his face. I wondered how long it had been since his last fix. Certainly since before the battle by the bridge. I wondered what sort of weird-a.r.s.ed home-made s.h.i.+t he'd been chasing anyway.

"n.i.g.g.e.r looks like death," said Cy, grinning.

Nate swayed where he stood. "J's... Jus' need my... my..." He blinked, trying to focus. "Medicine."

A lot happened at once.

Nate lurched towards the red pack with his arms outstretched, gurgling from his guts upwards. Cy moved even faster, gun s.h.i.+fting to freeze the man on his spot. He had the sense to stay.

And I took my chance.

Pounced.

Fists raised. No way he could turn back to cover me in t- -f.u.c.k, he's fast- The pistol muzzle sat on my forehead. Cy smiled.

"Now." He said. "Just you back up. Back up there."

I didn't move.

"Limey. Limey, you hear?"

I worked my jaw. "I hear you."

"You back up. Or the n.i.g.g.e.r gets shot."

"Not me?"

"Hah. Not you. No guns for you. Not 'less you make me."

I didn't move. Didn't care.

Let him go for Nate.

(But-) No buts.

(But he saved my l-) No excuses. You know the rules.

Don't you let yourself owe anyone anything.

Don't you f.u.c.king give up, soldier!

(Sir, no sir, etc etc.) Let him do it.

Let him try.

The second the gun moves, he's mine.

Cy said: "Don't say. Didn't warn you."

And then Nate was on the floor, and a gunshot hung in the air, and the stink of guns and the shock of movement, and the pistol was back against my forehead - hot, singeing my skin - before I'd even tilted forwards.

Too fast to see.

He, I decided, isn't natural.

Nate screamed. His foot was a wreck. Bones poked at fractured angles from a fragmented red sneaker, fountaining blood and singed fabric.

"Back up." Cy said again, and still the grin. "Back up. Or next. His face."

I backed up. Nate's screams turned to moans, then whimpered away. Cy kept the gun aimed squarely at me, sidestepping around the growing slick on the floor, squatting to his haunches beside the heavy case. The muzzle never wavered. The dagger-pommel poked from his head like a rubber c.o.c.k, and I bit-down on the cheap joke in my mouth.

"Didn't have time," he said, smiling like a Ches.h.i.+re cat, "to grab my own. Back at the Secretariat. s.h.i.+t, Limey... You shoulda seen the stashes. Junk coming in from all over. Collectors collecting. Scavs bartering. Even had us a team of geeks. Geeks making it. New kinds. Mixing it like f.u.c.kin' artists."

"Drugs?" I said. The word sounded... naive.

"Best currency." He licked his lips and rummaged in the bag, not even looking. "'Cept for G.o.d. Heh. 'Cept for kids."

He withdrew a sealed hypoderm. Bit the rubber f.l.a.n.g.e off the needle and spat it away.

The gun didn't waver.

"Put it to good use. Trickled it out. Some to Klans, some overseas. Let them know who's boss. See? Rewards for good boys. Sweeties for ignorant ma.s.ses. Heh. Manna from heaven. Always kept the best s.h.i.+t for ourselves."

His stupid syntax was p.i.s.sing me off. "Until the ignorant ma.s.ses rose up and kicked your a.r.s.e, you mean?"

"Uh-uh." He shook his head. "'Til this n.i.g.g.e.r stole it." He kicked Nate's ruined foot, drawing-up another round of tortured screams.

Then he lifted the hypoderm to his neck, still staring right at me, punched through the skin and squeezed the plunger. His whole body went tense, cords straining.

"What is it?" I said, morbidly fascinated, watching the liquid vanish inside him.

His lips peeled back.

He hissed, like a boiler reaching critical ma.s.s.

Then grunted.

Then he yanked out the needle with a girlish giggle and chucked it away, letting it smash on the floor.

"The f.u.c.k knows?" He said, voice abruptly smooth, body moving with a weird liquidity. He stood up straight and peeled off his gla.s.ses, ignoring the tiny dribble of blood hanging on his neck. "Gave up reading labels years back."

His eyes were almost red. So bloodshot that they bulged, capillaries swollen and angry, pupils dilated to swallow dark irises that brooded at the heart of hot, insane scarlet.

It took me a moment or two to find my voice.

"Good to see there were no adverse effects, mate."

He giggled and winked. It looked painful.

"Now then," he said, moving slow. "You recall the Secretariat? You recall before the Injun arrived?"

"What about it?"

He grinned. And then carefully, letting me see what he was doing every step, he tucked the pistol away in a holster inside his robe and cracked his knuckles.

"Let's... pick up. Hm. Pick up where we left off?"

The first lunge was almost too fast to follow. Maybe I was still groggy.

Maybe I was just too slow.

It didn't matter, really. I knew it'd be a feint before he'd even started, and was ready when he blurred left-right-left - confusing and showy - then sent a foot arching down towards my s.h.i.+ns.

Looking flash, playing dirty. Trying to break my ankle, the arrogant f.u.c.k; that or push me backwards, keep me on the defensive, box-me against a wall.

Best form of defence is - I stepped forwards, through and under his guard. Took the force out of the kick with a sideways swipe of my right hand and rolled with the weight, down on one knee - letting fists strike uselessly at the air above my head. My left hand snapped palm-open, thrust forwards with a tiny snarl on my lips.

There's no word for what happens when you hit someone as hard as you can in the b.a.l.l.s. It's like... it's like somewhere between a crunch and a squelch. It's like hard-and-soft altogether, and you can barely do it without wincing in sympathy.

What I did was: gripped.

Fact: it's possible to kill a man this way.

We must've stood like that for a second or two. That shocked sense of calm after a flurry of blows and kicks too quick to be handled intelligently. You just react. You just let it flow.

I waited for him to crumple.

And waited.

And looked up.

He winked again, then laughed.

And then his fist was slow-mo-ing and my cheek was all white light, and I was on my back, and the world came back bit-by-bit.

He stepped back and shook his arms, like an athlete warming up. Like there wasn't a great b.l.o.o.d.y stain oozing through his robes around his crotch.

"Round two." He giggled, every muscle s.h.i.+vering. "When you're ready, limey."

f.u.c.k.

I stood up carefully, overplaying the grogginess. Hamming it right up. I swayed on my feet, waving him forwards with the punch-drunk bravado of an amateur. Trying to be clever about this... He was quicker and stronger and meaner, but if he was as dumb as he looked maybe I could- Now.

And he was on me again. Expecting it to be easy; an elbow thrown out at my cheek as he spun past, a low leg orbiting at the edge of the curve. I took the elbow in both hands and wrenched, letting his weight overbalance him, chasing him down so the roundhouse arced uselessly. I f.u.c.king pummelled him, knuckles mas.h.i.+ng on cheeks and lips, knowing it did no good but enjoying it anyway, leaning my arms on his chest as his back hit the ground, forcing the air out of him and feeling his ribs crackle, then planting both fists in his guts.

Hard.

Trying to get the s.h.i.+thead bleeding inside. Emptying him of oxygen. Playing it carefully, thoughtfully. Not a brawl but an amputation, not a fight but a f.u.c.king dissection. He coughed blood and tried to lever himself up, sucking back air, and I broke his nose with a smile and kept hitting, sat astride him; pounding away until my fingers felt broken and my arms ached from wrist to shoulder.

Intelligent application of force.

Yes.

Yes, you f.u.c.k.

Controlled violence.

Thwap Thwap For Rick. For Malice and the others. For Bella, you s.h.i.+t.

Yes.

For Jasmine.

I took him apart, little by little, and no brain-surgeon was ever as precise as me in that glorious flurry of aggre- Snuk My fists stopped moving.

Cy smiled through teeth smeared with b.l.o.o.d.y spittle, gripping my hands in mid-swing as if he'd caught a pair of tennis b.a.l.l.s, then sat up in a single continuous movement and nutted me on the bridge of my nose. Something snapped.

Fact: It's possible to kill people like this too.

I went over backwards. A fist in my eye helped me down. Warmth spattered off my lips and chin.

And I lay there panting as he dragged himself out from beneath me, and stood with no obvious aches or pains, spitting the blood away and clearing each nostril with a viscous rasp of snot and gore. He rolled his head as if he'd fallen asleep in the wrong position; jumped up and down in his spot once or twice, then gave me a great, bright smile.

"Let's go." He said.

f.u.c.k.

It took a long time to pick myself up. Every inch a mountain. Every movement a defeated consolation.

I couldn't win. This... this thing wasn't even human any more. With his veins clogged-up with freaky narcotic s.h.i.+te, nothing would work. Clever fighting. Precision and stealth. f.u.c.k it. f.u.c.k it all.

I've seen guys on PCP. I've seen guys go psycho on Yaba crazy medicine. Twenty bullets, major organs shredded. Doesn't matter. Takes the body longer to realise it's dead than it takes to kill whoever's killing you.

Cy was worse.

Cy soaked it up then smiled sweetly. He didn't rush. Didn't race to squish me before the wounds caught up on him. He just...

Enjoyed it.