by Mike McCrary
He can’t remember anything.
Squeezing his eyes tight, he tries to force a memory. A simple one.
Any memory.
He doesn’t even remember his name.
He can’t bring up any detail from yesterday. From last night. Nothing from last year or even childhood. It’s all black. An empty tomb where a life should be. Nothing about friends. Where he’s from. Family…
Nothing.
Opening his eyes once again, he takes a deep breath. His hands shake. He shakes them back.
Panic helps no one. He’s sure someone told him that.
Turning toward his left, he sees a large, round table that seems to defy physics by simply standing. One leg cracked, while the other three are barely hanging on. Resting on top of the table are various items he’s also never seen.
A half-filled black trash bag is lumped on the table. Two prescription bottles sit next to the bag. One has a red top, the other green. Next to the pills sits a tall glass of water with beads of sweat dripping, pooling under the glass.
There’s a stack of cash. Looks to be twenties from where he stands, the top bill at least. There’s also an older phone. He squints, then recognizes the phone is the one he heard people losing their shit about a couple of years ago. Excitement rises inside of him. He remembers something. It’s the twentieth anniversary edition of the little phone that changed the entire world. Nostalgia is an insanely powerful marketing drug. It’s not his, he’s fairly sure, but he can’t help but think it’s kinda cool.
A rip of pain tears inside his head putting him down on his knees.
Like someone hit him in the back of the head. The worst of it charges hard from the base of his skull, stemming from a place between the occipital bone and lambdoid suture, near the sagittal suture, then spreading out like a jackknifed manure spreader into his entire face and brain.
Between gnashed teeth he breathes in deep. In and out. He takes a moment to collect himself. Through agony-induced tears, he spots one more item on the table.
A note.
He rubs his face. Stops cold. Nothing about his face feels familiar. He shrugs it off as something that can’t be. The pain is making him crazy. With an inhuman noise, he pulls himself up from the floor moving toward the table with the grace of drunk two-year-old. He picks up the note. It’s printed in large font with simple words and quick sentences.
Your name is Markus Murphy. You’re safe. Get dressed. Take the items on the table. Leave this room quickly. Take 2 pills from the green bottle every 2 hours for the pain. Take 2 pills from the red bottle in the morning. Then another 2 at night. You will receive a call about a job. You should accept it.
Murphy feels fear ramping up again. His forearm aches. His head pounds. Chugging some water, he shrugs, then picks up the bottle with the green top. He pops two pills, hoping the note’s pain relief promise is legit. Or, at the very least, that they will help un-fuck his head a little. The name Markus Murphy feels familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Not his, maybe, but it could be. He feels he’s known by another name.
There’s another feeling.
A prickling sense he’s being watched. Turning, scanning the room, his mind comes back to a somewhat normal place. He sees nothing, but he’s fairly sure they can put a camera up an ant’s ass these days.
“Shit,” he mutters to himself.
What day is it?
How long have I been here?
He grabs the phone. Hands shaking, he taps the glass, lighting up the screen. Can’t remember yesterday’s date—or who he was yesterday—but the date the phone displays feels like it’s in the ballpark. It’s more the time that has him puzzled.
It’s 3:36 in the morning.
Looking around, he attempts the impossible task of gathering his thoughts. There are memories now, maybe, but they are hard to process. Loose fragments, soft and impossible to grab onto. None of them seem to piece together. Feels as if Murphy is viewing different movies, in different languages, running together at the same time.
Emotions swing and sway without weight or context. He wants to crumble and cry and punch someone’s face in while he’s doing it. Everything mashes together.
Sirens wail outside.
The screams next door grow louder. Angry people are fighting. The dog’s bark is now like a roar. Thumps and thuds rattle the thin walls. A picture of a three-legged horse falls from the filthy wall. Its glass cracks as the corner hits the carpet.
He looks back over the note, rereading the words you’re safe then the somewhat contradictory leave this room quickly.
Tires screech outside.
Headlights flood in through the window.
His heart thuds inside his chest even though he knows he’s done nothing wrong—at least he thinks not. Feels like a murderous mob is out to get him and he needs to move fast. He grabs the back of his head. The pain stabs at him, then flutters, fading out into nothing without warning.
Maybe the meds from the helpful invisible people are doing something.
Opening the trash bag, he finds clothes neatly folded and stacked. He changes into a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Feels like the T-shirt could fall apart at any moment and the jeans wear like sandpaper, but it all fits. He slips on black socks then a pair of thin-soled running shoes.
A loud crack outside.
As if the door from the next room was knocked down. Hard voices bellow orders that vibrate inside the walls. Murphy shoves everything from the table into the trash bag. As he does, his hand brushes against something at the bottom. His breathing stops. His heart freezes.
His trembling hand removes a gun from the bag.
As he grips the gun, two tiny pinhole lights on the left and right of the gun’s sight change from blank to a solid green. The biometric readers in the grip and trigger have identified him.
Green means go.
This gun knows him.
Murphy knows this gun is a G19 Generation Seven Glock, 9x19mm caliber. Has a mag capacity of seventeen, weighs twenty-one ounces fully loaded, roughly nineteen unloaded, and has a laser sight installed in the grip. From twenty-five yards out he can keep his shots grouped to the size of a baby’s fist.
He knows all this.
All without a shred of doubt, and with no idea how.
You’re safe, they said.
Chapter 3
Murphy cinches up the trash bag.
There’s a nibble of a chill to the air.
Can’t help but think it feels nice.
The darkness outside the room seems to swallow him. Above him, holes are punched into the night by streetlights peeking out between towering buildings. He’s in an alley, somewhere. The street is dry, with random puddles, along with trash piled up here and there. Murphy moves as fast as he can away from the room.
Sounds of a small war echo behind him.
A battle being waged in the room that was next door to his. The voices are loud. Sounds of aggression are way too close. Fairly sure he heard someone take a punch before he left the room.
He doesn’t want to run, but he walks fast, turning and checking behind him every few seconds while holding the trash bag tight. There’s fear-induced curiosity that he can’t control, but he’s also trying to make sure no one is following him.
A man’s voice calls out.
“Hey,” the voice barks. “Hey, trashman.”
Footsteps quicken behind him.
Turning back, he sees two large shadows soak up what little light there is. Murphy decides running has become his best option. He bolts down the alley. Dodging potholes. Turning corners, burning down straightaways. He hits a barely lit street. A truck races past him, centimeters from ending his life.
He takes a hard right, banking off a wall.
Spinning, his ankles pop as he trips over a trash can landing almost face-first on the cement. He pushes off the street, springing up to his feet. Murphy pumps his legs harder and harder, like pistons firing. He runs faster and faster. Pushing
himself to the brink. Surprised with his speed.
More surprised with his lack of fatigue.
He takes a turn with no sense of direction. Occasionally, he looks behind him, never stopping to think about what is happening. There’s too much to process. Questions too scary to ask.
For now.
He runs until his thighs burn and his lungs pump acid. His heart beats against his ribs like a hammer. He’s impressed with how far he’s been able to run at this pace. Yet, he somehow knows he can go even harder.
Spilling out from a maze of blurred walls and lights, he realizes he’s in a large city.
He’s been running all-out for blocks and blocks. Now he sees nothing but towering buildings and streets lined with various businesses. Hints of the night’s sky peek out here and there. He passes by the homeless. Blazes past high-end coffee shops and white tablecloth restaurants that span the spectrum of global cuisine. Signs of the split between the wealthy and poor surround him in all directions.
He thinks he’s in New York.
There’s an ache of a feeling that he’s been here many times before.
Murphy eases up his pace, slowing into a jog, then to a walk. He hasn’t heard anyone behind him in a while. As he slows, he sees a bench at a bus stop surrounded by glass walls to shield the public from the elements. Maybe he’ll take the bus. Maybe he won’t. Each moment is writing a path to the next.
His legs and hands tremble. He needs to collect himself.
Needs to hole up somewhere and think, but he realizes he has nowhere to go. No place that he remembers at least. Maybe he has a house somewhere. Maybe someone is waiting for him. A family. Friends. A girlfriend. A boyfriend. Hell, a dog for Christ’s sake.
Something buzzes and blips from inside the trash bag.
Murphy fishes around inside the bag, moving past the Glock to the lit-up phone buzzing like an angry hornet. The phone given to him by them—whoever that may be. There’s a number stretching across the screen that says New York City, NY underneath. A small sliver of Murphy relaxes. Well, at least maybe he got the city right.
Murphy answers the call.
“Markus?” The man’s voice is like thick gravy. “You Markus Murphy?”
“Yeah—yes.” Surprised he’s able to get any words out.
“Okay then. Your lucky day,” Gravy Voice says with little to no enthusiasm. “Had a guy quit tonight right after his shift, the prick. We need someone for tomorrow.”
Murphy thinks back to the note. Someone calling him about a job.
“You there?”
“Yeah, sure.” Murphy gathers himself. This is the closest thing to a living, breathing information source. “Where do I need to go?”
“Jesus. You were just here—like a few goddamn hours ago.”
“What?” Murphy’s heart sinks.
“Johnny Psycho’s. Ask for Johnny.” Gravy Voice mutters something inaudible, then, “West 52nd. Hell’s Kitchen. Be here at eight tomorrow night. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Wait—”
The call has already ended.
Murphy thinks again of the note. He assumes this means he accepted the job, even though the actual words never left his mouth. The idea he’s being led around by the nose gnaws at him. Hates it but doesn’t see he has any great options. At the moment, everyone on the planet knows more than he does.
Murphy looks up at the night sky that’s beating back the morning.
Is this it? he thinks. Is this the rest of my life now?
Welcome to the unknown.
A flash of a memory screams past his mind’s eye.
Fast. Without warning. Smiles. Laughter. A man and woman at a bar sharing a drink. She has amazing eyes. He’s tall with broad shoulders. Murphy’s mind takes in the moment. Flickers of joy tickle his wire-tight brain. These people in the memory, the man and woman, he feels these are people he knows. Their happiness is palatable. There’s an energy to this. This is a memory so real he can feel the strength of their connection even through the fuzzy replay in his mind. The woman’s amazing eyes are big and filled with something that can only be described as unfiltered affection. The woman laughs, bites her lower lip, then gives him a thumbs-up.
Are they friends of his?
Family?
“Hey there,” a man’s voice says. “You’re a fast one, trashman.”
Chapter 4
Two walking walls of muscle move in fast.
Both large men, but one is larger than the other.
Murphy’s fingers tingle off the sight of them.
They are standing close. Too close. Murphy can feel the warmth of their breath as they loom over him. There’s a stiff stink of beef and beer. Murphy sits motionless on the bench. His heart was pounding at an alarming rate only seconds ago, but now, to his surprise, his pulse is slowing down. A strange calm is coming over him. As if a switch has been flipped. He catches a reflection of himself in the mirrored glass of the bus stop.
A part of him doesn’t recognize who he sees.
Another part finds comfort in the sight.
There’s a hint of familiarity, yet something is off. Different. It’s the eyes. The blue eyes staring back at him are cold and unfamiliar. A distant stare removed from the here and now. It is more what’s behind those eyes. This guy? This Murphy reflected in the glass? There’s an untethered aggression frolicking deep inside the meat of this one’s brain.
He turns back to the large men, alternating his focus between their thick hands and their wide shoulders. The strongest indicators of where potential harm might stem from.
“What did you hear?” the bigger of the two asks.
“What?” Murphy isn’t sure what’s going on, but they stormed the room next to him. “Where?”
“Oh you know, trashman.” The bigger one gives Murphy a slap to the face. On the lighter side, but that slap was designed as a warm-up. A show of who’s in charge. “You hear what was going on over there?”
Murphy feels a part of him slide.
Then a click inside his head. Something finding its proper place.
He tries to stand up. He’s shoved down to the bench immediately. Hard, like a disobedient animal. Murphy’s phone slips from his hand, falling to the curb. He hears the glass screen crack.
The least of his problems, but still, it pisses him off. Looking up from the bench, Murphy sees guns strapped to the sides of their thick bodies. Smith & Wessons. Ready to go, lying in wait underneath their thin, cheap jackets.
“You were next door, right?” chirps the smaller of the two mountains.
Murphy’s eyes slip to his trash bag then back to them.
“You catch what was going on in there, trashman?”
Murphy shakes his head no. His face an icy void.
“You call anybody? Tell anybody about anything?” The bigger one stabs his sausage digit at Murphy’s forehead. “Because that would be kinda bad, Noah.”
Everything in Murphy shuts down.
Noah?
That name—Noah—there’s something to it.
The sound of it digs deep. The name echoes in a distant place inside his mind. One he can’t fully access, but the emotion around the name carries a pulse. One that’s gaining strength.
“What?” Murphy asks. “What did you call me?”
The muscle boys stare back at him as if they’ve turned to stone. Statues on the street. They seem to fade for a fraction of a second. A flicker to their shape. They stand motionless, frozen, only for a moment as they look back at him like stuffed grizzly bears.
They disappear.
As if swallowed by the wind.
Then reappear in a blink of Murphy’s eye.
“You call anybody? Tell anybody about anything?” The bigger one stabs his sausage digit at Murphy’s forehead. “Because that would be kinda bad, Murphy.”
An exact repeat—save for the switch of the name.
Noah to Murphy.
Murphy’s eye twitches. Something new is building beh
ind his thousand-yard stare. A wave of confidence is crashing in as all his doubt and fear rolls out. The ache in his head is rising again. His devil tat burns with a new itch.
He feels different.
“Kinda bad? Damn, you don’t say.” Murphy taps his lips with his finger.
“Yeah, we do say.” The smaller one looks to his partner, his limited brain chewing on something. “I know you were just next door and all. Wrong place, wrong time and all, but…”
The muscle boys share a look. As if they’ve communicated a question between them and a decision has been rendered. Murphy can see it all over their faces. They’ve ruled that he needs to go away.
No idea what kind of shit they were into next door, but Murphy also does not need to find out. The pain behind his eyes is building, compounding, nearing the point of blinding. He shoves it all down. Needs to dig deep into the here and now and fight for some footing.
If he wants to survive.
“Sorry, brutha.” The bigger of the two puts one paw on Murphy’s shoulder and the other on the gun under his jacket. “Wrong place, wrong time, like he said. Bad shit does indeed happen to good people.”
There’s a shift in Murphy’s thinking. Complete shift in his being.
“May I…” Words form in his mind, but they don’t feel like they are his own. “May I make one last request, kind sirs?”
They nod, confusion setting in.
“Thank you.” Murphy conjures some oddly timed puppy eyes. “Can I hear you scream?”
The muscle boys aren’t sure they heard that right.
Murphy fires up from the bench.
The crown of his head smashes under the big one’s chin like a piston. The jawbone crunches. Blood spits. Teeth fall. Probably removed some of his tongue. Murphy moves without a hint of hesitation, without fear or a fraction of thought, yet in absolute control.
Unwavering confidence in his violence.
Murphy spins, plants his feet wide forming a strong base with superior leverage. He releases a swarm of punches. Machine-gun thumps of fists on flesh. A hard palm to the face. A nose snaps. Ribs crack. Fast, zero effort wasted, and over before it started. Murphy puts the bigger one through the mirrored glass. Shattering shards bounce off the street. Glitter in the moonlight. Murphy steps back, watching the big slab of a human wilt to the pavement, crunching in the fallen glass.
