Free Dead Mann Walking by Stefan Petrucha Page A

Walther when a flash of light got everyone’s attention. Boyle was standing in the center of the wide, shapeless space, holding a cheap plastic lighter with a tiny flame. Ashby stood behind him, looking like an accessory, but none the worse for wear. Other than the half shapes of nervously shifting bodies that reminded me of cattle stuffed in a railcar, I couldn’t make out much else.
    A community organizer to the end, he spoke softly. “Everybody stay calm. We don’t need anyone going feral.”
    But something else, even harder to ignore, competed for our attention, a loud . . .
    Crunch .
    All eyes shot to the door at the top of the stairs. They were already trying to move the bike.
    Turned out Boyle wasn’t the only one who could talk. Some genius announced, “They have to come down on foot, one at a time. We can take them.”
    Ashby repeated the last two words. “Take them. Heh-heh.”
    Creak .
    A more resigned voice spoke up next. “Then what? If we make a pile of bodies, they’ll burn this place to a cinder in the morning.”
    â€œI’m ready for it,” another said. “It’s better than going on like this.”
    That was it for intelligible speech. Hisses and grunts followed, most sounding like they agreed.
    Boyle, for whatever ridiculous reason, turned to me. “Got any better ideas?” The equivalent of asking, “Excuse me, buddy, can you stop the rain?”
    Crunk!
    Back up at the door, cement drizzled from the cracks. It came down so freely, I looked around for an umbrella. We couldn’t go out. We couldn’t fight them if they got in. What was left?
    â€œBarricade,” I said. “We pile shit against the door. Hakkers don’t have a big attention span. Keep them out long enough, maybe they’ll get tired and go home.”
    I thought it wasn’t a half-bad idea, but Mr. Last Stand chimed in. “Barricade it with what? Cardboard boxes? How do we brace them? They’d just push them down the stairs.”
    One of the smart ones. Asshole.
    Clank!
    That last one sounded like the whole doorframe was coming loose. Everyone shifted like a bunch of cows. I thought I heard a few low moans.
    Boyle heard it, too. “Stay calm! We’ll be fine!”
    He didn’t sound like he meant it.
    Unlike having my back against the wall and a chain saw in my face, it was quiet enough here to pray. It was one of those desperate moments when you hope an angel appears and you don’t particularly care if it’s from heaven or hell.
    That’s exactly what happened, sort of.
    From somewhere out in the dark, a wispy, boyish voice nervously said, “Don’t worry. I called the police ten minutes ago.”
    At least it broke the tension. Everyone with a mouth laughed.
    I knew the voice. “Turgeon? You down here? Where are you?”
    â€œI’m sitting on some sort of crate. I think I have a splinter.”
    That earned him another laugh. I couldn’t tell if he was relaxed or in shock. If he was relaxed, I’d have the pleasure of telling him, I told you so . If he was in shock, what would be the point?
    â€œIf you’re on a crate, better crawl inside it and kiss yourself good-bye, Mr. Turgeon. There’s no way the cops would bother showing up to save a bunch of chakz.”
    Turned out he was the one who had to spell things out for me.
    â€œYou forget, Mann,” he answered. “I’m not a chak.”
    And that was when I heard the sirens.

6
    I suppose the hakkers thought the sirens had to be for someone else. They kept at the door, grunting and banging, but couldn’t get it open. When the piercing wails grew louder and it was clear the police were getting closer, not farther away, they sounded confused. They whispered, told one another, Nah, couldn’t be .
    Then, like monkeys with their hands stuck in a jar, they went back to rattling the bike. When it was completely obvious the