BZRK: Reloaded (BZRK 2)

Keats sent the text.

He hauled Burnofsky’s suitcase onto his lap and unzipped it. Inside were shirts, underwear, more toiletries and medications than might be expected, an iPad, and a very old-school Xbox. There was also a tin of Altoids that felt too heavy.

“That’s probably a nanobot controller,” Keats said, poking at the wires and game console. “What’s this?” He held up the red-and-white tin.

“I like to have fresh breath,” Burnofsky said tightly.

Something rolled inside the tin. Keats opened it and saw two Duracell batterie

s. He closed the tin again.

Plath turned off the highway and plunged into the city of monuments.

Keats’s phone lit up with a message.

Hold him. Awaiting instructions from Lear. Jin.

Keats absorbed that, wondering what it meant that Nijinsky had to ask for guidance from Lear.

“Let me guess,” Burnofsky said. “The male model kicked it upstairs to Lear.” Burnofsky coughed, swallowed, and shot a wry look at Keats. “Yeah, kid, I know the name. I’ll admit, we don’t know who it belongs to. But yeah, we know about Lear. So melodramatic, don’t you think? The whole noms-de-guerre thing? Taking the names of madmen. Not very British, really, is it? More of a Hollywood thing.”

“Am I meant to be impressed that you know I’m English?” Keats said. “I’ll say this: you have the whole stiff-upper-lip thing down. Very cool under pressure and all that. Let’s see how you feel when you get desperate for your next drink or your next fix.”

Burnofsky’s eyes glittered in the dark. He had swallowed reflexively at the mention of a drink. His coated tongue licked dry lips.

“I’ve known a few junkies, seen a few in my old neighborhood, and God only knows how many drunks,” Keats said. “I know the look.”

Suddenly Burnofsky grabbed for the door handle. Keats let him: Plath had locked it from the driver’s seat.

A police car, siren screaming, tore past.

Plath said, “We need to switch cars. Google ‘how to hot-wire a car.’”

“You’re serious?” Keats demanded. But he Googled it. “I’ve got a YouTube.”

Plath pulled over suddenly and killed the lights. They watched the YouTube. But first they sat through an ad for a new Avengers movie.”

“Looks good,” Keats said.

“Boy movie,” Plath said. “But save your pennies. I’ll get the tools from the trunk.”

“Trunk?” Keats asked.

“The boot,” Burnofsky explained helpfully.

“We’ll need an older car,” Keats said. He scanned down the street. They were in a residential neighborhood. Through the gap between two houses he could see a slice of the Capitol Building, a bright ivory dome.

Plath returned with the tools. “No wire cutter but there was a Swiss Army knife. How about that old Toyota over there?”

It was not as easy as it had been on the YouTube video. But neither was it terribly hard. Ten minutes later, they were in the Toyota, and Burnofsky’s wrists were bound in electrical tape.

The phone chimed. Keats read the message. It was not from Nijinsky.

Pick up “Billy” at 18th and Q NW. Then to Stone Church. Beneath altar.

Keats gave Plath the address. “We’re picking someone up. Then, there’s a church.”

“I wonder who this Billy is.” Plath said. “The survivor?”