Batman: No Man's Land Page 7

  Their jackets were salvaged denim, painted. Horns and tails. Two had machetes, another an ax. The remaining two had shotguns. All of them had shaved their heads.

  The one with the ax said, “Doesn’t matter. The penalty for trashing the Demonz is death.” He turned his head slightly, lowering his voice, speaking to the other four. “Kill the geezer, try to keep her alive. She might be fine in the light.”

  Gordon hadn’t moved. In her periphery, Montoya could see his hand waiting at his hip, knew what he was waiting for. If the shotguns were loaded, they didn’t stand a chance of drawing in time, they’d be dead before their weapons cleared their holsters.

  But now it was just a chance they were going to have to take.

  She swung her hand back, knocking the edge of her coat away to clear her holster, just as she’d done a thousand times before in drills, in practice, and she felt the world become slow with the sudden feed of adrenaline, and as always the strange clarity came with it. Gordon was doing the same, she knew, and speaking, or rather shouting, and the man with the shotgun pointed at her; his mouth was shaped like a bow, a soft shape, she thought, for a killer. The air was clean, she realized, much cleaner than it had ever been in Gotham before the No Man’s Land, and sure, it stank like hell in places, but at least the pollution was gone, and that wasn’t so bad, really, was it? And dammit, but she was sorry, really sorry, that she wouldn’t be seeing her parents and little brother again.

  Then the man with the mouth like a bow turned red and wet and was falling, and the other man with a shotgun was doing the same, and Montoya had just now taken her gun out of its holster, and she was wondering how Gordon got to be so damn fast on the draw. Must have been Chicago, she thought, must have been learned in Chicago, and she had her weapon up and her finger on the trigger and she was feeling the kick of the gun in her hand.

  And all five men were dead, and she and the Commissioner were still breathing, still standing. A man was coming out of the shadows beyond the bodies, slinging an M16 back over his shoulder, and Montoya moved her weapon to track him, opened her mouth to challenge his approach.

  “Pettit,” Gordon said.

  Captain Billy Pettit grinned, and his mustache and the light made him look almost feral to Montoya’s eyes. “Hope you don’t mind, Commissioner. Figured it was time to take a little initiative.”

  “You’ve been following us all night?”

  Pettit’s grin grew, and he cast a quick glance at Montoya. It must be the adrenaline, she thought. That’s why he looks like this is one big joke.

  “I just couldn’t sleep, Jim, knowing that you and Renee were out here without anyone to cover your backs,” Pettit said. “I was just tossing and turning, thinking that maybe spray paint alone just wouldn’t be enough to start our little war.”

  Gordon didn’t say anything.

  Pettit’s expression faded to neutral. “Was I wrong, Commissioner?”

  “No.” Gordon’s voice was soft.

  Pettit nodded, then bent to the nearest body, taking it by the feet and dragging it toward the retagged wall. “Little help here, Renee?”

  Montoya holstered her weapon, and the three of them moved the bodies beneath the LoBoy tag. When they were finished, Montoya crossed herself.

  “Now that’s how to incite a war,” Pettit said. “Bodies. Of course, this is all for nothing if their comrades-in-arms, so to speak, don’t see what those degenerate LoBoys have done.” He flashed a grin of white teeth at Montoya. “Shouldn’t be a problem, though. Between the gunfire and a little added incentive.”

  Montoya wasn’t certain she wanted to know the answer, but she asked anyway. “Like what?”

  Pettit cupped his hands to his mouth, tilting his body back. “Demonz!” he shouted, and the word echoed and bounced along the broken buildings. “Come out and play!”

  Gordon muttered something, reaching out to touch Montoya, and she turned to follow him, suddenly sprinting down the block, into LoBoy territory. Pettit was right behind her, and over his footsteps she heard others, farther back, louder. Then they stopped and she knew the bodies had been seen, heard the sound of the voices climbing in rage.

  In another nest of shadow they stopped, Montoya crouched between Pettit and Gordon.

  “Good start,” Pettit said. “Means nothing if the LoBoys don’t join ‘em, though.”

  “This way,” Gordon said, and they began sprinting again, dodging the rubble, trying to keep their footing on the treacherous pavement.

  Behind them, Montoya heard more shouts, someone cursing them as LoBoys, and then she couldn’t concentrate on the words but only on staying upright on the terrain, vaulting over fallen masonry, skidding, then righting herself again and continuing to run. Stealth was gone. Now it was the hare leading the hounds, hopefully straight into another pack of dogs.

  She wasn’t even sure where they were anymore as she came around another corner. Gordon and Pettit were behind her now, and she saw the fires burning farther down the street, the figures around them, and the LoBoy tag on the brick across from her. She stopped, felt Pettit bump into her a moment later, then Gordon was at her side again.

  “LoBoys,” Montoya said, scanning the ground. A shattered piece of brick caught her eye, and she grabbed it, pulling her arm back and then taking a couple of stutter-steps forward, throwing it hard. The brick flew, bouncing off the hood of a rusted and stripped car, and the group of LoBoys turned.

  “Chick, chick, chick,” Pettit mocked, pulling Montoya back into the shadows.

  The LoBoys turned to them and began menacing their way along the street.

  “Up,” Gordon whispered, indicating the fire escape in the alley behind them. The ladder had been lowered already, and the Commissioner was reaching toward it. “Out of their way.”

  Montoya followed him up, Pettit on her heels. She held her breath as they crossed the grating on the third floor, hearing the metal creak, feeling the rust peel and stick to her hands as she used the railing. Of the buildings that were still standing, few of them engendered her trust, but the thought of falling to the street and landing between the Demonz and the LoBoys kept her moving. Gordon had made it to the roof and extended a hand to her, which Montoya ignored, pulling herself over the edge and onto the sunken tar-paper surface. Pettit appeared only a couple of seconds later.

  All of them crouched again, peering over the edge, catching their breath. The voices were drifting up to them: anger, curses. Montoya thought the number of the two groups looked roughly even, maybe six or seven to a side. All were brandishing weapons, and she heard the accusations start.

  And then one of the Demonz swung a baseball bat, and Montoya heard the sound of bone shattering, heard it climb the six stories to where they were hiding, and she didn’t want to watch anymore. She turned away from the edge, putting her back to the short retaining wall. Her stomach was in knots, and her hands were shaking slightly, and she wanted something to drink to drive the dryness from her mouth. She knew it wasn’t just adrenaline that was making her feel sick.

  “Congratulations,” Pettit said, still watching eagerly. “We’ve just started a war.”

  FIVE

  HIS SRIDE WAS WAITING FOR HIM WHEN Gordon got home, and as always, it made him smile and feel lighter, if only for a moment. Sarah waited until he was through the door, past where Weir and DeFilippis stood guarding the house, and then followed him down the hall to their bedroom. He took off his coat and tossed it over the back of the chair, then stooped to pick up the can of spray paint that had fallen from his pocket. He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes, then removed the holster from his belt, setting it on the table to the side.

  Then he stood up and took his wife in his arms.

  “Bad, huh?” Sarah asked gently.

  Gordon swallowed, fought for a moment for the words, then nodded, felt her lips brushing his cheek, then finding his mouth. He took the kiss like it was water, like he was dying of thirst. For a while, he thought maybe he could ne
ver get enough.

  * * * * *

  Later, staring at the ceiling, feeling Sarah’s heart beating against his chest, safe in their bed, he almost thought it would be okay.

  She moved, drawing a hand along his chest, nuzzling his neck for a second. He almost didn’t hear her when she spoke.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “We’re going to have to pay,” he said after a moment, and his voice surprised him, how young he sounded to his own ear. “What we did… I wish I could be sure, Sarah. I wish I could be sure I was doing the right thing.”

  “When have any of us ever had that luxury?” she asked gently. “When the married cop and the single detective began their affair, who was sure then?”

  He smiled. “I’m sure now.”

  “Hindsight is twenty/twenty, Jim.”

  “Pettit is sure.”

  “Pettit is narrow. He knows what he knows, and that’s all he needs. Black and white makes him happy.”

  “Maybe a black and white view of the world is what we need now.”

  “Maybe.”

  Gordon sighed, tightened his grip slightly on Sarah, felt her settle against him. Her leg was long and warm and for a moment he thought he could concentrate just on that.

  “You can’t be sure, Jim,” she said gently. “It’s not who you are.”

  “I know. But… I have to wonder, how far will it go? How far will we have to go?”

  “How far are you prepared to take it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He felt her body shiver for a moment with a restrained chuckle, the soft laugh he adored. “Yes, you do. How far will a father go to protect his daughter?”

  “All the way.”

  “Right,” she said, agreeing.

  He turned in the bed, touching her face with his hand, then his lips. “I’ll go all the way,” he said.

  She grinned. “Again?”

  He had to laugh. “I’m old, remember? Twice in a night is too much for this old warhorse.”

  “Let’s test that theory,” Sarah said, moving to cover his body more fully with her own. He watched her face cloud for a moment again, the seriousness return. “Jim. We do what we have to in order to survive. That’s the rule of nature. Until we have survival, we can’t have civilization.”

  “If this is foreplay, it’s not working.”

  “You get foreplay in a second. For now, listen to me.” She lowered her head, her nose touching his, eyes locked on his own. “We’re going to make it, hon. We’ll make it.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You should. I’m a cop, I’m honest and trustworthy and my word is my bond.”

  “Less word, please. More bond.”

  “Thought you were too old.”

  “I’m feeling younger every second.”

  “Is that what you’re feeling?”

  “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

  Her brow creased in mock concentration, and he felt her move gently against him. “In that case, Commissioner, I think further investigation is in order.”

  “Carry on, Lieutenant,” Gordon said.

  “Love you, cop boy.”

  “Love you, too, shamus.”

  ORACLE

  PERSONAL

  Entry #304—No Man’s Land, Day 101

  1020 Zulu

  Dear Dad—

  No one knows which side started it.

  Woke up three days ago, suddenly the war was on. Demonz versus LoBoys.

  My Eyes tell me it’s bloody. They tell me it’s personal, that on the ground, the “civilian” know enough to stay out of the way, behind their closed doors and hidden in their shelters. On the street, the gangs roam, armed and angry, looking for another fight.

  The body count is unknown. I expect it’s pretty high. Without medical facilities and care, casualties turn to fatalities as a matter of course. The LoBoys on the street below have taken to burning their dead, pretending it’s the bodies of their mortal enemies, the hated Demonz. Nobody watching buys it.

  Rumor is that the Demonz are doing the exact same thing, claiming their own dead as that of the LoBoys.

  What I’m finding fascinating—and you’ll forgive the academic in me rearing its head here—is the way the propaganda war has manifested. I doubt anyone on either side could explain their behavior as such, much less define what the word itself means, but they have fallen into the techniques quickly, mastering them at the most basic level.

  For hours yesterday, a group of LoBoys went up and down the street below, explaining how, when the Demonz come, the women will be raped, the children will be raped, and the men will be raped and eaten. The Demonz, we are told, are cannibals, barbarians, monsters. And for that reason, we need the LoBoys.

  They’re here to protect us, after all.

  And, I suppose, in a fashion, they do believe that.

  All the same, it’s failed them. Doors stay shut, windows stay boarded. Only LoBoys have been seen on the streets for the last few days.

  No Man’s Land we may be, but we’re still Gotham, and most of us just don’t want to get involved.

  Cassandra reported this morning that you and your crew are on the move. She drew me a picture of a badge, and then a building. I’m assuming that means you’re headed for Central.

  If that’s true, maybe I’ll see you soon. I hope so. I miss you and Sarah.

  Cassandra also spent fifteen minutes or so scribbling on the scraps of paper, drawing tags and then crossing them out, redrawing different tags. Then she was pointing at the picture of the badge. It took me a while before the neuron fired.

  If I’m understanding what she’s trying to tell me, Dad, I really don’t know what to say. I really don’t know how to respond.

  Hopefully, I’ll have a chance to get the answer from you in person.

  The tally on the bat—tags has grown, now eleven of them, scattered throughout the city. No one has seen the Batman, though, so I really don’t know what to make of the tags at this point. It occurred to me last night as I was failing to sleep that it’s most likely not him at all, but rather a different gang, trying to capitalize on the strength of the symbol, the currency of myth.

  I still haven’t heard from him.

  Is it arrogant of me to think he’d call, that he’d let me know he was here? I don’t think it is, really… I’ve helped him more times than either of us could recall in the past few years. I know that. I’ve been a major source of information for him in the past. I have, quite honestly been part of the team.

  He’d call me, wouldn’t he?

  I was Batgirl, after all. He’d call, he’d let me know he was here.

  But he hasn’t, and I don’t know what that means. I honestly don’t know what to make of that. Maybe he really did leave us here alone, leave Gotham to its misery…

  No, see. I don’t buy that

  So maybe he’s hurt, or even dead.

  But I don’t buy that, either.

  Some nights I look out my window, and I think there is a weight hanging over us all. We’re all waiting for something to happen, for something to change this status quo of one hundred-odd days.

  Then I realize I’m waiting for him.

  He must be here.

  He must.

  SIX

  GARRETT WAS NOT, IN HIS OWN OPINION, a bad person. A criminal, certainly, he’d be the first to admit that. But a bad person, no. He was just a guy using what talents he had to make ends meet, that’s all it was. Before NML, he’d been a thug, a petty bruiser, working for the Lindsey Crew in the Bowery. Steady work, it kept him in beer money, and he could spend his days practicing his pool game and rebuilding his Camaro—a ‘67, blood-red, the kind of car that got him plenty of dates. At nights he’d go where his old boss, Lindsey, sent him. Sometimes Garrett would carry a gun, but more often than not a crowbar or baseball bat would do the trick nicely. Garrett never hit more or harder than he needed to, and he never enjoyed it. He was not, and he was always quick to p
oint this out, one of those Arkham nuts that got off on inflicting damage.

  But that was before. Then 8.4 or 7.8 or however much of Richter’s scale had come to visit Gotham, and that was the end of Lindsey’s Crew, buried under the remnants of the Otis Auto Supply Warehouse, where they had all hung out. When the National Guard finally found them, Garrett was the only one still conscious. Lindsey himself had been alive, but died three days later in a mobile hospital from his injuries.

  For a while after that, especially when the word came down that the ol’ U.S. of A. was pulling Gotham’s plug, Garrett had seriously considered bugging out, maybe even going straight. He had a sister in Metropolis who worked at a diner, and she’d told him the joint was looking for a short order cook, and hell, Garrett could’ve done that.

  He’d actually been packing what was left of his stuff when Fowler came to visit. Fowler, who was so skinny it seemed like the guy was nothing but walking bones. Fowler, who always seemed to know what sort of petty crime needed to be done.

  “The Penguin would like to offer you a job,” Fowler had said.

  Easier than going straight, that’s for sure.

  Working for Penguin was different from working for Lindsey, in that Penguin was smart. Really smart. Had every angle covered, had plans inside of plans. Garrett dug that, and had great respect for Penguin. They were a lot alike, Garrett thought. Not in the brains department or anything like that, but because they each knew what they did best, and didn’t pretend. Garrett, over six foot two and mostly muscle, knew what his assets were. Same could be said of Penguin, with his malformed and squat little body. Penguin needed Garrett’s muscle for busting heads and for other stuff, too.

  “My friend,” Penguin had said to him. “Look at this city and tell me what you see.”

  Garrett prided himself on honesty. “Rubble,” he’d said.

  Penguin had made that strange clucking noise he sometimes did, the one Garrett began to realize was like a chuckle. “Opportunity, my friend, opportunity. For when the federal government in its glorious short-sightedness calls an end to Gotham City as we know it, we will be the first pioneers of a brave new world. Gotham shall be our oyster.”