BACKTRACKER by Milo Fowler (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

He didn't know who lived on this side of the building. He barelyknew who the tenants were around his own unit. Once or twice he thought he'drecognized a couple of them as they passed him in the stairwell, but he wasn'tsure. Everybody in HellTown looked the same. Grey skin, burdened shoulders,eyes that hadn't seen sunlight in far too long. Link-addicted zombies, most ofthem.

He knocked again. This time, he added, "I'm from 806."He didn't know what else to say.

Cup of sugar? No. I'm looking for the deadfather of a boy I've kidnapped. Right. That would go over real well.

He looked across the hall at the opposite door. He stepped aroundthe slick shoe prints and knocked twice, hoping someone inside would summonwhatever remained of their humanity to chance a face-to-face with a stranger.He glanced down at his holster. Maybe he should have taken it off.

He looked up the hall at the next set of doors. Their vidcamswouldn't have the right angle for what he needed. What did he expect to see?The boy's father shuffling along, then disappearing into thin air?

Maybe I should just go back, run the kid'sface through another citizen search.

The cult members were probably gone by now. He could make thatmidnight sandwich, maybe two.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wronghere. He'd felt it before—often enough not to ignore it. In his line of work,he knew better.

That was then. Things were different now. He was invisible, and heliked it that way. The world didn't need him to save it anymore. Even if itdid, he was out of commission. Why couldn't he just sit back and enjoy hisearly retirement? Forget all those pasts. Forget what theyhad done to him.

He raised his fist to knock again when the door clicked and slidopen half a meter.

"Hey-uh..." His voice trailed off.

The jittery light from the hall barely penetrated the darknessinside. It was like a black hole, sucking in all light but not reflectinganything. The smell was rank, as if nobody had lived here for a while but hadleft it a mess. Or—worse—something haddied.

Little fingers crawled around the edge of the door. Thefingernails were long and unkempt. A small face emerged to stare up at him withsagging eyes, dark behind the tangled mess of black hair. She looked close totwelve years old, but hecouldn't be sure.

"Hey." He tucked the gun into the back of his pants."Your parents home?"

Her eyes betrayed nothing. They just opened into space and aimedthemselves up at his. She looked like a zombie, but that wasn't possible. Shewas too young to have a plug of her own.

"You all alone here?" He hoped not. There was nothingright about leaving a kid in a place that smelled this bad. "I need tocheck your vidcam. I'm...running routine maintenance. Landlord's orders."

She didn't move. He wondered if she could understand him. But itdidn't matter. The door was open, and he knew what he had to do. So he steppedin, pushing the door aside with the little fingers still attached. Shestaggered sideways but didn't make a sound. He had to act fast and get out. The lastthing he needed was any trouble. He had plenty enough as it was.

The pads below the vidscreen were illuminated faintly, like in hisown unit. This one wouldn't recognize his voiceprint, so he manually tapped inthe code the police used to override the system and load the files by timeindex, everything from five minutes ago until now. The boy's father—or whoeverit was that left those tracks in the hall—would have to be on record.

He could feel the girl watching him, probably wondering what hewas doing. He glanced at her, and the same vacant stare met him without a hintof curiosity.

He looked back at the screen. The hall had beenempty four minutes and fifty-five seconds ago. The digits blinked forward atthe bottom of the vidscreen. The image was hazy at best, but he'd be able tosee what he needed to.

Why? What will it prove?

Something within him wanted the wet figure to be the boy's father,wanted him to be alive again. Forget solving the mystery of that vanishing act; he justwanted the kid to have his father back.

Then I won't have to worry about him. Was that the real reason?

He remembered what he'd seen from across the street—right beforethe kid had tried to charge into oncoming traffic. Two mandroids and oneunfortunate victim. But before that, there had been a tuxedo under an umbrella.Almost hidden, he'd spoken as if he wanted something from the kid's father. Hedidn't get it, so the mandroids did his dirty work and left the bloody pieces to rot.

Or did they?

The white digits blinked past four minutes ago. That's when ashadow appeared at the right edge of the screen.

Muldoon leaned in for a closer look, not that it helped any. Thepicture quality was bad, too fuzzy. But he saw the man—wet, bedraggled,shuffling along in a hurry, glancing over his shoulder.

He knew I'd seen him?

The old man stopped where the tracks ended in the hall outside andran a hand through his sodden hair. Agitated. He glanced up at the vidcam andblinked, his unshaven face sagging with the realization that he was on camera.He didn't look away. He stared at the lens, resigned to the fact that someonewould be watching. He reached into his coat pocket.

He wasn't wearing a coat when the mandroids—

The old man turned away, hunching his shoulders over something inhis hand. It flickered white light,and the air rippled before him, like a pool of waterreflecting everything around it. Then he disappeared, stepping into that rippleand vanishing from sight.

Muldoon caught his breath.

What the...?

A low groan came from behind him. Muldoon reeled, grabbing for hisgun. The darkness was less complete now, and he could make out the forms of twofigures seated on the couch, sagging into the floor against the far wall. Theystared into space, the light from the hall glinting in their wide, cloudy eyes.Heads tilted at odd angles, they sat still with their fingers twitchingintermittently down at their sides.

Zombies. They might have