finger on the body's neck. Micro-sensors in his gauntlet relayed the message to a small readout in his helmet that there was no pulse. Hardly surprising, given the state of the creep's chest. There was nothing left in there capable of producing one.
Dredd pulled the dormant Meatgun from the nerveless fingers and set it aside and out of the way against a girder. He cast around, looking for a way down to the trading platform below, and found none.
"Control?" he said. "The situation's under control. Have Tactical Response pick me up in the Manta when it comes. There's no way down."
He thought about this for a moment, looking around himself again. "There's something odd about this," he told Control.
"What's odd about it, Dredd?" asked the voice of Control. "The guy was committing suicide by Judge - he wasn't expecting to come down. Not in one piece, anyway."
"Yeah, but I can't see any easy way he could have got up here in the first place," said Dredd. "Not without access to a flier - and something like that should have been picked up any number of ways. I had to do something... noticeable... to get up here myself."
He looked down at the body again. "This creep is supposed to have managed to do it bare-handed and toting a Screaming Meatgun. I don't think so. I think someone actively placed him here. Have somebody check it out."
"Will do," said the voice of Control. "The Manta should be on the scene in two minutes, give or take. Message for you from the Chief Judge, by the way. You're pulled off regular patrol as of now and she wants you to meet with her ASAP."
Dredd frowned. "Any idea what it's about?"
"On the skinny it just says a 'sensitive and diplomatic matter'," said the voice of Control. "Bit of a stretch for you, there, Dredd, on a couple of counts."
Down below, a number of private-sector med-teams had made the scene. They'd have maybe a couple of minutes before the Justice Department Med-Division arrived, so they'd be making the best of them.
At least they'd leave the survivors alone, Dredd thought. A recent zero tolerance programme of punitive measures had put paid to that, but any number of bodies were going to be spirited swiftly away.
A number of those who could afford it were going to receive transplanted and untraceable body parts, and soon there would be a few more Screaming Meatguns on the street.
Fortunately for those who might care, the Tactical Response Manta finally arrived. It fired a couple of tracer-rounds and the private-sector meds took off like a pack of startled jackals.
The Manta banked in the air and headed towards Dredd, working its way up through the Cantilever City substructure.
"Here comes your ride, Dredd," the voice of Control said.
"Yeah," said Dredd. "Nice of them to finally turn up."
"Hey, you're the point-man. That's the point of street-patrol. Something happens, you go in and then you tell us what you need."
A number of responses crossed Dredd's mind, largely concerned with the subject of eggs, issued to grandmothers for the sucking of, but he never got the chance to speak, because it was at that point that the body of Leon Gregor Sturlek reached out and clutched at him with a crabbed hand.
"Drokk!" Dredd was caught completely off balance. Grud alone knew there were ways these days that a body could live on in some form after apparent physical death, but there had been no sense whatsoever that this creep Sturlek was still alive and any kind of threat.
There was still no sense of something living. No sense of possession, of the sort that had once caused so many problems to Mega-City One at the hands of the dead-raiser, Sabbat. And yet the body was still, for some strange reason, managing to move.
Dredd stumbled and recovered. The clutching hand fell away from him as though, having achieved its purpose, clutching was no longer necessary.
The body of Sturlek hung slumped and silent, dead as it had been.
Then the head jerked up again.
The chest and lungs hitched and
Dredd pulled the dormant Meatgun from the nerveless fingers and set it aside and out of the way against a girder. He cast around, looking for a way down to the trading platform below, and found none.
"Control?" he said. "The situation's under control. Have Tactical Response pick me up in the Manta when it comes. There's no way down."
He thought about this for a moment, looking around himself again. "There's something odd about this," he told Control.
"What's odd about it, Dredd?" asked the voice of Control. "The guy was committing suicide by Judge - he wasn't expecting to come down. Not in one piece, anyway."
"Yeah, but I can't see any easy way he could have got up here in the first place," said Dredd. "Not without access to a flier - and something like that should have been picked up any number of ways. I had to do something... noticeable... to get up here myself."
He looked down at the body again. "This creep is supposed to have managed to do it bare-handed and toting a Screaming Meatgun. I don't think so. I think someone actively placed him here. Have somebody check it out."
"Will do," said the voice of Control. "The Manta should be on the scene in two minutes, give or take. Message for you from the Chief Judge, by the way. You're pulled off regular patrol as of now and she wants you to meet with her ASAP."
Dredd frowned. "Any idea what it's about?"
"On the skinny it just says a 'sensitive and diplomatic matter'," said the voice of Control. "Bit of a stretch for you, there, Dredd, on a couple of counts."
Down below, a number of private-sector med-teams had made the scene. They'd have maybe a couple of minutes before the Justice Department Med-Division arrived, so they'd be making the best of them.
At least they'd leave the survivors alone, Dredd thought. A recent zero tolerance programme of punitive measures had put paid to that, but any number of bodies were going to be spirited swiftly away.
A number of those who could afford it were going to receive transplanted and untraceable body parts, and soon there would be a few more Screaming Meatguns on the street.
Fortunately for those who might care, the Tactical Response Manta finally arrived. It fired a couple of tracer-rounds and the private-sector meds took off like a pack of startled jackals.
The Manta banked in the air and headed towards Dredd, working its way up through the Cantilever City substructure.
"Here comes your ride, Dredd," the voice of Control said.
"Yeah," said Dredd. "Nice of them to finally turn up."
"Hey, you're the point-man. That's the point of street-patrol. Something happens, you go in and then you tell us what you need."
A number of responses crossed Dredd's mind, largely concerned with the subject of eggs, issued to grandmothers for the sucking of, but he never got the chance to speak, because it was at that point that the body of Leon Gregor Sturlek reached out and clutched at him with a crabbed hand.
"Drokk!" Dredd was caught completely off balance. Grud alone knew there were ways these days that a body could live on in some form after apparent physical death, but there had been no sense whatsoever that this creep Sturlek was still alive and any kind of threat.
There was still no sense of something living. No sense of possession, of the sort that had once caused so many problems to Mega-City One at the hands of the dead-raiser, Sabbat. And yet the body was still, for some strange reason, managing to move.
Dredd stumbled and recovered. The clutching hand fell away from him as though, having achieved its purpose, clutching was no longer necessary.
The body of Sturlek hung slumped and silent, dead as it had been.
Then the head jerked up again.
The chest and lungs hitched and
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