by David Estes
And still the knife inches closer and Destiny stares at him with one fear-stricken eye.
At the last possible second, the cyborg drops his arm and Destiny shrieks as the broad side of the knife jams against her cheek. There’s a sound like bacon sizzling in a food maker and then it’s over, a single wisp of smoke rising into the air as the smell of burnt flesh fills Harrison’s nostrils.
Destiny whimpers, tears leaking from her eyes.
The Destroyer holds up the hot knife and says, “Next time it will be her eyes. Both of them. Think about that for a minute. I’ll be back and you WILL tell me the truth. About everything.”
Harrison tries to nod, to say something, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He feels numb. Spent. Like all fight and life has gone from him, leaving him as nothing more than an empty skin.
Beside him, Destiny sobs.
Chapter Thirty-One
1 Happy Drive is a very optimistic address. 1 Somewhat Morose Avenue might’ve been a better name for the road leading up to Golden Age Village, the retirement home where Boris Decker—Benson’s Death Match—supposedly resides. Or 1 Crumbling Old Buildings Lane. Maybe in the spring or summer the place lives up to its name, but certainly not in the winter, with everything covered in a somber shade of gray.
To Benson, it looks more like a place to go to die than a place to live out your final years.
Of course, for Boris Decker, the label of Death Match doesn’t seem to have any impact on his longevity. He’s not angry or sad or confused about the man whose long life denied him his own chance at a happy life. He’s not particularly happy for the guy either. He’s indifferent. He’s just a guy, a stranger who he’s never met and never wanted to meet. Their only connection was determined by some computer program that matched them together when his father paid money for a birth authorization that he never received.
Benson now hopes he gets the chance to meet the guy, if only because it will mean his brother didn’t have the chance to kill him first.
It’s risky to pull right up to the front, but they don’t have much time. For all they know, Harrison is already inside, already stalking his victim in a misguided attempt to give Benson his life back. The aut-car skids to a stop on an arced driveway that’s been shoveled at least once, but which could already use another scraping.
Stone steps lead to a cast-iron door that’s reminiscent of a time when everything wasn’t steel and glass. The retirement home is so old that Benson figures his Death Match, at the ripe old age of one-hundred-and-one, could’ve lived his entire life here.
Before they exit the open car door, Minda swipes her LifeCard and instructs the vehicle to wait fifteen minutes for them.
The steps are stamped down with snowy footprints, hard-packed and already turning to ice. Although Benson has the desire to race up the stairs and burst through the door shouting Boris Decker’s name, he lets his mother cling to his arm with one hand and the handrail with the other. “Slip, grip, flip,” she mutters under her breath, feeling out each step with a tentative toe.
At Minda’s request, Simon enters first, which Benson thinks is an attempt to disguise them. Given his size, people are more likely to stare at him and remember him than the rest of them, which could be crucial given the recent notoriety surrounding the Kelly family. Minda goes next and Benson and Janice squeeze through just behind her.
The inside is no more cheery that the outside. There are dozens of light fixtures, but most of them are burnt out, the bulbs left dark and dead, as if to save a few bucks on electricity. The wide red carpet is patterned with a large lion’s crest, and is so threadbare that Benson can make out the unpolished wooden floorboards beneath it. At one time it might’ve been a beautiful rug—like in another century, perhaps.
The walls are dull gray stone and remind Benson of storm clouds.
Simon is speaking to someone, asking questions about Boris Decker, and Benson peeks around him. A thin, frail woman with purple bags under her eyes is gawking at Simon above her half-moon reading glasses. Good call, Minda, Benson thinks. She’s only going to remember the giant that came through her door.
“Mr. Decker hasn’t had any visitors in a long time,” the woman says, straightening her glasses on her nose. She seems slightly rattled, her fingers absently playing with a holo-screen resting on the counter in front of her.
Simon and Minda exchange a knowing glance. Either Harrison isn’t here or he snuck in another way. Benson allows himself a deep sigh of relief, but it’s quickly replaced with a pang of fear. His brother had a major head start on them, so if he’s not here, where is he?
“And you are?” the woman asks Simon.
“His son,” Simon says. “Simon Decker.”
“Mr. Decker never mentioned having a son,” the woman says, eyeing him skeptically.
“I wasn’t a very good son,” Simon says. “I’m trying to make amends. Can we see my father?”
The woman’s stern face seems to soften and Benson wonders whether she’s ever had a wayward child who sought to reunite with her. Whatever the case, Simon’s lie is like a secret password. “Of course. Second floor. Apartment twelve. Please knock and let him buzz you in.”
Simon grunts a thank you and lets Benson and the others pass him, still acting as a human shield. The woman doesn’t question his posse, as surely she considers him the biggest—literally—threat of them all.
There’s no lifter, further dating the building in Benson’s mind. The steps are wooden and twisting and creak as they climb them. Benson’s glad Simon’s going last, as his weight alone could very well send them all crashing back to the bottom.
The second floor is a long hallway that connects with another long hallway, forming an L. Some of the apartment doors are open, and Benson sneaks a look at the residents. They’re old and wrinkled and mostly lying in their beds, watching holo images dance across the room—old movies or holo shows. He suspects there are Death Matches attached to each of them, hopeful couples waiting patiently for their demise.
Apartment twelve is a different story.
The door is ajar, and as Benson approaches he hears a sound that shoots an icy barb of fear through his chest: gunshots.
When Benson moves to throw the door open, Minda grabs his arm and muscles him aside, pushing a finger to her lips. She draws a weapon and kicks the door open, fluidly sweeping her gun across a room Benson can’t see.
“Who the hell are you?” a raspy—but strong—voice demands.
“Uh, I’m, uh…” Minda stutters, clearly surprised by whatever scene she’s been confronted with.
Benson cranes his neck to look over her and sees a knobby-kneed man wearing nothing but maroon boxer shorts and a sweat-stained wife-beater standing in front of a holo-screen. He’s holding a gun, which is aimed at an advancing line of soldiers, bursting from the holo. Gunshots are ringing out from a speaker system that appears to be built into the walls, coming from all directions.
“It wasn’t a hard question,” the man says, pulling the trigger three times. Three of the soldiers fall, red spots blooming from their chests, right where their holographic hearts would be.
Benson pushes around Minda and says, “She’s with me.”
More gunshots, from the enemy attackers. There’s a computer-generated grunt and a voice says, “You are dead.”
“Dammit,” the man mutters. “You distracted me.” He tosses his gun, which is really some type of controller for the game he was playing, onto an antique-looking couch. “So if she’s with you, who the hell are you?”
“Sir,” Benson says, “I’m sorry to show up like this, but I think you’re my Death Match.”
The man frowns. “So you’ve come to kill me?” he says, as if it’s typical of all his visitors. If he only knew, Benson thinks.
From behind Benson, Simon says, “I’ll watch the stairs,” and stomps off. Janice squeezes past Minda and says, “You didn’t die so my boy was born not real.”
“You’re his mothe
r?” Boris asks.
“I want to be,” Janice says.
“You are,” Benson says.
Janice shakes her head. “Can’t be a mother to a Slip. It’s not allowed.”
Boris Decker’s eyes narrow. “Wait a minute, I recognize you. You’re Benson Kelly, the Saint Louis Slip.”
Benson says, “Yes. But we’re not here to kill you.”
“Good,” the old man says. “Because it can’t be done. I’m invincible, like some kind of superhero. That’s what my doctor keeps telling me.”
There’s silence for a moment, Boris Decker staring at Benson and Benson at his Death Match.
Then Boris says, “Well, you might as well come in. I haven’t bitten anyone in a while, at least not since that incident with my third wife, God rest her soul.”
Benson’s not sure if he’s joking, but he takes two steps in to allow Minda to join them inside. “Sit, sit,” the man says, motioning to a trio of old claw-footed chairs.
Once they’re all situated, the man sits on the couch across from them, wrinkly elbows on wrinkly knees. “So,” he says, “if you’re not here to kill me, what can I do for you, Benson Kelly?”
Benson opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again, thinking. He can’t tell Boris that Benson’s brother is coming to kill him. And yet he feels the need to warn him.
“Spit it out, son,” Boris says. “Whatever it is, I can take it; I’m not as fragile as I look. I survived two wars and a disease that would crack most men in half.”
Benson doesn’t doubt the man’s toughness, not for one second. And yet, he can’t seem to tell him that there are people that want to kill him because he’s Benson’s Death Match. Especially because the people are Benson’s people.
“Well if you won’t talk, I will,” Boris says. “Can’t say I’ve had an audience in a while.”
Benson says nothing, suddenly not knowing what to do with his hands, which feel awkwardly formal resting in his lap.
“Heard about your father,” Boris says. “Can’t say I was too cut up about it. He tried to kill me once, you know.”
Benson’s heart misses a beat and then continues beating twice as fast. “What?” he blurts out.
“True story,” Boris says, placing his hand over his heart. “I’ll cross my heart but I most definitely don’t hope to die.”
“When?” Benson asks. He can feel Minda’s stare on him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, his attention firmly locked on his Death Match.
The man looks toward the ceiling, his lips moving as if counting back the years. “Oh, I don’t know, a lifetime ago. Probably just before you were born. Maybe just after. I suspect it was a last-ditch effort to ensure you were legal from the start.”
Minda says, “The identities of Death Matches are supposed to be secret.”
“Welcome to the conversation, pretty lady,” Boris says. “Michael Kelly wasn’t exactly an ordinary citizen, was he?”
Of course not, Benson thinks. He had access. And of course a man who would allow hundreds of illegal children to be terminated on his watch would be willing to kill one old man. He should’ve realized it sooner. His father had done everything to try to save him, including trying to kill his Death Match. “What happened?” he asks.
“He got more than he bargained for, that’s what,” Boris says. “I killed two of his agents or Hunters or whatever you call them. I was weak from the medication that saved my life, but not so weak that I couldn’t hold a gun to his head and threaten to kill his whole family if he didn’t back off. He’d read my full bio. He knew about my record in the military, what I was capable of. I told him that if I died in any manner that could be considered suspicious, people I knew would come after him and his family. He had no choice but to believe me. Protecting his family—your family—was the most important thing in the world to him. And it’s a good thing he did, because I wasn’t bluffing. Your father wasn’t a born killer, son. He killed, yeah, but it didn’t come natural to him.”
“You let him go?”
“My whole life I’ve worked on favors. They’re more valuable than a million bucks. I promised your father his life and agreed to not kill your family”—he motions to Janice, who’s repeatedly tying and untying her shoes—“in exchange for him leaving me the hell alone.”
Benson slumps in his chair. The man he idolized as a child seems to deteriorate more and more with each passing day. “Did he ever come back?” he asks.
“Once,” Boris says. “I thought he was there to try to take me out again, but he was alone, only there to beg me to stop taking my medication.”
No one speaks for a long while, the holo game cycling through some kind of intro video that includes bomb blasts and gunshots and general mayhem. The background noise seems to be an appropriate soundtrack for Benson’s thoughts. His life is like a barbed wire fence, ensnaring the lives of any who come too close, destroying those he would choose to love. If not for his very existence, the world would be a better place. His father could’ve had a normal relationship with Harrison. His mother could’ve been happy and not crazy. Boris Decker wouldn’t have had his life threatened. Luce would be alive.
“Who are you here to protect me from?” Boris Decker asks, snapping Benson away from his thoughts.
“My brother,” he admits.
“Ah, like father like son,” Boris says. “What about you? You don’t want me dead? You’re not angry I stole your perfect life?”
Benson shakes his head. “The government stole my life. Pop Con stole my life. You had nothing to do with it. I can’t be angry at a guy I don’t even know.”
Boris nods slowly. “I can appreciate that, and I’m sorry things worked out the way they did. You seem like a nice enough kid. But what now? You’re going to sit here and protect me from your brother?”
Benson smiles at the sarcasm in the old guy’s gruff tone. “No,” he says. “From the sounds of it I need to protect my brother from you.”
The man grins back. “You’re learning quickly, son. I’ll take your brother apart piece by piece if it means I get another few years of playing stupid holo games and hitting on crabby old women in hoverchairs.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t,” Benson says.
“Well, as you’re the first visitor I’ve had that didn’t want to kill me, I’ll take your request under advisement.”
Minda says, “Harrison should’ve been here by now,” which refocuses Benson on reality. She’s right, he knows that. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that something is wrong. Very wrong. His brother doesn’t seem to know how to fail, and yet he’s not here.
A new voice joins the conversation, one Benson’s heard on countless newsbytes. “Harrison was delayed.”
Minda’s on her feet before Benson can even register the danger lurking behind them. “Drop it,” Corrigan Mars says, before she can lift her gun.
She grimaces, as if the entire situation has caused her physical pain, but complies, letting her weapon clatter to the dusty floorboards.
Benson knows without a doubt that he’s dead. All that he has left is a tiny chance to protect his mother and friends. His brother, too, if it’s not already too late. He rises to his feet, steps between Mars and his mother, and says, “You win.”
Mars smiles a vicious, red-lipped smile. “I won before this game ever started. I won before your pathetic illegal existence ever came to be.” Smartly, his gun remains trained on Minda, who is by far his biggest threat. Benson takes a diagonal step in an attempt to draw Mars’s full attention to him. If he can give them a second, or even half a second, perhaps they can leap from a window or something. A desperate chance, but a chance nonetheless.
But Mars keeps aiming at Minda. Why hasn’t he shot her yet? Why hasn’t he shot any of them yet? With his father, he didn’t hesitate—not for one second.
Mars says, “Who are you?” He’s looking at Minda now. He wants information, Benson realizes. Information first, termination second.
&nbs
p; “Get out of my apartment,” Boris Decker says, standing. He points out the door. “I didn’t invite you in, and these people are under my protection.”
“You’re trying to help those who would kill you?” Mars says.
“They weren’t going to kill me,” Boris says. “You must be thinking of someone else.”
Mars scoffs. “They think you’re the only one standing in the way of Benson Kelly’s freedom,” Mars says. “Of course they want you dead.”
Benson says, “He is the only one standing in my way. We saw my father’s files. The string of technicalities he created as a backup plan. But I won’t kill someone else so I can live.”
“Then you’re twice the idiot I thought you were,” Mars says. “One, your own life should be your first priority. And two, it doesn’t matter whether this guy dies or not. He’s meaningless. His death would change nothing. You’d still be a Slip. You’d still be public enemy number one. You’d still have to be terminated.”
Benson’s eyebrows weigh heavy on his eyelids. “But what about the law? What about the rules?”
“Now that your father is out of the picture, I am the law. I make the rules. Need proof?”
Before Benson can answer, Mars swivels his gun and pulls the trigger, the silenced gunshot sounding as mundane as a zipper being unzipped.
Boris Decker is thrown backwards, his white tank-top afire with a circle of blood that seems to radiate outwards, growing into an inferno.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Destiny refuses to look at him. He doesn’t blame her. He hates himself for getting her into this situation. He was overconfident in his own abilities, like he always has been. And yet he can’t take his eyes off of her. Her skin is already bubbling fiercely, in the shape of a knife, the tip pointing toward her eye.
He only hopes the meager slices of information he has will be enough to spare Destiny a world of pain and suffering. He heard the Destroyer’s heavy footsteps echoing away to some unknown chamber, perhaps to continue torturing some other prisoner that requires his attention.
