James Axler – Zero City

“Good thing Dean gave us a warning,” J.B. said. “If that thing had caught us inside with no room to maneuver, we’d be in its belly by now.”

“Where Dean?” Jak asked, concerned. Piss-colored blood and spent shells were splashed about, but there was no sign of the boy.

“Don’t know. He wasn’t here when we arrived,” Krysty said, pocketing the spent brass of her revolver.

“Dean!” Ryan yelled. “Dean!”

Only the wind whispered in reply. Ryan took in a deep breath and let it out slow. “Well, he’s got to be around here somewhere,” he said. His hand had trouble holstering the big autoblaster, then an icy calm took the man as if he were in the middle of a firefight, and it slid smoothly into place.

“Mebbe he’s hiding, or fell over the edge,” Krysty suggested, glancing at the dark streets. Gaia, what a grisly thought.

“Any sign of him on the ground?” Ryan asked, but their replies sounded strange to him as if somebody else had asked if the boy was dead, but not him. He felt oddly distant from the conversation, as if he were speaking to them from over a great length of pipe.

“Not a sign of him,” Doc stated, forcing a neutral expression as he holstered his blaster and buttoned down the flap. “Don’t worry, it is only three stories onto soft sand. If the lad did tumble, he probably has no worse than a broken leg.”

“Jumped another building,” Jak suggested, as pragmatic as always.

“Logical,” Ryan admitted, unclenching his fist. “I’ll check the roof to our west.”

A sharp whistle cut the night.

“Here!” J.B. shouted, waving from the east side. “Over here!”

The companions rushed to the edge of the roof. The Armorer pointed across the alleyway to the next building. The rain-pitted expanse of concrete was empty except for a skylight. But one of the milky-white glass panels in the framework was broken, and lying nearby in a splash of red blood was Dean’s knife.

Chapter Eight

Tossing Krysty the rifle, Ryan backed away a few steps and charged. At the last moment, he jumped over the low wall and sailed across the gulf of the alleyway to land heavily on the concrete roof of the next building. He went to one knee, but was up again in an instant. Going to the hole in the skylight, Ryan listened for any sounds before cupping his hands and shouting the boy’s name. There was no answer.

He turned and barked, “Mildred!”

The physician reached into her med kit and tossed him a small object. Ryan made the catch one-handed and squeezed the charging handle on the tiny flashlight a few times to power the miniature battery inside. It was old and weak, but a hundred times better than a candle. Playing the beam through the hole, he saw an open area directly under the skylight with a balcony on four sides. A staggered staircase of iron lace spiraled down into the building and out of range of the weak beam.

“I’m going in,” he said, stuffing the flashlight into his belt. “Meet you on the ground floor.”

“On our way,” Krysty shouted, already heading for the kiosk.

Carefully testing the skylight for strength, Ryan knew it would never hold his two-hundred-plus pounds. Carefully wiggling the rest of the glass shards from the frame, he tossed them aside. Then, grabbing the part of the framework directly attached to the concrete roof, he carefully lowered himself down. The angle was awkward, but he held on tight. Lowering himself as far as he could, Ryan swung his legs back and forth until he had sufficient momentum and let go.

Pain racked his back as he scraped over the railing, and he landed sprawled on the soft carpeting of the topmost balcony. Scrambling erect, Ryan pulled out his blaster and flashlight. Anything could be inside this place. Just because the roof was untouched didn’t mean the front door wasn’t wide open. He couldn’t chance being caught unprepared.

Playing the beam around, he saw that the central area was squared off by the fancy iron-lace railings. An open framework elevator shaft of the same material stood nearby. Moving along the floor, he noted the array of closed doors with tarnished nameplates lining the balcony. Every one was closed with no signs of busted wood on the jamb showing a forced entry. Lush plastic plants in oak stands adorned the corners, and a squat copier stood reverently in an alcove near a brace of soda machines.