The Wake Up Call
Chapter 1.25: Death
The ladder crashed down through the torrid night air and lodged itself like a javelin on the opposite building's fire escape. Hetch flipped upside down and came to a brutal stop on the newly smashed platform. His body crumpled against the wall of the mass produced apartment cubes. Every nerve wanted to cry out in pain, if it wasn't for the lack of oxygen in his lungs from the impact he would have screamed out in agony. His mind spun, his eyes awash with dirty rainwater and his skin torn with the red lines of blood.
This murky world seemed to rotate about him with a fierce will of its own. Walls changed places with floors and the sky stirred in a maelstrom of smoke, rust dust, water and darkness. He could hold back no longer and cast an acidic mouthful of half-digested junk food bars and spent stimulant pill capsules onto the platform. The back of his hand served as a towel, wiping the vomit from his face. At that moment, still desperately clawing for the vertical-hold on his surroundings, he realised he was alone. Through the haze of double vision he scanned the crude bridge. Its buckled frame showed no sign of his female companion. The middle rungs of the ladder seemed to point downwards in a gruesome circle towards the hard, unforgiving concrete street below.
His body drained of life and he collapsed in the corner and nursed his storm filled head in his shaking hands and closed his eyes. The sound of a heavy-duty transporter engine drifted around him, but he wasn't sure whether his confused mind was playing tricks on him, or if some gang members had stolen one in order to provide some form of entertainment for themselves. A popular craze was 'lifting' troop transporters and using them as battering rams against rival gangs or running road blocks in order to fuel their need for illicit substances or human cargo. The thought of being captured and forced to work in one of the countless sweatshop factories flashed into his mind before being replaced with more immediate concerns.
Around him a few, brave individuals stirred from their apartment windows and searched around the alley for the cause of the loud crash. Anywhere else in the city there would be crowds all eager to view a tragic event, but not here. Experience had taught its inhabitants to take cover rather than to investigate and for good reason, disturbances were usually followed by a hail of gunfire, Molotov cocktails or small-scale explosions. Gangs and clan control the blocks. Rule 1: never look out to see who is committing a crime. Rule 2: even if you do see a crime, look the other way and keep your mouth shut.
The guard dogs somewhere below him regained their barking warnings and frantically paced up and down on what sounded like a metal floor. The sounds and drug-laced air of the numerous nightclubs had masked most of the noise so the chance of someone calling the police was remote. At least Hetch had some reason to thank the partygoers. He only wished their expelled air would reach his suffering body, any form of pain relief would have been most welcome. But none was at hand. His only choice was to tough it out and tries to find a safe house or at least a friendly dealer from which he could grab some painkillers to keep him going.
He went to call out her name, but realised that he never knew it. All this time and he hadn't asked. The enormity of the courier job hit him, and hit him hard. He wasn't tough enough or smart enough for this line of work. Perhaps with a few thousand credits, some major biotech enhancements and a bit of luck he could survive, but for now his heart sank. The thought of becoming Mewco or another sad individual whose only waking hours were ones of survival, brutally claiming the next victim before he/she can screw you out of a few credits gave him a Wake Up Call. He wasn't suited for this life and recent events provided this beyond doubt. He remembered the words of the stewardess in the dirty cafe's ventilation tunnel and they seemed to echo his own feelings.
"I don't want this."
Her offer of an escape route had suddenly gained more appeal. Perhaps it was the loss of her that caused this moment of reflection, or maybe everyone in this city wanted out, to escape from their mass produced, soul-less day to day existence and find a better way to live. It was the desire for credits, which kept everyone in this crappy rat race. Everyone thought if they had a few more credits then everything would be euphoric, a pleasure laden paradise of sex, drugs and happiness, but of course the vid channels were saturated with this phoney dream which always dispelled in the sobering daylight.
He still had a whole load of questions and feared that he wouldn't live long enough to hear any of them answered. He wanted and needed someone to trust in, someone to watch his back and to care for him. Mewco warned him to trust no one, but that was impossible; without trust, trade was impossible and so no credits. Hetch thought he could read people, their motives and avoid dangerous situations. Boy, was he wrong! Lies, treachery, greed and violence are the key skills for a courier, each would get you out of a confrontation when a deal goes bad.
He hoped that the end for her was quick. This would, in some small way, help soothe his conscience. The idea of a slow painful death caused by one of his decisions would be too much to bear. The feelings of helplessness and guilt invaded his thoughts. Mewco once remarked, "You can buy everything". "Everything", thought Hetch, "except bring a life back. What use were 1000 credits, 10000 or 10 million? He had lost more than his beautiful companion and double-crossing partner, he had lost his will to continue, perhaps even his will to live.
Those poor, wretched individuals like Janice in the café now seemed more human. He had always rejected their addictions as pathetic attempts at avoiding responsibility, running away from their problems and into a world of impure narcotics and vice. He had never understood their need for escapism, until now, and feared this would be the future laid out for him to follow.
He pulled himself upright and walked down the fire escape as quietly as possible. The injuries from the accident already cried out for urgent medical attention, but higher up on his priority list were the need to find a way out of this part of the city. The rain eased in volume and weight so made the descent down the fire escape a little easier. Finally he was standing on solid ground once again, although his legs could convince him otherwise.
The badly lit street looked imposing. Each corner could conceal a threat, each dark shadow hide a swipe freak and every building a gang of narcos looking for their next victim. It was littered with burnt out vehicles and faded white chalk outlines on the sidewalks. The law enforcement officers and architects must all share responsibility for creating and maintaining this squalid hellhole. It was a place where lives were used in barter, people used and abused like second-hand possessions. Outside no one cared about them and inside this apathy continued.
Finding someone to help Hetch would be out of the question. He was on his own. Ever since that meeting on the shuttle he half-believed this, but secretly knew that she could turn up at any moment, sending his life into chaos once again. Perhaps even help him. Now things were different. A dark cloud hung over him and he felt afraid. The job had got way out of control and with little chance of regaining the case the immediate future looked bleaker than ever. With Mewco dead he had a little breathing room, the chance of claiming his payment was a slim one but the case's customers would perhaps wait a little longer than the agreed deadline. The recent bombings at Rhyson and The 58th Junction along with widespread rioting could offer Hetch a little more time. He just hoped it would be enough.
He cautiously looked around and drifted through the shadows until he came to the end of the alleyway and paused. The thought of leaving without finding out what had happened to her was gnawing away at his conscience. He needed to satisfy his own, ghoulish curiosity. Was he to blame? How much did she suffer? And so they continued. These annoying lines of questioning invaded his every thought, his every movement and painful gasp of breath. The damp, night air drove home the fact that his decision to climb down the ladder had killed her. It was a sobering sentence, which he would carry on for the rest of his life. In previous moments of madness he had thought about her offer, to take the credits and start a new life with her, but now it was all far, far too late.
He had another reason to fear the future, the McKaffs. They would not rest until they had the mysterious contents of that case in their possession. The police, if his luck changed, would cease looking for him after a few years, unlike the McKaffs. A new identity would go some way in removing the police problem, but those three psychotic brothers had a network of criminals, all more than happy to sell their own mothers for another hit of narcotics or a few credits. Getting a new identity would mean tempting fate and using some of their 'customers' to get the correct hologram travel permit. It was more than likely that he would not make it out of an ident transaction alive.
Hetch spotted a subway entrance down the street next to a rundown factory complex. The boarded up window and sealed doors gave him a reason to walk towards it, the thought of a place of safety was a welcomed one. He would take a few moments to examine his injuries and figure out what his next move should be. His eyes scanned each building, each dark alleyway and blackened window searching for some small sign of danger. His heart pounded. At any moment a shot could ring out and terminate his life. After recent events he feared this a little less but his instinct to survive was still alive. There could be little left in life, which could surprise him, so he thought.
The subway lights still operated through layers of graffiti and protective mesh cages. The steps down were covered in slippery waste. Rats scurried around searching for some fresh trash to dig through. The large, stone blocks of cheap synthetic material were scarred by years of machine gun fire and decay. The factory cast an imposing shadow over Hetch's sorry looking silhouette. His muscles ached and their clumsy motion showed this. He paused briefly to take some much-needed air before continuing down the subway steps.
The entrance was locked and it looked like it had been for decades. Giant metal gates blocked his path. Their surface splattered with what looked like human blood, skin and hair. "So much for the easy way out", he thought. Newspapers blew around in the approaching breeze, their black and white print long since erased by the weather. Discarded drug needles and used medical bandages soaked in discoloured blood lay in scattered piles over the subway steps as Hetch made his slow, reluctant way back up them onto the dark street. He would have given all his credits right there and then for a few painkillers.
There it was again, that same low frequency rumble from a troop transporter. It was difficult to tell which direction the sound was coming from. It was obviously searching the area for something or someone. The idea of running into a truck full of troops hadn't much appeal for Hetch but perhaps it was a quick way out. He hid between two large walls, which made up the entrance to the factory and wrapped his arms around himself trying to keep warm. The rain had soaked through every layer of torn clothing and offered little protection from the cold night air. Without both shelter and a few basic medical supplies there was little hope of Hetch making it through the night. A large stone in the wall became a resting place for his head, which he leaned against.
Blood trickled down the wall and the squalid view before him faded from dull, lifeless grey to black.
To be continued...
TAD "