Redzone Read Free

mutations. Some were good, but most were bad, and frequently disfiguring.
    Hundreds of thousands of such people were declared communicable, some mistakenly, and herded into hastily organized “recovery” camps. And by all rights, Codicil should have been one of them. But his mutation was internal and would have remained a secret even to him had it not been for some emergency surgery in 2040.
    â€œYou aren’t a carrier, Mr. Codicil,” his doctor told him during a private conversation. “But you
are
a mutant. A third kidney is growing between the others. That shouldn’t cause you any distress, and odds are that you’ll die of something else. But the mutation could be a harbinger of things to come. So examine yourself frequently and seek help if you see unusual changes. In the meantime, I recommend that you keep this condition to yourself. You know what will happen if you don’t.”
    And Codicil
did
know. It hadn’t been long before the “recovery” camps evolved into “relocation” camps—and untold thousands of people were loaded onto trucks and sent east into the states of Idaho, Nevada, and Arizona. The sudden influx of mutants caused the “norms” in those states to flee in the
other
direction. And, so long as they were
B. nosilla
negative, they were allowed to immigrate. A policy that wasn’t as generous as it seemed since the people along the West Coast were going to need workers with a wide variety of skills.
    Meanwhile, other parts of what had been the United States of America were going through a similar sorting process. The result was a patchwork quilt of so-called red zones, where mutants lived, and green zones, which were occupied bynorms. Soon the zones and collections of zones gave birth to nations like Pacifica. It consisted of what had originally been the states of Washington, Oregon, and California.
    During that same period, the Republic of Texas annexed Idaho, Utah, and Arizona, which, based on what Codicil had heard, liked to keep government small and taxes low so that citizens could enjoy their full measure of freedom.
    The phone rang. It was sitting on his dresser, and since his office number was set up to forward to Codicil’s cell phone, chances were that a client was calling. A DUI probably . . . Or a pimp. Either of which would be boring. He picked up the phone. “This is Marvin Codicil.”
    The voice on the other end of the line was female. “Mr. Codicil? I don’t know if you remember me . . . This is Detective Lee. I could use some help.”
    Codicil walked over to look at the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall of his bedroom. Channel 7 was playing the head-punch video for what? The billionth time? “Yes,” Codicil said, as Zumin hit the ground again. “You could definitely use some help.”
    â€œSo you’ve seen the footage?”
    â€œI think it’s safe to say that everyone in LA has,” Codicil replied dryly.
    â€œYes, I suppose so,” Lee said. Her voice was subdued. “I’m being held at the MDC. Can you get me out of here?”
    â€œOf course I can,” Codicil answered confidently. “First, I’ll try to get you released on your own recognizance. Failing that, I’ll get you out on bail. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut.”
    â€œMaybe I should plead guilty.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” Codicil said condescendingly. “I plan to get you off.”
    â€œBut
how
?” Lee wanted to know. “You’ve seen the tape.”
    â€œHave faith,” Codicil replied. “Punching a reporter in the face was stupid—but the decision to hire me was brilliant. Sit back and relax. I’ll keep you informed.”
    Lee started to say something, but Codicil thumbed the phone off. A boring day wasn’t boring anymore. And for that, the attorney was grateful.
    *   *   *
    In order to