Urban Decay

PART ONE | URBAN DECAY-2

“See that courtyard just east of the library? That’s our landing zone,” said Roman, slowing us to a near hover, beginning to lower altitude.

I watched as the helicopter’s shadow grew on the wild, waving grass.

“Again: when you hit dirt I want you to go immediately to the street—5th Avenue, right there, and follow it south-west. Stay close to the buildings, they’ll give you some cover. Get ready.”

“From predators?” asked Joan, our mechanic, her voice full of doubt. It was her first time out of the compound with us.

“From people,” said Roman. “They’ve been known to snipe from the towers.” We touched down with a slight bounce—tall grass lashing at the windows. “Remember, right on Marion ... then all the way to 1st—to the Exchange Building. You can’t miss it: there’s a Starbucks across the street with a—”

Joan balked. “There must be a hundred—”

“... with a gutted triceratops in its window.” He looked at her over his shoulder, then at each of us individually. “It’s—it’s probably been picked clean by now.” He swallowed as though he’d said too much, then straightened suddenly and nodded once. “Everyone just—stay sharp, okay? Good luck.”

And then we were moving, piling out of the hatch and into the prop-wash, scrambling for the street, as the Bell 206 climbed—the sound of its rotors thundering, reverberating off the buildings, the grass dancing.

“Other side of the intersection, that condo,” I said, “let’s go.”

We double-timed across the pavement—or what was left of it—to where a concrete overhang offered some measure of cover.

“Hold up,” said Nigel. He dropped to his knees and began assembling his weapon—a commercial w**d trimmer outfitted with a 10” saw blade—as Lazaro hovered above him.

“Yeah, hold up. Nigel saw some grass he wants to trim,” said Lazaro.

Nigel primed the trimmer but didn’t start it. “I didn’t hear you complain when this opened the belly of that Barney—you know the one that had you pinned? Or did you forget about that?”

“And covered me with its guts,” said Lazaro. He pumped his shotgun briskly. “You were too close. Charlene would have taken you both.”

“That so, mon? Like it took Chives?”

I glanced at Lazaro and saw him bunching a fist. “Stand down, Lazaro ... I said stand down! Now!” I looked at the others quickly, hoping to quell any unrest. “We all know precisely what happened to Chives ... and there ain’t nothing—I mean nothing—that is going to change that. Ever.” I made eye contact with Nigel as he stood. “He couldn’t be left that way. Period. Now let’s move—Lazaro, take point. Nigel, bring up the rear. Let’s go.”

And we went, hustling down 5th Avenue even as the sky grumbled and it began to spit rain—all the way to Marion Street, at which we turned right ... and were promptly greeted by a hail of gunfire.

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