to safety.
Now they were on their own.
Will nodded at the six heavily armed men and women surrounding him.
‘Let’s do it.’
Sergeant Nairn led them deeper into the building, heading for the toilets. As the pickup team moved the crowd moved around them. No one came within six feet, as if beyond that distance they would be safe from the Whompers and Thrummers.
By the time they reached the stairs to the mezzanine level sweat was trickling down Will’s back. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat or being back in Sherman House that did it, but he felt terrible. He’d been right to stay away.
At the top of the steps the main lobby stretched away on both sides, circling the building’s central well. The space it surrounded was supposed to be a ‘landscaped oasis in the urban jungle’. From what little Will could see it looked more like an open landfill site.
They found the toilets next to the elevators.
‘Sergeant Nairn,’ Will pointed at the cracked blue door, ‘I want you, Floyd and Wright to guard the entrance. No one in or out without my say so.’
‘Understood.’ Nairn and his troopers took up their positions, weapons pointing at the crowd. The nearest inhabitants shifted uncomfortably, but the six foot bubble stayed exactly the same.
‘Dickson, you’re with us.’ Will eased the door open and stepped inside, blinking at the sharp, eye-nipping reek of ammonia. Bloody hell—it stunk in here: rancid piss, laced with bile and sweat. Will stopped short and gasped. God, you could even taste it…
Behind him Dickson swore.
Three separate toilets—male, female and differently-abled— took up a wall each. Beaton and Stein humped the SOC kit into the corridor. ‘Jesus, Dickson, smells worse than your house.’
‘Fuck you Stein.’ She shifted her grip on the massive Bull Thrummer, its spinners crackling, the tines trembling in the reeking air.
The door to the male toilets was slightly ajar. Covering his mouth and nose, Will pushed it all the way.
‘What th’ hell?’ A large woman wearing the distinctive navy jacket and brass buttons of a beat cop went for the Field Zapper strapped to her hip. Will had just enough time to duck before a sheath of blue lightning arced over his head and into Private Dickson.
There was a muffled squeal as all the muscles in Dickson’s body contracted at once, sending her flying. As she hit the far wall her Bull Thrummer bellowed, tearing the concrete floor into a thick mist of crackling dust.
The outside door battered against the wall as what looked like Sergeant Nairn burst in, the lightsight on his Thrummer making a solid bar of green in the cloud of concrete particles. ‘ON THE FLOOR NOW!’
‘DON’T SHOOT!’ Will stepped forward, then froze, arms pinwheeling, one foot hovering over the edge of a huge hole, straight through to some sort of maintenance room on the floor below. ‘Shit…’ He staggered backwards. ‘We’re on the same side!’
The woman with the oversized Zapper stayed where she was, the snub barrel pointing straight at Will’s face.
‘Prove it.’
‘OK. I—’ He coughed up a lungful of concrete dust. ‘I’m reaching into my inside pocket to get my ID card. Are we all happy with that?’
She didn’t object, so Will slipped the small plastic rectangle out of his wallet and showed it to her. The hologram on the front looked like someone had startled a chimpanzee, but it seemed to do the trick.
‘Well, well, well: an Assistant Section Director as I live and breathe. What’s th’ matter, Network?’ she asked, ‘You think us poor wee Bluecoats would screw it up without you here to hold our little handies?’
‘You asked for SOC support, OK? Urgh…’ He grimaced and spat: gritty saliva. ‘And for the record, I think it’s bloody ridiculous they cut your budget, again. How are you supposed to—’
‘Save it for someone that cares, Mr Assistant Section Director, cos I’ve had my share o’patronizin’ bullshit this month.’ She stepped aside and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘In there.’
Will bit his tongue—fighting with her wasn’t going to get them anywhere.
On the floor behind him Private Dickson was groaning her way back to consciousness. He made sure she knew what day it was and how many fingers he was holding up before ushering the SOC team into the gents’ toilet.
It was a filthy room, the metallic smell of fresh blood adding to the oppressive urine reek. The tiles had been white once, now they were stained a dark cherry red. Bloated flies filled the air, drifting in fat, lazy circles. A couple of younger Blue-coats stood in the corner, keeping as far out of the way as possible. One of them was pale grey, shivering, and as Beaton and Stein started assembling the scanning booms, Will found out why. The smell was bad, but the sight was worse.
‘Was the body like this when you found it?’
A voice sounded behind him: ‘No, it was all in one piece. We hacked it up for a bit of a laugh.’
You know what? Screw this: if the Bluecoats wanted a fight, they could have one.
‘Right,’ he said, slowly turning around. ‘I have had enough of your lousy attitude. We’re here because we have to be, not because we want to be. You…’ Will drifted to a halt.
He’d been prepared for another blue uniform carrying a grudge the size of Peebles, but instead he was confronted with the most violently green suit he’d ever seen in his life. Its occupant was female, slightly taller than average, with skin the colour of milky coffee. Her hair was gathered up on top of her head in an asymmetrical bun—very fashionable. The frown she was wearing was almost as unpleasant as the suit.
‘Oh, I see.’ She crossed her arms. ‘What a shame you’ve been dragged all the way down here to play with the lower classes. What’s the matter, Network? Termite lives don’t count? This not white collar enough for you?’ Somehow she’d managed to clench her entire face.
Will’s voice never rose above a low growl. ‘We don’t want to be here because one of our team got blown apart yesterday. We don’t want to be here because right now we’re supposed to be placing him in the long walk, and I’m supposed to be telling his wife and his daughter what a great man he was.’ Will stepped forward, staring Ms Green Suit straight in the eye. ‘We don’t want to be here because this is not a Network job. But some bean-counting mincehead decided to slash your budget and give all the extra work to us, so here we are. And I do not have the time, or the inclination, to fight with you about it: I have a funeral to go to.’
She tilted her head to one side and studied him for a moment. The scowl slid from her face. ‘I see.’ She pointed at the cubicle done out like an abattoir. ‘Victim’s an I-C-one male. Roughly five foot eight, hundred and ninety pounds.’
Will opened the cubicle door all the way. The remains were slumped back on the toilet, chunks of meat and innards lying in sticky clumps on the blood-soaked floor, smears of scarlet and black all up the walls. The head was almost unrecognizable. ‘Wow…’
‘Chest cavity was split with a knife, at least eight inches long, probably serrated. No sign of the murder weapon on scene. Internal organs have been removed and slashed. The same chevron pattern is evident on both thighs.’
Will squatted down in front of the tattered body, peering into the emptied chest cavity. ‘Anything else?’
‘Teeth and jawbones were shattered by some sort of blunt instrument. There’s something in his mouth: think it’s his genitals, but I can’t tell for sure till your Scene of Crime bods are finished with the scanning. No idea what happened to his eyes.’
Hard light flickered through the low, stinking room as Stein and Beaton finally