The Junkie Quatrain (16 page)

He could see their destination from here and recognized it. The Los Angeles Federal Building. It stood a bit away from the other structures, the separation made more prominent by the concrete barriers and barbed wire that ringed the small plaza.

Across the street, three bonfires burned with strong, tall flames. Even from half a mile away, Quilt recognized the black smoke coming from the piles. He’d seen it often in Africa and twice in the Middle East. They weren’t burning wood.

The thieves coasted up and stopped in a circle of white paint. It was large enough to be a helipad. They tried to stay calm as the gate guards sized them up and the mob of junkies thundered down the hill towards them.

Quilt paralleled the mob down the hill. He stayed hidden behind cars, streetlamps, and small trees. The mob —three or four dozen of them by now—was too focused on the big meal to notice him.

The gate opened and the three bikes rolled forward into the Federal Building compound. A Humvee appeared from further down the road and moved to take their place in the circle.

Shots rang out from the complex and Quilt dropped to one knee behind a car. Eight junkies stumbled and fell, by his count. Three dead, five wounded. Another six or seven tripped over them. The rest of the mob turned on the weak. The dead, the wounded, even those that had just tripped and fallen—all of them were culled from the herd.

Something moved behind him and he brought the rifle up as he spun. One of the wounded junkies had escaped somehow and dragged herself behind the line of cars—behind his car. She was a withered woman with auburn hair, and he could see the high-velocity round had taken off most of her right leg below the knee. The others would follow the trail of blood and track her down in a few minutes at best. The junkie hissed at him and raised her filth-crusted fingers.

Quilt eyed the infected blood and the filth. He raised the rifle and paused. A gunshot would bring the other junkies even faster. Some of them were just on the other side of the car, caught up in the frenzy of eating. He would have to kill her silently or flee.

He pulled his knife from its boot sheath and the woman bared her teeth at him. She twisted and pushed away with her one good leg. Her body moved through her own trail of blood. Her dilated eyes, with just the barest hint of green around the edge of her pupils, were locked on his. The junkie lashed her fingers back and forth again. He pictured a cat swiping at the air with its paw, attempting to look brave and threatening.

The junkie was frightened.

The near-mindless thing that killed for no reason was scared of
him
.

He lashed out with the blade. The keen edge opened her throat. It wasn’t the best way to go, but it was better than being dismembered and eaten alive.

Quilt continued down the road and slipped through the open kill zone while one of the sentries bowed his head to light a cigarette. He slipped over one of the concrete barriers and between two loops of razorwire. It was a fine impediment for opponents like junkies, but didn’t mean anything to someone with patience and finesse. After years of practice, Quilt could move through barbed wire easier than some people could walk.

He made his way across the compound. It was being run by a private outfit, not US military. From their uniforms and equipment, he guessed they were either Dark Eagle Incorporated or Whitestealth Security. He had dealt with both before and knew their standard patrol patterns.

He saw the three outsiders exiting a row of trailers. Most likely a decon/exam facility to make sure they hadn’t contracted the virus. The braided woman now wore a hospital smock instead of a shirt. The three of them gathered up their packs of retrieved goods and headed for the Federal Building itself.

Quilt skimmed behind another row of trailers and rolled beneath a semi truck. Another sprint put him at the far end of the building. The cloudy day created dozens of shadows between the pillars there. None of them were as dark as he would’ve preferred, but they were dark enough. He also saw two security cameras, but both were angled too low. They could see the lobby door, but not the greater area in front of it.

The trio of outsiders was heading for the pillar he stood behind. A tug on the strap cinched the G36 tight against his shoulder. He made a quick mental map of sight lines.

Footsteps echoed against the concrete and they appeared next to him, walking for the lobby. The braided woman was farthest from him, the smaller woman closest. The man, Bernie, walked between them. The nearby woman wore her backpack, the other two carried theirs.

He thought of the mindless things across the city that killed for no reason.

Bernie swung his backpack into his other hand, toward Quilt. Quilt used the distracting movement to grab the smaller woman, pull her aside, and punch a nerve cluster just below her armpit. He jabbed his fingers into a second cluster in her lower back. Together they caused enough pain to paralyze a person for five minutes.

He grabbed Bernie’s pack and used the momentum of the swing to pull the man off to the side. They were behind the pillar, out of sight of the guards. It was such a smooth move that the braided woman took a few steps before she realized what was happening. Her chest rose ever-so-slightly as she took in the start of a deep breath. Then she saw that Quilt’s knife was already pressed against Bernie’s throat. Her lungs relaxed and her hands went up. She babbled something.

The braided woman was defenseless. The man was at his mercy. The other woman would be helpless for too long. Even if they called for the guards, they would all be dead before help could arrive.

He could kill them all for no reason. Just as he had killed their companions. Just like the mindless junkies would.

After what felt to Quilt like a long pause, he said ‘I would like my machete back.’

She stared at him, then swore.

Without taking any pressure off the knife blade, Quilt held out his hand. ‘Please,’ he said. It was a practiced word with no real request behind it. He was not sure if he had ever said it and meant it.

The braided woman cursed him again, shook her head, and unbuckled her belt. She wrestled with the canvas scabbard for a few moments, then held it out.

Quilt did not move. He flexed his open fingers once and turned the blade in his other hand just enough to catch the light. Bernie did not tremble under the blade. He was a true professional.

She leaned forward and set the machete in his hand. Quilt’s fingers closed over the scabbard and he felt a quick twinge of satisfaction. Another perfectly executed assignment.

He took the knife away from Bernie’s throat and was a dozen yards away before they knew he was gone. They did not shout for the guards. He slid through the barbed wire, over the barriers, and back into the city.

Quilt was many things. A mindless killer was not one of them.

He was a professional.

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