Black Trump

  "Quasi, I ..." Gregg could see the hesitation in her, the guilt. Puppetman screamed to be released. She doesn't want to be the one to go. Look at the fear, the guilt, the uncertainty. This is EASY, I tell you. Let me loose and I can make her refuse Quasiman. I can make her say "Take him. Take Gregg." She loves you. She thinks life's dealt you an unfair hand and just a push will make her willing to exchange her life for yours. Just a push ...

  "I can't leave Gregg," Hannah finished. "Don't you see?" Hannah cried. "We can't stop the nuke. It's already too late for Jerusalem." Her face had gone pale, and the colors of guilt and shame surged around her like a wild surf. "God, I've killed all those innocent people ..."

  "It's not too late," the Black Dog husked out. "Remember what I said about the dance, how everything has to go off at just the right time? Set off the conventionals too early, and you'll get a dandy explosion and scatter bits of radioactive material around, but you won't get a nuclear explosion."

  "How do we do that?"

  "Yank the wires. That's the simplest way."

  Let me out! I can save US now. To hell with Hannah, let her deal with this.

  Quasi won't take me, Gregg told the voice.

  Quasi'll do whatever Hannah asks him to do. You know that. Let me OUT!

  She'll die if we do that.

  So fucking what? WE'LL live.

  Puppetman shook the bars. They bent under the pressure, creaking. Gregg's head felt as if it was about to crack, and all the poison inside would come pouring out, all the pain and death he'd accumulated over the years, pouring out like a vile river, pulsing and hot as lava. OUT! Puppetman screamed, and the power burst from Gregg's hold. He could see it, a physical presence, a smoky, wraith-like creature that rode the strings connecting Gregg to the others. Fuck you, Greggie! You never controlled me. Never! Puppetman flew toward Hannah, already pulling the strings to her mind, and Gregg leapt after it. His stubby arms reached out, and the puppet's mittens of hands clenched at the power's body. He caught hold, and Puppetman wrenched in his grasp, turning and twisting as it tried to escape.

  Goddamn you! You can't do this to her. You can't.

  You can't stop me, Greggie!

  "Gregg, what's the matter with you? What the hell's going on?" Hannah cried out as Gregg, his body contorted from the effort of holding Puppetman, went caroming around the room. "Gregg!" He caught a glimpse of Quasi's face, mouth gaping wide in surprise.

  "He's gone crazy," the Black Dog said, levering himself onto his feet. Blood soaked his fingers and his clothes. "He's fighting himself."

  Puppetman scrabbled for Hannah, its ebon fingers clutching her strings desperately. Gregg pulled it back, slamming Puppetman against the bomb's truckbed. With each blow, its face changed, an endless parade of faces, each of them someone he'd taken as a puppet: Peanut, Kahina, Hiram Worchester ... Stop! You're hurting me! each of them screamed, but Gregg continued. "Quasi!" Gregg shouted over his shoulder. "Take her! Go!"

  Quasi shook his head as if lost, then reached out with powerful hands and pulled Hannah to him. "Go on!" Gregg shouted again.

  "Gregg, we can't - " Hannah began.

  If the initial explosion isn't shaped exactly the right way, or if it goes off early or late, then ... Puppetman heard Gregg's thought also, and the power redoubled its efforts to get free. You can't do that! I won't let you toss away my life like that. You want to do something a little good here, fine. You want to kill as few people as possible, great. Let HER do it - we can make her, we can twist her around until she fucking BEGS you to go ...

  "Damn it, don't you understand? We can do something right. We can finally, really, do something right," Gregg answered, without realizing that he spoke aloud. Puppetman struck at him with ghostly fists. The power writhed, changing shape: now it was Ellen's tormented shape before him, hading in her hands their dead child, and Gregg wailed. "No!"

  "Gregg - "

  "Get out of here!"

  Gregg found the strings that led from Puppetman to Hannah He began to tear them loose of the power, bloodily, his hands digging into the creature's death-cold entrails. Puppetman wailed as they tore loose. You can't do this!

  In Quasiman's arms, Hannah looked back at Gregg, her eyes wide with uncertainty and guilt, and both he and Puppetman felt her decision crystallize in the midst of the shades even as he pulled free the last of the strings. "Gregg, I lo - " Hannah stopped.

  "I know," he told her, panting, holding the power back even as it twisted and clawed, as it attempted to stuff the strings back into itself. He could hear the screaming: in the voice of Mackie Messer, of Andrea, of Succubus, of Chrysalis and Gimli and Sarah Morgenstern. It screamed in Gregg's voice, the voice Gregg had once had. "I've always known. Now please go. Quickly."

  And then she and Quasiman were gone. The only sound was the Black Dog's labored breathing and the silent screaming of Puppetman, inside.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Ray headed for the nearest manhole cover, pulled it up, and climbed down. Inside the tunnel it was dark and cool, almost restful. He was tempted to close his eyes for a moment, but he knew that if he closed them now he never would open them again.

  Don't. Quasiman had said ... and somehow Ray had known.

  He plunged into the tunnel, cursing the Fists and their crazy leader. The bastard must be planning to use the nuke to sterilize the city, to bomb the Black Trump out of existence. Him and Hartmann and that Bimbo Hannah Davis. Who the hell had appointed them God?

  As he ran he passed others in the tunnels. Some were running, too. Others' running days were over. He stopped some, demanding to be led to the bomb, demanding to see the Black Dog, but they either didn't know or were too far gone in disease or panic to help him.

  He was past desperation - desperation would have been peace of mind compared to the state he was in - when he finally ran into the familiar face he was praying for.

  "Owl! Owl! It's me, Mumbles. Billy Ray!"

  The teenager looked up from where he was slumped in a niche in the corridor. At first Ray thought the kid was sick or delirious, but when he grabbed him and looked close he saw that Owl had just been crying.

  "Owl, snap out of it! I need help!"

  "I ... I can't find anyone," he sobbed. "I can't find Needles or Zoe. Jellyhead is gone and Jan and Angel. I don't want to die alone!"

  "It's all right, kid." For a second he crushed Owl to him, holding him in a fierce hug that surprised even himself. "It's okay to be scared. Jesus, you're just a kid. But listen, you're not going to die. Okay?"

  He held Owl at arm's length. Owl sniffled. "Really?"

  "We've got a shot at it, kid. There's an Overtrump. It's being distributed now. But tell me, is the Dog going to blow the nuke?"

  Owl nodded, wiping the snot that was running out of his nose. "He said he had to blow the city to save the world."

  "Well, he doesn't know shit. The world's been saved," I hope, Ray said quietly to himself. "Do you know where the bomb is?"

  Owl nodded.

  "Take me there. Fast!"

  Owl sniffed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve. They moved off together under the Old City.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Balthazar held Zoe with an iron grip and forced his way into the crowd. Nats, jokers, their differences seemed small in the pervading terror. Zoe twisted, fighting to get back to Anne, to Angel. Zoe managed to get a quick look behind her; Angel was on his feet, and Jan! Jan supported him on one side, Anne on the other, the three of them in the center of the phalanx of Fists behind Balthazar.

  Ahead of them, a battered truck labored toward the Zion gate, a truck that threatened to collapse under the weight of what seemed to be a thousand people who fought each other in an effort to cling to the battered boards on its sides. Balthazar struggled toward it.

  "Bruckner!" Balthazar yelled.

  Shortcut. My God, we can get out of here -

  The Fists clubbed people out of their way to make a path toward the tailgate of the truck. Someone
reached a three-fingered hand down to Zoe and pulled her aboard.

  Angel, Jan and Anne tumbled in beside her. The truck stank of chickenshit. An occasional white feather floated free and out into the street.

  Zoe tried to get farther forward, tried to make space for Balthazar, who clung to one of the slats on the truck's side and aimed his rifle at the crowd that followed the truck. The truck's gears ground against each other in agony.

  "Only chance," Balthazar panted. "Countdown's running!"

  The nuke! The Black Dog was setting off the nuke?

  Anne held Angelfish on her lap and sheltered him as best she could with her shoulders, Michaelangelo's Pieta - Jan pressed a wad of her skirt against the wound on Angel's side; bright blood seeped around the girl's fingers. The truck sideswiped a Mercedes and slewed the other way, its tires screeching. Bruckner was getting up some speed, but they were still within the city walls.

  Balthazar slammed the butt of his rifle, once, twice, on a pair of hands that clung to the tailgate. He was crying, and he kicked at another joker who tried to climb aboard.

  Zoe understood his pain, the necessity of what he was doing; Bruckner had to get the truck out the gate and up to speed or they couldn't get gone, couldn't save even the few who had managed to fight their way onto this ark. Jan, Mama, Angelfish, if he lived, the three-fingered joker who had helped pull Zoe aboard, the others who whimpered and clung to each other in the crowded truck. All of them might survive, if Bruckner could do his trick with distance.

  "Zoe!" Balthazar yelled. "Can you help Bruckner?"

  He motioned toward the cab.

  Zoe nodded. "I can try!" she yelled.

  Hands pushed her to her feet. Jan looked up from where she huddled by Angelfish; Jan's eyes glowing bright with terror and hope in the smoky, sand-filled air.

  Get Jan out! Save her!

  Bjorn's voice bellowed louder than the roar of the truck's laboring engine.

  Save these few, not the whole world, but they are dear and precious; yes, Daddy, I'll try.

  Jokers shifted out of Zoe's way, pushed her, lifted her over their bodies and forward toward the cab.

  Help Bruckner? If she could, she would animate the whole damned truck, give it wings, fly it over the Zion gate.

  The three-fingered joker smiled at Zoe as she was handed over him. He smiled, and coughed, and covered his face with his hand. He stared puzzled, at the bloody mucus in his palm.

  Zoe tumbled through the window of the cab and over the lap of a rifle-wielding Fist before the realization struck her.

  The joker was dying. We carry the Black Trump. Can't leave. Can't take the Black Trump out of the City. Can't.

  "You, is it?" Bruckner's massive arms fought the rust-stained wheel of the rickety truck.

  "Yeah. Zoe." She sat wedged between Bruckner and a Fist with a rifle who peppered the crowd with bullets to try to clear a way for the roaring truck.

  The truck crashed through a barrier of seller's carts, old chairs, scrap wood. They flew aside; revealing a more substantial barricade made of parked cars. Bruckner geared the truck down and bulldozed his way through, while metal screeched and glass shattered. The gate was not a hundred yards away. Beyond it, Zoe caught a glimpse of the UN flag, whipping in the vellow gusts of the simoom.

  We carry the Black Trump in a rusty truck and all of them will die, nats, babies, murderers and innocents. She stared at the rusty steering wheel.

  Rust. Aluminum. Thermite!

  I'm sorry, Bruckner, but we can't leave. We die here. I'm sorry, Anne.

  Zoe leaned forward and blew, gently, at the rust on the steering column, at the set of aluminum keys that dangled from the dashboard. Ferrous oxide, aluminum oxide. She turned her head and kissed the rifle barrel beside her, magnesium for a catalyst -

  "Bloody hell!" Bruckner screamed. He lifted his scorched hands away from the red heat of the steering wheel as the reaction catalyzed every bit of steel in the truck into glowing heat, as the engine froze, as the wheels fused into solid masses of angry, reactive metal.

  The truck stopped dead with its front bumper crumpled into the ramparts of the Zion gate.

  Smoke, wails of terror, blasts of rifle fire, Zoe could see only Bruckner's fist, as large as a country ham. The fist seemed to expand as it drove toward her jaw.

  She heard the smack as it connected.

  The world turned red and then went black.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  "Up there," Owl said, "at the end of the cul-de-sac. They've stashed the bomb in the garage."

  "All right." Ray took Owl by the shoulders. "They're distributing the Overtrump at a UN medical station in the old church on Chabad Street. Know where that is?"

  Owl nodded. "What about the bomb?"

  "Don't worry about that. I'll take care of it."

  Owl nodded again. "I - "

  "Owl, it was great working with you, but if you don't get going neither of us are ever going to pull another caper again."

  Owl flashed a smile that made him look like a real kid. "Okay. Thanks, Mumbles. Good luck."

  "Good luck," Ray said, already climbing up the rungs of the ladder to the street above.

  This part of the Old City looked like a ghost town. Ray went up to the garage doors and shoved. They were locked. He thought about knocking for a second, then figured, screw it. He put his good shoulder to the door and pushed. It gave a little, but was locked from the inside. He looked at the door. The wood was thick, but old. He backed up, gave a running start, and smashed into it, shoulder first. There was groaning and complaining and some wood even splintered off the door, Ray backed up again, charged it, smashed into it, and it started to sag inward.

  Cursing his aching shoulder, he got his hands around one of the door panels and yanked. The lock pad yielded, pulling out of the wooden door, and the panel collapsed.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  With Hannah gone, Gregg let go of Puppetman. Near him, the LED glowed, the numbers of its face changing inexorably.

  1:00

  0:59

  Puppetman lay still, beaten. Strings trailed from his fingers, the ends frayed. Why did you do that? it asked him. Why? We could have lived.

  "I've lived that way before," Gregg told it. "And I ended up living your life, not mine."

  Someone was hammering on the doors, and Gregg could sense a familiar presence close by. "There's no way to disable the nuke other than setting off the explosives early?" he asked the Black Dog again. "You're sure?" The Black Dog just nodded, his mask hardly moving. The leader of the Fists was fighting to remain conscious, the blood loss from his wounds terrible. For a moment, he thought of using Puppetman, of forcing the Black Dog to yank the wires while Gregg fled, but the Black Dog was too weak. There was no strength left in him.

  I don't have a choice.

  As Puppetman watched, sullen, defeated, Gregg went to the timing mechanism. Yellow hands, his joker hands, grasped the knot of wires trailing from it to the bomb. "It's time for me to do something for myself," he said. As he spoke, the doors to the garage screeched as they were forced open by superhuman strength. Billy Ray stood in the doorway.

  "Hey!" Billy Ray yelled. He paused, seeing Gregg with his hands on the timer.

  "I never said thanks, Billy, and I'm sorry," Gregg called out to Ray. "And I'm sorry for this, too."

  Gregg yanked the wires free of the timer.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Damnation roared around Ray and he closed his eyes. Something wet and squishy slapped him in the face and chest and he opened his eyes, blinking.

  He wasn't dead. He wasn't atomized or blown into green glowing bits. He was, however, bleeding. He put his hand to his face and brought it away covered with some kind of green goo. He suddenly realized that it wasn't blood, even, but stuff from the inside of the caterpillar that had been blasted all over the inside of the garage.

  Caterpillar parts were everywhere. An abdominal segment with three pairs of attached legs was running in circles a
round the floor. As Ray watched, it keeled over, kicked a few times, and was still.

  "Jesus, Hartmann ..." The garage groaned and began to collapse. One of the walls looked as if it could come down any second.

  Ray walked to where the Black Dog lay in the puddle. The Fist leader was unconscious. He'd caught some shrapnel. For once Ray had been lucky. He'd only been hit by caterpillar parts. He wondered what had happened, then realized that Hartmann must have pulled the plug on the nuclear explosion, but couldn't stop the conventional triggering mechanism from going off. He looked at the bits of caterpillar scattered all over the room. "Jesus, Hartmann, I guess you were a hero after all."

  The Dog moaned. Ray pulled him out from under the rubble and checked him over quickly.

  "Goddamn," Ray said aloud. He'd accomplished his mission. He'd prevented the nuke from going off and he'd captured the Black Dog himself. "Goddamn," he repeated.

  There was only one more thing he had to do.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  EPILOGUE

  April Harvest sat behind her desk, reading the Washington Times and shaking her head. She couldn't understand how it had happened, but the Sharks had failed again. Obviously, there was some kind of cover-up going on; what she read in the paper just didn't make sense. There was, for example, this nonsense about the Trump also proving fatal to nats. Obvious blather, designed to make the Sharks look bad in the eyes of the world.

  She closed the paper with a sigh.

  At least she'd avoided detection. Perhaps Pan Rudo was still alive. There'd been no mention of him in the paper, but that was to be expected. He'd get in touch, probably, as soon as he could.

  It was too bad she'd had to kill Johnson, but she couldn't risk him spilling everything to Ray. Ray ... He was a fool, but ...