Dead Dwarves, Dirty Deeds

Chapter 2

  Groaning, Noose pushed the toilet seat off of his chest and dragged himself across the wet tile floor. The walls of the restroom crumbled and burned, the shattered toilets and sinks spraying out fountains of water. Shards of plastic and porcelain littered the floor, as well as globs of less antiseptic muck disgorged from ruptured sewage pipes. He extricated himself from the tangled mass of mutilated toilet stalls and pulled himself to his feet.

  Then he pulled his pants up. He looked around for a moment, feeling his head and noting the absence of his hat. It was nowhere in sight. Smoke swirled around him as he stumbled forward, tripping over the fallen bathroom doors and out into the flaming wreckage of Stiltzkin’s.

  Memories of the Djibouti neohuman riots trampled into his mind as he saw the complete and utter devastation wrought by the attack. Fires blazed everywhere, outnumbered only by the bodies; crumpled under the debris, draped over the bar, scattered in pieces. He tried to ignore the groans and screams, the cries for help. He saw one young neohuman, his back broken, lying at an impossible angle, slowly dying, blood bubbling from his mouth.

  Noose started toward the street, then stopped suddenly, holding a hand to his bloody head. He looked around, his eyes scouring the debris and flames, checking the dismembered corpses that lay sprawled about him. He limped to the nearest form, turned it over, revealing half the face of a dwarf. He moved to another body, found another dwarf, and yet another. All around him he could see only dwarven bodies.

  Faintly, above the crackling of the flames, the wail of sirens grew louder, meshing hauntingly with the cries of the dying. Noose scowled in frustration, and paused as he examined another body. He spun around, looking at the ruin that surrounded him, not finding what he sought.

  Hands clenched, Noose walked hesitantly across the body- and rubble-strewn dance floor. He raised his arms to ward off the heat of the flames from across the bar. One barely conscious victim tugged at the hem of his duster, but Noose only grimaced and pulled away from a face he didn’t know. Compassion makes for good priests, not mercenaries.

  He stomped over the fallen doors and out onto the sidewalk where human and genny bodies burned. The scream of the sirens neared, no more than a block away now. He looked around the street, his vision still slightly blurred. Bodies slumped amidst chunks of durocrete, shards of plastic, and an overturned ground vehicle melted beyond recognition. He raised his eyes and focused on the run-down apartment building across the street. The inhabitants stared wide-eyed through shattered apartment windows. Except for one apartment on the third floor.

  As gawking neighbors gathered around the decimated club, Noose walked stiffly across the debris-ridden street and around the apartment building. In the back he found the rear entrance open and showing signs of forced entry. The short walk had cleared his head somewhat, and he bent down to a puddle, splashing rainwater on his face. Reaching under his duster, he pulled out his Colt Stormer 11mm automag. It was bloody. He felt beneath his coat again, and his probing fingers found a tender wound at his side. Gritting his teeth, he walked up the stairs to the third floor, gun held tightly.

  After only a few moments he found the open doorway. Walking inside the vacant apartment, his experienced eyes swiftly cataloged the few contents: spent cannon shells, discarded magazines, missile storage tube, crumpled Kokastik pack and butts, and a can of coagulant spray. Blast burns covered the ceiling near the shattered windows.

  “Messy,” he muttered, walking over to the window. He looked out, just in time to see the paramedics running from the ambulances into the burning club. Flashing police skycars hovered down to the ground and disgorged cops who pushed gawkers away from the fire. The dull whine of a heavy aerodyne grew louder.

  Noose turned back to the apartment and walked into the bathroom. Glancing in the mirror, he noticed that he looked even worse than he felt. A large gash bled heavily above his left eye, and water, blood, and filth soaked his hair. He bent over the sink and splashed his face with water.

  Returning to the main room, Noose collected several of the items strewn about. As he retrieved the coagulant spray, he saw the pool of blood by the inner wall. He walked over and knelt down beside it, noting the shard of bloody plastic. Smiling, he retrieved it.

  Noose cast one last glance around the room and left. He retraced his steps down the stairs, holstering the Stormer, and walked back out to the street.

  A large crowd strained around the freshly-erected police lines, curious people not satisfied with the death and misery beamed into their apartments from around the world. The people of the Regional Atlanta Metroplex wanted more mayhem than just the news about the illegal German urban jousting tournaments, neobeast swarms in the ruins of Djibouti, Sicilian blood riots, or the Chinese warlord conflicts. They wanted to see their gore up close and personal. Tonight, there was more than enough gore to go around. Enough to sate a diehard Kreugermaniac.

  Noose frowned, and pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Standing just behind the yellow tape line, he watched as paramedics ran to and fro amidst the rubble inside the club. A row of bodies already lined the sidewalk. A paramedic pushed a stretcher holding a bleeding survivor into a medical aerodyne. Its engines whined to life as he slid the door shut.

  Two other medical craft hummed softly on the ground nearby, and a fourth hovered overhead amidst two news vehicles and an intimidating police gunship. Three fire engines sprayed down the dwindling flames, police questioned the crowd. Noose could see one of the onlookers pointing to the apartment building.

  The dwarf pushed his way out of the crowd, concealing the missile tube under his duster, and limped off down the street.