The Last Three

by Almon Chu

cries for help.

  “Bitch, the fuck you looking at?" One of them said.

  A twinge went down my arm as I reached into my coat pocket and gripped the cold handle of my knife. I overlooked his insult and avoided his eyes; there would be no profit there.

  "That's right punk! Walk away!" He screamed at my back.

  A shortcut through an alleyway. The walls were clothed in spray paint. Basic scribbles and elaborate tapestries: cryptic messages of ownership, blatant memorials, and demonstrations of skill. My footsteps crunched and cracked as I stepped upon broken glass and the remains of fast food containers. Reaching down into my coat pocket I grabbed my pack of cigarettes and counted the remainder.

  Coming out of the alleyway I had arrived in front of the subway station. The entrance was constructed of bare bricks: a simple box. White lights glowed from behind black plastic, spelling out the name of the station and the entrance's street location. The city's transit system logo pervaded the station. A simple design. An abbreviation, that few cared to learn the meaning of. I walked through the front doors. The doors' glass panes had been recently shattered and were crudely held together by strips of tape. Silver, brown, beige, and black: these were the only colours that were permitted in the construction of this station.

  As usual the new immigrants had awoken long before anyone in the city, standing ready at attention, diligently manning their underpaid posts. "Ahn-nyung-ha-se-yo." A smiling face greeted me from behind a newsstand counter, mistaking me for one of her own. I ignored her common mistake. Her wares defied the colour palette of the station. Candy wrappers, soft drink bottles, and magazine covers produced a seizure inducing symphony of glossy colours.

  A small steel fence served as means of separation, and herded people towards the ticket booth. A greying man occupied the ticket booth. Unshaven. Disgruntled. His fat body dwarfed the stool he sat on. Specks and stains covered the glass wall that separated the man from the rest of us. He barked at the mother and son in front of me.

  "That boy isn't a child!" He spat at them, his grubby hand firmly affixed on the turnstile lock.

  The man continued to yell at them as the mother fumbled for her son's identification.

  He persisted to pressure even after she produced the identification. "Have it ready next time! So you don't cause a scene!"

  She passed through the turnstile with a firm grip on her son's hand and her head held low. I walked up to the booth and threw a fistful of change into the toll slot. He grunted but I did not turn in his direction I kept walking, instilling purpose in my stride and anger in my form. The turnstile let me pass with a click.

  Half-way across the transfer-slip littered floor I heard the booth man start up another bombardment; the poor timid bastards. I took the crowded escalator down to the subway platform. It jerked and chugged along, decaying transfer-slips jamming the gears. A strange smell of warm metal and burning dust. The black rubber handles were scratched and aged, and the grips of the metal steps were clogged and useless.

  Advertisements lined the subway platform, groping for attention. Some new movie that I'd never watch. Some new product that I'd never buy. Some new lost cause that I'd never subscribe to. Some repackaged message that I couldn't care less about. A TV screen hung from the ceiling, spewing forth more adverts and tidbits of sensationalized news reports.

  They stood there, the ones who made it past the booth. They spoke only to those they knew and ignored the presence of those they didn't. Those who knew no one isolated themselves through cell phones, and headphones, or through the increasingly rare book or newspaper. Those without such distractions vapidly stared at the television and adverts. A distant light flickered in the subway tunnel, a flow of wind grew stronger as it drew closer and I felt the air run through my fingers.

  The subway came screeching into the terminal. A gust followed its arrival, momentarily blowing everything in one direction, and swept aside the common mix of loose trash. The silver doors of the train slid open after playing a simple three note tune. People pushed and shoved their way onto the train, giving no mind to those trying to get off. I squeezed myself into the train. There was no room to move, no such thing as personal space, every breath was shared. The train left the terminal and into the darkness of the subway tunnel. Almost everyone remained silent. The exception being the irate middle-aged woman who talked to herself about how she needed a facelift, an ordinary occurrence.

  More adverts lined the inside of the train, sheets of thin plastic illuminated by fluorescent lights. The train picked up in speed. It shook and thundered as it went over each segment of track. Streaks of white, blue, yellow, and orange lights streamed passed the train windows. A recording of a soft female voice announced the name of the next station. The train shot out from the subway tunnel, everyone was forcefully tilted to one side and the station's bright lights came flooding through the windows. We came to a sudden stop and everyone was thrown back into their positions. The doors played their three tone note and people began to herd themselves off of and on to the train. The woman was now screaming "Facelift Facelift! I NEED A FACELIFT!" over and over. Despite her new catchphrase, nobody paid her any mind. The train started to move again and we were soon back in the darkness.

  'Just three more stops,' I thought to myself. I gripped my knife, the handle digging into my flesh. I closed my eyes and tried to think of Eris.

  My stop was no different from any other station. It was the same scene of filth and flash. The same ticket booth operators on a power-trip. The same repackaged in a different layout, different colour, different name, but the same nonetheless.

  Outside the station I found myself under the shade of distant high-rise apartments and business towers. A crowd pushed me along. A stench filled the air. The sidewalk was slick and blackened with rotten fruit peels and bits of old vegetables. Clusters of garbage bags were stacked head-high and left on the edge of the sidewalk. Some bags were pierced and bled black water.

  'Garbage trucks must be running late,' I thought as a merchant tried to peddle his goods in broken English next to me.

  The merchants were as numerous as the trash bags. Some dealt out of stores and stalls, while most stood on the street with tables and cardboard boxes. Pirated and stolen technology, fake fashions, and exotic goods could all be found.

  Neon and plastic signs jutted out the sides of buildings and invaded my vision: their messages were written in cryptic characters and subtitles that were lost in translation.

  I passed display windows filled with half flayed animals that hung from hooks as I neared the arch at the end of the street. A basic structure, two red pillars entwined with dragons and linked together by a wooden bar: the cryptic characters that choked this place were engraved on the bar and painted in white, followed by the subtitle "Chinatown".

  Fighting against the crowd's current I managed to break free, and took a turn into an alleyway. Here the unchecked layer of grime crept up upon the walls of buildings. Small restaurant chimneys, air conditioners, wires, and electricity counters protruded from the buildings' backs. I stopped in front of a steel door covered in stickers and spray-paint. I knocked twice. I knocked once. I knocked twice again.

  After a few moments the door unlocked. The place smelled of old newspapers and plastic. Cardboard boxes were stacked to eye level. An old shrine to an old god sat in the corner, painted in red and adorned with an offering of oranges. The walls and floors had a greyish gloom to them, as if it were always raining outside.

  It was the new kid that let me in. I threw my coat in a corner. He scanned me up and down, looking for faults. He was misjudging his worth and overstepping his place. I opened my mouth to speak but stopped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see an unimpressed Berne.

  "You're late,” he said.

  "Sorry man, something came up."

  “Get yourself together. Do I need to remind you what's at risk? Do not get sloppy on me. One sloppy person and we all ge
t caught. I know we've been friends for a long time but you can't screw me like this Jon."

  I lowered my head and apologized again. He was right, this was not a business of second chances. He continued with his lecture in his usual subtle intensity. I simply lowered my head lower and lower, and apologized many times over. Finally he relented, giving me a firm pat on the shoulder.

  "Get downstairs, Aleksi can't handle by himself," he said as he walked to the store front.

  'Funny,' I thought,' you would never be able to tell that we went to school together.'

  I smiled at the absurdity, I smiled like an idiot in front of the new guy. He smiled back. I no longer wanted to have words with the boy, I wanted to hit him. He smiled but he had no inkling of what I was smiling about.

  The fake. The pretender. He smiles but he has no right to smile.

  I shot a glare. I wanted to hit him, but he wasn't worth my time. I flipped him off and descended down the stairs.

  "Don't screw me like this Jon," the new guy said as he chuckled to himself.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs and threw open the door.

  "Eta svoloch nakohetsto priperlas ha rabotu!" Aleksi said with a cigarette in his mouth.

  "Yeah yeah, go fuck yourself. And for the millionth fucking time don't smoke in here!"

  Hundreds of computer towers were