DIRE : BORN (The Dire Saga Book 1) (17 page)

They were silent. “Confessions work better if someone else writes them,” Martin said. “Learned that shit from Law an' Disorder, season two.”

“FINE. THINK YOU CAN WHIP SOMETHING UP?”

“Yeah, sure.” It took about twenty minutes of copying once Minna showed up with paper, but finally he had documents that he distributed to each of them. I released the youth, they signed, and ran for their cars as fast as they could go after retrieving their fallen comrade. Some of the camp's population laughed as they went, others watched with sullen eyes. I kept watching until they started the cars and peeled rubber out of there.

As I did so, I caught movement, from an upward direction. Glancing up, my gaze was drawn to the brownstones which were nearest the beach. There were people in the windows, some gawking openly, others peering through blinds or curtains. Looked like we were the main show for the day. Again.

Come to think of it, my voice did carry pretty far at the volume I'd been speaking. All that plus action and surround-sound as well.

I turned back to see the camp settling back in, as some of the residents started helping get the fallen tents back up, and others repacked the food or guns that the cops had been dragging out, and got them back into the kitchen. Minna helped Sparky wrestle with the contraption that was forcibly grounding him. They'd taken his collar somewhere along the line, but it turned up in the pile of 'contraband' that they'd been confiscating.

“You know that shit ain't gonna work in court,” Martin said, moving up to stand next to me.

“HM?”

He winced. “Can you dial it down some?”

“GIVE HER A SECOND.” I moved behind the kitchen, putting it between me and the street, and decanted from the armor. Straightening my undershirt, I strolled out, shivering in the cold. Minna ran up to me, offered me the fur coat again. I took it with a chuckle as I found Martin again. “What won't hold up in court?”

“Those papers were signed under duress. Lawyers gonna eat your ass alive if you try to do shit with that.”

“She could care less,” I said. “We have bigger worries right now.”

“All right, but I'm just sayin' when the lights come back on the cops gonna come back with bigger guns and a whole lot more bloodthirst. Shit gonna get bad, and we might wanna get gone before that hits.”

I smiled. “Or someone could hand those papers over to the MRB. They're a higher authority, yes?”

“Might work. Got to admit, ICPD pigs don't usually give costumes grief. Bloods must have scared the shit out of them. Guess I ain't surprised, they have to want us bad by now. Throwin' everything they can think of.”

The sunset burned on the horizon, as my stomach grumbled and reminded me of more prosaic problems. “Yes. That's the next issue. We have plans to make, and little time to do it in. Who's cooking tonight?”

“Bobbi and Steve.”

“Don't know them.”

“I'll make sure their asses are on it.”

“Good. We'll need to have a... war council, over dinner, Dire thinks. It's time to start bringing the fight to them.”

Dinner was beans. Several kinds, with a bit of meat thrown in for flavor. I couldn't tell precisely what, it was the only thing I'd eaten that day and it was delicious. The water we drank to chase it down was collected from the showerhouse. Julio had been to work on the pipes, checking things over, shutting off the stalls with the worst leaks. Joan confirmed that he thought it would make it through a freeze without too much trouble. Which was good, as the night was only getting colder, and the snow wasn't stopping.

And as the senior members of the camp crowded in, with the others shamelessly eavesdropping just back from the fire, we got down to business. With no real reason to hide our amenities, we had lights ablaze around the camp. All the space heaters were going inside the bigger tents and the shacks.

But beyond it, everything was dark.

“First things first,” I said. “Roy will be all right. He's in the hospital recovering, Dire's going to visit him in a few days.”

Sparky let out a long breath, and Joan smiled. “I knew it. He's a tough old coot.”

“Very,” I said. “The downside is he's out of this, one way or the other. Which means that we need to sort this out without him, because Dire doesn't expect they'll wait for him to come back before they attack.”

“They might come tonight,” Martin said. “Truth is I 'spected to see them by now.”

Joan shook her head. “Well, they sicced the cops on us, right? Since the cops failed, maybe they won't.”

“We need guards,” said Sparky. “Gonna have to get people to keep watch. There's always someone up anyway, might as well give'em guns and tell'em trouble's coming.”

“Do we have any noisemakers?” I mused. “Guards typically have signals or means to make them.”

“Yeah,” said Martin. “They called guns. We ain't that big, any gunshots gonna wake people up.”

“Ah. Right.” I rubbed my face. “Obvious in hindsight. Oh, here.” I offered Joan the flare gun that the Militia had given me. “If it looks bad, or if trouble happens when Dire's not around, then point up and pull the trigger. The Midtown Militia might come.”

“You're not going to be around?” Joan looked worried, and I raised a hand as the group around us muttered.

“Yes and no. Dire's your most mobile asset. You'll need her attacking, while you defend.”

They looked at each other, then Sparky sighed.

“Listen, missy Dire, we ain't exactly got defense. This ain't gonna be like when it was me and Roy holding the showerhouse, a year back. They're gonna come in force, they're gonna come angry, and they're gonna expect to have a fight.”

“And they're gonna be on that black rage shit,” said Martin.

“The ones in the church weren't,” I caught his eyes, but he didn't look away.

“The ones in the church weren't going to war. You saw what Scrapper did when he had it and they didn't.”

I grimaced at the truth of it.

Scrapper's armor hadn't been completely bulletproof. They'd tagged him several times. He would have bled out even if he hadn't forced me to kill him. But the drug had made a difference, all right.

“You need Dire to defend,” I muttered. “Then perhaps a small force, armed with some of the guns...”

“Yeah, 'bout that,” said Martin, “Guns? We got those. Ammo? Not so much. I didn't find where they were keepin' it, it wasn't with the rest of the shit.”

Sparky shook his head. “That's bad. I'd say we could start gun drills with our people, get'em practicing, but if we ain't got much ammo we can't do it.”

It also meant that we couldn't put up much of a fight if they came. We'd fold against any strong opposition.

I gnawed my lip... “Do they know that?” I asked Martin.

“Know what?”

“That we're that short on ammunition?”

“Shit, I don't know.”

“So maybe they don't. Let's hold drills, but only load a couple of guns. Make some noise instead of huddling down and acting scared,” I suggested. “If they're out there watching right now, then they'll think we have enough to spare for a serious fight. It'll make them cautious.”

“For maybe a night or two. Then they hit us with everything.” He shook his head.

I resisted the urge to throw my bean can at him. “Right, which is why we also fortify up, and Dire uses her armor to go search for more ammunition during the day. Or we trade with the Militia, or something.”

“Should trade with them anyway,” said Minna. “More useful we are, more they care about us.”

Martin raised his hands, let them fall onto his knees. “Seriously. Do
not
make the mistake of thinking they are friends. They ain't.”

I leaned in close, and fixed my eyes on his, waiting until he was staring back. “Martin. We need ideas. We need information. We need options. You're seriously starting to rain on her parade, here.” Now what was that supposed to mean? Some linguistic artifact? But Martin got the drift of it.

He took a deep breath. Took another, and let his hands fall. I leaned back across the fire, glanced at the others. Sparky was still grim, Minna was inscrutable as always, and Joan looked like she was almost in tears.

“We can do this,” I whispered. “We
will
do this.” My voice crept up a notch, and I stood. “Four of us. Just four of us went into that church, went into the jaws of death to get the food we're eating now. And all of us came out. Sangre didn't. Ten of his best didn't. We are not weak!” I was shouting now. “We have Scrapper's armor! We have guns! And we have a home to fight for! We will stand, and they will not break us!”

I stalked around the fire like an angry predator, waving my arm at every shout. And every eye was upon me. I stopped before Joan, knelt before her, and took her hand. She swallowed, and looked at me in surprise.

“So don't cry Momma Joan,” I urged. “We will see this through. And when Roy gets back? We're going to throw him one hell of a party, and we'll pay for it with every bit of stolen loot we raid from those evil fools.”

Her mouth quirked, and she sniffled a bit, but finally an honest smile emerged. “Punch and pie for all, huh?”

“The punchiest and the pie-e-est. Nothing but the best!” I stood, and the crowd laughed, the tension fell. I saw people start to slip away, and smiled at Sparky. “Think you can talk a few people into staying watch? Hand out guns?”

He nodded, looking a touch less grim than before. “Easy to do. Figure it'll get too dark too soon to do any real drills, but I'll have everyone I give'em to fire off a few rounds. That'll make the noise ya want.”

“Good. Joan, look over the food we've got, work out a ration that will last us for a week. All right?” She nodded, smiled again. I looked to Minna. “Minna, make sure no one gets stupid or goes off alone, alright?”

“Yes.”

“Martin. Come with Dire.”

“Am I in trouble?” He asked. “Gonna give me detention and shit?”

“No, but you have a thousand word essay on the Black Bloods and every little detail you know about them, due now. What they might have, how they fight, who leads them, everything we haven't discussed yet. Also, might want to tell Tooms to move your tent in some, it's kind of out there alone if trouble comes.”

He nodded, and actually smiled. “Alright. I think we're still fucked, but what the hell.”

I smiled back. “Well, if that's the case, then we can make sure that they draw back nothing but a bloody stump after they're done.”

He winced, but followed me into the darkness.

“Don't know what to tell you I ain't already told you. There's lots of them, they crazy as shithouse rats, they got a thing for stealing dead bodies. They got rage drugs, and maybe weird curse shit.”

I frowned. “Who's in charge? A violent, irrational organization like this, there's got to be someone up top strong enough to keep them all in line. There was someone in the church with a mask, Sangre called him Boss...”

“Coulda been Barbatos. He ain't the big boss, but he's more important than Sangre. There's four captains, and a boss of them, but they the only ones that get to see the boss. Sangre was one of the captains.” He rubbed his nose. “He's the one runs their turf in the Brownstones. Ran it, anyway. Ain't as tough as some of the other ones, but not the weakest, either.”

Middle of the road. Given his skills, and the way he'd disabled Scrapper with nothing but a sword, that was disturbing.

“Who's the toughest?”

“Barbatos.” He glanced away. “Barby might be a costume, it's honestly fucking hard to tell. Coate used to—” He stopped.

“Used to what?”

He avoided my eyes. “A guy I knew used to tell about how Barbatos took their turf in the Factories. It was a fucking slaughterfest that made our night at the church look like pattycake. Dude wears like a riot gear and a bulletproof mask, and uses meat cleavers. He just don't fucking stop. And it's not like he's on the rage, he don't scream or yell or nothing, he does it smart. Uses bodyguards, bombs, tactics and shit, and only comes in for the kill personally when you're already wrecked. He ain't had to come out for a long while, not since SCK pulled out of the Rustbelt.”

I rubbed my chin. “Who's the weakest?”

“Weak's a bad word for it, but the one who ain't probably gonna try to hand you your liver is Rictus. Fucker handles the business stuff for them. He's the one to talk to when you need a loan, or want a shipment of their shitty-ass drugs. He's probably the one that sicced the cops on us. Anyway, he's a goth-ass looking motherfucker in a suit. Usually got a gun.”

“That's three, one dead and accounted for. Who's the last?”

“Stig. Short for Stigmata.” His face grew grim. “Fucker's a SEAL or something. Ex-special forces dishonorable discharge PTSD poster boy from the last sandbox war. Guy used to run with the Kriegers until he got fed up with their shit, got a better deal up here. He's the one with the connections who gets their gear and shit. Not as good as what the Kriegers got, but good enough to mow our raggedy asses down.”

I frowned. “Yet Barbatos is the tougher of the two?”

“There's a reason Stig got a dishonorable discharge. And that reason is meth. Fucker's been frying his brain, dipping his wick, and partying for years now, living the good life. Got him a belly now, and he ain't running too many five-minute-miles. Still put a bullet in you in a heartbeat if you take your eye off the fucker and he crazy enough you might not see it coming.”