Read Online The Eternal Prison by Jeff Somers - Free Book Online

taunting the ex-cop, circling around like a moon caught in the black man’s orbit, but he was keeping his hands down and back a little. I saw the glint again and struggled to my feet, my bad leg reluctant to move. I plucked the cigarette from my mouth and walked in my uneven roll toward the scrum, trying to will some life back into the leg, some flexibility. The longhair kept circling and shouting abuse, a fucking punk, trying to look tough but afraid to lean in and start it off unless he saw an opening for him to use the shiv. The crowd got louder as I got closer, and when I reached its outer perimeter, I took one last deep drag off the cigarette and tossed it aside, grabbing two shoulders in my hands and pushing my way through.
     
As I stepped into the empty space around the two men, the crowd noise died off, collapsing into a low murmur and then whipped away by the dry wind. The sun was like a lamp held over my head, an inch away, burning a circle onto the thin skin of my skull.
     
The punk noticed the silence just as I got to him and half turned as I reached out to grab his arm. He cursed in some language I didn’t understand, all consonants and clearing his throat, and tried to dance back from me. I caught hold of his jumpsuit and yanked, smacking my fist into his stomach as hard as I could and snatching at his wrist as I let go of his suit. His breath exploded out of him with a grunt and he tried to go down to his knees, but I twisted him around—liking the familiar feel of the move, like pieces of me dropping back into place—until his arm was bent back toward me and he was hanging from his wrist. I reached up and took the shiv from his weak grasp, a pretty thing made from a piece of sharpened stone and some dark, coarse fabric.
     
He smelled as bad as I’d expected.
     
I leaned down and put my mouth next to his ear. “You want to fight, you fight,” I said, panting. “You pull a pot sticker like this, you better be sure no one can take it away from you.” I gave his arm a yank, and he screamed, dropping limply to the ground when I released him. I turned, and there was Bartlett, staring down at me. He was fucking enormous. I’d never seen a bigger un-Augmented man in my life.
     
“Thanks,” he said, a grunt of a word, and spat at my feet, just missing my cracked boots.
     
I looked him up and down. Behind him, I could see a fresh trainload of Interesting People being unloaded behind the thick, electrified chain-link fence, including a tall, fragile-looking old woman with white hair cut very close to her pink scalp, her face deeply wrinkled, her eyes tiny, unhappy slits. Her black coat was too heavy and looked expensive, though it had seen some rough treatment on the train. For a second I imagined our eyes met, though at that distance it was impossible to tell, and I thought I recognized her—a face from the Vids. She was ancient and looked like a strong wind would blow her away, but in that instant I had an impression of strength that disturbed me. I wasn’t used to old ladies freaking me out.
     
“Fuck you,” I said to the cop without looking back at him, and stepped around. The crowd didn’t exactly part, but it was easier getting through it the second time. As I walked back to Michaleen, I examined the homemade knife and liked it—it was light and looked lethal, decently balanced, and easy to hide. I slipped it into the big pocket of my jumpsuit and resumed my seat next to the little man. A new combatant had already stepped forward, and Bartlett was beating him to a pulp with brutal, red-eyed efficiency.
     
Michaleen turned to squint at me, his fleshy face folded up into a mask of perplexity that was almost amusing. “That was an odd decision, Mr. Cates,” he said.
     
I shrugged. “He deserves to get killed in a fair fucking fight,” I said, accepting yet another cigarette as it was held out for me. “Besides, I spent years killing cops, and look where it got me.” I ignored the proffered lighter and slid the