Free Biohell by Andy Remic Page A

the gangster’s flapping grip, right boot
lifting to connect with Konan’s chin in a side-kick that sent the man sprawling
upwards and backwards to land with a grunt of shock. Slick dropped to a crouch
by Konan’s side and rammed the blade savagely into the man’s heaving chest.
     
    It slid free easily as the other,
heavy-set men started with shock at this spurt of high-speed violence from a
man who had—nanoseconds earlier—been constrained by chair and wire. Blood
pumped and eased from the narrow wound in Konan’s chest, and blood bubbled,
staining the corners of the gangster’s twitching mouth.
     
    Slick uncoiled slowly and stood,
arms by his sides, the bloodied knife and his bloodied fist— immobile. He
smiled then, smiled at the five large bulky men who had just spent the best
part of thirty minutes beating the shit from him.
     
    “You bastards,” he
snarled.
     
    One gangster went for his inside
pocket—a gun— and the action triggered Slick into a dance of death. He cannoned
forward, the knife slashing left then right in twin splattered showers of
horizontal blood; he ducked a clumsy steroid punch, dropped to one knee and
rammed the dagger into the gangster’s groin, leaving it embedded as the huge
muscle man screamed and screamed and screamed and Slick took his matt black
pistol: a German-built Heckler & Koch P227 taking 9mm Parabellum cartridges
in an 80 round micro-clip. The gun lifted, and two shots rang out, dropping two
men in twin fountains of purple, spewing gore.
     
    Slick stared at the six dead men.
Then, with a smile, realised Mr Konan was breathing, pink froth bubbling at his
lips. Slick moved to kneel by the gangster’s side and grinned down through his
own inflicted punishment.
     
    “Surprised, fucker?”
     
    “Mr Voloshko will... have...
you... killed for this.”
     
    “You don’t say? Well, he wasn’t
successful today, was he? I’d keep my empty threats to myself, if I was you.”
     
    “How... how... how did—”
     
    “Bit of a stutter you have there,
my friend. Want to get that seen to. Some form of speech therapy might be in
order. I believe it’s extremely effective nowadays. But then, oh yes, I
forgot... you have an urgent appointment. With Death.”
     
    Slick lifted the 9mm P227. His
eyes shone.
     
    “No,” said Mr Konan. “Please, don’t
shoot...”
     
    Slick shrugged, sighed, and pulled
the trigger, spreading Konan’s head across the cellar floor.
     
    Slick stripped one of the dead
gangsters, pulling on the flapping trousers and ridiculously large shirt. The
boots, at least, were a good fit and allowed him to walk. Taking a long
overcoat, he filled the pockets with guns, knives and several magazines of
ammunition.
     
    More noise rattled from the top
of the stone steps, and Slick moved to the side of the doorway. Two men
entered, heavyset and carrying Ruger P-85 pistols. They stared down, dumbly, at
their fallen comrades as Slick put two bullets in two skulls, stole their 9mm
ammunition, and took the stairs three at a time to pause in a crouch at the
top, breathing cold night air and gazing up at distant stars. Several
starships, Titan Class III freighters, sat in orbit, grey and foreboding in
their hugeness. Slick glanced down the street. Several cars with blackened
windows stood nearby, engines idling, but Slick couldn’t make out if they had
occupants. He glanced left and right. Where the hell am I? he
thought—then smelt the sluggish, toxic waters of the heavily polluted
Kruger River. West Dregside—deep down beyond and below the money.
     
    Slick eased himself along a wall,
then darted right down a narrow tunnel between the concrete and alloy slab bases
of titanic skyscrapers which towered, gleaming and alloy and bright with wealth
and honour and love and menace.
     
    The Dregs—scattered across The
City in patches and tunnels and spidering labyrinths, like a gnawing cancer,
hiding, mostly, beneath the ground and the wealth. They were the