by Hanks, Greg
“I thought you just said you were alone—”
“Jones,” he repeated, lifting the device. “Jones, should I let these people stay?”
It was silent as the screen lit up.
“People are people,” said a butler-like, male voice coming from the device. “Do as you must.”
Tara and I exchanged glances, as we knew “Jones” was just a simple virtual intelligence.
“Jones said the lady can stay, but sorry dude, you have to go,” he said, shrugging.
“That’s not—”
“Ah, I’m just playin’ with ya! Come on guys, I’ll show you to my siiiick pad!” He turned around and hopped a little, emphasizing the word “sick” as he bounced.
If there was any time in my life where I needed to sigh, this would have been it. Tara looked at me and tilted her shoulder up.
“What’s your name?” asked Tara, before he scampered too far.
“Bloodface Vectorpus,” he said.
“Wait—what?”
“But you can call me Bloodface. Or Vectorpus. Or both. I don’t care.”
As he skipped onward, I grabbed Tara’s hand and whispered, “Let’s just get outta here.”
“We can’t just leave him.”
“And why the hell not?”
“Because,” she said, “he probably needs us more than we need him.”
“We’re not here to babysit, Tara!” I snapped.
“Bottom line, Wenton,” she pointed down at my shin, “you need to get that fixed. Let’s just see if he can help us, okay?”
“If he kills us in there,” I concluded, “it’s on you.”
“Bloodface” led us toward the back of the lobby, down the small, four-stair descent, and into a corridor. We walked through the musty hallway, where large tarps were laid on the ground. Buckets of dried paint and work tools were strewn all over the floor, completely covered in dust. Slabs of drywall and glass-like material were stacked in various places. We passed everything until we came to the end wall.
“Here we are,” he said, gesturing to a blue tarp draped over a section of the wall to our right.
He realized our confusion and pulled back the tarp’s corner, revealing a hole.
Astonished, I looked at Tara who wore the same expression.
“Welcome to my home, snitches!” he sang. “But there’s a toll to enter.” He quickly shut the tarp.
He barred the entrance with his body. The more he played his little games, the more I felt my leg crying out for help. I feared this was going to go on for a long time. Damn that stupid kid.
“You have to sing a song to enter,” he said.
Tara and I blinked.
“Listen, Blood—er—Bloodface,” Tara tried, “we really ought to get Mark some Medi-A—”
He held an open hand to her and said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk! No exceptions! I want singing. And don’t pretend like you can’t sing. Stop acting twelve and do it!”
“So, I should stop acting like you then?” I said.
“No,” he replied blankly, “I’m eleven, that doesn’t even make sense.”
Of course it didn’t.
“We’re not singing, you little shit,” I said. “If you don’t have anything to help, then we’ll find it ourselves.”
He looked at me with firmness. “Now we’re talkin’! All right . . . I’ll let it slide this one time. I’ve got what you need, big shit.”
I shook my head, avoiding eye contact with Tara.
As soon as we stepped over the threshold, Bloodface flicked a switch and the room became as bright as noonday.
Once our eyes adjusted, Tara exhaled, “You . . . you did all of this?”
The boy’s den was no bigger than a glorified janitor’s closet. Lights were hanging from the ceiling, wired together with tape and strung through the rafters. A sofa was pressed against the back corner, with a woolen blanket draped over the side. There was a three-tiered janitorial cart, shelving many miscellaneous items, and two armchairs nestled in individual corners. The floor was concrete, but a large rug covered most of it, guarding our feet with plush carpeting. A Fuse was placed in one of the upper corners, held by some kind of spliced mechanism. Below, boxes filled with tons of junk were stacked. The only weird thing I could see was the four-letter curse word, plastered across the adjacent wall.
“Unbelievable,” I mumbled.
“How did you do all of this?” asked Tara. She took a few steps toward the sofa, admiring the intricacy of the hovel.
“I’m not a friggin’ pansy-ass, that’s for one. It’s comes naturally, yo.”
He moved toward the boxes and started rummaging through one of them, humming a choppy tune.
“So you just knew exactly how to wire these lights?” Tara asked, glancing at a picture frame on the top tier of the janitor’s cart. I looked over her shoulder, seeing a young happy couple holding a baby boy.
“Ol’ Daddio used to work for GenoTec,” he said as he continued searching for something. “He let me come with him. Turns out I was ‘au naturel’ at this kind of stuff. I was passin’ up some of the top dudes there. Mo-mo-mo—moh-rons.” Finally, he withdrew a handful of Medi-A packets, piquing my interest.
“GenoTec? Wait, before Edge?” Tara contemplated, setting the picture down and joining us. “You would’ve been only five then . . . how in the world would you know about this kind of stuff?”
I knew what she was doing, and it bothered me. I didn’t want to learn about this kid’s past, present, or future. I wanted to grab his stash and scram, like we were never there.
“No,” he mumbled, ripping a packet open with his teeth, “I started going when I was six. Oh, by the way, what the hell are your names?”
“Tara,” she said, “and this is Mark.”
“Boring,” he replied, shaking his head. He pointed to me. “You’re Shinbutt.” He moved to Tara. “And . . . you’re Ladynuts.”
My headache pain was gradually starting to eclipse everything else.
Tara tried to recover from the new names. She wouldn’t look at me, even though I watched her, seething like a viper ready to strike.
“How long have you been living here?” she continued.
I sort of sat back and watched to see what kind of reaction he would have. Part of me wanted to see her to get burned.
“A month now,” he said calmly, as if that wasn’t something abnormal at all.
Tara raised her eyebrows. “A month?”
He stopped to look at her, making everything silent. “Yeah,” he said, “a month.” After staring at her for a good minute, he turned back to me and raised the packet of healing gel.
Even though I didn’t want to have anything to do with this kid, I started to feel bad for leaving Tara in the dust, so I put a hand up to him and said, “Wait a minute. Can we just . . . can’t you tell us why you’re here?”
Bloodface lowered the packets and bit his lip.
“What’s with you two bizz-woops?” he said, standing up. “First, you’re all like, ‘shut up and gimme meds!’, and now you’re all like, ‘pwweese, tell us yo story, Bloodface!’”
“Never mind then,” I concluded, ready to be knocked out cold. That was it. I tried.
He approached me and said, “Well, then let’s get on with it!”
I exhaled and looked at Tara. “Yeah. Let’s get it over with, I guess.”
Tara cleared off the wiring from one of the corner chairs and I planted my butt onto the plush seat. Bloodface examined my blood-soaked pant leg and looked as if he had smelled something foul.
“Wow,” he laughed, “this is gross, dude! Gnarly wound. It looks like the head of that cat I killed last week! Smashed-in and everything!”
“Just give me the packet,” I replied, shifting my eyes to Tara.
“You’re lucky I have something to stitch that up with. You’re lucky I’m straight dope!” he exclaimed, fluctuating his voice all over the place.
I hoped he wasn’t referring to dental flo
ss as his suture.
Tara knelt and held the fissured jean material open so we could work on the wound. Bloodface handed me the packet of Medi-A and crouched, wearing devilish eyes.
Feeling the squishy gel in my hand, I hesitated. I looked at the huge gash and remembered how painful Medi-A could be, even on a small cut. I began to have second thoughts.
“Tara,” I said, “I think you’re going to have to do this. I might pass out.”
Tara gave me a look of hesitation. “Are you sure?”
I nodded grimly.
“I’ve heard if you spit in the wound, it helps, too,” said the boy, ready to pull a wad of phlegm from his throat.
“Nope, not gonna do that,” I said frankly, shaking my head in disbelief.
I handed the pouch to her and she asked our host to hold open the ripped material. I put my head back to the chair and closed my eyes, waiting for excruciating pain. I knew that Medi-A was going to be our best option, though. There was no other way around this.
“Are you ready, Mark?” asked Tara.
I sat quietly for a moment, trying to mentally prepare.
“Do it.”
White-hot magma poured onto my leg. It seared the skin and scalded every muscle fiber. My shin screamed as the Medi-A melted into my wound, latching onto every substance it could get its hands on. I gritted my teeth and groaned heavily, trying to stay conscious. But it was too powerful, the pain was overwhelming. I felt like I was being dipped into a pit of lava, feeling the intense heat enclose around me.
And then there was nothing.
17
I began to register feeling in my legs. The warmth ascended into my chest and out through my fingers. I grasped the coarse fibers of a woolen blanket and realized I was awake. Thick glue held my eyes shut. Someone was mumbling something to me, but I was so comfortable; I didn’t want to move.
“Mark?” asked the woman’s voice again.
I opened my eyes to see a familiar face above me. Long, black hair drooped below my head, grazing the surface of my chin. Tara’s photogenic smile sent endorphins throughout my body.
“Hey,” I said, immediately starting to cough.
Tara laughed a little, pulling back. “Are you feeling okay?”
I cleared my throat and blinked a few times to rid my eyes of their initial blurriness.
“Yeah,” I said truthfully. “Yeah, I feel great.”
I pulled myself up to a sitting position and looked around. I was lounging on Bloodface’s makeshift couch-bed. My shoes had been removed and placed on the floor, with my jacket folded on top of them. Only one light remained ablaze, plastering a contrasted glow onto the back of the room. Tara had moved one of the armchairs beside me, leaning on her knees. Behind her was the boy himself, nestled in the remaining seat, fast asleep.
“I’ll have to admit,” she said. “I was kind of worried. You blacked out.”
“For how long?”
“A couple hours.” She stretched and yawned. “You kinda just fell asleep on us.”
Tara was exhausted, I could tell. I wondered if she had gotten any sleep at all. Had she been at my side this whole time?
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Quarter after one.”
I sighed and looked at her with tired eyes. “Thank you.”
She returned the drowsy gaze. “You’re welcome.”
After an awkward silence, I reached for my pant leg and pulled apart the ripped section. A thick, white bandage was wrapped around my wound. I gently prodded the affected area.
I looked back at her with a joyful expression and said, “I can’t feel a thing!”
But seriously, the entire appendage was numb.
“We used quite a bit of Medi-A. And we managed to stitch it up. It may not look professional, but it should keep shut.”
“I can’t believe we found this place,” I said, shaking my head. “How’s Psycho over there?”
“When you were asleep,” she began, “he and I went up a few floors, looking for some bandages and stuff.” She shook her head. “He’s one spaz, that’s for sure, but he’s incredibly smart.”
“You didn’t tell him did you?” I asked, getting straight to the point.
She hesitated, looking a little guilty. “I had to. He would know if I was lying. Why else would we have those guns?”
Great, just what we needed. “What did he say?”
“He told me he wants to kill those soldiers.” She had an expressionless face. “He’s been waiting for them. He wants them to come back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she glanced over to the janitorial cart, to the picture of the happy couple. “Something must have happened.”
“Great,” I said. “Soon the whole town’s going to join our little adventure . . .”
Tara looked down again. “Well, I guess I didn’t tell him everything.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So he has no idea about Ellis Island?” A surge of relief swam through me.
She shook her head and then started to fiddle with her hands.
Oh no. What now?
“Mark,” she began, maintaining a whisper. “What if we were to stay here for a while?”
My relief was shot down, right out of the sky.
“Stay? Here? Are you out of your mind?” I realized my voice had risen quite extensively.
“Think about it,” she presented. “We have shelter, he’s got a huge stash of MetaChews,” she gestured to the stack of boxes in the corner, “and maybe we can just . . . lay low for a while.”
I didn’t even run her ideas through my head. There was no way in hell I was singing a song every time I had to enter this hole in the wall, absolutely no way.
“Tara,” I said, “what do you see in him? Why do you want to get to know him? He’s just some addict kid. He probably would have killed us if he had the chance.”
Tara seemed a little deflated, maybe even hurt.
“He’s been here for a month, Mark. An eleven-year-old. He doesn’t deserve this.”
I hesitated. “We don’t deserve this. For heaven’s sake, Tara, there’s a giant ‘f-word’ painted on his wall!”
She glanced at the word, not really paying attention. “I guess . . . he reminds me of someone.”
I dropped my head onto the pillow.
“He’s a lot like my little brother, Mark. I can’t just leave him like this.”
I took a deep breath. How was I supposed to argue that? I turned to see the child, smashed up against the arm of his stiff “bed.” I hated to be the bad guy, but I had to voice my opinion.
“He’s just a kid, Tara. All boy-scout qualities aside, we could run into more of those metal-heads. We can’t protect him.” This time I was being sincere. Maybe I hated the Little Annoyance, but I certainly didn’t want to see him die, especially because of me. “I can barely protect you.”
Tara went silent. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and said, “Don’t say that. We’re alive, right?”
I didn’t respond. That wasn’t good enough. If I couldn’t keep Tara safe, how could I add another number to that problem?
“Besides, didn’t you just say he would have killed us if he had the chance?”
I remained stone faced.
“What about the note, though?” I said. “I thought you wanted to figure this out?”
“I do,” she affirmed. “I guess it was just nice to finally stop running. Maybe I thought this place—with his alarms and the location—I thought that maybe we could try and find . . . I don’t know what I was thinking.” She looked crushed.
A dagger pierced my heart. What was I doing? I simply couldn’t shake my Edge attitude. There Tara was, after everything that had happened, looking out for others, thinking of ideas, planning other strategies. I felt completely worthless. Maybe it was time I switched my approach.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m glad that you are thinking. I want nothing more than to stop running. But you and I both k
now that this place isn’t safe. And I don’t mean because of him. We can’t stay here, Tara.”
We remained in silence for the next few minutes. I was in such deep thought that it started to give me a headache. What did we do to deserve this? Why was it happening during such a devastating time in our lives?
“So we just leave him?” Tara croaked.
I sighed and craned my neck backwards. I glanced over at the sleeping heap that was Bloodface. I had no clue what was going to happen. If he wanted to come with us, I really couldn’t stop him. But that would mean another body to worry about. That would mean constant headaches. It would mean another notch on the uncertainty belt.
“I have no idea.”
18
Light breathing ruptured my dreams.
I opened my eyes to find Tara with her head hanging unnaturally to one side, fast asleep. The stiffness in my neck made me cringe. I rubbed it sorely and slid off the couch without a sound. When I stood up, my legs held me steady. No pain, no soreness.
Okay, maybe a little soreness.
The tranquility of the boy’s hovel comforted me. There were no hums or buzzes; it was silent and perfect. I watched the eleven-year-old as he slept. Head buried into the cushion, feet halfway off the armrest. At this angle, he seemed normal—almost. Wanting to breathe fresh air, I slipped on my shoes and exited through the tarp.
The lobby was bathed in a warm, morning glow. I meditated in the natural light, slowly walking past the marble pillars and coming before the unbroken entrance doors. The street outside appeared to be suspended in time, filled with debris and littered cars. I looked down each side before deeming it safe—free of killers.
I ducked underneath the broken glass and emerged into the serenity of the morning. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with invigorating, cool air. The sun sent a single beam of light across the abandoned city, warming my skin. Once I reached the front steps, I sat and enjoyed the time alone.
Through the skyscraper fjord on my left, Battery Park lied in wait. To my right, brilliant rays brightened the graveyard of eastern Manhattan. In the distance, indistinguishable sounds and echoes came from the west. People went about their normal business, as if nothing had happened.
