The Wake Up Call (part 1.19)
Chapter 1.19: Reality-check
The metal tunnel texture rubbed against the stewardess' knees like an annoying cheese-grater. The cool, dirty body of that trash can box now seemed like a feather cushion on a bed of soft sand. This was a long way from serving 'stack-packed' meals to hungry shuttle passengers. Except for the unnatural silver colour of the flimsy, foil tops on those tasteless protein parcels, there could be nothing to connect the two in her mind. She wondered if she could ever return to her job as a flight attendant, or be pulled back into her previous life, that one she worked so hard to escape from; from sleazy 'John Doe' characters all attempting to maul her body in one of Mewco's flea-pit night-clubs. The omnipotent shadow of that low life had reclaimed her thoughts once again. She felt like the cheese in a mouse trap waiting to go off at any moment. The rat was approaching like the hand of fate, ready to click its fingers and snap her new life into pieces.
"What have you stopped for?"
She released a breath.
"We still have a long way to go."
No response.
"You can take a rest soon. I promise."
She turned and flopped onto the floor of the cramped tunnel like a rag-doll falling out of a baby's cot. Her legs and arms were pulled up against her chest like a re-coiling spring. It was an act of protection, of cradling herself from the cold, wet draft from the high vent in the cafe wall that greeted her face.
"I don't want this."
"Want what? Your current situation? Those cheap snacks in your pocket?"
She shook her head and scanned the floor of her surroundings.
"Don't want your life?"
She looked at him. Speaking to each eye with a look from her brown eyes.
"So, you've had a bad day at the office."
"Don't mock me."
"Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I like running around the city blocks like a hunted animal?"
She looked down and nursed the cuts on her knees and legs.
"I guess stewardess uniforms aren't the best thing to wear when crawling around ventilation tunnels."
"What do you want?"
"I want what you want. Just to survive. To leave this crappy rat-race, drink clean water, cold beer and not to worry about another cloud burst of acid rain turning my skin into shreds."
"Mewco, an optimist? Dreaming of a better future?" the tone proved to Hetch that she was spent. His words had fell half-heard around her feet thrown away like cheap, artificial Christmas trees in January
"I'm no optimist. I've seen too many things to believe in happy endings. I'm an opportunist. Take what you can and enjoy it while it lasts."
"You're no better than those, those... creeps down there." This was intended to be a reference to the dead scoot-jockeys.
He looked at her blood dashed legs then her long, dark hair. It reminded him of her apartment, those little orange-red flames and flowing black clouds which swept towards him like a brunette curtain over the white skin of kitchen furniture. The thought of her leaning over and waking him up had haunted Hetch long before that fire. That initial vision of a beautiful, young woman had been a trap and an ambush. The pain from his ribs was dull from fatigue and deception. The lies, like the painkillers, had all lost most of their edge. It had to end soon, before it was too late.
"Take this." He handed her the long coat of Mewco.
"Let's get moving. Our time is running out."
He struggled to crawl past her in the tunnel and take the lead. Up ahead like the snarled teeth of a Pit-bull shook the vent bars to the outside. The rumble of speeding, floating barges and small executive shuttles combined themselves together with the deteriorating weather conditions. The wind pelted against the vent like a thrashing serpent spitting wave after wave of venom at the dirty, grey building. Occasional plumes of smoke caught Hetch's attention and face. Their dry, abrasive air darts inflaming his nostrils with a mild burning sensation.
Beyond the narrow slits he could see the city streets and the ghostly trails of abandoned transport lining them. He edged his gaze along both sides of the vent, attempting to spy what was happening. From the restricted view he gained an uneasy glimpse of motionless walkways, of dead bodies and nothing. This wasn't right. There should have been troops barricading themselves behind overturned street vendor barrows or swatting half-hidden from a vantage point ready to release a set of shells through the wet air. He looked back over his shoulder. The stewardess was close behind him, wearing Mewco's long coat like a comfort blanket or a used parachute. It's tough, leather material kept her knees off the cold, dusty metal sides.
There it was. A gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach. The unwelcome idea of a slum-clearance raised its hideous head once again. This could be the only reason for the vacant streets he told himself.
"What is it?"
He took a moment to reply.
"I don't know."
She looked at his arm-band then at her own inside the dark sleeves of the leather trench-coat. It was a great incentive to keep going no matter what. An electronic input to perform superhuman acts in the foolish drive to survive like a whipped horse beaten to carry on until it collapsed from exhaustion.
He tested the strength of the vents with his shoulder. No luck. It was welded keenly on all sides. A few, fruitless kicks to the middle dispelled the slender hope of breaking through. They had to find another route.
"Do we go back?"
"Yeah."
It wasn't long before Hetch noticed a mesh door on the side of the tunnel at the same place the stewardess had slumped down and cradled herself a few minutes earlier. That was why he hadn't noticed it before. It was dark, very dark. Too dark to make out what was on the other side. He pressed his face against the weak mesh. The smell of oil and faint burnt something seeped through it.
"Wait. This isn't part of the cafe."
"How can you tell?"
"It's way too dark to be the entrance and too clean smelling to be a bathroom, even the ladies one."
He kicked out. The mesh buckled, but so did the entire tunnel they were crawling around in. The shock-waves died down and the heavy echo of the impact ran away in all directions. Again he planted a boot into the mesh. This time the tunnel creaked and groaned like an awakened camel, ready to spit them out like a mouth full of desert sand. The supports on the tunnel weren't designed to take this much weight. They began to twist and stretch. To lose their preformed hold on the square tube sides.
"Why don't we just continue back to the kitchen?"
"Where's your spirit of adventure? There could be a stash of jewellery beyond this panel, or a hot, king-size bath."
With both feet pushing hard against the mesh it finally broke free and tumbled into the room below it. Hitting the stone floor and slid to a halt.
"At least we know it isn't much of a drop."
He turned over and fed his legs through the opening. They dangled in mid-air and wriggled about as he inched the rest of his body into the dark void. Hanging upright for a few seconds he felt the top of some boxes on a table just below his toes. After pushing some small objects out of the way he now had a space to drop down and stand on.
The inky colour of the room gave little in the way of detail, just a few dark outlines, a random scattering of rays from leaked light from the outside and little else. The smell of oil, of industrial products and fuel greeted his nose. The stewardess followed nervously. The oversized coat flapped around like clothes in a washing machine as she lowered herself into the room. A piece of bent mesh and a large bolt caught the sleeve of the coat, holding it up like someone asking to be excused for a toilet break.
"Wait, it's caught on something."
Her figure wiggled like the bait on a hook. It was no good. The coat had become a strait-jacket, preventing her from escaping, from climbing down or returning back up into the tunnel. Her legs kicked out in a fruitless attempt to move but this only pushed the coat deeper around the bolt. Hetch looked around; nothing, just a dead screen blackness around him. He needed some light, but feared moving in case there was a nasty drop beyond the end of the table or maybe a rusty bear-trap, ready to bite any intruder.
It had been known for decades that parts of the city had been built on poorly constructed land-fills. Places where numerous manufacturing waste materials had been illegally dumped down older mine shafts in order to push profits that little bit higher. The networks of underground transport were forgotten by most. A series of quakes had seen the end to massive subterranean projects. Toxic waste, leaking sewers, rats and crumbling labyrinths of half-finished tunnels was all that was left of the once grand construction project. Abandoned trains and underground buildings were all imprisoned beneath the city streets, forgotten for decades. In these decaying dungeons of yesterday's city planning hid secret arms caches, booby-trapped HQs of street gangs and the streets kids forced to exist on the thrown away waste of others.
Hetch searched his pockets. The leader's bulky key wallet held a collection of small gizmos, mostly just small bike tools, a few knives, a lock-pick and a melted looking pair of adult miniatures engaged in a sadomasochistic sex act. Hetch recognised the rough wheel of a lighter. On the second flick, the wheel cast a flickering beacon of much needed light. Chrome tools and the edges of heavy machinery shone like bad neon lighting. So it was a secret tool shop. No doubt another illegal enterprise of the murdered, fat chef. A hastily discovered magazine was quickly rolled up into a torch and set alight. The fumes from the plastic coating burnt badly and released a snake of poisonous smoke.
Hetch jumped down and searched around for a safer means of illumination. There in the corner was a mobile generator. Above it a pull-chord switch. The room burst with fluorescent lights. This workshop showed the signs of weapons production and of other, more unpleasant activities.
"Hey, I'm still here you know!" she said, still unable to free herself from the coat or the bolt.
Hetch glanced at her then tore down huge notice board filled with photographs and used underwear which was pinned to it like a series of sick trophies. His guts turned over. His eyes explored further around the room and latched onto the messy camp bed underneath a metal cabinet on the wall. Throwing the blankets over the notice boards lying in the corner he returned to his hanging companion. Her only free arm fumbled inside the coat and tried to pull out the pocket knife. She lost her grip when removing it from a protective, leather cover and it dropped onto the bench with a painful bang. Hetch picked it up, opened the blade and climbed back onto the table. Holding the knife in one hand he constructed a tower of boxes and crates. His out-stretched arm pushed against hers, directing it towards the coat sleeve.
"RIP..."
The end of the sleeve parted with the twisted bolt and metal of the ventilation tube. She dropped down onto the table catching herself against the pile of boxes.
"You okay?"
"Fine. Just another bad day at the office."
After dusting herself down she glanced around the room. It was a sparse workshop filled with power-tools, gun parts, some heavy machinery, generators and a covered pile in the corner. The corner of the notice board stuck out from under the blankets like a badly damaged tent. Something a street kid might construct to shelter from a sudden down pour of burning rain. She felt an uneasy need to tear this pile of rags open and discover what was inside.
"Try the door over there."
She walked past the half hidden notice boards but her eyes stood still on that spiky bundle. There was a temptation to lift the messy covers and peer inside to satisfy her own curiosity.
Hetch headed straight for the largest, most well protected locker. He had a gut feeling that it would be home to the best booty.
"Its locked."
"Try these." he said, throwing the leather wallet.
He edged around her and watched as she chose the lock-pick from the collection of gadgets, knives and keys. It was all he needed to confirm the nagging voice in the back of his mind.
Pushing a flat, metal bar under the door he started to force open the locker. It creaked and began to fold inwards like an antique rocking chair.
"Its open!"
Hetch cast a violent jerk to the bar. The door was torn from its hinges and flapped against the wall like an injured crow ensnared in a net. The padlock jumped about as the broken door re-found its centre of gravity then hung in mid-air like a tight-rope walker's balancing pole. He looked inside. Nothing. Not a God-damn thing!
"B-E-E-P"
A light on the stewardess's armband snuffed itself out. Even though neither of them could see it inside the coat, they both knew another LED had extinguished itself.
They were both submerged in a tide of silence which lasted a full minute. Neither one knowing what to say or do. It was an awkward time filled with anxiety and subdued panic. Their lives were ebbing away, seeping through their fingers like the sea through fine, desert sand. Hope, it seemed, had evaporated in that fleeting moment of time.
"Now?"
"Now we search for Splice."
"That paranoid freak at the McKaff's place?"
He nodded in reply before using the open door and exploring the dark passageway beyond it.
"How?" she shouted after him.
"In the same way you used that lock-pick."
She looked at the leather wallet in her open hand. That small piece of bent metal had betrayed her. Anyone else would have tried the keys first. Cracking the lock so easily was a big mistake. Now Mewco knew that she wasn't the shy, timid creature he had exploited all those years ago. But how much did he suspect? and how much longer could this deception continue? Time like the fading daylight was trickling away, receding like garbage down a street drain.
"Come on!" ordered the distant voice.
"We can get out down here."
She sieved through piles of junk on the nearby desk and uncovered a military revolver. Its serial numbers and other identifying marks had long since been erased. Her hands trembled as she filled the magazine with bullets from an oil stained cardboard boxes. Bullets slipped from her frantic grip and rolled across the bench.
"You hear me?"
She jumped at the sight of Mewco. His figure barely visible behind the door frame. The sweat on his face reflected tiny drops of light. The long sleeve of the coat was slowly pulled down over the revolver, so not to draw his attention to the loaded weapon in her hand.
"Let's find Splice."
"Okay." said Hetch, the puzzled look on his face lasted all the way down to the end of the corridor. Something was wrong, but he couldn't figure what. The sudden eagerness from the stewardess was a warning sign that screamed at him. There it was again, that voice from the back of his mind. It was like watching an in-flight safety video with the sound turned off or a nightmare where you're unable to speak or move.
There was only one way to exorcise this demon; and that was to meet it face-to-face like a head-on car crash.
TO BE CONTINUED...