Urban Decay

PART ONE | URBAN DECAY-3

At first it had seemed like a miracle, the fact that there was an underground garage opening right there and that we’d all managed to get into it before anybody was hit—at least until the metal gate came rattling down and we realized our attackers hadn’t so much targeted us as herded us directly into a trap.

“Drop ‘em, now!” came a voice, even as we spun in its direction and raised our weapons—and quickly realized there was nothing to shoot at. Nothing visible, at any rate. What there was, however, were tiny red dots—on our foreheads, over our hearts.

“You see them. Good,” said the voice, just as cool as iced tea—the perfect accompaniment to the clatter of shifting firearms. “And now you’re going to bend down ... slowly ... and lay all your weapons at your feet. All right? Nooo one has to get hurt. Just do as I say ... and then we can have a nice conversation. About who you are, for example. And where you’re from. And what you’re doing being dropped off by a helicopter in the middle of disputed territory. Our territory. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, and nodded at the others—and at Lazaro twice; we’d been in this situation before and he always wanted to play chicken.

Slowly everyone did it—the red dots never wavering, the rain starting to rattle against the gate.

“Is that a weed wacker?” said the voice, and was followed by laughter. “Damn.”

I heard the tapping of what turned out to be an axe head against concrete before I realized he’d stepped into a shaft of gray light. “Don’t let their laughter get to you—people used to laugh at us too.”

We watched, paralyzed, as the bearded silhouette seemed to yawn and stretch. “What can I say? All this rain—it makes me sleepy. I’ll tell you, I could really go for a Flat White about now. Two ristretto espresso shots, some whole milk steamed to perfection, a little ephemeral latte art right in the center. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” He c****d his head in the near perfect silence. “No? What you want then, a bronson? At this hour? A good, earthy black IPA, perhaps? I could go for that. Something with a nice malty backbone—good for the old ticker.” He laughed, seeming to think about it. “I know. Too conventional, right?” He shook his head. “Momma always said: she said, ‘Atticus, all your taste is in your mouth.’”

There was a thin chuckle and a few clanks of the axe. “Kind of mean, don’t you think? Anyway. That’s what she said.”

He began walking toward us—slowly, deliberately—dragging the handle, dragging its blade along the pavement.

“Look,” I said. “We didn’t come here looking for any ...”

“Any what?” He stopped about four feet in front of me, close enough at last for us to have a good look at him, and what we saw seemed utterly incongruous with what Roman had told us—except, of course, for the multitude of tattoos (mostly triangles), and even more so the washboarded scar, which ran from somewhere on his scalp and through an eye (over which one lens of his dark, plastic-framed glasses had been painted black) clear to his left shoulder. That much, at least, fit. What didn’t fit was the slicked-back pompadour and long, full, meticulously-trimmed beard—Jesus, there was even product in it—nor, for that matter, the flannel lumberjack shirt and skinny jeans, not to mention the Converse sneakers. What didn’t fit, as the similarly attired men holding laser-guided rifles emerged from behind overgrown automobiles and support columns, was that the feared and formidable Skidders were, when exposed to the light of day (and not to put too fine a point on it), hipsters.

“Well doesn’t this just take the cake,” said Lazaro, and spit.

“I take it we aren’t what you expected,” said Atticus. He leaned on the axe as though it were a cane. “I must say, neither are you.” His good eye, which was a pale, piercing blue, dropped to our weapons. “You came well-armed. What are those—M4s? Not exactly an easy thing to come by—since Big Green fled the scene.” He raised his chin and c****d his head, studying us. “And that helicopter. I mean, damn. What did you do? Raid a small airport? Got a pilot, even.”

He began pacing, slowly, methodically. “That’s better than a doctor. So, to summarize: You got a helicopter. You got military-issue rifles. You got, well, plumbing—I mean, you’re clean, all of you. You even got ...” He stopped dead in his tracks, dead in front of Sam. “You even got—a girl!” He screwed up his face suddenly and leaned back, staring at Joan, who glowered at him. “Make that plural. Sorry. It’s just that ...” He looked Sam up and down. “It isn’t always this easy to tell—”

“Look, what do you want?” I snapped.

Atticus reared his head back as though he’d been wounded. “Jesus! Tone. I was just going to say how important it is for the fairer s*x to be represented in any post-apocalyptic scenario. You know, women.” He leaned close to me, I have no idea why. “My boys call them tassels—f**k if I know. Something out of Williamsburg, I suppose. Like putting crayons in your beard, or whatever.” He stepped back to address us all. “All of which is just my way of saying—you have a home. A base. A place to hang your hat. And because of that, I’ve only got two questions.” He hefted the axe suddenly and decisively—before switching it to his other hand and touching it to the ground. “Where? And why, since you have your own turf, would you come prancing onto ours—a crime punishable by death? I mean, just, holy bugfuck. It had to be for something good, right?”

“What’s it matter if you’re just going to kill us anyway?” protested Lazaro. “You said it yourself: ‘a crime punishable by death.’ So why should we tell you anything?”

“Because information is currency,” said Atticus flatly. He added quickly: “One I might just accept in exchange for your lives. Along with your guns, of course. And maybe the girl. It really all depends on the quality of your—”

But I’d stopped listening: focusing instead on the darkness behind him, behind his men. Because something had moved there. Something amongst the cars.

Several somethings.

“The pharmacy,” I interrupted quickly, almost breathlessly, “the one on Madison Street. B-Bartell Drugs. That’s—that’s where we were going.” I looked sidelong at Sam as sweat beaded along my brow. “We were going to Bartell Drugs—for prenatal vitamins. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Atticus, matter-of-factly. “But considering we’re on Marion I’d say you overshot the mark.”

I stared at Sam intensely, trying to communicate in secret, trying to communicate with my eyes alone. “We—couldn’t get to it from there. There were raptors between us and it; at least, that’s what I think they were. They—they were in some kind of utility tunnel, which was dark. I’m the only one who saw them. The others—they, they had to take my word. We we’re looping around the building to bypass the tunnel when you opened fire.” Sam faced forward again and squinted, her expression a mask, her composure unwavering. That’s when I knew she knew.

“As for the guns—take them,” I said, trying not to look into the dark. “Just let us get the supplements. Please.”

I looked to find Atticus staring at me, his head at an angle, his mouth hanging open. Then he guffawed—once, twice—and paced away, raising the axe head as he did so, slapping the flat of its blade against his palm. “Man. You are one noble f**k. All of you. And here I thought you were just a bunch of hardened, cutthroat survivors—come to take a slice of our purloined pie, no doubt.” He stopped suddenly and turned around. “You, with the wire-frame glasses. Raptor-spotter. What’s your name, son?”

I glanced at Sam on one side and Nigel on the other.

“Jamie,” I said, and looked at my shoes. “Jamie Klein.”

“Jamie,” he repeated, and approached to within a few feet. “Jamie Klein.” He pinched the axe between his knees as he began to swing and stretch his arms. “Damn. That suits you, you know? I mean, you seem like a nice guy. A real mensch. Are you Jewish?”

I shook my head.

“No. Well, it’s not important. What is important is that we establish a baseline. Something that, well, will get me the truth—when I ask a simple, goddamn question. So I’m going to ask you one more time, before I give the word. Where is your base-camp? And why—you need to think about this, you might even say your life depends on it—have you come to Pioneer Square?”

“I told you,” I said. “We needed medicine and supplements for—”

“The girl,” he said, and took a step back—even as two of his men (who weren’t training rifles) grabbed Sam by the upper arms and forced her to the pavement.

“Sorry about this, troops—I really am. But I did say it: You needed to think about this one. Carefully.” He took up the axe and tapped its head on the pavement. “I mean, you don’t get to be the Big Dog without keeping your word, right?” He raised the hatchet slowly, confidently, the leather of his half gloves crinkling. “And believe me when I say: When it comes to south Seattle, we are the Big Dog ...”

That’s when something leapt up in the darkness and my eyes darted to the blur—in time to see a blue and red velociraptor pounce the farthest Skidder back: its sickle-foot claws latching firmly into his abdomen, its fore-talons gripping his broad, flannelled shoulders, its jaws closing about his head. And then all was screaming and gunfire—which lit up the garage like the fourth of July and thundered, cracking, off its walls—as I piledrived Atticus and wrested the axe from him; as everyone scrambled for their weapons and the raptors pounced upon more Skidders.

“Lazaro!” I remember yelling—knowing his shotgun could blow the gate, knowing he’d opened locked doors with it before—before a man screamed nearby and I looked: and saw his attacker biting off the top of his head—just opening it like a watermelon, taking everything but his long, full beard.

And then there was a shotgun blast and we were falling back, still firing at the velociraptors, still firing into Atticus’ men—lighting up everything and everyone as we ducked beneath the gate and burst into the rain. As we hustled down Marion Street with Roman thundering above us and the screams of the Skidders still echoing in our heads.

Toward the Exchange Building and a gutted triceratops in the window of a Starbucks. Toward the research and development lab of Roman’s former employer ... and something we knew only as Gargantua.

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