Dead Mann Walking by Stefan Petrucha Page B

passed and I got his message again. The second time I hit the number on the speed dial, I found it, facedown in the sand, a brownish streak along the plastic, a darker color than the silver or the sand. Blood.
    I wished I had a plastic bag to put it in, so I wouldn’t contaminate the evidence. Old instinct. I tore off a piece of shirt and picked it up as gingerly as I could.
    It wasn’t good news. Chakz don’t bleed like that. If we bleed at all, it’s more what that old horror writer Lovecraft called a “putrescent ooze.” The red stuff on the phone belonged to a liveblood, and I had a sinking feeling I knew who.
    Poor baby. He was as much out of his depth as I was out of mine. Had a gun, didn’t he? Two, counting mine. I wonder if he went down fighting. I was sure Boyle did. He’d go crazy trying to protect . . .
    Ashby. I’d forgotten all about him. Fucking memory. They hadn’t found his body either. Whoever did this probably didn’t expect a third party. The chances were slim to nothing, but maybe he’d survived. I had no idea where Turgeon lived or worked, but if the kid could walk, he’d likely head back to the only place he knew.
    I hopped in the car and made for Bedland.
    The radio told me what to expect. The place was still a mess. A bunch of the inhabitants had gone feral—wonder why. The national guard was all over the place. Ignoring the sanitation truck where they piled the bodies, I parked. If I’d been a liveblood, the guardsmen might have stopped me for my own protection. As it was, as long as I wasn’t moaning, after casting a suspicious glance my way they didn’t care.
    They’d already cleared the buildings, but were still hunting the brush. As I walked along, every now and then I’d hear a rifle crack echo through the dry woods. Cripple ’em, D-cap ’em. Boyle and Wilson could have been anyone, really.
    There but for fortune.
    With all the decapitations, it wasn’t easy finding a familiar face, but an hour later, as far away as you could get from everything, down in a basement rec room, I stumbled on Thornell. With the gunshots muffled to near nothing, he was shooting pool all by his lonesome. He looked up when I came in.
    His arm was back on. Krazy Glue and thread. I didn’t think the hand was working, but it made a nice bridge to lay the cue on. With a sound too much like a rifle crack, he sank an easy corner shot.
    â€œMann, you came back,” he said.
    I was going to ask how he could play games with the shantytown crumbling around him; then I realized he was just like me. He had to do something to keep busy. Solve a crime, play pool. To each his own. From what I saw outside, they’d lost at least thirty people.
    I heard a howl from somewhere outside. Thornell rubbed his cue with chalk, loudly, trying to drown it out. I didn’t know if he had heard about Boyle, or if it would make any difference. I had to be careful. Finding out he was chopped up could be the straw that broke Thornell’s back. I decided to play it by ear.
    â€œPretty crazy seeing you. What do you want?” he said. “Got more good news for a chak? Better hurry while there’s some left.”
    â€œI’m curious about Frank Boyle,” I said. “He have any enemies?”
    Another gunshot, then the crack of the cue ball against number eight. “Enemies? Are you fucking out of your mind? Sure, he had enemies. Almost seven billion.”
    â€œGood point.” I waited a few shots, then asked the big question: “That kid Ashby find his way back here by any chance?”
    Thornell stood up straight as an arrow. Pay dirt. “Who wants to know?”
    I shrugged. “Me. Why? Anyone else looking?”
    â€œThe cops, maybe,” Thornell said. “Didn’t you used to be a cop?”
    â€œUsed to be,” I told him. “Look, I just want to see if he’s okay, that’s