Read Online Deadeye by William C. Dietz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William C. Dietz
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a seat on the throne.
The fatigue seemed to melt away as the vapor entered Popeyeâs lungs. Then his thoughts began to quicken. Another fucking mutant was in town. A subhuman piece of shit who wanted to buy parts, take them into the red zone, and sell them to freaks. So the deal was a two-fer . . . Meaning a chance to whack a mutie
and
score some scratch. Gold, preferably, so he could buy tweak at a discount. That would make Gina happy, and everything would be jam. Popeye laughed. Life was good.
After inhaling his breakfast and donning a new set of dirty clothes, Popeye placed a series of phone calls. Then he made his way out into the filthy hallway and turned to lock the door behind him. After descending three flights of stairs, Popeye paused to peer out through a filthy window. Everything appeared to be okay, so he readied the long-barreled pistol and stepped out through the door. Nobody shot him. And that was a good thing. The cool morning air was only slightly tainted by the stink associated with a nearby Dumpster.
After restoring the pistol to its shoulder holster, Popeye placed a pair of wraparound shades over his eyes as he crossed the parking lot. It was home to three beaters and a couple of bikes. But the star of the show was crouched in one of the semiprotected end slots. Stella had been a â36 Caddy once. Well, most of her had, back before a previous owner wrecked her.
Then an enterprising fabricante married the original vehicle to a â34 Buick and threw in some personal touches as well. The result was the sleek, low-riding bitch that Popeye called Stella. She was, along with Gina, everything that he had in the world and therefore precious to him. That was why the lady was dressed in gray. Not because he couldnât come up with enough scratch for some shineâbut because a fancy paint job was bound to attract trouble.
While at rest, Stellaâs curvaceous body came down over her expensive wheels to touch the ground. Not only was that a cool lookâit made Stella very difficult to steal. Popeye removed a remote from his pocket and thumbed a button.
Hydraulics whined as the car rose, a spoiler appeared, and the lights blinked. Popeye never got tired of slipping in behind Stellaâs steering wheel, turning the key, and hearing the huge V-8 rumble into life. Feeding the bitch was almost as expensive as âfeedingâ Gina but worth every penny. And, thanks to Californiaâs offshore oil wells, the citizens of Pacifica would be using internal combustion engines for a long time to come.
After making his way onto I-5, Popeye followed the freeway north to Glendale and the LA Zoo. The instructions to the mutie were simple. She was to meet him out front of the main gate at twelve noon. He wasnât interested in any of that nighttime shit, when it was impossible to see who or what was hiding in the bushes.
Then, once he was close enough, Popeye would cap the freak and take her scratch. With that accomplished, it would be back to the city, score some crank, and party with Gina. While he drove, Popeye was listening to a premix of the single his band was going to release in a week or so. It was a solid rap titled âMutant Massacre.â He was chanting the lyrics as he left the freeway and made his way onto Zoo Drive. Except that it wasnât a zoo anymore and hadnât been since 2039, when some of the animals contracted the plague, word got out, and a mob took the place apart. Elephants, zebras, you name it. The cits killed
everything
, including seven staff members. And that, to Popeyeâs way of thinking, was the best way to deal with mutants.
After pulling onto the outer edge of a vast parking lot, Popeye stopped and put Stella in PARK . Then he opened the door and got out. It was necessary to remove the sunglasses in order to use the binoculars. As Popeye panned from left to right, he saw a burned-out car, a pile of rubble from some construction site, and an
The fatigue seemed to melt away as the vapor entered Popeyeâs lungs. Then his thoughts began to quicken. Another fucking mutant was in town. A subhuman piece of shit who wanted to buy parts, take them into the red zone, and sell them to freaks. So the deal was a two-fer . . . Meaning a chance to whack a mutie
and
score some scratch. Gold, preferably, so he could buy tweak at a discount. That would make Gina happy, and everything would be jam. Popeye laughed. Life was good.
After inhaling his breakfast and donning a new set of dirty clothes, Popeye placed a series of phone calls. Then he made his way out into the filthy hallway and turned to lock the door behind him. After descending three flights of stairs, Popeye paused to peer out through a filthy window. Everything appeared to be okay, so he readied the long-barreled pistol and stepped out through the door. Nobody shot him. And that was a good thing. The cool morning air was only slightly tainted by the stink associated with a nearby Dumpster.
After restoring the pistol to its shoulder holster, Popeye placed a pair of wraparound shades over his eyes as he crossed the parking lot. It was home to three beaters and a couple of bikes. But the star of the show was crouched in one of the semiprotected end slots. Stella had been a â36 Caddy once. Well, most of her had, back before a previous owner wrecked her.
Then an enterprising fabricante married the original vehicle to a â34 Buick and threw in some personal touches as well. The result was the sleek, low-riding bitch that Popeye called Stella. She was, along with Gina, everything that he had in the world and therefore precious to him. That was why the lady was dressed in gray. Not because he couldnât come up with enough scratch for some shineâbut because a fancy paint job was bound to attract trouble.
While at rest, Stellaâs curvaceous body came down over her expensive wheels to touch the ground. Not only was that a cool lookâit made Stella very difficult to steal. Popeye removed a remote from his pocket and thumbed a button.
Hydraulics whined as the car rose, a spoiler appeared, and the lights blinked. Popeye never got tired of slipping in behind Stellaâs steering wheel, turning the key, and hearing the huge V-8 rumble into life. Feeding the bitch was almost as expensive as âfeedingâ Gina but worth every penny. And, thanks to Californiaâs offshore oil wells, the citizens of Pacifica would be using internal combustion engines for a long time to come.
After making his way onto I-5, Popeye followed the freeway north to Glendale and the LA Zoo. The instructions to the mutie were simple. She was to meet him out front of the main gate at twelve noon. He wasnât interested in any of that nighttime shit, when it was impossible to see who or what was hiding in the bushes.
Then, once he was close enough, Popeye would cap the freak and take her scratch. With that accomplished, it would be back to the city, score some crank, and party with Gina. While he drove, Popeye was listening to a premix of the single his band was going to release in a week or so. It was a solid rap titled âMutant Massacre.â He was chanting the lyrics as he left the freeway and made his way onto Zoo Drive. Except that it wasnât a zoo anymore and hadnât been since 2039, when some of the animals contracted the plague, word got out, and a mob took the place apart. Elephants, zebras, you name it. The cits killed
everything
, including seven staff members. And that, to Popeyeâs way of thinking, was the best way to deal with mutants.
After pulling onto the outer edge of a vast parking lot, Popeye stopped and put Stella in PARK . Then he opened the door and got out. It was necessary to remove the sunglasses in order to use the binoculars. As Popeye panned from left to right, he saw a burned-out car, a pile of rubble from some construction site, and an
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