Free Judge Dredd by Neal Barrett Page A

only Judge in the tunnel who had completely ignored the group. He turned and gave them a curious stare.
    The Hunters took a step back. “Don’t move, Dredd.” The leader held his weapon to Dredd’s chest. Another stuck a paper in Dredd’s face.
    “You are under arrest, Joseph Dredd. We have the right to confiscate your weapon. We have the right to remove your badge. Should you choose to resist, we have the right to—”
    “I know your rights,” Dredd told him. “What is this, what’s the charge?”
    “Murder.”
    “What? Who did I kill?”
    “We have the right to remain silent, we have the right to subdue you in any manner we may choose, including Greengas, Skidders or electronic restraint. Do you have any comments to make at this time, Joseph Dredd?”
    “Yes,” Dredd said, “just one. You groons can go straight to hell.”

THIRTEEN
    F ergie couldn’t think of any painless way to die. There were a lot of ways to do it. People did it all the time. There were illegal shops in LA if you knew where to go. If you had enough bucks, they’d fix you up fine. If you had a whole lot, you’d leave your miserable life feeling like a thirty-ton orgasm blasting off for outer space.
    The only thing wrong was, he wasn’t in LA any more and he didn’t have a Reagan dollar to his name. That, and the fact that he was down in a concrete pit somewhere, waiting for the shuttle to whisk him off to Aspen again. Other than that . . .
    Someone threw up nearby. That inspired somebody else. Fergie didn’t care. There were sixty-two men in the pit and they’d been there crowded up together for twenty-nine hours or more. He’d done his throwing up the first three. He couldn’t get sick anymore, and there was nothing on earth he hadn’t smelled by now.
    Fergie spent most of his time thinking up tortures for the guy with purple ears. He knew the droog was dead, but he was very much alive in Fergie’s head. Alive and in excruciating pain. Every time he died, Fergie brought him back again. Sometimes he thought about Dredd, and the good-looking Judge who’s name he couldn’t recall. He didn’t have any quarrel with them. Judges were simply a fact of life. You don’t look where you’re going, a truck’ll squash you flat. You stay in a cheap hotel, a rat’s going to bite you on the ass. When you’re in the law-breaking trade, you’re going to get caught now and then.
    What drove Fergie nuts was the fact that he hadn’t done anything at all. That wasn’t right. Fate didn’t have any business pulling such a lousy trick when he just got out. If you steal you get caught, but they shouldn’t ought to cheat you like that.
    When he got tired of thinking so hard he closed his eyes and slept. Sometimes the dreams were awful, sometimes they weren’t bad at all. One was a real good dream about him and Maggie. It was a real lazy day and they’d paid to ride up the Electric to the top of the LA Wall. They had a big railing up there but it was still real scary if you stood and looked down. The sign said the Wall was two thousand twenty-seven feet high. Who could get over that? Fergie wondered. Who the hell was dumb enough to try?
    It was hot on the Wall, but Maggie leaned in close and trembled against his shoulder. Fergie didn’t blame her. It was an awesome thing to see. Cursed Earth stretched out to the east, the land disappearing in a wavy mirage that looked like a pig-iron sea. The sky in that direction was always brick-red from the dust storms that howled day and night across the Cursed Earth.
    There were telescopes on the railing. You could put in a token and look out over the wasteland and bring everything up close. Hardly anyone did. And no one ever did it twice. There was always a chance that you’d see something more out there, something worse than the parched red earth. Something you didn’t want to see like a Krazy or a Cull. A Booter hopping on a single leather foot, or a Dusteater with skin the color of clay.