The Wake Up Call
Chapter 1.14: Hooked
So there they were, Hetch and the stewardess, standing on the crowded city street. Their minds were oblivious to their smoke filled surroundings of decaying skyscrapers, transport pods, litter and people. Recent events had shook both of their worlds to the very foundations, a disturbing wake-up call and a timely reminder that their lives were finite, a mere blink of an eye and death would greet them with an unforgiving hand. Seeing a life extinguished so easily and without regret caused them both to remain silent as they made their troubled way through the overly crowded streets, dodging transporters and street vendors with each step.
There seemed to be a great number of military troops intermixed with ordinary citizens going about their daily business. Some temporary barricades where being erected in the distance, near the overhead monorail entrances. Also a group of squabbling street kids took it in turns to push each other and wave their arms in random directions. But no-one took any notice of this common event, gangs would congregate near the local tech-houses, cheap food dispensers or around transport terminals in order to hassle the rich passengers.
It took almost fifteen minutes before someone spoke out.
" I'm not walking another step until you tell me where we're going. "
After the fourth or fifth time of hearing this vague threat Hetch finally stopped in his tracks, glanced at his tired travelling companion then pointed across the busy street. There was a small, doughnut shaped neon sign above a long, half-hidden structure sandwiched between a row of huge multi-storey, low rent buildings.
" Don't know about you, but I need some junk food. "
With this he made a zigzag path through the four lanes of slow moving traffic, past the food sellers, scruffy street traders and towards the grubby looking cafe.
She stepped out and was almost got flattened by a scoot-jockey gang who were weaving their customised power bikes between the rows of transporters and crowds of city inhabitants. The tail one in this two wheeled, high-octane gang nearly collided with a military troop vehicle and only just managed to keep his clumsy balance on top of the low slung roadster bike.
" Damn you Mewco, we don't have time to eat! " she screamed in the direction of the cafe door as it rattled back and forth as he let go of the dirty, chrome handle.
The insides of the eating establishment were almost as filthy as the pollution covered outsides. It was the kind of place where even public health inspectors would wipe their feet on the way out. The mixture of people standing at their high tables was wide, unlike their narrow eyes which scanned Hetch inch-by-inch as he looked around the room. Squalid looking fly paper hung from the ceiling over each table and seemed to indicate which tables were used most often, the ones with the greatest number of dead flies stuck to the greasy, brown paper.
The stewardess took a few seconds to spot Hetch standing by a table in the far corner. She was obviously out of place here. The entire audience either wolf-whistled or muttered some obscene comments in her direction, but she ignored them and continued to make her impeded path through the assorted collection of misfits, drop-outs and plain weirdoes who all seemed to want to call her 'Babe' or grab some part of her body.
" This is a really nice flea-pit Mewco. I see you haven't lost any of your nature talent for showing a girl a good time in a classy restaurant. "
The mass of testosterone laden diners slowly went back to their repulsive meals and equally repulsive conversations about drug deals, mugging, plans of violence or new ways to scam a sucker out of some credits. Dotted around the room where a few games of 'find the lady' and other forms of illegal street gambling.
" Can I ask why we are here? "
But she received no reply from her quiet partner who was looking at the floor and the rusty pipes which criss-crossed it. The chipped black and white tiles made him think of a chessboard, very fitting indeed; they needed to consider their next move very carefully.
" Hello? Is there something on today's menu which appeals to your, 'refined', taste buds? I mean, is their soup of the day good enough to die for? "
A stout looking chef wearing a stained plastic apron walked towards the table, wiped his hands and face on a grubby looking towel and coughed out a question through his beard.
" What you want? "
" What do you recommend? "
she asked, in a mocking way while looking at the large collection of coloured food stains on the chef's clothes.
" What about getting the hell outta my place, before that thing goes off? " he replied, tapped the device on the stewardess' arm and then crossed his huge, hairy arms in an attempt to look more threatening.
" We don't want any trouble. "
The chef stepped so close to her that she could almost count each, individual hair hanging down from his greasy, chubby nose.
Hetch swiped the contents off the small, high table and placed them into his empty pockets.
" Wise move lady. We don't want you in here. "
" Let's go, we're running out of time. "
Hetch slowly turned, glanced at the overweight chef from the corner of his eye and then gave a hard push causing him to stumble back into a group of shady customers standing at the next table.
" Hey, watch it. " complained a couple of the squashed group.
The entire room hushed their illegal whispers and stared towards the corner table. The chef struggled to regain his feet, kicking over well-worn cases, bags and other mysterious containers which the flatten group had left by their feet. He waved his arms and grunted, clearly still out of breath from the sudden fall. The unfortunate diners, who he had landed on, also pulled themselves up from the slippery floor and checked their dubious looking luggage.
" Let's go, before they turn ugly. " begged the stewardess, she correctly guessed that a mob of irate customers and a beefy looking chef waving a rusty meat cleaver wouldn't be much help to either herself or the unusually quiet Mewco.
" I'm gonna rip you a new ass-hole for that! "
The chef launched the weighty blade through the air like a scythe through warm butter.
C-R-A-C-K !
The meat cleaver impaled itself deep into the table, missing Hetch's face by a matter of just a few millimetres. The blade vibrated with tremendous force, and so did the chef's arm which was still attached to the badly repaired handle. Hetch looked up to see his female guest jump back in terror at this guillotine-like attack on the tall, mass-produced table.
" That was a dumb move... even for you, fatso. "
The whispered name of 'Mewco' was then overheard by the chef as his sleazy customers began to spread this rumour around the room. The name was widely known through the city, especially the dark underbelly of the criminal society. Like with all the infamous low-life, it sometimes took a few seconds of violent, or at least the threat of it, to help jog people's memories.
The Chef's mood quickly changed and all anger was soon dispelled by the following event.
B-E-E-P
One of the three orange lights burnt out on Hetch's arm band. Now only two remained lit. This unexpected event caused him to exchange a surprised look with his female guest. She looked at her own arm band device, still three lights showing. The sound from Hetch's arm band together with him being recognised as Mewco was more than enough to make the assembled customers rush for the door, to escape from these two ticking time-bombs into the hectic streets outside.
" Do you intend to just stand there and wait? " she asked in an impatient tone.
Hetch nodded his head.
Meanwhile the chef was back behind the counter, grabbing everything valuable (and which wasn't chained to a table) and stuffing it madly into an old, torn army kit bag and into the deep pockets of his equally tatty looking coat.
" Are you going to tell me your plan? "
" Not yet. I need to go take a leak. " he replied, walked to the bar, took a mouthful of whiskey, a fist full of loose credits then headed towards the gloomy corridor leading to the restrooms.
" Terrific! " she exclaimed.
" Damn you Mewco. I don't share your death wish, find another eating companion. "
Hetch paused in his tracks, pointed to the rotating advertisement column and threw one of the metal credits towards the stewardess.
" Contact Kurane or Monkfish on the vid-com and tell them to meet us on the Destiny bridge near the 58th junction. "
" And how do I contact them? Look in the A-Z of city scum? " she snapped, angry at being treated like a secretary.
" Look under Erotic Holo-flicks, Data couriers or Tek. Emporium Supplies. Oh, and check out Risus. "
" I hope he is some kind of bomb-disposal expert. "
" No... " yelled Hetch, pushing the Men's restroom door open in the distance.
" SHE is a pest control expert. "
" Good... " sighed the stewardess, looking at the rotating advert column. Its cheap liquid display pulsing irregularly as its power supply fluctuated widely with each large transport carrier that passed overhead on the old monorail supports.
" Maybe she will do us all a favour and eradicate you Mewco. "
The sights, sounds and smells from the men's toilets were truly disgusting. Leaking pipes seemed the only method used to clean the foul mess off the floors, the constant drips together with a very tired sounding ventilation system made the air almost breathable. Beetles and rats scurried between the dark shadows created by the overhanging neon tube light as it swung back and forth from the corroded ceiling metalwork covered in dust, spider's webs and a small collection of lost articles of clothing. Flies gathered over the trash cans, hovering like a crowd of hyperactive fishermen casting their lines into a foul pond of rubbish and stale liquid. The cracked mirrors on the walls only served to cover the vast holes in the crumbling artificial brick walls and to prevent the odd brick from falling onto some poor visitor at the brown stained wash basins and broken taps below them.
" Geez, I would guess they could do with a new cleaner. " thought Hetch.
From outside the door he heard some faint cries of agony, like someone was either in pain, or had just been ambushed by a gang and was only now waking up. Hetch exited the men's room and looked down the dark corridor to see the stewardess facing the vid-com screen, pressing a number of direction buttons and talking. No, it wasn't her. So where was the sound coming from?
The chef popped his head out of the kitchen service hatch, hurled some verbal abuse towards her, saw Hetch then ducked back behind the solid metal hatch doors fearful that he would be hit by something or someone.
" Arrgghhh. "
There it was again, a muffled cry of pain. It was coming from the women's restroom. Hetch placed his ear next to the door and listened, before he walked in and looked around. It seemed to be coming from the last cubical stall whose door was slightly open. A pair of feet, half covered in worn out shoes, occasionally flicked out like a snake's tongue. He approached slowly and carefully.
There in the stall on the floor, shivering like a reptile in a freezer, was a pathetic looking woman aged about 20, but looking more than 10 years older. Her clothes were no more than rags kept together with string, metal staples and a few crudely sewn stitches made out of plastic and wire. Her exposed arms and stomach splattered with the tell-tale black and blues mark of heavy drug abuse and regular beatings. Down the side of her face was a nasty mark tinted with the red liquid of a very recent knife cut. Her body was twisted out of shape and lying around the cold metal toilet bowl like a blob of modelling clay accidentally thrown off a pot maker's wheel. But her current appearance and state of health wasn't an accident.
" Leave me alone. " sobbed the poor creature, causing a few drops of blood to tumbled from her cut lips onto the back of her hand.
There was a loud tap on wood, a moment of silence then the stewardess entered the women's restroom and saw Hetch attempting to drag the badly beaten woman out of the cubical stall.
" Don't just stand there, help me! "
She did as Hetch ordered and managed to get her standing next to the slightly cleaner women's wash basin.
" I'm fine. I just need a few credits to buy a drink of something. " said the woman, before expelled a mouth full of blood and semi-digested junk food.
" I hope this isn't one of your previous dates " the stewardess said while washing the face of the woman with cold water.
" Thank you. You want money? Here take it all.. "
The woman reached into her pocket, and dragged out a collection of out of date credits cards and mostly worthless coins which fell in all directions across the floor. She dropped onto her knees and frantically tried to gather them up all, but the bruises on her hands, legs, feet and face made this almost impossible. Another wave of blood flowed from her face.
" She looks like a narco, who is she? "
" Her name is Janice. Help me get her out of here while we wait for some transport to arrive. You DID tell them the bridge, right? "
" No, one address was obsolete and the others were vid-recordings. "
" Okay, let's get her outside. "
The really bad areas of the city were plagued by 'narcos' (drug users exploited by other people for every single credit possible). The people controlling them didn't really need to do that much, except show up every so often, hand out some free samples of drugs and tell them which vice or crime to commit. A far better term for them would be 'zombies', the walking dead of the city. Being at the very bottom of society meant that their pathetic lives weren't worth much, but there was always some other lower life form wanting to squeeze a few more drops of sweat and blood from these poor creatures.
By comparison, Mewco was a true gentlemen. He knew the worth of a life and how much more you could charge if 'the cargo was in good working order'. Sure, he dabbled in drugs, sold and bought people and smuggled weapons, but even he had limits. It was bad business to use junkies and narcos when a clean, high class prostitute could rake in five to ten times more credits for a single night.
The stewardess and Hetch managed to carry her into the main cafe room and lay her down on a long, circle-shaped seat near the bar. The chef took another look around through the food hatch before pulling his head back in and locking the hatch behind it. The woman coughed up some more blood, sighed in pain then rolled about in an attempt to make herself more comfortable.
Hetch was standing at the metal cage which protected the windows from 'smash and grab' robbers, not that the cafe had anything worth stealing. The stewardess slowly walked up behind him, glanced at his arm band then stood beside him near the window looking out.
" Who is she? "
" What do you mean? "
" I mean I know you too well. You're not the kind of good Samaritan who helps every narco he meets. Who is she Mewco? "
But her question went unanswered.
" Perhaps some hooker in one of your slimy clubs? Someone you gave too many drugs to? or one of your ex-partners who you want to forget? "
She only received a sharp look of hate in reply to all these questions. 'Could it be true', she thought, 'does Mewco actually have a soul, a heart after all? or is there another reason for helping this poor woman?'.
" I'll tell you some day. "
Outside the city continued on its daily ritual of stampedes, seen and unseen crime and the occasional road accident. People rushed amongst the taxi pods while scoot-jockeys wove deadly courses through the chaotic streets, litter filled back alleys and down the walkways terrifying the crowds with near-misses between power bikes and themselves. A few small groups of military troops could be seen walking up and the street questioning people at random and searching any dark place large enough to hide someone.
On the face of it, it looked bleak. The growing number of troops backed up with vast cargo pods of hardware made it look like civil war was about to break out, or some kind of curfew or city wide crackdown was approaching over the smog-filled horizon. If it did, then moving around the city would be close to impossible. The recent bombing attacks and civil unrest made this nightmarish vision all the more likely. The net was closing in around them and they knew time and luck were against them. They hoped the armed forces outside were after some bigger fish.
"At least I don't have to carry around that damn case", thought Hetch, "anyone with a suspicious looking cargo was doomed to be stopped and questioned".
Through the grime covered side window the stewardess spotted five or six troops search a street trader's mobile stall by tearing it apart with the butts of their rifles and kicking what remained with their army boots. The terrified trader pleaded on his knees while one interrogated him by holding the scruff of his neck, shaking him every so often to make sure he was still paying attention.
" We have to go, now! "
One of the group then looked down the stone steps on the opposite corner of the street and pointed towards the cafe. It was plainly clear what had caught his eye, and it wasn't the half-price meals or the charming conversation from the chef. The stewardess grew more agitated and quickly stepped away from the troop's line of sight, but it was too late, the rest of the 'tooled-up' group were already making their way down the steps and towards the cafe.
To be continued...