Chapter Twenty-Nine


The pickup truck that trundled into the downtown core was clean and new, loaded down with a kettle drum in the back- a "donation" from a high school in Lethbridge. "Donation" here meaning "Taken by force by Prime Minister Jackson A. Slate or you're going to fucking jail, Mr. Music teacher". It was perfectly camouflaged, with tinted back windows- concealing the prime minister and his two RCMP guards sitting on either side of him. All three were in full combat gear, and Slate had demanded a frankly irresponsibly large machine gun for his weapon.

The driver was the brother of a local from Lethbridge, working under duress- he'd been visiting family in the town, intending to go back home to Calgary when he was done. He'd been personally press-ganged into service by Slate; the prime minister had threatened to have his family arrested or shot if he didn't comply.

"I hope you're aware of the fact that I'm gonna sell you out the minute you get out of my rig." The man said flatly as they trundled up to the police checkstop that had been set up on the otherwise-empty road. There was hate in his voice, and whenever he glanced back over his shoulder the look in his eyes was nothing but murder. He wanted to tell the cops what he had in the back and watch them shoot the PM and his two lackeys execution-style. They'd threatened his family, his mother and father and sister, and for that he wanted to watch the corrupt Minister burn at the stake.

He rolled down his window as soon as he'd pulled over, the officer in the squad car behind him running his plates as another walked up to his window. Slate quickly doffed his army helmet as another officer walked up to the front. The prime minister ducked his head, quickly tying a borrowed bandana around his face and looking back up. There. Now he was just another angry Albertan, ready to fuck some shit up. His guards had been wearing their bandanas and sunglasses since the truck had left Lethbridge, but Slate disliked the feel of fabric on his face; it made him feel like he was suffocating.

The officer smiled pleasantly at the driver, glancing back at the squad car behind the pickup truck- the other officer gave the thumbs up. The truck was clean, and Calgarian.

"So where'd you get that there drum, buddy?" he offered pleasantly as some other officers cleared the barricade that had been set up between the truck and the bridge, "Where were ya these last few days, eh?"

"Lethbridge." He replied flatly. "Visiting family. My sister plays timpani. I heard you needed them, so." He looked straight ahead, face hardened into an angry stone mask, a detail that did not escape the officer's notice.

"Who're those guys you got in the back?" he asked suspiciously, and Slate bit his lip. This was it. The moment of truth. The guard that sat behind the driver had a pistol out and carefully buried in the seat back- if the man squealed now, he'd pay with his life.

"...Friends." he said flatly, still staring ahead, "Wanted to help defend the city."

The officer squinted into the truck, looking right into Slate's eyes with something between suspicion- and strangely, a little smirk.

Like he knew something the PM didn't.

Slate ignored him, looking away as they waved the truck through, and the driver trundled along, grinding his teeth. He pulled the truck into the downtown core where Slate ordered him to go, the PM consulting the map on his phone, and finally parked it off to the side of the road next to a staircase that lead up into the +15 network.

The prime minister nodded at his men, and the three of them bailed on the truck without so much as a word, taking the steps two at a time. Slate fully expected it to be locked, so when the aboveground tunnel wasn't, it rather threw him for a loop. Still, the PM was more focused on the glory he was going to be showered in for pulling off this heroic coup over the crazy Calgarians and their corrupt commander, and couldn't force himself to care about the suspiciousness of that door being unlocked.

The man in the truck watched them run up the steps, and as soon as he was out of the range of the Guardsmen's guns, he stamped on the gas, scanning the empty street for any cops or any anyone. He needed to report this, right away. The PM was in the Plus Fifteens, and they needed to take him down.


I wanna cut him open. I want to cut him apart. I'm gonna fucking kill him.

Hee, and that'll be fun, won't it? Won't it? IT'LL BE FUN, RIGHT?! RIGHT?!

FUCKER THINKS HE CAN RUN AROUND IN MY TOWN AND CALLS HIMSELF BOSS I'M GOING TO FUCKING RAPE HIS FUCKING CORPSE AND IMPALE IT ON A SPIKE HA HA HA HAAAAA

Will he scream? He'll cry. I want him to cry. But not if I cry first. I'm gonna cry. It hurts. It hurts a lot. I feel so cold and empty and it hurts so much and everyone's so angry and I just want to go home I don't wanna be here I don't WANT THE FUCKER TO GET OUT OF HERE ALIVE HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA.

I'm so happy.


Prime minister slate froze mid-stride.

The +15's were silent, and empty; and it was more than a little terrifying to be honest. The place was supposed to be bustling with life and energy, but instead, there was just…

Silence.

Silent halls. Silent, shuttered shops. Silence.

Except.

Except, except aside from himself and the two RCMP guards who'd insisted on accompanying him on his mission…he would hear…something else.

Something that sounded like laughter, sometimes. Someone laughing, and not in a nice way. A nervous grating cackle, or perhaps the arrogant laughter of a madman; it was always too distant, too faint to tell properly what it truly was. Other times he'd hear a faint sob, and then a few more, as if the ghost that stalked him through the aboveground maze was weeping for something. But then…then the ghostly voice would scream.

And it wasn't ghostly when it screamed.

But that sound he'd just heard, it wasn't…it wasn't voices. It was footsteps.

Tak, tak, tak, tak….

The maze was well-lit, as labyrinths go; huge panes of glass in all the +15's let in huge amounts of light, illuminating the empty maze the three men ran through. IF it was rattling his guards, Slate didn't know. They weren't letting on out of sheer professionalism.

The PM stopped in his tracks halfway across one of the bigger walkways, looking down at the street below. A huge mob of people were gathered, and in the distance- were those artillery pieces?!

He gulped.

"Sir, we shouldn't stay here. They can see us from the ground, and they might- GET DOWN!"

So saying, the guard tackled him to the carpet, just as a person on the street below chambered a round in their hunting rifle and pulled the trigger. The bullet whistled over Slate's head, right where his torso had been not a minute earlier. The tiny lead bullet shattered the windowpane into trillions of tiny fragments, showering the three in the tunnel with glass fragments- and letting them hear what was being said on the street.

"THERE'S SOME ROACHES IN THAT FUCKIN' WALKWAY!"

"FUCKING SHOOT THEM THEN!"

"I JUST TRIED, ASSHOLE! FUCKER KEEPS MOVING!"

The guards motioned for Slate to crawl after them, desperate to get into the next building where they'd be safe from the guns below. Windowpanes blew out, one after another after another, bang bang bang; glass rained down on the street below, the crowd screaming at the gunners to shoot straight and kill them already.

And then the shooting stopped.

It just…stopped.

The crowd below fell silent, and the PM took the opportunity to jump to his feet and run the last few steps into the next building.

Only when he was safe from being shot did the Prime minister turn around to look at what it was that had saved him.

His eyes went wide.

Slate took off like a shot, running flat-out through the carpeted halls as his two guards screamed in agony behind him.

And the madman laughed as the Minister ran.


See how he runs from me. See how he runs. Ha. Coward. Fool. ANIMAL. I'LL SLAUGHTER HIM. BUTCHER HIM. TURN HIM INTO SLABS OF STEAK AND FRY HIM FOR SUPPER. FUCKER'S GONNA DIE TONIGHT.

I'm going to have so much fun playing with you, Prime Minister, sir. You'll not get me. YOU WON'T GET ME. I KNOW WHAT YOU FUCKERS WANT. YOU FUCKERS WANT TO STICK COMPUTER PINS IN MY HEAD AND FILL MY BRAIN WITH YOUR LIES. WELL IT WON'T FUCKING WORK,BECAUSE I'VE GOT A GUN AND A KNIFE AND I'LL FILL YOU ALL FULL OF BIG BLOODY HOLES SO YOU CAN'T POKE HOLES IN ME.I'm gonna cry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry slate I'm so sorry human my head hurts and my heart hurts and I want to sleep. I want to go home and sleep. I want my brother. I want my little sister. I want a hug and I want to go to sleep and I want to cry I'm NO NO NO I'M NOT FUCKING SORRY YOU'LL BE FUCKING SORRY YOU EVER CAME ON MY TURF I'M GONNA KILL YOU SLATE I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU AND YOU'RE GONNA BEG ME FOR MERCY

WHY THE FUCK AM I CRYING!?


Slate yanked the machine gun off his back and jammed a clip in it, falling back on his military training. He let his panic and his screams and his desire to run for his life all take a backseat to the present need to kill the hostile. Nothing else could save him now. He was going to take the rogue city down, and just like that…well, it probably wouldn't kill everyone in the city, otherwise personifications would be encased in cement and never allowed to leave their houses. But it would probably do SOMETHING.

The problem was, Slate was lost. Horribly, horribly lost. And where he'd finally chosen to set up his offensive was an open plaza inside a building with at least three entrances. This was less than ideal, but it beat the shit out of standing in a glass walkway waiting to get shot from below.

Laughter echoed through the empty halls, and Slate dimly noted how this whole system read like a testament to faded glory and decadence. When it was new, this plaza must have been something spectacular; but ten years with no money to maintain it had diminished its splendour, scuffing the once-polished marble floors and staining the once-pristine walls. Dust and cobwebs grew on aging sculptures, with nobody to clean them; algae grew in the decorative fountain for want of a functional filter.

And then the madman himself stepped out of the walkway and into the plaza proper.

His eyes were bloodshot and his pupils dilated to pinpoints. His smile was far, FAR too wide, showing altogether too many teeth, and there was nothing but hatred and murder and death in that man's posture, in his face, but most of all in those cold, dead blue eyes.

It was like someone had extinguished the light that should have rightfully been behind them.

He, too, had a machine gun slung over his back, but he wasn't holding it- instead, he was holding a bloody knife in one hand and a pistol in the other- a silver revolver, which made Slate snort with derision. Really? The wannabe cowboy to the bitter end, right down to his choice in fucking firearms. His derision diminished somewhat when the madman pointed the revolver right at him. Slate opened his mouth to start talking- he WAS a politician, after all, and talking his way out of tight spots was his specialty- but the madman decided he wasn't in the mood for a political rally.

The City of Calgary pulled the revolver's trigger, once, twice; two warning shots that both struck Slate's helmet and made him yelp in sheer terror.

"Don't yap. Just run. You're boring me." The city purred, "And, uh...ya think you could scream a bit too? It's kinda creepy in here when it's just us two, eh?"


A/N:

So tomorrow evening I get on a plane to go to university. I'll try to have the zenith up before then, but you never know.

Anyway, tell me your thoughts. Do it. I feed on your comments and turn them into storyyyyy.