The Wake Up Call
Chapter 1.22: Trust
The pair of them sat there motionless, awe-struck by recent events. The wreck served both as a make-shift bench and as a reminder of how lucky they were to be alive. The crashed yellow taxi pod framed the background like a collosal warning beacon, telling every approaching transporter to avoid them, not that this neighbourhood needed another danger sign. The streets in this part of the city attracted all the criminal elements and vices in the daylight. Now that, that smogg-filled illumination had almost vanished things were likely to deterorate, fast. Street gangs, swipe-freaks, prositutes, pimps and drug-fuelled punks would soon emerge from their shadows, ready to pounce on some unsuspecting tourist or unfortunate citizen. It was truely a dire situation. A neighbourhood where transport would avoid travelling through it for fear of an ambush and where police laughed over the vid-com if called out after sunset.
Crime is rampant here. Outsiders would often disappear on streets like these. Body-parts were often the only visible trace that anyone had ever visited this part of the city. Of course, tracing a missing person would be impossible if no corpse was discovered. Swipe-freaks took the more profitable organs while regilous cults and wanna-be gang members used the left-overs for their ghoulish initiation ceromonies. Everyone knew these facts, but feared to admit them out loud. The fear of retribution and intimidation stalked the streets with almost as much power as the street gangs themselves. Drugs and prime body organs were the regular forms of credit around here. Violence only served as the punctuation marks around an illegal business transaction. Drive-by shootings had been replaced with more directly, brutal attacks. Block wars were a fact of life around here. Their exterior skeletons bore the scars of battle. Smoke, fire damage, dry blood and gun-shot holes were all part of their decor. Drive-by shooting had given way to drive-thru attacks. Transporters were used as battering rams and mobile shields while gangs opened fire behind them before storming into an enemy's block and killing rival gang members.
Grime covered the side-walks, the buildings, the roof-tops and even the souls of the citizens. Their spirits had been broken a long, long time ago. No-one spoke out, not unless invoked by some bad drug-mixer-combo, some impure ingredients or badly cloned implant. Craziness had its own rewards in a place like this. No-one would take your demented threats of violent too seriously. In fact in a place like this, mental uncertainty and a rapid, brutal fondness for violence were highly prized character traits. Violence can lead to a reputation and maybe some, strange form of respect; or maybe enough fear to be left alone. Bars or metal plates covered windows, doors and any other large opening through which an intruder could squeeze through. This fortress mentality had spread into each person's behaviour. Simple questions would often be met with abuse and threats. Getting any form of help without a case full of credits or a pod full of armed gangsters would be, impossible.
"Can't you make yourself useful and call for a cab?"
"Do you think one will stop in a place like this?" he said, scanning the roof-top.
"Well, this one stopped. Didn't it?" she said, tapping the twisted taxi-pod wreckage.
His eyes covered her with a lost expression. Her good looks and obvious misfortune would be a honey-pot to all the low-life vultures circled around them below on the dark city streets. Even if Mewco's disguise was 100% it wouldn't be enough to protect her from whatever, or whoever, would be waiting for them. Some rosy, wishful thoughts invaded his reason once again, and he hated to admit it, but he was glad of their company.
"What next?" her words broke his daydream.
"There must be a way out of this mess."
He searched through the wreckage, looking and hoping to find some magic latern which would produce a Genie, or at least something to signal for help. Hunks of metal and cheap plastic panels were all discarded in favour of a heavy length of pipe.
"That, that, item on the news." she said, pushing the words from her rain washed lips.
"I guess we can rule out visiting The Destiny Bridge any time soon."
"Another bomb?"
He forced the heavy pipe into the tough, metal door lock leading to the stairwell and down from the rooftop, then paused. Someone had pressed the fast-forward button on his mind VCR. The b-word acted as an uneasy trigger. 'She was the only one who knew about the bridge', he thought, 'no doubt, some of her collegues had planted a device there. The vid-link from the cafe. That was it!' he told himself. The bitter taste of betrayal lapped at his feet like a pond full of crocodile tears.
"Do you think someone in the cafe overheard us?"
Hetch pulled and pulled again at the lever. The metal bar cut deep into his fingers, but still he continued to try and force the door open. The games, those damn mind games were knawing away at his reason. Like the bruises on his body and the burn on his side, his thoughts were being erroded by her words. She played the part so well, that he often forgot who she was and what she had done to him before. Anger drew itself as frustrated lines across his face. The thought of being led into yet another trap of her making should have given him new strength, a new reason to fight. It was either to fight or to roll over and take another beating.
"Mewco, I mean... whats your name again?"
"Hetch." he muttered, punching the still locked stairway door and gasping for breath. He turned, looked at her and dropped down to the ground. His red, sore hands gripped his head which was pounding like a cheap vid-com speaker in a nightclub. The thick, solid door had got the better of his aching muscles.
"Hetch?"
"Yes?"
she limped over and knelt down next to him, holding the leather coat above her head.
"Another bad day at the office?"
Her arm touched his shoulder.
He slowly peeled back his shirt to reveal the burn on his side. The black and blue islands surrounded by a pale, grey hue of skin looked as bad as it felt. His body had taken far too many beatings for one lifetime and wanted to quit, to retreat into some hologramic pleasure palace for six months. The cold rain and night breeze gave a few moments of relief on his skin, but soon the pain would return, like her questions.
"What do we do next?" her voice was soft and competed against the worsening weather for his attention.
They sat there sheltering from the rain beneath the long, black coat and looked at the giant, murky fingers of cheap appartment blocks before them. Every direction gave the same, squalid view.
"I'm sorry about the appartment. You know."
He sat there in silence.
"Did they, hurt you much?"
His eyes acknowledged her appology before returning to their cold scan of the cluttered horizon.
"How much time do I have left?"
He sensed her tearful, brown eyes looking at him.
"Is it me, or it starting to get cold? Look, this damn rain is making my eyes run."
Her arms began to shake. Hetch felt his empty stomach turn over.
"Maybe someone will see us down here and stop to help."
"Maybe."
"Hetch?"
"Yeah."
"I don't want to die like this."
"It will be quick, very quick; and painless."
The distant, swirlling sounds of gun fire and alarms caught their attention for a few moments. The inhabitants of the night were beginning to stir from their concrete cribs. Soon a multitude of freaks, jumpers, pimps and shooters would emerge from the twilight like cockroaches under a disturbed rock.
"When it goes off, what will happen?"
"It will all be over. A small explosion like a big grenade."
Her eyes were transfixed on the row of coloured LED lights which covered the armband.
"I'll stick around." he said, placing his arm around her and pulling the long, black coat tightly around them.
"But why?"
"It'll be simpler this way. Without the case I'll end up just another nameless victim of the McKaff's, like Trimble."
"Trimble?"
"The dead skin-head with a hole in the back of his skull."
"Do you ever think of what might of been if things had gone differently?"
"No. I try not to."
"What if you could go back and change things?"
"You mean hit life's 'Undo' button?"
She looked at him, her eyes raced across Hetch's face looking for a reaction.
"You must have made a bad choice in the past, something you would like to erase."
"You mean like working for Mewco?"
"I wish I could go back and warn that silly, young 18 year old that..." Her mouth went dry and the words failed her.
He looked at her. All thoughts of revenge and anger evapourated into the night. She was 'damaged goods'. Mewco or one of his sleazy clients must have really given her a really hard time. From the stories he had heard about these cold, calculating mercenary-like individuals he felt pity on her. The extreme violence and drug-fuelled mentality of their daily lives would often spill into acts of gut-wrenching cruelty and humiliation. He could only guess at what she had been through. His beating in her old appartment by those two thugs now seemed to fade away in comparsion.
"We all make bad choices."
She rested her head against his shoulder. The long, dark hair fell across her face. Her arm pressed against the burn on Hetch's side, but he was too tired to react. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep, maybe then this neverending nightmare would draw to a close.
"You know, if things were different... If..."
"Don't you hate that word?"
"Which?"
"If. Its a pathetic word. Something used to explain away regrets and wasted opportunities. Lifes too short to spend your final moments If-ing it away."
"So you have no regrets?"
"I regret falling asleep on that shuttle. Should have boosted up with a double 'stim' pill. Live for the moment and take what you can."
Her body shifted.
"You're no different from Mewco!"
She stood up, pulled the coat away from Hetch and walked off.
"If you're going to judge me, then lets both end it with clear, consciences. Lets start telling each other the truth."
"What do you mean?"
"Like why did I fall asleep so quickly on the shuttle? Who are you working for? The McKaffs? or yourself?"
she glanced at him, before turning her back and taking a deep breath of cold, night air.
"Its a long story. Things are, complicated."
"I guess we've got less than 10 minutes left."
"It wasn't supposed to end this way."
"You mean the McKaffs double-crossed you?"
"No."
"I don't understand, why take this job?"
"I'm just like you. I want to get out."
"But, don't you make enough credits on the shuttle?"
"Barely enough to get by. I've got 'some' debts to pay off."
"A contract?"
"No. I'm not important enough to kill."
"You owe Mewco?"
she shook her head.
"Its difficult to explain."
"A pimp?"
her body recoiled from Hetch's question, her reply arrived a few seconds later after a measured intake of breath.
"Almost."
Then he noticed the ring on her finger. It had been there all along, smack-bang in plain view from the start.
"A husband?"
"An ex-husband. Although he treats me as bad as he did when we were together."
"So why keep the ring?"
"Its easier. It helps to get rid of unwanted attention from the creeps on the shuttle flights. And it makes things easier getting a job and appartment."
"He is history, right?"
"Its complicated. I owe him a lot of credits."
"So thats why you took the job. Ambush some dumb, punk with a case then return back to your cosy, little life? But who are you working for? Its not Mewco, the McKaffs..."
"My ex."
"This isn't your first job. Is it? You're too professional. There were some clues on that vid-recorder in the locker. Damn! I am so stupid. How long have you been a courier?"
"A little more than 3 years." she replied, playing with the ring on her finger.
"What cargo?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me. Bio? Tech? Human, or, drugs?"
she noddled.
"Of course. The shuttle. Its starting to make sense. You're the mule who brings the drugs in on each flight."
"No." she whispered.
"I guess, thats 5 minutes left."
"Hetch!" her lips trembled with either cold or fear.
"Are you serious about helping me? Theres a secure locker with almost 4,000 credits. They're yours, if you help me."
"A hit on your ex?"
"Would it be so wrong? Ending one life, so we can start a new one?"
"Jesus! You're really serious!"
"Its the only way I'll ever be free. I don't want to spend the rest of this life looking over each shoulder."
"Why me?"
His only reply was a curious, half-smile.
"Shit! You really know how to pick your moments, don't you? There is the little matter of the armband."
"Don't worry, I'm sure you will think of something."
To be continued...