Oooh. September:

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.

% You and me both. Opening I had planned for Avenging 8 hit a little too
close to home in some ways after that event. Had to modify it slightly.

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.

Probably a good reminder. I wouldn't have placed any stock in the similar
themes, but others might.

 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.

ie: Just because I show someone murdering someone else doesn't mean I
condone the action.

6

    Like my newly restored suit, the Raging Bull

Heh. Cute name.

wore

streaked red and had black horns acid-painted onto the sides. It
was less than two years old

which meant it was one year out of date, a big disadvantage when compared to
the newer models that were only one year old.

    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.

Under racing conditions, I bet that doesn't last.

    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.

Why do I have a feeling he'll be needing it in the near future? :)

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

pinprick (I think it's one word)

    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.

Yeah. I can see that. :)

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.

Yeah. For the moment. :)

 I needed this for my own peace of

mind.

    Diago took me to the bar afterward for few early Jack
and Cokes.

Prefer Jack and Jack myself. :) (Actually am a Screwdriver man. Vodka creeps
up on you then slams you in the gut all at once.)

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.

Dr. Ruth was talking, still alive even in this day and age. :)

    "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.

Probably.

    The scene switched to a news anchor sitting at a desk,
looking like he wanted to act.

'act'? In what manner?

    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.

My. Big bomb.

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.

'Audited'. Nice jargon.

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.

Hmm. Had forgotten that was where it was dropped off.

    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.

True.

    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.

Not a good sign for Screw.

    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.

lilies (I think)

    "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.

Heh. No, it doesn't sound good.

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.

Could get lost in the chaos.

    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.

Probably coincidence.

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.

Awkward. I'd rather see something like. 'hall, a woman's voice shouted out
something from behind me' or somesuch.

    Outside, except for the wailing of the alarm emitted
from every other open window, the lawn looked fairly
undisturbed.

His building has a lawn? Given the way you've described it, it's not the
sort of thing I would have thought would be there.

dry air. My breath was doing the same thing. I suddenly had a
very bad feeling.

More like a worse than usual feeling with the way his luck has been running.

    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.

Oops.

    "And the phone call?"

    "Yes. Please forgive me, you've persuaded us to take a
less direct approach."

This is less direct?

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

Heh. Good. Baldy could have been bluffing.

    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."

"As long as it was tossed to me rather than fired from a gun,' he quickly
added.

    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.

Sounds painfully powerful.

    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.

Hmm. Might have actually gotten him this time.

    "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.

Not too shabby.

    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.

Oops.

    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.

This is unquestionably true.

    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?!

I don't think they could help at this point.

    "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.

Heh. Nice

    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,

Very.

    He jumped through the air, higher than humanly
possible,

Heh. Not really surprising at this point.

    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.

Ouch

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

This fellow seems to have some special forces to me. :)

    "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."

Heh. I doubt if it will be that easy.

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.

I would too at this point. There comes a time when it's useless to be
afraid. :)

    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.

Yeah. Lucky him.

    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?

Yeah. Does seem a bit odd. Maybe it's just a twisted version of 'The Game.'
:)

    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.

My. What a coincidence.

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.

Then again, maybe not.

    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

As I was unlocking my

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

    "You wont

won't

 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

okay

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

Yeah. One would think it is something of a sticking point.

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

Hmm. Mysterious.

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."

At least killing the same people repeatedly keeps you busy.

    "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."

Smells like it might be a set up.

    "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.

Actually he didn't say her name.

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

Heh. Wonder if this is leading to something, or just an opportunity to get
in Screw's head.

    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.

How odd.

    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.

Ohh. A cliffhanger. Methinks Zig has much to answer for. And he'll probably
be doing it next chapter.

Nice work, as always.

D.B. Sommer

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