Judgment Plague. James Axler
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him, an odor of meat turned bad.
Kane looked back at the dead man in the chair. He wore a dressing gown, beneath which were bedclothes, and thick socks on his feet. It was as though the man had got out of bed and sat down, and then died right then and there. Which meant he had probably felt sick, maybe even for a while. The drapes were closed, but they weren’t thick and so the sunlight still came in, turned a warm ochre color as it struck the material.
Belatedly, Kane pulled the rebreather mask from his jacket and slipped it over his mouth and nostrils. He had been breathing the air here for maybe a minute, long enough, possibly, to catch whatever it was that had killed the man. There was a lot of disease out there, and baseline radioactivity was still high in places, high enough that magistrates had been regularly dosed with immunity shots to combat its possible side effects if they had to leave the security of the ville.
Kane’s commtact snapped to life then, surprising him in the silence of the old house. “Kane? You okay? Found a way in yet?” Grant asked.
“I’m in,” he confirmed. “Found a dead body. Still searching.”
He trekked through the living room toward the far door, moving to the front of the house. He stopped momentarily at the window, inching back the edge of the drapes until he could see down the street. The SandCat was still there, silent, waiting.
Kane moved on to the entry, and a staircase lined with wooden banisters.
* * *
OUTSIDE, GRANT RELAYED Kane’s response to Brigid while she crouched at the edge of the wall, watching the street.
“Seems like we walked into deadville,” Grant finished, shaking his head grimly.
Brigid looked up at him for a moment, and her emerald eyes seemed to bore into his. “The trouble with deadville is that it used to be aliveville, which means we need to find out what happened here before it kills us, too.”
“Agreed.”
They returned to silence, watching the empty streets and the unmoving SandCat, waiting for Kane’s next report.
* * *
AS HE REACHED the top of the stairs, Kane heard the groan again, louder now that he was inside the building. There were three doors up here, plus a loft ladder hanging down from above.
Kane moved toward the closed door of the nearest room, resisting the urge to call his sin eater back into his hand. The weapon could be called instantaneously—he had to trust that, or he could end up spooking whoever was here if he went in with a blaster already in his hand.
The door gave after a gentle push. It was a bedroom, Kane saw, with a figure lying in the bed, propped up in a sitting position, pillows against the wall. It was a woman and, like the man downstairs, she was dead. Her face appeared to have caved in, and the eyes were just dark shadows now, that same dark liquid congealed in thick lines.
Kane closed the door, stepped out into the corridor. He couldn’t help the dead.
He moved to the next room, another closed door, tried it. The door opened a few inches, then stopped as it struck something. The groan came again, loud now, from just inside.
Kane pressed against the door and wedged his head into the gap, trying to look in. “Hey, is someone there?” he asked.
The room was in pitch darkness, the response another groan. Kane stood there, narrowing his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the lack of light. It was a bathroom, he saw after a moment: shower cubicle, sink, toilet stall. Someone was sitting crouched in the shower, arms wrapped around knees, head down so that their long hair fell in front of their face. Like the lights, the shower was off.
Kane reached for the xenon flashlight and switched on its beam, angling it away, at the floor behind him. “I’m turning on a light,” he explained. “It’s going to be bright. Close your eyes.”
He raised the flashlight, playing the beam through the gap in the door. It gleamed off the shiny surfaces of the glass and tiles and faucets, flashes of chrome as metal caught the light. The figure in the shower flinched just a little, snuffling like an animal but not moving.
“Hey,” Kane called. “You all right? You need help?”
The figure didn’t speak, just issued a pained howl from deep in its chest. It was dressed in soiled clothes, matted hair over its face.
Something was behind the door, stopping it from opening. Kane stepped back, pressed against the panel and shoved harder, forcing whatever was there to move back. The door moved a foot and a half, accompanied by a scraping noise, then there was a thud and it wouldn’t swing any wider. It was enough for him to pass through, and he went shoulder first.
Kane stepped into the bathroom, checked immediately behind the door. A figure was sprawled there, flat on its back, dead eyes open and turned black, the already-familiar trace of black liquid smeared across its face. The figure was naked, but it had wasted away so much that it was hard to tell if it was male or female; it looked like a skeleton protruding from a bag of skin. Kane glanced at the corpse’s groin: male, black smeared genitals and the floor beneath where something had leaked out. The assessment had taken two seconds.
Kane moved across the room, angling the xenon beam at the ceiling so as not to dazzle the groaning figure. It was still bright enough to light the space.
“You okay?” he asked again. “You hurt?”
The figure still did not respond, but just sat there, barely moving.
Kane padded forward, suddenly on high alert, his senses scanning for any danger, any attack. His eyes flicked to the toilet stall, couldn’t help but notice the mess that festered there. Black slime was spread up the sides of the basin, over the seat and across the back and the wall behind it. More black splattered the floor, as if someone had spilled paint there.
Kane turned back to the figure crouched in the shower, saw now that it was a woman, long dark hair obscuring her face, her frame wasting away like the corpses he had found in the house. He guessed she was young, a teenager maybe, but it was hard to tell—she was little more than skin and bones. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “I can help you.”
Kane crouched down before her. She didn’t move, didn’t respond, just issued another of those painful, agonized groans from somewhere behind her curtain of hair.
Kane reached forward, warning the woman what he was about to do, then pushed her hair back until he could see her face. Her head was tilted down, with black streaks running from her eyes and nose and mouth like a river that had burst its banks.
Kane resisted the urge to jump away.
* * *
“SOMEONE’S OUT THERE,” Brigid hissed. She was still at the building’s edge, watching the street, her back to Grant.
“What?” he asked, glancing behind him, back to where Kane had slipped over the fence.
“Dressed in black,” Brigid explained in a low voice. “It’s a mag...I think.”
She could see the figure in the distance, but only from behind. He was dressed in a long black coat that almost touched the ground, like the coats magistrates wore in storm conditions, along with a helmet covering his head. Brigid watched as he stopped at the driver’s side of the waiting SandCat. The gull-wing door whirred open and the figure ducked inside. A moment later, the engine roared to life.
“He’s moving,” Brigid whispered to Grant as he joined her at the corner of the building. “SandCat’s turning.”
Standing over Brigid, Grant poked his head around the corner, eyes focusing on the SandCat at the far end of the street. As she had stated, it had pulled away from the curb and was performing a three-point turn, reversing its direction. He was barely able to hear the engine from this far away; even in the silent ville the purr of the engine was lost to the wind.
“Lone mag,” he mused, “or maybe there’s a partner inside,