by Edwin Dasso
Before she moved that desk and opened that door, she needed a plan.
She looked around again at the pile of discarded office supplies. She spotted what she needed—the exact distraction she’d need—next to the now-broken paper cutter.
She grabbed it, and slid it into her belt, at the base of her back. At an angle, so she would move freely. But it was there. Close. Easy to reach.
She moved the desk now, slowly and cautiously, and then cracked open the door.
No sign of him. The Comrade hadn’t yet made it to this corridor.
She let out a sigh of relief and then moved out into the hallway. She left the light on. It would help, and it might even draw the Comrade toward it, away from wherever she was.
The space she was moving into was a small suite of cubicles, looking every bit like a standard office space. There were even motivational posters hanging from some of the cubical walls, abandoned with everything else when this place closed shop, more than two decades earlier.
Clara gripped the paper cutter blade in her right hand and kept the small flashlight turned off and dangling by its strap from her left wrist. Enough light poured out from the office to illuminate the cubicle farm well enough, though the demountable walls made for a maze of danger all around her.
Scraaaaaaape.
She felt her blood go cold. She knew that sound, all too well. The last time she’d heard it, she’d been trapped in that storage room, her only source of light the bouncing clock on the computer’s display. It was a sound that triggered deep, anxious fear. It was a sound that made her want to scream, to hide, to curl up some place safe and pray and wait and moan.
It was a sound that pissed her off. A sound that made her want—need—to fight back.
She gripped the paper cutter blade, her hand clenching it so tight she thought it might liquify.
She slipped her left hand back, taking hold of her distraction there, sliding it from her belt, holding it tight but letting her fingers find the plastic lip, the edge that would open it.
Thus doubly armed, she waited.
Scraaaaaaape.
She turned in the direction of the sound—that noise that was meant to terrify her and make her run, scurrying the other way.
She moved toward it.
The Comrade, apparently sensing things were not going the way he intended, stepped out from one of the darkened cubicles. He was still deep enough in the darkness that Clara couldn’t make out the details of his face, but there was one part of him that was caught by the light, that he ensured could be seen.
The disgusting, wicked curve of the blade.
He spoke then, and his voice was a low hiss, gravelly to the point of being a challenge to understand. “This is Móki,” he said, raising the blade slightly. “She thirsts.”
Clara felt like throwing up. The fear within her tore at her guts, and she felt her skin flush, sweat breaking out all over her body.
She was a trained agent. She’d gone through basic hand-to-hand combat. She felt she could take care of herself.
But that blade. That hook. That red-encrusted, jagged metal.
She held up her one blade. “This is Paper Cutter,” she said, trying to sound far more brave than she felt. She swallowed. “He hates assholes.”
There was no sound from the Comrade, but he suddenly rushed forward, the wicked blade rising up as the man’s arms crossed his chest. He intended to rake it across her throat, she could tell. He would slash her throat and leave her gurgling and bleeding out and dying on the floor at his feet and screw him!
With more speed and force than she realized she’d been capable of, Clara raised her distraction, lifting it up and outward, and then slamming it with all her might across the Comrade’s forehead.
He’d been about to slash at her when the thing struck.
Suddenly he staggered back as a cloud of confetti exploded around his head, as thousands of tiny, paper circles erupted from the three-hole punch.
Clara let the thing clatter to the floor, and took full advantage of the distraction as she sprinted past the Comrade, out of the cubicle farm and into the darkened corridors beyond.
She clicked on the little flashlight, and used it to navigate a series of quick turns, getting as much distance between her and the Comrade as possible.
He screamed in rage behind her, and she knew he was in pursuit. She knew she’d have to find another hiding place, to turn off the flashlight, to keep herself quiet and calm and hidden. Again.
She gripped the paper cutter, and ducked into a room that was absolutely crammed with books—unorganized stacks of them, spilling from shelves, rising from mounds in the floor. Paperbacks of every description, well-read and well worn.
She dropped behind one mountain of them, turned off the flashlight, and held a hand over her mouth, breathing slowly, trying to calm herself. Waiting.
Scraaaaaaape.
The sound came from outside of the little library, somewhere out in the corridor.
Scraaaaaaape.
The same game. The same tactic.
It made her angry, which helped her fight back the fear.
The Comrade was still out there. Still had all the advantages. But he only knew a few tricks.
Clara was smart. All she would have to do was wait and think. That was her hope.
Someone else was here, too, she remembered. Someone had fired weapons. If they survived, they’d be looking for her.
She settled in behind the stack of paperbacks closest to her, gripped the paper cutter, and focused on trying to stay calm.
13
“Do you hear that?” Kayne asked.
Kotler tilted his head, listening.
They had been following the air duct as closely as possible, though at times it disappeared into walls that seemed six feet thick, and picking up the trail again was a matter of guessing, at best. For more than an hour now, they had done their best to try to keep it in sight, and they were failing.
Now they were hearing something that sent a chill down Kotler’s spine.
Scraaaaape!
Hideous, metal-on-metal, coming from somewhere ahead of them, in the darkness.
Following that sound came a cacophony of noises that they couldn’t identify.
Kotler gripped his weapon tighter as the two of them raced forward, rushing toward the noise.
“Maybe I should call Roland,” Kotler said as they cautiously made their way into a series of halls and cubicles.
He picked the phone out of his pocket and raised it to his lips.
“Roland,” he said, waiting.
“Kotler?”
“We may have a situation,” Kotler replied. “I think the Comrade is here.”
“Where are you?” Denzel replied.
Kotler opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, looking at Kayne.
She shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“That’s going to be a tough question to answer, Roland. We followed the ductwork pretty deep into this facility, but we’ve had some side trails.” He looked around, trying to find a landmark. “It looks like we’re in a suite of office cubicles. Same level. I’m not seeing anything to identify where we are.”
There was a pause from the other end which Kotler knew from history meant that Denzel was cursing Kotler’s name. “Stay put. I’m on my way. Do not engage.”
“Sure thing,” Kotler said.
“We’re going to engage, though, right?” Kayne asked.
“Oh, I don’t see how we could avoid it,” Kotler replied, smiling.
They moved deeper into the cubicle farm, quietly, slowly.
“What about Agents Symon and Mayher?” Kotler asked. “They’re making their way in…”
“I doubt they’d get here in time,” Kayne said. “We’re pretty deep. They’ll find their way here, eventually.”
Kotler nodded, then the two of them moved forward, toward the racket.
Ahead of them they could see light.
An offic
e door stood open, light pouring from it out into the array of cubicles. It was such an odd and ordinary scene, like visiting an office building after hours. It made Kotler feel a bit disoriented.
There was more noise from up ahead.
Scraaaaaape.
Kotler trained his flashlight on the spot where he thought the noise might be originating, but that direction presented only more office space–cubicles, file cabinets, and a few doors that could lead to anywhere.
“It’s curious…” Kotler said, quietly.
Kayne, standing beside him, gave him a look.
“The Comrade came here and took this place over. From all evidence, he’s made it his perfect home. Repurposing spaces and materials into whatever he needed. He’s been here for years, and he’s taken over the entire complex. But this space… it’s almost untouched.”
Kayne looked around, sweeping the beam of her own flashlight over the cubicle walls.
Kotler noted that there were still posters and artwork on the walls of the place. Still personal items on some of the desks. But no sign of dust. The environment here was closed, the air apparently filtered and recycled. But even that wouldn’t be enough to keep at least some dust from collecting on every surface here.
If anything, it looked like someone had been keeping it up, cleaning and maintaining the cubicles.
“The Comrade is keeping an office space?” Kayne asked.
“I… think it’s some sort of…” he was working through it, shaking his head. “Well, as hard as it is to believe, I think it’s a sort of shrine. To an enemy, I think.”
“A shrine to an enemy?” Kayne asked. “Who would do that? I thought you only built shrines for gods or whatever.”
Kotler shrugged. “Many cultures have shrines that serve a variety of purposes, from honoring a fallen loved one to worshiping gods, and even cursing enemies. In West African Vodun—one of the origins of Voodoo—practitioners would sometimes build shrines as part of a curse on an enemy. Judging from the look and layout of this place, the Comrade tends to it, keeps it in order. I think maybe he sees this as symbolic of his enemies—capitalism, the American way of life, that sort of thing. Think about it. He was working in a space much like this when he decided to embrace communism. The face tattoo was a sort of direct rebellion against the way things work in Western culture. He’s not keeping this place to honor anything. He comes here to defile it, just by standing in it.”
Kayne had stopped and reached out to pick up a small replica of the Statue of Liberty. She placed it back on the table, and slowly turned in place, shining her flashlight over the cubicles, the walls, the posters and other objects in the room. “All American,” she said, marveling. “Every poster, every tchotchke. This place really is an of homage to America.”
“Not an homage,” Kotler said. “A curse. Jessup sees this as a symbol of everything he hates.”
“And so he works tirelessly to keep it in pristine condition,” Kayne said, shaking her head.
“We often focus so much on our enemies that we preserve them,” Kotler said.
They were both quiet for a moment, but then startled by the return of the sound.
Scraaaaaaape.
They turned, flashlights aimed in the direction of it. Kotler gripped the gun. Kayne picked up the miniature Statue of Liberty, hefting it like a small mace.
They moved forward.
Kotler was getting a little nervous about their surroundings. It might look like a typical office space, but they shouldn’t let themselves be fooled. This was the Comrade’s territory. He knew this place better than anyone. That made every door, every cubicle, every dark corner dangerous.
They moved deeper until they came to a veritable maze of stacked office supplies and books. Everywhere they looked there were towers of boxes, filled with reams of paper. And peppered in among these were stacks of paperbacks and hardbacks, piles of the Comrade’s spoils from town. Kotler glanced at some of the titles, and knew instantly why they were here, as part of the Comrades curse of the West, rather than neatly shelved in one of the many libraries lining the corridors.
These titles were all pro-American. Books about American history, about the rise and benefits of capitalism, about right-leaning politics. These books—likely never read, though Kotler couldn’t be sure—were the soul of the Comrade’s curse. The philosophies and ideals of the nation he hated, encapsulated in each tome, stacked in exile from the rest of his library.
Kotler was examining one of the other stacks when Kayne put a hand on his arm. He glanced up, looking in the direction she was staring.
In the midst of the towers of books and copier paper, briefly visible in their flashlight beams, they saw a dark figure.
The Comrade.
He moved quickly, and before they could even shout for him to stop he’d disappeared in the stacks.
“This isn’t good,” Kayne said. “There’s no way to track him in here.”
As if this had been his cue, suddenly a stack of boxes containing reams of paper toppled toward them.
As they both leapt aside, in opposite directions, the Comrade stepped out in front of Kotler.
With speed Kotler couldn’t have predicted the Comrade raised the hooked blade and swiped it outward.
It was all Kotler could do to dodge, falling back against another tower of printer paper boxes, toppling it and himself into a jumble on the floor.
Kotler’s gun went skittering into the darkness, along with his flashlight.
The light, at least, was still visible, shining in Kotler’s direction, enough to allow him to see the silhouette of the Comrade as he raised his blade, preparing to strike and end Kotler, right then and there.
Kayne slammed into the Comrade from the side, roaring as she tackled him to the ground. She was on top of him, and had the miniature Statue of Liberty in her hand, raised to strike.
The man moved and rolled, managing to throw her off of him with great force. Kotler watched as she was slammed into a nearby file cabinet. She looked dazed.
The Comrade was getting to his feet, and so was Kotler.
“Hey!” Kotler shouted and then flung a ream of printer paper at the man’s head.
It struck, knocking the Comrade backwards. He shouted and raged, reaching to his head and pulling away fingers covered in blood.
The paper had made an effective enough weapon that Kotler tried flinging another, but now the Comrade was ready. He struck the ream down in mid-air with his hooked weapon and then rushed Kotler. The hook raised in the air and then lashed down with lightning speed, catching Kotler in his outer left thigh as he rolled to dodge.
Kotler let out a cry of pain, but pressed his hand to the wound and limped quickly, deeper into the maze of boxes and file cabinets.
The glow of the flashlight was left behind, and now Kotler found himself in mottled darkness, moving as quickly as he could on his injured leg, trying to stay quiet and stay low.
“American pigs!” the Comrade was shouting. “Capitalist scum! You come here, to my home, and try to take this place from me? You attack me! I will end you!”
Kotler had managed to move to a far corner of the room, but he heard the commotion of boxes and stacks of books being toppled. The Comrade would tear down his own shrine to rid it of the American scum.
There was another roar, and Kotler recognized Kayne’s voice. She must be attacking the Comrade again.
She was brave as hell, but Kotler wasn’t sure she was a match for this guy. He was tougher than he looked. Faster than he looked.
Kotler had to do something.
His gun was lost, but what else did he have?
Looking around frantically, he was coming up blank. There were very few usable resources here. Nothing he could use as a weapon.
He took a deep breath, shook his head, and then stepped back out.
If he couldn’t find a weapon, he’d just have to be the weapon.
Maybe two against one would be enough.
Kayne
decided she was nuts. Because no matter how hard she hit this guy, he just kept coming back at her, twice as hard. And that blade in his hand was like an extension of his arm. He never lost his grip on it. Never dropped it. And it moved like lightning.
He swung it at her head, and she barely ducked in time. But the Comrade wasn’t finished.
He may have missed, but he was able to pivot, to raise the blade again, and then to bring it down on the exact spot where Kayne would have been standing, if she hadn’t managed to dive and roll.
She met with one of the towers of books, knocking it over. Dozens of paperbacks fell on top of her.
“You’ll both be fertilizer by morning,” the man said, his voice low and sure.
Kayne was starting to think he was right.
She rolled onto her back, looking up at him in the low light from the flashlights, which were scattered around the room.
That was one disadvantage they had. Low light.
The Comrade knew this place better than they did. He was used to it. They were fumbling around, trying to stay out of his reach, but getting themselves more and more mired in the Comrade’s lair.
Something clicked for Alex, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.
The Comrade was standing above her, and he raised the blade then brought it down, hard and fast.
She rolled, kicked at his knee, and as he cried out in pain and crouched to keep from falling over, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted into the furthest, darkest corner she could find.
“You can’t run!” the Comrade yelled. “You can’t hide! You’ll be fertilizer by morning!”
“Kayne!” Kotler’s voice rang out in the darkness.
“Keep him busy!” Kayne shouted back.
She couldn’t see Kotler, but she knew he was injured. She hoped she hadn’t just sent him to his death. She wasn’t sure she could live with herself.
She wasn’t even sure if she’d live long enough to not be able to live with herself.
But she had a plan.
She found a space—one of the cubicles that backed up against the far wall of the office. She ducked inside, and took out her phone, trying to keep the light of the screen hidden.
