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Im sorry this took so long to come out. I was in doubt about what to do =
with this installment considering the tragedy in New York. This, and the =
next several parts were plotted and drafted more than a year ago, long =
before anything in NYC had taken place, of course. But herein are a few =
plot-related elements that will remind people of what happened last =
week, and I assure you, the connection is coincidental. Remember that =
this is fiction, and any attitudes about terror and terrorism that I may =
seem to portray are the right of anyone to free thought. I do not =
condone any kind of public violence, and offer this story more as a =
metaphor than a stand on real events. That said, I hope you like what =
you see; Screw's story gets even more tangled as the elements of his =
enemy make their move, and the struggles continue to play.


"Eat to Live, do not Live to Eat."    -B.F.







-- Attached file included as plaintext by Listar --
-- File: 6.txt

6

    Like my newly restored suit, the Raging Bull wore 
streaked red and had black horns acid-painted onto the sides. It 
was less than two years old and had the newest eighteen liter 
X-32 engine under the hood. Six thirty-five inch magnum tires, 
a carbon steel frame, triple independent suspension, and old-
fashioned Peygan reliability. Diago had made it clear that if I 
wrecked this car he would have me shot. I wasn't planning on 
letting him down. The Bull was the heaviest car I had ever 
driven; it was not even legal to operate without permission of 
the racing board. 

    I had been running red zone practice laps all morning. 
The obstacles were locked down and I had been racing just for 
speed. My times were excellent. The car moved under me in 
perfect unison with my experienced hands. The small quirks in 
handling that I had come to expect lately were not present in 
the Raging Bull. It did everything it was supposed to. I had 
even pushed it to 390 on my way down the practice track ramp. 
If I could continue this when I wasn't alone on the track, I had 
no doubts about placing.

    There was a chrome switch that had been installed on 
the left steering column. It was an auto pilot feature which let it 
lock onto another car by radar, and follow it around for about 
half a minute if I needed my hands for something else. I could 
have used it three days ago. It made one think.

    Even before Saturday's race with Jarred I had 
complained twice of a slight pain in my stomach and a 
creeping lethargy. Of course in the heat and adrenaline of Gold 
Cup driving I could feel none of that now. But it wasn't gone. 
Just contained and forced down with the hope that it was only a 
passing feeling, the result of my changing environment. It 
would take more concentration that I could spare to dig it up 
now. So I forced myself to ignore the pin prick sensations it 
had tried to lay root several times in the last hour.
 
    Think of something else. Something unexplained had 
helped me back onto the car. It was over, and it wasn't a 
miracle.

    Well, something aside from that.

    I braked, slowed, and pulled up to the starting line for 
another lap when I saw Diago flashing the yellow at me. I 
rolled down my window. Diago shouted over the engine noise 
from the podium. "I'm raising the obstacles now! Pull to the 
inside and go for time! Good luck!"

    I gave him the thumbs up, and leaned back into my 
seat. I was ready. The car was ready. The sphere of glass 
cycled down through the upper spectrum to green, and I hit the 
gas. First gear was only used for starting on practice tracks 
where the ground wasn't already rushing by at two hundred 
clicks. I had to go through eighteen more to get to my top 
speed, and I did it in just under twenty seconds. Racing was a 
lot easier when there was no one trying to ram you. I turned 
right, and drifted to the inside of the obstacles. I could usually 
see them come up with more than enough time to get out of the 
way. A couple of times I had to swerve, but it was nothing like 
before where I couldn't miss them to save my life. 

    I made it around both loops in four minutes. It was 
better than a competition time, but I knew I could do better. I 
did forty more laps and called it a day, with my best time at 3 
minutes and 23 seconds. It was a record for me. I began to feel 
like I did ten years ago when I was in my driving prime. 
Whatever shitty karma had come over me before was bothering 
someone else right now. I needed this for my own peace of 
mind. 

    Diago took me to the bar afterward for few early Jack 
and Cokes. Some of the fans who had watched me driving at 
the track followed us down, and it was a good time. There was 
no division on the basis of occupation. I was throwing darts 
with Leah, an off-duty waitress, and simultaneously watching 
some sort of sex talk show on the big screen. Nothing valuable. 
The atmosphere was cool and thick like it is sometimes after 
rain, but crisper. You could relax into it.

    Leah rose her hands to the ceiling. "Yes! I win again! 
You suck!"

    "What?" I exclaimed. "I didn't see you throw that!"

    "You lie and you know it." She laughed evilly out loud. 
"But that's okay. We can't all be winners, right?"

    "I'll just have to find something else to beat you at," I 
said with a smile.

    "I work here, remember? I wouldn't bet your last dollar 
on me losing anything. I do it all for a living."

    "And that somehow makes you feel superior."

    "You're damn right." Leah pointed to the shot glass on 
the tall round table between us. She grinned again and shook 
her head slowly. I exhaled and took the shot in one swallow. 
My eyes flared and I thought, damn, I should have stuck with 
blackjack.

    Just as I turned away to chase it, the big screen emitted 
a high pitched tone, and a message scrolled across indicating 
an emergency news bulletin. 

    ATTENTION CIVILIANS. THIS MEANS YOU. 

    No one blinked. This was common.

    The scene switched to a news anchor sitting at a desk, 
looking like he wanted to act. "We apologize for this 
interruption, but there has been grievous news. I have been 
informed that a bomb has exploded in the Institute for Mental 
Health Research headquarters building in west Capital Plaza. 
We go now live to Sarah Wheeler at the scene just minutes 
after the explosion. Sarah?"

    A few heads around me turned.

    Sarah, looking uncommonly strong and in control, was 
standing in a heap of blackened rock debris. The IMHR 
building behind her was blown in half. One side was 
completely gone, while the other was still upright, though you 
could see right into it. There were rescue workers in hard hats 
all over the place, pulling bodies from the wreckage, and 
sedating the wounded. A crane was moving into place to help 
stabilize the slight overhang. News helicopters hovered in a 
pack overhead. It must have been one hell of a bomb.

    "Thank you, Tom. I am here at the scene of the 
explosion in Capital Plaza where paramedics are still 
uncovering bodies from the rubble of the Mental Health 
Research building. The bomb detonated at 6:34 PM today, after 
most of its employees had left. There were still at least fifteen 
of them working overtime who were caught in the blast, and 
the four man cleaning crew as well. Five people have been 
found dead so far, and the injured number in the thirties. Many 
were struck by debris as it cascaded into the street by the force 
of the explosion. The Mandate has called into effect a Security 
Dam with a radius of three city blocks around the site. Citizens 
with business in the region must be Audited at one of several 
checkpoints. Reporters have been forbidden to interview the on 
site police units. That is all we have been told right now. Back 
to you, Tom."

    Tom started talking again, but I was not paying 
attention anymore. I had been to that building not four days 
ago. Quite a bit about this bothered me. I suddenly wanted very 
much to leave. The rest of the people in the bar where now 
talking again, all shocked. I paid my tab, said a word to Diago, 
and then went outside. The sun had set below the horizon and 
reddish dusk flowed up to take its place. There was mild traffic 
as it was only a little after rush hour, but I made it home. 
When I got in, I sat on the couch and thought. I 
delivered Zig's package to the post office under the building 
and three days later it exploded. This was bad. For Zig and for 
me. I had to talk to him.

    I thought about calling, but then realized that if he 
really was mixed in up the bombing, he might try to leave 
when he found out I knew it was him. So I decided to go see 
him personally. If nothing was up, then he could tell me the 
truth this time about what was in the shopping bag I delivered. 
If not, then I might need to help him leave the whole south 
side. And this would mean Alethea would need some place to 
go.

    The problem with going to Zig's was that if the cops 
were somehow quicker than I thought, and they had me under 
investigation, they would probably have a tail waiting outside 
and that would mean giving away Zig's apartment. It had 
probably been a bad idea to come here in the first place. I had 
been involved in a lot of 'less than legal' behavior in the past 
few days, and wouldn't have been surprised at all if the smell 
of starch lingered under street lamps. 

    Somehow I would have to escape the place at night and 
take a cab. They would definitely be watching my cyc. I 
decided to stay put and not make any calls for the next few 
hours. There was no call for wasted heroism.

    The screen popped open and I saw that the bombing of 
the IMHR building was now all over the frequencies. They 
now knew the explosion had come from a bomb detonated in 
the basement of the structure, near where the post office sat. 
The I.O.'s Ballistics team had ruled out a missile attack by the 
shape of the blast sphere. This was not news I wanted to hear.

    What did Zig have against the Mental Health quacks? 
He almost never took part in things like this, especially when it 
dealt with the government. Getting convicted of destroying 
government property meant a minimum mandatory sentence of 
thirty-six years, longer sentences depended on the nature of the 
crime. Conspiracy to destroy buildings in Capital Plaza during 
daylight hours would probably mean a myrrh bath. Knowing 
the law, extenuating circumstances would not be considered. 

    So why did he do it? I could have been completely 
wrong about the whole thing; someone else entirely could have 
been involved with the bomb. But our situation had changed 
and no one was getting the benefit of the doubt this time.

    An older looking bureaucrat speaking for the Director 
of Internal Operations was interviewed from an office inside 
City Hall, and he stated that there would be serious 
repercussions against the parties responsible. I believed him. 
He said the police were already looking into some early leads, 
and that they should have more progress to report in a few 
days. The interview finished with the Director adding that if 
any other bombs were found or terrorist actions continued, the 
city would have to be placed under immediate martial law.

    No one wanted that. The officers and police cars 
replaced with soldiers and tanks, not to mention civilian audits 
outside every public facility. A military enforced curfew 
forbidding any citizen to be seen on the street after midnight. 
Every government official on the Island was starved for 
chances to do this. I wouldn't be surprised if they set the 
second bomb themselves; which incidentally meant that I had 
to be careful or someone might start pointing fingers at me.

    The digital number display in the corner of my screen 
flickered between time, date, and year; yet simply stating that it 
was a little after eleven. I wanted to get moving soon. The only 
gun I now owned was stashed under the couch and turned out 
to be already loaded. Proof of my insecurities. My crash helmet 
was still at Zig's so I merely managed to tie my hair back and 
put on black sunglasses. Finished off the rest of my warm 
coffee, and I was primed.

    My front door did not have a fish-eye lens set into the 
wood at head level to peek through, like that on any residence 
door which was regularly inspected. Instead there was a button. 
I walked up to it, took a breath, and pushed it.

    (Static) C- CL- CL- CL-

    I stood back and smacked the speaker. Wires must be 
coming loose somewhere.

    CLEA- CLEAR, SIR.

    Good. These things were usually reliable. I cracked 
open the door and made sure the hallway outside was empty. 
Then, locking the dead bolt behind me, I stepped out and 
headed toward the stairs. On a Monday night, most of my 
minimum wage neighbors  would already be home from work 
and locked in their apartments too. 

    I tread lightly down the short checkered carpet, noticing 
that I passed several framed pictures on the wall that must have 
been put up that day. They weren't new of course, probably 
donated to the HUD from the Rockford Endowment of the Arts 
school on the north side. But they were all stills of various 
flower arrangements which felt out of place. Roses, orchids, 
and lily's. They definitely hadn't been there when I left that 
morning, though it was true I may not have noticed. At least 
they weren't bolted behind glass like most of the expensive art I 
came across. Almost refreshing.

    Glancing aside at my empty mail-slot before I reached 
the stairwell door, it was flung open and three men ran out, 
pushing me back against the wall. 

    All three looked several years younger and were 
wearing identical red canvas shirts with long black sleeves. 
Breathing heavily, they ran down the hall in the direction I had 
just come, shouting to each other.

    "Come on, we're late!"

    "It doesn't matter! It could be any of these!"

    "No, I think he's got one in mind and I know it's on this 
floor."

    "Did Stitch tell you that?"

    "Yeah, downstairs after the superintendent brought it 
up. By the way, where the hell is he?"

    From where they had shoved me aside against the mail 
box, I watched all three of them stop in the middle of the hall.

    "I don't know."
    
    "I don't know either. I thought he was behind us!"

    "Well, shit! He's got the badge!"

    I ducked back behind the corner, realizing they were 
probably about to turn around and run back in my direction. 
None of them looked armed, but I didn't like the sound of that 
last comment. I swiftly turned, opened the door, and slammed 
into a fourth man also coming from the stairs.

    "Damn it!" he yelled, breaking stride to check me as he 
ran past but also not sparing me a look. I wasn't able to see his 
face, but strands of gray in his long black hair admitted he was 
most likely older than the other three. Additionally, I could see 
as he turned right into the hall that there were large sweat stains 
forming under his armpits. Clearly from running up eleven of 
the building's twelve flights. Why hadn't they taken the 
elevator? He saw the others and bellowed at the top of his 
lungs.

    "POLICE!! OPEN UP-"

    Then the sound of fire alarm bells exploded behind me 
and drowned him out. One of them must have pulled the alarm 
trigger, which in places like this automatically unlocked every 
door on that floor and all the ones above it. Presumably to help 
firefighters. I didn't care. The siren box going off overhead was 
deafening and I had to make a choice. If the four of them were 
undercover cops, and even worse, looking for my address as I 
feared they were, my problems were just beginning. Somehow 
they hadn't guessed that I might have left my place so soon 
after arriving. Or maybe they thought I looked like someone 
else. Probably just incredible luck. But since the alarm had 
been pulled, back-up would definitely on their way up, while a 
crowd of frightened civilians from the top floor would soon be 
rushing down. 

    Sandwiched between the two schools of fish I hadn't 
wanted to witness me leave.

    I took the stairs three at a time, down, trying to think of 
how they could have found me this early. And why they 
weren't in their combat suits. If it was that at all.

    Soon I ran out onto the eighth floor, arbitrarily picked. 
Everything was locked tight. All residents were supposed to 
evacuate during a fire alarm, so I guessed most of these people 
were just being lazy. Even in a real fire, living three floors 
below the blaze usually meant you were safe until rescue 
workers arrived. As I ran down the hall, someone shouted out 
something to me in a woman's voice from behind. But I didn't 
stop or turn around because I had spotted a single open door 
previously obscured by an artificial plant. Jerking my head 
back around as soon as I gripped the knob, I wasn't surprised 
to see that no one else had entered the hall. Good. Entering, I 
slammed it shut behind me.

    Expecting immediately to be surrounded by a family of 
poor Hispanics, I drew my pistol out of my jacket quickly, 
intending merely to wave it around. But the rooms were 
completely empty, even of furniture. The only light came from 
one dim ceiling panel. Just dirty yellow walls and a bad smell. 
Someone had just moved out. 

    Sighing slightly with relief, I walked through the foyer 
toward the back bedroom looking for a window which held the 
fire escape platform. The paint on everything was cracked and 
peeling, meaning that this was probably one of the cheaper 
places to rent in the building.  But I assumed it would at least 
have fire escape access. Almost everyone paid the money for 
that. I found and flung open the small bay window with both 
hands, still holding my gun.

    Outside, except for the wailing of the alarm emitted 
from every other open window, the lawn looked fairly 
undisturbed. I saw only one or two people who were standing 
out there patiently waiting for a convoy of fire trucks. Even if 
they were running late, I expected more police cars to be 
parked out front. After all, they already had sent four men after 
me. The distant visitor's lot looked only marginally full from 
here. Where was everyone?

    As I stared out into the dusk, I heard a voice from 
below. My head turned sharply down and I saw two figures 
looking up the side of the building. They did not point or squint 
like they noticed me, so I yanked my head back in without a 
sound. Both were standing in front of a black BMW which was 
idling, producing a light fog of visibly ashy smoke in the cold, 
dry air. My breath was doing the same thing. I suddenly had a 
very bad feeling. Exiting the bedroom, I quietly padded into the 
kitchen. Who knew what there was to be scared of, but my 
instincts suggested trying another window.

    In the kitchen was another wide bay which faced a 
different direction as this was one of the corner apartments. I 
put my ear against the glass and did not hear anything. The 
dirty blinds obscured my view and I looked for the trip-plate 
which would raise them. I found it right on the counter beside 
me.

    Very dark, inside and out. 

    Still out of breath from running, I coughed twice as I 
felt around more hurriedly, disturbing the silence. The 
darkened doorways I had passed suggested I really was alone. 
But now the doubt had set firmly in. The unanimously 
merciless third strike sat on my left shoulder and taunted me 
for uselessly breaking the law. I told it to shut the hell up, and 
it did so at once. Unusual. Outside, blackness.

    "Hmm."

    But then my eyes gradually adjusted to the low light, 
and my stomach tightened. 

    A man in a black overcoat was standing there, twelve 
stories up, blocking my view. One boot rested lightly on the 
sill, the other dangling behind. I looked up at him with an open 
mouth.

    "Jesus Christ."

    He/it smiled, but didn't speak. 

    "Maybe John, if I had to pick. The Jordan is enduring a 
dry season this year." That high, whiney voice came from the 
form of a second man in black, standing to his side. Neither 
were clinging to the brick wall with either hand. They must 
have been secured from above with cables I couldn't see. Both 
were staring down at me through the glass outside, yet I heard 
them perfectly.

    "Are you two cops?" I got out.

    "No."

    "Taurs?"

    "Not likely." Again, that from the taller, bald man. Both 
looked extremely familiar. Something was almost fighting 
against my attempts to recognize them. Even still.

    "We missed you, he said.

    Then I remembered. The Charger. I raised my hand 
slowly and pointed the gun at him. "Weren't there three of 
you?"

    He shrugged. "Guess not."
    
    "And the phone call?"
	
    "Yes. Please forgive me, you've persuaded us to take a 
less direct approach."

    "What happened in the subway?"

    "I have a vintage Technicization Age cowcatcher sitting 
in my living room. I hope you don't still think you can hurt me 
with your little toy, hmm?"

    "You think you can take a bullet too? They're a lot 
faster than trains."

    This time they both smiled a little and laughed. I had 
remained very still since seeing them hanging out there. The 
first one, who looked older and had been the passenger when 
they hunted me three days ago, reached down and slid open the 
window. Cold air immediately hit me from outside. His foot 
was not clearly visible, resting lightly on the toes.

    "I know. I can catch a .45 in my teeth." 

    I almost believed him. 

    "Would you like to see it?"

    His hand still holding the window pane, he stooped his 
head and poked it inside. Both men pulled themselves fully in 
and crouched, framed in moonlight. Waiting for some cue from 
me, and I was still too shocked to react. But my fingers were 
subconsciously tightening around my weapon's handle. My 
new weapon.

    I felt the kick of air under pressure on my face, head, 
and chest as I fired. It threw me backwards onto my left side 
like the shock wave of an explosion. Gyrojet rounds are so 
named because they are not projectiles, but contain a small 
cache of rocket propellant which ignites as the firing pin 
releases. Lead zeppelins were on the larger end of the spectrum 
even for gyrojets. 

    I got off three shots before I slid across the linoleum 
floor into a refrigerator, but one solidly connected with the bald 
man's forehead. It passed immediately through. His frown 
stretched into a look of frightened disbelief, and he fell 
screaming to the ground. I heard the thud.

    The man in black, who was finally close enough for me 
to see that his face was old and pale, looked down with disgust 
and then up again through the open window at me. His slightly 
misshapen head turned slowly as he stepped into the cramped 
kitchen with a growing frown. 

    "I wasn't prepared for that."

    I cocked the slide on my Beretta and re-aimed it. 

    "Excuse me? Friend?"

    "Yes?"

    "What part of fuck-off didn't you understand?"

    He grimaced. "My name is Allan Wells, Screw. You 
had better remember me; the chamber doesn't erase true scars. 
Think back. And put down the gun."

    "Christ no. Not until-"

    "Put it down!" he yelled, thrusting out a hand toward 
me. The window pane simultaneously shattered inward and 
rained glass on me. I was knocked down again from where I 
had propped myself up on the floor. I knew the force of air had 
not come from the gun. It had come from him. He had caused it 
to happen by will.

    Interject a mild lack of surprise. Maybe my air travel at 
the race with Jarred had been his doing.

    Allan Wells glanced outside once more at where his 
partner had fallen. He cursed, balled his fists, and turned back 
with a growl on his lips.

    But I was halfway out of the room by then. I slammed 
doors behind me as I got up and ran. There were crashing 
noises from within the kitchen, but even taking the time to look 
back would have been a mistake. He was now striding after 
me.

    I made it out the door and all the way to the elevator 
before I heard the splintering of wood and turned to see a 
section of the hallway wall explode. A second later the form of 
a trench coat stepped out from the smoke of burning drywall. 
The fire alarm was still blaring but no other doors had opened. 
I hit the button for the bottom floor and the elevator closed 
before I made eye contact.

    Hands shaking, I tore off an uneven strip of my shirt 
and wiped the blood and sweat out of my eyes, panting. There 
was even glass in my hair that trickled to the floor when I 
shook. The garish din was making it hard even to think about a 
plan. Just not fair.

    And then after the car had traveled down maybe three 
floors, it shuddered and grinded to a stop. Oh, god, I thought.
I pulled my gun again, listening. The cheap fluorescent 
lighting panels overhead dimmed out one by one until I was 
again in darkness, but I could make out nothing more than a 
few scraping noises from above. Where were the god damn 
firemen?! 

    Holding my breath, I ran my fingers over all the 
elevator buttons hoping one would start me moving again. The 
scraping got louder. 

    It was getting hot. Maybe it was just me. I had to keep 
moving.

    Elevator doors come cheap; prying it open with my 
fingers only took a second. It was stuck between two floors so I 
picked the lower one and slid down into another hallway. The 
elevator car jerked downward behind me a second later for 
about three feet. I stepped back quickly at the sound of more 
metal scraping metal thinking the cables must be snapping. 
But for the moment the car continued to hold.

    "Screw!" came from a voice that sounded inside the 
shaft, though I could see no one. "Answer me!"

    My voice stammered. "What!?" 

    "It's me, Wells! Do you remember?"

    After a few moments thought, the name still wasn't 
ringing any bells. "No. And if you come down here I'll shoot 
you in half."

    A short strained chuckle. "You are not in any position 
to make that threat."

    "Oh?" I said, realizing that he must still think I was in 
the elevator. I walked toward it and aimed my gun up at the 
ceiling of the car. "Surprise me, then!" and I pulled the trigger 
four times.

    There was a small cry and the last cables snapped. 

    Yanking my arm back, I saved it from being torn off as the 
elevator car dropped into free fall. No time to watch. Turning, I 
sprinted down the hallway toward the other end of my 
building. I passed four or five tenants who were trying to drag 
boxes of valuables from their rooms out into the hall. A child 
was holding a disc player and a cd.

    Turning a corner, I looked back and saw Wells swing 
down from the upper shaft into a crouch on the floor, staring in 
my direction. Sweat and tightly controlled irritation covered his 
face. Moving with clear experience, he stood quickly and 
smoothly and walked down the hall, closing the gap in a few 
paces. Neither of us batted an eye at the sudden sound of the 
elevator crashing. His perfect set of teeth were bared. Shit, 
maybe I did know him way back when. I used to know a lot of 
people in the circuit.

    I realized I was coming to a dead end, so I dropped to a 
knee and fired. Wells also stopped and squinted at my Beretta.
"No!" I whispered, before we both grunted.

    The barrel wrenched to the left and right in my hand 
and the bullets diverted into the walls around him. It coincided 
with the slight shaking of his head. I couldn't explain it. A neat 
trick, though it looked like he was exerting himself to do this. 
When I stopped shooting he pounced closer like a cat and I 
threw a fist at his head. It appeared that he had been caught off 
guard even though the block was almost instantaneous. He 
countered with a right that almost cracked my jaw. Reeling 
from the pain, I threw myself on top of him and we both hit the 
carpet.

    "Screw, I just want to talk!" he got out before I brought 
my elbow down on his nose. 

    "For some reason I don't believe you," and I brought 
both fists down on where I assumed his sternum was. I was 
thrashing like a madman. But I immediately felt that pressure 
gather itself under my legs and chest, the world flashed, and I 
was hurled away. Flipping once in the air, I landed five feet 
away and bounced off a door, gripping my shoulder. This 
definitely brought some light to the question about falling off 
Jarred's car. This was how it had felt, falling up. Scrambling 
for my dropped weapon, I shoved it in my jeans and ran in the 
other direction. Wells was right behind, swearing in frustration.
It was obvious that my business with him was not over. 

    Down a man, his cool demeanor had been dropped, but he also 
knew I did not have any more tricks up my sleeve.

    "Screw! Listen to me! They want you back! He even 
wants you back! What's wrong with you?"

    "With me?! You don't even know me!"

    "Yes I do! Before you went underground! Remember 
the Apothecary?"

    "I'm telling you! You've got me mixed up with 
someone else!"

    He jumped through the air, higher than humanly 
possible, and this time tackled me. I tried to kick him off, but 
he leaned into it. My legs were forced back. So was my neck. 
He was using his power to crush me against the ground; I 
understood it now. I tried to claw at his staring eyes, but my 
hands would not leave the floor. The pressure was still 
building, past the point where I could remain conscious. I 
concentrated on pushing him off of me and wished to god I 
could get one good swing in. No one wanted to admit that an 
old man could put the fear of god into them, and yet here I was.

    I stared him in the eye, and yelled. His face contorted as 
the white hair on his head began blowing upward as if caught 
in a fan. It came out by the roots. My left leg abruptly came 
free and a foot in his groin sent him flying against the ceiling. 
Lungs expanded in a desperate breath. 

    "I knew it! Finally!" he yelled, halfway between 
surprise and suffering as he dropped to his hands. I was 
shocked too. It was all becoming ridiculous.

    I rose to my feet slower this time and backpedaled 
down the hall. There was one last window at the end of it, 
hosting a bird's eye view of the large recreation area between 
this building and a few others in the development. I stopped a 
yard away and turned around. Wells was eyeing me carefully 
and leaning against a short table in the hall, winded. He seemed 
still to be silhouetted in ambient light even though the 
building's power source had gone dead. Or was it just a trick of 
the eye? Mine were painfully unfocused as it was.

    "Bastard. You know all this really isn't necessary," he 
said between breaths. "I am not going to kill you." He talked 
with a slightly cracked voice, tinged with an accent I couldn't 
place.

    "Who the hell are you?" I asked.

    "I have been sent by the Mandate."

    "You're not from the Mandate. They use the Special 
Forces to do their wet work."

    "I'm a special case. So you don't remember me; but I 
work for a Director you will. Destined to help mankind, like he 
says. Not in the present, mind you, but in the future. And 
the interest on your loan four years ago is overdue."

    "Four years ago I was underground."

    "For how long?"

    "A nickel and change."

    "Are you sure?"

    "What? Of course."

    "Not quite. I was there with you underground and you 
don't remember me. But we can fix that. And I'm not angry 
about my associate, I already knew he was inadequate for the 
job. I just want to speak with you about the same questions you 
are asking yourself about me now. If you would come back to 
my house quietly, I am sure you will not be disappointed."

    "...You want me to ride home with you?"

    "It isn't an absurd request."

    "How do I know you would let me leave when I 
wanted?"

    "Ahh, you have any insurance I can give you. Really, 
there is no need for this."

    I shook my head no. "Considering your track record, 
that isn't enough. If you just wanted to talk you would have 
done so by the normal means. Now get the hell away from 
me." I pressed the trip plate behind me, without turning.

    "There aren't anymore normal means. Mr. Screw, I will 
have to ask that you step away from that window." He stepped 
forward.

    "I can't."
    
    "Why not?"

    "It would ruin my bad-boy image."

    I put a foot out the window and then the other, leaning 
out until I was hanging by my hands. Wells ran up to the sill, 
and reached for my arms.

    "Why? What is wrong with you?

    I grinned and let go. He gasped.

    Swinging myself hard to the right as I fell, a story later 
I caught onto the base of a seven foot flag pole with my hands.
 
     The icy aluminum racking my skin was just too painful. Wells 
was looking down after me and climbing out himself. I let go 
with a whimper once more, and dropped down onto the next of 
a series of flagpoles which lined this end of the building.
This one was farther down than I had estimated and I 
was not ready for it when I hit. I couldn't hold on, and it 
bounced away from my grasp, vibrating wildly. Continuing to 
fall, I desperately grabbed onto the next one down by leaning 
over. It slammed me in the stomach and I lost my breath. But I 
was able to hold on. Wells was completely out of the window, 
and hovering in mid-air again. Considering the other things he 
had surprised me with, I took this in stride. He flew down 
behind me and grabbed me around the waist. 

     "Come... back with us," he said through gritted teeth, 
yanking with both arms.

    It was what I had been waiting for. I didn't think there 
was anyway he could support both of our weights and still 
protect himself from my bullets. I twisted around in his grasp, 
pushed away, and unloaded the rest of my rounds into his 
chest. I felt the kick wrench the heavy steel gun back, almost 
too much to hold on to. His blood splashed over both of us as 
he stiffened and let out one last screech. 

    "Never."

    Suddenly, both falling and my chronic fear of it pressed 
themselves on me. The windows rushed past like one's 
reflection in the mirrors of speeding cars. I was forced to take a 
breath so deep I couldn't expel it. Wells' flailing leg hit me a 
second later.

    And then: thickest blue as I landed in the deep end of 
the building's private pool. And as if the magazine I emptied 
into his stomach hadn't been enough, Wells landed five feet 
away on the concrete platform dive. This had to be one of 
maybe eight in the whole god damn city. Some guys just have 
bad luck. 

    The water tension had been only slightly broken by my 
feet when it slapped my back and forced me to breathe out 
again. With all the will I could find I suppressed the urge to 
inhale deeply and instead pushed off the bottom to glide toward 
the surface. I sucked in the air as soon as my mouth was out of 
the water and sharp pain inflamed in my abdomen. I vomited 
almost without noticing and tears filled my eyes. But what do 
you know, everything was still ticking.

    Several people gasped, standing by the deck holding 
champagne. It was a party, right here; maybe a hundred guests 
of some sort of ceremony. It must have been almost past 
midnight by now. Hadn't they heard the fire alarm?

    A man standing around the edge of the pool reached out 
to help me up. The rest were mostly looking at Wells' body 
which was still squirming. I didn't wait for it to stop. Ignoring 
the shouts and expressions when I climbed up the shallow 
end's steps, I hurried away from them with a limp. Of course 
there was nothing I could do to explain. I slipped into the 
nearest door without looking back. The time had come to 
retreat no matter what. I wondered whether those four cops had 
found my apartment yet.

    It turned out to be a unisex locker room and I shut 
myself in an empty drying booth. Hot air drenched me for 
around thirty seconds, and when I got out I was fairly dry and 
all alone. You were supposed to be in your bathing suit when 
you did this, but I had always assumed that it would work 
regardless.

    Still unable to think clearly, I left through a different 
door and ran across the apartment building's south lawn 
towards the parking lot. I could hear shouting coming from the 
pool but it wasn't getting louder. I held one thought in my 
mind; find my cyc and get the hell out without being followed. 
Running from Wells was like running from a villain in a 
dream. None of the laws of nature applied to him and he 
wouldn't listen to me. Screw was at a loss. No one had 
preconceived plans on how to deal with things like this.

    Turning a corner, I stopped when I saw a familiar 
looking BMW. It was still idling and unlocked, but had the 
body of a very dead bald man lying across the hood. Wells' 
inadequate partner. I was about to turn away in disgust when I 
noticed a brown paper bag lying at his feet. It was one of those 
long slender bags that they give you when you buy liquor 
bottles. While staying as far away from the body as possible, I 
reached out and snatched it up. It had some trash in it, and a 
half-empty bottle of scotch. I pocketed the whole thing on 
impulse. The same reason I was doing everything at the 
moment.

    Like a leaking engine, the fire alarm finally sputtered 
and quit from inside the building. The sudden silence was 
almost deafening. I continued jogging across the dry lawn 
toward the main parking lot and spotted my cyc among several 
others. It was a blessed sight of stability. I wiped my eyes and 
took a deep breath.

    Far away, my apartment building stood lit up and 
seemingly unaware of the power blockage that should have 
fully kicked in by now. And again, there was no explanation. I 
wondered if I was the only one who had heard the hallway 
sirens wailing. Sure, I could be crazy, that would explain a lot. 
My voice told me to get the hell out and ask questions later. 
Was that the courageous thing to do? The introspective thing? 
Or at very least, the smart thing?

    As I unlocking my cyc, a security guard whistled at me 
from behind. I turned around slowly with my hands visible. I 
didn't want any warning shots in the back.

    The guard was a uniformed middle aged woman with 
vile red hair and makeup. She approached me cautiously, 
taking her time. But I relaxed. She couldn't know what had 
happened on the other side of the building yet.

    "Evening, officer," I said, merely trying to get her to 
leave me alone. Wasn't ready for anything else.

    She stopped a few feet away and eyed my cyc. "Sir, 
why is there blood in your hair?"

    I shrugged. "I fell down."

    She nodded without replying. I put a leg over the seat, 
and shifted out of gear so I could walk it away. The guard 
watched me as I did this, but I tried not to pay attention until 
she walked closer. I turned.

    "What have you got there in your jacket?"

    I whitened. The bulge was my Beretta, stolen 
government property. The penalty for having these found on 
your person was like twenty years. I blanched for a second, 
trying to think of something.

    "You wanna let me see-" she started to say, but was cut 
off when her radio crackled loudly at her belt. She picked it up 
and started talking into it, and I gathered that the police had 
finally made it to the pool. She was being called in. There were 
a few seconds of silence before she seemed to lose interest in 
me entirely. I kicked the stand and walked away unnoticed, as 
the guard walked back to her office, talking hurriedly into the 
receiver. She disappeared.

    And with that, I escaped. 

    I couldn't be sure I would be back to my apartment for 
a long time, since just about everyone on the planet now knew 
I lived there. As long as the cops didn't follow, I would head to 
Zig's place via the scenic route. No other strategy came to 
mind. 

    As I rode, speeding faster as the backlit street signs for 
my apartment complex faded, I reloaded a spare magazine. 
Paranoia had set, irrevocably present, keeping my tired eyes 
and ears especially alert. 

    But I was alone now. Truly.



---


    The parkway was too far north so Turner Avenue had to 
do. After circling Capital Plaza to shake anyone who might 
have escaped my notice, I took the turnpike east and then south 
to where Zig's apartment complex lay. The roads here were 
much clearer because no one liked to be out in this part of the 
city after dark. Zig's building itself was at least a hundred years 
old and still considered one of the better places to live in this 
area. I held a strand of nostalgia for the poor south side. I 
seemed to have memories of it I couldn't quite place.

    When I spotted the tall brick structure and parked my 
cyc, I entered the building through the back. Ten floors up, 
Zig's door was locked so I knocked and after a minute he 
answered.

    "Hey."

    "Screw, my dog. Just the man I wanted to see."

    "Zig, we have to talk."

    Just then Alethea came bounding out of Zig's other 
bedroom, wearing a button down shirt that reached past her 
waist. She threw an arm around me, and practically choked me 
to death. I pushed her back but with warmth. Zig politely 
walked into the kitchen.

    "Screw! Where the hell have you been?!" She was 
smiling, and managed to look both worried and excited at the 
same time.

    "Where have I been? We went out last night!"

    "And what happened to your clothes?! Is that blood?"

    "No, just sweat. Were you in bed?" I asked.

    "Yes, but not asleep. My god, did you run over here?" 

    "Just about. I'm sorry, but I have to talk to Zig for 
minute. Right now." I led her into the kitchen. Zig handed us 
each a cup of coffee, and he and I stood there exchanging a 
look as Alethea hung on my arm. 

    "We better do this alone," he said.

    I turned to Alethea. "Could you chill in the other room? 
Just for a minute?"

    She curled her lip and stared. "...Fine."

    "You wont want to hear this anyway. Please? 
I'll be there in a minute."

    She gave me a look, and walked out of the kitchen. I 
could hear the screen get turned up loud, for spite. This was ok 
because it drowned out what I wanted to say. I looked back at 
Zig, who was looking at the bruises on my arms.

    "I delivered a shopping bag for you last Friday to the 
post office in Capital Plaza."

    "Yeah, and I left you well compensated as I 
remember."

    "The post office was directly under the IMHR building, 
downtown."

    "So?"

    "The news report said the blast came up from the 
basement levels where the P.O. boxes were. And I had had to 
escape the police as well as two nut-balls in a Charger just to 
deliver that package. Now I opened it after I escaped the 
subway train, and there were no stock certificates or drugs in 
there. There was a cast iron box that could very well have been 
a bomb, or a remote detonator. So what's the deal?"

    Zig sat down at the table, and sipped his coffee. He 
said, "I was afraid this would come up."

    "You should be! A total of seven civilians are dead 
now, and they were all innocent staff workers! It's not like you 
were taking out a Special Forces office!"

    "I didn't blow up the building, ok? Damn it, why do 
you always second guess me?! I wouldn't let you go around 
taking the fall! I had nothing to do with that shit!" Zig looked 
dead serious, but his fingers nervously peeling at the Styrofoam 
coffee cup told me otherwise.

    "Then what was in the shopping bag, Zig? And why did 
you try to shit me about it?"

    "...I can't tell you yet." Zig did not look up.

    "Why!?"

    "I can't tell you anything about the circumstances. Only 
that I did what I did for your own good. Please believe that. 
Other factors were involved that you were not aware of. But 
the metal box was not a bomb or anything else like it. I know 
you won't accept this, but the I.M.H.R. building was 
completely coincidental as far as I know."

    "Who gave you the box?"

    "I told you, I'm not allowed to say! I'll tell you when I 
can. Which will be sooner than you think," he muttered 
afterward.

    Well, shit. I had the urge to shake him by the neck until 
his cheeks changed color but that wouldn't make my head feel 
better. I stood up, and put my hands on the table. "Alright, we 
both know that's outright crap, but I'll go along for the time 
being. Whatever was in there, someone has been trying to get 
at me for it for three days. Right before I came here I was 
attacked in my apartment, and had to re-kill the same two men 
who had been chasing me the day before yesterday."

    Zig started. "Who?" he asked.

    "An old guy dressed in black leather, and his man who 
was big and bald. Probably on steroids. And did I mention they 
could both fly? Or did that slip my mind?"

    Zig flinched as I said this. "They could fly? Like how?"

    "I don't know. Maybe they were using magnetic 
repulsors, but then they didn't have the suits. Maybe it's some 
type of new technology or maybe not. The old guy said he was 
from the Mandate, though that was probably just to scare me."

    "Did you learn his name?" Zig asked and looked 
worried.

    "Yeah, he said his name was Wells."

    Zig shrugged.

    "See, you may have your own motives for not telling 
me about the shopping bag, but I draw the line when my life is 
at stake. You know I wouldn't have touched the thing if I had 
known. For god's sake. I want an answer by tomorrow. You go 
tell whoever gave it to you I want to talk to them."

    "It's not that simple! I can't just-"

    "Make it simple! I am not putting myself in danger 
again for your little drug business! Look at me! I almost died 
tonight!"

    Zig stared back at his coffee cup. I stood up to go into 
the other room when he stopped me.

    "Screw, look. I didn't want any of this to happen. Least 
of all did I want buildings to be blown up or civilians to be 
killed. Do me a favor. Crash here for the next few days, and lay 
low. Tomorrow I'm going to have to leave on an errand and I 
might not be back for a while. I'll tell you everything in two 
days."

    "Two days?"

    "I've made an arrangement which will benefit both of 
us. Besides, someone needs to stay here with her," and he 
pointed his thumb at Alethea.

    "What?" She had peripherally heard her name spoken.

    "Well, I was going to ask if I could stay here anyway. 
My apartment is a wreck; I'll explain it all later, too. Looks like 
my vacation plans are on the back burner. Again."

    He put his hand on my shoulder. "Shit, I'm sorry. I 
know how long you've wanted to go."

    "Yeah." 

    He grinned. "You still taking me, or do you got 
someone else in mind?"

    "I think so." If we make it through the week, I thought.

    "Good, so you're staying. Take a shower, you smell 
bad."

    "I'll have to leave Sunday for my race, but yeah, I 
will." 

    I set down the coffee mug and wiped my forehead. 

    "Buy some groceries tomorrow will you? Mr. Cane?"

    "Don't worry about it." 

    I nodded and walked away. 

    Zig followed me out, said goodnight to both of us, and 
went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. I sank 
down on the couch with Alethea and rubbed my sore chest.

    "What were you guys talking about in there, that you 
couldn't let me hear?"

    "It looks like I'm going to be staying with you for the 
next few days, while Zig does some business travel."

    "Really? Where is he going?"

    "He wouldn't spill. Which makes me think it's 
probably something I wouldn't like."

    "He knows what he's doing. I trust him," she said.

    I said nothing.

    "But that means you and I are going to be here alone, 
right?"

    "Uh huh."

    She leaned her head back on the cushion. Her breath 
was warm and soft.

    Minutes passed as we sat at watched the news. My 
breathing eventually became slow and steady, and I started to 
hurt in places I hadn't realized were injured. Shaking off my 
jacket and torn shirt into a corner, I made sure there wasn't 
anymore blood or glass showing. I was too tired to go into 
anything. Alethea seemed not to notice.

    There was not much on the screen this late, but we 
stayed up for another hour flipping through the freq's with 
inattention. I was wondering why she hadn't pressed the 
question about my condition. She seemed pleased just to 
see me at ease.

    "Screw?"

    "Yes?"

    "What do you like about racing?"
 
    I thought about that. "The adrenaline, I guess. Feeling 
good about doing something well."

    "Even when you don't win?"

    "Even when I lose, yeah. Winning is a whole lot better 
of course, so I do as much of it as I can. But just racing is good 
too. It fills a need. Makes it complete."

    "So it's a kind of escape?" she asked. "I mean, you do it 
to feel differently about yourself?"

    "Hell. Isn't that the way it is with anything? I like to 
think there's something more when it's around the Turbine, 
though. The whole city comes out to watch us. It's in the 
papers and on the news for weeks. Little children used to know 
my name. Anything with that much influence has to be 
important, right?"

    Still watching the screen she said, "I'm glad you try so 
hard."

    "Thanks."

    "Life isn't life if you aren't involved."

    "I know."

    It was around 1:45 when Alethea glanced up and asked 
me if I was ready to go to bed. Was this ever a loaded question. 
I said I would get ready whenever she was, and she smiled.
"Hurry up, then, ok? I'll be in my room." She got off 
the couch, and went through the open door to the extra 
bedroom. 

    I sat there for a second, thinking about the way tonight 
was treating me. I didn't like the things it was trying to get me 
to accept. But I got up and unlaced my boots. When my nature 
called, I usually answered. 

    As I took off my black canvas pants, I noticed a slip of 
paper fall out of my wallet. It was the note card I copied the 
number from Zig's package onto last Friday. I had been 
meaning to look it up after I found it, but had not had the 
chance since then. There was no time like the present, and I 
actually wanted to let Alethea have time to make up her mind. 
So I found Zig's phone, and typed in the number. An address 
came up for a private building in a residential district north of 
Capital Plaza. 

    My City Information representative politely asked, 
WOULD YOU LIKE TO AUTO-DIAL?

    I punched the green 'yes' button, and heard a ring. No 
one answered. Five more. Not hearing the beginning of a recorded 
message either, I hung up. 

    As I put the receiver down, I heard beeping coming 
from the living room. I followed the sound, and I realized it 
was coming from the inside of my jacket. I picked it up, 
becoming more sure that this was the source. Opening velcro 
straps, nothing appeared to be making the noise. Then I saw the 
paper bag containing Wells' partner's scotch bottle in my 
inside pocket. I took it out and heard another beep. Under the 
rest of the trash, mostly old receipts, there was a small black 
object. I dropped it onto my hand. 

    It was a pager, displaying Zig's number in neon green 
lettering. My breath ceased. 

    Zig's fucking number. 

    Zig's home number on Wells' pager. 

    A fraction of a second later I dropped the bottle of Scotch and 
it cracked on the floor.


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