DZ-22. The name just stuck. It's been years since Riley Street was reclassified a Critical, CZ-4 to be exact, but we just going on calling it DZ-22. It's a good training field for rookie Runners, so long as they keep at or above street level.
He donned his leathers like another skin. His ceramic helmet slid onto his face, a practised motion. He no longer looked human, but like some black-skinned swamp thing. Down in Abyss we call him 'Orc' for that reason. Orc's been running about three years now, most of his time spent in DZ-22.
Now appropriately kitted up, Orc made his way up the tunnel that leads from Abyss right into the zone. Cops on the wall don't know it's there. They probably think nobody comes here. Makes them slack. Like I said, good for rookies. The manhole cover slides off without a sound and Orc clambers silently up into the gloomy street. That's the way all the Runners do it. At about three in the afternoon, Riley Street is like night. The street-lamps were shut off long ago. The apartment block looms across the road, casting no shadow. What good are shadows in Living Darkness? Orc stole along the road to the empty frames of sliding glass doors, uselessly guarding the way into the block, like smashed spectacles. Inside it's dark. That's about the only adjective necessary for DZ-22, or any other Dark Zone. Orc managed to creep across the field of shattered glass making no sound. Then there was a noise where there should have been silence. Silent is the other word used to describe Dark Zones. Something about the Living Darkness just dumbs out the traffic from the outside world. Anyway, a noise. A panting noise, and Orc sees a dog come padding out of the open reception office door. Dog's probably been here awhile, senses dulled, if it knew Orc was standing there stock-still in the corridor it'd go him. Nothing stays long in a Dark Zone without going nuts. With professional nonchalance Orc slides a silenced pistol out of his coat, points it at the raised sniffering snout and sinks a slug into the beast's Affected brain. Half a whimper and the thing drops. Elevator shaft door is open, it's always open, but standing prone in the corridor Orc sees a shotgun muzzle poke out of the shaft. He backs up against the wall like a mantis. Another Runner climbs out of the shaft.
It's hard to mistake a Runner. Black leather suit, the 'security blanket'. This one has a helmet that elongates around the lower face, protruding and ending in a fat air filter. Gives the whole head the shape of a hog's. Only one Runner wears a kit like that. Runners have no time for imagination, so for the obvious, they call this one 'Pig'.
'Pig?', Orc whispered, 'It's me, Orc'.
Freezing up for a minute in panic, the words sank into Pig's head and he lowered the gun and peered into the gloom. Finally he spots the human silhouette plastered against the plaster. They shake hands.
'What's the latest?', Orc inquired.
'Heard a rumour that a bunch of stragglers boarded themselves up in the boiler room. On my way down to check it out.
'Sounds bad. How you planning on getting in?'
'Had a hunch there'd still be a key up in the Super's room.' Pig retrieved a little ring of keys from a pocket and shook them. They made that sound that a ring of keys do.
Runners don't usually trust each other. In those rare cases that two get along, it's an unspoken thing that they tag along together. In that fashion, Orc tagged along with Pig without a word.
With Pig in the lead, they crept down the corridor to a little stairway, leading down. As quietly as he could, Pig slid the key into the door at the bottom.
The room was empty. 'Looks like your rumour was wrong'.
'Hey wait on,' said Pig, 'Is that a bedroll? Someone's been sleeping down here. And there, more of them. Suitcases too.'
Pig walked over to the far end of the room. Orc swung his torchlight down near his feet and spotted a small pile of clothes, right by the doorframe. Then something caught his eye. A book on the ground.
'Hey Pig, looks like someone's keeping a journal down here'. From the corner of his eye he saw the comforting flashes of Pig's torch, scanning the room.
The book was flipped open to the last entry, dated ten days back.
It began:
It's been nearly two weeks down here. The noises up above have stopped. I think we're the last ones here. People are getting scared of what's happening on the surface. We've pretty much agreed that there's some sort of epidemic. That explains the guys with guns and those white suits. If it is a disease, none of us are sick. We did the right thing coming down here. Food's running low though. Some of the guys think it's safe to go up for supplies. I've been telling them one more day. Miriam took their side. Bitch. I swear one of these days I'm going to put the boot in.
Orc noticed something. There wasn't a sound anywhere in the boiler room. The furnace was dead, probably been dead for a while. Stands to reason. Then it hits him. Pig's light was gone.
'Pig?'
No answer.
There's only one thing a man knows how to do at this time.