Gears of War: The Slab (Gears of War 5)

  “My boy’s been wounded three times and he’s still at the front,” Campbell said. “But this asshole decides to piss off in the middle of the battle because he’s got better things to do.”

  Niko resisted argument. “Did he start this?”

  “Got in a ruck with Merino.” Campbell was still watching Marcus, looking like he was waiting for another chance. “You know the rules.”

  “We don’t have any damn rules. I said, did he start this?”

  Campbell still gripped the baton. He wasn’t going to give up. “My boy could be dead tomorrow, and this prick’s just sitting on his ass in here.”

  “We’re not the fucking judge and jury, okay?”

  Campbell finally holstered his baton, visibly running out of steam. He’d always been such a nice, calm guy. It was scary to see that person peel away and reveal the primal savage. “Like you’ve never taught any of these shits a lesson.”

  “Yeah, but he’s not some frigging nonce. He’s damn well sick.”

  “Sick my ass.”

  Niko wasn’t squeamish; he’d thumped a few inmates in his time. They pushed their luck. They were lippy. They needed a lesson. But he’d never ganged up on one guy and beaten the shit out of him. This was a Gear, for fuck’s sake. Whatever the guy had done to end up in here, he’d spent at least ten years at the front defending Tyrus, and that meant he’d earned some respect. Niko decided it was safe to take his attention off Campbell and see to Marcus, who still seemed to be concentrating hard on just standing up, staring at the wall like he’d collapse if he blinked. It was hard to tell how badly hurt he was. A trickle of blood ran down his chin into the patch of beard, and a cut above his eyebrow was starting to swell, but everything else was hidden by his singlet. He looked like he was having trouble breathing. Then he turned his head slowly to look at Niko, and that did it. He tottered, then sank to his knees and pitched to one side on the floor like a felled tree.

  “Shit.” Niko struggled for half-remembered first aid procedures. Facial trauma: blood, inhaling the stuff, turn him on his side, stop him choking. He tried to turn Marcus into a recovery position but the guy lashed out almost like a reflex. Niko ducked. The swing didn’t connect. “Whoa, fella—Campbell, you got a cover story for this? Because if he dies, I’ll turn you all in. Count on it. Now get a frigging doctor in here. Get an ambulance.”

  “You call an ambulance, and it’s official,” Gally said.

  “Do it. Because the Chairman’s office is going to have our asses. You want to be drafted to the front, do you?”

  Whatever crazed mob mentality had taken over now evaporated. Gally glanced back at Niko as he walked out, that chin-lowered, it-wasn’t-my-fault look, but Niko just mouthed fuck you at him and went back to work on Marcus. If the guy died, they’d all be in the shit.

  “Fenix, can you hear me? Come on, fella, talk to me.” Marcus was lying on his side now, eyes open, as if he was trying to focus on something on the wall. Niko kept a wary eye on those fists. “Okay. I’m not going to touch you. We’ll get the doctor to take a look.”

  Marcus tilted his head back like he was struggling to focus. “Just fucking finish it,” he said hoarsely. “Go on. Kill me. Do me a favor.”

  So he was still coherent, but that didn’t mean a damn thing if he had a head injury. Niko had learned that much from his wife. These things took hours to show. Marcus tried to sit up.

  “Don’t move until the medic gets here,” Niko said.

  Marcus struggled to his knees. “If you haven’t got the balls to kill me, then there’s no point in me hanging around.”

  “You want to die, is that it?”

  “You’re catching on.”

  “Lots of guys think that way at first. But they deal with it. They manage.”

  Marcus put his hand out to steady himself on a rusty filing cabinet as he tried to stand, but he missed and almost tipped over. Niko caught his arm and hauled him upright. For a second their eyes met and he got another glimpse of something terrible and anguished within.

  Got to remember how he ended up here. His dad’s been killed. That isn’t helping.

  “The sooner I’m gone,” Marcus said, “the sooner people outside can forget me and move on with their lives.”

  So it was about his girlfriend, then. Niko understood that, too. “You know I’ve got to put you on suicide watch now you’ve said all this shit, don’t you?”

  “Sorry to mess up your paperwork.”

  “Can you make it to the infirmary?” Niko started worrying how he was going to keep Campbell away from him. “The doc might be some time.”

  “I’m fine,” Marcus said. He wasn’t. It was pretty damn obvious. He held his hands out to be cuffed but Niko shook his head. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever.”

  Niko checked outside to make sure Campbell was gone, but he could hear someone heading their way. Gally appeared around the corner, shaking his head.

  “They’re swamped with casualties again,” he said. “They’ve even got Stranded at the checkpoints trying to get medical help. Things are going to shit out there. No ambulances and they’re not willing to fly out a doctor.”

  “Bullshit.” Niko caught Marcus by the biceps and steered him. “They did a house call for Alva, didn’t they? Where is he, anyway?”

  “They took him in.”

  “What?”

  “Took him into JMC for tests. Personally, I didn’t think he was that ill, but then the slimy bastard can charm anyone.”

  That didn’t make sense. JMC didn’t even scramble for heart attacks in here. “You signed him over to the hospital? They know he’s category A, don’t they?” Too bad: losing Marcus would land them all in even deeper shit than Alva going on the run. “Well, you can take the crap if he does some kid. Now piss off while I sort Fenix out.”

  “Look, I know you’re mad. It wasn’t how it looked.”

  “You’re a cowardly shit. You joined in.”

  “I didn’t touch him.”

  “Yeah, but you stood back and watched, didn’t you? Just get out of my face.”

  Gally had the sense to clear off. Niko steered Marcus down the metal stairway to the ground floor on the other side of the main security zone, no easy task given the state of the guy. Condensation dripped off the metal gratings above them like the aftermath of a storm. Still, the infirmary wasn’t a bad place to be for a while. Despite the peeling paint, there were clean sheets, quiet, and some privacy to take a piss. The small four-bed ward smelled of damp and disinfectant.

  “Sit down.” Niko pointed at the unforgiving steel-framed chair next to the bed. “I’ll do my best, but it’s first aid, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

  Marcus couldn’t even sit down properly. He waved away Niko’s attempt to help him and settled with his elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands, taking shallow, ragged breaths. Niko took a risk and pulled up the back of his blood-flecked singlet to check out the damage.

  “Oh shit,” he said.

  Marcus was a mess. All Niko could see from his waistband to halfway up his back was purple bruising with red streaks that looked like broken blood vessels. The swelling must have come up fast. And that breathing bothered him.

  “Okay, just relax,” Niko said. “What’s stopping you breathing?”

  Marcus looked up very slowly as if he was stunned by the stupidity of the question. “Pain,” he growled.

  “He’s busted your ribs.”

  “Maybe.” Marcus pushed himself off the chair and unfurled himself cautiously until he was almost upright. He must have been in a hell of a lot of pain. “I need to take a leak.”

  “In there.” Niko gestured to the toilet. “You going to be all right?”

  Marcus gave him a don’t-even-think-about-it look. “I don’t want any help to hold it, thanks.”

  “I wasn’t offering. Look, if you die on me, I’m in the shit.”

  Marcus just shrugged and hobbled into the toilet. Niko checked the drugs cabinet, not that it was stocked with
much these days, just salicylic acid painkillers and basic out-of-date antibiotics. Any drugs still being manufactured tended to end up at JMC, where there were nice innocent patients who needed them. This was the first time that had been a concern to Niko. He was reading the label and wondering how many tablets a guy of Marcus’s size would need when he heard him murmur, then the john flushed.

  “You okay?” Niko called. Dumb question. “What is it?”

  Marcus came out, zipping up his pants, and almost fell against the door frame. “I’m pissing blood. Kidneys.”

  “You’d know that.”

  “Basic combat first aid.”

  “Okay, you wait here. Sit down or something.”

  Niko never called Maura at work, but this was an emergency. He picked up the phone in the orderly’s cubicle and dialed.

  “ER,” the voice said. “Can I put you on hold? We’re busy.”

  “Honey? It’s me. Can you talk me through something?”

  “Nik? Are you okay?”

  “I’ve got an injured inmate and we can’t get help.” Niko tried to use the jargon. “Some facial injury. Punch in the face, probably. Blunt trauma to the lower back. Bruising, trouble breathing, peeing blood.”

  “Kidney damage,” Maura said wearily.

  “Yeah, he said that. What do I do?”

  “Keep an eye on the blood and give him complete bed rest. The head injury—if he hasn’t lost consciousness, he’ll probably be okay.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No, his kidneys have got enough work to do as it is. Maybe mild painkillers, and antibiotics in case he gets an infection. So watch his temperature too.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Just about. Anything more serious and he’ll need surgery.” Maura paused. In the background, Niko could hear the hospital PA paging someone, the clatter of trolley wheels, and an alarm chirping. “Nik, are you in trouble? Did you hit him?”

  Niko felt oddly indignant. “Look, I stopped someone beating him to death. He’s a Gear who cracked up. He shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Oh God, you’re not getting involved, are you? Never helps, Nik. Take it from me. Just steer clear.”

  “Yeah, I’m doing what I have to. Thanks, honey. See you later.”

  When he came out of the cubicle with the tablets, Marcus was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes screwed up in obvious pain. He seemed to realize Niko was there after a few seconds and snapped back to that blank I’m-okay expression too late to convince him.

  “You better lie down, Fenix,” Niko said. “I got some advice from my missus. She’s an ER nurse. Bed rest, painkillers, and antibiotics. That’s all I can do, buddy. Sorry.”

  Marcus just stared at him, then blinked slowly. “It’s okay.” He seemed to be building up to asking something, licking his split lip. “Why me? Why give a shit?”

  “You’re a Gear. You put it on the line, whatever else happened.”

  “I refused an order. Guys died because of that. Save your sympathy for someone who’s worth it.”

  It could have been a rebuke, but he sounded matter-of-fact, almost apologetic. Niko had never bothered to put a prisoner on suicide watch before because the average inmate was generally nicer dead, and he knew Maura was right: he was getting involved, and there were people who could never be saved no matter how hard you tried. Maybe Marcus had nothing left to live for, and forcing him was cruel. But he did have something outside to cling to. Niko still had the letters in his pocket, the ones from his girlfriend. It might have been just what the poor bastard needed right then.

  “Well, there’s someone else who gives a damn,” Niko said.

  He reached into his jacket and took out one of the letters. He held it up so Marcus could see the handwriting on the battered COG military envelope. The reaction was instant, silent, and utterly broken. Campbell had beaten the shit out of Marcus without getting so much as a whimper from him, but the sight of that neat, methodical handwriting had brought tears to his eyes. He stared, then shook his head.

  “She needs to forget me.”

  “You have to read them.”

  “No.” Marcus shook his head again, lips compressed as he drew in a painful breath. “I don’t.”

  He heaved himself onto the bed, rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his folded arms. Niko had a response for every damn thing in this prison except that—a man who quietly gave up on life, a man who looked as if he’d never walked away from anything.

  “I’ll keep them for you anyway,” Niko said, and slipped the envelope back in his jacket before leaving Marcus to it and locking the door as per regulations. Once he was outside in the passage, he took the letter out again. It wasn’t his to read, but if this was a Dear John letter then maybe it was best left undelivered. It had already been opened and resealed by the admin office. When he eased the flap open again, he found a photo inside and sheet of paper. The photo stock was so thin that he hadn’t even felt it in there. On the back was penciled YOU LOOKED AWAY and when he flipped it over, the image made him hold his breath.

  It looked like something snapped in passing in an army office. There was Marcus, wearing armor and a black do-rag with a sergeant’s stripes on the front, standing in front of a desk and caught as he turned around to look at something off-camera. Sitting at the desk was a really lovely woman—blonde, classy, effortlessly glamorous even in a gray COG uniform—and she was looking at Marcus with an expression that clearly said he was the center of her whole damn world.

  So that was what he’d lost. Not just his father, his buddies, and his honor, but a woman who loved him. Niko felt like a pervert for reading the letter. He unfolded the single sheet and the first line was all he could manage.

  Marcus, I’m always going to be here, waiting, no matter how long it takes. Because you’re mine. And Mom taught me never to take no for an answer.

  Well, damn it, Marcus Fenix was going to read that letter, and he’d reply to it. Niko would make sure of it. He’d even find him some paper. Sometimes women did wait for men a very long time indeed, although few men had ever left the Slab alive.

  Marcus will. He deserves better.

  Niko realized he was now thinking of him as Marcus, not Fenix, or even Prisoner B1116/87. He put the letter and the photo back in the envelope and made a note to check on Marcus in an hour.

  D WING, THE SLAB: TWENTY-SIX HOURS LATER.

  “Two MIA,” Chunky said. He was still engrossed in his rescued crochet mat, cross-legged on his bunk like an old-fashioned tailor. “Normally we seen the bodies by now, but maybe they just dump ’em in the trash these days.”

  Reeve parked the food cart outside the cell. Chunky was a human security camera. He was getting on now and none too fit, so he tended to spend his time in his cell just watching and doing odd jobs that didn’t need any muscle. He repaired stuff. The position of his cell meant he also saw everything that came and went, so he traded information, and Reeve was a regular customer.

  “Marcus is in the infirmary.” Reeve ladled out some mycoprotein casserole and a few extra potatoes. They were still some of the tasty yellow-fleshed ones at this time of year, grown in any spare patch of soil within the walls and sometimes no bigger than grapes. “Not MIA. We know where he is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m going to get my ass kicked for letting him get into a fight.”

  “Didn’t think Merino hurt him that bad.”

  “He didn’t. The screws beat seven shades of shit out of him.”

  Chunky stopped looping the scraps of fabric and frowned at the pattern, almost looking through it. “All ’cause of me. I owe the guy.” He tugged at a stubborn knot. “Assholes. Parmenter?”

  “Campbell.”

  Chunky stopped completely and looked right at Reeve. “Now that’s a surprise. Never had him down for a shithouse.” He shook his head. “So what we gonna do for Fenix?”

  Reeve knew the outside world wouldn’t have believed it, but even in a cesspi
t, there was community, brotherhood. Inmates would shiv one another when society’s rules were broken, but they would also close ranks, and he got the feeling that was happening now. Polarizing. That was the word for it. He’d read it in a very old management magazine in the latrines, its paper too stiff and shiny to be much use as toilet paper. If there was an uneasy truce between two groups, then an incident like this would draw battle lines and tribalism would take over. And as this place shrank year after year—as the numbers of inmates slowly fell, and more parts of the prison were shut down—the closer and more volatile the community became.

  Smaller territories. Stresses any animal, they say. And that’s what we are, right?

  The enemy’s enemy thing kicked in, too. Marcus was one of their own now, whether he liked it or not. If the warders beat him, the whole prison took it as a personal affront. They didn’t have to like him or even know him to feel that way.

  “If he survives, then he’s got to come back in here,” Reeve said. “So maybe we reach a deal with Merino to back off him.”

  “How are we gonna do that?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “If he’s so well-connected and all that, how come this is happening?”

  “It’s the army. Go figure. Anyway, better finish my rounds or Merino will slap me senseless for serving up cold chow.”

  Reeve kicked the brake off the cart and pushed it to the next cell, clattering over ridges in the broken tiles. He wondered what his former associates would have thought to see him playing cook and delivery boy, a professional assassin reduced to household help. But he was still alive, and they were probably grub fodder by now. Prestige was measured differently inside these walls. Kitchen duties meant control of the food supply in a starving world, and Reeve liked that. It gave him much the same status as his ability to liquefy a target’s brain with a single well-placed high-velocity round from three hundred meters.

  And the food waste, the peelings … that had value too. Moonshine. This joint was an ecosystem with its own economy, a self-contained world. Even the glucose nutrient for the mycoprotein came from photosynthetic bacteria in their own little sealed globe, the only thing in the Slab that basked in sunlight.