BZRK: Apocalypse
Page 44

As Stern was crossing the sidewalk the Hound swept down Henry Street before executing a sharp right onto Montague.
Stern bit into his bagel. The cream cheese oozed from the sides and he licked a dollop before it could fall away.
And then he heard something strange. Like a ceiling fan, but with blades going very fast. He even felt the downdraft and looked up to see its source. The Hound was just six feet over his head.
The nanobots fell in a cloud, like dust.
Stern ran to the car, still clutching the bagel. The driver saw him, started to jump out to open the door for him, then saw the urgency on Stern’s face, so just released the lock and started the engine.
Stern reached the door just as he began to feel a burning sensation on his scalp.
He piled into the car and yelled, “Some kind of drone!”
The driver turned around and blanched visibly. “Jesus, boss! Your head!”
Stern reached past the driver and yanked down the visor mirror. In the narrow rectangle he saw that his scalp was red with blood.
“Drive!” Stern shouted. “To McLure Labs!”
“What’s happening?” the driver cried.
Stern tried to answer, but at that moment the nanobots had chewed through his cheek and were tearing into his molars, and the sound that came out of the security man was not decipherable as anything but a cry of agony.
The driver yanked the car into traffic, leaned on the horn, and forced his way past a parked UPS truck.
SEVENTEEN
Caligula found himself almost nervous. How strange. Plath was just a girl, after all.
He remembered the first time he had really met her, in a small but vicious battle at the Tulip. He’d liked her. He’d thought he saw some inner strength in her, but it had never occurred to him that she would end up running the New York cell of BZRK. Vincent had seemed bulletproof—an odd concept for Caligula to think of. But Vincent really had seemed indestructible.
For a while after Nijinsky’s fall from grace Caligula thought Lear might place the burden of leadership on him. But no. Of course not. Caligula had his purpose in life, and it was not shepherding a gaggle of kids. He was useful to Lear, but only as a killer. And less and less useful at that. Lear had found other ways.
Nijinsky, poor bastard. A clean bullet would have done the job. No need for what he endured. No need for that cruelty.
He wondered what Plath would ask of him. Would she ask for his help in bringing Burnofsky in so that he could be infested with a new biot?
He hoped she would not ask him about Lear.
But of course she asked about Lear.
“It seems absurd to call each other Caligula and Plath,” Plath said.
Plath had picked the meeting place, and she was waiting for him when he arrived. It was public but not: a dark booth in a dark bar. It was against the law for her even to be sitting here across from him. But there was a law for regular minors and then there was a very different law for minors who could hand a fistful of hundred-dollar bills to a concerned bartender.
It amused Caligula that she had even found this place. It was classically male, a dive bar in a pricey Manhattan neighborhood. An easy walk from the safe house, which showed caution. After all, Sadie McLure had changed her hair, but she could still be recognized if a paparazzo spotted her. She had minimized the odds of that. Smart girl.
He took in the surroundings as he did every few minutes, checking for changes in personnel, in position and posture. There were a couple of hipsters at the bar imagining themselves as latter-day Kerouacs. A tired-looking woman who was almost certainly a hooker. Three loud businessmen saying things like, “So I told him, ‘That is not something I’m comfortable with.’ I mean, maybe he doesn’t give a shit, but I do.” After a few more drinks they’d be complaining about their wives and their kids.
But that’s not who Caligula watched out of the corner of his eye. It was a woman, thirty-five maybe, in an inexpensive business suit with slacks, sensible shoes, and khaki raincoat. She had brown hair cut short, but not so short as to be fashionable. She ordered something he didn’t overhear but that caused the bartender to look wary. It came clear and fizzy in a tall glass: sparkling water.
If she wasn’t some kind of cop, she was doing a very good impression of one. She confirmed the impression by avoiding looking at Caligula. It was a fact of life that any normal person would look at him.
Had it come to this? Were even the cops on the trail? It was one thing being shadowed by Armstrong people and by Plath’s security people. It was a different matter entirely when secrecy was so compromised that FBI or intelligence or even NYPD were watching.
Things were coming to an end. One way or the other. But wasn’t that what Lear wanted?
“It does seem ridiculous,” Caligula allowed.
“Call me Sadie.”
“Call me Caligula.”
That earned him a wintry smile.
He did not lean toward her. He had not shaken her extended hand—she would understand why. Caligula might be a part of BZRK in his own way, but you simply did not trust people armed with biots. A fleeting touch was all it took to send the tiny little beasties toward his brain.
He was nursing a beer in a tall, sweating mug. He casually dragged the mug across the table, left to right, leaving a trail of water behind. A barrier to the tiny bugs.
“I never thanked you. For that first time.” Plath nodded at him, a regal move that seemed natural for her. “You saved our lives.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. And waited.