by Jamie Nash
The Phantom turns away, staring in Crazytown’s direction.
Crazytown is shouting at the camera, at me. There’s no audio. I don’t hear a word he says, but the killer does. The kid is giving himself away. The Phantom strides in Crazytown’s direction, zeroing in. The boy is a sitting duck.
“He’s in there!” I yell into the mic. “He’s coming for you! Run!” Crazytown stares up at the camera. He’s not alarmed, just confused. But the killer gets it—my cries only speed his pace. He’s gonna finish this before Crazytown even knows what’s up. “Hide! Now!” I scream, cutting to the chase.
Crazytown’s mouth is moving, and his head is bobbing, but he’s not leaving. Damn it. He’s not even turning around. He can barely keep his balance with the jeans strangling his knees. He throws his hands up as if to say, “What?”
The killer whips around the corner and spots Crazytown. He closes fast.
“He’s right behind you!”
But it’s too late. The Phantom raises the pool stick. Crazytown turns as it crashes into his face. It’s probably the last thing he sees. Not that it stops there—the attack is relentless, methodical, a carpenter hammering a nail into a table. This is a job to him. A chore to be done.
I can’t take it. I turn off the monitor and fall back in the desk chair. My hands shake and tears drip off my chin. I want to scream, shout, and curl into a ball. But I can’t.
I’m next.
I have to escape.
I spring to the door and step into the hall. If I hurry, I can beat him to the tower, climb down, and escape. Wait … the map. The Goddamn map. If I just leave without it, we’ll be no better off than before. Crazytown will have died in vain.
My heart pounds in my ears. I race back and rip the schematic off the wall, leaving chunks of it beneath the thumbtacks that held it in place. I fold it as I move, shoving it down the neck of my wetsuit, allowing the tight fabric to pin it against my chest.
The door bursts open. Without thinking, I duck behind the standing arcade game.
The monster who just murdered Crazytown stalks in. He ducks to avoid bumping his head on the top of the entryway. His meaty hands hold the pool stick like a club. His killing stick is broken in half now. He kept the handle part, the thick part—the skull-caving part. He whistles and shuts the door behind him. This is between us. Private.
The videogame’s strobes of light dance in his murderous, bugged-out eyes as he scans the room. He hasn’t seen me yet. Not that this hiding spot is worth shit. I squeeze myself into the corner where the arcade game meets the wall. Space Invaders’ heartbeat pounds into my ears, vibrating through my bones.
The madman eases down his hood. His wild knotted hair spills around his shoulders. The naturally dreadlocked strains are a dark, unkempt mess of white and gray. A patch of his chaotic hair has been freshly shaved right above his temple. A familiar hideous, question mark-shaped scar is carved into his skull. It’s just like Taylor’s and just like those bodies back in the refrigerator. His wound isn’t stitched like Taylor’s, instead, it’s red and meaty and oozes blood and puss. It’s like he left the operating table mid-surgery and never got closed back up.
“Someone’s been eating my porridge,” he says. His gravelly voice is slurred, almost drunken.
There’s nowhere to run. He’s gonna find me. I’m going to die getting clubbed to the thumping sound of Space Invaders. His bare feet trail bloody prints as he stalks my way. He must have stepped in Crazytown’s gore on his way to kill me.
“You think she wants you?” He asks. “What do you have to offer?” He steps over to the monitor, lifting Taylor’s file folder with his broken pool handle. “You’ve been reading. Then you know she’s all lies. Whatever she tells you, whatever she promises … she’ll say anything to get you back into your pod.”
The thought chills me. Is that Taylor’s endgame? To put me back in the machine I woke up in? To once again wipe my memories clean?
“She seduces, gets what she needs.” His voice cracks with emotion. He stares into her file folder like he’s in a trance. “She promised me all those same things. So much.”
Out of nowhere, he smashes the pool cue down onto the computer screen. “After all I’ve given her!” He rages on the screen, control panel, and walls. Demolishing everything in sight. Sending glass, wooden splinters, and drywall shattering in his psychotic wake.
My legs are numb with terror. I’m not brave enough to put them to the test. I stay put.
“I gave her everything!” Phantom yells at the demolished monitor that smokes and sparks in response. “She’s nothing without me.”
He faces the opposite direction, his back wide open—exposed—daring me to attack. He’s got about two-hundred pounds on me. I’m still feeling woozy from my hibernation. I probably haven’t eaten in four hundred years, and my thighs burn from scaling about one hundred rungs of ladder. Even if I snuck in a lucky shot, this behemoth would barely feel it. It would take a sledgehammer to knock this monster off his feet. Or a cannonball. I’ve got a scalpel. It’s probably the best chance I’m going to get. If I take him by surprise, I might get lucky.
Damn.
Damn.
Here goes.
I rush out, staying quiet, Ninja-like. My eyes target the back of his hairy neck. The jugular is somewhere in that zip code. His neck is the size of a small tree trunk. I have to jam the scalpel deep. Even if he doesn’t die, he’ll be busy yanking the thing out. One hard, well-placed stab, then I’ll run for the door.
Don’t. Fucking. Miss.
I raise the knife.
He whips around. Looks me straight in the eyes.
I freeze. Oh, Jesus. Why did I freeze? Why did I stop?
He flashes a smile, exposing jagged teeth beneath the wild nest of beard. A chill booms right through me. “Aren’t you precious?” He says in an ‘I’m gonna eat your organs for breakfast’ way.
It sucks the oxygen right out of me. I feebly wave the scalpel in front of me. “Back off.”
His eyes twinkle at my tiny weapon. He thinks it’s cute as a button. “A dangerous one, are you?” He chuckles. “One of the rats that got loose when I set the fire. Is that a butter knife?” He half-circles me, positioning his massive frame to block the door.
I’m shaking. My knees sag under my weight. I’m not even sure I can summon the courage to run. “Don’t come any closer.” I retreat a few more steps, just a few, the wall is within an arm’s reach behind me. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Aw. That’s a shame.” He raises his wooden stick over his shoulder. “Because I so want to hurt you.” He swings.
I duck away, lose my footing. My butt hammers the floor. My head and back slam into something hard. Pain crashes through me. No time to shake out the cobwebs. I’m surprised he’s not already beating the life out of me. He hovers over me, taking his time, making a meal of it. My heart pounds through my chest, my neck, my fingers. I hear the steady beat of Space Invaders. I’m right next to it. It must be what I fell against. I grab hold of its controller deck and try to pull myself up. My hands slip, and I fall back into my seated position.
The monster laughs. “Close your eyes. I’ll make it quick,” he says. He raises the stick again.
It would be easy to just let this happen. To surrender.
But whoever I am, I’m not that girl.
I stab my arm behind the Space Invaders and rip the thick power cable from the socket. Darkness enfolds us. I shuffle a bit out of his attack range and wait for my eyes to adjust. They don’t. Just black. Pure dark. I can’t see my hands, or nose, or eyelashes.
The smash of the broken pool cue slamming into the arcade game rings in my ears, splintered wood peppers the side of my face. Mr. Psycho roars, his weapon whistles through the air, slams down wildly. He has no clue where I am. He’s going with the brute force approach.
I crawl away heading for the door. Or at least where I think the door is.
I hear him kick over the pool table,
then glass shatters. “You can’t hide!” He bellows. “Not from me.”
I sprint for the door. My face hits the wall. Hard. I grunt in pain. My eyes tear up. My nose might be bleeding. Things go dead silent. He heard me. He knows I’m at the door. He’s behind me, closing in for the kill. I scramble to find the door, feeling for the knob.
“You think you’re smart,” he hisses somewhere in the void behind me. “You know nothing. You are nothing.” His voice is at least a few feet away. I might have a chance. My fingers find a seam. The frame. “You’re unworthy,” he whispers. The pool cue crashes into the wall, off to my right, inches from me.
I jolt from the impact. Something jingles—the ring of keys at my belt. I’m a goner.
I duck.
The stick whips across the air inches from the top of my head. It explodes above me as my body slams against the door. My lower ribcage collides with something cold and metal. The knob. I twist it and whip open the door. The automated hallway light clicks on. The glow drills my eyes. I hear the stick shatter against the open doorframe. A miss. I’m not the only one temporarily blinded. The maniac is left with a mere nub in his hands.
I sprint off into corridor ahead. About forty feet away is the hatch that leads to the long tower. Get there first. Escape down the ladder. Live.
Twenty yards away, the steel, manhole-like access door is still open. I chance a look behind. He’s in the hall, moving fast. What he lacks in grace he makes up for in sheer psychotic determination.
Ten yards. My arms pump. My hand still clutches the surgical scalpel. I hope I don’t fall on it. That would be an embarrassing end to the weirdest of days.
Five yards. His feet slap metal behind me. I don’t turn. I don’t dare. Death is on my heels. In front of me is hope.
I scream.
Dive. Baseball slide across the metal floor.
My feet find the circular opening, the gap. My legs follow, and I plunge into the tower, gravity pulling me through. My feet flail for the ladder, my chest grinds against the metal, and my armpit catches on the third rung.
I stop, hard and sudden. Pain uppercuts my brain. I shriek, dropping the scalpel. It floats down the long tunnel until the darkness swallows it. There’s a growl from above, and the madman’s face pokes into the circular hatchway. He flashes that crooked smile as he tightens the grip on my hair. “Gotcha!”
I thrash at his arm as best I can without plunging to my death. His grip is a vice. My clawing does nothing. His other hand stabs into my throat and squeezes tight. I croak. My eyes bulge. I can’t breathe or fight.
I’m helpless.
He curls his bicep and raises me up to eye level. His hideous face is a mess of sweat and blood. He’s probably fifty. It’s hard to tell under the beard and tangle of hair. He’s some Wildman, who never heard of manicures, or designer jeans, or dental floss.
“Please,” I gasp, as much as my pinched airway will allow. “Please. Can’t breathe,” I choke out, tears running down my face.
His brow wrinkles, twisting the puss-filled surgery scar on his scalp. His grip won’t let me turn away. It’s like he’s going to kiss or bite me.
I bite first.
I gnash down on his bloody scalp wound. My teeth burrow inside the bloody scalp, wedging them inside his wound, grinding against the bone. Blood and infection fill my mouth. It tastes like lead and rancid meatloaf. I gnaw deeper hoping to find brain. His eyes widen. His grip loosens. His body shakes.
Then he drops me.
I plummet down the tower. My hands flail at the ladder, smacking the passing rungs. Automatic lights click on as I drop through each section of the tower. My hand grabs a rung. My arm wrenches in its socket. Pain blasts through my shoulder. I grit my teeth, squeeze down, and hang on.
I’m dangling. I add a second hand as reinforcement, then put my feet beneath me.
Fifteen yards above me is the circle of light, the opening of the tunnel. My attacker is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear him. His curses and cries drift down from above. I laugh. His blood still wets my teeth. I got him. I got him good. “Screw you!” I shout. “You Grizzly Adams motherfucker!”
I laugh, cackle. It’s the sound of victory. The cry of defiance. I don’t remember much, but I’m starting to learn. I’m no ordinary girl. I’m a card-carrying badass. Mess with me, and I’ll chew your brains out.
I scuttle down the tube. It takes forever to get to the bottom. I don’t have anyone keeping me company on the way down. Crazytown … Tony … just thinking of him drains my energy like a baby pool with a slow leak. I’d entertain myself with good memories, but my earliest memories—just minutes ago, really—are all death and dying and gore and gross. Not a lot of good times to reminisce.
I’ve got other stuff to occupy my brain. My past for instance. Or why I’m here. Or why dead people are walking around on a spaceship. I’ve pieced some of it together. I worked at Wendy’s, the last time I saw my mom was at a Chuck E. Cheese, I like Captain Crunch more than Frosted Flakes, and I’ve slept through a couple of hundred birthdays.
But why am I here? Girls like me don’t end up on spaceships. I don’t have the SAT scores. Maybe I’m Buck Rogers. Accidentally frozen and thawed out in the future. Where’s that stupid “Twiki-Twiki-Twiki” robot with all the answers?
Okay, how’s this? I was abducted by a madman who built a spaceship in his backyard. Or I’m one of the last survivors of the human race. Or the apes took over.
Another section of lights clicks on. I’m almost to the bottom. I’m burning to confront Taylor with her lies. She sent us up there. She got Crazytown killed. She wanted me dead. Won’t she be surprised when I pop back in and say “Howdy.” I protected her before. That’s done. I want answers. I want to know about her real name, her Prague name, her time in a Prague prison, and our pool stick-wielding friend.
The lights to the last section of the tower flash on. I practically free fall the last couple of rungs, squeezing the ladder to ease my descent. Not enough though, I drop into the lower level. My feet slam down first. Then my butt hits. I end up on my back—my hands, feet, and legs sprawled every which way. I wipe away a crust of blood from the corner of my lip. I must have banged my face on a ladder rung when I fell. Everything hurts, but now is not the time to count my bruises.
“He’s up there,” I say through labored breaths.
Nobody answers me.
I will my aching body to move and turn to my side. The room is empty. No Shaft. No Taylor. The bandage we used to tie her up is still knotted on the exposed pipe. It’s been cut.
She’s loose.
I lumber to my feet. I need to relock the hatch so the Phantom doesn’t sneak up behind me. I climb the retractable ladder, slide the metal disk into place, and pin my shoulder against it, bending my neck. My legs bulge as I push with all my might. A resounding click heralds my success.
I collapse back down onto the floor and close my eyes. The adrenaline recedes, and the pain comes back like a tide. My cheeks prickle, my legs throb, and my shoulder burns. I have bruises on bruises. I could use an aspirin. Or twenty. Just give me the bottle.
Worse than all that, I’m all alone. At least I got to share the other horrors I fought through. Spread the love, you know? Nightmares are better with friends. Hero and Tony are gone, and now Shaft … who knows? Hero was all sacrificial and stuff. I’ve been the shoot first, ask questions later one. Crazytown was kind of the comic relief. But Shaft was the adult. The level-headed one. Somehow, he could see a happy ending in this shitstorm.
I’m not sure I can.
The ache in my chest feels like it might crack in half. It’s all my fault. I talked him into staying with Taylor. I trusted the bitch and thought it was A-Okay to go off on a jaunt to the upper tower just because my new best friend said so.
Both Crazytown and Shaft … their blood is on my hands.
No. Not Shaft. Not yet. He’s not dead until I see a body.
Taylor saved us. It’s not a lie. The jury is
still out on her. Sure, it’s leaning toward guilty, but there’s still reasonable doubt, even if it’s just a sliver. Phantom himself said that she doesn’t want us dead. She wants us back in the cryopods. That’s where she’s taking him. It has to be. And I have to stop her.
Crunch. My heel steps on a plastic syringe. The needle is still in place. It’s empty—spent. She must have had it tucked away all along. It’s possible someone else snuck up and used it on both of them, but knowing what I now know about our Prague street thug, smart money is on her.
A glimmer of light catches my eye. The scalpel.
My Excalibur.
I pick it up. It’s a sign of something. Hope? Vengeance? Futility?
I shuffle back into the engineering tunnels, ducking exposed wire, keeping far away from the sparking control panels. The dungeon-like maze is filled with twists and turns. I’m instantly lost. The exposed plumbing and cables look the same, giving zero points of reference. I’m probably walking in circles.
If only I had a map.
Duh.
I dig the crumpled document out of my wetsuit and unfurl it. It’s big and unwieldy, like one of those huge roadmaps they sell at gas stations. I fold it in half, focusing on the section at hand. There are over one hundred rooms on this level. I browse their names. Gibberish. Things like Muon Detector, Colorimeter Lab, Liquid Argon Fueling Station. There are at least six generator rooms and another five things labeled “Access Point.” Then there’s stuff that doesn’t give me a migraine—Control Room, Air Lock, Engineering, Solar Power Station, Crew Cryo Chambers.
Crew Cryo Chambers.
My heart trembles.
Mr. Phantom said she wanted us back in the cryopods. A maniac wouldn’t lie, would he? Judging by the map, the Cryo Chamber is on the opposite side of the ship. I tread lightly. I squeeze the clump of keys hanging from my waist to keep them from rattling around with one hand and keep the scalpel at the ready with the other.
My eyes scan ahead for threats, only daring quick glimpses at the map that guides me. I duck through cramped spaces, needle between sagging rubber cables, and climb over fallen metal grating. The tunnels are in wild disarray. A patchwork of duct tape band-aids and exposed wires. Whoever has been doing the handiwork on this ship doesn’t care about aesthetics or cleanliness. It’s definitely no Starship Enterprise. Captain Kirk would lose his shit at this mess.
