Biohell (30 page)

Mel made a kind of low purring
sound. Keenan bit back a comedy retort, and ran his hands through wet hair,
spiking it. More rain was falling and he laughed, turning his head to the sky
and roaring as loud and boisterously as he could.

Franco placed a hand on his
shoulder. “You OK?”

“Yeah mate, never better. I just
cheated death. But you know what? I wasn’t afraid. My girls were waiting.”

Franco exchanged a worried glance
with Mel behind Keenan’s back. “Come on Keenan. This way. We’ll move slow to
begin with. Your system’s overloaded with shock and shot to shit.”

“Franco, bizarrely, I feel as
strong as a bull.”

“Well, one step at a time.”

They started down narrow,
overshadowed streets. Skyblocks loomed around them, upper stories nearly
touching high, high above in the imitation night sky. Mel padded behind the two
armed men, eyes watching Keenan, head bobbing in rhythm to her raking
footsteps.

“Listen,” said Keenan.

“Yeah?”

“You gave me the kiss of life,
right?”

Franco frowned. “Ye-es. To save
your life.”

“Well, don’t be getting any
ideas.”

“Hey, I took no enjoyment
snogging you, mate. Next time I’ll fucking leave you to die, shall I?”

“I’m just warning you not to get
frisky.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Keenan.”

“And
your beard tickles. It’s not
something I’ve ever considered before, having never snogged a bloke.”

“Fuck off,” snapped Franco.

“Tetchy.”

“You’ve answered that question,
anyway.”

“What question?”

“Did you suffer brain damage from
oxygen starvation.” Franco eyed him beadily, in the gloom. “Quite obviously,
you did.”

Keenan’s laughter boomed between
the buildings, and a cold rain fell like black diamond tears.

~ * ~

They
were in gangland. They could tell, because of the graffiti. It filled every
spare inch of space at ground level, in every colour and every language
conceivable, including various alien tongues written with Hydrogen Pens, which
shifted eerily through several dimensions. Keenan halted, boots splashing an
oil puddle, his confidence returned after his close brush with death. To
Franco, he seemed somehow more... powerful. Fearless. As if he’d faced an
internal demon: and conquered the savage beast.

“Why we stopping?”

Keenan pointed. Huddled in a
doorway was a little girl. “She might know of Knuckles. Let me handle this.”

“Oh no,” said Franco. “I remember
back on Ket, you scaring the shit out of all them little kiddies on the Gem
Rig.”

“What? Wasn’t that
you,
Francis?”

“No, no,” said Franco, holding up
his hand, “I think you’ll find I am the friendly face of the child population.”
He paused, chin tilted, and considered his position as humanitarian. “I am
easily trusted, nay, readily confided in! I should be a Samaritan! They should
put me on midnight suicide watch.”

“Go on then.”

Franco approached the young girl,
who squatted, huddled in a blanket. He slowed his pace, stooped almost double,
plastered a broad, teeth-filled smile on his goatee-bearded chops, and with a
worrying gait, scuttled in an almost-sideways shuffle towards where she sat.

“Hello der liddle pumpkiny
wumpkinny. Now don’t you be frightened of big old bad Franco here, you funny
wunny liddle girlie popsicle,” said Franco, with a completely straight face.

“I’m not frightened.” Despite her
youth, her voice was guttural and harsh.

“Tsch! Wsch! And why’s that,
little bunny wunny girlie wirlie?” Franco was close now. Close enough to reach
out and tweak the nose of the little bunny wunny.

The blanket twitched and Franco
found himself staring down the twin barrels of a Heckler & Koch Terminator5.
A single round would blow his head clean off.

The girl smiled. She’d lost most
of her teeth. “Because, after all the zombies I’ve slaughtered, a little ginger
man wouldn’t offer much of a fight.”

Disgruntled, Franco scuttled back
to Keenan, his face beetroot red, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“I thought you were ‘the friendly
face of the child population’?”

“Shut up.”

“‘Easily trusted’?”

“Shut up.”

“‘Readily confided in’?”

“Are you going to have a go,” he
growled, “or should we just go home now?”

“Temper, temper, Francis.” Keenan
strode to the young gang member. “We’re looking for Knuckles. Part of The City
Liberators. I can pay you for information.”

“I know where he hangs out. What
have you got?”

“What do you want?”

“Are those BABE grenades on your
belt?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take five.”

Keenan removed the grenades, and
stooped, placing them at the girl’s feet. She gestured down the street. “Five
blocks down. You’ll find a towering shit-hole. The Happy Friendly Sunshine
Assurance Company. They live in the basement.” She smiled. “With all the other
bunny wunnies.”

“You sure?”

The girl gave him a withering
look, and pushed thick strands of greasy hair from her face. A small hand
appeared, scooping the BABE grenades and placing them neatly into a canvas
sack.

“Come on,” said Keenan, and led
Franco and Mel down the street. During the trade, Keenan had noted the girl had
her Terminator5 permanently fixed on Mel. Keenan felt it wise not to point this
out.

“One more thing,” she shouted.

Keenan halted, and turned back.
Rain ran in rivulets down his face, making the Kekra slick in his powerful
hands. “Yeah?”

“Watch out for the zombies,” said
the girl. “They’re like a plague down there.”

Keenan nodded, turned, and headed
through the rain.

~ * ~

“They
spotted us, Keenan.”

Keenan cursed, and the two Combat
K men and Mel ran down a narrow alleyway, glancing behind. They stopped on a
corner; ahead, a group of perhaps fifty zombies were moaning and hammering at
glass doors. Many carried Uzis.

Suddenly, high above, gunfire
rattled. Keenan shaded his eyes, watched windows explode and glass snowflakes
rain from on high. A short battle raged. They heard the muffled revving of
engines.

“Engines?” said Keenan.

“That sounds like chainsaws,”
frowned Franco.

“Just like in the movies.” Keenan
flinched as bullets smashed bricks by his head. He dropped to a crouch. Gloss
brick dust settled over him in a patina, and he snarled, the Kekra pumping in
his fist. Zombies were punched from their feet, three, four, five, in a flurry
of perfect headshots. Keenan paused, watched the dropped zombies stumble back
to their knees, then climb to their feet. The horde turned its attention
towards the Combat K men.

“We need to get up from ground
level,” said Keenan. He fired off another couple of rounds. Zombies rolled with
the blows, their decrepit flesh flying off in long curled strips. Even at this
modest distance, they could hear the crunch of splintering bones.

“I thought these kids were in the
basement?”

“Not with that zombie horde
outside. They’ve been chased upwards. To the roof.”

“I can’t see kids using
chainsaws.”

“Yeah, well, that girl back there
just relieved me of five BABEs. Don’t underestimate the little buggers.”

More Uzis rattled and Keenan and
Franco retreated; they circled the building, eyes alert, Mel padding behind
them in silence. Keenan found his lungs were screaming at him, his head light,
and he stopped for a moment, leaning against a graffiti-strewn wall as lights
danced behind his eyes.

“You OK?” asked Franco.

“Better, since I was resurrected.”

Franco nodded, and they
continued. Suddenly there was a snarl, and a zombie leapt from a darkened
recess; Keenan’s Kekra was knocked from his fist, bullets blatting skywards as
claws and fangs descended on his throat and brains, bearing him to the ground.
Franco’s D5 shotgun boomed, and the zombie was flung like a ragdoll down the
street. It rolled to a savage abrupt halt, slamming a wall. Franco ran forward,
placed the D5 against its head, and pulled twin triggers. Half of the zombie’s
head splattered up the wall. Black blood ran along the gutter in the gloom. The
mutation twitched.

“Thanks,” panted Keenan,
retrieving his Kekra.

“No problems, bro. You need a lie
down?”

“I need a holiday.”

“I went on one of them once.
Cleaned out every damn brothel on the planet!” He grinned, and winked. “They
don’t call me Franco ‘Horny Stud Muffin Gigolo’ Haggis for nothing, y’know.”
Keenan sighed.

They moved on, Keenan filled with
apprehension. He was in a greatly weakened state, he acknowledged, and it
galled him. He had always been so strong, so fit, so unstoppable. But, first
with the heavy drinking, the smoking, the continuous abuse of his body... and
then his near-death experience, well, his Combat K reserves of seemingly
limitless strength and endurance were being pushed to the brink of what a human
body could endure.

Keenan halted in the gloom, boots
thudding. “Here.” He glanced up, and Franco followed his gaze. An old fashioned
alloy-iron fire escape. Thirty feet off the ground, slick with rainfall.

“But... how do we reach it?” said
Franco. “I’m only a little fella.”

“Mel?” Keenan looked at her
sideways. “Can you throw me up there?”

Franco puffed out his chest. “Better
let me do it. You’ve had a recent brush with that Old Daddy, the Grim Reaper.”
He coughed, nodding to himself. “I’m man enough for this gig.”

Mel cupped her talons, and Franco
stepped into the makeshift cradle. “When you’re ready,” he growled, and Mel tensed
huge muscles, and hurled Franco flapping and squawking fifty feet into the air.
The little ginger soldier flapped his way up and
beyond
the ladder,
sandaled feet kicking as if he thought he could paddle himself to safety.

“I think you put a bit too much
effort into that,” said Keenan, voice soft.

“Grwlllll.”

Franco reached the summit of his
ascent—there came a long pause, as he glanced down and his eyes went wide—then
flapping even more vigorously, he began to fall. There was a grunt and a clang
as he connected with the fire ladder, bounced from a rung, scrabbled
frantically for a second, and finally managed to get a grip. Franco sighed in
relief. The ladder creaked. Franco’s sigh turned into a wail as the ladder
engaged digital rails and accelerated towards the ground, aided and abetted by
Franco’s considerable belly.

Mel leapt, catching Franco as the
ladder hit its rubber stops. She cradled him in her arms like a babe. Keenan
pushed past them, looped his Kekra to his back, and stared up at the ninety-three
stories of ascent. “Better get to it,” he said, coughing heavily and hawking a
mouthful of tunnel water and phlegm into the gutter. He started to climb
quickly, boots clanging rungs, and Keenan was eaten by the sky.