Plague Factor: Encounter In a Vacant Lot Pt. I

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Davin Morse, known to some of the more worthless rags and news programs as Plague Factor, known more and more universally on the streets as Sickly, reached an unexpected slatted wall at the end of the back-alley he'd been navigating. His foot gained the top of a trashcan, launched him up. His leather-clad fingertips barely grazed the top of the makeshift barrier, catching just enough to tighten the arc of his jump and deposit him close to the wall on the other side.

Probably somebody fuckin' buildin' up a squat, he thought. Better safe than sorry, his straight razor was spread open in his hand as he fell into a crouch amid the dirt on the wall's other side. His jaundiced eyes darted like a cornered animal's; seeking, ready to strike before the enemy even presented itself.

He relaxed as none did, stood erect, and tugged his trench coat into place. That and the leather suit were the only armor he needed these days. Wouldn't turn a bullet, maybe, but it kept him clear of blades, fire, that sort of thing. Not that anybody could get close enough to stick him, really, if he saw them coming . . .

Sickly glanced around the lot he'd landed in, grunted his satisfaction that he hadn't lost his path. He turned and gripped the top of the makeshift wall with both gloves hands and sent a couple of vicious kicks at it, slinging pieces of it back into the lot behind him as they came away. Three solid kicks was all it took to destroy the cobbled together sheltering wall.

"My fuckin' alleys," he rasped to no one in particular. In truth, he knew the squat's tenant might be hiding somewhere nearby, shaking with terror in some hidey-hole. Like a rat. He hoped so, and raised his voice just in case. "Spread the fuckin' Gospel, ya fuckin' rat."

Moving across the lot, loping from chunk to chunk of demolished building with an agility no one would have suspected from the rat he had been a ridiculously short time before, Sickly felt a pang of something like guilt about tearing the squat apart. It hadn't too different from his old place, really, though he'd had the sense to corner in next to a construction dumpster no on was ever going to come empty. What if this fucker had been one of the blighted? Poor sons-of-bitches were worse off than he'd been when he was sick . . .

He shrugged the feeling off, nearing the wooden fence on bordering the lot. Fuck 'em, he thought. It was as comforting a thought to Sickly as a mantra to a monk.

Nothing to launch off of here, and the wall was high. Sickly jumped up, caught the edge of the wall with both hands, and leveraged with a work boot. He managed to throw an elbow over the wall, and had just pulled his shoulder over when something cold and wet stung his face, blinding him and dumping him flat on his back in the lot. His hands scrabbled at his face, wiping whatever it was from his tight-shut eyes. He pressed his respirator tight around his mouth and blew, clearing it, and waited a second before opening his eyes.

Snow . . . he'd caught a snowball in the face. He mounted the fence again, more aggressively this time, and looked into the next lot. About thirty feet away, four snow-beasts were closing on a girl in red tights and chains. She was lashing out with little tongues of fire, throwing sparks, but they were pelting her good, wearing her down. Sickly dropped to the other side of the wall and watched.

The beasts closed tighter on the girl. She was throwing out as much flame as she could, but it wouldn't be enough by a long shot . . .

Sickly put his back to the mob, started tracing the edge of the fence.

None of my fuckin' business, he thought. Besides, silly bitch runs around openin' fuckin' presents sittin' in a vacant fuckin' lot, she deserves what she gets.

Sickly half assumed he couldn't do anything anyway. Not like his straight-razor was gonna come in handy there, no blood. For all he knew, those animated snowmen wouldn't even feel the symptoms he could call up in most folks like pulling a set of strings. Didn't even know if they felt pain . . .

As if on cue, one of the beasts let out a yowl. Sickly turned back. The girl had mustered a little more fire out of desperation, it seemed, and managed to melt the paw off one of the suckers. He grunted in humor. Good fer you, bitch. At least give 'em a little fuckin' taste of it goin' down.

Who was getting a taste of what became evident pretty quickly. The water sloughing off the big snowman's was frozen by the magic or tech or whatever it was that gave these things life, and it stopped for a second and experimentally swung the icy mass of spikes that had replaced its hand.

Yeah, she's fucked, Sickly thought. Other hand . . .

That yowl of pain had kicked a little something over in Davin's head. If those things could hurt, maybe they could get sick. He started walking, crunching across the lot toward the girl and her attackers, hand stretched out, feeling for the strings . . .

. . . and there they were, not as solid seeming as usual, but there was something there. He snapped his fist shut and gave 'em a yank. The nearest snow-beast howled, doubled over. The little fire-slinger girl had a good instinct. She laid into that one and took it out as Sickly spread his arms and let illness spread among those still standing. He pointed at another and pulled the string that would cramp a man's legs, lock them unbearably. It worked. Under the respirator, Davin grinned.

His little gift didn't grab these guys as easy as most, and he wished Rachel could be there. That little trick she did for him gave him a push hecould've used. But even without her reinforcing him, he was making easy targets out of the snowmen for the girl. The last one standing rounded on him, fleeing the girl's flames and bearing down on him.

Sickly stood his ground. The snow-beast's feet send up sprays of powdered ice as they pummeled the dry ground of the vacant lot. It roared, almost on top of him.

Sickly whipped off his respirator and roared back, leaning his body forward into it. To the shock of his Iron-Maiden-album-cover face he added the weight of hundreds of hours of fever dreams and terrors. The beast cowered. It cowered. A laugh escaped from the tattered remnants of Davin's mouth, and he felt the heat of the girl's flames flare up from beside him and usher the beast's end.

He turned to her and flashed a horrid grin at the flame-thrower before he pushed the respirator back into place. Her face paled and she took a step back reflexively.

"Thanks," she said plainly, and backed another step, anxious to turn on her heel and get away from him as much as from the scene of her near defeat.

He looked her over. Tights and chains. She looked like she thought she was a cape or something. Davin lifted his hat off his head in mock courtesy and eyed her with more than a little disdain.

"Yeah, Merry fuckin' Chr . . ."

His feet flew out from under him. The sky, he saw as his air left him, had turned a grisly red. All around hands shot from the dirt, clawing at him, trying to drag him down. He roared and struggled. One instant he was watching the little bitch in red run away, and the next he was looking in the dead eyes of a zombie, helpless to its advance.

(( To be continued . . .))

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