Judge Dredd

THIRTY-THREE

He shut out the fury, turned it aside. Cast a blind eye to the carnage, to the chaos, to the oily smoke from the city’s funeral pyres. A sky-lite bus had hit a barge head on, two-thousand feet above White Quad’s famous Crystal Dome. The explosion rocked the heights of the city. Twisted shards of molten metal, plastic, glass, and body parts ripped through the Dome, tearing, shredding, bringing razor-death to the naked fun-seekers below.

He ran down the alleyway behind Two-thousand-twenty-third Street, Fergie close behind. There were screams from the street, the sound of breaking glass. A looter with dragons tattooed on his face raced by with a holo set.

Now and then he saw Judges. Some of them were holding back the crowds. Some of them were dead. He used all the courage at his command to keep from jumping in to help, to fight beside his friends. He knew he couldn’t do it, that he had to stop Rico if he could. Besides, he was a fugitive. Even men who knew him might kill now.

That hurt. That hurt a lot. Almost as much as watching the people of the city tear his world apart.

Getting into the Hall of Justice wasn’t hard. Every veteran Judge knew how. Fergie didn’t want to come. Stay outside, Dredd told him, go anywhere. Fergie kept quiet after that.

The Judge in the locker room turned, startled. It was clear that he recognized Dredd. Dredd hit him carefully, a point below his neck. The man sagged. Dredd eased him to the ground and began stripping off his uniform. It wouldn’t quite fit, but that was fine.

“Oh, hell, why not?” Fergie rolled his eyes. “What else can they do to me? I’m dead already. They catch me, they can’t kill me twice.”

“Don’t count on it,” Dredd said.